#this is the worst week for them to do this like

[rainrot4me]

It's Just Your Imagination

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

───────────────────────────── full moon - the black ghosts

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: Having an imaginary friend is a very normal part of childhood. What isn't normal, though, is when that imaginary friend begins to show up in the corners of your vision, leaving you presents and an uneasy feeling. What happens when babysitting a little boy turns into fending off his protector? The worst part? He thinks you're very, very pretty.

✦ . Characters: Laughing Jack x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Horror, fear, imaginary friend!Laughing Jack, non-canon characters, stalking, obsession, plot heavy, inexperienced sex, virginity, monster fucking, inhumanly long tongue, cunnilingus, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, biting, scratching, hair pulling, rough sex, virgin!Laughing Jack, mentions of murder, creampie, breeding

✦ . Words: 21.5k

✦ . Note: Longest fic to date, I think! This was so incredibly fun to write, and I grew so attached to the characters I created during it! Jack is less clownish and more so child-mind figment in this, so don’t take anything I say as canon. Anyway! Very rough, very sloppy, very rewarding, please enjoy!!

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It was a nice home. At least, it was set up that way.

You were pretty sure the paint was still wet on the fence when you pulled up. It had that high-gloss shimmer that caught in the early evening sun, and the whole house looked like someone had tried very hard to make it look like nothing bad had ever happened there. Suburban. White picket fence. Wind chimes that jangled sweetly in the breeze. It was the kind of place meant to be welcoming—but somehow, it just felt…staged. Like a movie set.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder and knocked twice on the blue door, ignoring the simplistic door knocker that probably wasn’t actually meant to be used.

It opened immediately. A woman in her early thirties greeted you, brushing auburn hair behind one ear and offering a tight, polite smile.

“You must be the sitter,” she said, a little breathlessly, like she’d jogged to the door. “Come in, come in—thank you again for being available on such short notice. I’m Mrs. Dalton—we talked on the phone.”

You stepped inside, the scent of lavender and lemon cleaner hitting you all at once. Everything was tidy, even too tidy. Not a toy out of place, not a speck of dust on the mantle. But there was a strange hum in the air, like something unseen had been recently disturbed and hadn’t quite settled.

“No problem at all,” you replied with a friendly smile. “You said you needed a sitter for a few days?”

She nodded. “Just five evenings, from around five-thirty to ten. I work the late shift at the hospital this week, and with my husband out of town…”

Her voice trailed off. You caught the way her eyes flicked down the hallway behind you before she forced another smile.

“Anyway, it’s just my son, Oliver. He’s six. He’s a good kid. A little…imaginative. Which reminds me—before you meet him, there’s something I should mention.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Let me guess—he’s got an imaginary friend?”

Her smile froze a little. “Friends. Plural. But yes.”

“Totally normal for that age.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” she murmured, and the tension in her voice was so brief and well-hidden you almost missed it. “Just… humor him. If he talks about them, just go along with it. Especially if he mentions Laughing Jack.”

Now that gave you pause. You tilted your head. “Laughing Jack?”

She waved her hand like she was brushing it away. “It’s just a name. He draws him a lot—some freaky clown… you know, spooky stuff kids get from cartoons.”

“I’m not scared of imaginary friends,” you joked.

“Good,” she said, too quickly. “Great. Let me introduce you.”

She led you down the hall to a bedroom on the left. Posters of dinosaurs and planets were taped unevenly on the walls, and crayons were scattered across the carpet. In the middle of the room, a little boy sat cross-legged in front of a coloring book, his brown hair messy, lips moving silently like he was in the middle of a conversation.

“Oliver?” his mother called gently. “Honey, this is your new babysitter. She’s going to stay with you while I’m at work, remember?”

Oliver looked up, wide blue eyes blinking at you. He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stared.

“…He likes you,” he said after a pause.

You glanced at his mother. She gave you an awkward little shrug.

“Nice to meet you, Oliver,” you said kindly, kneeling beside him. “Whatcha drawing?”

He flipped the page and showed you. The lines were shaky and crude, the colors bright and chaotic, but it was clearly a figure in black and white stripes with long arms and what looked like sharp teeth drawn in red crayon.

“This is Laughing Jack,” Oliver said solemnly. “He’s my best friend. He lives in the closet.”

You chuckled, trying to keep it light. “Well, that’s a very cool drawing. You’re really creative.”

“Laughing Jack likes it when I draw him,” Oliver added. “He likes to laugh. He doesn’t like when people are mean to me.”

That little prickle hit the back of your neck—the kind you get when you think someone’s standing behind you even though you know you’re alone.

You smiled a little too tightly. “Does he always stay in the closet?”

Oliver shook his head. “No. Sometimes he sits on my bed. Or hides under it.”

Mrs. Dalton cleared her throat. “Okay, sweetie. Why don’t you show her your space toys?”

He nodded and scuttled over to a plastic tub, pulling out spaceships and planets. You followed, asking him about them, listening to his explanations. He was articulate for a six-year-old, bright-eyed, and yes, wildly imaginative. But there was something in the way he paused mid-sentence like he was listening to someone you couldn’t hear. Occasionally, his eyes would flick to the shadowed corner of the room, near the closet door.

You figured maybe he was just shy. Or had a vivid inner world. You’d babysat dozens of kids. This wasn’t new.

But still, when he tugged at your sleeve fifteen minutes later and said, “Laughing Jack thinks you’re very pretty,” you couldn’t help the chill that spidered up your spine.

“…What?” you asked with a light laugh, trying not to sound weirded out.

“He said it just now,” Oliver replied simply, blinking up at you. “He said you smell nice, too. Like strawberries.”

You had used strawberry-scented shampoo that morning.

The closet door creaked slightly behind you—probably just the wind, or maybe the floor settling—and you turned toward it instinctively.

Nothing. Oliver just smiled and went back to coloring.

His mom gave you a final run-down before leaving: bedtime at eight-thirty, no sugar after dinner, TV only if homework was finished. She was quick, but not rushed—like she wanted to get out the door before you could change your mind and leave first.

She kissed Oliver on the top of his head. He barely reacted, still scribbling in his coloring book. Then she turned to you with a tight smile, and the kind of eyes that said thank you, but also good luck.

“If he has trouble sleeping,” she said softly near the door, “just read to him. He has a nightlight in case he gets scared. But… he probably won’t.”

“Got it,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you felt. “Have a good shift.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, the house suddenly felt too quiet. Like it had been holding its breath. You turned back toward the living room. “Alright, kiddo. You got any homework?”

Oliver groaned and flopped dramatically onto the couch. “Yes,” he mumbled. “Math. It’s dumb.”

You chuckled and dropped your bag by the coat rack. “C’mon, let’s knock it out. Then we can do something fun. You like grilled cheese?”

He nodded.

“I make the best grilled cheese. You finish your worksheet, and I’ll prove it.”

Oliver eyed you suspiciously. “Better than Mom’s?”

“I’ll let you be the judge.”

He didn’t smile—still hadn’t, actually—but there was a flicker of amusement behind his eyes as he retrieved his workbook and a pencil from his backpack.

You helped him through subtraction problems while he kicked his legs restlessly and talked about Jupiter like it was his summer home. He was sharp, creative, and a little unsettling in the way only kids can be—matter-of-fact and unfiltered.

While he worked, you started pulling together dinner: grilled cheese, carrot sticks, and a cup of apple juice. You moved around the kitchen like you were trying to own the space, but the house still felt a little foreign—like it knew you weren’t part of it.

“Who’s eating with us?” Oliver asked suddenly from his seat at the table.

You looked up from the skillet. “You mean besides us?”

He nodded. “Laughing Jack’s hungry. And he says Charlie and Mr. Gumball might come too.”

You blinked. “Are those more of your friends?”

“Uh-huh. Charlie only has one eye. But he sees everything.”

“And Mr. Gumball?”

“He’s a skeleton with no teeth. He tells me secrets.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out a little thin. “Well, I hope they like grilled cheese.”

“They can’t eat,” Oliver said plainly. “But they like to watch.”

You set the plates down gently. “…Good to know.”

Dinner passed with more chatter—some of it directed at you, some at people who weren’t there. Oliver had a habit of pausing mid-sentence like he was listening to a reply. You tried to ignore how often his eyes flicked just past your shoulder. You made him brush his teeth after, and he complied with the stoic attitude of a six-year-old facing grave injustice.

It was nearing eight-thirty when you tucked him into bed.

His room was dimly lit now, a soft glow from the rocket-shaped nightlight pulsing across the walls. You sat on the edge of his mattress and reached for the storybook he picked: Where the Sidewalk Ends.

“Okay,” you said, flipping to a random page. “One poem, and then sleep.”

“Can I ask something first?” he said suddenly, eyes wide and serious.

You paused. “Of course.”

Oliver’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you think my dad is still in the basement?”

You blinked. “…What?”

He fidgeted with the edge of his blanket. “Mom says he left. But Jack says he didn’t. Jack says he screamed for a long time, but I couldn’t hear it because I was asleep.”

Your mouth went dry.

“…Oliver, your dad’s not here anymore?”

He shook his head. “He yelled a lot. At Mom and me. Jack didn’t like him, so he said he would keep me safe.”

“…What do you mean?”

Oliver looked at you calmly. “He said he made him into soup.”

Your throat tightened. The air in the room suddenly felt thick and unmoving. You forced a little laugh. “That’s…an intense imagination you’ve got.”

“I didn’t make it up,” Oliver said seriously. “Jack doesn’t lie.”

You glanced toward the closet, door slightly ajar. The shadows seemed longer than before. You tried not to show the absolute unease that twisted your features.

“Okay, time to sleep,” you said gently, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “You had a long day.”

Oliver didn’t argue. He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

“Jack says you smell like strawberries because you’re sweet,” he murmured sleepily. “He thinks you’d make a really good friend.”

You stared at him. “…What?”

But Oliver was already drifting off. And somewhere in the corner of the room, the closet creaked.

── .✦

You got used to the routine pretty quickly.

Oliver’s mom would greet you with that same polite smile, say something like, “He’s been good today,” or “You know where everything is,” then slip out the door before you could even mention his dad. She never lingered. Her shift always started exactly on time.

And every night, it was the same: Help Oliver with homework. Make dinner. Talk about his “friends.” Pretend not to be freaked out. Read him a story. Tuck him in. Repeat.

On the second night, he told you Jack liked how “soft” your voice was—that he thought it would be “a very pretty singing voice.” You laughed it off. Said, “That’s a weird thing for Jack to say,” and Oliver just smiled.

It was becoming easy to convince yourself that Oliver was using Jack as a beacon. Kids did that. They had a hard time saying what they really meant, so it was easier to pretend someone else was saying it instead. It just made sense.

Later that same evening, you found one of Oliver’s drawings tucked inside your coat pocket when you were leaving. You didn’t remember him slipping it in. You weren’t even sure he’d touched your coat. But the paper was there—crayon scrawled in jagged loops, a picture of you sitting on the couch.

Behind you, in thick black strokes, was the striped figure of Laughing Jack, grinning with blood-red teeth.

You almost threw it out. You didn’t. You weren’t sure why.

By the third night, something had changed.

It started with how quiet the house felt when you walked in. Not the normal suburban calm—too quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Oliver had already set up his math homework by the time you got there.

“I knew you were coming,” he said without looking up. “Jack told me.”

You frowned. “Did he also tell you to get started on your math?”

“No,” Oliver said. “That was Charlie. He said if I don’t do my work, Jack gets bored. I don’t like it when Jack gets bored.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but found yourself unsure what to say.

Dinner was tense. Oliver ate quietly. You caught him glancing over your shoulder several times, like he was watching something just behind you. You turned once. Nothing there. Just a flickering lightbulb in the hallway.

After dinner, he started drawing again. You sat nearby, flipping through your phone, half-distracted.

“You’re really pretty,” Oliver said suddenly.

You looked up. “Thanks, bud. That’s sweet.”

“Jack says pretty things break easier.”

You stared at him.

“…You know that’s not a nice thing to say, right?”

He blinked. “But it’s true.”

That night, you tucked him in like usual. Read another poem. Turned on the rocket-shaped nightlight. Said goodnight, sweet dreams, and stepped into the hallway, already pulling your phone from your back pocket.

You’d left your water bottle in the kitchen.

You padded down the hallway barefoot, the wooden floors creaking softly beneath your steps. The house was dim except for the sliver of gold-orange from Oliver’s room behind you and the low hum of the fridge up ahead.

You reached the kitchen, grabbed the bottle, and twisted the cap open.

Then you heard it. Your name. Soft. Almost sing-song.

You paused mid-sip. You turned toward the hallway.

“Oliver?” you called gently. “What is it, bud?”

Silence. You waited. No answer.

You set the water down and walked quietly back toward the room, heart ticking up a little faster now.

“Hey, kiddo—did you call me?” you asked as you pushed open his door.

Oliver was fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. Arms tucked under the blanket. Lips slightly parted. Dead to the world.

You stared at him. You know you heard it.

Then you noticed the closet door was open an inch wider than you remembered. You crossed the room, flinging the door open, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond it—but there was nothing. Just clothes, toys, and a few drawings taped to the inside wall.

But when you turned back toward Oliver’s bed… you stopped cold.

There was a new drawing on the nightstand. It hadn’t been there before. You would’ve seen it.

It showed a hallway—the same hallway you’d just walked down. You were in it—drawn in red crayon. And behind you, grinning impossibly wide, was a tall, striped figure with long arms and white, dead eyes.

You slowly looked back down the hall. Nothing. But that feeling—that cold press on the back of your neck—was suddenly very real.

And somewhere deeper in the house… You swore you heard something shuffling.

It's just your imagination.

── .✦

You showed up early on the fourth night—twenty minutes ahead of schedule, ice cream tub in hand. Cookies and cream. And a tiny container of rainbow sherbet.

You figured, why not? After the past few days, Oliver deserved a surprise. And you deserved something to lift the mood. The tension that had crept into your shoulders every time you walked through that door was becoming a near-constant weight.

Maybe a little sugar would lighten the air.

The front door opened before you even knocked. Oliver’s mom blinked at you in surprise, tugging her coat tight across her chest.

“Oh—you’re early,” she said, glancing over her shoulder into the house like she wasn’t sure she wanted you inside just yet.

You smiled, holding up the bag. “I brought a treat. Don’t worry, no caffeine or craziness. Just ice cream.”

Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something—but then she just nodded. “That’s… nice of you. He’ll like that.” She squeezed past you and gave the same parting words she always did—“He’s in the living room, bedtime at eight-thirty”—but her eyes lingered on yours this time. Something flickered behind them. Like maybe she wanted to say more—but didn’t.

You turned and stepped into the house. The moment the door closed behind you, that hush fell again. That wrong quiet, like the walls were listening. Oliver was on the floor, surrounded by crayons, drawing what looked like a carnival tent in dark, scribbled loops of red and black.

“Hey,” you said gently. “Guess what I brought?”

He looked up. Eyes wide. And then—

He smiled. For the first time since you met him, Oliver truly smiled.

His teeth were small and slightly crooked, but it was the size of it that made your heart skip a beat. So wide. Like his little face wasn’t used to the muscles it took.

You blinked, suddenly unsure why it unnerved you so much.

“Is it for me?” he asked breathlessly.

You laughed softly, kneeling beside him. “Of course it is. Who else would it be for?”

Oliver clapped his hands. “Jack’s going to be so happy!”

You stiffened. He kept babbling as you carried the containers into the kitchen and pulled out two small bowls.

“Jack loves ice cream. His favorite is mint chocolate chip. He says he hasn’t had any in a long time because Mom doesn’t like it when he eats stuff. She says it makes him act funny. But he says he’ll be real good if I give him some.”

You scooped slowly, the plastic spoon dragging through the frozen swirl.

“He told me that once he shared a sundae with a girl who screamed so hard her eyes popped,” Oliver continued dreamily. “He said her voice made the cherry melt.”

You didn’t answer.

When you turned to hand him the bowl— You saw it.

Just behind Oliver, standing beside the hallway door. A flash. A flicker. Something moved. It was fast. A blur of black and white. Tall. Like the edge of a curtain being yanked back—but thicker. A sliver of fabric retreating around the corner.

And just for a heartbeat, a feather—dark and oil-slicked—fluttered down and landed near Oliver’s foot. You hardly blinked—just a jerk of your eyes from panic—and it was gone.

You dropped the spoon. Oliver didn’t notice.

It’s just your imagination, it’s just your imagination—

“Jack says he likes you,” he said happily, licking sherbet from his lip. “He says you’re the nicest girl he’s met in a long time.”

You stepped back, pulse pounding.

You had to talk to his mother. Now.

── .✦

You waited by the door until she came home.

No more letting her breeze out before the headlights could cool. No more smiling and waving like this was a normal babysitting gig.

When Mrs. Dalton stepped in—coat damp from the night air, purse slung over one shoulder—you met her with a look so serious she stopped mid-step.

“…What is it?”

“I need to ask you something,” you said. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

She froze. “…Is this about Oliver?”

You nodded. “And Jack. And the things he’s been saying. The things I’ve seen.”

She closed the door behind her slowly. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes—tired, hollow—met yours.

And this time, she didn’t try to pretend. She just said quietly, “You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?”

The words hung heavy in the entryway. You felt like a stone just dropped into your stomach, the air stalling around you.

You stared at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”

Oliver’s mother exhaled—long, slow—like she’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it in equal measure. She set her purse on the table and finally, finally, let the cracks show. “Come with me.”

She led you to the kitchen and pulled out a chair. You sat across from her, the light above flickering with that faint buzz it always seemed to carry after dark. She rubbed her hands together like they were cold, even though the house was warm.

Her voice was quiet. Distant. “I didn’t believe it either. At first. Kids say strange things. They draw monsters, they have nightmares. It’s normal. I told myself it was all in his head.”

You didn’t interrupt. Your fingers gripped the edge of the table.

She continued. “Then the drawings changed. They started getting more detailed. More specific. I saw things in them that—” her breath hitched, “—he shouldn’t have known. Things that happened when I was younger. Things that happened in this house. And the stories he told me about Jack…” Her eyes dropped to her hands. “They started getting darker.”

You thought of the shuffling. The flash of stripes. The feather. Your name being called down the empty hallway.

“What happened?” you asked.

She looked up. “…His dad.”

The room chilled, like suddenly the AC had been turned on. Goosebumps ran up your arms.

She swallowed. “My husband…he was not a good man. Charming, at first. But underneath that, there was something broken. And when he got angry…” Her jaw clenched. “Oliver was never his. That’s something I never told him. I think he knew—or guessed.”

Your stomach twisted.

“He hurt both of us,” she said. “Not every night, but enough. Enough that I kept a bag packed and hid it in Oliver’s closet.”

Silence stretched long between you.

“And then?” you whispered.

Her eyes met yours—and in them, you saw something haunted. Something ancient. “Then Oliver started talking to Jack.”

You shivered, glancing around the room, eyes catching all the dark spots and shadowed corners.

“At first I thought it was just comfort—a defense. But the way he described him…it wasn’t like a normal imaginary friend. He knew things. Jack told Oliver where to hide, when to run. He told him I was strong. That I was brave. He told him…” Her voice caught. “…That he could make it stop.”

You didn’t move. You hardly breathed.

“One night, my husband came home drunk. Worse than usual. He was screaming, kicking doors. Oliver, somehow, slept through all of it. I locked the bedroom door. I thought I could hold him off.” Her hands trembled now. “But I didn’t have to.”

You leaned in.

“I heard him coming down the hallway, calling my name. Then I heard something else. A laugh. This horrible, joyful laugh. Like a child and an animal at the same time. I thought I was losing my mind.”

You whispered, “Jack.”

She nodded.

“I came out of the room after the screaming stopped. And…he was gone. My husband. Just gone. No blood. No mess. Just the front door wide open, swinging in the wind.”

Your blood ran cold. “And Oliver?”

She gave a soft, broken smile. “Curled up on his bed. Drawing. With Jack.”

You recoiled.

“But I didn’t see him,” she said quickly. “I only ever felt him. Heard him. Sometimes saw things out of the corner of my eye. But Oliver? He always said Jack made him feel safe. That Jack protected him when no one else could. I think he… bonded to that. Jack is a part of him now. Jack has never really liked babysitters—before you, I suppose.”

You sat back, trying to process it all. The drawings. The feathers. The whisper of your name.

“…He’s real. But he’s not…human,” you murmured.

She nodded once. “He manifested through Oliver’s fear, I think. And maybe mine, too. I don’t understand all of it. But Oliver says Jack protects him, says he’s here to keep him safe. So I don’t mess with it.

“And the last babysitter?”

Oliver’s mom froze.

“…She said she didn’t believe in ‘feeding delusions.’ That Oliver needed ‘structure.’ She lasted four nights. Left in the middle of the fifth. Didn’t tell me. Just… left. I never heard from her again.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

“And now?” you whispered. “Jack’s… what? Attached to me?”

Her voice cracked. “I think he likes you. I think he’s curious. I don’t know.”

The light bulb sizzled above your head, the acrid scent of burnt metal curling into the air. You stared across the kitchen table at Oliver’s mom—chest tight, stomach coiled with the kind of dread that prickled under your skin like a thousand little claws.

“…You knew this could happen,” you said, voice low. “You knew.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands trembled in her lap. “I hoped he wouldn’t fixate again,” she murmured. “You were so good with him. He was happy. I thought maybe it would be different this time.”

“Different?” Your voice cracked, rising. “You mean you thought Jack might not try to kill me?”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, suddenly panicked. “Please—don’t say things like that out loud.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped, pushing your chair back. “Are we worried the invisible friend might get mad?”

She flinched.

You stood up, dizzy with rage and the adrenaline rush that always comes after denial shatters into cold, sharp clarity. “You let me walk into this. Without telling me. Without warning. What if he didn’t like me, huh? What if I pushed too hard, or said the wrong thing, or—God forbid—told him to go to bed early?”

“I didn’t know—!”

“Yes, you did,” you cut her off, voice trembling. “You did. That’s why you never stayed long. Why you left before I could ask about his dad. Why you didn’t even mention a last sitter until now.”

You saw it then—how hollow her eyes had become. How sleep-starved and strung out she looked under the dim light. This wasn’t just guilt. This was fear—the kind you live with.

“You were testing me,” you whispered. “You weren’t sure if Jack would like me, and you didn’t care if he didn’t. I was just…just another one to try.”

She didn’t deny it.

You stormed past her, grabbing your coat, shoving your phone into your pocket with shaking hands.

And then you saw him. Oliver. Standing at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t angry. He just watched you—expression blank, head tilted slightly to the side like someone listening to music only he could hear.

“Oliver—” his mother started, but you were already yanking the door open.

You didn’t say goodbye.

── .✦

The first call came the next morning.

You didn’t answer.

Then a text.

MRS. DALTON I’m sorry. I should have told you. Please, call me.

Then:

MRS. DALTON He’s not sleeping. He won’t eat. Oliver’s scared.

Another day passed.

MRS. DALTON He’s asking for you. Please. He just needs to see you one more time. He keeps asking for you.

The texts got more frantic.

MRS. DALTON He’s not talking anymore. He just whispers. Jack this, Jack that. Please. I haven’t slept. I’m losing him. I don’t know what he’ll do if you don’t come back.

And finally:

MRS. DALTON Just for one night. Please. Just stay with him. Help him sleep. You stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering above the reply button. Because even though your head screamed no, your gut twisted with something worse than fear.

Guilt.

And something in the back of your mind—the part that had seen the stripes, the feather, the way Oliver had looked at you—was already whispering that you didn’t really have a choice. Even if this was all imaginary, some make-believe story, you were causing an innocent boy his mental health.

Sadly, your guilt outweighed your fear.

── .✦

You stood on the doorstep longer than you meant to.

The house loomed in front of you—quieter than it should’ve been. Even with the porch light buzzing faintly overhead, everything about it looked… different. More gray. As if all the warmth had drained out with you the night you stormed off.

But you were here now.

You knocked on the door, the thick sound echoing through the walls, and for a moment, you half-expected no one to answer.

Then the lock clicked. The door cracked open.

Mrs. Dalton looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was pulled up in a limp, uneven knot, and her eyes had that swollen red look of someone who had been crying on and off for hours. Her relief was instant—but brittle.

“Oh thank God,” she breathed. “Thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

You stepped past her without a word. She didn’t stop you. Just nodded shakily and grabbed her keys. “I’ll be back by sunrise,” she said, already backing out. “Don’t let him stay up too late. If he gets upset, just… just sit with him. That’s usually enough. And if anything happens—”

You stopped at the hallway, turning just enough to meet her eyes. “I remember.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. She gave a small, pained nod. And just like that—she was gone. The door clicked shut. The house swallowed you whole.

The air inside felt heavier than it ever had.

You noticed it almost immediately—how the wallpaper looked a little more faded, how the air smelled faintly of metal and something sweet, almost like fruit that had gone sour. The silence wasn’t comforting. It was dense, like the house was holding its breath.

You made your way down the hallway, floorboards creaking beneath your feet. Oliver’s room was cracked open just slightly, light from his bedside lamp spilling across the floor. You pushed the door open gently.

“Oliver?” you called softly.

The little boy was curled into a ball on his bed, facing the wall. When he turned to look at you, his eyes were already wet, his cheeks blotchy with tears. The second he saw you, he gasped—and scrambled into your arms with a cry that shattered you from the inside out.

“You came back,” he whimpered, clutching your shirt like a lifeline. “I didn’t think you would. Jack said you were mad.”

Your arms wrapped around him instinctively. “I…I’m not mad, buddy. I was just scared.”

“Jack’s sad,” Oliver sniffled. “And mad. But not at me. At you. He said you said mean things. That you don’t like him.”

You froze. He wasn’t accusing you. He sounded… worried. Like he wanted to protect you from Jack’s disappointment.

Your hands smoothed down his back gently. “It’s okay. We’re okay. Jack’s probably just confused.”

“Can you tell him you’re not mad anymore?” Oliver asked, lifting his head, eyes wide. “Please?”

You hesitated. “…Okay,” you whispered. “Jack, if you’re listening, I’m not mad. I didn’t mean what I said.”

You glanced around the room.

Nothing. No feathers. No footsteps. No whisper in your ear. Just the soft hum of the bedside lamp and Oliver’s quiet sniffles.

Maybe it was all in your head.

Maybe—

Oliver let out a tiny yawn, nuzzling into your side. “Will you stay in bed with me?”

“Of course.”

It didn’t take long, he was asleep in minutes. Once his breathing evened out, you gently pulled away and tucked him in. His hand reached out once, blindly, and you took it for a second, giving it a small squeeze.

Then you stood, walked to the door, turned off the light, and stepped into the hallway.

The living room was dim. You kept the corner lamp on, curling up into the same armchair you’d claimed the other nights—blanket over your legs, a book in your lap you weren’t really reading. Every noise made you twitch.

The house didn’t feel empty.

You tried to tell yourself it was just the guilt—the nerves, the sleep deprivation. That it was all explainable. That this was just a messed-up situation and you were being kind, nothing more. This was just a mentally ill mother and an imaginative child who has gotten you stirred up—that’s all it was.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched—especially when the heater kicked on. Especially when the shadows in the hallway didn’t quite stay still. You told yourself not to look.

You were halfway through a paragraph when you heard it. Shuffling from the hallway. You sat up straight.

“Oliver?” you called, voice shaky.

No answer.

You stood slowly, shoving the blanket and book to the side. The hallway looked longer than it had earlier—darker, the overhead bulb at the far end flickering like it was gasping for power.

You took a step toward it. Then another.

“Oliver, are you up?” you called again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

But the shuffling continued—dragging, almost wet-sounding footsteps. Too slow. Too heavy.

You swallowed, walked toward his room, and pushed the door open.

Oliver was asleep—tucked under his blankets, breathing slow and even. His face slack with dreams. The shuffling stopped.

You stood there in the doorway, heart thudding in your chest.

Nothing moved. No laughter. No whispers. No feathers. Just your own breath in the dark. You were about to turn around when a soft, warbling giggle echoed—Low. Sweet. And hungry.

You whirled around, heart leaping into your throat—but there was nothing there. Just the hallway. Just that flickering bulb overhead, casting twitching shadows that crawled like spiders up the walls.

“Hello?” you called, voice cracking.

No answer.

But your skin was already crawling—hairs prickling, stomach twisting itself into a tight, nauseous knot. You ducked back into Oliver’s room, barely daring to breathe.

Still asleep. Still peaceful.

You crossed the floor in three quick steps and yanked open his closet. Clothes, shoes, a collapsed cardboard box. You dropped to your knees, lifted the comforter, and checked under the bed.

Empty.

You sat back on your heels, hand pressed over your pounding chest.

Nothing’s there. Nothing’s there. It’s just your—

A feather floated down in front of your face. You stared at it. Silky and black as night, it drifted lazily downward, slow as falling ash, until it landed between your knees.

You blinked at it, blood roaring in your ears.

And that was when you heard the groan—like something heavy shifting against wood.

You glanced up from your spot on the floor.

Behind Oliver’s bed—not behind the wall, but within it, like the cracks of the old plaster had given way—something emerged. Something wrong.

It spilled out from the dark like a shadow cast by a body that didn’t exist. Its limbs unfolded long and slow, impossibly long, like they were uncoiling from another place entirely. One arm—lanky, striped in twisted sleeves of faded black and white—reached over the headboard. Then another. Then a hunched, too-tall figure pulled itself into the dim bedside light.

Laughing Jack.

No more imagination. No more stories. He was here, right in front of you.

His skin—or what passed for it—was stretched porcelain, marred with seams and hairline fractures. Wild black hair exploded from his scalp in a disheveled mess, curled like tinsel soaked in ink. His outfit was a tattered parody of a circus costume—black and white stripes clinging to impossibly long limbs, the fabric grimy and fraying at the seams like it had been rotting over time. Suspenders hung loose over bandages wrapped tight around his waist, showing the unnatural form of him. A wide ruff collar sagged around his neck, drooping unevenly with yellowed lace, and tufts of wiry feathers jutted from his shoulders, some of them loose—like the one you’d seen float to your feet earlier. His sleeves were the same mismatched black and white, stretched tight over arms that ended in long, sharpened claws—stained faintly with something dark and dry. His nose was pointed, like a spike protruding that swirled with black and white stripes. His mouth—oh God—his mouth stretched too wide across his face, cracked at the corners, his lips painted like a clown’s but split by sharp, pearly teeth that didn’t belong in any child’s fantasy. His eyes were deep, glassy voids—so black they swallowed light—but the emotion in them was unmistakable—Rage. Sadness. Defense.

Jack’s head twitched toward you. His neck snapped with an audible crack as he cocked it to the side.

His voice rasped low, warped, like he was speaking through a filter, “You said you weren’t mad, sweet girl.”

You staggered back a step.

Jack’s arms bent and contorted as he crawled over Oliver—crawled, like some horrid insect parody of a man, his striped limbs jointed all wrong. And still, the boy didn’t stir. Not a flutter of his lashes. Not even a twitch.

“You lied to him,” Jack hissed. “You lied to me.”

“Don’t—” your breath hitched. “Don’t touch him.”

Jack’s grin widened. It reached toward his ears. “Oh, I won’t,” he cooed. “But you? You’re mine now.”

Before you could scream, he lunged. Jack’s hands closed around your ankles and yanked. You hit the hardwood with a sickening thud, knocking the breath from your lungs. Pain shot up your back. You scrambled, flailing to grab the doorframe, anything, but Jack dragged you backwards—down the hallway with supernatural strength, his body lurching and rattling like a marionette in fast-forward.

“No—! Oliver! Oliver!”

He didn’t wake.

The house didn’t help.

You were pulled past the living room, down the longer hallway that led to the master bedroom—Mrs. Dalton’s room. Your fingernails scraped against the floorboards, legs kicking violently as Jack growled above you.

“You were sweet,” he snarled. “Kind. Gentle. I liked you.” His voice cracked on the last word, somewhere in the rage was hurt.

Jack reached the bedroom door and kicked it open. The hinges screamed. Inside, it was darker than the rest of the house. A stifling kind of dark, where the shadows didn’t shift—they waited. The room smelled faintly of old perfume and wilted flowers.

Jack tossed you inside. You hit the carpet, rolled, and choked on air. When you sat up, he was already in the doorway—looming. His arms stretched to the sides, fingers twitching, clawlike.

The door slammed shut behind him like a gunshot. The bang rattled the windows. The frame trembled under the weight of it.

You jerked, stumbling back toward the dresser, chest heaving—but there was no time to run. Not anymore. Jack was across the room in a blink, moving with the erratic, jerky rhythm of something barely stitched together—more puppet than man. His hands, long-fingered and claw-tipped, twitched at his sides.

His expression twisted. He looked… devastated.

But behind the grief, behind the dripping sadness that curled at the corners of his stretched mouth and shimmered in the pitch-black glass of his eyes—there was rage.

“You ruined everything,” he hissed, voice cracking like an old vinyl record. “He was sleeping. He was happy. We were fine. And then you—you had to come in and whisper poison into his head.”

“I didn’t—!”

“You said I wasn’t real,” Jack roared, and the lights flickered. “You said I was dangerous! You made him doubt me!”

He surged forward.

You screamed—too late. Jack lunged, grabbing your arm and lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, fists pounding at his chest—but it was like striking a wall of felt and iron. He held you up, inches from his face. That face. That—

God.

Porcelain skin. Cracks lining his jaw like spiderwebs. Painted features half-worn, like a long-loved doll soaked in tears. Teeth so sharp he could barely contain them in his mouth. And beneath the smeared black grin, beneath the clownish facepaint—a man. A sadness. A fury so human it broke your heart.

His glassy black eyes swallowed you whole.

“Do you know what happens,” he whispered, “to people who tell little boys I’m not real?”

Your breath hitched. He rattled you, hard. Enough to make your teeth clack. You felt his claws press into your sides, not breaking the skin—but close. One more breath and he might snap you like a doll in his hands.

But then—You saw it. That tiny tremble in his jaw. The way his grip shook. His bottom lip quivered. He was angry. He was hurting. And beneath it all—he was protecting Oliver.

That’s when you acted. You reached up—fingers trembling—and gripped his face.

Jack froze.

His eyes went wide as your fingers smeared white greasepaint from his cheekbones, your hands coming away streaked like you’d dipped them in some kind of sick frosting. But under the paint—skin. Cold, clammy, too-pale skin. And real. Not a mask. Not an imaginary friend.

“You did it to protect him,” you whispered.

Jack’s brow twitched, eyes wide.

“You made his dad go away,” you said. “Didn’t you?”

His hands tensed—but he didn’t shake you.

“You chased off the last babysitter. Because she was mean. You saw it. You saw what he needed. And no one else was helping him. Not even his mom. So you… you stayed. You took care of him.”

Jack’s mouth parted. His head tilted, glassy eyes flicking across your face like he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

“I get it, Jack,” you whispered, still holding his face. “I know what you are. You’re not here to hurt him. You’re not a monster to him. You’re his only friend.”

His claws slipped from your sides.

“I don’t hate you, I’m not mad,” you said, voice cracking. “I was just scared.”

Silence.

For a moment, Jack stood perfectly still, arms trembling.

And then—his knees gave.

He sank to the floor, pulling you with him, but gently now. Carefully. Like you were something delicate and precious compared to moments before. His arms slid around you, pulling you against his lanky frame as his body curled over itself, shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder. “I just wanted you to stay. You were good to him. You were good to me.”

You were crying now too—maybe out of pity, but mostly from the adrenaline that was quickly crashing.

In the pitch-black of Mrs. Dalton’s bedroom, cradled in the arms of something that shouldn’t exist, you held a creature that had killed to protect a child, and now clung to you like a broken toy terrified of being discarded.

Jack shuddered, “Please don’t leave again.”

Jack didn’t let go. Even as you gasped, trying to squirm back—your breath still hitching with fear, your hands trembling—he clutched you tighter, curling around you like a spider weaving something precious into its web. His lanky arms wrapped around your shoulders and waist, his striped sleeves smelling faintly of old fabric and something sweet and rotting, like sugar left in the rain.

Your face was smooshed against the bristling ruff of feathers at his collar.

You shoved at him, fingers pressing into his chest. “Jack—Jack, let me go, I—I need a second, please—”

But he only made a soft sound—like a whimper. And his hold tightened. He wasn’t trying to hurt you—not anymore—but it was like he was starving for you.

His head dipped down beside yours, buried in your neck, and you felt the tremble of his breath—shallow, rapid. Desperate. The way Oliver breathed when he was on the edge of a panic attack. The way he had clung to you just hours before, his tiny fists gripping your shirt like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

It was the same.

You froze.

And suddenly—it all started to click. The way Jack reacted when Oliver cried. The way he went silent when Oliver was calm. The way his moods seemed to mirror the child’s—like strings pulling a puppet in the shadows.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart hammering. “You’re not just his imaginary friend… you’re protecting him.”

Jack didn’t speak. But you felt the way his breathing hitched—a confirmation, quiet and raw.

“You exist for him, don’t you?” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Like, a manifestation of his fears—or something. A guardian.”

His face, pressed near your cheek, nodded.

Your throat tightened. “So when he’s sad, or scared, or… when someone threatens him…”

“I fix it,” Jack whispered. His voice was softer now. Like wet velvet. Like a child defending a wounded pet. “I fixed his dad. I fixed the mean sitter. I made him laugh again. I keep him safe.”

You swallowed, slowly easing your hands up between the two of you, not to shove—but to gently, cautiously press them to either side of his face again.

“And now that I’m not a threat anymore…” you said, your voice cracking, “now you want something else.”

Jack nodded again, almost imperceptibly. “I want to be close,” he said, and his voice broke. “Like he is. I want the things you give him.”

You stared into his face—paint-smeared, cracked, but so achingly human beneath it all. His sharp grin trembled with something soft. His eyes, once pools of black malice, now glistened like a child about to cry.

“You want comfort,” you breathed.

His forehead pressed gently to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “And I don’t know why.”

You should’ve been terrified. But instead—you felt cold. Cold from the adrenaline, the fear, the leftover edge of what could’ve been your last night. And yet…

His arms were warm—too warm—like a fever curling around you.

And for the first time… you saw him not as a nightmare, but as something made from one. Born of a child’s desperation. Kept alive by love and terror alike.

So you let him hold you—just for a moment.

And in that moment, Jack went still—so still you could swear he wasn’t breathing. As if the second you pulled away, he might vanish into the cracks again.

The room was dark except for the sliver of hallway light bleeding in from under the door, casting crooked shadows across the carpet. Jack was still—unnaturally so—as if afraid a single wrong twitch would make you bolt. But then, slowly, his fingers twitched against your waist.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a broken thread. “For earlier. For scaring you. For being so… mean.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could. You were still sitting half in his lap, his arms loosely curled around your back like he was holding something fragile he didn’t know how to fix.

Jack’s head tilted, the long arc of his nose brushing against your temple as he sniffed—gently, like he didn’t want you to notice.

“You do smell like strawberries,” he murmured, voice distant and dreamy now. “I told him you did. Oliver didn’t believe me.” A smile crept into his words, soft and crooked. “But I was right. I always know.”

You felt your breath catch as his fingers slipped a little lower, curling lightly at the hem of your shirt. Not rough—just needy. Clingy.

“You’re so pretty,” Jack sighed, nose nudging into your hair. “So pretty it makes me feel funny—right here.” One hand lifted, curled into a fist, and thumped lightly over where his heart should’ve been. “It tickles. Like butterflies trying to get out. Like I’m gonna burst.”

You shivered, frozen in place. Jack noticed. His arms tensed again.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said quickly, softly, almost pleading. “I’m not! I promise—I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want you to leave.”

You felt him shift under you—then suddenly you were being pulled into him, lifted like a doll and placed squarely in his lap, your legs folded awkwardly over one of his long, gangly thighs. His claws were gentle, but firm, curling around your arms, keeping you in place. His face buried into your shoulder again, his striped sleeves brushing your cheeks like the wings of some grotesque moth. He was trembling.

“They all like you,” he murmured into your shirt. “All the others. Charlie. Mr. Gumball. Even the quiet ones in the closet. They said you’re kind. That you talk to them even when you don’t believe they’re real.”

You blinked.

Charlie? Mr. Gumball?

Jack chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. They won’t come out unless Oliver says it’s okay. But they watch. And they like you. They all do.” He pulled back just far enough to look at you—his inhuman eyes wide and wet, paint cracked around the edges from where he’d rubbed at his face. His lips were still stained dark, parted like he wanted to ask something he didn’t know how to say, his jagged teeth splitting the seam.

“But I…” His voice hitched. “I like you the most.”

You tried to pull back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but he leaned forward again, brushing his forehead against yours.

“I felt it,” he whispered. “The way you talked to Oliver. The way you hugged him. You’re so soft. So good. I never had that before. I want it all the time, all to myself.”

His claws flexed against your sides again—not hurting, not even tight—but possessive. Needy.

“I want you all the time.”

And you realized, in that moment, Jack had no idea what boundaries were. No idea how much was too much. Because all he knew… was what Oliver gave him. And now—without having to worry about the kid—he was able to express those wants himself.

Jack’s fingers twitched again where they curled around your waist. His breathing slowed, the chaotic heat of him ebbing into something that almost resembled peace.

But he stilled. And his hands moved.

In an instant, Jack dragged one clawed hand up the side of your torso, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he went. You gasped, trying to pull away, but he was already pushing the hem higher, exposing skin.

“Wait—Jack—what are you—?” you stammered, hands flying down to stop him.

“I hurt you,” he hissed, panicked—his voice cracking like a snapped piano wire. “I didn’t mean to—look what I did!” His blackened fingers trembled as he hovered just above the faint red indents curving along your side, the shallow grooves from when he’d gripped you too tightly. They weren’t bleeding. Barely bruised. But Jack looked horrified.

His eyes widened as he stared, claws twitching helplessly.

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t even feel—why do I always break things I like?” he rasped, voice warping between a whimper and a growl. “Why did I grab you so hard? You’re so soft, I didn’t mean to squeeze—I didn’t mean to!”

“Jack—Jack, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice soft and trembling as you tried to pull your shirt back down. “I’m fine, it’s nothing, I swear—”

But he didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did, and he didn’t want to believe it. His claws brushed the marks again—then slid gently against your skin, tracing the curves of your ribs, reverent and curious. He sucked in a shaky breath.

“You’re so little,” he whispered, almost to himself. “So small in my hands. I could snap you like a toothpick…”

You froze—but before panic could take hold, Jack’s eyes darted up to meet yours again. “…but I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered fiercely. “You’re too pretty to break.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. Jack tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, your hair, the way your hands clutched your shirt in nervous fists. His lips twitched—like he was smiling, but didn’t understand why.

“I like your skin,” he said. “I like the way it smells. The way it warms up when you’re scared.”

You tried to pull back again, flushing deeper, but Jack suddenly scooped you up.

“Jack—!”

He didn’t give you time to finish.

In one smooth, eerily graceful motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms like you weighed nothing. Like you were a toy, something light and delicate he could cradle in his gangly, striped limbs. Your legs dangled uselessly, your arms half-wrapped around his neck in pure reflex.

He started toward the bed.

“You’re way past bedtime,” he announced, in a singsong voice that didn’t quite match the manic glint in his eyes. “Too many big feelings for a little human like you. You need to relax.”

“I—I don’t need to sleep, Jack, I’m fine, really—!”

But he was already lowering you onto the covers, setting you down so carefully it made your head spin. He crouched at your side immediately, looming with limbs that bent in all the wrong ways, his scruffy feathered collar brushing your knees, his black eyes locked onto you with a predator’s focus—and a child’s confusion.

“You make Oliver feel safe,” he murmured, crawling a little closer. “But now I want to feel that too. I want you to make me feel like that.”

His hand slid over your knee, his claws curling over your thigh with a grip just shy of too tight. “And you will, won’t you?” he asked softly. “Because you like me now.”

The air was too thick to breathe. Too hot. Too sweet. Too close.

And all you could do… was nod.

Jack’s claws didn’t stay still. They roamed. Fidgeted. Brushed the hem of your shirt, tangled briefly in your hair, crept over your shorts like he didn’t know what he was looking for—but was desperate to find it.

You shifted nervously on the bed, your hands trying to keep his at bay, but he was already pressing closer.

“I like it better when you talk soft to me,” he said suddenly, his voice catching somewhere between a purr and a whine. “Like you do with Oliver. You don’t yell. You don’t scream. You’re so nice.”

Your breath hitched as his hands slid down your arms—grabbing your wrists. “But you left.” His voice cracked. “You left. You said those things. About me. To her.”

“Jack, I didn’t know—” you started, gently.

“I didn’t want you to be scared,” he cut in. His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to make your heart jump. “I just wanted to show you I could keep you safe. Like I did for Oliver. Like I do.”

He moved quickly. One fluid motion and you were beneath him, your wrists pinned gently—but unyieldingly—against the bedspread. His lanky body stretched over yours, striped limbs bracketing you, hair brushing your forehead.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

“Jack,” you said softly, careful not to let your fear show. “Let me up.”

“But you’re here.” He blinked down at you, wide-eyed. “You came back. That means you want to be here. That means I can touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you whispered, trying to sit up, but he pressed you back down again—still not hurting you, but clearly not understanding the line he was crossing.

“But you smell so good,” Jack murmured, almost dreamily, long nose brushing along your cheek. “And you look so soft. I never got to be this close to anyone before. Never wanted to until I saw you.”

You swallowed thickly, pulse thundering in your ears. “I’ll… I’ll talk to you, Jack,” you said, carefully, voice like glass. “I’ll sit with you. I’ll stay. But you have to calm down. You’re scaring me.”

Something in his face twitched. His hold faltered. Just slightly. But he didn’t let go.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” he mumbled, nuzzling clumsily against your shoulder, like a child seeking comfort in something they didn’t know how to ask for. “It’s just… when you talk, and when you look at me—right there.” His fingers brushed your cheekbone. “I get this… tight, fluttery thing in my chest. Like when Oliver’s happy. Like when he hugs his bear. It makes me feel like I’m gonna burst.”

Your eyes welled a little. You weren’t sure if it was fear or pity or the sheer strangeness of the moment.

“Jack,” you whispered, softer now, “that feeling? That’s… that’s called affection. Or maybe—maybe even love.”

He stilled. “Love?” he echoed, almost awed.

You nodded shakily. “And if you want to show it,” you added, breath trembling, “you have to listen to the people you care about. You have to ask before touching. And let them go when they say they’re scared.”

Jack blinked down at you, still straddling your lap, still holding your wrists. But this time—slowly—his claws released you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“…Did I do it wrong?” he asked after a long pause, his voice smaller now. “Did I mess it up?”

You sat up slowly, touching your wrists, feeling the pulse still hammering through you.

“No,” you whispered. “You just have to let me teach you.”

And Jack, in all his mismatched limbs and smeared makeup and feathered ruff, nodded like a child eager for a bedtime story.

“…Then teach me,” he said.

The silence that followed was heavy—syrupy and thick like it was meant to trap breath in your throat. Jack sat cross-legged now, long limbs folded awkwardly on the bedspread like some gothic marionette, waiting for your strings to pull him into place. His eyes—huge and shining beneath streaked face paint—were locked on you, searching your face like he wanted to memorize it.

You swallowed.

“Jack,” you said slowly, brushing your palms down the front of your shirt, trying to ignore the heat still lingering where his claws had been. “You can’t just… take what you want. People don’t work like that. You have to let them come to you.”

His shoulders slumped, his striped arms wrapping loosely around his waist as he rocked once—twice.

“I thought… if I held you right, maybe you’d feel it too,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath. “The fluttering. The warm thing. Like the way Oliver gets when you tuck him in and smile.”

You softened—just a little. “Jack, I do care. But you can’t scare me into staying,” you said gently. “You need to trust me to come back. Just like Oliver does.”

That earned a sharp jolt through his expression. His head tilted, the bells in his costume softly chiming as he blinked. “Oliver…”

He turned his head suddenly—eyes fixed on the hallway.

You froze.

“What?” you asked, voice tight.

He sniffed the air. One deep inhale.

“He’s waking up,” Jack murmured. “He’s crying.”

You didn’t even wait. You were already scrambling off the bed, nearly stumbling into the hallway barefoot. Jack was behind you, eerily quiet despite his frame, close enough that his sleeves fluttered in the air beside you like shadows with feathers. Oliver’s room was dark, but you heard the sniffles before you even touched the door. You pushed it open gently.

“Oliver?” you whispered, stepping in.

The little boy was curled beneath the blankets, arms tightly wrapped around his pillow, tears tracking down his cheeks as he whimpered softly.

“Nightmare,” he hiccupped. “You… You weren’t here when I woke up. Jack was gone. I thought—”

“I’m right here,” you said quickly, sliding into the bed beside him. He immediately reached for you, pressing his face into your shirt, small hands clinging tightly.

“I was scared you left again,” Oliver murmured, muffled. “He got so sad last time. I got so lonely.”

You looked up—and Jack was there, crouched beside the bed, half-shrouded in shadow. The glow from the hallway lit one half of his face—the sadness there was nearly human.

“I didn’t understand him,” you said, brushing Oliver’s hair gently. “But I think I do now.”

Oliver sniffled. “He says he likes you.”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?” you whispered.

“He says you make us feel happy.” Oliver’s lashes fluttered. “He says you smell like strawberries, but I don’t think so.”

You tried to laugh but it came out soft and broken. “I’ll stay,” you said quietly, folding Oliver into your arms. “I’ll stay the rest of the night. Okay?”

“Okay.”

You felt Jack settle beside the bed, curled around the two of you like a skeletal gargoyle. He didn’t speak, didn’t reach—he just watched, his limbs folded protectively under him, his eyes more calm now. As Oliver’s breathing slowed, you felt a cold hand brush against yours under the blanket—long fingers lacing between yours like he needed to feel your pulse to believe you were real.

“Jack?” you whispered.

“Hm?”

You didn’t look at him—just kept your eyes on the ceiling. “…We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

The hand squeezed yours once. Then came his whisper—low, skittish.

“Can you bring more ice cream?”

── .✦

The sun had just barely started to rise, stretching faint golden streaks across the cream-colored walls of Oliver’s bedroom. You stirred slowly, blinking against the light trickling through the curtains, a heavy warmth pressed against your side.

Oliver was still asleep, curled into you with one small hand tangled in the hem of your shirt. His cheeks were soft with sleep, lips parted slightly as he murmured something inaudible in a dream. You exhaled quietly, slipping your hand from his to tuck the blanket up over his shoulder.

Clink.

The sound of keys in the door jolted your attention.

Careful not to wake him, you slid from the bed, casting one last glance at Jack’s usual corner toward the closet. Nothing. No flicker, no feather, no eerie reflection. But the air was thick. You felt him. Watching. Resting.

Downstairs, the front door creaked open just as you reached the end of the hallway. Mrs. Dalton froze in the entryway, still dressed in her scrubs, her expression visibly softening when she saw you. “You’re still here…”

“I stayed the night,” you said simply, grabbing your jacket from the back of the couch. “He had a nightmare.”

Mrs. Dalton’s eyes searched yours carefully, cautiously. “And you stayed.”

“I’m coming back tonight, too.”

Her brows furrowed. “Wait. Why?”

You shrugged the coat on. “Because Oliver needs me.”

She frowned. “I know he does. But you—this isn’t your responsibility. I should’ve never let it get that far.”

You gave a small, tired smile. “I’m not doing it because I have to.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, something deeper—maybe the truth behind her eyes—but you were already halfway out the door. The cold morning air nipped at your cheeks, and just as you reached the sidewalk—

Fwwt.

A small feather, light gray and black-striped, fluttered past your face and landed by your foot.

You didn’t pick it up. You didn’t have to. Instead, you stepped over it, heart skipping, and walked to your car.

── .✦

The sky had settled into its deep, navy blue—stars peeking out between the clouds as you walked up the front steps, a familiar white paper bag tucked beneath your arm. You could already hear Oliver inside, thudding softly around the living room, maybe looking for something—or someone.

You knocked once before letting yourself in, calling gently, “Hey, Oliver?”

The little boy’s head popped over the couch, eyes widening when he saw the ice cream. His smile—real and unfiltered this time—was radiant. It made your heart stutter for a beat.

“You came back!” he called, running around the furniture. “You came back!”

You caught him as he leapt into your arms, ice cream threatening to topple.

“Of course I did,” you said, smoothing a hand over his hair. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

He nodded into your shoulder, voice muffled. “He’s really happy.”

You didn’t ask who. You didn’t need to.

As you stepped further into the house, shadows curled slightly at the edge of the ceiling—just out of reach. Like fingers brushing the walls. You pretended not to notice, but you felt it—the way the house exhaled when you walked in. And the flicker of something behind you that didn’t belong to the light.

The night unfolded in familiar motions—yet something had shifted. Subtle, warm, like the slow turning of a tide.

You and Oliver ate your ice cream on the living room floor, cross-legged, the television flickering softly in the background with an old cartoon. He babbled between bites, chocolate smeared at the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

“Jack says strawberry is his favorite flavor now, not mint chocolate chip anymore,” he said suddenly, licking the spoon.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, quirking a brow and handing him a napkin. “How does he even eat it? He doesn’t have a tongue, does he?”

Oliver laughed—really laughed. The kind that crinkled his nose and made his shoulders shake. “He does! It’s just black! And super long!”

You felt your eye twitch.

“Well that makes sense,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Big clowns, big tongues, big appetite for ice cream.”

He nodded sagely, like you were in on something sacred. “He said you smell like strawberries again.”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t let it show. “That’s probably because of my lotion.”

“Nope,” Oliver said simply, digging back into the tub. “He says it’s your skin.”

You blinked. “Gross.”

More laughter.

The evening continued like that—pillow forts, coloring pages, made-up bedtime riddles. And you answered all of Oliver’s strange little statements like they were part of the game. 

When he mentioned how the other imaginary friends whispered to him at night? You told him to tell them to use their inside voices.

When he said Jack got sad when the window was closed? You cracked it an inch and said, “There. For airflow and imaginary friends.”

And when he curled into your side with a book, his eyes drooping, his hand clutching your wrist like an anchor—you didn’t even hesitate. You read aloud. Soft, slow, your voice steady as his breaths evened. One page. Two. A lullaby wrapped in ink and warmth. Until his lashes fluttered and finally stilled.

You tucked him in gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead, and whispered, “Goodnight, buddy.”

The hallway light flickered once as you closed the door.

You padded down to the living room and coiled onto the couch, arms wrapped around a throw pillow. The silence of the house was a blanket in itself—one that buzzed slightly at the edges. Hums of something just out of sight.

Still, you let your eyes close. “Jack…” The word was soft, a half-whimper from the empty room.

Then again, more urgent. “Jack…”

You sat up slowly, breath held, listening. The house didn’t answer. No creak of footsteps, no flutter of feathers. Only a long, heavy stillness. You exhaled through your nose and pushed up to stand—only for something cold to slip over your shoulders.

Claws.

Long, jointed fingers, talon-tipped, coiling like ribbons of shadow. You felt them press lightly into your collarbones, grazing the top of your chest—not painful, but possessive, circling from behind you.

And then—his voice. Low. Fractured velvet. Warm like a whisper down your spine. “You came back.”

You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. Just sat, back straight, breathing shallow. The claws curled tighter.

“I was scared you wouldn’t,” Jack murmured, his chin lowering until you could feel the weight of his presence against your shoulder. “But he asked for you. Needed you. So I waited. I was so good.”

You turned your head slowly—his feathers brushing your cheek—and finally looked at him.

Jack’s face rested next to yours, chin tucked onto your shoulder where he stood behind the couch. Pale. Painted. Cracked like porcelain, streaked slightly at the edges from where your hands had once smeared him. His mouth, sharp and black, curled into something between a smile and a snarl.

“I was very good,” he said again, almost pleading.

Your voice came quieter than you expected. “You were.”

He inhaled your scent like it grounded him. And then—his claws uncurled from your shoulders and slid down your arms, lingering at your wrists like manacles of silk and bone.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

With graceful ease, one long gangly leg lifted over the back of the couch like he was stepping over a fence, then the other, before sitting cross-legged down beside you. He faced you, head tilted like a curious, waiting beast, his black-tinted claws twitching with thought. His wide eyes flicked over your face, down your throat, to your hands where they rested in your lap, still and warm. The poor cushions nearly buckled under the weight of him.

“Why,” he murmured, almost to himself, “why does it do that?”

You looked over at him, brows furrowing. “Do what?”

His chest rose sharply, a frustrated mimicry of breath. “This… fluttering.” He pressed a clawed hand flat against the center of his chest. “It’s like I’m hollow and full at the same time.”

Your lips parted—your brain stumbling to meet his intensity. “Remember what I said about love?”

Jack blinked, confused. “Love.”

“It’s… complicated,” you offered gently. “It can feel really good and really terrible at the same time. It makes you care too much. Makes you do things. Say things. Want things.”

Jack’s head tilted, and he shuffled closer on all fours—lanky limbs folding with unnatural grace. “Want?” His voice dipped, that awful little smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I do want.”

You leaned back slightly as he reached for you, his claws brushing your legs, your hips, then curling possessively around your waist as he pulled you into his lap again. You let him—more out of dazed submission than invitation. His body was warm beneath all the feathers and fabric, and the way he tucked you against him made you feel like a doll, a thing made for touch.

“You feel soft,” he murmured, his hand smoothing over your back with surprising gentleness for something so sharp. “You smell like the way I imagine dreams do. And when you talk… it gets louder in here.” He tapped the side of his temple.

“I think that’s still love,” you said softly, trying not to tremble as he leaned forward. You didn’t really think that—but the way he looked at you—there was little you could do to no appease him.

Jack’s nose brushed your neck, and he inhaled like he was starving. Then, unexpectedly, he dragged the tip of his tongue up the line of your throat—inhumanly long, textured like velvet. Oliver was right, it was black—and long. You gasped, clutching his arms.

His head tilted. “You tasted… good. But not enough. There’s something else I’ve seen people do. Something Oliver’s parents did with mouths.”

You flushed. “A… kiss?”

Jack’s eyes lit up like a light bulb flaring. “Yes. That. Show me.”

You hesitated—but something in his expression, his wide pupils and fluttering lashes, made your chest ache. He was so bright—despite the monochromatics of him. There were wild colors and energy behind his sad eyes.

So you leaned forward and whispered, “It’s when two people press their lips together. Gentle, sometimes. Or… not.”

Jack didn’t wait. He surged forward with a suddenness that made you gasp, pressing his mouth to yours clumsily at first—like he didn’t quite know how hard to push or how much to take. His lips were cold, but the space between you burned. And when he groaned softly into it, something cracked wide open in your chest.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t delicate. But it was real.

And when he pulled back, body jittering with energy, his eyes searched yours like you held the answer to everything.

“That,” he whispered, claws trembling where they gripped your sides. “Do that again. Please.”

Your lips tingled from the pressure of him—his mouth too cold, too soft, and too eager all at once. The taste of him lingered like sugar laced with something acrid, like old candy or sugar water. His nose brushed yours as he hovered, barely breathing, barely holding back.

And he was holding back. Barely.

“Do it again,” Jack breathed, his voice cracking with need. “Please—again. Just one more—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have time.

Jack surged forward, kissing you again, messier this time—teeth knocking against yours in his desperation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, tangling like he never wanted to let go. His other arm was tight around your waist, claws digging just enough to make you feel it.

You gasped into his mouth when his tongue—too long, too strange—flicked over your bottom lip, tasting you like you were spun sugar and heat. He moaned—moaned, like he didn’t understand how else to deal with the rush curling through him.

“You’re real,” he whispered into your mouth, dragging you closer, your legs tangled where he held you in his lap. “You see me. You let me touch you. You don’t scream—you don’t run—”

“I was terrified of you,” you said, breathing uneven. “I still kind of am.”

Jack paused. His brows pinched. “Then why did you come back?”

“Because Oliver isn’t the only one who needs me.”

With a shuddering sound full of teeth and snarls, Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply—obscene and greedy—and you could feel his whole body tremble beneath yours. Then his hands—those long, strange hands—slid under your thighs, and in one effortless motion, he scooped you up.

You yelped, arms flying around his neck as he lifted you like you were made of nothing.

“Jack—!”

“Shhh…” he cooed, walking—no, gliding—through the hallway. “I can only keep Ollie asleep for so long, sweet girl. We need to be quiet.”

You squirmed a little, heart hammering, your voice caught somewhere between rationality and surrender. “W-We can sit down. We don’t have to—”

“You’re warm,” he murmured, cutting you off. “And when I touch you, it makes me feel good. I think… I think this is what people mean when they talk about loving someone.” He leaned down, brushing his nose across your cheek. “I want to be good at it. For you.”

The hallway was lit only by the dim nightlight near Oliver’s room, casting everything in shadow and silver. Jack’s body moved soundlessly, his boots not making a single creak on the old wood.

And then he reached Mrs. Dalton’s room.

You stiffened. “Jack, no. We can’t—this is her room—”

But he didn’t stop. He pressed the door open with his foot—which had a little bell at the top, jingling—and carried you over the threshold, and nudged it shut behind him. He walked you to the bed like he’d been there before—like he’d waited for this exact moment. And when he set you down, he was slow. Careful. His claws ghosted over your sides as he released you, reverent, almost trembling.

“You fit,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed like a knight before an altar. “I don’t know why. But you fit. And I don’t want you to go.”

You sat there, breathing hard, watching as he tilted his head—those eyes wide, flickering with too many things—Adoration. Madness. Hope. And something like love.

He didn’t lunge again. Not this time. But you knew—this night, this quiet, this eerie stillness—it wasn’t the end.

It was the beginning—of your doom, your love—you weren’t sure.

Jack’s head tilted again, just slightly, enough for the bell at his collar to chime softly. The tiny sound filled the stillness between you like a warning, or maybe a plea.

“I don’t want you to go,” he repeated, almost childlike, hands resting on your knees—clawed fingers splayed wide, thumbs rubbing tiny, distracted circles into the soft fabric of your pants. “They always go. All of them. After a while. Even when I like them.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Jack…”

“I didn’t like the others like I like you. They didn’t make me feel like this.”

He leaned forward again, feathered collar brushing your arms, the scent of sweets and wrapping around you. His face hovered close, and for the first time… he looked serious.

“I get big feelings when you touch me,” he murmured, eyes searching yours. “When you talk soft. When you look at me like I’m not wrong.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, reaching a cautious hand up—fingers threading through the messy dark strands of his hair. “You’re not wrong, Jack. You’re just… not like us. And that’s okay. Some people don’t deserve you.”

He whimpered, the sound sharp and fragile as his hands suddenly moved to your waist—claws careful but firm, gripping you like he thought you might vanish again.

“Why does it hurt when you leave?” His voice cracked, nose brushing yours, his weight pushing forward until you had to brace yourself back on your elbows. “Why does it ache?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You just let your other hand come up, smoothing over the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing a smear of dried white face paint. “Because you’re learning to care. And that hurts sometimes.”

Jack leaned into your touch like a dog starved for affection. “Is that what this is?” he rasped. “Is this love?”

You froze.

His claws slipped beneath your shirt again, up your sides—not cruelly, but with that same aching hunger he didn’t know how to soothe. The pads of his fingers found the faint indents he’d left the night before, and he shuddered, pressing his forehead to your shoulder with a broken sound.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “I just wanted you to see me.”

“I do see you,” you whispered, unsure if you were shaking from nerves or something deeper.

He looked up suddenly, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze again. “And you still came back.”

“I told you I would.”

Jack didn’t like that answer. His mouth twisted—unhappy, needy—and his arms curled around your back, pulling you forward until your body pressed against his chest, your legs falling open around his wide hips.

“You wanted to come back,” he corrected, nose pressed into your hair. “Didn’t you?”

You closed your eyes. “I did.”

Silence fell.

Then Jack giggled—softly, sweetly, but with something strained and high-pitched underneath. “I knew it. I knew you were different. That you weren’t scared like the rest.”

“Jack…”

That’s all it takes for his lips to be crashing onto yours, biting back a little whimper at the messy clash of teeth, of spit, because one taste of your lips and he was already so addicted. One kiss wasn’t enough, neither was two.

Your breath caught when he shifted his weight, a knee sliding between your thighs as he loomed over you, long hair falling like a shadowy curtain around your face. That enormous feathered collar fanned around his neck, brushing your shoulders like wings, trapping you beneath him.

“You said love feels fluttery, right?” he asked, voice rough, cracking slightly. “It feels like you can’t breathe, like everything is spinning and hot and tight.”

You nodded—your throat too dry to speak.

“Then I’m in love,” he declared, eyes glassy and intense. “Because I can’t stop feeling.”

He pressed his nose to your collarbone, inhaling deeply, then let his tongue graze across your skin—warm and impossibly long, like silk and static. You shivered, your hand instinctively grabbing at the front of his suspender shirt, fingers curling into that ridiculous fabric ruffle beneath his throat.

He smiled at that, manic and pleased. “You like this, don’t you? Even if you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you lied, voice tight.

That earned a laugh—soft and delighted, as if he could feel the war in your chest.

“You’re shaking,” he said, claws slipping lower, curved around your hips now, pulling you flush against his frame. “But not like before. Not like when you wanted to run. Now you’re trembling like… like I make your chest flutter, too.”

You didn’t answer, but your body did—arching when his hips settled against yours.

Jesus fucking Christ. You felt the boneyness of his hips, the slimness of his torso, and the absolutely—devastatingly, mouthwateringly—curve of his erection against his hip. Your hips jerked immediately at the feeling, eyes shooting wide when you felt him grind down just the slighted bit. There was no fucking way.

Jack groaned low, almost surprised by his own reaction, his clawed hand catching your thigh and hiking it up around his waist. “So little,” he hissed, voice shaking with something deeper now. “So small and warm in my hands…”

His head dipped, tongue trailing up your throat, stopping just beneath your jaw. “Want to taste your skin again. Is that okay? You said I need to ask permission.”

You managed a nod, your fingers still clinging to him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the manic glee that bloomed across his face was both terrifying and beautiful.

There was nothing gentle about it.

Jack kissed like a creature who’d only just discovered the act existed and couldn’t fathom living without it—which was mostly true. His mouth was hot and desperate, his tongue curling past your lips like he needed to taste everything you’d ever spoken. He moaned against you—guttural, starved—as he dragged your hips closer into his, arms caging you in completely.

The room spun, your senses burning, and when he finally pulled back for air, a string of spit clung between your mouths. His chest rose and fell like he’d run miles, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t entirely sane.

“I want more,” he whispered. “Let me have more.” Jack gasps, chasing hotly after your lips. Eyes half-lidded to watch the snapping of those delicate strings of saliva, “You’re— you’re so—” And he’s way too impatient to get out his words, licking heatedly at the slit of your mouth, over and over and over. “I can’t help it.”

And the both of you are stuck on the way Jack’s moving again, hips fucking up in jagged, mindless little grinds. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he didn’t even feel the way his twitching erection was smearing along the insides of your thighs. You’re erratic, entire body shaking every time the tip of his cock catches your clit through layers of clothes. How was this even happening?

“I remember—” Jack started, tugging his hips off of you, leaning back, your legs still spread wide around his hips. “I remember what Ollie’s parents used to do. I remember seeing it. I think that was the first time I felt like this.” His voice is shaky, like he’s barely containing something running rampant behind those stripes and monochrome.

“What do you—”

Jack’s claws ran under your shirt, pushing the fabric all the way up until it bunched under your chin. You seized, hands letting go of his shirt and moving to cover your chest, bra slightly askew from all the prior movement. Jack didn’t like that—he wrapped a hand around your wrists, tugging them away with a huff. “I want to show you.”

He pushes your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere against the wall, before he’s snagging one long, sharp finger under the main band of your bra. Your breath catches, hand wrapping around his wrist—before he’s snapping it up.

Your tits fall free, bra bunched onto your chest, nipples hard from the chilled air and rampant energy of your body. You shuffle in embarrassment, pressing your arm over your chest, “Jack—”

He stalks towards your trembling figure as if hypnotized, “Oh, you look even prettier this way.”

You don’t even have time to react. Jack’s painted lips are latching onto one nipple, giant claw snagging the other. You can fill the pinprick of his jagged teeth against your skin, and it elicits goosebumps all over. He’s groaning, humming sweetly against your nipple as that bastardous tongue laps and snakes against the nub.

“Jack—hah—oh god—”

His bright eyes meet yours through heavy lids, chittery little grumbles as he sucks and swirls and makes your head dizzy. Your hands curl into his hair, brushing the strands from his face as he pops off one tit and immediately locks onto the other. A thin ring of black circles your nipple, evidence of his dark lips that sucked a red spot onto your skin. You can hardly catch your breath, arching up into the feeling.

“Tastes… so good. You’re so sweet…” he moans against you, licking a thick stripe across one mound, then to the other. But he’s back up at your lips before you know it, slipping that tongue through your teeth and messing with your own. He forces his way into your mouth, dragging the muscle across your inner cheeks like he’s trying to memorize it.

You feel him slipping down, dragging your hips with him in a firm hold, until you hear the thud of his knees hitting the carpet at the side of the bed. He smacks one, hard kiss across your lips before retreating down your jaw, then to your throat. You gasp out, craning your neck as he nips and sears his teeth across your veins.

Then you feel the tug of your pants, thick claws snagging the fabric and pulling them down your thighs. You try to maneuver, moving to grab his shoulders, but Jack retreats—leaving your mouth and throat alone.

“O-Oh.”

Jack settles between your spread legs, tugging your waistband down your knees and off your ankles. You have enough mind to lean up onto your elbows, unclasping your bra and tugging it off your chest before it becomes too uncomfortable.

Despite your thoughts, despite the way your heart hammered so violently in your chest—Laughing Jack looked so pretty when he knelt obediently at the edge of the bed. A thin sliver of sweat sliding down his temple, breaths coming out in heated gusts, clawed hands balling into a fist and shivering once you smear your legs open just a fraction more. Twitching, white-knuckled like he was forcing himself to not just ruin you right then and there. 

“Let me taste you.” Jack said sternly, an edge of hesitation in his voice. “I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know what to do. Let me show you.” His words got faster as he spoke, frantic. Like if he couldn’t convince you in this moment, you’d up and leave. Your thighs shook, mind dizzy between right and wrong.

But the sight of him there, claws sneaking up to brush against the inside of your calf as your legs dangled off the side of the bed—not your bed, you’d have to make sure to tidy up. There was no point in stopping now.

“Okay.” You’re nodding, and the very action is enough for him to snap his eyes down where your cotton panties were starting to dampen and swallow. “Please—please—be gentle.”

With so much pent-up eagerness, Jack’s lips twist into a sleazy grin—crawling himself the few inches it was to stuff himself nose-deep between your pretty legs. First it was the tiniest tug on your restless hips, then it was a sniff—and then it was a bite of his sharp, pearly whites over the waistband of your underwear. A throaty groan snarling through his teeth, “Oh, sweet girl, I promise.”

Quick as a flash, he’s snagging his teeth on the flimsy fabric of your panties and all but tearing it off of you. Ripping to simply push its tatters to the side, Jack doesn’t even fully take it off before he was simply drooling. 

“Sweet,” he gasps out, tongue flicking past his lips to taste the air. You shrieked, gripping your fingers tight into the sheets, but he just smiled lazily, “So sweet.”

The fattened pad of his thumb sears down on your swollen folds and spreads you wide open, cock twitching at the deafening wet squelch that chimes.

“And mine.”

“Oh— oh fuck—” You’re shrilling out a syrupy moan once his singing tongue flicks at your clit like a lollipop, taking extra care to press down hard so that it has you thrashing.

“There? S’that good?” He’s roaming his mouth over your puffed-up lips eagerly, yearning, not knowing what he was doing, just addicted. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. S’this for me? A-All for me?”

The only answer he’s getting is a few soft gasps of oh! and yes! You couldn’t help but nod your head down and admire just how drunk Jack was as he’s sucked away on your twitching clit. The hollows of his pale cheeks sucked-in, spit-glossed mouth wrapped snugly around your sensitive nub. “So… so good…”

Your legs try to clamp around his head.

“E-Easy, Jack—” You mewl out in a tone that makes his tensed hips rut forward like an animal, immediately grinding against the firm base of the bedframe. You snake a hand down to intertwine with his messy hair, tugging the strands until his eyes snap up to meet yours. “Easy.”

Jack nods against your cunt, lips bumping your clit and smearing your arousal across your folds. You try to tug his head off, just to give yourself a moment—

“I want it.” He grumbles, popping off your clit, hanging his head back as he pants into the air. His eyes are so glassy, the tip of his tongue flashing across his bottom lip—until it’s not the tip anymore—wait—

The curly, dark end of it stingingly slaps down on your thigh, Jack’s tongue is so long enough that he can lace it all over your shivering leg and wrench them further and further open. You nearly faint.

“I want in.”

And then it feels like you’re being split apart—just a few solid, thorough inches of Jack’s slimy tongue burrowing past your puffy folds, keeping your jolting legs pinned firmly by his sharp claws digging in. Your head slams back against the mattress, hands taking a blinding hold on Jack’s hair. You’re being rendered utterly stupid by the jerky flicks of his pointed muscle stirring up your insides, wriggling in circular patterns around and around your gummy walls. Scarfing you down until his tongue reaches the very gooey bottom of your cunt and kisses your cervix so hard that you’re pushed up the mattress and he’s forced to reel you back down again. 

“What— oh…oh my god—” Tears drip down from your heavy lids, wailing whimpers breaking off from your lips at every smack he left on that spongy end, further pushing aside your panties. Then it’s retracting all the way back out, only to thrust in again. “Jack— it’s so big— your tongue—”

He grumbles his agreement, smacking his lips back against your folds, sucking your clit. He’s slashing his tongue almost aggressively inside, knocking your g-spot in-between his journey to fuck you with his tongue. You could feel the ridges of his tongue, feel how it had to bend and curve to fit all of it inside of you. It angled to the shape of your walls, making you feel so full.

“N-ngh please!” You could feel your resolve breaking, nearly hear the sound of your fear shattering and getting rebuilt into uncontrollable lust. You can’t help but rock into every second of his frenzied cadence, creeping down one of your hands to hook on the underside of his jaw, angling his head so that he could go even deeper, “I-it’s so good— don’t stop, don’t stop.”

And the look in Jack’s shiny eyes is the most raw glint of disbelief that you’ve ever seen.

His thighs clench as he hits his erection against the wooden board of the bed and grinds, unwilling to yank the button of his pants down, unwilling to take his hands off of you for a mere second.

He throws your thighs over his shoulder, your trembly hands guided through his sweaty scalp, mouth hungry. You nearly scream every time the sharp ends of his fangs snag on your clit, tongue fucking into your sopping cunt like he’s addicted to the mere taste and sounds of it—because he is.

Your noises, your smell, your taste. How did he go so long without you?

“Fuck- fuck, you’re making such a mess, Jack.”

“Mhmmmm—”

“I can’t— I can’t—” And you don’t know whether it’s the sight of slicked saliva falling from Jack’s mouth or the sheer overstimulation that has you jumbling up your syllables—but it’s enough to make Jack grin against your folds. “S’too much— hold on—”

Your brain’s fuzzily numb by the time you finally recognize that familiar twist at the bottom of your gut. Blubbering out an unsteady, “H-Hold on— Just give—agh— give me a minute.”

“I know— I know I know I know— make a mess.” He’s tugging his tongue out, letting a wad of saliva stream straight down your slit and licking it all up before he returns to probe your entrance fully, swirling every fold of his tongue until it was like he was stuffing you with his taste buds.

Tears pool from your eyes, hands jerks two thick strands of his hair and pulling—and your body absolutely shatters under him.

Jack picks it up immediately—keenly aware of the way your walls clamp down with a searing grip on his lashing tongue, flooding his tastes with such a sweet, sweet taste. You could practically see the fireworks exploding behind his eyes, eyelashing fluttering and lips twitching as he only shoves his jaw closer to your skin.

Your hips roll at the primal way Jack’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with each eager swallow. Thin lines of sappy slick falling from the black, puckered corners of his lips and waterfalling all down the side of his throat. 

“Good— Good girl—” His sopping wet tongue drags up and down your open folds to pull you through your euphoria, every lolling flick of the curled end jostling against your thoroughly-stuffed cunt. “This— this is all for me?” He’s crooning out, dazed, letting his jaw fall open with every quiver you’re instinctively clenching with your cunt, “All for me. More— more, sweetheart.”

The waves of absolute pleasure ran through your gut, through your legs, until it slowly fizzled into sharp, jerking twitches of your legs clamping around his head. Jack let you, too busy tasting your orgasm to worry about his head getting squished between your shaky thighs. He wasn’t stopping, his tongue making it a point to clean every inch of your insides, to taste every sweet drop.

His tongue kept thrusting, lips continually sucking on your weeping clit. Your eyes rolled back, hips jerking off the bed and slamming back down into the sheets with every curl of the muscle inside you.

It wasn’t until you were hitting your fist against his head and pressing the bottoms of your feet against his shoulders that he flicked his eyes up at you, catching the absolutely fucked-out expression that lay before him.

���Jack— s’too much, too much—”

And he’s perking his head up like the thought didn’t even occur to him—slowly retracting his tongue from your folds and back to his own mouth. His glistening tongue licks his lips, catching all the spit and slick that got absolutely everywhere all over his face. His eyes are locked into yours, despite you rapidly blinking away tears. He smiled, innocently, all sharp teeth and giddy eyes, “Was that good?”

Your eyes flicked back and forth between his face and your body—your inner thighs and center absolutely covered in smears of white and black facepaint. You could see where a black O shape circled right around your cunt, where his cheekbones has pressed right into the meat of your thighs. It was an absolute mess—and that wasn’t even counting all the drool and slick accompanying it. But your eyes flicked back to his face.

Fuck. He was pretty.

Granted, you always saw him in the shade of shadows or in faint passing, but right now—with Jack’s dark strands of hair hooding his half-lidded gaze, what little you could see of his eyes gleaming, chest rising and falling rapidly—he was dreamy.

One gangly limb after the other, Jack crawls back up into the bed—well, grinds right between your legs so that he’s putting pressure on your throbbing cunt. He doesn’t even look like he knows that he’s doing it, not when he’s gripping your flushed cheeks in one claw and puffing your lips together.

Looming over top of you, his other claw grips into the askew bedding near your head, face quickly lowering toward yours as he catches your mouth again.

It’s all spit and tongues and the taste of you on his lips. You’re both panting into each other’s mouth’s, his sharp teeth catching against your lips and making you hiss. He grinds down again, making your hands grip into his ruffled collar, rutting his hips and dampening the front of his trousers with your wetness.

He’s whimpering into your mouth, eyes clenched tightly shut as you feel the head of his cocktip smear through your folds over thin layers of fabric. Your hands move before your brain does, fishing for the waistband of his trousers and finding the metal clasp that holds the layers together.

Jack feels your hands against stomach, knuckles running across those bandages tight around his waist, and angles his hips upwards. He can’t figure out why he feels so warm, why the fluttering in his chest has traveled south—but when your fingers latch on and snag the clasp open, feeling as his length bobs out from behind the fabric and smacks against your belly-button—it’s like he just touched a live-wire.

“What—” he started, popping off your lips to look at the space between you. His face is twitching, like he can’t pinpoint what expression he’s supposed to have, watching at his cock twitches and smears pre-cum against your stomach. It’s only when you let go of the fabric of his pants, mindlessly darting over to swipe your thumb across a pearly bead of pre that glistened on his slit—that Jack’s hips jerk at the feeling, chasing your hand.

“O-oh.” Jack grunts at the look on your gorgeous face once your hand wraps around the head of his cock, twisting slowly. His hips stutter, brow knotting as you slowly stroke your hand on his tip, smearing his arousal on his bulbous head. “No one’s ever touched me like this—hah!” You pump your hand lower, gaping at the way your fingers have to separate to get a grip on him, jerking his cock lazily while you drool over the sight.

“It’s okay, Jack— Mm, does that feel good?” You hum, shuffling up to press a wet kiss against his jaw, his eyes still glued on your hand.

“Ye-Yeah. Really—hnm—really good.”

“Yeah?”

He’s nodding frantically, rolling his hips until his tip is knocking against your stomach. He’s so long, so thick that you can see exactly where he’s going to end up inside of you, see exactly where the tip of his goes past your belly-button. Your stomach rolled with excitement.

You push against his shoulder, minding the ruffles and feathers, and wrap your leg onto his hip, rolling the two of you over.

“Oh.” He’s gasping—you settle on top of him, legs bracketing his hips as his length sits heavy against the curve of your ass. You’re completely naked above him except for the shredded remnants of your torn panties still hanging on. You couldn’t care less about them, not when he’s panting underneath you, staring up with wide, anxious eyes.

“Jack…” You’re sliding the curve of your ass gingerly against his aching hot length, shudders skittering down your spine at the sheer size of him pressing up against you. “Y-you’re so big. I don’t know if it’ll fit.”

“Fit? F-Fit where?” He’s whispering, in awe. Watching with damply bated breath as you reach between your legs, gripping the base of him—fingers not even close to touching—and dragging him to point that curved, bulbous tip right between your folds and sliding it up and down, collecting all your sweet arousal. Jack nearly snaps his hips up, if not for the weight of you on top of him.

“Right here,” you purr, grinding your clit against his weeping slit.

“Am—Am I really that b-big?” He’s panting at the first squeeze of his reddened, blushing tip against your entrance, his chittery voice wavers almost as much as his heavy eyelids, falling apart with just that first taste of your perfect cunt. “You got it—uh huh, yeah, you got it—Show me how good it feels.” Jack’s voice cracks with a whimper at that snug resistance, “You can take it—you can take it. I’ll make it fit.”

“Oh—oh my god—Jack, Jac—!”

“Is it too big for my sweet girl? Hm?” He giggles under you, claws latching tight onto your waist, pushing you down each and every time Jack jerks his hips off the bed and pushes just to fit in. “Sweetheart—” Jack gasps as you throw your head back with a mewl at the sheer size of him, planting your hands into his forearms.

His painfully-aching cock was so big that just the mere first inch being bullied inside was enough to make your vision blotch with black specs. His rounded head was stretching your slick-flooded walls so bad it burned, “I’m sorry, sweet girl— M’sorry I’m so big. But you’re my girl— my girl can take it— you can…you can take it.”

You can’t even move, let alone think very hard. Where all your teasing was prominent moments ago, it all fissiled the second Jack learned what he was meant to do, realized he could feel good too. You’re just limp in his hands down, stuttering fucked-out whimpers and tears dripping down your chin onto his frilly clothes. It was pathetic.

He had to be almost in—he had to be.

Your heart nearly fell to your ass when you looked down, eyes cracking open just enough to see when the two of you were connected—and realize he was hardly half way.

“Jack— oh my god— oh my god.”

“So tight, so tight, so— so warm— tight—”

“Mhm—” And you’re just letting out the cutest cry once he finally eases himself all the way in, practically impaling you. Your cunt gushes around him, thighs trembling as you feel both of your bodies untense.

Tenderly caressing your palm down his chest, you whine, “I-it’s in?” Your hitched tone makes his eyes flutter shut, and yet, he’s fighting to bring them back open and watch as you grind against him. “It’s in. O-oh my god, I can feel you— so deep.”

“It burns,” he whines, clamping his claws tight around your waist as he begins to haul you up, the bells on his clothes jingling as he shifts you higher on his length. He’s stretching you so wide, rubbing against every curve and sensitive spot inside of you, making you dizzy. “Need’a move.” You’re jostled ever-so-slightly on top of him as he’s sucking in a deep breath.

One jerk of his hips has you falling forward, draping across his long body, you’re nothing against his over eight foot height. He takes advantage of the angle, wraps his gangly arms around your back, and thrusts.

You feel the wind knock out of your lungs, feel your spine arch at the sheer fullness that erupts your thoughts. “Jack—” you cry out, gazing up to see his gleaming teeth on display, a feral snarl painting his features.

“Sweet girl—” Planting a rattling thrust you’re feeling all the way in your chest, his twitching length is so widely thick that Jack has to bite down on his lips and manhandle you for his thrusts to move to and fro, fighting the sheer tightness of your walls.

“Nghhh—Jack! Fuck, y-you’re in so deep—”

He nods, painfully so, and reaches to wrap a claw around your jaw, forcing you to lean up to him. “Kiss me, please.”

“Should’ve— should’ve done this sooner—” He hisses out through a narrowed pant, tongue flashing angrily across his lips as he pushes the tip between your lips. “Should’a had you like this from the start.”

“O-oh fuck fuck fuck—” The backs of your thighs ache after every slamming thrust you’re bouncing back into his bony hips, pounding away like he was crazed, every jackhammer only makes Jack grow more feral. The sounds, the absolute vulgarness of your skin slapping together.

His rummaging, fat-tipped shaft was so large that you could feel the way his ridged cockhead scraped your cervix, bumping against the end like he desperately needed to get deeper, impossibly deeper.

Facepaint practically smearing down his cheeks now, “Should’ve fuh-fucked you the moment I—hnngh—saw you. Should’ve dragged you into that closet— sh-should’ve—” You’re squealing once his sharp claws dart down to toy and pull at the curve of your ass. “I knew from that first night— Yeah, I knew it— You’re perfect.”

Oh, he’s babbling. 

Cooing, you slither one of your hands through the tangled strands of his dark hair, “Awww– it’s okay, I’m here. You’ve—hah—you’ve got me now.”

“Yes.” He’s seething, heaving thick swallows of air against your lips. Your smell was driving him mad, he can’t help but bite against your lips and pull. “Are you feeling good, too?”

Pace growing sloppier by the minute, he barely even noticed when you nodded, too worried about tugging you lips open with his jagged teeth and shoving his tongue back into your mouth. It’s almost as if you didn’t know if it was you bouncing back on his cock on him thrusting up into you, only fucked dumb with every sharp jut. His cock curved just right, targeting your g-spot over and over with his bruising tip.

You could barely breathe, especially when his tongue was yawning in your mouth, pushing to the tightness of your throat. It took your hand on his face, pushing his forehead back before you could gag. “I-I’m so close—” You’re hiccuping through your salty tears, brows scrunching at the overwhelming coil at the base of your gut. “F-fuck! Jack m’gonna cum.”

“Again? Hah— again?” His response comes out guttural, and it’s just so cute the way that he’s forced to gnaw on his bottom lip to stop himself from shoving his tongue back into your pretty mouth.

You’re nodding frantically, pressing your hands into his chest to raise yourself, fucking your hips back to match the unrelenting pace Jack was setting into your weeping cunt. The sounds had grown more lewd, slick and arousal coating your inner thighs, nails dragging along the bandaged wrap of his waist. Shocked, Jack sounds as if he could still barely even believe this was all real. “That feeling— the, the fluttering,” he whines, legs kicking out from under you like he’s trying to get away from some foreign feeling, “It’s worse—hah—it hurts, it hurts—”

His claws sear against your skin, pace faltering as his brow twists with unease, eyes flickering to your face and your cunt with panic. You reach to grab his face, forcing his shaky eyes on you, your fingernails pressing into his white-coated face.

“Don’t stop. Jack—aghh— don’t stop.” You’re grinning like wild, tear-heavy lashes fluttering so fast your vision blurs with flashes of monochrome. “You’re gonna cum. Inside— please, inside.”

“Ah—Alright— Oh, sweet girl. Oh, goodness.” You could feel the rumbling under his skin as his teeth pull back into a primal snarl, tear-glinted eyes locked permanently where his red, swollen cock was disappearing between your legs. “It hurts, it hurts. Need it to come out—hah—need it.”

But between all of his babbling and all of his jittery movements, Jack doesn’t even realize it—doesn’t even remember to breathe the very moment you’re creaming all down his monstrous cock. Violent twitches take over your body as you shut your eyes and ride it all out. 

The sheer amount of slick that pools out of your cunt is mind-numbing, every drop coating Jack’s cock for him to piston even faster up into you. You fall limp in his hands, your orgasm shattering every ounce of willpower you had left, reduced to nothing but a drooling fucktoy on his chest.

And, god, he cums. So thick, so much, straight into the gummy walls that constricted around him like a vice. He gnashed his teeth, claws scratching down your sides and gripping hard into the meat of your ass as he holds you there, forcing you to sit and feel every shot of cum that pumps into your cervix. He’s whimpering, teeth chattering so hard you were afraid he’d pass out.

And you’re just tapering off from your own orgasm, finally mustering enough energy to look up at him, you slur your words, “Didn’t that feel good? Ah— good job, good job, Jack.”

He’s not listening.

“Again. Again, again, again—” Urgent, rapidly he’s flipping the two of you immediately over to hover on top of you and rut like an animal. You’re gasping once your back slams down on the soft bedding, heels struggling to cling onto Jack’s slim hips until he’s wrapping his long arms underneath your knees and hauling them over his shoulders. You feel your back bend, and bend, and bend—

He had you manhandled like some toy into a mating press. All the air gets pressed out of your lungs as your heels hook onto his shoulders, ruffled feathers on his collar tickling your bare skin. You’re so open, so powerless, so… braindead.

“Need to make you cum again—” Growling through the tiniest gaps of his grit teeth, he presses his forehead to yours, his striped nose poking against your cheek, and inhales that sweet scent of yours still permeating the thick air. The straps of his suspenders rub against your skin as he begins to move again, searing his hips back to thrust back into you again. He laughs, rough and low and tired, chittering his teeth, “I want to feel it over and over. Want to make my sweet girl feel good again.”

He struggles to even focus his eyes on you properly, and Jack’s teeth grit at the lead squelch your pussy makes once he sinks all the way back in, drools of cum and slick pooling onto the mattress below. 

He picks up a brutal pace again, planting his claws on either side of your head, your hands wrapping around his wrists as you try to hold on for dear fucking life. The angle, the position, the sheer force of his hips have your jaw going slack, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Jack’s length bumps into your g-spot so bruisingly that with only a few more strokes you’re cumming again. 

It’s only when you cry out, a shrill noise bubbling out of your throat, that Jack realizes it. A wide smile paints his face, every sharp tooth shining in the dim light as he watches every twist and turn of your expression, refusing to slow his pace even when fat tears roll down your cheeks. “Yes. Yeah, yeah, yeah— Yes, sweet girl. Give it to me, give it to me—”

He can’t even finish the damn sentence before he’s following right behind you, your cunt clenching so tight that he can’t thrust again before he’s spilling into you—even more. You can tell he’s sensitive, can feel the way his hips fight his mind to pull out, whimpering so pitifully as he fucks him cum into the already stuffed cavern of your walls.

“So good for me— so good. Feel how full you are, so full and— and warm…” He was practically twitching, trembling. “It’s so hot inside…”

You couldn’t even move without feeling cum slip down the curve of your ass, spilling onto the bed. You prayed Mrs. Dalton’s comforter was washable.

Yelping, your legs struggle to shut once his sloppy cadence turns even sloppier. Lazier. Heels slipping off of his shoulders and crooking onto his elbows. “O-one more—” Jack’s whining, black tongue lolling between his teeth, licking up the drool that pools onto his lips, “Keep— keep those pretty legs open f’me. M’begging— take it, sweetheart.”

One claw wiggles its way under your back, arching your body off the bed and pressing your chest to his, face-first into the ruffles of his collar. The other claw plants at the top of your head, and pushes you down.

“Jack—!” Your legs were shaking so violently every snap of his hips made you weep openly. So overstimulated, you could barely even be touched without lighting cracking through your veins. 

“Yeah? Feel good? S’all for you— only for you—” Purposefully pressing up close so that your poor clit gets rubbed over by the wrap of bandages that stop at his pelvis, the rough fabric tugging the sensitive bud. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, totally focused on making you as full as possible.

He was fucking you like he couldn’t get enough—would never possibly be able to get enough. Every thrust had him pushing you down once more after the stuttering recoil, grinding your bodies against each other because Jack couldn’t bear to part. “You’re never leaving again—never—Need you all the time.”

You can’t help but nod, can’t even think straight, mind completely full of the skin slapping and the strong smells and the horrible way you knew you were going to be so bruised after this. This was going to hurt so bad tomorrow.

“Cum. Cum on me, sweetheart. All over me.”

“Jack— please—” you cry, mouth falling into an obscene O shape as you feel your legs going numb.

“Now.” You could hear the grit in his voice, hear the absolute need. But more than that, more than his voice, you could feel the heavy tongue that slithered across your throat, across your shoulders, all the way into your mouth and to the back of your throat—choking you.

Feel it as you squirt.

“Yes.”

Simply spraying him with a searing flood of your sweet, soaking juices. Jack has the mindless audacity to crane his head and look between you, wide eyes catching just as your wetness sprays onto his hips and trousers and just everywhere.

“Fuuuck…” You feel like you’ve been dragged through the 6 rings of hell with the way your body absolutely burns. Gushing and gushing—it’s almost embarrassing how much you’re leaking around Jack’s creamy base. 

Jack didn’t seem to think so, though.

He was mesmerized, hypnotized. A glistening few droplets of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he just watched himself get drenched in all your gushing orgasm whilst he cums for who knows how many times.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes—” Jack is absolutely losing his mind, every languid pump of his flinching cock sending massive shockwaves through both of you. He can’t even draw his hips back anymore, can’t even thrust, “Yes.”

He just grinds, just pumps you full again, this round of cum not even trying to fit into your cunt and just spilling out. Jack falls limp on top of you, muttering yes, yes, yes like a mantra, like his mouth can’t form another word. You both just lay there for a moment, all heaving breaths and shaky limbs, clinging to each other like you never want to let go.

“So full… Jack… soo full…” You mumble against his chest, tears and spit staining the white fabric. He nods against your hair, taking deep breaths of the sweet smell of you. 

The room was still heavy with heat and haze, the air thick and sweet as your chest rose and fell beneath him. Jack’s weight was heavy, his long, wild hair a curtain around your flushed face, his hands still curled loosely at either side of your head, claws twitching with the remnants of adrenaline.

You were boneless beneath him, throat raw from panting, lips swollen from being kissed breathless. Every inch of you felt claimed—touched, tasted, adored in that chaotic, frenzied way only he could manage.

Jack licked his lips, then leaned down to nose against your neck, humming softly to himself, as though delighted by the sheen of sweat on your skin. “You were… so good,” he murmured, voice thick with pride and possessive warmth. “So warm. So soft. I didn’t know… I didn’t know anything could feel that good.”

You swallowed hard, heart still hammering in your chest as you tried to blink the daze from your eyes. His tongue flicked out, dragging slowly along your collarbone, tasting you again. “Jack—” you breathed, trying to lift your hand, but he caught it midair, pressing it to his chest like a treasure.

He slowly lifted his hips, pushing your legs open so he could ease out of you with the least amount of pain possible. It was useless, your hips still stuttered upwards when the head of him caught in your entrance, snagging a shrill cry from your lips that he immediately swallowed up.

His cum gushed out of you, thick globs of him pulling out of you and pooling onto the bedding below. You felt your whole body shiver, felt Jack’s eyes rove over every curve and surge of your body.

“You felt good,” he repeated, more urgently now, almost reverent. “Like magic. Like you were made for me. Were you?”

Your throat tightened. “I… don’t know.”

“You are now.” He leaned down again, licking along the swell of your breast before trailing down your ribs, slow and unhurried, as though savoring the salt of your skin. His voice was muffled, cheek pressed against your stomach. “Mine now. Can’t give you back. Won’t.”

You twitched when his tongue dipped a little lower, lazily tracing over the marks he’d left. His claws gently held your thighs open as he worked, less frenzied now—just curious, affectionate. Worshipful. He pressed the thick curve of his tongue through your folds, across your lips, careful not to let your hips jerk away from him. 

You squirmed under him, both flushed and too sensitive to bear it. “Jack—enough, please—”

He huffed, nuzzling your hip as if reluctant to stop. “But you taste like strawberries,” he whined. “And you let me, didn’t you? You let me do everything.”

“I was trying to help you understand,” you said, voice thin and shaky, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Trying to make sense of… whatever this is.”

Jack blinked, resting his chin on your belly, his eyes wide and unusually soft.

“I don’t want to make sense of it anymore,” he murmured. “I just want you.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I love you.”

You felt your throat choke up.

“I love you,” His tongue moved easily, cleaning your inner thighs, cleaning your cunt, careful not to hurt you when he pressed the muscle against your entrance and into your pitiful walls. “I love you, I love you,” he muffled against your center. You squealed, tears hot and heavy against your cheeks. But Jack held your thighs, swiped his thumbs over your skin in comfort, easy as he cleaned every curve and slope of your cunt. “Mm love you.”

When you felt lightheaded, when you didn’t know if you would be able to open your eyes every time you blinked—Jack finally let up, licking his maw, and planting one, gentle kiss against your spoiled clit.

His hands slid up, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you up against him again. You collapsed into his chest, exhausted and limp, your fingers curling into the soft, ruffled fabric of his shirt. Jack purred in his throat, the vibration sinking into your bones.

“I— hah—” you whispered. “I love you, Jack.”

Jack hissed quietly, pleased by the mention—but he didn’t stir you. He only curled tighter around you, his limbs tangling with yours like string and shadow, pressing soft, lazy kisses into your temple.

And as you lay there, sleep creeping in at the corners of your mind, you realized something terrifying: You didn’t feel scared anymore. You felt claimed.

── .✦

The first rays of sunrise spilled through the curtains in delicate streaks of gold, turning the bedroom air hazy and warm. You blinked groggily into the soft morning light, eyelids heavy, body sore in all the places that had been handled—held, touched, claimed.

But when you moved, it was with a jarring realization: Your clothes were back on. Neat. Clean. Smoothed over your skin as if nothing had happened at all.

The bedding beneath you was immaculate too—fluffed and freshly tucked like someone had come in during the night and changed the sheets around your sleeping body. There was no trace of feathers, no smudges of face paint, no claw marks in the mattress. No lingering shadow in the corners.

No Jack.

You sat up too fast. A bolt of dizziness slammed through you, your legs swinging over the side of the bed on instinct, your feet hitting the floor—only for your knees to buckle immediately, muscles trembling from the night before.

“Shit—!”

You pitched forward, panic flooding your chest, the carpet rushing up to meet you—

—but something caught you.

Sharp claws—long as branches, strong as iron. They snaked around your waist mid-fall and reeled you back up into the air like a ragdoll. You let out a yelp, twisting in surprise.

“Careful, sweetheart!” Jack’s voice cooed near your ear, syrupy with delight. “Can’t have you break yourself again so soon. I just put you back together.”

You looked up, heart hammering against your ribs. He held you easily in his arms, your feet dangling slightly above the floor as he giggled—a glittering grin splitting his face beneath that mess of black and white scruff. His long nose brushed your cheek affectionately, lips pressing a hot kiss there, and then another at your temple.

“You wore yourself out, silly thing. All that shaking and moaning and screaming my name—” he grinned wider, if that were possible, voice practically a purr. His eyes gleamed, lids heavy with smugness. “I’ve never seen such a generous girl before.”

You flushed furiously, pushing lightly at his chest. “Jack—shhh!”

But he only hummed, spinning you effortlessly in his arms like a toy ballerina before cradling you bridal-style once again. “Come on then,” he murmured. “Let’s go see our boy.”

With a gentle lurch, he carried you through the hall, humming a wilted lullaby that made the hairs on your arms stand up. And yet… you didn’t resist. You let your cheek rest against the soft feathered scruff of his collar, hands curled into the frilled edge of his sleeve.

The door to Oliver’s room creaked open on its own as Jack approached, and he stepped inside with a kind of reverence. You could feel the difference now—this wasn’t just a child’s bedroom. It was a sanctuary. A space Jack had claimed as sacred.

He placed you carefully on the edge of the bed, his clawed fingers brushing your cheek with startling tenderness.

You turned immediately to check on Oliver. The little boy stirred beneath his covers, his tiny fists rubbing at sleepy eyes. His hair was tousled, cheeks warm and pink from dreams, and when he saw you—his whole face lit up.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, beaming.

“I told you I would,” you said, smoothing his hair with a soft smile.

Oliver blinked up at you, voice quiet and dreamlike. “Jack says… he’s really happy now. He said he likes the way you smell when you’re sleepy. He said he wants you to stay forever.”

Your heart skipped. You turned over your shoulder—but the room was empty. No creak of footsteps, no swish of feathers, no glint of a manic smile from the corner. Just the soft hush of morning light, Oliver’s sleepy breathing, and the distant jingle of keys at the front door.

── .✦

It had been just over a week since that first night back—since the floodgates had opened. The days blurred together now in a soft, steady rhythm. Every evening, the sun dipped low over the Daltons’ quiet street, and you found yourself there, ringing the doorbell with your overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Mrs. Dalton had grown warmer, more relaxed around you. You understood her now, why she left so often, why her shoulders never quite fell from that constant state of tension.

The mornings were slower. You and Mrs. Dalton had even begun grabbing coffee at the little shop a block from the house before she left for work. She never asked questions, never made you explain the way your shirt sometimes looked hastily thrown on or how you wore the same dazed smile every morning. Maybe she didn’t want the details. Maybe she already knew with the way the energy around the house had completely shifted.

But tonight, something was different.

Oliver was already in his pajamas when you arrived, swinging his legs off the couch and grinning ear to ear.

“Guess what!” he chirped, bouncing up to meet you at the door. You smiled, setting the bag down and slipping off your shoes. “What’s up, bud?”

“I made a friend at school!” he announced proudly. “A real one! Her name is Ellie, and she has a pet lizard and everything.”

Your heart bloomed with warmth. It was the first time Oliver had mentioned a friend who wasn’t invisible or feathered or from some half-imagined memory. “That’s amazing, Ollie! I’m so proud of you.”

“We’re having a playdate tomorrow! Her mom and my mom set it up. She’s gonna come over after school.” He beamed up at you with all the brightness of someone who’d waited too long for something this simple. “You’ll be here, right?”

You nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Oliver hesitated then, tugging at the edge of his pajama top. Something in his expression changed—less excitement, more careful consideration.

“I think… I think I want you to keep Jack,” he said softly.

You blinked, crouching down to be eye-level with him. “What do you mean?”

“I think he likes you better,” Oliver said plainly, like it was the most obvious truth in the world. “He always tells me how pretty you are. How you smell like strawberries. And he’s really, really happy when you stay. He used to be sad all the time. But not anymore.”

A small, fluttering ache pressed against your ribs. “Ollie… Jack’s your friend.”

“He is,” Oliver said, with a tiny, knowing smile. “But now he’s yours too. So you gotta take care of him.” He wrapped his little arms around your neck then, tight and firm the way kids do when they want to say something big without using words.

You held him close, whispering, “I’ll take good care of him. Promise.”

Later that night, after brushing Oliver’s teeth and reading through the last pages of Where the Wild Things Are for the fourth time that week, you tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and switched off the light. The house was quiet when you padded into the living room, curling up on the couch with a blanket drawn over your legs. You waited, like you always did now—breath slow, heart expectant.

The air stirred. And then, gentle as a whisper, black claws slithered around your shoulders, a familiar heat blooming against your back.

Jack’s claws slipped around your shoulders with slow, deliberate weight, his touch always somewhere between possessive and reverent. You let him pull you back against the solid press of his chest, feeling the faint ruffle of feathers brush your cheek as his breath ghosted along your ear.

“You heard him, didn’t you?” you murmured quietly, not needing to look. “Oliver… he said I should take care of you now.”

Jack didn’t answer at first. Just held you a little tighter. His long legs coiled beside yours as he crouched on the back of the couch, half-lurking, half-nesting.

“I heard,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “But I’ll still watch over him. Always. Even if I’m… with you now.”

You tilted your head back to rest against his collar, smiling softly. “You’re not gonna sneak around in my closet, are you?”

Jack snorted, the sound bubbling out of him like a hiccupy laugh. “Your closet’s much bigger than Ollie’s. I’d have space to stretch out… but it smells like laundry detergent and dryer sheets. Not strawberries.”

You smacked his arm lightly, and he giggled, his limbs shifting around you like a jungle gym. “Maybe I like the closet,” he said dramatically. “But I think I’d rather sleep in your bed.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh, would you now?”

Jack leaned closer, feathered collar tickling your jaw as he pressed the side of his face to yours. “Mhm. I like it when you get all squishy and warm and sigh real soft. I like your hair.”

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m yours,” he replied easily, chin now resting on your shoulder as his arms draped fully around your waist. “That’s what Ollie said. And I love being yours.”

A warm ache bloomed in your chest as he stepped over the back of the couch and sat next to you, pulling you into his lap like a ragdoll, curling himself around you like a giant predatory housecat. His weight settled, limbs folding over yours, as if making a cocoon.

The quiet stretched, and you leaned into him, no longer startled by his touch, by his presence—by what he was.

“You’re really staying with me?” you asked, voice hushed.

Jack made a low hum in his throat, his clawed fingers tracing idle shapes into the fabric of your sleeve. “Only if I get to sleep in your bed.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled as your head rested against his chest, the rhythmic thrum of something not-quite-human but not entirely monstrous beating beneath your ear. Outside, the world was turning slowly toward morning. Inside, the couch creaked beneath two bodies tangled together, something real and strange and maybe a little bit of magic settling in.

Or maybe it’s just your imagination.

This was a request from @valinpariss!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[kenzdolls]

TOTAL INSECURITY .

⌗ pairing: {established relationship} katsuki bakugou x jealous! reader

⌗ trigger warnings: jealousy, insecurity, self-doubt, emotional distress, anxiety, miscommunication, crying, negative self-talk.

⌗ anon request: hello! I was wondering if you could make a story where y/n is getting jealous over katsuki getting close to another girl classmate? like basically him and another girl in class 1-a start training and hangout a bit and reader starts getting a bit jealous and insecure, basically a comfort fic. i’d really appreciate it cause i’m kind of in a mood today 🥹

⌗ a/n: thx for requesting this!! uh, i decided to use a random Japanese generator name thingy because i didn’t want to use any of the actual mha girls. and yes, I am doing requests. I JUST CAN’T FIND PHOTOS. [edit: if you get what the title name is from, ilysm.]

the first time you noticed her, she was standing at the front of class 1-a with that nervous smile transfer students always wore. emiko tanaka—her quirk was something called "energy sync" that let her match and amplify others' abilities temporarily. aizawa had explained it in his usual monotone, but you'd been more focused on the way katsuki's eyes had lingered on her demonstration.

"interesting," he'd muttered, and something cold had settled in your stomach.

you'd been dating katsuki for six months now. six months of his rare soft smiles, of him walking you to class with his hand in yours, of quiet moments where his guard dropped completely. you thought you'd gotten past the worst of your insecurities, but watching emiko successfully sync with his explosions during their first paired training session brought them all rushing back.

"she's really good," kirishima commented, watching as emiko's borrowed explosions created a perfect crater in the training ground. "her control is insane."

"yeah," you managed, throat tight. "really good."

katsuki was grinning—actually grinning—as he helped emiko up from where she'd been knocked back by the recoil. when was the last time he'd smiled like that during training? when was the last time he'd looked at you like that? you tried to remember, but all you could focus on was the way his hands lingered on her arms as he steadied her, the way she looked up at him with those bright eyes full of admiration.

over the next few weeks, it became routine. emiko would pair with katsuki for combat training, their quirks complementing each other perfectly. she could handle his explosive power better than anyone else in class, and he seemed to thrive on having a partner who could keep up. you watched from the sidelines during training, paired with whoever was left, trying not to notice how natural they looked together.

you told yourself it was just training. professional. but then you started noticing the little things.

the way katsuki would wait for her after class, both of them heading to the gym for extra practice while you walked back to the dorms alone. how he'd explain techniques to her with unusual patience, his voice lacking its typical harsh edge. the inside jokes that developed between them—references to their training sessions that made her laugh and him smirk with satisfaction. how she'd save him a seat at lunch sometimes, or bring him notes from classes he'd missed.

you found yourself studying them during meals, watching how comfortable they'd become with each other. emiko would steal food from his plate without him threatening to explode her face off—something that had taken you months to achieve. she'd tease him about his study habits, and he'd actually laugh instead of shouting. worse, she understood his ambitions in a way that felt similar to you, nodding along when he talked about being the number one hero, asking questions that showed she actually listened.

"you're being ridiculous," you whispered to yourself one evening, watching through the gym windows as they worked through a complex combination attack. emiko was practicing syncing with his explosions while moving, and every time she succeeded, katsuki's face would light up with genuine pride. but when she stumbled and katsuki caught her, steadying her with hands on her waist, both of them laughing breathlessly from the exertion, you couldn't stop the tears that blurred your vision.

you turned away before either of them could see you, but not before you heard emiko say, "thanks, katsuki. you're an amazing teacher." the warmth in her voice made your chest ache.

the breaking point came during a weekend study session. you'd been looking forward to spending time with katsuki, had even picked up his favorite snacks from the convenience store. but he'd gotten a text from emiko about needing help with a hero law assignment.

"rain check?" he'd asked, already reaching for his jacket. "she's struggling with the case studies, and you know how brutal those are."

you'd nodded, forced a smile, told him it was fine. but as you watched him leave, something inside you cracked. he used to help you with hero law. he used to be the one you could count on for study sessions and quiet conversations about your dreams. you remembered sitting in his room for hours, him patiently explaining legal precedents while you struggled to understand the complex cases.

now he was rushing off to help someone else, and you were left wondering if you were being replaced. the snacks sat unopened on your desk, mocking you.

the next few days passed in a blur of forced normalcy. you smiled when katsuki kissed you good morning, laughed at his jokes, pretended not to notice when he and emiko would disappear for their training sessions. but the doubt was eating at you, whispering cruel things in the quiet moments.

she's stronger than you. more compatible with his quirk. she doesn't flinch when he shouts, doesn't need the gentle handling you sometimes require. she's everything you're not.

you started avoiding the gym, finding excuses to skip group training sessions. when katsuki asked why, you'd claim you were tired or had homework. the lies tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn't bear to watch them together anymore, couldn't stand seeing how effortlessly she fit into the space you'd thought was yours.

mina noticed first, cornering you after class one day. "hey, what's going on? you've been weird lately."

"nothing," you'd deflected, but she saw right through you.

"it's about bakugou and the new girl, isn't it?" she'd said gently, and your face must have given you away because she sighed. "oh, honey."

"it's stupid," you'd whispered, but mina shook her head.

"feelings aren't stupid. but you should talk to him instead of torturing yourself like this."

but how could you? how could you tell the person you loved that you were terrified of losing him? that every interaction he had with emiko felt like a knife in your chest?

you were so lost in your thoughts that you didn't notice katsuki approaching until he dropped into the seat beside you at lunch.

"you're being weird," he said without preamble, red eyes studying your face. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you replied automatically, stabbing at your rice with more force than necessary. across the cafeteria, you could see emiko sitting with some of the other girls, occasionally glancing over at your table.

"bullshit." his voice was low, meant only for you. "you've been avoiding me for three days. did i do something?"

the concern in his tone almost broke you. this was katsuki—your katsuki—who noticed when you were upset, who cared enough to ask. but then you saw emiko approaching from across the cafeteria, and the doubt came rushing back.

"i'm fine," you insisted, standing abruptly. "i just... i need some air."

you felt his eyes on you as you left, but you didn't turn back. you also didn't see the confused look he exchanged with emiko when she asked if you were okay.

that evening, you were sitting on your bed, staring at your homework without really seeing it, when someone knocked on your door. you knew that knock—sharp, impatient, but not aggressive. katsuki.

"we need to talk," he said when you opened the door, and his expression was serious enough that you stepped aside to let him in.

he sat on your desk chair, turning it to face you as you perched on the edge of your bed. for a moment, neither of you spoke. you could hear the sounds of your classmates in the hallway, muffled conversations and laughter that felt worlds away from the tension in your room.

"are you breaking up with me?"

the question hit you like a physical blow. "what? no! why would you—"

"because you've been acting like you can't stand to be around me," he interrupted, running a hand through his hair. "and i can't figure out what i did wrong."

the raw vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache. this was what your insecurity had done—made the person you loved most think he was losing you.

"you didn't do anything wrong," you said quietly. "i just... i've been stupid."

"about what?"

you took a shaky breath, fingers twisting in your lap. "about you and emiko."

katsuki's eyebrows shot up. "me and—what the hell are you talking about?"

"you've been spending so much time with her," you continued, the words tumbling out now that you'd started. "training together, studying together, and she's so good with your quirk, and you smile at her in ways you haven't smiled at me in weeks, and i just—" your voice cracked. "i started thinking maybe you realized you'd be better off with someone who could actually keep up with you."

the silence that followed was deafening. you couldn't bring yourself to look at him, couldn't bear to see confirmation of your fears in his expression.

then you felt the bed dip as he sat beside you, his hand covering yours.

"look at me," he said softly, and when you reluctantly met his eyes, they were intense but gentle. "you really think i'd rather be with her?"

"i don't know," you whispered. "maybe? she's stronger than me, her quirk works better with yours—"

"stop." his hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears you hadn't realized were falling. "just stop."

he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "you wanna know why i've been training with her so much? because aizawa paired us up for the upcoming exercise, and i didn't want to look like an idiot in front of the whole class. you wanna know why i help her with homework? because she asked, and i'm not a complete asshole, despite what everyone thinks."

his thumbs traced across your cheekbones. "but you wanna know what i think about when i'm with her? i think about how she's not you. how her laugh doesn't make my chest feel warm, how she doesn't know that i like my coffee with too much sugar, how she's never seen me have a nightmare and stayed up all night to make sure i was okay."

"katsuki—"

"i'm not done." his voice was firmer now, more like the katsuki you knew. "she's a good training partner. hell, she's a good person. but she's not the person i want to come home to. she's not the person i think about when i'm falling asleep, or the person i want to tell when something good happens."

he pulled back slightly, forcing you to meet his eyes. "she's not you, and she never could be. you think i care about quirk compatibility? about who's stronger? i fell in love with you because you're you—because you see good in people, because you believe in me even when i don't believe in myself, because you make me want to be better than i am."

"but you seem so happy when you're with her," you protested weakly.

"i'm happy when i'm getting stronger. when i'm working toward being the best hero i can be. but you know what makes me happiest?" he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "coming back to you afterward. telling you about my day, hearing about yours, just... being with you."

the last of your defenses crumbled. "i'm sorry," you breathed. "i'm so sorry, i just—"

"got scared," he finished, pulling you into his arms. "i get it. but next time you're feeling like this, talk to me, okay? don't just disappear on me. i can't fix a problem if i don't know it exists."

you nodded against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him. "i love you," you murmured.

"love you too," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "more than you know."

you stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other's arms, before katsuki spoke again.

"for the record, though, your quirk works perfectly with mine too. remember last month when we took down that simulation villain together? that was all us, no borrowed power needed."

you pulled back to look at him, finding that familiar smirk on his face. "you're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"nope," he said, popping the 'p'. "my partner got jealous over a training buddy. it's pretty cute, actually."

"shut up," you laughed, pushing at his shoulder, but he caught your hand and brought it to his lips.

"make me," he challenged, eyes twinkling with mischief.

so you did, leaning in to kiss him properly, pouring all your love and relief and apologies into the gesture. when you finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, you felt like yourself again.

"so," you said, settling back against his side, "tell me about this training exercise you're so worried about."

and as he launched into an explanation of the complex scenario aizawa had planned, complete with dramatic gestures and colorful commentary about your classmates' weaknesses, you realized something important: this was what you'd been missing. not the explosive training sessions or the patient tutoring, but this—the quiet intimacy of sharing daily life with someone who chose you, again and again.

emiko was a good training partner. but you were katsuki's everything, and he was yours.

that was more than enough.

⌗ taglist: @idexmids @siriuslyginnychase @eleteo125 @st4r-dustx @corpsebridenightamare @boreaswrites [OPEN]

⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @miss-indigen0us @cupkiki [OPEN]

✦ REQUESTS ARE OPEN! ✦

© KENZDOLLS 2025 . do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work in anyway including the use of ai onto any other social media platforms or it will permit an instant block on all platforms.

[hrtwayne]

'tis the damn season || Alexia Putellas

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Goalkeeper!Reader

Summary: Where an Achilles tendon rupture takes you off the field for the rest of the season. Your teammates kept saying everything would be okay—but your insecurities refused to believe them.

Note: English is not my first language.

Warning: Mention of Achilles tendon rupture!

Woso Masterlist

The stadium was silent. A heavy, unnatural silence for a place that used to vibrate with the roar of the crowd, the sound of kicks against the ball, and exuberant celebrations. But now, all that could be heard was the agonizing echo of a scream— your scream. 

The field, once your sacred territory, had become the stage of your worst nightmare. 

A cross, a mistimed tackle, and then… nothing. The pain came like lightning, slicing through your muscles like a knife. 

Alexia was the first to reach you. Her eyes, usually so full of fire and determination, were dark with worry. 

"Don’t move! Don’t fucking move!" she shouted at the girl who had taken you down, her voice hoarse with urgency. 

You tried to get up, but your body wouldn’t obey. Your right leg felt like dead weight—a betrayal. Someone was already calling for the medics, but you didn’t even need a diagnosis to know. That kind of pain doesn’t lie. 

"You’re gonna be okay," Alexia murmured, more to herself than to you, gripping your hand with almost desperate strength. 

But you weren’t listening. All you could think about was time. The months of physical therapy ahead. The games that would go on without you. The suffocating, irrational fear that maybe… maybe you’d never be the same again. 

⚽️ 

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and despair. You hated that smell. 

The surgery had been a success, they said. "You’ll come back stronger." Well-meaning lies—you knew better. No one came back stronger from an injury like this. At best, you’d come back the same—and even that would be a miracle. 

Visits were constant in the first few days. Your teammates brought flowers, chocolates, funny locker-room stories to cheer you up. But as the weeks passed, the stream dwindled. The team’s life went on—training, matches, victories. And you? You were stuck at home, immobile, watching everything from afar like an unwanted spectator. 

Alexia seemed to be the only one who understood the storm inside you. She didn’t fill the silence with empty words. Sometimes, she just sat beside you on the couch, an arm around your shoulders, letting you rest your head on her lap while her fingers ran through your hair. 

"No need to rush," she’d whisper. "I’m here, no matter how long it takes." 

But you were in a rush. You hated yourself for feeling so… fragile. 

⚽️ 

It happened on a rainy night, weeks after the surgery. You were frustrated, in pain, and that day’s physical therapy had been especially brutal. 

Alexia came home after training, still in her Barcelona kit, her face lit by that smile you loved so much. 

"Hey, love. How was your day?"

You didn’t answer. You were sitting in the chair, staring at your immobilized leg, your knuckles white from gripping the armrests. 

"Hey…" She knelt in front of you, trying to lift your chin. "Talk to me, amor…" 

"What is there to say, Alexia?" Your voice came out harsher than you intended. "That I almost cried today trying to flex my foot? That I can’t even go to the bathroom by myself? That you’re out there, beautiful, strong, playing, while I—"

You cut yourself off, but it was too late. Alexia’s expression shifted, her eyes darkening with concern. 

"While you… what?" she asked, soft but firm. 

"While I’m useless!" you exploded, the tears finally breaking free. "I don’t want your pity, Alexia! I don’t want you staying with me just because I’m broken!"

The silence that followed was sharp. Alexia took a deep breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. 

"Do you really think it’s pity?" Her voice was cold—not with anger, but with hurt. "After everything we’ve been through, you think I’d stay out of obligation?"

You didn’t answer. The weight of your words was sinking into your chest. 

Alexia stood up, but she didn’t walk away. Instead, she grabbed your crutches and threw them on the floor beside you. 

"Get up."

"What?" 

"Get up. Come on."

"Alexia, I can’t." 

"You can," she held out her hand. "And I’ll prove I’m not here out of pity. I’m here because I love you. And because I know you’ll come back—not for me, not for the team, but for yourself." 

You hesitated. But then, gritting your teeth, you took her hand and pulled yourself up, leaning on the player’s shoulders. 

Alexia smiled—a small, genuine smile. 

"See? Not all is lost."

And for the first time since the injury, you allowed yourself to believe—just a little—that maybe she was right. 

[conellu]

I loved ur fic with nam-gyu latching onto reader! Can I request dating headcanons or like affection headcanons with nam-gyu x same reader but maybe where they’re out of the squid of the games or prior to it please!😚

Clingy!Nam-gyu x F!Reader (implied; fic is F!reader, this is written with "you" for reader since it's hcs) Original fic @conelluwrites is my writing blog Warnings: canon-typical Nam-gyu (drug use, not being the softest guy in the world even with his clinginess), post games AU, no smut Other: Working on the subby Gi-hun fic, but I figured I would take a lil break before I drove myself insane tyring to connect the beginning to the smut lol. Thank you for the request, I love revisiting ideas and elaborating on them where there's chances to.

Getting out of the games was both a relief and unnerving.  The trauma you faced liked to make it hard to do basically anything- from sleeping, to being alone, to walking to the store, it haunted every aspect of your life.

That’s not even counting the… roommate?  Boyfriend?  You picked up in the games.

You both got dropped off in the same location, much to the relief of both of you.  After all, with all the shit going on during the games you never really had the chance to plan a meetup.

Within a few weeks he had moved into your apartment, leaving behind his own shitty one to take up home in yours.  It was a huge change, to say the least.

He’s no longer going through withdrawal from the pills Thanos had, and he’s back on his usual shit.  For the first little bit it’s somehow even more than he used to do, but his usage did slowly go back to normal, before dropping to less than he’s done.  It’s not that he doesn’t want to do it, it’s that his new lifestyle doesn’t exactly provide the space for it.  Not with you, not with the neighbors.

Dating isn’t really something that comes from a Hey, do you wanna be mine? conversation, but rather he tells you that you’re dating.  You’re mine, you know that he says, not looking at you just in case you’re going to tell him off.  He’s never been one to worry about being turned down, but he’s noticeably more tense until you nod and tell him that you’re his so long as he’s yours.

He’s seeking new employment.

Nightmares make it hard for him to sleep, he has to be held at night.  Even within your arms, the voices are so fucking loud.  He still hears Thanos calling for him, that damn aggravating Nam-su, Nam-su, Nam-su and he hears Se-mi’s voice as well.  Hers is the worst, constantly reminding him of what he did, how he talked to her, and how he’ll never ever deserve like you.  It’s shitty, he hates it and he feels like a goddamn pussy when he jumps from his auditory hallucinations.  It doesn’t matter how often you reassure him, sometimes your assurance just pisses him off more.

Some days he shuts down completely, preferring to stay in bed.  You usually stay in the bedroom too, he would never admit to it but he does want your presence there even if he’s just staring blankly at the wall, doomscrolling, or sleeping.

Before the games he was never one for PDA (er… not one for relationships for that matter), but after the games he’s keeping you close even in public.

He will sling an arm around you and tuck you close, he’ll glare at those who seem to get too close to you, and he loves kissing on your neck and cheek.  He knows it’s silly at your ages to be acting like he does, but he doesn’t want to lose you to someone else and he wants everyone to know you’re his (and that he’s yours.)

He’s like a damn cat, curling up against you in bed and on the couch, walking with you to and from rooms.  In the beginning it’s borderline too much, but you know why he’s like this and how he feels.  His body is warm and comforting even when it’s a bit too much.

[docrobinavitch]

force of nature, pull of gravity | part three

dr. robby x f!attending!reader force of nature masterlist masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, the entirety of this fic navigates grief in depth, death of mentor (adamson), death of child/family member, suicidal ideation, swearing, canon medical events, alcohol, smoking (marijuana), mentions of drug use, angst words: 10.7K synopsis: robby and reader put their issues aside as they navigate pittfest, but they're never very far. as things begin to taper off, they discuss the future a/n: hooo baby welcome to the third and final part of force of nature. this one almost killed me. i hope you love it. please note that i fucked with the canon timeline heavily. as promised, we leave off on a happy and hopeful note i think! anyway, please come yap to me about all your thoughts about them i would love nothing more. i'll still be thinking about them for quite a while. <3 syd

It didn’t feel like any of it was real. It had felt like that for about six months now, since March, when everything shut down. Except, of course, the hospital.

You don’t remember everything, it only came in snapshots. Like a damaged film reel, it played in and out, the blanks filled with static. Your therapist explained that not being able to remember was your brain’s way of protecting you. Without your permission, your mind had filed things all the way in the back, in a safe you didn’t have the key to. You alternated between being grateful and being angry. After all, those were your last few months with Adamson. You both wanted to remember everything and desperately wanted to forget.

What you remember most about that period of time, the worst of it, before the rollout of the vaccines, were the feelings. The anger, the fear, the grief. But mostly, the loneliness of it.

You were with people all day long, but not really. Masks and goggles and hazmat suits and gloves keeping enough distance between everyone. A touch on the shoulder that didn’t reach skin. A squeeze of the wrist but no warmth from a pulse. You couldn’t tell when someone was smiling or not. It was as if someone had wrapped the world in wool, muffling everyone from everything that made you human. 

The first time you got sick and the test lit up positive for Covid, it felt like a moral failure of some kind. 

You spent the next couple of weeks secluded to your apartment, at the mercy of your own hypervigilance, constantly checking your pulse ox and heart rate and fever. Anything that might indicate you were worsening. 

But you were fine, in the end. It stayed relatively tame for you. Which made everything feel so much worse when you watched Dr. Adamson deteriorate just a month later.

“He’s gonna be fine.” You and Robby would repeat back and forth to one another almost every hour after he had been admitted for having difficulty breathing.

But then the treatment wasn’t working, he was getting worse. Robby had to put him on ECMO. And you and Robby stopped talking. Stopped seeking each other out for reassurance because it was obvious what was happening and neither of you could say it aloud.

You regretted that most, now. That you had let him stop talking to you.

Today seemed determined to drag all of those feelings back to the surface for you. Especially the feeling like none of it was quite happening. You were worried you might fully untether from your body in the face of this fucking mass casualty. You had no idea what you were going to do now, now that you had kissed Robby in the ambulance bay. Now that he had finally admitted that he was in love with you. Your head was spinning. 

But there wasn’t time for you to spin out, because now they were preparing for an MCI. And Jake was there and not answering his phone. And Robby had that look on his face, like he did when the EMTs rolled Adamson into the Pitt four years ago. Like he was absolutely terrified, but his brain was already skipping past that feeling to find a solution. 

It was this look that terrified you because it usually meant he thought he was the only one capable of finding that solution and he would block everyone else out to get that result.

“Hey,” You caught his wrist in your hand as you walked back into the ER, instinctually ran your thumb over the tattoo there. You could feel his pulse racing under your touch. He paused, looking down at your hand and then back up, meeting your eyes, “I’m here.” 

You said, just as a reminder. Despite whatever trainwreck had just occurred between the two of you, you needed him to know he could lean on you right now in whatever capacity he needed to get through this.

He nodded, “Yeah,” He grabbed your hand and squeezed it lightly, “Yeah, me too.”

When Abbot walked into the ER, immediately, you were relieved at the sight of him. The tightness in your chest eased when he squeezed your shoulder. The both of you listened as Robby gave his speech to the staff about what was happening and what was about to happen, jumping in if either of you thought it was necessary.

“You and Robby doing okay?” Jack asked quietly.

You turned to look at him and shook your head, “I don’t know.” You swallowed, “And I guess since I’ve told him, I should tell you as well, that I… accepted a job offer at Presby.”

He stared at you for a moment, “What a fucking day.” He shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, “Alright. We’ll talk about that later.”

You stuffed some eleven blades in your pockets after Robby handed you the Primary Triage MD vest. “You know the drill?” He asked, handing you the belt with all the different color wrist bands.

You nodded, taking the belt from him and strapping it around your waist, “Assess based on mental status and pulse strength. Mental status, AVPU, alert, response to verbal, response to pain, unresponsive. Pulse next, radial, femoral, carotid.”

You weren’t new at this, but repeating the textbook instructions back to him soothed your nerves. The adrenaline rush whenever you knew a bunch of traumas were headed your way. 

“Excellent,” He said and managed the smallest of smiles. And for a second, it felt like he was a senior resident again and you an intern. Before everything got complicated. “I’ll help you get started.”

You followed him out to the ambulance bay and almost immediately, a car pulled up with gunshot victims. You and Robby don’t need to speak to each other as you spend those ten seconds per patient, this is where the two of you had always worked best, side by side on patients. It’s the one place you trusted each other implicitly, where there was no gray area between you.

After getting three patients triaged and moved inside in about thirty seconds, the two of you shared a smirk and a high five, Robby wrapping his hand around yours and keeping it there.

“Bet they can’t triage that fast at Presby.” He said softly, hitting you fully with his big, woeful brown eyes.

You scowled at him and pulled your hand from his, “Don’t look at me with that face.”

“What face?”

You gesticulated towards his face with your hands, frustration clear in every movement, “Your fucking kicked puppy face.”

He titled his head, frowning, but there was a hint of amusement in his expression, “This is just my face.”

“Well it’s fucked up.” You said, looking away and towards the road, waiting for more incoming.

“My face is fucked up?” Yeah, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

You sighed, “You should go inside, they need you in there. Send out Shen to help me.” You felt his stare on you, hot and heavy, “I’ll come get you if I see Jake.”

He watched you for a moment longer before you heard him leave, the ambulance bay doors sliding open and closed.

His absence had your pulse racing again until all you could hear was the pounding of blood in your ears and the slow crescendo of the approaching sirens.

***

Robby was out to dinner with Janey when his phone rang. As he fished it out of his pocket, Janey sighed, and he knew whether or not he answered it he had already lost.

He and Janey had been together a year and a half when your niece drowned. At first, Janey was gracious whenever Robby had to cancel plans or came home later than usual because you were having a hard time. But as the weeks and months passed she became less and less forgiving.

Robby couldn’t really blame her. He knew he was being an awful partner, putting the needs of his friend above his girlfriend. He tried asking Jack to keep an eye on you instead occasionally, but Jack himself admitted he couldn’t quite get through to you the way Robby could. And lately your behavior had grown more erratic and unpredictable to the point where Adamson had forced you into another leave of absence. 

The conversation between the two of you had been muffled through the family room door, but Robby had still gotten the gist of it. You were snapping at patients, often putting yourself in unsafe situations on purpose. It was obvious you wanted to physically endanger yourself and Adamson wouldn’t tolerate it in his ER. He told you to take your leave and get help while you were out. You wouldn’t be welcomed back until you got a handle on both your behavior and your grief. You had stormed out of the ER, tears of frustration rushing down your cheeks.

That was three days ago and Robby hadn’t heard from you since. At first, he thought it might have been best to give you space, but then he really started to worry. And now his phone was ringing and it was an unknown number.

He gave Janey an apologetic look, but she waved him off, and he was already out of his seat to pick up the call.

“Is this Dr. Robby?”

He rubbed at his beard anxiously with his free hand, “Speaking.”

“Hi, darling, sorry to bother you. It’s Mrs. Carpenter from 57B.” 

Your neighbor. He had forgotten he had given her his number the last time he was at your apartment, in case of emergency.

 “I haven’t seen her in a few days, but the last few hours she’s been blasting that Fleetwood Mac album and she won’t answer her door. I can handle the noise,” She said quickly as he tried to interrupt to apologize, “but I’m starting to get worried about her and I know you have a key.”

Already, he was nodding, “Yeah, of course. I’ll be right over.”

Hanging up, he sighed and ran a hand over his face. He really, really, shouldn’t be running at the drop of a hat to your apartment. Not when he knew it was going to upset Janey.  

But even as he thought it, that he should stay with Janey, he could see the faraway look in your eyes you’d had for months now. The nails chewed to the quick, cracked and bleeding. The bruises beneath your eyes because of the constant nightmares. 

He heard the arguments he and Janey had had about you over the last few months. Her saying you weren’t his responsibility. But it didn’t feel like that. Hadn’t felt that way since your first day of residency when he cleaned up the cut on your forehead. When he said he would make sure you got through the day and you had looked at him like no one had ever offered you help before.

He did feel like you were his responsibility, and if you slipped through the cracks now, he wasn’t sure he could live with that.

Robby hadn’t even opened his mouth to explain to Janey that he had to go when she was already shaking her head in frustration, “She’s not a child, Michael, she’s a grown woman–”

“She’s going through some shit right now–”

“Everybody’s going through some shit!” She scoffed, “Look, I… I understand that she’s your friend, that you’ve been friends a long time. And I love that you’re such a supportive, giving friend. But I–I’m sorry, I can’t keep being your second choice.”

Robby looked at her sadly, “You’re not my second choice.” He insisted.

She tilted her head slightly, “If you walk out to go to her right now, I’m sorry, but we’re done.”

He sighed and dropped his head, rubbing a hand down to the back of his neck, “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“No,” She said softly, “I’m tired of talking in circles with you. It’s time for you to make a choice. And I think we both know what choice you’re going to make.”

He looked back up at her. He wanted to be angry with her for giving him an ultimatum, but the truth was, they both knew it wasn’t a choice to him. He didn’t know how to choose anyone who wasn’t you. He could no longer imagine his life without you in it.

He sighed, “Janey, I don’t… I don’t want to end it like this.”

“Then don’t.”

He looked down at his phone and then back up to Janey, “I have to go check on her.” He said softly.

Janey nodded, like she had been expecting that answer, “So go, Michael.”

“I’m sorry.” He said, and he meant it. He didn’t want to hurt Janey, but you needed him. 

So he showed up at your apartment that night, banging on your door and calling your name for minutes. No answer, and you were blasting Rumours very loudly. Eventually, he called out that he was letting himself in and used the copy of the key you had given him to open the door.

The apartment was a mess. Clothes strewn haphazardly, empty takeout containers stacked on top of one another on most surfaces. A coat was draped over the record player which Robby moved so he could turn off the music.

You were nowhere to be seen. It wasn’t like you to leave your apartment in such disarray. You liked order, control. He had never known you to leave a dirty dish lying around. It was unheard of for a coat to not be on a hook or clothes left outside their proper spot in your drawer or closet. It scared the shit out of him to see it like this, it felt like a very blatant projection of your current mental health.

With the music off, he called out your name again, but still no response. However, he heard the shower running and followed the sound to the bathroom.

He knocked a few times, but there was no response and he started to panic. When he jiggled the doorknob, he expected it to be locked, but it was open and he pushed it ajar. He was prepared to find the worst, but you were fine, physically anyway.

The shower was running, but you weren’t in it. Fully clothed, you stood on the toilet, head out the open window, a lit joint between your fingers.

You turned to look at him and your eyes were bloodshot, from the drugs, or from crying, he couldn’t tell. For a second, he felt relief, but then he was annoyed. He had left Janey, ended things with her for good, for fear something was really wrong and you were just fucking getting high.

“Is there a reason you won’t answer your fucking phone?” He asked gruffly.

You took a drag from your joint, and watched him as you held the smoke in your lungs, before slowly exhaling in his face, “It’s in the other room, why the fuck are you here?”

He scoffed, “Because I’m an idiot, I guess.” He shook his head, “Mrs. Carpenter said she had been knocking on your door for a while and you weren’t answering, I thought–I don’t know, no one had heard from you in a while.”

“Well,” You jumped off the toilet, “I’m alive, as you can see, so you can go.”

He plucked the joint out of your hand, “Where did you get this?”

You made to grab the joint back from him, but he held it out of your reach and you scowled, “I bought it off Marcus, the guy who lives at the end of the hall. Now would you stop killing my peace?”

“Is that all you bought from him?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. You were pretty high and had also drunk a whole bottle of wine earlier, so you weren’t positive, but you thought you knew what he was implying, “Are you… are you asking… if I bought pills?”

He stared at you silently, jaw clenched.

“Is this a fucking joke? You’re joking?” Still, he said nothing. You scoffed, “Robby, I’d never do that. You know that.”

He shook his head, “I don’t know that. You’re scaring the hell out of me,” His voice broke, “I thought when I walked in here I was gonna find your body.”

You sighed, “You’re being very dramatic.”

“Am I?” He bent his head to meet your eyes, “Can you tell me honestly that you haven’t thought about it?”

You couldn’t. Since your niece had passed you had been in a sort of fugue state and when you weren’t fully dissociated, you wondered what the point was of anything. What was the point of being an emergency medicine doctor if you couldn’t save your goddaughter? And if you weren’t an emergency medicine doctor, who were you? You had allowed your career to dictate your entire adult life so far and all you knew was being good at medicine.

But maybe you weren’t very good at medicine at all, because when it mattered most you failed.

So, yeah. You had thought about buying the drugs. You had thought about going up to the roof and not coming back down. You had thought about getting in your car and heading for the ocean. But you were still here.

You broke Robby’s stare and stepped around him, turning off the shower and walking to your kitchen. You grabbed two glasses from the top shelf and a bottle of bourbon, poured each of you a generous glass and pushed one towards Robby.

He shook his head, “I don’t want any. I want you to talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” You asked softly, too exhausted to fight.

Every line of his face was etched with desperation as he looked at you and shook his head slightly, “That you’ll stop punishing yourself like this,” He gestured to the alcohol, to the disaster that was your apartment, “You can’t keep going like this, it’s unsustainable. You need help. You need to figure out how to forgive yourself.”

You swirled the amber liquid around your glass, “I don’t know that I can.” 

He took the glass from your hand and pushed it away, taking your hands in his instead, “Look at me,” He said softly and your bloodshot eyes trailed up to his. His thumb made gentle circles on the back of your hand, “You can,” He said slowly, “But you have to want it. For you.”

You weren’t sure you did want it. You didn’t think you deserved to want it. But even through your drug and alcohol induced haze, you could see Robby was scared and desperate. Seemingly, at the prospect of losing you. Maybe you’d want it for yourself one day. Right now, you just wanted him to stop looking at you like that.

“Okay.” You said softly.

“You mean that?”

You nodded, “I mean it.”

He pulled you into a hug, sighing in relief as he rested his head on top of yours, “Tomorrow, we’re going to find you a psychologist. Tonight, I’m going to clean up your apartment and make you something to eat, okay? Why don’t you go lie down?”

You pulled back to look up at him, “Really? You’re going to make me something to eat?”

He smirked, “What, you think I can’t do it?”

You shrugged, “I am intrigued at the prospect, but my expectations are very low.”

He laughed and released you from his arms, “Well, we’ll see. We can always order takeout if I fuck it up.”

He burned a sauce so badly you had to throw the whole pan away, apologizing to your neighbors for the smoke alarm. Robby’s face was beet red with embarrassment as he apologized to you over and over, but you laughed so hard you snorted. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed like that.

He stayed the night and you fell asleep on the couch. When you woke up, the Sun was just beginning to peek through the blinds. A blanket was draped over you and Robby was asleep on the other end of the couch. It was the first time you hadn’t been woken abruptly by a nightmare in as long as you could remember.

***

When you heard Jake’s voice coming from the back of a pickup truck, you sprinted immediately to him, “Jake?”

There was so, so much blood all over him you thought your knees might give out at the sight of it. 

“It’s not mine,” He said, tears streaming down his face, “It’s Leah’s. She was shot in the chest. I–I’ve been putting pressure on it, but there’s so much–”

“No, that’s– That’s good, bud, you did good.” You leaned over his girlfriend who laid unconscious in his lap and searched for a pulse, found the barest flutter of one at her carotid.

It didn’t look good. In fact, you thought her heart would probably stop within the next minute or so. There was too much blood, the bullet looked like it maybe had gone right through her heart.

“She’s gonna be okay, right?” Jake asked, voice breaking.

You took a deep breath, “Are you hurt?”

“I–I don’t know, maybe my leg?” 

Quickly, you put a red wristband on Leah and a yellow on Jake and started taking off your bright orange vest that indicated you were Primary Triage MD, “John!” You shouted, and almost immediately, Dr. Shen was beside you, “You take over as Primary Triage, I’m bringing these two in. You good?”

“Yeah,” He said, strapping the belt of wristbands around his waist, “Yeah, I got it.”

Nurses helped you get Leah on a gurney, you shouted at someone to put Jake in a wheelchair and bring him in, ignored his frantic shouts to come with you. You didn’t have time. You hated leaving him like this, in distress, but Leah was likely seconds away from no longer being able to be resuscitated. 

“Robby!” You called out as nurses were already opening an intubation kit. You heard Robby behind you before you saw him, too focused on securing Leah’s airway, “This is Jake’s girlfriend, Leah. Jake’s fine, I think he might have been shot in the leg.”

“Okay,” Robby said, and you could hear in his voice the worry warring with what he was seeing in front of him, “Okay, you go take care of Jake, I’ll take Leah.”

You had finished the intubation and another nurse had climbed on the gurney to begin CPR. They had lost her pulse, “I… I don’t think she’s gonna make it.” You said softly to Robby, voice wavering slightly.

“Let me worry about that.”

You glanced at him and recognized immediately the tunnel vision he was having. This was the problem he was determined to solve and you worried it was not solvable, “Robby–”

“Jake.” He said shortly, “Go. I’ll call you if I need you.”

You did not like this. You did not like it one bit. But you backed away, turning your attention to the rest of central that was a flurry of activity and zeroed in on Jack, “Could you keep an eye on Robby?” You asked as you passed him, “He’s working on Jake’s girlfriend who I think had a bullet tear through her heart. He has that goddamn savior complex chip on his shoulder today and I’m worried it might break him when she doesn’t make it.”

“Yeah, I got him,” Jack said, looking up briefly to spot Robby, “Jake–?”

“He’s fine,” You said quickly, “I’m gonna go patch him up now, I think he just took some bullet fragments to the leg.”

Jack nodded and bumped his fist to yours, “I’ll shout if I need you.”

You smirked, it was nice to be working with Jack again. It had only been a few shifts, but you missed the banter and the the way the two of you had worked so seamlessly together, “Same here.” You said, and then you headed to find Jake.

***

It was a while later after you had patched Jake up and made your way back to the red zone after promising to check up on Leah. Immediately, you saw Robby, still working on Leah, hopeless faces all around him.

“Was looking for you,” Jack said, coming to your side, “He won’t let her go.”

“Fuck,” You sighed, heart sinking.

“He’s wasting resources–”

“I know,” You said quickly. You knew what he was doing, because it was what you would have done. What you had begged Robby to do years ago when your niece came in and he insisted she was gone. It was what you and Robby had done together when you put Adamson on ECMO. “I know.” You repeated, more to yourself the second time.

“He thought he had the pulse back for a few seconds, but when Emery came to check it was gone again.”

You swallowed, “Okay, thanks.” You patted him on the back before heading over to Robby, biting hard on the inside of your cheek.

“Robby,” You said softly when you were close enough. Briefly, you exchanged a look with Dana who subtly shook her head at you, “Robby, I think that’s enough.”

He looked up at you and gave you a quick shake of his head, “No, no she’s right on the edge, we can still get her back–”

“How long has she been down?”

“People have had their hearts restarted after being without a pulse for thirty or forty minutes.”

“Not when a bullet has torn through it. Not when there’s that much blood loss.” You said quietly, “I know you know she’s gone. If you’re not calling it because you don’t want to tell Jake, I can do it–”

“No,” He shook his head and sighed, “No, I–I can do it.”

You waited and watched while he did one last pulse check, voice shaking as he called time of death, marked it on her wrist chart, and covered her up. 

“How’s Jake?” He asked, turning back to you. 

Your eyes searched him, looking for new and infected wounds. You knew they were there, hiding just below his skin. Knew it like you knew your own.

“He’s fine. There was a lot of bleeding, but it was all superficial. I debrided and wrapped the wound. He’s sitting on a gurney now to keep the wounded leg elevated.” 

He nodded along as you spoke, but you weren’t sure how much he really heard beyond the fact that Jake was fine. You reached for his hand, hoping to ground him, but at the brush of your fingers he pulled away, “You should get back out to Triage.”

You frowned, “Shen’s got it–”

“No, I want a more senior attending on triage. Please.” He threw his bloodied gloves away and walked away before you could say anything else.

It was frustrating, watching him walk off like that, knowing he was teetering on the edge. Wanting to follow after him, knowing you couldn’t. He had to tell Jake himself, and then you’d be there to pick up the pieces. Like you always were.

One last time, you told yourself. Just one more, then you could let him go. You’d let him go, it was what you should do, what you needed to do. It was too late for third act love confessions, things were too broken between you. What happened in the ambulance bay didn’t change anything, but you could be there for him one last time.

“Hey,” You grabbed Dana gently by the arm as she passed you, “You’ll come get me if… If Robby seems…”

She nodded, “Yeah, of course, kid.”

You gazed off back in the direction Robby had disappeared into for one last moment before heading back to the ambulance bay.

***

Someone was knocking at the door. It pulled you from the edge of sleep back into full consciousness. You waited for a few moments as you woke, lying on your back in bed, hoping you had imagined it or he had left.

Because you knew who was at the door. You had fought with him earlier on shift. He was snapping at residents and nurses, and then he had snapped at you. 

“You need to fucking get it together. You do not speak to me or anyone else like that—“

“I don’t need another fucking lecture from you, alright? I shouldn’t have raised my voice, understood. I’m sorry, can we please move on—“

“No, Robby,” You laughed incredulously and ran a hand through your hair, “We can’t move on because you insist on staying stuck on the same fucked up carousel ride.”

He shook his head, “This isn’t about Adamson.”

“Oh, give me a break. You think I can’t see that trying to fill his shoes at the same time you’re grieving him is tearing you apart?”

“It’s not. I’m fine, I can handle it.”

You sighed and looked down at your shoes, “I can’t do this anymore. I won’t enable your self destructive behaviors, I’ve asked you over and over to see a goddamn psychologist and you don’t listen—“

“That’s because I don’t need a psychologist.”

“Then explain to me why you keep showing up to my apartment in the middle of the night fully in the throes of a panic attack?” He wouldn’t look at you, jaw clenched and staring off stubbornly in the distance, “You need professional help,” You said quietly, “And if you’re not gonna get it then I can’t keep doing… Whatever this is.” You gestured to the space between you.

He shrugged, “Fine. Are we done?”

You stared at him for a moment and then sneered, “You don’t think I mean it.”

He sighed and looked down at his feet, hands shoved deep in his pockets, “I didn’t say that.”

“Okay,” You scoffed, “Don’t show up at my door tonight.” You said and began walking away.

“Won’t be a problem.” He called after you.

But now there was someone knocking at your door. You waited, counted to thirty and back down again, but the knocking continued.

“Motherfucker,” You murmured and swung your legs over the edge of your bed, forced your feet to move to the door. You looked through the peep hole and saw Robby, head bent towards your door, fist resting against the wood.

Sighing, you unlocked the door and opened it just enough so you could see him, “What are you doing here?”

He looked up at you, eyes red rimmed and glassy, his chest heaving in and out, uneven breaths, “I’m sorry.” He choked out.

You ran a hand over your face, “I asked you not to do this.”

“I know, I know, I–I swear I’ll do whatever you need me to, I’ll call the psychologist in the morning, please.” He reached for you, his fingers settling on your hips, “Please.”

Every time he did this, every time he showed up, a wreck at your door, you remembered how he showed up for you when you didn’t want to be found. When you were intent on destroying yourself and everything around you. He had reached an unflinching hand down into the cold dark abyss of your grief and hauled you out. It wasn’t lost on you that he’d saved your life that year.

You didn’t know how you could refuse him.

You blinked away the wetness in your own eyes and pushed the door open further, lacing your fingers with his as you did. After closing and relocking the door, you led him to the couch, turning on a single lamp as you sat down, pulling him after you.

Robby immediately laid his head in your lap and you stroked his hair, his beard. Between his hyperventilating and sobs, he whispered apologies and promises into the bare skin of your thighs. It felt like a well choreographed dance at that point, your reassuring touch and his contrition. 

When his breathing slowed and quieted, you squeezed his shoulder lightly, “Let me make you some tea.” 

He sat up and trailed after you as you went to the kitchen. When you filled the kettle with water and turned it on, you braced your hands against the counter, facing away from him. It was hard to be with him like this, knowing how many times he had come here just like this, apologized and made promises he wasn’t going to keep. You were tired and worn down and still trying to come to terms with your own grief. 

He came up behind you as you waited for the water to heat and wrapped his arms around your waist. “I’m sorry,” He kept repeating, peppering kisses to your shoulders. You weren’t sure why he was still apologizing. Perhaps because he knew he was just going to do it all over again a few days from now and he was trying to get ahead of it.

He pushed the straps from your tank top down and began sucking lightly at the skin, his beard scratching against your skin in a way you were all too familiar with, that sent goosebumps down your arms.

“Robby…” You said lowly, because you knew you should stop him. You knew what came next, when you’d be powerless against his touch and his kisses, all grievances forgotten.

“Please,” He murmured against your skin, “Let me do this, let me make it better.”

You swallowed hard and then turned in his arms. You placed your hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away, “Tea first.” You said softly, and then turned back to the kettle, waited for him to step away from you, waited for your pulse to settle with the absence of his touch.

Once the tea was steeped, you pushed his mug toward him and warmed your hands around your own. You could feel him staring at you from across the counter, but you wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Do you remember when Gemma died and I refused help for months and months until Adamson removed me from the ER?”

He was silent a moment, and then you heard him clear his throat, “Yes. Of course I remember and I know what you’re trying to do. This is different.”

You looked up at that, head tilting curiously, “Really? How so? Because Adamson isn’t here to kick you out?”

He sighed, “No, because I’m not endangering patients.”

You nodded, “Maybe not the way I was. Maybe not right now. But eventually the grief and the hurt will grow so big you won’t be able to keep it from spilling over into everything. Your family, your friends, your work. It’s inevitable.”

“I already said I would call the psychologist in the morning.”

You looked back down at your mug, “I think we both know you only said that so I’d let you in. Like you always do.”

Neither of you said anything for a while after that, until finally, Robby broke the silence, “Let’s go to bed.”

You nodded, let him lead you to the bedroom. His careful hands undressed you, pulled you into him, kissed you in the dark until your lips were raw and aching. Foreheads bent together, he pushed himself into you. The sex was so good sometimes, you allowed yourself to forget. You loved his hands, the way he touched you, the way that he gripped your hips so tightly when he was about to come it left marks like ripened plums.

For a while after, you’d feel better, his arms wrapped around you as you drifted into sleep.

But then, the morning would come and Robby would leave silently. Forget everything he had said to you the night before. And the cycle would repeat.

You didn’t know how else to reach him. Part of you thought maybe if he just loved you the way you loved him, he would've gotten better by now. It was what had gotten through to you, the thought that you were worrying him, that he was scared for you. You didn’t want him to feel like that. And eventually you realized you didn’t want to feel that way forever, either. But it had been his concern that pushed you over the edge.

It didn’t seem to affect Robby that you were upset. That you felt alone in your own grief because you were so busy trying to make sure he wouldn’t drown in his.

It made you feel like a failure. So you stopped trying to reach him. You let him in when he showed up at your place, held him and let him take you to bed and you stopped asking him to go to therapy. 

If he tried to pick a fight at work, you stopped taking the bait. You just… checked out.

It wasn’t long after that he turned his attention to Heather. 

It devastated you, but it also felt a bit freeing. You felt like it gave you permission to fully push him out and close the door, knowing there was someone on the other side of it with him. 

Perhaps it was unfair to Heather, to unknowingly burden her with that, but you could feel yourself slipping. Your therapist was starting to gently suggest that if something didn’t change, she would have to recommend an inpatient program.

So you fully disappeared from Robby’s life.

***

Robby was missing. You had come back inside as triage was starting to quiet and you thought they might need more hands inside.

You had gone to yellow to see what the new kids were up to and had walked right into Mohan giving a guy a burr hole with an IO.

You had stopped short, wide eyed as you watched, “Holy shit.” You breathed as she extracted some blood and the man began to regain consciousness.

All heads turned to you in a panic.

Mohan immediately launched into an anxious explanation, “There were no attendings, he would’ve died—“

“Samira, relax. It’s fine, it’s excellent, even. You did what you had to to save a life. Just maybe… Don’t mention this to Robby, yeah?”

She gave you a small smile, “Won’t be a problem. Nobody can seem to find him anyway.”

You frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Nobody’s seen much of him since they took Leah to pedes.”

You shook your head, “Okay, um, are you guys good over here? Nobody’s dying?”

They all looked at you blankly like a bunch of little ducklings until Samira said, “I think we’re okay, you go find Robby.”

You gave them all and their patients another once over, not entirely convinced by their silence, and then started quickly walking to pedes.

What greeted you on the other side of the pedes door stopped you short. Robby was on the floor, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks as he clutched the Magen David that hung on a chain around his throat in a shaking hand. He was murmuring something to himself in what sounded like Hebrew.

It took you a minute, but you recognized it as a prayer. You had heard him recite it only once before, shortly before he had extubated Adamson. Shema, you thought he’d called it the first time you asked. A declaration of faith. A plea for protection. 

Immediately, you turned back to the door, pulling the privacy curtain in front of the glass door.

Then, you sat on the floor next to him, said nothing, but put a hand on his leg and waited. After a moment, he turned to you and buried his face in your chest. It surprised you, the way seeing him like this seemed to have your walls springing a leak. The emotions you’d kept at bay for most of the day began to push forward.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He said over and over into your chest, knotting his hands into your scrubs and pulling you impossibly closer.

You weren’t sure who the apologies were meant for. For Leah. For Adamson. For you. All he had wanted, you knew, was to be forgiven. He couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive himself and so needed everyone else to.

“It’s okay,” You said, voice shaking as you brought a hand up to cradle his head to your chest. You pressed a kiss to his head, “You’re okay.”

You held him like that for a couple of minutes, until his breathing settled enough, “We have to get back out there.” You said quietly.

“I don’t think I can.”

You sighed through your nose, “What happened? With Leah?”

“I told Jake,” He sniffled and pulled away from you, rubbing the tears from his face with the heels of his hands, “And he blamed me. And I know what you’ll say, that he didn’t mean it. That he loves me. But it doesn’t really matter, does it? The logic of it?” He raised his hands between the two of you, “Everything I’ve ever loved in my adult life I’ve broken with these two hands. Adamson, you, now Jake.” He lowered his hands and shook his head, “I’m done. I can’t do it anymore.”

You bit your lip as you tried to find the words, “You’re framing everything the wrong way. I know you’ve heard it a thousand times, but there was nothing else you could’ve done about Adamson. And besides, I was there too. I helped make those decisions. Do you blame me for what happened?”

He looked at you sadly, “Of course not.”

“What makes you any more culpable for what happened than me? Because it was your hands that physically extubated him? That’s silly.” 

He ran a hand over his face, “And what about you, hm? Can you say you don’t blame me for all the pain and suffering you’ve endured the last few years? More than that, even?”

Your eyes softened as you examined each line of his face, each freckle. It was true that he had been the source of a lot of hurt in your adult life, but he had also been a lifeline. 

You raised a hand to his cheek, brushed your thumb tenderly over his cheekbone, “There have been many times over the years where your friendship was the only thing standing between me and a black hole.” You swallowed thickly, “I would do it all again just for the chance to know you.”

His face threatened to crumble and he reached a shaky hand to the back of your neck, pulling you to him until your foreheads touched, “I would, too.” 

“We have to go back out there.” You said softly after a few moments.

He nodded, “Yeah. Fuck.” He pulled away and rubbed at his face.

You rose to standing and he followed suit, both of you going your separate ways outside of pedes without so much as a goodbye.

***

You nearly physically collided into Janey when you were heading to the ambulance bay to check on triage, your hands immediately reaching out to steady her, “Oh, shit–Sorry–Janey?”

She smiled tightly at you and you dropped your hands, “Hi, Y/N.” Her words were terse and sharp, but you dismissed that as just stress from the crisis that had unfolded over the last few hours, “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, “Yeah, um,” You gestured over your shoulder, “I can take you to Jake, he’s doing alright, but–”

“Could you just take me to Robby, please?”

She was avoiding making eye contact with you, which you thought was strange. Lips pressed in a firm line and shoulders tensed. It was true you hadn’t seen her since her and Robby had broken up, but you didn’t remember her being so cold to you before. 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” You swallowed, “Just wait by the hub, I’ll be right back.”

Once you brought Robby to Janey, you went behind the hub towards Dana.

“Seems like Janey still holds a grudge, huh?” Dana said, smirking at you from over her glasses.

Things had finally slowed down enough that they could catch their breath and start getting the emergency room back up and running. You cracked open a can of Diet Coke and took a sip as you turned to Dana.

You frowned at her, “Why would Janey be holding a grudge against me?”

Dana’s smirk widened, “It is so exhausting sometimes bearing the entire historical archive of this emergency room on my shoulders.”

Scowling at her, you waited, “Well?”

“Why do you think Janey and Robby broke up?”

In truth, you didn’t think much about Janey and Robby’s relationship anymore. It was one of Robby’s longer relationships and as such, you had tried to bury your feelings for him six feet under while they were together for fear that it would be the one to take him away from you for good. Besides which, Gemma had died while they were still together, and in the months that followed your memory was pretty fuzzy.

“I don’t remember,” You said slowly, “I don’t remember much from then other than my crushing existential dread.”

She looked at you sympathetically and patted your hand lightly with her own, “Maybe you do remember how Robby was with you nearly 24/7 for a while after Gemma died. Because he was worried for you.”

You shrugged, “Yeah, sure. I think 24/7 might be exaggerating, though.”

“Well, it was enough that it bothered Janey.”

You narrowed your eyes at Dana, “Are you implying that they broke up because of me?”

“Sweetheart,” Dana shook her head, “Robby made the choices he did, it wasn’t your fault. But the way he told it to me was that he was out to dinner with Janey, someone called worried about you and Robby was going to go to you, but Janey made him choose. Said she was tired of being second choice and if he left they were done. So Robby chose you.”

You blinked at her and then turned your attention to where Robby was talking to Janey, “He said that?”

“Yeah, kid.” Dana sighed, “Janey thinks she lost him to you.”

You scoffed and turned back to Dana, “Well, joke’s on her I guess, because we both lost him.”

Dana shook her head as you walked off toward another patient, watched Robby’s head turn to follow your movement as you walked by him, “I don’t know about that, kiddo.”

***

Robby was, quite literally, too close to the edge. The moon cast shadows on the roof of PTMC as he looked out over the Pittsburgh skyline. It was early enough that he could still hear the rush of the cars below and the faint call of sirens. He had just got done notifying Leah’s family and he couldn’t breathe again. All he knew was that he wanted it to stop. 

He didn’t want to tell another family he had failed to save their loved one. He was tired of having to hold the whole ER together, he wasn’t sure he could keep teaching incoming doctors when he didn’t think he deserved to keep practicing medicine himself. He wanted so badly to keep them all from making his mistakes, but the fuck of it all was that he thought that was probably inevitable. That it was a necessary evil to become a doctor.

He wanted to stop letting you down, but he thought it was too late for that. You were leaving and it was his fault. No matter what you said earlier, even if you really didn’t blame him, it was unforgivable how he’d treated you.

And a small part of him thought, as he looked over the edge, that things would be better without him. Maybe they’d make you head of the department. It was what should have happened in the first place anyway. PTMC wouldn’t lose you as a result of his failings. 

Then he heard the soft padding of your footsteps behind him, a gait he could recognize anywhere, in his sleep, in the busiest train station.

You leaned over the railing behind him and sighed, “Wish you wouldn’t stand so close.” You said quietly.

“I’ve seen you stand closer.”

You huffed a laugh, “Always a competition with us, isn’t it?”

“No,” He said, “Not anymore. I’m done.”

There’s a beat of silence, then, “That’s a scary fucking thing to say when you’re on the edge of a roof.”

“Yeah, well, it’s how I feel. Isn’t that what you’ve always asked me to do? Talk about my feelings?”

He heard you blow out a long breath, “The police found the shooter, I don’t know if you heard. It wasn’t David.” He didn’t say anything, so you continued, “Thought you’d want to know. You were right about him.”

He huffed a laugh, “Yippee.” He murmured, heavy with sarcasm, “Doesn’t fucking matter. People are still dead.”

“No one else could have gotten our department through a mass casualty like that with only six fatalities. Except maybe Adamson.” A beat of silence passed between you, “PTMC needs you. I need you.”

He heard the note of fear and desperation in your voice, “You don’t need me. You’re leaving. Because of me.”

“It’s not because of you–”

“Bullshit.”

You sighed, “I’m leaving to prove to myself that I… That I can do it on my own. Without you. I need you. I’ll probably always need you or want you in some capacity. PTMC is home to me, but only if you’re here.” You inhaled a shaky breath, “I’m leaving, just for a little while, because we’re destroying each other. And we both need to heal without the other. You’ve only ever wanted me when things were bad, when you were falling apart. You might not want me once you get your shit together.”

He turned to face you finally, leaning his forearms on the railing next to you, “I can’t imagine a time when I won’t want you. My only problem has ever been wanting you too much.”

You looked at him sadly and shook your head, “It never felt that way to me.”

He watched you carefully, noted the way the breeze blew a piece of your hair into your face. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tucked it behind your ear. His fingers lingered and then traced a path down your neck before he dropped them back to the railing. He nodded, “I know that. And I’m sorry.” He sighed, “But you’ll come back to the Pitt?”

“I hope so,” The corners of your lips tugged up slightly, “Depends on if you really mean it. About getting professional help.”

“I mean it.” He said, “Do you think…” He paused and cleared his throat, “Do you think you’ll ever want to give it a real chance? You and me?”

You swallowed and looked down at your hands, “I don’t know. It’s difficult for me to imagine being with you in a way that isn’t painful.”

He closed his eyes against the wave of hurt that sent through him. It was his own fault, he knew. He had had any number of opportunities to tell you how he really felt over the years. But he had hidden from it like a coward.

“I’m not… I’m not saying never,” You said slowly, “I love you,” You reached your hand forward, running your fingers gently along his jaw, through his beard, “And I’ll always be here whenever you need me. But I… I don’t want to put us both in another situation that’s… unsustainable.”

“I love you, too.” He covered your hand with his own, keeping it anchored to his cheek, “I understand.”

“Will you come down now?” You asked quietly and he heard the way your breath caught in your throat as you said it.

He stared at you for a few moments, committing the image of you up here with your eyes that glinted in the moonlight to memory. The way the softness of your hand felt against his skin. He wasn’t sure when he’d feel your touch again, if ever. The thought sent an ache through him.

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Let’s get out of here.”

***

Six Weeks Later

You and Robby hadn’t spoken since you left the Pitt four weeks ago. Even before that, the conversation had been sparse. You had helped get him a referral to a therapist at the same clinic as your own therapist. You knew he had been attending sessions because you occasionally ran into him to and from your own appointments. But you would mostly just nod at each other as you crossed paths. 

Now that you were gone, the day shift felt emptier. He longed to text or call you, but held back each time.

“What’s stopping you from reaching out?” His therapist had asked during a session.

Robby shrugged, “She doesn’t want me to.”

“Did she say that?”

“I–Well, no.”

His therapist had nodded and jotted down some notes, “Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?”

That had stunned him to silence. And he still thought about it now, a couple weeks later, as he walked around the Pitt. He saw your ghost in every corner of this place.

When he walked into the staff break room that day, Perlah and Princess had a bunch of sticky notes around them and looked up in horror when they saw who had walked in.

He smirked, “What’s this? Recent betting pool?” He looked over the sticky notes, “I don’t remember any pools since the ambulance was stolen.”

Perlah looked at him nervously, “Uh, no, it’s uh– It’s an old one.”

He picked up a neon green sticky note that read Marriage. $100.

Robby frowned, “This looks like Adamson’s handwriting.” Princess and Perlah both just stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say, “How old is this?”

Princess elbowed Perlah when neither of them spoke, “It’s from around 2018 or 2019,” She sighed, “There was a stupid bet going around about you and Y/N. We… We were gonna revive it when she came back to the day shift, but…”

But you were gone now.

Robby blinked and waved around the sticky note, “And Adamson was part of it?”

Princess smirked, “He was one of the first to make a bet.”

Robby reread the sticky note, “He thought we were gonna get married.” He said softly, “Can I keep this?” 

Princess and Perlah both nodded and then Robby headed out to the ambulance bay, the sticky note with Adamson’s handwriting still in his hand. 

With his other hand, he pulled out his phone, waited for his Face ID to unlock before opening the Phone app and clicking on his Favorites. You were at the top of his list and his thumb hovered over your contact picture as he stared at the sticky note.

Do you think it’s possible that the real obstacle is that you’ve always used her as a method to punish yourself and you’re just continuing the pattern of behavior by not reaching out?

He didn’t want to punish himself anymore. He wanted to be worthy of good things, of you. Adamson thought he was deserving of good things, as evidenced by a years old sticky note. You had thought so, too, once upon a time.

He pressed his thumb against your name and brought the phone up to his ear.

“Hi,” He said when you picked up, closing his eyes at the sound of your voice, “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” You said slowly, “Sorry, is–is everything okay with you?”

“Yeah,” He said, running a thumb over the old sharpie ink, “Yeah, I just, I wanted to hear your voice. Is that okay?”

There was a moment of silence, “Yeah, of course. It’s nice to hear your voice, too.”

“How’s Presby?”

You gave a short laugh, “It’s not home, but it’s alright. I’m adjusting.”

He hummed, “There’s always a place waiting for you here, you know?”

“I know.”

He cleared his throat, “I’m off on Sunday and I was wondering, if you’re also off, if you’d want to just– I don’t know, grab a coffee, go for a walk or something. Catch up.”

You’re quiet for a while and he told himself it would be okay if you said no. If you didn’t want to see him.

“I’d like that,” You said softly, “But, just to be clear, I am accepting a platonic coffee date, yes?”

He smirked, “Yes. I just want to see you.”

He listened as you took a deep inhale, “You sound better. Therapy’s helping?”

“I think so, yeah.” And he means it. He is starting to feel just a little bit better.

“Have you called Jake?”

He bent over his knees, resting his head against his free hand, “I have, yeah.”

“And?” You asked after a moment of silence.

“It’s still not great, but he said he’d be willing to come to a therapy appointment with me. To try and start sorting it out.”

He heard you sigh in relief, “That’s great, Robby. I’m… I’m really proud of you.”

He smiled and felt his eyes water. He was so happy he had called you.

The two of you slipped into an unspoken tradition, walking side by side through the park by the river, mostly on Sundays, or whenever your schedules lined up. It was easy and it was fun and for once it wasn't heavy with unspoken grief and trauma. If something triggered a conversation about Adamson or Gemma, for the most part you were both able to navigate it without fighting, without shutting down.

Until six months have passed since you left PTMC and Robby’s walking you all the way back up to your apartment.

“Um, do you…?” You looked at him almost shyly, a flush working its way up your neck. It’s so ridiculous to think that you might have been nervous around him, it had a smirk stretching across his face, “Do you wanna come in?”

He wanted to, badly. He was overjoyed that you seemed to want his company as much as he wanted yours. But the two of you were in a good spot right now and he was so scared he might fuck it up.

Robby had stuck Adamson’s sticky note to his fridge when he had gotten home that day as a sort of unspoken goal for himself. He wanted to marry you one day, if that was something you also wanted. His therapist had told him that if he did want that, he was going to have to do things that scared the shit out of him sometimes.

Like go into your apartment when invited, even if he worried he would make a mess of things again.

“You have to learn how to trust yourself again or you’ll stay stuck here in the same patterns, shackled to your self doubt and unable to move forward.”

He swallowed, “Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

You lasted all of two minutes before he was pushing you against a wall and kissing you. His hands were almost frantic as they touched you, but he kissed you slowly and thoroughly, almost tenderly.

It had been years since he had been able to kiss you without there being some fight or other tension looming above you. It felt freeing that all he felt now was love and longing.

He took you to the couch, undressing you as he did and you were moaning into his mouth, grabbing at his shirt and running your fingers over the skin there. He laid you down on the couch and pulled his shirt over his head, watched the way your eyes traced down his chest hungrily.

“I missed you,” He murmured, lowering himself over you again, palming one of your breasts in his hand.

You hummed and arched your back into his touch as he watched one of your nipples pebble beneath his thumb.

“I’ve been thinking about this, about being able to touch you again, from the moment you left.” He panted and kissed his way down your chest, your stomach, until he reached the tops of your thighs.

“Me too,” You sighed, and then his mouth was on you, hot and needy, “Fuck, I missed you.”

He’s surprised to find that he still knows just what you like, exactly how much pressure to apply, how fast he needs to go to bring you to the edge. It’s muscle memory, like performing a medical procedure he hasn’t done in years, his hands still know what to do, but his brain is three steps behind. Your hand knotted in his hair and he watched eagerly as your hips bucked up and into his mouth until you’re coming and he’s sucking up every last drop of you.

When you caught your breath, you sat up and pushed him onto his back. He was happy to lie back and watch you and in fact, he relished the way you looked at him. Kissed every patch of his skin you could reach, an adoring look in your eyes. He thought he had to have been an idiot to have never noticed the way you looked at him before.

You sank down onto him, both of you sighing in unison as you adjusted to the stretch of him. “You okay, honey?” He asked breathlessly, gripping your chin in his hand.

You nodded and rolled your hips. It had been years now since he’d slept with someone and the sensation of you around him, just that slow grinding of your hips, had him seeing stars, “Jesus fuck.” He swore.

You sped up your movements slowly and he helped move you up and down, gripping your hips as you pressed your hands to his chest. He could feel that you were already barreling straight towards another orgasm, your walls pulsing around him, and that was fine, because there was no way he was gonna last much longer.

“Can you touch yourself for me, sweetheart?” He asked breathlessly, “I want to watch you touch yourself. Want you to come with me.”

Your eyelids fluttered open as you processed what he said, and still grinding down on him, you circled your fingers over your clit, “That’s it,” He sighed, “Just like that.”

Your moans grew louder and your hips moved faster and faster. You looked euphoric as you tumbled over the edge again and you were so fucking gorgeous, he was immediately coming, swearing as he did.

Both of you trying to catch your breath, you folded forward, laying down against his bare, sweat slicked chest. He ran a hand over your hair as you settled, watched the rise and fall of your breathing, and was overcome with such tenderness for you his chest ached and his eyes watered.

“I love you,” He said quietly, tears caught in his throat, “In case you were unsure, I still love you.”

You pushed yourself up slightly so you could see his face. Your cheeks were flushed and sticky with sweat, “I know,” You said and smirked, “I love you, too.”

He kissed you again, sighed as your fingers came up to scratch at his beard, “Could I take you out to dinner next week? Only if… If you’re ready. I want to try to do things right, this time.”

You nudged your nose against his and bit your lip. This was dangerous, this hope that was building in your chest. But he was trying, was going to therapy, was voicing his feelings as he was feeling them. Was doing all this for himself, but also for you.

“Yes,” You pushed your lips forward to give him a quick peck, “Take me out to dinner, Michael.”

He smiled against your mouth and thought again of that sticky note on his fridge. One day, he’d show it to you. That was a promise he wouldn’t break.

[mika-thexd]

A/n: so you guys might be asking "why did you go innactive in Tumblr?" Because my grandma died 😀 uhh so here's a little smth while I spiral again

Rhythm guitarist! Chance: how do I confess to the love of my life?

Singer! MC: just tell them you like them!

Rhythm guitarist! Chance: I love you so much

Singer! MC: yes! Like that! Just tell them that and they'll surely fall for you!

Rhythm guitarist! Chance: ...

Singer! MC: if they don't get it then they're too stupid for their own good

Rhythm guitarist! Chance: MC—

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Singer! MC: this is too hot, I can't eat this

Lead singer! Shedletsky: you're too hot, but that doesn't stop me from eating you

Electric guitarist! Elliot: *chokes* EXCUSE ME??

Multi instrumentalist! Builderman: I JUST WANT ONE NORMAL DINNER FOR ONCE

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Rhythm guitarist! 007n7: Quick you’re bleeding out! What’s your type??

Singer! MC: Chubby, has a burger hat, good with kids—

c00lkid: your type is my brother?

pr3typriincess: quick! Inject big brother's blood in them!

Singer! MC: you know what else should be inside me?—

Rhythm guitarist! 007n7: *slaps them in the back* THERE'S CHILDREN HERE

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Singer! MC: Bro...rock paper scissors but if we do the same move we gotta kiss

Electric guitarist! Noli: WH4— WH4T CR4ZY ST4T3M3NT

Singer! MC: you in though?

Electric guitarist! Noli: H311 Y43H

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Multi instrumentalist! Azure: *whispering* You know I love you, right?

Singer! MC: *whispering back* I love you too, but why are we whispering?

Multi instrumentalist! Azure: So that 1x4 thinks we’re plotting against him.

Lead singer! 1x4: what the fuck are they talking about?

Drummer! Mafioso: *heard the whole thing* planning on setting the kitchen on fire

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Drummer! Noob: I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy

Singer! MC: I would

Singer! MC: *turns to itrapped*

Singer! MC: I hope your keyboard has a non working key that doesn't work no matter how much you fix it

Keyboardist! Itrapped: *already used to the death threats* I love you too hunny

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Lead singer! 1x4: ARE YOU

Singer! MC: fucking

Lead singer! 1x4: KIDDING ME YOU

Singer! MC: fucking

Lead singer! 1x4: INSOLENT FOOL

Electric guitarist! Noli: WH4T TH4 FUCK D1D 1 JUST WH1TN3SS

Singer! MC: their PR manager banned her from swearing so they paid me to be his swearist

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Singer! MC: *sighs dramatically* I feel so unloved

Electric guitarist! Elliot: *holding a pizza shaped like a heart with a card inside the box*

Lead singer! 1x4: *about to sing them a love song that they practiced for weeks*

Lead singer! Shedletsky: *wrote multiple love songs dedicated to them and is about to argue with 1x4 to whose the first one to sing*

Drummer! Mafioso: *holding a Boquet of roses and hiding a big ass plushie behind his back*

Keyboardist! Two time: now that is just unfortunate

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Singer! MC: Comparing Chance and Itrapped is like comparing apples and oranges.

Rhythm guitarist! Chance: each of them are unique in their own ways?—

Singer! MC: apple is the original and therefore the most superior than orange

Keyboardist! Itrapped: who's orange?

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Bass guitarist! Taph: sapnu puaS.

Singer! MC: what kind of language is that?

Bass guitarist! Taph: turn your phone 180 degrees—

*Taph got banned from chatting for 2 weeks*

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Keyboardist! Two time: As your best friend—

Singer! MC: Chance is my best friend? What do you—

Keyboardist! Two time: *slams their dagger on the table* —so as you best friend

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Electric guitarist! Dussekar: Why are my clothes fading away? Did someone steal them or do they stray?

Singer! MC: *wearing a suspiciously large coat* I don't know what you're saying but damn

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Drummer! Noob: What’s your greatest fear?

Singer! MC: being forgotten

Drummer! Noob: ... Damn that's deep

Drummer! Noob: Mine is the Kool Aid man, but I feel kinda stupid about it now...

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Singer! MC: *aggressively throwing water bottles* HYDRATE OR DIE-DRATE!

Lead singer! 1x4: what in fucks name are they doing?

Bass guitarist! John doe: they're trying to yell mental health and wellbeing into us.

Singer! MC: I APPRECIATE ALL OF YOU!

Drummer! Mafioso: *crying* I FUCKING HATE HOW IT'S WORKING

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Bass guitarist! Guest 1337: That's my girlfriend, suckers!

Singer! MC: I'm your wife, guest

Bass guitarist! Guest 1337: My wife?? Even better!!

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Keyboardist! Two time: I would kill for you

Singer! MC: —I’m pretty sure you’d kill someone even if I didn’t ask you to...

Keyboardist! Two time: exactly, so now you must allow me to kill that one *points at azure minding his own business*

Singer! MC: *slowly puts down their dagger* honey please we talked about this—

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Drummer! Mafioso: Hey, wanna help me commit arson?

Singer! MC: what?? Are you crazy??

Drummer! Mafioso: oh sorry

Drummer! Mafioso: *whispering* wanna help me commit arson?

Singer! MC: *whispering back* hell fucking yeah

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Drummer! Daisy: we both agreed to a polygamous relationship

Singer! MC: oh that's great! Who's the lucky?—

Bass guitarist! Guest 1337: *aggressively slams down a piece of paper* —it's you, now sign this

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

Singer! MC: What are you in the mood for?

Multi instrumentalist! Builderman: world domination

Singer! MC: well that's a little bit—

Multi instrumentalist! Builderman: you're my world

Singer! MC: aww!

Multi instrumentalist! Builderman: ...

Singer! MC: *starting to realize* ...

Singer! MC: ...now wait a damn minute—

⭒🦭꩜.ᐟ

A/n: uhhh so I'm gonna write again after this because uhm *looks at my drafts* have a little bit of a problem here! 😀 also I fully believe that builderman is a switch but leans more in Dom *coughs* WHAT WHO SAID THAT????

[kxsagi]

1 last req from me :3

Bllk boys with a dominant strong (not meant in a kinky way..) s/o who when they cause trouble will not only threaten to put them on a leash on them but will go through with it. Like she will not hesitate to treat them like a dog if they annoy her. ( pls kaiser, shidou and karasu + whoever you want.)

This idea was inspired by the German song böser junge by ikkimel...

“𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐘!! 𝐚𝐫𝐟!”

a/n: i love this

need to teach men how to behave these days 🙄

ft. kaiser michael, shidou ryusei, karasu tabito, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, ness alexis

kaiser michael

he’s smug until he’s not. 

honestly, he lives for being annoying, like poking your cheek repeatedly while you’re trying to read, or blowing kisses while shirtless after a workout like he’s doing you a favor. but the second you pause, look him dead in the eye, and say “keep going and i’m putting a leash on you again,” he falters. slightly. 

he definitely says “you wouldn’t dare,” because he’s all bark. 

and then 10 minutes later, you’ve got a designer collar around his neck – custom-made, gold-plated, with “k. michael – property of his girlfriend” engraved on it. 

he glares. you smile. he grumbles, “this is so humiliating,” as you walk him around the house, leash in hand. 

but the moment you call him a good boy? oh he’s blushing. he denies it, but he’s down so horrendously bad for your dominance that he wears the collar even when you’re not home. 

if anyone else tried this, he’d throw hands. with you? he barks on command. (but only for you. only you.) 

shidou ryusei

see, the problem is… he’s too into it. 

you threaten him with a leash and he straight up grins like you offered to make out. “do it. i dare you. choke me a little, too–” “ryu. i’m not doing this for fun. this is because you tried to light the toaster on fire.” “… i said it was an experiment.” 

he gets leashed a lot. because he causes chaos a lot. but he somehow enjoys the leash too much. he’ll nuzzle your shoulder like a damn golden retriever and wag his metaphorical tail. 

worst part? he barks in public. loudly. 

once you clipped the leash to his collar and he moaned. like theatrically. “nghhh yes, mistress–” 

you smacked him upside the head. he wagged harder. 

you're 98% sure he annoys you on purpose just to get put on the leash. so you made him wear pink glittery ears next time. now he behaves. mostly. 

karasu tabito

this man tests limits for sport. 

you’re arguing over him skipping his cooldown stretches when he mutters “what are you gonna do, leash me?” 

your silence is his doom. five minutes later, he’s getting dragged around your apartment like an unruly puppy while protesting, “yo, this is slander. i’m a catboy, not a dog.” 

you add a bell to the collar. 

karasu is a menace but he respects power, and when you glare at him across the room with the leash looped around your finger, he shuts up real quick. 

… unless there are people around. 

in which case he loudly says, “you’re such a responsible owner, babe. make sure to take me for walks twice a day.” 

he gets smacked with a rolled-up magazine and immediately whines like you killed him. 

but when he actually messes up and you leash him without a word? he walks behind you quietly like a guilty little mutt. tail between his legs. metaphorically. mostly. 

itoshi rin

you warned him. you warned him multiple times. but nooo, rin just had to act like he wasn’t the most leashable man alive. 

"you can't control me," he mutters while knocking over your iced coffee for the third time this week. 

you make direct eye contact. say nothing. walk away. rin thinks he’s in the clear. 

until you return five minutes later with the black leather leash he thought you threw out, and you wordlessly clasp it onto his hoodie collar and yank. 

“let’s go.” “where–” “obedience school.” 

he’s speechless. you’re dragging him to the grocery store like it’s completely normal. 

some woman compliments your “well-behaved pet.” he nearly combusts on the spot. 

he refuses to speak for the whole trip. but he lets you hold the leash. 

you catch him later secretly googling "can a leash ruin your public image" and "leash-safe materials for sensitive skin." 

his pride may be in shambles, but his heart? totally, absolutely yours. 

itoshi sae

you say “if you say one more sarcastic thing i’m gonna put you on a leash.” 

he smirks. says, “oh no, how will i ever recover.” 

next thing he knows, there’s a gold-plated collar around his neck with “sae itoshi – belongs to his gf and no one else” engraved on it. 

you even bedazzled it. you literally made it sparkle. 

he blinks. “is this a punishment or a kink?” 

you tug the leash with zero emotion. “neither. you just don’t shut up.” 

he glares at you the whole time you make him sit on the couch and listen to your TED talk on “why you can’t keep ghosting your nutritionist.” 

sae looks like he’s being held hostage. but he doesn’t take off the leash. even worse, he later adjusts it himself. like. tightens it. you raise a brow. 

“… was falling off,” he grumbles. 

he never admits it, but the leash keeps him weirdly calm. like. weirdly obedient. he might’ve even purred when you called him a good boy. (you have video proof. use it wisely.) 

isagi yoichi

you’ve never seen a man panic so fast. all you did was jokingly pull the leash out after he droned on for twenty-five straight minutes about high press tactics. 

"yoichi," you say sweetly. "if you love the ball so much, maybe i should treat you like a soccer-obsessed golden retriever." 

he goes full blue screen. "NO. I CAN CHANGE." 

but it’s too late. you've already attached the leash, wrapped it around your hand, and gently tugged. 

he squawks. like, audibly. isagi.exe has crashed. 

you drag him across the living room floor while he flails and whines like a soggy towel. 

you sit on the couch and pat your lap. "c’mere." 

he hesitates. then. he obeys. and now he's curled up like a little loaf, wearing your hoodie and trying not to make eye contact. 

"this is character assassination," he mumbles. 

you scratch his head and call him your good boy. he starts vibrating. 

later that night, you find him looking up leash reviews on amazon. 

“no reason,” he insists, blushing violently. 

mikage reo

he tries to sass you one time after practice. 

"wow, you really woke up girlbossing today, huh?" 

you don't respond. just quietly pull a satin purple leash out of your bag and raise an eyebrow. 

“wait. no. babe. baby. sweetheart. angel. light of my life. this is public defamation.” 

clip. the collar is on. he’s now on a leash. reo.exe has stopped working. 

you walk into the gym lobby holding it, and everyone stares. reo covers his face with his entire duffel bag. 

someone whistles. someone else claps. karasu takes a picture. 

he’s whining like, “i am a billionaire. a respected man. i drive a bugatti.” you go “a bugatti with a leash on.” 

he sulks all day, but doesn’t take it off. later, he asks if it comes in velvet. 

you order five more in different colors. he ranks them by outfit compatibility. 

nagi seishiro

you only used the leash because nothing else worked. 

you begged him to get off the couch for four hours. you tried bribing. threatening. promising him snacks. nothing. so finally, you loop the leash through his hoodie and yank. 

he grunts. “ow. so aggressive.” "get up." "no." “get. up.” “fine.” 

he stands. walks. but like. zombie shuffles. he drags his feet on purpose to make it harder. 

you tug again. “faster.” he groans. “can i just teleport.” 

you eventually plop him on a bench at the park to get sun. he lays across it like a fainting victorian child. 

then mutters, “this is comfy. i’m never moving again.” 

you say nothing. just dangle the leash like a warning. his eyes narrow. 

“… i hate it here,” he pouts. 

but later he’s wearing the leash while playing mobile games on your lap. 

“just leave it on,” he yawns. “too lazy to take it off.” 

sure, nagi. sure. 

ness alexis

because he enabled the menace. that’s why. 

he watched kaiser try to swordfight with golf clubs in the kitchen and didn’t stop him. you caught them mid-duel. 

"alexis," you say slowly, "get the leash." 

his soul leaves his body. “you can’t be serious.” 

you snap your fingers. he’s collared and leashed faster than he can blink. 

you make him do apology laps around the house. every time he whines, you make the leash shorter. 

"next time," you say, sipping your coffee, "you’ll remember to use that brain of yours." 

he’s just pouting dramatically on the floor, tugging halfheartedly. “kaiser’s laughing. he likes this. this isn’t fair.” 

you pat his head. he melts. “… okay maybe a little fair.” 

a week later, he walks into your room holding the leash. “… do you wanna… maybe… just put it on again for five minutes. for educational purposes.” 

kaiser claps in the background. you leash them both. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[e1e4n0r5]

Got a Lil Sugar: Chapter 2

Masterlist, Chapter 1

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends

Pairing: Sugar Mommies Cait & Vi x Sugar Baby Reader

Words: 3051

Synopsis: Your first few weeks in your new 'business venture', and you learn it's not as easy as it looks

Warnings: Financial distress, sex work, creeps on the internet, lesbian reader has to flirt with men, degradation on reader

You sat cross-legged on your bed, the glow of your phone screen casting long shadows in the cramped little room. You scrolled through the app’s inbox, your fingers hesitating over each message.

Show me your tits and I’ll make it rain 💵💵💵

Bet you’re a dirty little slut in real life too. $20 for some pussy?

Why would I pay you? I can get better for free on PornSite lmao.

You flinched at that last one. Your stomach twisted with something sour; shame or anger or both. The same hands that were paying your rent were slapping you in the face.

Still, you opened a different thread from earlier that day: a polite, if bland, man had sent $50 for a voice note. “Just moan for me, baby.” You’d locked yourself in a private bathroom at work and recorded yourself whispering fake, breathy moans into your phone mic, cheeks blazing hot, stomach twisting.

It felt gross. But the $50 had already been sent to your account.

Thankfully you’d made this month’s rent, but now you had to work towards the higher amount.

When the next message popped up, your stomach dropped:

Bet you swallow. $25 if you say you do. $50 if you prove it.

You tossed the phone down and buried your face in your hands.

Mel slid into the seat across from you, immaculate as always. You tried to smile, but it felt like your lips didn’t quite get there.

“You look like hell,” Mel teased gently, though her eyes softened. “What’s going on?”

You stared into your latte. “I don’t know if I can do this, Mel. People are just…So mean. And disgusting. Like, I get what this job is, I knew it wasn’t going to be sweet old ladies sending me flowers every day, but…”

You trailed off, and Mel reached over, touching your hand.

“But it feels worse when you actually read it?” Mel finished for you.

You nodded, the words catching in your throat. “I feel gross. But then I look at my bank account, and my spreadsheet…”

“And you need to keep going,” Mel said softly.

You winced. “That’s the worst part.”

Mel squeezed your hand. “Angel, this is just part of the job. When these people are online, they feel entitled to say anything they want. You decide if their money is worth the words. That’s the power you have. You can block them, ignore them, or keep their cash and laugh all the way to the bank. But don’t let it get under your skin. They’re not real and they’re not worth it.”

You managed a faint smile. “You make it sound easy.”

Mel smirked and sat back. “Oh darling, it’s not easy. But you get tougher, and once you sort the wheat from the chaff, it’ll get easier.”

That Friday night, your tiny apartment was quiet except for the low thump of music coming from a little wireless speaker Mel had gifted you (one of her Daddies had bought her a new one). You stood in the middle of your living room/kitchen in nothing but a matching blue bra and panties set, barefoot, with a bottle of all-purpose cleaner in one hand and your phone set up on a tripod on your table.

The app chimed as you went live.

Hearts and usernames immediately flooded the screen:

There she is

Oh fuck, that set looks good on you.

Goddamn, baby, look at those thighs! Spin for us

Lmfao, her place is such a dump tho

You forced a smile, waving to the camera. “Hi, everyone,” you said brightly, even though your stomach knotted at the last comment. “You’re just in time to help me clean up a little. Let’s have a nice night, okay?”

The chat exploded:

Only if you bend over nice and slow while you dust

I’ll send $5 every time you bend over

Money pinged in as you turned on the music a little louder and started moving around the room.

You’d swept earlier, but you made a show of bending down, slowly wiping the coffee table, arching your back as you reached across it. You kept one ear tuned to the phone: when someone donated $10 and asked you to clean the mirror next – “so we can see those girls jiggle!” – you obeyed, trying to laugh through your discomfort and blowing them a kiss.

The donations kept coming. $50 here. Another $10. Someone sent $20 just to ask you to put your hair up while you worked, which you did with a little twist a clip, strands falling loose around your face.

But the mean ones kept coming too.

You really think you’re hot enough to pull this off?

This chick has no idea what real sugar babies look like lol

Bet her whole place still stinks after this

Your smile stayed fixed. You kept dusting, swaying a little to the beat of the music as you tried to distance yourself from what you were doing, even though your cheeks were burning now and your hands were getting clammy.

You did another spin, slower this time, gently swaying your hips. The cash kept chiming.

By the time you finally signed off, blowing one last kiss to the camera, waving goodnight, you’d made almost $400.

You let yourself sag against the couch when the stream ended, staring at the quiet little room.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Mel:

You did amazing. The mean ones only talk because they’re jealous. You looked gorgeous. Cash out, get some food, and don’t even think about it. You’re working smart.

You smiled faintly and texted back a simple:

Thanks Mel ❤️

You closed the app, pulled on a hoodie, and padded into the kitchen.

The apartment felt dirtier somehow.

Lying in bed, you scrolled again through the inbox. The names blurred together, but you were starting to recognise some.

You saw the same patterns:

You’re a whore, but at least you’re honest about it. Here’s $30, write it on your forehead

$20 for butt without panties

$50 if you bark like a dog

Your bank account was a little healthier. But your heart felt emptier.

Still, you stripped off your sweater, fixed your hair, and completed the requests. You typed out the standard response – Thanks for the tip, enjoy! – and sent them before you could think too hard.

You leant back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. The money was helping. But at what cost?

The fluorescent lights of the adult store were somehow harsher than you expected. You kept your head down as the door chimed behind you. The place was quiet – a slow weekday early evening – but even so, you felt the cashier’s eyes follow you as you walked in.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Are you live yet? Mel’s text read.

You swallowed and typed back: Starting now

You opened the app, angled your phone, and hit “Go Live.”

At once the screen filled with little hearts and usernames popping up, numbers climbing higher as more people tuned in. You forced a smile.

“Hey, everyone,” you said, your voice a little shaky as you whispered. “You’re coming shopping with me today.”

About time you gave us some real content, baby

Turn the camera lower, what’s the point if we can’t see those tits?

$10 if you ask the cashier where the freakiest toys are

The chat was a flood – some cruel, some eager, some offering cash in the form of little digital donations that chimed as they landed.

You inhaled through your nose, forced yourself to keep your chin up, and started walking down the nearest aisle.

Shelves gleamed with glass, leather, and silicone in every colour imaginable. You held your phone out at arm’s length, tilting it down just enough to show your breasts in your push-up bra, and your hips as you walked – like they wanted.

Another donation popped up: $20 if you pick up the biggest one you see and show us how it looks in your hand.

Your stomach turned, but you found a scarily wide dildo the length of your forearm, holding it up to the camera with a little nervous laugh.

The chime of money kept coming. $5 here, $10 there.

Someone sent $50 just to tell you to blow a kiss to the camera. You did, cheeks warming, but at least you didn’t have to say anything gross for that one.

As you walked down an aisle, an employee restocking various lubes, a bored-looking man in his 40s, sneered slightly as you passed him. “You gonna buy something with all that attention you’re whoring out for, or just waste everyone’s time?”

Your smile froze, your stomach plummeting. You didn’t stop walking.

The chat, oblivious, continued scrolling:

$15 if you ask him what he thinks would feel best in you

Ignore him, baby girl, just keep shopping

You ignored the man and ducked into another aisle, exhaling shakily once he was out of sight.

$25 sent – get a vibrating plug!

Chime. Chime.

You picked up a slim, vibrating plug, holding it up to the camera with fingers that didn’t quite tremble anymore. Then you picked out a sleek black realistic vibrator.

The donations rolled in.

By the time you left the store, a plain brown bag in hand and what felt like the last of your dignity abandoned, you’d made almost $500 in under an hour.

Your phone buzzed again as you stepped outside. It was Mel:

I knew you could do it, I’m proud of you. Go home, take a bath, and don’t read the chat replay. Just cash the money and move on.

You let yourself smile, just a little, and tucked your phone into your pocket.

You sat in a corner on your break, tucked away in the breakroom with your phone close to your chest.

The message notifications kept lighting up the screen.

Why don’t you just come over and fuck for free like the whore you are?

$25 if you call yourself a stupid slut on video

$10 sent – send pic with ur tongue out like a good little cumdump

Your hands shook as you deleted the first message without responding. But the second and third…You couldn’t quite bring yourself to ignore them completely.

You needed the money.

With the breakroom empty, you opened your camera app, made yourself look soft and willing, stuck out your tongue and snapped a photo. The words you typed to go with it made your stomach knot: Hope Daddy likes it

Another $25 came through: open your mouth wider this time slut

You shoved the phone back in your bag and pressed your palms to your eyes.

Your stomach turned.

But your next rent was coming up.

The next afternoon, you sat across from Mel in a little café, nursing a coffee.

“You’re quiet,” Mel said after a few minutes.

You chewed on your lip. “I blocked eight people yesterday. But I still I sent feet pics to two others. Got another $120.”

Mel nodded slowly, letting you talk.

“And this one guy just messaged me to tell me I wasn’t worth it. Not even money attached. He just said it. And I…” You trailed off, looking down at your hands. “I feel so dirty, Mel. Like I’m playing along because I need the cash but then afterwards I just feel gross.”

Mel reached across and rested her perfectly manicured hand over yours. “That happens to everyone, baby girl,” she said softly.

You blinked. “Everyone?”

Mel smirked, just a little. “Oh yeah. First few weeks are always the worst. You’re learning who to block, who to humour, what you’re okay with. It’s like building calluses. At first everything hurts. But then you figure out what you can handle.”

You swallowed hard. “It just feels like I’m letting them talk to me like I’m nothing. Like I am what they say.”

Mel shook her head firmly. “You’re not. You’re playing a part. They don’t even know you. They’re buying your time. Not your soul. Don’t you forget it.”

You let out a shaky breath.

Mel gave your hand another squeeze. “Block the ones who cross the line. Laugh at the ones who think they can tear you down for free. And cash the cheques, sweetheart. You need this; you don’t need them.”

You sat at the back of the bus, earphones in, a blank look on your face as you scrolled through your inbox.

$40 sent – Show me what your tits look like squeezed together

$75 sent – can you sit on your bathroom counter and spread for me? Another $100 for one without panties!

$50 sent – Baby girl, Mommy wants to hear you moan again. Same rate?

You tapped “accept” on all three. Not even a pause.

When you got home, you didn’t even take your shoes off before dropping your bag, propping your phone against a mug, and peeling off your shirt.

One.

Then two.

Then three.

Send.

You barely looked at your own face in the screen anymore.

Mel eyed you next to her on the park bench. “You’re getting colder,” she remarked, swirling her mocha.

You stared into your own cup. “Easier this way. I don’t feel as much anymore.”

“That’s normal. You’ve already got thicker skin than most girls get in six months,” Mel said, a note of sad pride in her voice.

You gave her a weak smile. “That’s good, right?”

Mel tilted her head. “Good, but dangerous too. Don’t let yourself forget that you’re a person under all that armour. Take a night off if you need to. Block the really nasty ones even if they wave cash at you.”

You knew that wasn't an option for you, but you nodded anyway. “Aren’t there girls who do, like, humiliation stuff? Should I do that?”

Mel shook her head furiously. “Angel, that’s not you. It takes a certain type of person to able to swallow that shit from strangers online all day. Don’t do that to yourself. You’ve got to protect this and this,” she said, tapping your chest lightly then your head.

“But if-?”

Mel shocked you by holding your face, squishing your cheeks a little, and turning your head to look at her. She frowned seriously. “Darling, I will hack your bank account and put money in it myself if I have to. You are not doing that.”

Two nights later, you set up your phone in your bedroom.

This time, you wanted the lighting to be softer, the mood to feel less like a desperate cleaning show and something closer to what you thought this was supposed to be.

You lit a candle on your nightstand, dimmed the lamp, and set the phone on a tripod at the foot of the bed. You wore a silky pale blue robe and matching underwear set underneath, your hair down this time.

Mel had texted you beforehand:

Don’t push yourself too far. You’re in control, not them. End it when you want to.

The words echoed in your mind when you hit the little red “Go Live” button.

The chat was already waiting.

Ohhh she’s in bed tonight??

Holy shit look at her!

Bout time you did something sexy instead of dusting lol

You forced a coy little smile and settled onto the edge of the bed, crossing your legs.

“Hi,” you murmured. “Be nice to me tonight, okay? I’m feeling soft.”

The money started to roll in as you played with the tie of your robe.

$10 here. $25 there. A $50 tip just for lying on your stomach and kicking your legs up behind you.

You swayed to the faint music playing from your speaker, occasionally glancing shyly at the chat.

And then it came.

$200 sent –Fucking take it off already. Stop pretending and just show us something worth looking at

Your hands froze where they’d been smoothing down your robe.

$200.

It sat there in your tip jar on the screen like a challenge. The message stung.

But the numbers on your debt spreadsheet were still there.

You swallowed. Then, slowly, without looking directly at the camera, you slipped the robe fully off your shoulders. The silky fabric pooled behind you. You could feel your cheeks burning already as you sat there in just your bra and panties.

The chat went wild.

Finally!

Holy fuck I love your body

Knew she’d cave. Look at her blush, pretending to be all sweet and innocent

You sat up straighter, acting like you hadn’t read the cruel words. But then your fingers hooked into the strap of your bra.

One side slipped off. Then the other.

And just like that, you unhooked it, pulling it away and dropping it out of frame.

Your breath caught in your chest when you saw yourself on the screen – bare now, arms folded just enough to be modest but still letting them see what they’d paid for.

The chat absolutely exploded. The tip jar chimed again and again, numbers climbing.

You forced a little smile, fluffing up your hair as though nothing had changed.

“Hope that’s worth it,” you murmured softly into the mic, your voice as sweet as you could make it, even though your throat felt tight.

You kept going for another ten minutes, just playing with your hair, lying on your back, chatting lazily with the viewers while the tips trickled in.

When you finally signed off and the screen went dark, you pulled your robe back on, tied it tight, and sat cross-legged on the bed in silence for a moment.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Mel.

I’m really proud of you, angel. Don’t let the assholes get to you. You did great.

You stared at the screen, then typed back: Thanks. Made $700. I feel weird now

That’s normal, you're okay. Take a bath, angel. Be kind to yourself.

You put your phone down on the bed, rubbing your temples as you tried to settle yourself down.

Your phone buzzed again with another message request, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at it. You'd have a bath, eat some food, and get an early night.

If you had looked at your phone, you would have seen the names...

Caitlyn & Violet

Taglist: @sevikas-whore, @djstinkyfartz, @jinririz, @abbyandcaitlover, @ayuxiru, @bebeluvvv, @youdoyou-andiwilldome, @kittymrtnezz69, @wyprettylilone, @jlb20416, @autisticratbagtm, @theoreticalfreak, @riotstemple29, @zaunite-516, @zmbieeee, @godhatesgoodgirls, @yoyo-w, @milanyas, @unknownomgg, @bella-but-not-hadid444, @marvelwomenarehot0, @nenoino, @opalundercover, @beggingonmykneesforher, @qlelwow, @loneliestafterparty, @flowersareup, @niceminipotato, @fruitfulfashion, @dut1fuldyk3, @youngtastemakerfart, @trinityobsessesovatings, @barmaideneeveewrites, @c1sne, @geminideathrose, @nuianced-tck-enby, @all-things-lilac, @m0ss-gremlin, @notkyleelol, @girlsatourbest, @rainfalls77, @vinvinvin-who, @ispendwaytolongonhere, @lavendercassie54321

[imhalfplastic]

still in paris (final)

⊹ overview - pairing: mingyu x f!reader genre: contemporary · slice of life · soft romance · slow burn · text-heavy dialogue themes: subtle connection, emotional timing, media speculation, finding softness amid the noise cw: mentions of public scrutiny, mild language, sfw

summary: there were no rules. no promises. just two people learning how to be near each other without breaking the spell. not everything was said, but enough was felt. and that made it real, even if only between them.

from kai: and that’s the end. i know. i’m upset too :( i wrote this with a soft ache in my chest and a stupid grin on my face. if it makes you feel even a fraction of that, i’ll consider it a win. thank you for reading all the way through (and pretending not to fall in love a little). there’s a little something at the end for the nosy ones. you know who you are. 💌

now playing: dimanche soir - lynn

ps: this is part 3! the last part of still, in paris. if you haven’t yet, i’d suggest reading part 1 and part 2 first.

ELLE KOREA

Mingyu Talks Prep Mode, Paris, and Knowing Exactly What He’s Doing

With Dior’s Autumn/Winter show just around the corner, SEVENTEEN’s Mingyu is officially in prep mode. Between fittings, rehearsals, and a tight schedule, the singer-turned-global-fashion-favorite took a moment to talk to ELLE Korea — and yes, he still somehow makes multitasking look good.

“I’m excited.” he says about the upcoming trip to France. “There’s something about that city that makes you want to look twice at everything.”

Of course, we couldn’t let him go without bringing up something slightly more personal.

Actress Y/N Y/LN recently joked in an interview that even after Dior Fashion Week, she wasn’t entirely sure if Mingyu had her number.

He lets out a small laugh, head tilted.

“Well… she figured it out eventually.” he says, not offering more.

Then, with a grin that says he’s not going to elaborate, he shifts back to safer ground:

“Anyway, Dior’s pulling some beautiful textures this season. I can’t wait to see the full styling direction up close.”

A smooth redirection — and a non-answer that says plenty.

—

Interview by ELLE Korea Digital Team

Photos courtesy of PLEDIS Entertainment & Dior

you land in paris just after sunrise. you don’t make it out of the airport.

something about a “randomized security check” and “passport verification protocols,” which sounds fake but official enough to be annoying. you text your manager. she says, “sit tight”. you text mingyu. he says, “shit.”

you’ve been stuck in terminal 2E of charles de gaulle for going on four hours, and you’re starting to forget what real air feels like. the coffee tastes like cardboard. someone’s crying three seats over. you’ve already read the dior show briefing twice and still can’t remember if the theme is “post-apocalyptic renaissance” or “deconstructed melancholy.”

the worst part? he’s already there.

mingyu how’s paris?

you which part?

mingyu the glamorous airport terminal you’re currently trapped in

you honestly? top 5 most humbling experiences of my life

mingyu can’t believe we flew to paris just to text each other

you sounds on brand

mingyu what did they think you were smuggling?

you my winning personality, probably

mingyu dangerous

you deadly

mingyu paris isn’t ready

you neither are you

he sends a picture of room service toast that looks depressingly dry.

mingyu this was breakfast

you looks like it was a cry for help

mingyu you could save me

you i’m the one detained by the french government

mingyu do you want me to send a car when they finally release you?

you and go where?

mingyu my hotel room

you you’re absolutely insane

mingyu kidding unless you’re into it

you you’ve been in paris less than twelve hours and already lost your mind

mingyu you say that like i brought one with me

you you’re unbearable

mingyu you’re smiling though

you unfortunately

the pre-show guest list leaked a couple nights ago. your names are there. side by side. people notice. people post. people compare. people guess.

rumors are already trending before either of you leave your respective countries. you’re not surprised. it’s not new. but this time feels... closer. because they’re not wrong.

after the “see you in paris” things shifted. more texts. longer ones. less teasing, more real things.

you talked about stupid things: your favorite shape of pasta, the most cursed press looks you've survived, how he hates being bored. you talked about real things too. what makes you feel like yourself. what doesn’t.

it didn’t stop being fun. the banter, the bits, the casually inappropriate jokes. but now there were pauses. 

space for something else.

he made it easy to be honest. you made it safe for him to flirt.

somewhere in the in-between, you got closer to that impossible thing he once said he wanted: being normal.

or at least pretending well enough that it felt real.

you finally get cleared around noon, a full five hours after landing. when you step outside, the light feels aggressive. the city, too.

you don’t go straight to the hotel.

you send a message instead.

you free woman

mingyu should i alert the authorities again

you you should send better toast

mingyu im waiting for you hope you like unnecessarily tiny vegetables

you as long as they come with unnecessarily big wine glasses

mingyu only the finest

you take a deep breath and head to the dior headquarters to discuss the final details with the staff before the show. though you won’t be walking the runway, you’ll be there as an ambassador. attending the event, supporting the brand, and helping set the tone for the evening. they go over the dress code, seating arrangements, and any last-minute adjustments. the energy is buzzing but professional, and you find yourself quietly excited to be part of it all.

you make it to his hotel around two. you’re not staying there. you both agreed that would be too much. but he’s waiting in the lobby anyway, sunglasses on indoors, pretending not to be a walking headline. he grins when he sees you. you pretend not to notice.

“they let you out...” he says, eyes flicking up as you approach.

“had to bribe them with a selfie.” you reply, slipping your phone back into your bag like it’s no big deal.

“worked on me too.” he grins, and you try not to smile, but fail.

you don’t kiss. of course not. you hug for a second longer than you should. he smells like hotel soap and something warmer underneath. you say nothing.

you end up at the restaurant inside the hotel. it’s all marble and tall windows and servers who seem mildly allergic to joy.

you sit across from each other like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world.

he lets you pick the wine. you let him mispronounce half the menu. the bread is warm, the conversation warmer.

“you still haven’t told me what they thought you were smuggling.” he says, tearing a piece of focaccia in half.

“charm. quiet defiance. possibly a lighter.” you shrug. “they didn’t specify.”

he laughs softly, like he’s trying not to scare it away. you smile into your glass.

“so...” he says, leaning in just slightly. “what’s it like? being mysterious and untouchable?”

you raise an eyebrow. “you tell me. you’re the one in sunglasses indoors.”

he reaches up and takes them off. “better?”

“depends. are you gonna make eye contact now or just stare at the bread again?”

his foot shifts slightly under the table. not quite touching. but close. your leg doesn’t move.

“you’re meaner in paris.” he says.

“you’re softer.” you reply.

“you like it.”

“maybe.”

the food comes. he watches you eat like it’s a rare event. you pretend not to notice.

“how many texts have you ignored since you arrived?” he asks, gesturing at your phone.

“twelve.” you say. “six from my manager. three from people pretending they’re not watching.”

“and the other three?”

you pause. “two are from friends. one’s from my mom.”

he nods like that makes sense. “she think you’re in danger?”

“she always thinks i’m in danger.”

“maybe you are.”

you glance up. “and you? how many are pretending they don’t care you’re at lunch with me right now?”

he smiles. “oh, all of them. especially the ones who care the most.”

the wine’s half gone by the time you start laughing for real.

not at him, but near him. and he watches like he knows what that means.

“this is nice.” he says, softer now. “you. here. talking to me.”

“you act like i never do that.”

“not like this...” he says. “in real life. without cameras or deadlines or pretending it’s just funny.”

you look at him. he doesn’t look away.

“we’re still pretending a little...” you say.

he shrugs. “yeah. but it’s quieter now.”

he pays the bill before you can reach for it. you don’t argue.

on the way out, he opens the door like a habit. you pause at the threshold.

flashes. clicks. a few muffled voices.

you keep walking.

in the car, you send him a text.

you congrats we just broke the internet over grilled octopus and a glass of wine

mingyu worth it

you they’ll think we hooked up

mingyu we didn’t even touch

you i know

mingyu they don’t

you should we let them keep guessing?

mingyu obviously

you get to your hotel and finally exhale. the room is nice. too nice. clean in a way that feels temporary. you kick your shoes off like it’s your place anyway.

you check your phone. a few dozen notifications.

you don’t care. not in the way you used to.

for once, you’re not spiraling through every headline or hovering over your PR team’s crisis folder. you just drop your phone on the bed and head to the shower.

you feel... light. like whatever just happened wasn’t for them. and that’s rare.

the water runs hot. you wash the airport off your skin. the wait. the noise. the pretending.

but not the way he looked at you across the table. not the way his voice softened when he said “this is nice.” not the way it didn’t feel like a setup.

you dry your hair half-heartedly and slip into a hotel robe that still smells like laundry detergent. you scroll past a blurry photo of you leaving the car.

you smile. just a little. not because they think something happened but because something kind of did.

just not the part they’re guessing.

you lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

you think about how quiet he was between jokes. how much space he gave you, even when he didn’t want to. how easy it was to say maybe and mean more than that.

you close your eyes. the room is quiet. and so is your mind, for once.

you don’t know what tomorrow looks like. but tonight, for now, feels soft. and you try to sleep.

you really do.

you turn off the lights. you close the curtains. you adjust the pillows like that ever helps.

but your body still feels like it’s moving. maybe the jet lag. maybe the adrenaline. maybe the fact that you saw him today and it felt like something started without either of you naming it.

you check your phone. no new messages.

you scroll past another headline. another speculative post. someone posted a poll: “will they arrive together tomorrow?” 68% say no.

you open your texts.

you are you awake

the dots appear fast. he was either already texting you or just waiting.

mingyu unfortunately

you same

mingyu can’t sleep?

you won’t

mingyu should i come read you a bedtime story

you i think that’s the opposite of helpful

mingyu wow just say you hate comfort

you laugh into your pillow.

you you’d make it weird

mingyu probably

you but in like an oddly effective way

mingyu you think i’m oddly effective?

you you’re something

you lie on your side, one leg curled up, the phone glowing in your palm. you’re not smiling, exactly. but the corners of your mouth disagree.

mingyu can i ask something

you dangerous start

mingyu when did this stop being just funny to you

you who says it did

mingyu you’re texting me at 2am

you maybe i’m just bored

mingyu nah you’re not bored

you so what am i

mingyu enamored

you maybe

mingyu i like maybe

you i know

you tap out a message, then delete it. then type something else instead.

you tomorrow’s going to be a lot

mingyu i know

you but i’m okay

mingyu me too

you do you think we’re being insane?

mingyu absolutely but like charmingly insane

you i want to do it anyway

mingyu good because i was already picturing it

you of course you were

mingyu black car. matching levels of smug. coordinated mystery.

you coordinated mystery is so us

mingyu we were never subtle anyway

you dior’s gonna love it

mingyu our managers might cry

you mine already has quietly. on the phone. five minutes ago.

mingyu mine said “i support you as a person” which feels like code for “please don’t do this”

you too late

mingyu how late is too late?

you like we’ll-show-up-and-they’ll-know late

mingyu they already know they’ve known we’re just… confirming

you soft confirmation no press release just proximity

mingyu the quietest kind of chaos

you stare at your screen. let your thumb hover. type. delete. type again.

you you sure?

mingyu about you? yeah

you this could change things

mingyu maybe they’re supposed to

it’s simple, the way he says it. not dramatic. not trying to convince you. just… honest.

you you’re being weirdly calm about this

mingyu that’s how you know i mean it

you i kind of hate that it makes me feel better

mingyu you don’t hate it you just hate admitting it

a pause. longer this time. you turn onto your back and let the ceiling blur.

mingyu want to know what i think?

you no tell me

mingyu i think we’re doing this exactly the way we’re meant to quiet a little stupid

you a lot stupid

mingyu but it’s us and somehow that makes it feel right

you let it linger. the quiet. the possibility. you don’t rush to fill it this time. you know tomorrow will be loud. you’re just letting tonight stay soft for a second longer.

mingyu will i see you tomorrow?

you if things go my way you’ll be seeing a lot of me while we’re here

there’s a pause. like he’s smiling on the other side of the screen. like he’s letting the idea settle in, too.

mingyu that sounds dangerously close to a promise

you maybe it is

mingyu careful i’ll hold you to it

you turn the phone face down on the pillow. not to shut it out. just to let the feeling stay a little longer without interruption.

you close your eyes. you’re not asleep. but you’re somewhere near it. somewhere softer.

in the next day, the car pulls up a little before ten. perfect timing, as always.

you step out of the room, the dress fitting like it was made for this night. your stylist called it “accidentally coordinated.” you called it “dangerous.”

your phone buzzes.

mingyu your chariot’s here

you roll your eyes but smile anyway.

he’s already in the car when you step out of the hotel. tinted windows, tailored suit, quiet confidence. you slide in beside him and shut the city out.

for a second, you just look at each other.

then:

“you clean up well.” you say.

“you say that like i don’t always.” he smirks.

you glance down. he’s in black. subtle silver detailing. something structured but soft at the edges.

you recognize the shape of your own look in his. not identical, but aligned. a rhythm.

“did we just invent couplecore?” you ask.

“we might’ve just gotten styled into one...” he replies.

“they’ll think we planned it.”

“we kind of did.”

“thought we were aiming for vague.”

“this is vague. photogenic vague.”

his hand rests on the seat between you. yours, too. not touching. but close.

the silence feels full. like it knows something you haven’t said out loud.

he doesn’t move his hand. neither do you.

“so...” he says, voice quieter now. “you ready?”

you inhale slowly. watch the city move past the window like it’s not watching you back.

“no.” you say. “but i want to be.”

he nods. “that’s enough.”

the car slows. flashes start before the door even opens. you reach for the handle. he beats you to it.

he steps out first, then turn. extends his arm like it’s nothing. like this is all normal.

you hesitate. not because you’re unsure but because this is the moment they will remember.

you take his arm.

your eyes don’t leave each other’s.

and then you walk.

together.

the carpet is a blur. lights. voices. too many lenses and not enough distance.

he leans in, just slightly.

“ready for our public debut?” he whispers.

you laugh under your breath.

“it’s not a debut.” you say.

“no...” he agrees. “just an escalation.”

you pose. not too close. not too stiff. his arm never leaves yours.

click. click. click.

no statements. no performance.

just tension and taste.

inside, everything is white and gold and vaguely futuristic. you’re seated front row, of course. the name cards said so long before you arrived.

his hand brushes yours once, lightly, when he sits. not on purpose. or maybe exactly on purpose.

you don’t pull away.

the lights dim. the music swells. the show begins.

you lean slightly toward him. barely.

he doesn’t say anything. just leans the same amount back.

like gravity. or a secret.

-

the lights come back up. there’s clapping, camera shutters, the polite chaos of fashionable people pretending they’re not already checking their phones.

you and mingyu stay seated a little longer.

“was it just me” he says, leaning slightly toward you, “or did every single model look like they were about to start crying?”

you smile. “it’s called deconstructed melancholy for a reason.”

he raises an eyebrow. “i thought that was just my vibe.”

you turn your head slowly to look at him. “you’re more ‘flirt disguised as existentialism.’”

he grins, delighted. “see? this is why i let you sit next to me.”

“you didn’t let me do anything.”

“you’re right. i begged.”

you shake your head, but you don’t pull away. he’s still too close. and you don’t mind.

you walk out a little slower than the rest. not trying to make a scene, not trying not to. he keeps pace beside you, brushing your shoulder now and then like it’s muscle memory.

“we could go to that afterparty...” he says casually.

“you could.”

he glances at you. “not tempting?”

“i don’t feel like pretending to enjoy techno remixes of frank sinatra right now.”

he laughs. “you just described the whole vibe.”

you pause, your heel catching slightly on the carpet.

“i want something quiet.” you say.

he doesn’t hesitate. “i know a place.”

fifteen minutes later, you’re sitting across from him in a tiny café on a side street that doesn’t show up on influencer guides. the windows are fogged up from the warmth inside. your heels are off under the table. his blazer is draped over the back of your chair.

a single security guy sits discreetly two tables behind. you pretend he’s not there.

there’s a crepe on your plate and powdered sugar on your thumb. you don’t care. neither does mingyu.

he leans back, one hand holding a fork, the other tracing slow circles on the paper napkin.

“this is the best decision we’ve made all day” he says.

you raise an eyebrow. “and the coordinated outfits?”

“runner-up.”

you sip your drink. “and the arm-in-arm entrance?”

he grins. “tied with this.”

you roll your eyes. “your ranking system is broken.”

he shrugs. “you mess with the order every time you look at me like that.”

you pretend not to hear him.

but your smile gives you away.

you don’t go back to the hotel right away.

in the car, after the last bite of crepe and the last laugh that made your chest ache just enough, mingyu leans forward and murmurs something to the driver. you don’t catch it all. something about “a few minutes” and “somewhere quiet.” you don’t ask where. you just rest your head briefly against the window, watching the city soften around you.

paris at night feels like a fever dream. lamp posts spill gold across cobblestone. the windows of cafés glow low and warm. even the river seems to move slower, like it knows you’re not in a hurry anymore.

in the back seat, you and mingyu don’t speak. but his knee nudges gently against yours with every turn, like he’s reminding you he’s still there. you don’t pull away.

he glances at you once. you feel it more than see it. but he doesn’t say a word. and you like that about him. the way he can just be next to you without trying to fill every inch of silence.

the car slows near the palais de chaillot. the driver parks discreetly on a side street lined with quiet buildings and iron balconies, the eiffel tower glowing in the near distance like a secret.

mingyu gets out first, then offers you a hand without saying anything. you take it.

the sidewalk is cool under your shoes. you wrap your coat tighter around your frame as the breeze tugs at your hair. he stands beside you, not too close, not too far.

there are people around, of course. a couple. two teens taking blurry photos of the tower. but no one points. no one follows. for once, the world lets you have a moment.

you walk together to the edge of the terrace. from here, the tower looks like it’s breathing. lights flickering. blinking. then, like magic, it starts to sparkle.

“timed that perfectly.” mingyu says, low.

“didn’t know you ran paris...” you reply.

he grins, hands in his coat pockets. “i don’t. but i might start.”

you glance sideways at him. he’s looking at the lights, but his face is soft. not the face of someone performing. not the idol face.

just him.

you hug yourself against the breeze, and after a second of hesitation, he steps a little closer. his shoulder brushes yours. he doesn’t pull away.

you both stand like that. shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the city like you belong here. like this belongs.

“this feels like a dream.” you say finally, quietly. the words leave your mouth before you even think them through.

“it does.” he says. and then, after a pause: “but honestly... ever since we got closer, every night’s felt like this. like i’m not quite awake.”

you blink. your chest tightens. not in the scary way.

in the way that feels like maybe, just maybe, you’re doing something right.

you look at him.

he looks at you.

there’s nothing ironic about it. no joke to throw between the beat.

you end up sitting on a low stone ledge, the view wide open in front of you. a quiet hum of the city behind. the occasional sound of laughter from someone passing through.

but where you sit? it’s still. his coat brushes against your thigh. he starts telling you a story about one of his trips to paris alone. how he got lost looking for a pharmacy and ended up buying overpriced sunglasses instead. you laugh so freely you surprise yourself.

“you laugh more here.” he says, watching you.

“maybe i like who i am with you here.”

his gaze softens. you don’t look away.

the ride back is slower. the driver doesn’t rush. he knows the rhythm now.

you sit close in the back seat. his hand rests gently on your leg this time. not asking for anything. just being there.

when you pull up in front of your hotel, neither of you moves right away.

the street is quiet. the kind of quiet that dares you to break it.

you turn to him.

“so...” you start, not sure where that was going.

but he doesn’t wait.

his hand lifts to your cheek. it’s soft. steady.

and then he kisses you.

it’s not sharp. not hungry. it’s slow. reverent. real.

the kind of kiss you only get once per city, if you’re lucky. the kind of kiss that makes everything outside the car feel like noise.

when it ends, he doesn’t pull back far.

“goodnight” he murmurs.

you whisper it back, breath catching. “goodnight.”

and as you step out into the night, you realize you’re still smiling.

not because of the kiss.

because you finally know how it feels when the right thing actually happens.

-

you wake up before your alarm.

the sun’s low and gold through the window. there’s a hum under your skin, but it’s not nerves. it’s the aftermath of something real.

you reach for your phone.

the lock screen is chaos. mentions, tags, cropped photos, edited videos. there are side-by-sides, slow-motion gifs, captions like “what do you mean they’re not dating?”

you scroll through the mess and sip the coffee someone left outside your door. still warm. your phone buzzes.

[CALL: manager]

you sigh before answering.

“please tell me this is about breakfast...” you say, stretching.

“i wish.” she mutters. “first of all, you looked good.”

you smile. “thank you.”

“second of all: pledis has called me four times in the last hour.”

you flop back on the bed. “what do they want?”

“a statement. or a denial. or a timeline. they’re not being subtle.”

“you mean they want to pretend they’re surprised.”

“yep. and i’m pretending to be unavailable until after your dior debrief.”

you grin. “i knew there was a reason i liked you.”

“just don’t say anything yet, okay? breathe. show your face. be cool. let them panic for a few more hours.”

you hang up feeling, weirdly, calm.

today isn’t a full show day.

the ready-to-wear presentation happened yesterday. that was the moment. the coordinated arrival, the camera flashes, the front row smiles that weren’t fake.

today is for the follow-up. quiet rooms. polished offices. a brief meeting with dior’s comms and creative teams. just to align messaging, future campaigns, individual partnerships.

you’re both here as ambassadors. separate. professional. or at least, officially.

the ride to the dior hq is quieter than yesterday’s. mingyu’s already waiting in the car when you come down. he’s wearing black again. wide slacks, a structured coat, silver rings that catch the light when he lifts his hand in a lazy wave.

you slide in beside him.

“ready for the world’s most delicate PR meeting?” you ask.

“only if they give us snacks.”

“you just want more free chocolate.”

“i want you to ask for free chocolate. they like you more.”

you laugh. “you’re delusional.”

he leans back in the seat, relaxed in a way that says: he knows he’s not.

at dior, everything feels the same but different.

they greet you separately, but usher you into the same room. the assistants make small talk. the comms team is all soft smiles and “we’ll keep it elegant.”

no one mentions last night.

but the undertone is loud.

you sit beside mingyu. he doesn’t reach for you. obviously. but your knees touch under the table.

and neither of you move.

they talk about your individual roles, your upcoming content shoots, how yesterday’s buzz should be “acknowledged but not chased.” you nod. you agree. you sip water like it’s all business.

it is. but it’s not just that.

at the end, one of the brand directors says, casually, “we’re lucky to have you both.”

and it’s the first thing that feels honest in the room.

outside, the sun is brighter now. the street is already busy with people pretending not to look.

“we’re splitting up from here...” mingyu says as you both reach the car.

“not forever.” you tease.

“just till later.” he smiles.

he hesitates for half a second, like he wants to say something else. but he doesn’t.

instead, he reaches for the car door and opens it for you again. you glance up.

“see you.” he says, kissing your cheek.

“you better.” you reply, sliding in.

the rest of your day is a blur of polite nods and tight-lipped smiles. a quick shoot for a fragrance campaign. a lunch with someone from the US team who keeps saying “the internet’s obsessed with you right now” like it’s a compliment.

your phone never stops buzzing.

every time you silence it, it lights up again.

halfway through reviewing moodboards, another message comes in. not from your agent, not from your team. from him.

mingyu so pledis wants to release a statement just heard it from hell’s upper management

you my manager said the same thing apparently they’ve been calling her nonstop not even pretending they’re surprised

mingyu what do we do deny? plead artistic vision?

you we could say we were method acting for a silent film called “strategic proximity”

mingyu beautiful critically misunderstood deeply romantic if you get it

you exactly we were just... experimenting with closeness

mingyu we could go with something vague and poetic like “mingyu and y/n are currently meeting with very good feelings”

you “due to unforeseen chemistry, both parties will remain in touch” no further comments

mingyu “developing situation. extremely stylish. definitely suspicious.”

you honestly? could work

before you leave the showroom, your phone vibrates again. this time, from your manager.

manager update: pledis + our comms just wrapped a call. official line goes out in an hour.

“any personal matters involving the artists remain private. both parties are fully committed to their respective professional responsibilities. there will be no confirmations or denials regarding their personal lives.” that’s it. breathe.

you let the words settle. a neat, neutral bow on something that’s anything but neutral. before you can type a reply, another message pops up.

mingyu they really said: “mind your business, respectfully”

you i kind of love it

mingyu we sound very mature very composed very not texting in all lowercase while secretly smiling

you so we’re mysterious professionals again?

mingyu mysterious, yes. professional… we’ll see. meet for coffee after your fittings?

you only if it’s strictly business

mingyu absolutely. agenda: 1) coffee 2) stare at you 3) remain unbothered

you wow. HR would be so proud

you tuck your phone away, heart calm but a smile playing on your lips, too genuine to hide.

the world will call it “no comment.”

but between you two, it’s a quiet agreement: your lives first, your work unhindered, your feelings spoken in whispers only you understand.

fin.

[BONUS PART]

“France is kind of our thing”: Y/N Y/LN wins Best Actress at Cannes and publicly acknowledges SEVENTEEN’s Mingyu — industry quietly reacts

CANNES, FRANCE — Actress Y/N Y/LN took home the Best Actress award at the Cannes Film Festival last night for her performance in The Quiet Hours, a drama praised for its emotional depth and intimate storytelling.

In her acceptance speech, Y/N thanked the independent film community and the creatives who continue to support her artistic journey. She also acknowledged the film’s cast and crew, and closed her speech with a rare personal note:

“And to Mingyu… thank you for being here. Always.”

Mingyu Kim, member of the South Korean group SEVENTEEN, was seated in the audience and visibly moved by the moment. Asked backstage about their relationship, Y/N smiled and replied:

“France is kind of our thing.”

No further comment was provided by either party.

Timeline: From fashion week to Cannes stage

Speculation surrounding Y/N and Mingyu first surfaced shortly after Paris Fashion Week last year, when a video of the two interacting at an afterparty gained attention online. What followed was months of online speculation and “soft launch” moments.

Eight months ago, the pair appeared together at the Dior Autumn/Winter Ready-to-Wear show in France. They arrived in the same vehicle, posed side by side on the carpet in coordinated looks, and were seated in the front row. Though no official statement was made, their appearance was widely interpreted as a subtle confirmation of a personal connection.

Since then, the two have been spotted on multiple occasions — including in New York during a global brand shoot, in Seoul where Y/N attended SEVENTEEN’s world tour kickoff, and in Y/N’s hometown over the holidays.

Both parties have remained professionally active. Y/N continues to earn praise for her work, while Mingyu maintains a demanding international schedule with SEVENTEEN. Despite ongoing public curiosity, both artists have avoided overt confirmation or denial.

Their respective management companies previously issued a joint line stating:

“Any personal matters involving the artists remain private. Both parties are fully committed to their respective professional responsibilities. There will be no confirmations or denials regarding their personal lives.”

Industry weighs in: ‘A new kind of visibility’

Following the Cannes moment, professionals across the entertainment and fashion industries have offered subtle approval of the way both artists have handled their public image.

“It was poised, modern, and intentional,” said a senior talent strategist from a leading media agency. “They’re redefining what public looks like — not by oversharing, but by showing up.”

According to a Paris-based fashion editor who attended the Dior show:

“The styling that day was not incidental. It was a quiet match. The fashion world picked up on it immediately — not just because it looked good, but because it was timed perfectly.”

Although Dior has not made public statements on the pair, insiders say both Y/N and Mingyu remain strong individual collaborators for the brand.

A luxury marketing executive described the couple as “a high-value pairing with cultural reach across multiple markets and industries.”

Carefully built, quietly respected

Entertainment industry professionals also praised how Y/N and Mingyu have managed to remain visible without making their relationship the center of attention.

“They’ve kept their personal dynamic from disrupting their careers,” said a Seoul-based publicist. “That’s difficult when both are under constant watch. But what we’ve seen is a relationship that was never rushed or explained — just gradually accepted.”

Their approach is being described as a case study in “soft visibility” — where the absence of scandal and the presence of consistent, genuine moments do more to confirm a connection than any official statement could.

“They’re not hiding,” said a film festival organizer. “They’re just not explaining. And that’s starting to look like strength, not avoidance.”

One sentence, many meanings

Y/N’s remark — “France is kind of our thing” — began trending within minutes, sparking renewed analysis of the couple’s timeline. But perhaps the most notable reaction has come not from fans or media, but from industry voices who are quietly taking notes.

“They’ve shown that authenticity doesn’t need a press release,” said a creative director at a global agency. “Sometimes, all it takes is showing up for each other. Repeatedly.”

As of now, neither party has made additional statements.

But after last night, it seems few are still asking for one.

Y/N Y/LN and SEVENTEEN’s Mingyu Just Soft-Launched Their Marriage and We’re Not Okay

Still in Paris. That’s it. That’s the caption.

And it’s also the internet-breaking phrase that Y/N Y/LN and SEVENTEEN’s Mingyu used this week to casually post what appears to be their wedding photos on Instagram.

Yep. They got married. And they did it the only way they know how: quietly, beautifully, and extremely on-brand.

Let’s rewind for a second

It’s been exactly one year since Y/N thanked Mingyu in her Cannes acceptance speech for Best Actress with the now-iconic:

“France is kind of our thing.”

From there, we got:

Coordinated outfits at Dior shows;

Blurry vacation pics from fans;

Matching story posts with suspiciously similar views;

The same hoodie in two different cities;

A few red carpets. A few more matching looks;

And zero official PDA — until it really mattered.

Now, fast forward to this week…

According to sources close to the couple (and by “sources” we mean people way cooler than us):

Y/N and Mingyu tied the knot in an intimate ceremony aboard a Bateaux à Roue, one of those vintage riverboats that cruises along the Seine. Yep. The Seine. In Paris. Because of course.

The guest list was reportedly small — just family and a few very close friends. Think candlelight, laughter, probably a string quartet, and maybe the world’s softest vows whispered in English and Korean. But we’re speculating. (Sort of.)

Then came the Instagram posts

No wedding announcement. No magazine exclusive. Just two perfectly lit photos, posted hours apart. One on her feed, one on his. Both dressed in wedding attire — she in a stunning minimal silk gown, him in a tailored black suit with an undone bow tie — standing close, grinning like they know exactly what they’re doing.

And the caption?

still in paris

Cue: the collective internet scream.

Fans immediately recognized the reference — the words that titled the story from the beginning. And now, apparently, the words that mark its next chapter.

So… are they officially married?

No reps have commented (shocking no one). There’s no press release, no publicist-approved quote. But honestly? They don’t need one.

They’ve built this relationship in their own rhythm, outside of PR timelines and inside jokes only they seem to fully get. The posts say enough. And if “still in paris” was the softest possible way to say “we’re together” back then… now it might just mean “we’re forever.”

Twitter? In shambles.

“i knew ‘still in paris’ was gonna ruin me again someday” “they’re so annoying i want ten years of this” “can’t wait for still in seoul: the sequel”

We’re not crying. You’re crying.

Anyway — congrats to the softest couple alive. May your lives be as aesthetically perfect and emotionally grounded as your soft-launch strategy.

[Dispatch Exclusive]

Kim Mingyu and Y/N Y/LN Are Married — Inside the Couple’s Private Wedding on the Seine

After two years of speculation, soft launches, and carefully sidestepped questions, SEVENTEEN’s Mingyu and award-winning actress Y/N Y/LN have officially tied the knot — and they did it exactly their way: no press, no press release, and just enough elegance to make the internet lose its mind.

A Ceremony by the Water

Sources close to the couple confirm that Mingyu and Y/N were married in Paris earlier this week, in an intimate ceremony aboard a Bateaux à Roue, one of the classic paddlewheel boats docked along the Seine River.

The couple boarded quietly in the early evening, accompanied by their closest friends and family. The ceremony took place at golden hour, under soft light, with the river slowly moving behind them and not a single camera in sight — at least not the professional kind.

“They didn’t want attention. It wasn’t a secret, just private,” one source shared. “Everyone there was someone important to them.”

The event was described as short, heartfelt, and deeply personal. No grand décor, no paparazzi-proof tents, no fireworks — just soft jazz playing in the background, wine glasses clinking, and two people promising each other something real.

The Guest List and Style

The wedding was small by celebrity standards, with fewer than 40 guests, but filled with familiar faces.

From Mingyu’s side, several SEVENTEEN members were in attendance — including Jeonghan and Wonwoo, who arrived quietly the day before the wedding and reportedly stayed in a nearby boutique hotel.

Y/N was joined by her longtime stylist, two of her closest friends from university, and collaborators from her early indie film career — the ones who’ve seen her off-camera, before any Cannes or netflix series.

Her wedding dress, confirmed by Dispatch, was a custom Vera Wang: a minimalist silhouette with modern tailoring, off-white with structured sleeves and a slight train. No veil. Just clean lines and quiet confidence. Mingyu wore a tailored black suit — classic and sharp.

“They looked like themselves,” said a guest. “No costume. No performance. Just them, dressed up a little more than usual.”

Dinner on the Seine

Following the short ceremony, guests stayed aboard for a candlelit dinner. The menu included seasonal French dishes and a lot of laughter.

There was no MC, no cake-cutting, and no formal timeline. Just unhurried moments, passing plates, soft speeches, and quiet toasts. One moment that stood out to several attendees was a short, emotional toast Y/N gave after dinner:

“She stood up without warning,” said one source. “And just said thank you. As if that was the only thing that ever needed saying.”

Mingyu reportedly kept one hand on the table near hers all night, occasionally reaching over to pour her wine or whisper something that made her laugh.

“They weren’t putting on a show,” one stylist shared. “But they also weren’t hiding. It felt like this was always the plan.”

No Press — But Still “Still in Paris”

Earlier this week, both posted a photo on Instagram wearing their wedding attire, simply captioned: "still in paris."

The internet connected the dots immediately — a callback to the moment everything between them began publicly, at the Dior Autumn/Winter ready-to-wear show in Paris, almost two years ago.

Since then, the relationship has been consistently private, but never denied. Now, with wedding bands visible on Instagram, their silence is the only answer anyone needs.

What's Next

As expected, neither Pledis Entertainment nor Y/N’s agency have released official statements. According to Dispatch sources, the couple has no intention of issuing one.

“They’re not hiding anything, but they don’t owe anyone an announcement either,” a friend of the couple explained. “It’s personal. That’s all.”

Their management teams, reportedly aligned for months, continue to follow the same philosophy: let the work speak for itself. Let the rest remain offline.

It’s been two years since the world first started to suspect that maybe there was something more between them.

Turns out, there was. And this week, they made it forever.

In their own way. On their own terms. Still — and always — in Paris.

-

previous

[bittybeanscafe]

Oh, They’re So Weird (☉-⚆)

“You recently got laid off of your job. Thankfully, you found an ad on Craigslist that paid quite a bit for you to just housesit! 🍩”

DAY ONE -> DAY TWO

Contains: Kopi, Daisuke, Wyndolyn, Betty, Eddie and Volt, and Tony.

🍰 Café Menu 🍰

Getting laid off sucked, but the worst part wasn’t the lost job, it was the silence afterward. Bills didn’t care about unemployment, and your fridge had been making a weird knocking sound that screamed “I’m dying” for two weeks now. So yeah, maybe scrolling Craigslist at 2:13 a.m. while eating peanut butter off a spoon wasn’t your proudest moment, but that’s when you saw it.

HOUSE SITTER NEEDED - URGENT

Spacious, fully furnished home.

3 weeks.

$1,500/week.

Must be kind. No loud music. No shouting. Absolutely NO cursing at the housemates.

Contact: xxxx

Serious inquiries only.

You blinked. Then read it again. Then checked the listing date: posted 10 minutes ago. Honestly? It didn’t sound like a murder ad. And fifteen hundred a week? That was rent for two months. You clicked “reply” before your brain had a chance to argue.

One weird video call later…

“Just be nice to them,” The owner said. Their face was earnest, a little too close to the webcam. “The bed gets moody if you ignore her, and the mirror likes compliments. Oh, and please don’t cuss at anyone. They’re sensitive.”

You’d nodded slowly. “...Right. The furniture is sensitive.”

They beamed. “Exactly! You’re a natural.”

You weren't, actually. You were broke. There was a difference.

The house was new, a bit creaky, and gorgeous.

It stood like a storybook illustration, rose vines on white walls, tall windows like blinking eyes. The front gate opened on its own when you approached. The door was unlocked. And there, sitting right inside the foyer, was a small table with a handwritten note:

“Welcome! Bedroom’s on the second floor. Please greet everyone before settling in. Be polite. No exceptions.”

You stared at the note. Then looked around.

...There wasn’t anyone here.

Was there?

You stood in the middle of the living room, feeling about as dumb as someone could feel while talking to furniture.

“Hi, everyone,” you said, eyes shifting to the antique mirror above the fireplace, the couch with those overly plush cushions, and the teacup-patterned wallpaper that somehow felt judgy. “I guess.”

Silence.

Well, yeah. What were you expecting? A lamp to wave?

You gave yourself a mental shrug and moved toward the kitchen. The house might’ve been old, but the appliances were surprisingly modern: sleek, clean, and probably worth more than your last paycheck. You figured coffee wouldn’t hurt. You hadn’t had real coffee in weeks. Just that sad instant stuff that made your teeth feel like they were dissolving.

The coffee machine purred to life like it knew what it was doing. Which was weird.

You blinked when it poured your drink.

In the frothy surface was an intricate little heart surrounded by ferns and flowers, like a garden in your cup. You hadn’t touched any settings. Hell, you didn’t even know how to do latte art.

You stared at the cup.

“…Thanks?” you said, lifting it gently.

Deep within the inner world of the house, Kopi beamed. “You're welcome! Finally, someone with manners,” she thought, pride bubbling inside her ceramic chest. She loved giving people a good start to their day.

You sipped. It was perfect. Not too bitter, just creamy enough, like something out of a dream. You let out a soft hum of satisfaction and felt… lighter.

Okay. Weird, but not bad.

After finishing the cup (and whispering another awkward “thank you” before setting it in the sink and cleaning it, to the liking of Daisuke), you figured you might as well do something productive. The house wasn’t dirty, but there was dust on the window sills and a few cobwebs here and there. You found an old cloth in a drawer, wet it, and started wiping down the large bay windows.

They sparkled immediately, almost too fast.

You frowned, then smiled anyway, running the cloth in slow, thoughtful circles.

“Looking better already,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

In her own little corner of the dimension, Wyndolyn, the ever-elegant window spirit, preened at the praise. “Such lovely hands,” she thought, her panes practically glowing. “This one appreciates beauty… oh, what a treat.”

You didn’t see the way the sunlight caught just right, casting little prisms of color across the floor like she was showing off. You didn’t notice the faint scent of fresh-cut flowers that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Not yet.

But they saw you.

And you were kind.

That was more than enough, for now.

The storm rolled in faster than you'd expected.

One minute, it was just gray clouds and a gentle breeze. The next, thunder cracked so hard it rattled the windows, and rain slammed against the walls like it had a personal grudge. The lights flickered once, twice-

-and then went out completely.

"Of course," you muttered, setting down the book you'd been reading. You reached for your phone. No signal. Of course.

You remembered the owner mentioning the breaker box upstairs in the attic hallway. Something about “power hiccups” being normal in a house this old. Still, you didn’t love the idea of going up there in the dark. But sitting in silence with no lights and a wind that sounded like a ghost screaming? Less appealing.

So up you went, flashlight in hand, the wood creaking under your feet with every step. The breaker box sat tucked behind a narrow door next to the linen closet, sealed shut with a rusted latch. You struggled with it for a second, then remembered the neat little red toolbox you saw in the bottom of the small closet earlier.

Inside, every tool was perfectly clean and in order. Like someone really cared for them.

You handled each one with care, lining them up just like they were, using the screwdriver gently, placing it back precisely where it came from.

Deep within the heartbeat of the house, Tony grinned behind his stubbled jaw. “Finally, someone who knows how to treat their tools.” His arms crossed proudly. He liked this one.

With a quiet clunk, you flipped the main breaker switch back on. The lights flickered downstairs, then steadied.

Somewhere, inside the wires that ran like veins through the house’s bones, Volt stirred with a low hum of relief. “Oh, thank the circuit.” Sparks flickered behind his eyes as the flow stabilized. No more shorts. No more headaches.

And within the walls, behind the plaster and wallpaper and pipework, Eddie leaned against a support beam and exhaled. “Smooth fix. Didn’t even overload me this time.” He’d braced himself for the usual slapdash button-mashing most humans did, but this one… this one had patience.

You closed the breaker box gently, wiped your hands on your jeans, and gave a half-smile to the darkness. “There. That should do it.”

The hallway lights stayed on. The house gave a low, satisfied creak, like an old cat settling into a nap.

You didn’t know what you’d just done for them.

But they did.

And all three, Tony, Volt, and Eddie, watched you descend the stairs like you were some kind of quiet hero.

You padded back down the stairs, warm light humming gently through the halls again. The storm still raged outside, wind clawing at the shutters and rain pelting the roof, but inside, the house felt… calm. Like it had sighed with relief.

You stretched, body pleasantly tired from moving and cleaning all day. Your feet led you to the bedroom Hank had set aside for you, the door already cracked open like it had been waiting.

The bed inside was reasonably sized, an old-fashioned four-poster with soft, sea-colored sheets and an absurd number of pillows. It should’ve felt stiff or creaky. Maybe even haunted, considering the whole "talk to the furniture" vibe this place had going on.

But the second you sank into the mattress, all thoughts slipped out of your head like sand through your fingers.

It was warm. It welcomed you. Like arms cradling you. Not too soft, not too firm, just the exact kind of comfort you didn’t know your body had been aching for.

“…Huh,” you murmured, pulling the covers up to your chin. “You’re… actually really nice.”

The bed didn’t respond, of course. But you felt it in the way the blanket settled just right around your shoulders. How the pillow fit the curve of your neck perfectly. You swore you heard the faintest creak, like someone humming a lullaby through the floorboards.

Somewhere, deep in her quilted soul, Betty the Bed glowed with pride. “Sleep well, sweetheart,” she thought. “You’ve had a long day.”

You yawned, blinking slowly at the ceiling. “Goodnight, everyone,” you whispered into the dark, voice thick with sleep. “Don’t stay up too late gossiping.”

A soft gust of air rustled the curtains. A light flicked off down the hall.

And you fell asleep: warm, safe, and strangely… cared for.

[kmlottin]

What she wants - Kylian Mbappé fic

2 parts fic (next part will contain smut)

Thank you babies for your patience x

let me know what you think x (I lowkey became rusty)

It’s the kind of silence that feels intentional.

The penthouse suite is still, bathed in the hazy gold of a Miami morning. The AC hums faintly against the heat pressing in from the windows. You stretch, slow and unbothered, one arm sliding into the cool, empty side of the bed. He didn’t come home last night, team hotel rules. You knew he wouldn’t.

Still, you tug the sheet around you anyway. Not because you need it, but because it smells like him. A quiet kind of comfort. Soft against your skin. The city moves somewhere far below, but you stay still, weightless in the hush of your own space.

You check your phone out of habit.

Then you freeze.

It’s the Explore page that does it. A carousel of paparazzi shots, bright and overexposed, all stamped with the same caption in different fonts:

Kylian Mbappé spotted in Miami greeting influencer with a cheeky kiss 👀

Old crush? New flame? Fans are talking…

You don’t click on the post. You don’t need to. The preview photo is loud enough. Him in a white tee, shorts slung low on his hips. Her in a bikini top and denim shorts. One arm around her waist, his head dipped down, his lips brushing her cheek in a casual, too familiar hello.

And he’s smiling. That soft, distracted smile he gives when his guard is down. When he’s charmed.

You sit up straighter, thumb hovering over the screen. You tell yourself not to open the comments.

You do anyway.

“Oh she’s bad. Like… BAD bad.”

“Didn’t he used to follow her back in the day?”

“He still watches her stories. We’ve seen the receipts.”

“Poor Y/N.”

“Is he single again or what?”

You lock your phone.

It’s instinct. Like slamming a door before the scream can leave your throat. But the noise still echoes in your chest, a low throb of something you can’t name yet,jealousy? hurt? embarrassment?

No. Worse.

Familiarity.

You remember her. Not personally, just digitally. A name once floating in the mess of Kylian’s early Instagram follows, tagged in thirst traps, memes, beach pics. He used to like her photos back when you were still just flirting. Before things were real. Before you were real.

You’d asked about her once, in that early window of sharp edges and unspoken insecurities.

“She’s just some girl. I used to think she was hot. It’s nothing.”

He said it like it was harmless.

But the image of her standing in his arms says otherwise.

Your phone buzzes.

For a split second, you think maybe… maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s already texted. Maybe there’s an explanation waiting. A ‘hey, that wasn’t what it looked like’. A reassurance.

You flip it over.

Uber Eats.

No message from Kylian. No calls. Nothing.

He’s always said he hates public drama. That silence is protection. That he doesn’t owe the world anything.

But this doesn’t feel like silence for the world.

This feels like silence for you.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Your chest tightens, not in heartbreak, but in humiliation. Because you know exactly how this will play out online. You’ll become a footnote. A passive tag in a viral post. A reference point for who used to be his girlfriend.

And maybe worst of all? You can already hear the questions in your own head.

Would he have smiled like that if she didn’t mean something?

Would he have touched her at all if you were there?

Would he have told you if no one else saw?

You don’t cry.

You don’t speak.

You just reach for your phone again, open the gallery, and flip to a recent picture of yourself, the one he took in Paris a few weeks ago, sunlight caught in your hair, smile crooked, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

Then you scroll back to the photo of him with her.

You stare at them side by side.

And something inside you clicks.

If he won’t say anything, fine.

You won’t either.

You’ll show him.

Yaëlle’s already waiting in the lobby when you descend, arms folded over her tablet, sunglasses perched on her head. Her expression is flat, unreadable, but the slight twitch in her jaw gives her away.

“You look,” she says, slowly, eyes raking over your outfit, “good.”

You smile faintly. “That’s the goal.”

Tight white vest, cropped to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. Pale denim shorts that hug your hips and bare the soft curve of your thighs. Heels, thin, impractical, unapologetically loud against the marble floors. You don’t need to dress like this. But you want to.

Not to catch attention.

To control it.

Two of Kylian’s bodyguards flank the entrance. Paparazzi already hover behind parked cars, their long lenses trained on the glass. You can feel them before you see them. The weight of eyes. The anticipation.

“You sure about this?” Yaëlle asks as she joins you, her voice low, more friend than assistant now. “You’ve got his team walking you out. Security. Me. You don’t think this is gonna make things worse?”

You glance at her. “No. I think it’s going to make things clearer.”

Yaëlle sighs. “He’s going to be pissed.”

“Good.”

You push open the door.

The flashbulbs start the moment your heel hits the pavement.

You don’t flinch.

Not when someone calls your name. Not when the cameras click in rapid bursts, filling the air like a swarm of insects. You don’t spare them a glance. You glide forward, shoulders back, chin lifted, a figure drawn in sun and silence.

The high street glints with heat, the pavement throwing up waves of light around your bare legs. Your heels click in a steady rhythm. Your shorts ride high on your thighs, frayed just enough to look accidental. The vest you chose this morning hugs your chest like a second skin, ribbed cotton pulled taut over skin warmed by Miami’s indifferent sun.

You don’t care if they’re watching.

You want them to.

The heat seeps into your skin like it was always meant to be there, the kind of warmth that wraps around your shoulders and settles deep in your chest.

You walk slowly, letting the Miami sun trail fingers across the slope of your arms, letting the rhythm of your heels strike deliberate against the concrete. The street is bright and curated, all whitewashed walls and glass storefronts, polished to perfection, a district that knows it’s being watched and doesn’t mind. It gleams without apology. Palms sway lazily overhead, indifferent to the weight beneath them.

And for a moment, a brief, treacherous moment, you forget you’re angry.

Your thoughts drift without permission. To him. To how he laughs when he’s half asleep, all gravel and softness, like he’s giving something away without realising. To the way he stumbles barefoot across the suite in the mornings, toothbrush in his mouth, scrolling his phone with one hand, looking for you with the other. To the look in his eyes when he thinks you’re not watching, full of something quiet and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re his.

You love him.

God, you love him.

You’d almost forgotten what it feels like to think that without rage trailing close behind. Almost.

But then the image returns. Uninvited.

That photo.

Her cheek. His smile. His hand at her waist.

It slices clean through the warmth, fast and efficient, as if your body never wanted it to begin with.

The softness curdles. The memory stiffens. You blink once, sharply, and let it all drain out of you.

The sun hasn’t changed, but your chest has gone cold.

You adjust your sunglasses, lips pressing together, and keep walking.

Yaëlle stays close, half a step behind now, her presence felt but unspoken. She doesn’t ask how you’re doing. She doesn’t need to. The sound of your heels on the pavement is answer enough, louder now, more deliberate, echoing in the brief silences between passing voices and shutter clicks in the distance. Somewhere behind you, a man murmurs something under his breath. Another slows down to stare as you pass.

You don’t give him your eyes. You don’t give anyone anything.

But your spine straightens.

Your pace sharpens.

It’s not for them. It never was.

You pass a boutique and catch your reflection in the glass, all bare legs, back straight, sunglasses framing an unreadable mouth. There’s a glow along your collarbone, caught by the sun, and a smear of gloss that hasn’t faded since you left the hotel. You look poised. Unbothered. Slightly untouchable.

You look like someone who isn’t here to be forgiven.

And then, just ahead, the pale facade. Frosted glass, clean lines, silver letters that barely bother to announce themselves.

Prada.

You don’t slow. Don’t glance at Yaëlle. Don’t reach for the door like it’s just another errand.

You push it open like a statement. Like a boundary.

Like a line he’ll have to earn the right to cross.

You enter Prada and inside, everything changes.

The doors shut with a soft click. The temperature drops. The air smells like marble and leather and money that doesn’t need to explain itself.

No one greets you like they don’t know who you are. They don’t need to. A glass of champagne materialises before you’ve said a word, crisp, cold and dry. You take it without speaking, the stem cold between your fingers, and begin to walk.

You don’t look at Yaëlle. You can feel her behind you, careful, quiet, walking the fine line between friend and handler. She hasn’t said anything since the SUV. You haven’t offered anything back.

You don’t owe explanations today.

Summer 2025 is all smooth excess.

You trail your fingers across the new season’s offerings, the handbags are boxier this year, sharp-edged, structured. Sleek Italian leather in neutrals that whisper power: sand, bone, cinnamon. Hardware is minimal. The logo? Barely there. You like that.

Your fingers stop on a tan Cleo shoulder bag, the leather buttery, warm under your hand. A smaller one in black sits just behind it, glossy and mean. You reach for both. There’s a pastel row near the back, three in pink, lilac, and slate blue. You don’t pick. You point.

“This in tan. That in black. And those, all three.”

A sales associate appears like smoke, nodding wordlessly as she gathers your selections.

You sip your champagne.

You walk to the shoes next. A pair of square-toed sandals catches your eye, strappy, off-white, delicate like they’d snap if a man touched them wrong. You pick up one and balance it in your palm, admiring the weight. There’s nothing practical about them. They weren’t made for walking. Only for being seen.

You place them with the bags. No hesitation. No need to try anything on.

Yaëlle clears her throat behind you. “You didn’t even check if they look good on you.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Right.”

There’s no bite in her voice. Just fatigue. She looks pale under the boutique lights, more assistant than friend in that moment, but you know her well enough to see the tightness behind her silence. She’s already texted him. Or she’s about to.

You don’t say anything. You just turn away, eyes catching a silk scarf tucked into a display. It’s printed with tiny repeating motifs, seashells, maybe. You unfold it, then hand it over, too.

Add it to the pile.

You move through the store like you’re curating an exhibit. You don’t linger on anything for too long. You don’t need help. When the bags are boxed and the receipt appears, you reach into your bag without hesitation.

Not for your wallet.

For his.

Kylian’s card is black and heavy, the kind that doesn’t blink at five figures. You hold it outright towards the sales associate, lazy and precise, letting it catch the boutique lighting just enough for the name to shine.

Yaëlle sees it. Of course she does. So do the bodyguards waiting near the door, arms folded, pretending not to watch. But they do. All of them do.

The people he pays to protect him are here, protecting you.

You don’t look at any of them. You just slide the card across the counter.

“I’ll use his today.”

No explanation. No need.

The sales associate takes it quickly, professionally, but you see the glance, a flicker toward the men in black, toward Yaëlle, toward the name on the card. No one says anything. No one moves.

The air shifts just enough for you to feel it settle around you.

You sip the last of your champagne.

Let him see the charge. Let him flinch when he checks his phone. Let him realise that everything around him - his assistant, his guards, his name - is in service of you.

The machine pings. Approved.

Smooth. Effortless. Like the money was always meant to move through your hands.

You sign without thinking. First name only. It’s enough.

Then you slide your sunglasses into place, reach for the first bag, and walk toward the exit, heels sharp, stride unbothered.

Back outside, the sun slaps against your skin again, radiant and ruthless. The flashbulbs resume instantly. You hear one of the photographers shout, “Y/N, who are you wearing?” and someone else, “Did you see the kiss?”

You keep walking.

The Prada bags swing gently at your side, carried by one of the bodyguards. The click of your heels never falters. Neither does your expression.

You don’t look back.

And you don’t think of him.

You don’t say much on the ride to Hermès.

The SUV hums with air conditioning and quiet tension. Your sunglasses stay on. Your phone rests in your lap, screen lighting up every so often with a buzz or a blink, a name you don’t check, messages you won’t read. Not yet. Not now. You just sit there, still and composed, letting the silence stretch.

Yaëlle sits beside you, tapping out messages you don’t ask about.

Hermès is colder. Quieter.

Inside, it smells like varnished wood and restraint, like money that doesn’t scream. The showroom is calm, curated to feel exclusive, like you’re not just buying a handbag but being granted one.

You know how this works.

You’re greeted by name, taken past the velvet ropes, led to the private display room in the back. A soft voiced man in a taupe suit brings you espresso on a mirrored tray. Another produces the new Kelly colours before you even ask.

You hum in approval.

The first one is bone white with gold hardware. Clean. Timeless. Unbothered. You nod toward it. Then the crimson one. Then the black.

They bring out belts. You nod again. Scarves. Gloves. A pair of leather sandals you won’t wear twice but will absolutely be seen in.

Yaëlle shifts in her seat beside you, arms folded.

“You already have a Birkin in black,” she says.

You sip your espresso. “Now I have two.”

She doesn’t argue.

She just watches as the man packs your selections into the signature orange boxes, stacked neatly beside your feet.

One of the bodyguards reappears to carry them.

And again, you don’t think of him.

This boutique isn’t on the main strip. It’s tucked away, intimate, secluded, hidden like a secret only whispered between women who know what their bodies are worth.

It smells like rosewater and shadow. Warm wood floors. Low lighting. Soft music with too much breath and bass.

You walk slowly here.

Not because you’re uncertain, but because you want to touch everything. Satin, lace, embroidery so fine it’s practically invisible. There’s something indulgent in the quiet here, something decadent about being surrounded by things made to be worn and removed in moments you control.Nothing practical here. Nothing neutral. Just softness and power, stitched into the same fabric.

Your fingers drift across a black mesh set, trimmed in gold. You lift the hanger with one hand, letting the fabric catch the light. It weighs nothing, barely enough to cling, the kind of thing you’ve worn before, only long enough for him to beg to take it off.

The thought lands before you can stop it: his hands on the floor, your voice in his ear, telling him not yet.

Your throat tightens.

The power flickers there , sharp and low in your belly, familiar as breath. For a second, you can feel it, the way he looks up at you when you press a thumb to his jaw. That edge between want and obedience. The way he holds still when you make him wait.

You swallow it down.

The next thought hits harder: her cheek. His smile. His fucking hand.

Your jaw sets.

You don’t let it reach your face. You just fold the hanger over your arm and keep walking.

Next: a soft red corset with silk ribbon lacing up the back. Then a pair of sheer high waisted panties with matching garters, delicate enough to dissolve at a whisper.

You don’t try anything on. You don’t need to. The shop girl doesn’t ask questions. Just boxes it all with tissue and care, tied with ribbon like you’re taking home a gift.

Yaëlle lingers in the corner, arms crossed. She looks like she wants to say something but can’t find the words.

So you speak first. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she says softly. “It’s just… lingerie, huh?”

You don’t flinch. “You think it’s for him?”

Her mouth opens, then closes.

You take the lilac box from the counter. “It’s for me.”

The light inside Dior is blue toned and perfect. The floors shimmer. The air is sharp, citrus and wood and cool, curated exclusivity.

You step into the store and feel yourself slot into the rhythm of the space like a second heartbeat. Everything here feels like it was waiting for you. The soft silk. The tailored lines. The echoes of Paris stitched into every seam.

The store manager beams the moment he sees you. “Everything from this season’s collection has already been sent to your residence in Madrid,” he says.

You nod. “Send it again.”

He hesitates,just for a moment. Then, “Of course.”

You run your fingers along a rack of gowns you already wore from this season. In Lisbon. In Paris. In Marrakesh. A high necked cream silk with a daring slit. Kylian had looked at you like-

You blink.

No.

Not today.

You pull it from the rack and hand it over. Then the navy slip dress with the pearl straps. Then the asymmetrical white one with the open back.

Everything you already own.

Everything worth owning twice.

Yaëlle leans in closer this time, low enough that the staff won’t hear her. “You’re trending.”

You nod. “Good.”

She pauses. “Are you going to call him?”

You tilt your head. “And reward him for what, exactly?”

You’re halfway back to the SUV when you see it.

It catches your eye like a dare, dark glass and steel angles, a building that doesn’t belong beside soft white boutiques and polished flower stands. The showroom sits recessed, private, almost aloof. No sign. No slogan. Just one massive pane of tinted glass reflecting your face as you walk past.

Behind it: a car.

Or something shaped like one.

Matte black. Sleek. Low to the ground. Curved like sin and punishment in equal measure. There’s no line of customers. No sticker price on the windshield. Just space and reverence, as if even the air has to respect it.

You stop walking.

Yaëlle follows too closely and nearly bumps into you. “No. Whatever that is, no.”

You ignore her.

She exhales through her teeth. “Y/N, come on. Don’t be crazy.”

You tilt your head, staring at the car through the glass.

“I’m not being crazy,” you murmur. “I’m just curious.”

“That’s worse.”

The showroom doors open like they’ve been watching for you.

Inside, it’s colder than Dior. Cleaner. Everything gleams. The lighting is soft and directional, designed to spotlight the machine like art. The floor is brushed concrete. There’s only one car in the room.

Just one.

You walk slowly toward it, heels echoing. The thing is beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of car people fantasise about,  not for transport, but transformation. It looks like it should fly. Or hunt.

A sales associate emerges from behind a floating desk, expression controlled but eyes wide.

He smiles. “Would you like to book a test drive?”

“No,” you say, running your fingers along the edge of the hood. “I’d like to take it home.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I see,” he says carefully. “Are you familiar with the model?”

“No,” you reply. “Does it matter?”

His smile flickers. “It’s… quite a piece of engineering. Custom specs. Limited release. The base model starts just under five hundred thousand-”

You slide into the driver’s seat without waiting for him to finish.

Yaëlle makes a noise like she’s swallowed a gasp sideways.

The leather hugs your hips as you shift, slow and careless. You don’t even glance at the dash. Just start adjusting the mirrors. The seat. The steering column. Like it’s already yours.

Like it should respond to your body before it responds to a key.

“Y/N-” Yaëlle hisses, panic rising. “You cannot be serious.”

You finally glance over your shoulder and smirk towards her. “Why not?”

“Because you’ve never driven one of these in your life! This isn’t a city car, this is-” She breaks off, gesturing helplessly. “You don’t even know where reverse is!”

You shrug. “How hard can it be?”

The salesman straightens. He can smell the sale, but isn’t sure who’s bleeding yet. He clears his throat. “Payment can be arranged immediately. We’ll need card verification or bank authorisation before finalising.”

You reach into your bag slowly, like you have all the time in the world.

You pull out his card.

Two fingers. No rush. You place it in his hand like it means nothing.

Yaëlle goes sheet white.

The associate nods, voice smooth. “One moment, please.”

Yaëlle grabs your arm, nails biting into your skin. “He’s going to kill me.”

You blink. “Why?”

“I’m his assistant. I’m supposed to manage this kind of thing. Not-” she gestures wildly at the showroom, the car, your legs crossed high inside it, “not this.”

You smile without showing teeth. “Then don’t manage. Just stand there.”

“He’s going to think I encouraged you.”

“Did you?”

“No!”

“Then you’re in the clear.”

“Y/N,” she groans. “This isn’t a Birkin. This is a car.”

But you’re not listening anymore.

You’re watching yourself reflected in the black gloss of the hood. Hair perfect. Lips glossed. Sunglasses placed on top of your head.

Then you reach for the gear stick,  lightly, lazily, like you’re considering shifting the entire narrative.

The associate returns.

“I’ll need live phone confirmation from the cardholder to authorise the purchase. It’s standard for anything over two hundred thousand.”

“Call him,” you say, fingers still toying with the gear stick. “He’ll answer.”

Yaëlle lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a plea. “Please don’t make me do this.”

But you don’t answer.

You’re too busy adjusting the rearview mirror, watching your own mouth curve in its reflection.

She walks a few steps away, muttering to herself. The glass muffles most of the sound, but when the line connects, his voice carries, because you hear the silence on her end sharpen.

Her voice goes flat. Businesslike. “She’s serious.”

A pause.

“She’s in the car right now....”

Another pause. Voices muffled.

“...Yes. That one… With the sunroof.”

You glance at the touchscreen display, bored. Your nails click lightly against the steering wheel.

“She wants it delivered. Today.”

You lean back into the leather seat, legs stretched, fingertips brushing against the door.

From this angle, you couldn’t see what was going,but you can hear the sales associate and Yaelle’s voice falter. Just slightly.

Then lower, “Do I tell her it’s approved?”

A pause.

Then, quietly: “Thank you.”

You already know what he said.

The bus is too loud.

Not in volume, in presence.

Laughter. Music. The soft thump of trainers against the floor. A couple of the guys are passing around a phone, snickering over something one of the fan accounts posted. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker plays Spanish trap, low and fuzzy under the chatter.

Kylian’s at the back. Hoodie up. AirPods in, but nothing playing. Just silence.

He stares out the window, sunglasses hiding his eyes, the thrum of the road vibrating beneath his thighs. His legs are stretched out, but his body’s too tense to relax. His phone buzzes on his lap.

“Yaëlle”

He doesn’t answer.

Not yet.

He knows what this is about.

Because two seats ahead of him, Rodrygo’s laughing. Loud. And holding his phone up for Valverde to see.

Kylian doesn’t have to look to know what they’re seeing. He already saw it before boarding.

Slide one:

You.

Shopping bags in one hand, striding out of Hermès like Miami’s sidewalk was made for you. Tight shorts, sunglasses perched on your face like a crown. Yaëlle behind you, visibly stressed.

Slide two:

Him.

From yesterday. Hugging the influencer. Kissing her cheek. That fucking smile.

Side by side.

A perfect visual bloodbath.

He scrolled Instagram anyway. Just to torture himself.

“Y/N is the blueprint for rich revenge 😮‍💨”

“If I was Mbappé I’d be scared.”

“She’s spending his money like water. Icon.”

He’s not scared.

But he is hard.

His cock’s been half stiff since he saw the first photo. Since he saw the way you looked, curves sharp, eyes colder, mouth tilted in that subtle smirk he only sees when you’re done being nice. Since he saw you ignore his calls. Since he realised this was all orchestrated.

This wasn’t heat of the moment revenge.

This was strategy.

Punishment.

And he’s turned the fuck on.

His phone buzzes again.

He finally picks up.

“Talk.”

Yaëlle doesn’t waste time. She never does when she’s spiraling.

“She’s serious.”

He blinks. “What?.”

“She’s in a car. The matte black one. From Coral Way. She’s in it right now. The one with the sun roof.”

He leans his head back. “Of course she is.”

“She wanted two million. I got her down to one.”

A sharp breath hisses through his teeth. “You think that’s better?”

“I think it’s better than her driving out of there with two million euros of your money and no seatbelt.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes.

Then, “She said to use my card?”

“She handed it over like it was hers,” Yaëlle mutters. “Said to call you”

His cock twitches.

He glances down. Adjusts the hem of his hoodie subtly. The fabric is already tented just enough to be dangerous.

He shouldn’t be getting hard on a team bus.

But he is.

Because of course you said that.

Of course you walked into a luxury showroom with legs bare and sunglasses on and gave no warning, no explanation, just control.

Because you know he’ll approve it.

Because you know exactly what it does to him when you treat him like he’s yours to use.

Not just his money.

Him.

His blood pulses low and hot in his stomach. He shifts in his seat again.

A teammate turns briefly, catching his eye with a raised brow. Kylian gives him a nod. Neutral. Calm.

But inside?

It’s chaos.

He taps the side of his phone. “Do they need me to confirm?”

“Yes. Voice confirmation.”

“Put him on.”

The salesman’s voice is overly smooth. “Hello Mr. Mbappé, just confirming the payment for today’s acquisition-”

He interrupts. “Approve it.”

Short. Clipped. Already done.

He ends the call.

The second he does, he exhales. Low. Controlled. His other hand slides over his thigh, slowly pressing down on the shape forming beneath his pants. His eyes flutter closed behind his sunglasses for a moment.

You’re going to destroy him tonight. Not with yelling. Not with jealousy.

But with silence. With calculation. With a look. A command. A hand tightening in his curls or between his legs as you whisper:

“Say thank you for the car, baby.”

And he will.

He’ll thank you. He’ll beg. He’ll take whatever you decide to give or take away.

This game you’re playing?

He’s already wants to lose..

And you haven’t even touched him yet.

The table is warm beneath your hands, sun-kissed and smooth, the kind of polished stone that glows gold in the late Miami light. The restaurant isn’t loud,  soft clinking of cutlery, the distant hush of wind through linen canopies, muted conversation around you.

It should be relaxing.

It would be, if not for the weight of your phone by your wrist. Still. Silent. Waiting.

Yaëlle sits across from you with her sunglasses perched on top of her head, curls wild from the walk over. She’s pulled her menu apart without ordering anything, more interested in telling you about her morning.

“So I had to pick up his dry cleaning and the bag from Dior,” she says, gesturing with one hand while stabbing at her straw with the other. “Like they both had to be done by noon because suddenly Ky wants to change his outfit after the press conference.”

You smile a little, folding your napkin into your lap. “Let me guess, he didn’t even wear it.”

“He wore it, but then had the nerve to say it was too ‘structured.’ Structured?! It was a plain white shirt with buttons.”

You let out a soft laugh, rolling your shoulders back. “Sounds serious.”

She scoffs. “I’m about to quit. I’ll become a florist.”

“No patience for that,” you say, lifting your glass. “You’d throw the tulips at people.”

Yaëlle grins over her drink, and for a moment, it’s easy. Easy in that way only she can be with you, half friend, half assistant, always somewhere in between. You’ve had dinner together in countless cities, drinks after long travel days, a few whispered fights in hotel corridors that ended in shared snacks and joint eye rolls.

Now she’s stabbing her salad like it insulted her family.

You’ve barely touched your plate.

The food is beautiful, all bright greens and citrus dressed chicken, perfect little segments of blood orange tucked between slivers of shaved fennel, but your appetite is lazy today. Blunt. Not missing, just… dulled at the edges.

“Did you end up booking Greece for next month?”

She nods. “Finally. I used points and got upgraded, which never happens.”

“Good. You deserve at least one peaceful flight a year.”

“You know it won’t be peaceful. I’ll have three phones, a tablet, and a grown man asking me where his socks are before we hit boarding.”

You laugh under your breath. “At least he’s cute.”

Yaëlle makes a face. “Not when he’s sleep deprived and two interviews behind schedule.”

Your phone buzzes, face down beside your water glass.

Once.

Then again.

You don’t look.

Yaëlle doesn’t comment. Not yet.

She knows. She’s seen the photos. Everyone has. You in that outfit, the walk down the street that turned into a full camera reel online. Your chest, your legs, your smile, all of it dissected by strangers, reposted, zoomed in on. One video even turned you into an edit. Slowed you down frame by frame as a man turned to look over his shoulder, caught mid-step, mouth parted.

The comments were worse.

“He fumbled fr.”

“She knows she looks too good. This is tactical.”

“I wouldn’t be able to let her walk outside like that.”

Your phone vibrates a third time. Longer.

Still, you don’t move.

Yaëlle’s fork pauses above her bowl. “You’re not even gonna check?”

You shake your head. “He knows what he did.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.”

You glance down, finally flipping your phone.

Kylian (6 missed calls)

Where are you.

Why the fuck aren’t you answering.

What the hell are you wearing.

There are pictures of you.

Are you doing this on purpose.

You press your napkin to your mouth. Chew. Breathe. Don’t flinch.

Another text.

Talk to me. Please.

Then another call. This time, you press decline and flip the phone over, screen-down against the linen tablecloth.

“I should’ve ordered rosé,” you murmur, half to yourself. The ‘please’ lands heavier than the rest.

Yaëlle shifts slightly. Her brow furrows. “He’s never seen you like this.”

“Then he can learn.”

“Y/N…”

“He kissed her. Smiled at her. And the world watched. He can survive one afternoon of discomfort.”

Then her phone starts ringing. You don’t have to look. You already know.

Yaëlle sighs. “It’s him.”

“Don’t answer.”

“He’ll just keep calling.”

“He deserves to sweat.”

“He’s not sweating,” she mutters, checking the screen. “He’s boiling.”

You say nothing. She answers anyway, turning to the side, voice low.

“Qui?”

There’s a pause. Then, “No, she’s okay. We’re eating. She’s fine.”

You chew slowly, watching her. She turns away slightly, lowering her voice.

“I don’t know, Ky. She hasn’t said anything about you. No, not like that. She’s just… quiet.”

You hear his voice through the receiver, not loud, but sharp. That controlled tone he gets when he’s trying not to break. You can’t hear the words, but the energy bleeds through. Static in the air. Pressure in your ribs.

“She saw the photos,” Yaëlle says, her voice gentler now. “She saw the comments.”

Her shoulders drop. Her eyes dart toward you. You hear him now. Not yelling.

Just… tight. Low. Controlled. But cracking at the edges.

You hear his voice leak through the speaker in broken phrases.

“…fucking everywhere, Yaëlle. Twitter. Instagram. Accounts I don’t even follow. I saw three videos of her walking and men turning around in the street… staring at her like that… and she won’t even answer the phone…”

Yaëlle murmurs, “I know. I know.”

“…what is she thinking? What is she trying to say? Is she angry? Is she trying to humiliate me? She’s letting people film her… I don’t fucking know… ”

Yaëlle lowers her voice. “Ky, breathe. She’s not trying to humiliate you.”

“She won’t talk to me.”

“She’s… recalibrating.”

A sharp inhale on the other end.

“She doesn’t care,” Kylian snaps, voice cracking. “She’s walking around like that and letting people film her, what am I supposed to do? What is she thinking? She didn’t even look at me after those photos. She just vanished.”

“She needed space.”

“I need her.”

There’s a long silence.

Yaëlle turns slowly. “He wants to talk to you.”

You lift your glass. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“Kylian,” Yaëlle says quietly. “She’s not ready.”

“I don’t give a fuck if she’s not ready,” he breathes. “Give her the phone.”

You lift your glass, sip slowly. “Tell him I’m eating.”

“She said-”

“I heard her,” Kylian bites out. “Tell her I’m coming to the suite tonight.”

Yaëlle lowers her voice. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m not asking.”

“She needs time, Ky.”

“She’s had time,” he mutters. Then quieter, like the words are catching in his throat. “I just want to see her.”

You sit back in your chair, pressing the edge of your thumb into your glass stem.

Still composed. Still breathing evenly.

But the heat at the base of your spine says you’re not untouched. Not immune.

Not anymore.

Yaëlle hangs up gently. “He’s leaving the hotel.”

You smile faintly.

“Let him.”

You drop Yaëlle off just before golden hour, letting her mutter one last “he’s going to kill me” before she disappears behind the hotel lobby doors. She doesn’t ask where you’re headed next. She knows better than to think you’re going back upstairs.

You change in the backseat of the car, nothing dramatic, just a top you bought that afternoon from Dior. The cream one with the low back and the halter neck. The one that feels like luxury when the fabric brushes your shoulder blades.

You touch up your gloss in the mirror and step out into the early evening heat letting it melt into your skin.

The rooftop bar smells like salt, tequila and someone’s cologne.

It’s golden hour, the sun stretching long across the sky, sinking past the edges of the glass balustrade. The pool reflects streaks of pink and orange, and DJ’s playlist hums under the buzz of conversations, low and familiar.

You’re sitting on a low cushioned lounger with your legs tucked under you, glass sweating in your hand. Something bright and sweet in it. Your back is bare, tied high behind your neck with one knot. You’re warm from the heat, but not sticky. Just golden.

You didn’t come here for anything.

You’re just here.

Miami feels like the kind of place you’re supposed to disappear into. Loose conversations. Pretty strangers. Waiters who flirt and forget. You sip your drink slowly, watching the water ripple from someone’s lazy cannonball a few loungers down.

“Didn’t expect to see you still in town.”

The voice comes from your left. Low. Not loud enough to startle you.

You look up.

He’s handsome in that way most pro athletes are. Clean lined. Confident without trying. Tan skin. Button down shirt half open like he’s allergic to modesty. You recognise the face. Ligue 1. Midfield. Maybe Marseille?  You’ve seen him in a lineup next to Kylian before, but you’ve never seen him this close.

You blink once, slow. “Do I know you?”

He shrugs. “Tunnel in Marseille. We spoke once. You were standing next to your boy.”

Your boy.

You tilt your head. Let the word sit heavy in the space between you.

He gestures at your drink. “Didn’t peg you for a cocktail girl.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe I’d like to,” he replies easily. “Not every day I get a second chance.”

You say nothing. But the corner of your mouth quirks, not enough to be polite. Just enough to be caught on camera.

He shifts a little closer.

You feel it before you see it: a camera flash. Another. The girl on the lounger two seats down trying to pretend she’s texting.

You stretch your legs. Let your body shift toward the light.

“People are watching,” he murmurs, voice dropping.

“Let them.”

He watches you a second longer. Something curious in his eyes. Something like: Does she know what she’s doing?

But you do.

Of course you do.

The breeze picks up and lifts the ends of your curls, cool across your shoulders. The music shifts to something deeper, afrobeats, and the pool glows faintly now under purple light.

He leans in a littlecloser.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says again, softer this time. “Miami, I mean.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He pauses.

Shrugs once. “No reason.”

You watch him for a second. “That didn’t sound like no reason.”

A waiter comes by,  different from before. Nervous. Too eager. He looks between you and the man beside you, hands fumbling with the drink tray.

“Um.. would you two… like to see the bottle menu?”

You raise an eyebrow, slow. Let the silence thicken.

The man beside you chuckles. “We’re good with cocktails, thanks.”

The server lingers. Then, “You make a beautiful couple.”

And there it is.

You don’t answer. Not right away. Just sip again and adjust your top slightly, the movement subtle, but enough to show skin. Enough to be mentioned later.

The player beside you smiles, amused. “He’s not the first to assume.”

“He won’t be the last.”

He leans in a touch, head dipping beside your ear, and his voice is quieter now. Intimate. Careful.  “You know whatever he did to fuck this up… he’s not worth it, right?”

Your eyes don’t move. But your mouth does. “You don’t know what he’s worth.”

And maybe that’s what makes it crueler.

Because you do.

Another flash. Another burst of light catching the curve of your jaw, the shimmer on your lips.

Someone near the bar glances down at her phone and makes a noise. “Wait- isn’t that- ?” She leans to show her friend: DeuxMoi, 2 mins ago

“Spotted: Y/N in Miami with another player 👀 Not Mbappé.” “Looks like she’s already moved on 👑”

You smile without looking.

Because you can feel it happening.

And you know who else will feel it soon.

Your phone vibrates in your hand, once, twice, again. You don’t look. You know who it is.

Then Yaëlle’s name flashes.

You still don’t answer.

You lift your glass again, swirl the ice. And when the man beside you gets up to leave, called by someone at the bar, he touches your shoulder in parting.

You don’t stop him.

You let the camera catch that too. Let him see exactly what he turned you into.

Eventually, you leave.

Not in a rush.

You let the ice melt in your glass until it’s just sweet water and pulp. Let the pink in the sky slip into bruised blue. Let another DeuxMoi post hit while your feet are still up on the lounger.

But then, you uncross your legs. Pick up your bag. Nod once to the server when he offers to walk you down, and glide past him instead without a word.

You’ve done what you needed to do.

Now comes the hard part.

The lobby is cooler than the rooftop, but not by much. The air feels expensive, chilled and floral, filtered through quiet jazz and velvet ropes. You don’t pause when you pass the front desk. You don’t look around.

If anyone’s still watching, they’ve already got what they came for.

The elevator opens, empty.

You step inside.

The doors close behind you, slow and soundless. Your reflection stares back from the mirrored walls, sunkissed skin, smudged lip gloss, the edge of your collarbone catching the light. You don’t look away.

You take off your sunglasses and slide them into your bag.

Then you press the penthouse button.

It’s a long ride, but smooth. Barely there. No music. Just the hum of machinery and the quiet shift of your own breath.

There’s a faint pressure behind your ribs, not nerves, exactly. You don’t do nerves. But it’s something in that family. Not fear. Not guilt. Just… intensity. The kind of pressure that comes from knowing exactly how this will go, and still not knowing how it will feel.

Still, the pressure tugs behind your ribs. A reminder of how much space he still takes up inside you, even when he’s not around.

You’re still wearing the top he hasn’t seen yet. Still sticky with the Miami night and attention from men who aren’t him. You’ve spent the day punishing him from a distance. With Dior and gloss and posts you didn’t have to write because strangers did it for you.

You fix your hair in the reflection. Smooth your mouth with your thumb. Adjust your top so it rests just right above your sternum, pretty but sharp. Like something hard disguised as soft.

You think of the way he looked in that video. The way he smiled, not just politely, but fully. The way his hands landed on her back like they’d never landed on you first. How easy it had seemed.

Your jaw flexes.

The elevator dings.

Top floor.

The hallway to the penthouse is plush and quiet. Soundproofed. Sterile, but not cold. The kind of silence that makes your heels sound louder than they are.

You walk slowly. Inhaling deeply at the anticipation for the night ahead.

You stop at the door. Your hand hovers over the keycard.

When the lock clicks open, the sound is mechanical. Precise. Echoing around you.

You breathe once.

Then push the door open.

You’re ready.

Let him be the one who’s not.

Taglist: @ilovepablogavi @skipandahop28 @virgilsgurl @moorningvoice @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @germanapples @scottishthistle @luz45789 @blckinback @haartemis - lmk if you want to join

[ponderingmoonlight]

Sanemi risks it all to save you and finally confessing his true feelings

Pairing: Sanemi x fem!reader

Word Count: 5,9k

Synopsis: Trapped and injured within the relentless walls of infinity castle, you’re caught between danger and hope. Sanemi fights fiercely to save you, but powerful enemies stand in his way. Just when things seem impossible, help arrives - but can it change your fate? Will you be able to confess your true feelings in the end?

Warnings: language, injury, death, near-death, HURT ANGST OMG, buuuut also fluff, the plot basically has nothing to do with the real plot so feel free to read this if you don't wanna get spoiled

❗No Spoilers for anime only ❗

This took me the whole week so I'd totally appreciate if you leave a little like, comment and/or share 🤍

Adrenaline rushes through your veins like a waterfall, lungs soaking up the burning air around you with such a haste that you feel like choking on it.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Fuck, you were supposed to put an end to this misery when your master sacrificed himself for all hashira, all demon slayers, all humans. You were so close, your blade scratching the surface of none other’s but Muzan Kibutsuji’s skin. Ready to slice, ready to make this your last honourable fight as a demon slayer.

But fate didn’t play out that way. Maybe it was his plan all along to drag all of you into this fly trap, into this madness you’re now free-diving into.

Your mind drifts back to his face. His eyes widened in sheer horror, his hands instinctively reaching out in order to stop you from falling, his lips forming the letters of your name like in slow-motion.

Will you ever see Sanemi again? The wind hashira who seemed to hate every single thing about you when you arrived, who refused to even look at you back then. It wasn’t until you came back severely injured from a mission that he dared to talk with you. How you ended up falling hopelessly in love with that fierce man? Maybe it was the way he always looked up at the sky at night, the way the faintest smile played around his lips when you told him stories about your stories. Or it was the way he looked at you during training sessions when he thought no one’s watching, how he always asked the others about you.

And yet, you never found the courage to tell him about your true feelings. Would Sanemi Shinazugawa like you back, ask you out, fall deeply in love with you, even get into a relationship with you? A vision of a future you could have had runs through your mind for the split of a second. Oh, how wonderful that thought alone is.

You won’t make it out alive of this place, though.

The second your feet hit the ground, you get circled by countless frightful creatures, their teeth ready to sink into your tender flesh. You’ve fought countless demons, so skilled with your sword that you worked your way up to be a hashira. But the sheer amount of energy lurking from the shadows, from each and every alley of this never-ending castle forces you to waver. And the worst part? You’re surrounded by several demon slayers of the lowest rank who freshly passed the final exam.

“Get out of the way…NO!”

Hit after hit, blow after blow. The second you behead one cursed demon, another emerges from the shadows. Your muscles start aching and begging for air, the thin layer of sweat on your forehead turning into a river. You can’t keep up like this forever. Not when you’re all alone out here with some beginners, desperately fighting to keep them alive only to watch in horror as one by one gets killed and eaten alive.

“Sanemi…”

You wipe a tear out of your eye before striking again. No, this is not the time to get sentimental, you can’t afford to think about the things you regret now. You still have to fight, still have to stand your ground, still fulfil your purpose as a pillar-

“It’s useless, don’t you see it?”

The voice slinks through the chaos like perfume on poison - sweet, aromatic and ice cold. You feel like throwing up in an instant, the demons around you disappearing into the walls as if all that fighting from earlier meant nothing. You feel your knees shake, your palms getting sticky, your eyes widen. No, this isn’t a random demon.

The demon who is just inches from your face halts mid-lunge, as if yanked back by invisible strings. Silence falls like a guillotine. You barely manage to stay upright, blade shaking in your grasp, body screaming from every wound you've endured.

And then he appears out of the shadows like an unpromising storm.

The monster with the unmistakably character craved into his eye:Upper Moon Two. The monster with the smile of a saint and the soul of rot. You’ve heard from him. Back in the village where you grew up, it was told that a man just like him lured the young girls away at night with none of them ever returning, with not a single surviving.

He descends gracefully from the beams like snowfall, his colorful fan fluttering open with a soft snap, sending out a breeze tainted with the faint scent of lotus and blood. His bloodstained lips curve into something that might pass for friendly - if it wasn’t so utterly lacking of humanity.

“Oh my,” he giggles, pressing the tips of his fingers to his mouth.

“Look at you. All banged up and still standing? That’s so cute. I love it when they struggle. You’re a hashira, aren’t you? And what a talented one!”

You grit your teeth, tightening your grip on your sword. This isn’t the time to back away, not when who knows how many souls still rely on you, not when you have to revenge all the innocence lives this monster took.

“Upper moon two,” you growl.

He beams, clapping into his hands like an exited child.

“You know me~! I feel so honoured! Though, my name’s Doma and not exactly upper moon two.”

He twirls his fan, eyes scanning you from head to toe.

“Though I must admit, you’re looking less than glamorous. All that sweat, all that blood… Sanemi won’t like that, you know.”

You flinch at the sound of his name out of this brute’s mouth. How does that thing know Sanemi’s name? Did the two of them meet? Just the thought forces your guts back into your throat all over again. No, that’s impossible…But what if it’s not? What if Sanemi’s in great danger himself? How does this thing know is name, that the two of you know each other? Thoughts overturn in your head and make you feel dizzy, you feel like all air is drained from your lungs. No, no, no. This can’t be true.

“How did you get-“

Stop.

You stop yourself from talking any further by taking a shaky breath. Every single word just feeds into his cruel tragedy, just supports this thing’s twisted mind. If you show him too much, you might risk getting Sanemi actually in danger. That this creature knows his name has to mean something after all, right? Maybe…Maybe Sanemi is alive.

He notices your train of thoughts. Of course he does.

“Ohh?”

His grin widens.

“There it is. The little twitch. The little tremble. You don’t even need to say a word. I can see it in your eyes - you’re in love.”

You swing your blade in a final, desperate arc in order to flee, but Doma doesn’t even blink. He tilts his head, steps aside with the ease of a dancer, and catches your wrist mid-swing.

Then twists.

You scream as your sword clatters to the floor. Your knees buckle. He shoves you to the ground with one delicate hand, planting his foot between your shoulder blades and grinding you into the cold stone floor.

“I hate it when people don't just accept their fate,” he comments sweetly, pressing down harder.

“But you’re lucky, my dear. I’m feeling… playful tonight.”

You push against him, biting back a sob as pain shoots through your chest. No, no, no. This isn’t supposed to happen, you aren’t supposed to get trapped by this monster. Fighting until your last breath, making sure this thing suffers until you take your last breath, punching out of him where Sanemi is right now.

Sanemi…What would he say, seeing you lying on the floor like this? Would he be disappointed in your lack of defence? Is he still alive, maybe even searching for you?

“Oh, don't cry yet,” Doma coos, crouching beside you.

His hand glides gently along your jaw and wipes a single falling tear away -  a mockery of tenderness.

“I want you alert when he sees you. It wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”

A freezing sensation begins to creep across your limbs, his blood demon art seeping into your skin, flesh, bones. You try to scream, try to get him off you, but your breath catches in your throat as ice blooms across your arms, your ribs, your legs. Thin, glass-like lotus petals wrap around your joints and spine, slicing just deep enough to bleed.

“F-fuck… you…” you gasp, teeth chattering.

“Language! Tsk. You hashira really have no manners.” He leans closer, now whispering against your ear.

“Do you think Sanemi will kiss you when he sees you like this? Or will he vomit at the sight of what I’ve done to you, your puny figure unable to fight? Oh my, how he screamed for you, how he searched every corner while shouting out your name like a maniac. When I saw you standing there I knew exactly you’re the one he’s looking or!”

You tremble harder. Not from the cold this time, but from helplessness. From knowing that you’ve fought your hardest and it still wasn’t enough. From getting used as a bait for Sanemi. You’re going to die in this cursed place. Or worse – Sanemi will lose his life because of you.

Doma’s smile fades for a moment, replaced with something… emptier.

“It’s such a waste,” he murmurs, tracing a finger down your frozen cheek.

“I would’ve turned you into such a beautiful demon.”

Then the smile returns, wider, cracked at the edges.

“But this way is much more entertaining.”

He steps back, arms spread, admiring his work. You’re locked in place, on your knees, bound by glistening ice and glass-like lotus vines. Blood drips steadily from where the shards cut into your skin.

“I’ll leave you here,” he chirps.

“Right where he can find you. Right where he’ll break.”

And with that, he vanishes in a flurry of frost, laughter echoing down the halls like a child skipping through a graveyard.

You're alone.

Frozen, bleeding, heart pounding like a war drum. And as darkness creeps in at the edges of your vision, all you can do is whisper, begging into the cutting darkness

“Sanemi… please… don’t come.”

Because if he sees you like this — if Doma gets to him the way he just got to you - you won’t be the only one who’s destroyed. And you can’t afford to lose him, not when he already went to way through much, not when there’s still so much unsolved in his life. He needs to talk things out with his brother, needs to visit his family home, needs to find his inner peace. He cannot risk all those things for some like you.

Someone who wasn’t even able to tell him about their true feelings.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Me? I was just…looking at the sky,” you shamelessly lied.

“You’re tolerable.”

Your eyes widened in utter surprise despite the poor-lit night sky while he carefully avoided your gaze at all costs.

“I mean barely. But you’re the only one I don’t hate spending time with.”

“Oh…Well, I don’t hate spending time with you as well.”

Awkward silence, blood rushing through your ears while your heart threatened to give in.  

“What I mean is��”

He took a deep breath, his piercing eyes met yours. And for a second, you felt like everything else in the world was meaningless. The chirping of insects in the background, the howling of a wolf nearby, the dim light on the moon.

None of it mattered. Only the way his eyes found yours: raw, full of something unspoken.

“You mean something to me, got it? Like, I don’t know if things would be this bearable if you weren’t around, (y/n). I kinda…like you.”

“You…like me?”

Silent tears stream down your eyes. If you only had told him back then when he showed you his own emotions this raw and intense. Maybe things would have gone differently, maybe you wouldn’t have to die filled with regret and sorrow. What does it feel like to hold his hand, to fall asleep next to him, to sit opposite to each other during breakfast? Would the two of you argue a lot, is he a good kisser?

“(y/n)?”

And that voice. That oh so familiar voice that haunts you in your sleep, make you wonder, makes you long for more.

“(y/n)!”

Maybe you’ll be able to hear him again if you close your eyes, if you allow yourself to slip away-

“Are you deaf, dumbass? Wake up!”

Your eyes dart back open in an instant when a sudden warm rushes through your veins.

Lavender, fierce eyes you’d recognize in a lifetime.

No.

You want to laugh and cry at the same time, want to throw yourself around his neck, tell him how you feel, how you imagine your future to look like with him.

But all happiness dies down in your throat. Because this is a trap and Sanemi ran straight into it in order to save you.

“You…have to go.”

The words feel so wrong that you almost choke on them. Truth is, you don’t want him to leave, you don’t want to die out here alone. But you can’t afford to lose him. If there’s one person who just has to live on, it has to be him.

“Going? Are you stupid or something? I’m not leaving you here. Who did this to you-“

“You have to go”, you press out, sharper this time.

Sanemi’s eyes narrow dangerously while he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. His face is close, too close, and you see the blood, the panic, the heartbreak swimming in his lavender eyes.

“You think I care?” he hisses, voice low and shaking with barely-contained rage - not at you, never at you - but at the state you’re in. At himself, maybe, for not being faster.

“You think I give a damn if this is a trap? That bastard’s not taking you from me.”

Tears you can’t stop fall silently down your cheeks.

“Sanemi… Please. If he hurts you…If you die because of me…”

He scoffs, but the sound cracks in the middle. His jaw clenches so hard that it looks like it might snap any given minute.

“Because of you? I’ve survived because of you. Every damn day.”

His hand leaves your chin to brush your frozen cheek, gentle despite the way his knuckles are torn open. You flinch at the contact, more from shame than pain. You’re bleeding, bound, broken, but he looks at you like you’re whole. Like you matter.

“You stupid, stubborn idiot,” he murmurs, forehead pressing softly against yours.

“I never said it, never had the guts. But I need you to hear me before I do something reckless…Which I will, by the way, so get ready.”

You let out a shaky laugh through your tears, and that alone gives him the courage to go on.

“I like you…Hell, I love you, alright? I’ve loved you since the night you went on that mission without backup and came home half-dead. You scared the shit out of me.”

You try to speak, but he shushes you with a hand cradling your jaw, thumb gently brushing under your eye.

“I know I’m messed up. I’m not good at this. But I know what I feel. I know you’re the only person who ever made me think this life was worth living outside of a fight. I’d burn this whole goddamn castle down just to see you smile again.”

A sob escapes you, raw and soft.

“You don’t have to say that just because I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” he interrupts immediately through gritted teeth.

“Not on me. Not tonight.”

Sanemi pulls back slightly, eyes scanning the lotus vines laced across your body, their razor-sharp edges digging deep into your wounded flesh. He draws his katana from his belt and without hesitation begins cutting through the ice.

“Wait, Sanemi, it’ll hurt-” you protest, but he only snarls.

“Then bite me if you must. But shut up and let me get you out.”

Bit by bit, he works through the vines, even when they slice his hands open. Blood trickles freely from both of you, mixing on the stone below, but neither of you care. The pain is secondary to the sheer urgency in his movements. The desperation to free you.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he mutters.

“When I couldn’t find you after the trap, when no one knew where you were…I swear, I lost my mind. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All I could think about was… what if I never got to tell you?”

You blink up at him, your voice barely a whisper.

“And now?”

He frees your right arm, carefully pulls you forward into his chest.

“Now I’m here. You’re here. And I’m not letting you go.”

Despite everything, the blood, the cold, the fear, you melt into him, allow yourself to get devoured by his presence. His arms wrap around you, shielding you from a world that’s tried so hard to break you. And for one fragile, fleeting moment, you feel safe.

“I love you too,” you whisper into his shoulder.

“I’ve loved you for so long it hurts.”

His breath catches. Then he leans back just enough to cup your face again, and presses a kiss to your forehead - soft, worshipful, lingering like a promise.

“Good. Then don’t you dare die on me, alright?”

You nod, even as tears streak down your face.

And then, in a voice just barely audible-

“Stay. Stay with me, (y/n). I’ll get us both out. I swear it on everything I am.”

And you believe him.

God, despite everything that happened in this castle, you believed him.

Until you came straight back to reality. The second your heart dares to believe, the air turns sharp.

The temperature drops again, biting into your exposed skin. The moment of warmth, of safety in Sanemi’s arms, is ripped away as a gust of wind howls through the corridor…No, not wind.

Laughter. High-pitched. Delighted. Deranged.

Sanemi freezes, pulling you protectively behind him as frost begins crawling once more along the stone floor. His katana is instantly up, lips curled into a furious snarl. You know that look - he’s seconds from losing all control.

“Ahhh~ what a touching little reunion!”

Doma sings, his voice echoing from all directions at once. God, you feel so sick that you threaten to throw up right here on the spot. But you have to stay focused, have to stay put.

“Show yourself, coward,” Sanemi barks into the darkness.

“Oh my,” Doma’s voice giggles again, closer now.

“So aggressive. But look at you! Look at that desperation, that trembling rage! You love her, don’t you?”

He materializes from the wall like a ghost, elegant as always, as if he weren’t the nightmare that just tortured you moments ago. His fan flicks open again, casting little flurries of snow into the air like confetti.

“Didn’t I say it would be beautiful?” he muses.

“You, kneeling in blood. Him, carving through his own flesh to reach you. Ohhh, it’s all so delicious.”

Sanemi doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move.

He erupts like a volcano.

In an instant, he’s on Doma, blade a haze of silver light and howling wind. The collision is thunderous. Doma’s grin never falters, he parries with his fan, their bodies a blur of movement too fast for the eye to follow. You scramble backward, gripping your injured limbs, heart slamming against your ribs as you watch Sanemi unleash everything he is. No, you can’t keep up with their speed, it’s impossible.

Every slash is personal. Every strike filled with something more than fury. It’s love, it has to be.

Doma blocks a particularly vicious blow.

“Ohhh, so predictable! You’re fighting so hard for someone already broken.”

“You touched her,” Sanemi growls, voice low and venomous.

“You hurt her.”

“Yes,” Doma sighs, eyes briefly fluttering closed in delight, “and you should have heard her scream.”

Sanemi roars and hurls himself forward again, faster now. His attacks become erratic, wild. You try to call out, to tell him to stay sharp, to not fall into Doma’s rhythm - but your throat is raw, the ice still clinging to your ribs.

Then, a flash of blood. A cry escaping your lips, watery eyes darting open.

Sanemi staggers back, a deep gash running across his shoulder. Doma winks at you, mockingly licking blood off his fan.

“Mmm,” he purrs.

 “Spicy.”

“SANEMI!” you scream.

“I’m fine!” he barks over his shoulder, panting.

 “Just stay down!”

“Is that really wise?” Doma titters, dancing to the side.

 “She’ll freeze again soon. My lotus vines are quite clingy. They always come back to the ones they love~”

As if on cue, you feel it creeping up your ankles, cold and glassy. You gasp and try to move, but the frost is returning, blooming across the floor like ivy. Sanemi notices instantly, panic flashing across his features.

“NO!”

He starts toward you, only for Doma to stop him mid-sprint, driving a knee into his ribs and sending him crashing into the wall. The stone shatters beneath the impact. You scream his name again, struggling to move, but your limbs betray you. The vines are faster this time, more merciless, digging into your flesh with cruel precision.

Doma approaches you slowly now, graceful as a god, fan resting on his shoulder like a priest’s staff.

“You see?” he whispers, crouching beside you again.

“It doesn’t matter how strong your beloved is. You’ll always be weaker. Always in the way.”

“You don’t know a thing about love,” you spit.

Doma tilts his head.

“Oh, I do. I adore watching it die.”

He’s about to reach for you again-

Until a  howl cuts through the air.

The ground trembles. Doma turns, momentarily confused. And then Sanemi is there.

Covered in blood. Radiating murderous intent. His eyes burning brighter than the sun. He’s no longer the composed Wind Hashira. He’s become the very storm itself.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t warn. He lunges, faster than even Doma anticipates. And his time, the blade bites.

A chunk of Doma’s shoulder is sent flying. His expression falters, not pain, but genuine surprise. He stumbles back, clutching his arm, smile slipping into something far more dangerous.

“Ohhh, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

Sanemi doesn't answer. He glances toward you, just once and then returns his focus to Doma, his stance lower, more grounded. Controlled again. Deadly.

“This is where you fall. You don’t get to touch her again.”

“You’re pathetic, don’t you think? You’ll never be able to beat me, you little fool.”

You feel it before Sanemi is able to react any further. The vines pushing their way all the way through your skin, your flesh, your bones. Your body feels like exploding from the inside, the warmth of your blood a stark contrast to the cold that soaks through your limbs. It’s like he drains every drop of life out of you with each passing second. At this point, you aren’t even able to scream anymore, let alone stand. All you do is allowing your knees to finally give in while staring blankly at Sanemi’s broad back.

Is this it? The end of the story, the tragedy of your life? Dying in a castle full of demons with your love risking his very own life to save your lost one. If you’d only be able to say something, to tell him to leave you behind, to never look back, to save his own life.

But all words die in your throat in an instant, all air is drained from your lungs.

“Don’t worry, (y/n). I’ve got this.”

Suddenly, the sweet trace of wisteria overlayers the thick scent of iron in the air, calms down your tingling nerves out of instinct.

Are you hallucinating? Are you imagining this? After all, there is no way that she’s here right now. You didn’t even see her coming here in the first place, didn’t call for her.

No, it’s impossible that the insect pillar Shinobu Kocho is here.

“This will make you feel better. And now relax, I will do the rest.”

A warm hand on your shoulder, a burning sensation rushing through your veins…And the vines relief your flesh from their fangs in an instant.

You try to protest, but your voice slips away before it even forms. Your body won’t obey, your limbs feel heavy, as if gravity itself is pulling you down. You struggle to lift your head, but the world tilts and blurs. You want to fight, to shout, to beg Shinobu to get out of here, but all you can do is watch helplessly as she approaches upper moon two and Sanemi calmly.

Her eyes lock immediately onto Doma and Sanemi. You see the flicker of tension in Sanemi’s jaw tighten, the sudden recognition of the insect pillar creeping across his face.

“Sanemi,” Shinobu speaks up, voice steady and low, “you have to leave with her. Now.”

Sanemi’s eyes dart between you and Shinobu, conflicted. Him, leaving with you? Oh, how much he’d want to do that, how his body urges to keep you safe. But leaving Shinobu here means risking her very own life. No, he can see it in your eyes, the silent plea to turn down her offer.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he mutters, voice rough with the weight of the choice he’s forced to make.

“Not alone.”

You catch the fierce worry in his gaze and your chest tightens. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you will be fine - but your mouth won’t move.

Shinobu shakes her head, calm but insistent.

“I can handle him. You have to take her away, or none of us survive.”

Sanemi’s fists clench, knuckles white. He steps forward, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“I won’t abandon you,” he growls.

“You have to,” she replies, voice steady.

“Promise me you’ll come back, then. (y/n) won’t allow me to leave you if you don’t.”

His eyes search hers, the storm of doubt and determination raging inside. After a long moment, she finally nods, slow and unwilling.

“I promise.”

From the shadows, Doma’s voice breaks the silence, cold and mocking.

 “Ah, the insect pillar. I was wondering when you’d show up again. I recognize you, I love that haori on you!”

Neither of them flinch. The air thickens with something unspoken - history, pain, danger, something you can’t quite name. Your eyes are stilled locked onto Shinobu’s back when your vision slowly but surely starts to get blurry, your limbs growing to feel heavier and heavier with each passing second.

The last thing you notice are his strong arms that pick you off the ground. And before your eyes go blank, you glance back at Shinobu, who meets Sanemi’s gaze with fierce resolve and a silent nod.

Then, everything turns black.

Sanemi.

Your eyes dart open, lungs aching for air so desperately that you are forced to cough. Where are you? What happened?

Your heart flutters in your chest. The castle, the death surrounding you, the vines, your own blood being the only thing keeping you warm, Sanemi-

Oh god, Sanemi.

Frantically, you tear on the blanket that covers you, trying to get up despite every fiber of your being pushing against it. Where is he? Is he alright? What happened after you lost consciousness? He has to be alright, he has to be right here with you. And what about Shinobu?

“Oh my, don’t push too hard already. It sure took long enough to stitch you up, dear.”

When your glossy eyes find hers, all feelings that built up snap.

“Shinobu you…you really made it out,” you cry out, grabbing the insect pillar by her haori.

The scent of wisteria, the comforting feeling of her tiny frame pressed against yours, her low chuckle radiating straight to your bones. You didn’t really have time to think about the possibility that she might not be able to make it out. And yet, seeing her safe and sound fills you with so much joy that you start crying like a baby.

Shinobu doesn’t pull away as you clutch her haori with trembling fingers, your tears soaking into the fabric. Instead, she lets you cry, small and fragile in her arms, the way only someone who’s been broken open and stitched together againcan.

You feel her hand smoothing your hair, gentle and rhythmic, like she’s lulling a child to sleep.

“I didn’t think… I thought…,” you choke, unable to finish the sentence.

“I know. It was close. Too close,” she mutters softly.

The room smells of herbs now, faint and clean, masking the iron trace that still clings to your senses. Everything feels foggy, your limbs heavy, your vision still swimming, but the warmth of her hand keeps you grounded, remind you that you’re here, that you’re alive.

“You used... the serum?” you manage to rasp, your voice barely a whisper.

Shinobu nods against your temple.

“An experimental strain. Wisteria compound with aggressive cellular regeneration. I had it ready. Just in case…I’m glad I did.”

You blink through the haze.

“And Doma?”

A quiet breath leaves her lips, one that feels older than she is.

“Gone.”

Her voice is calm, but something in it cracks on that word. Not visibly, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice in your state. You know her too well not to notice.

You sit in silence for a long moment. The weight of what’s been lost and what’s barely been saved hangs between you like morning fog. You don’t dare to bring up Sanemi now. Not when it’s clear that Shinobu needs that hug as well, not when she was the one who was ready to risk her life for yours. But would she tell you right here on the spot that he’s okay? Would she tell you that he didn’t make it? What…What if he’s long-gone already, what if the relief your feeling right here and now is nothing but a brutal lie to yourself?

Something claws at your chest, sharp and panicked. Your head snaps up. No, you can’t take it anymore.

“Shinobu” your voice cracks, panic flaring through your chest, “Sanemi…where is he?”

Shinobu pulls back slightly to look at you, her violet eyes warm, but shadowed. Her silence stretches a heartbeat too long for you to endure.

“Is he okay?” you whisper.

Her lips press into a line before they soften again.

“He’s alive.”

Your chest collapses with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. A sob bubbles out of your throat, this one less desperate but more grateful.

“But…” you murmur, and Shinobu nods gently, already knowing what you’ll ask.

“He’s been sitting outside this room for 12 hours straight. He refused treatment this whole time until you woke up. Said he wouldn’t leave until he saw your eyes open.”

You try to sit up again, instinct dragging your body forward, but Shinobu gently steadies you with a hand to your shoulder.

“He’s hurt. But not enough to keep him down. You know how he is.”

You nod, biting your lip, eyes already welling again. This time, not from fear.

From relief.

“Can I see him?” you ask, voice small.

Shinobu gives a soft smile.

“You don’t even have to ask. He’ll scold me as soon as he finds out I’ve been talking to you first anyway.”

She rises, steps quietly to the door and says only one word.

“Sanemi.”

Sanemi doesn’t burst in like gust of wind as usual, doesn’t storm to your side.

He appears in the room like a ray of sunshine, gentle in a way you’ve never seen before.

His white hair is a mess, tangled and damp with sweat. Bandages wrap around his torso and across one shoulder, stained faintly with crimson, but his eyes, god, his eyes. Wild and feral, scanning you like he’s still not convinced you’re real, like if he blinks too long, you might vanish again.

You sit up a little more, and that’s all it takes for the both of you.

In two strides, he’s at your side, dropping to his knees, hands hovering like he’s afraid you’ll break apart at his touch.

“I…” he breathes, but the words choke in his throat.

Your hand reaches for his first, taking in the warmth of his fingertips brushing against yours, the minor shaking.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

The moment your fingers brush his, the dam shatters. Sanemi folds into you, head bowing as he leans forward, gripping your hand with both of his. His forehead rests against your lap, and his shoulders quake with emotion he never lets anyone see - except you in this very moment.

“You’re not okay,” he growls low, like he’s scolding the world.

“You almost died. You almost…” He cuts himself off with a shudder.

“I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time. I didn’t know if I’d make it out…”

“But you did,” you interrupt, your free hand trembling as it slides into his hair. “You got to me. You saved me, Sanemi. I owe you my life.”

He lifts his head finally, eyes red-rimmed but blazing with something fierce and unwavering. And then, slowly, almost reverently, he cups your face in his hands, rough fingers cradling your cheeks like you’re the most fragile, precious thing in existence.

“I thought I’d never hear your voice again,” he murmurs, thumb brushing away a tear that slips down your face.

“I thought I’d never get to tell you this properly. That I love you. That I’ve loved you since the moment you punched me during training for being an asshole. Since you came back in fucking pieces from that mission.”

A watery laugh escapes your lips, your heart swelling to the brim.

“You were being an asshole.”

“And you were the only one who didn’t take it,” he breathes, almost smiling.

“You looked me in the eye and made me feel. And I hated it. Until I didn’t.”

You let out a broken little sound, overwhelmed, heart bursting at the seams. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer. God, will he ever be close enough?

“Come here,” you whisper.

And he does.

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. Then his lips, soft and worshipful, find yours like they were meant to. Not rough. Not desperate. But deep and slow and full of every word he can’t say aloud.

When he finally pulls away, his breath is ragged.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know that?”

“I know,” you smile, tears streaking down your cheeks again.

“But I’m here.”

“You’re here,” he echoes like it’s a prayer.

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

He pulls you gently into his arms, mindful of your wounds, wrapping himself around you like a fortress. You bury your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him - sweat, blood, rain, and home.

“I’ll keep you safe now,” he murmurs into your hair.

“I swear it. As long as I live.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe it.

You believe him.

It’s over.

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @vrystalius @sanemifucker @blunderland

[thatonegrimm]

The Manager’s Guide to Demon Boybands: A Witch’s Oath

Wards, Warnings, and Witnesses

Chapter12/Chapter13/Chapter14

Same evening

The rain hadn’t stopped for hours.

From the window, you watched the streaking water blur the city into oil paint smears—gray and gold and neon bleeding together under flickering signs. Somewhere behind, the kettle clicked off. The tea would go cold. You didn’t move.

Romance had saved you. That wasn’t what unsettled you.

Having watched him melt metal with his bare hands, cocky and concerned in equal measure, as if he wanted the reaction more than your thanks. You gave him neither. But you’d felt it.

The way the air rippled around him. The way the flame curled through the scaffolding like it had been waiting for him. And the way he watched her after—like he was hoping she’d be scared.

But she wasn’t. She never was.

That, more than anything, seemed to frustrate them.

She exhaled slowly and turned from the window. The wards had been humming since rehearsal ended, faint pulses of magic brushing the edges of her senses. She’d let it go while the boys were still awake—she didn’t want them seeing her work. Not yet.

Now, though, the signals were stronger. Focused. And close.

She pulled her coat from the hook by the door, tucked a carved bone charm into her inner pocket, and slid a waterproof charm over her shoulders like a second skin.

The kettle still steamed. She left it behind.

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

Across the Street

The wind howled past the alley below. Trash cans clattered. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm blared and died.

She moved with intent, boots splashing through shallow puddles as she stepped into the narrow space between her building and the next. She hadn’t brought an umbrella—didn’t need one. The warded charm at her collarbone repelled the worst of the storm, leaving a dry halo around her shoulders while the rest of the world drowned in rain.

She had followed the hum here. A low, invasive pressure against her outer perimeter wards. Something—or someone—testing boundaries that had no business being tested.

The signal had started weak, but insistent. By the time she reached the alley, it was loud enough to feel in her teeth.

She stopped just beneath a flickering security light and let her senses stretch. The copper she had lined in the building’s foundation thrummed like a tuning fork—resonating with a presence not her own. The intruder hadn’t masked himself well. Reckless. Young. Amateur.

She didn’t draw a weapon. She didn’t need to.

She tracked it to the alley. Narrow. Familiar. Dangerous.

The intruder wasn’t human.

He was young. Reckless. Still flush with borrowed spells and a false sense of immunity.

She saw the shimmer of his glamour before he noticed her. Sloppy. Loud. Untrained.

“Don’t step any closer,” she warned, voice calm.

He blinked in surprise. Smirked. “Didn’t expect the manager to be the one on night patrol.”

You stepped forward.

The rain hit the sidewalk hard around them, but not on her. Not inside the soft bubble of magic called up without a word.

“You’ve been tailing them since the shoot last week.”

He shrugged. “They’re demons. You know what they are.”

“I do.”

“And you’re still shielding them?”

“You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

That made him laugh. “Yeah? What are you gonna do—report me to your talent agency?”

She raised her hand.

Power flickered at her fingertips.

The laughter died in his throat.

“I’m giving you one chance to walk away. You don’t want to find out what happens if I decide to make an example.”

But he moved first.

Spellfire. Crude. Loud. Unrefined.

She didn’t dodge.

She caught it.

The alley lit up in violet-blue light as the spell collided with a barrier inches from her skin.

She countered with a single sigil flicked into the air — sharp, old magic. It cut through the rain and slammed him backward into the brick wall.

He didn’t get up.

She checked his pulse. Alive. Stunned. Magic scrambled like broken glass inside him.

She whispered a name. The air twisted. The veil parted.

And she dragged him through.

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

At the Crossroads Shrine

It stood on the edge of three ley-lines. A neutral zone. A ghost-walkers' court. A place only the supernatural dared tread.

And there, strung between the old iron arches of a disused shrine, the intruder hung — unconscious, still breathing, his wrists bound in old sigil-ink, his glamour forcibly peeled back to show what he was.

A sign burned faintly above him. I WARNED YOU.

Those who walked the Veil that night saw it. And they remembered her.

The one who had been gone for centuries. But she had returned. And she was not hiding anymore.

They would not mistake the boys for easy prey again.

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

POV-Tae Sun-ho, Monk-Scribe of the East Gate

He hadn’t thought she was still alive.

The wards around the Crossroads Shrine flared in the pre-dawn hours—angry, pulsing, insistent. He’d gone to investigate expecting a rogue spell or perhaps a demon marking territory.

Instead, he found him. The bound figure, unconscious and stripped of all glamours, hung limply beneath the shrine’s crumbling arch. A sigil burned above him in violet-gold flame, hovering in the air like judgment itself.

I WARNED YOU.

It was not the message that chilled him. It was the script.

Old witchcraft. Hand-scribed in a dialect that hadn’t been used in five hundred years. She hadn’t changed it. She didn’t have to. Her words were law.

He stepped back slowly, keeping his gaze lowered. The glyph holding the man’s bindings wasn’t a curse. It was a sentence.

Tae Sun-ho pressed his palms together and bowed. Not to the shrine. To her. To The Hollow Binder.

She had returned. Not to court allies. Not to reclaim territory. But to warn them.

And if this fool’s broken body was her warning, the next would be a lesson.

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

POV-Blood Witch

She tasted the sigil in her throat before she saw it.

Iron. Rue. Bitter valerian. Ancient binding salt burned into the glyph like it had been carved from bone. Her hands clenched on the windowsill as her scrying pool trembled.

No. No, no, no.

She was supposed to be dead.

She bound you once, Mira, remember?

Bound your power for seven years and let your coven think you fled. Let your mother rot believing you betrayed her. The Hollow Binder doesn’t banish you. She makes sure you’re forgotten.

Now some idiot had pissed her off again.

She should feel glee. Triumph. Let the boy rot. Let the communities choke on their secrets. But all she felt was dread.

If she was back—if she had stepped out of the veil and reminded the world who she was—then something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

Because The Hollow Binder never interfered unless something worse was on its way.

And Rhee Mira knew that if that woman was walking the crossroads again…

They were already out of time.

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

POV-Spirit Empath Trainee

Jae hadn’t meant to see it.

He’d only wandered into the ley-crossroads because his mentor told him never to.

But curiosity, like fear, always got him in trouble.

And there it was.

The shrine. The man, hanging in midair like his body didn’t weigh anything, suspended by sigils that glowed through the rain. His face twisted in something like sleep. Or agony.

A message burned above him: I WARNED YOU.

Jae’s mouth went dry.

He remembered the name. Whispers from forums. A name the older hunters never said directly.

The Hollow Binder.

“She erases bloodlines.” “She doesn’t speak in court because she writes her own.” “She once sealed a lake shut with a single oath and the bones of a king.”

He thought those were stories. Fairy tales made of fear and glamour.

But this?

This was real.

He turned and ran. Fast as his legs could carry him.

Because if the stories were real… And if The Hollow Binder was walking again…Then none of them were safe. Not even the good ones.

AN: No thoughts, just vibes and one (1) dumbass who decided to square up with a whole myth. To everyone who said the manager was just "mysterious girlboss support staff"—how’s your foot taste? 😌 Anyway, don’t mind her! She’s totally normal, definitely not erasing bloodlines on weeknights or dragging idiots through the veil in waterproof boots.

Taglist: @poem-bee @gremlinartstudio @wantstoliveinfantasy @lovely-maryj @buggaboobich @idkokfu @osball @tenaciouskittenpuff @venommie @honey-and-sweetdreams @luna-looniesblog @lyunsafebubble @tulnukaz @levifiance @mysteris-things @aerissblog @anxiousskylar @downbadgirlypoo @misdollface @renchai @rithalie-sideblog @tsukimoon-chan @reixtsu @ghostiiess 

[bullet-prooflove]

7500 Follower Event: Cross My Heart - Charlie Reid x Reader

Tagging:@kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @beebeechaos

Summary: Charlie's quiet moment in the hospital chapel is interrupted.

Companion piece to:

Charlie - Charlie meets someone unexpected one night at his pool hall.

The Whole Damn Night (NSFW) - You aren't anything like Charlie expected.

Like God Needs The Devil (NSFW) - Charlie takes you to heaven in the hallway of his house.

The Riding Crop (NSFW) - Charlie and you roleplay for the first time.

My Turn - It's Charlie's turn with the riding crop.

Risk Management - Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

Deals With The Devil - Charlie's fall from grace starts with an act of love.

The Ghost That Lingers In The Nighttime - Charlie's becoming accustomed to the late night visits.

Who The Fuck Is Charlie? - You wake up calling for Charlie but noone knows who the fuck Charlie is.

Blood For Blood - Charlie's wrath leads to his worst nightmare...

Your mother prays when they take you up for the second surgery. Charlie knows that because he can hear her in the pew behind him, murmuring the words into her clasped hands. He doesn’t recognise the prayer, only the tempo of the sentences as they run together in a rushed whisper through the silence of the hospital chapel.

The lapsed Catholic in him chides himself, because he would give anything to even the odds of you surviving and that includes praying to a God he doesn’t believe.

He isn’t quite sure how he ended up here, in the chapel. He just needed a minute after giving his statement. A minute to stop his hands from shaking as the adrenaline leaked out of his body. A minute to work on his breathing because it felt like his lungs were in a vice, the oxygen being squeezed out of them.

“What were you doing here?” Had been the question on everybody’s lips as he lingered outside of your room, gaze fixed on the bloody tousled sheets.

“I got some Intel from a questionable source.” He had told them, his palm rubbing over the nape of his neck catching on the steely curls he’d let grow out too long. “I wanted to see if there was any validity to it…”

“And the book?” The interrogation continues as he stares at the Ballin’ with the Billionaire Brontosaurus now saturated in the sticky dark pool of blood emitting from Chris Morrow’s body.  

“I guess he knew the silencer on a Glock 21 really isn’t that quiet so he picked up the first thing he had to hand to stifle the shot.” Charlie tells Voight, crossing his arms over his chest as Ruzek takes notes.

It isn’t that much of a stretch, not really. They’d found all sorts of fucked up shit in Morrow’s place when they’d raided it almost a week ago, tentacle dildos and rape hentai weren’t even the worst of it. It isn’t too much of a stretch to consider that he might be into something a little more niche.

“Getting his rocks off to dinosaurs.” Ruzek says, staring down at the glassy eyed corpse like he wants to spit on it. “This guy was a freak.”

Ruzek has no fucking idea, they’re still going through the external hard drives. There’s decades of horrible shit that no one wants to see.

It’s the hand in his shoulder that jerks him back to the present, he tilts his head up to see your mom Catherine standing above him, your familiar eyes staring back at him. You don’t look much like her, not really. She’s a typical Irish red head with pale skin and a smattering of freckles cross the bridge of her nose. You take after your father, the essence of your Romani heritage bleeding through the genes if you look close enough and he has, many a time.

“May I sit?” She asks, gesturing to the empty space alongside him. He nods his head, swallowing hard past the lump of emotion that’s bundled within the confines of his throat.

“You’re Charlie aren’t you?” She says into the air between them, drawing her fingertip in a line across her chest to indicate the name plate on his CPD jacket. He’d had one of the patrol officers fetch it out of his car along with the sneakers from his gym bag so they could take his boots into evidence. He hadn’t realised he’d been tracking crimson footprints throughout the corridor until Voight pointed it out. “C. Reid. It’s Charlie Reid isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He tells her, his voice coming out rough, gravelly.  

“My Em, she’s your girlfriend?” She asks him and Charlie, he just doesn’t have it in him to lie to one of the most important people in your life.

“More.” He rasps as the ache raises up in him. His eyes start to sting and he places his fist against his chest, trying to rub away the pain that resides deep within the depths of his soul with his knuckles. “Em is the world to me, she’s the sun, the moon, the stars…”

He trails off, his palm scrubbing over his face to chase away the salt that simmers underneath his eyes. He’s managed to hold his shit together until now, to put on that authoritative façade but he can feel himself splitting at the seams because his Em... she might not make it this time, not with if they can’t repair the additional damage.

“I cross my heart I’m not like this…” He tells Catherine his voice breaking. “I promise I’m strong for her, I’m good for her, I just…”

His palm rubs across his mouth, trying to supress the anguish that surges up inside of him like a force of nature, tearing up his insides, burning him alive.

“You almost lost your person again.” She says with understanding, her hand grasping his tightly in her own. “I know what that’s like, how visceral it feels…”

She’s talking about your father, about a man they both know is buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, his dishonoured mulo cursed to haunt the earth until he’s laid to rest the way he should have been. It’s the worst thing you can do to a Romani person, denying them their rituals to ensure a peaceful transition into the afterlife.

It’s the whole reason you joined Intelligence in the first place, you had exhausted all avenues in Missing Persons and Voight had promised you the resources to work on your father’s case so you could return his body to your family.

You’ve been wanting to get out for a while now, Voight’s aggressive style of policing, the moral compromises they don’t work for you.

She’s soft, the other man had told him after that undercover op, she needs to be tougher. No he thought, his Em, she’s endured things you could never imagine, she’s strong in different way, one that keeps her humanity.

“I’m scared.” He finds himself saying as he stares down at their joined hands. “I’m scared that this is the time she doesn’t get back up.”

“I know.” Catherine says with a deep sigh as she looks up at the crucifix fixed to the wall in front of them. “That’s what I’m afraid of too.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[abbotcoded]

I’m gonna need everyone to walk with me for this one

Robby and Jack are interns, kind of enemies, u know the usual rivalry everyone headcanons them to have when they first start working together

Jack’s looking for Robby for whatever reason, someone tells him last time they saw him he was headed towards the bathroom so Jack checks just in case

he immediate spots Robby’s black New Balance in a stall, he sounds like he’s actively throwing up and Jack worries, if he caught something and needed to go home he had to let Dana know so she could call someone to fill in for Robby asap

he knocks, asks if Robby’s okay, tries the door just because and it’s actually unlocked

Robby looks like shit, pale and sweaty and is folded over, but what really worries Jack is that even through the thick dark fabric of his scrub pants he can spot a darker patch of blood

he’s so fucking scared he just starts talking, asking Robby is okay, trying to do an assessment of what might be wrong because half an hour ago he was fine, they had argued over treatment for a patient until Adamson threatened to send them both to chairs if they didn’t calm down

Robby eventually sends him a death glare and tells him to shut the fuck up and that if he dares to put a hand on him to play doctor he’s gonna bite his fingers off

he tells Jack to go get something from his locker, Jack hesitates, but eventually moves because whatever it’s wrong with Robby, he seems to know exactly what it is

he gets the bag Robby asked for and after rummaging through his locker (feeling a bit like a creep) in search of clean spare clothes he eventually digs into his own locker to grab his own stash of scrubs and a clean pair underwear the guy’s definitely gonna need

by the time he gets back Robby still looks pale, sweaty, eyes red rimmed and glossy like he was trying so fucking hard not to cry, hands shaky as he took everything from Jack’s hands

he disappears back into the stall and Jack hears the click of the lock, paces in circles around the place for no more than two minutes before the lock clicks open and Robby peers his head out with a small “can you do this?” Jack takes what’s being offered, painfully aware of the syringe as it drops in his hand and the small vial that accompanies it

Jack tries really hard not to think of the worst but his mind gets ahead despite it all and immediately thinks about how he’s going to have to fucking report Robby out of everyone in the ER

his pulse is in his throat as he rotates the vial and when he reads testosterone the air doesn’t feel as heavy

they don’t speak as Jack helps Robby with the shot, but the uncomfortable silence makes Robby mumble a soft and low are we good? Jack replies a simple we’re good and he knows something has shifted between them, he just hopes it’s a good thing and doesn’t put them on even thinner ice

it’s a week after when Jack sees Robby again, he asked Monty about the man’s sudden disappearance but Adamson simply said Robby got sick and needed to recover

the issue is that he tries texting after two or three days and it goes unanswered, then he tries calling, and really gets worried when the seventh call in the span of four days goes once again straight to voicemail

so he does the most rational thing in the world and shows up at Robby’s apartment

after ten minutes or so of knocking (and getting told by an old lady that she’s gonna call the cops if he keeps it up) Robby finally answers, wrapped in a blanket, hair sticking out, looking awful

Robby doesn’t seem all that surprised, even if they’re not friends, Jack showing up like that is something Jack would do

Jack tries to ask if he’s okay, why he hasn’t been answering his phone in a well, tries to joke that the ER has been more bearable without Robby but he shuts the fuck up so fast when Robby throws something at his chest and Jack manages to catch it, misoprostol

well, shit

Robby tells him to just shut up, that he’s not in the mood to joke around, he doesn’t expect Jack to grab him by the scruff of his neck and pull him into a hug, so tight Robby feels the tears well up immediately despite having cried the better part of the last week

they stay like that for a long while, until Robby cries it all out and Jack’s jacket is covered in tears and snot

Jack has no idea what it feels like to get an abortion but he knows the theory, aches at the thought of the layers upon layers of complicated feelings Robby is going through and the fact that he had just basically isolated himself to go through such a fucking painful and possibly traumatic event

after a beat Robby slumps on the couch, clearly exhausted, and Jack quietly moves around the apartment, cleaning the mess, going out for groceries when he sees Robby’s kitchen is to all effects empty, does some half decent meal prep because he knows Robby needs at least another full week of rest and by the looks of it he hadn’t been eating all that much before Jack showed up

when Robby wakes up he expects Jack to be gone, only to find the man in his kitchen, the pile of sheets he had bled through in the drier and a brand new pack of the exact same brand of pads he used in the bathroom

[r3starttt]

VITAMINAS

SUMMARY: Abby taking care of you when you're sick

AN: I don't think I ever posted this but If I did pretend I didn't(???? I wrote this on the worst fever ever so ignore any horrible wording.

Imagine Abby coming home, her jacket smelling like your perfume as she puts it somewhere in the couch. Her shoes loud against the floor as she walks into the kitchen. She can hear your troubled breathing so she's quiet, using the loud rain from outside to quiet her steps here and there in the kitchen and the loud sound of the utensils she's using to cook you the most delicious chicken soup ever. She makes you a sweet tea and a not so delicious remedy with a hideous smell she already knows you're gonna pout about later.

She makes sure to put your medicine into one of those containers to separate the pills for day and hour just in case she needs to go out or can't work from home. Because oh yeah Abigail asked for a week of vacation the second you got sick and took you to the doctor Inmediatelly.

She takes some vitamins and puts them on a small napkin and takes everything to the room, quietly opening the door and leaving all on your night stand.

The bed is a mess, all pillows and blankets for you to use. Old worn clothes and socks everywhere in the bed and floor and tissues everywhere. The old medicine packages on her night stand.

She leaves the door open and leaves you sleeping as she goes for the rest of the manybthinfs she's prepared for you and hurries back as she hears your loud coughing. It's desperate, like you can't breathe.

And when she comes back she cuddles next to you, helping you sit and rubbing your back.

You're sweating and probably about to get fever again, and you can't breathe. Your eyes are teary and puffy from the kittle sleep you've gotten and the frustrated crying you let out last night, cuddling her and confessing how shitty you've felt for being so dependent on her these days, which saddened her because who had ever made her girl feel like a burden before when she was sick for her to think like that?

"Hey... deep breaths baby. You've got this." She murmured, her eyebrows slightly curved in pity. And you tried, you really tried to take a deep breath, but your throat felt too sore and achy and it always ended in a nonstop coughing that made you curve into a fetal position.

Your body was as sore as your throat. And you could barely talk before coughs would interfere.

Your voice was sore and huscky.

"My head hurts." You finally managed to say, barely audible. But Abby heard, touching your forehead just to make sure it wasn't another fever. "It's okay, 's probably just all the coughing and lack of sleep. Don't worry." She murmured. And noticed your discomfort at her words. She was trying her best to comfort you bit there' was only much she could do. "I can't give you anymore medicine. You know that."

And you sighed, turning your attention at all the things she brought for you. "Right. Wait." She kissed your forehead before turning to the opposite side of the bed, in front of you.

She dragged the chair from her desk and pulled it so she could sit in front ot you and the bed, next to the nightstand. "So... these are all the pills you have to take. I put the time too." She paused, holding a glass of water for you to take the pills. "Now... this is the tea you don't like." And just like she thought, you pouted.

She brushed your disheveled and tangled hair away from your sticky face, giving you a gentle smile. "Just take it. Then you sip this. It's sweet." She held the other cup of tea, one that was actually good. And you did, taking the first one in one sip that almost made you throw up again. And immediately you took the other one, a gentle sip that was more than enough to erase the old taste. "And... chicken soup, just like you like it." She held the bowl for you as you straightened yourself in the bed and pushed all the many pillows and blankets aside to properly eat.

"You're getting better." She murmured as if ti convince you. And you sighed. "I mean it. I think you should be better by this week." And you eyed her a little as you ate the soup.

You were mad and annoyed at the lack of sleep and the sore body and throat and the runny nose. The body pain and all the sweating. You felt dirty and dependent and useless and so so in pain.

And in a whole week it hadn't gotten better but worse.

"Thank you." You finally spoke, quiet and huscky. And Abby smiled because she didn't know how much she could miss your voice and your jokes and your laugh.

"When you are done with it you gotta take the vitamins." She held the napkin for you, a sheepish smile on her face. And you nodded.

"What do you wanna go when you get better?" Her tone soft and soothing as always. Like she was talking to a child, simply soft and tender.

You smiled at the thought of it. And she only smiled back, but god was she feeling relieved. She hadn't seen youbsmile since you got sick

"Dunno." You murmured, taking a sip from the soup.

Your breathing steady for once.

"Think about it, yeah?" She insisted, standing from the chair to press another kiss into your forehead and walking over the closet to take her shoes off and change her clothes into pajamas to spend the rest of the cloudy rainy day cuddling with you and taking care of you.

"Love you." She murmured, her arm wrapping around you as she covered herself with a thin blanket. And you looked back at her, smiling once again.

You could talk, but it wasn't needed.

She knew she was loved.