#dee writes

then he reaches off-camera and procures a silky, black pair of panties. his dick visibly hardens, and he groans as he teases the tip of it with the material. you bite your bottom lip as you slowly rock your hips against the pillow between your legs.

now fully erect, the man's shaft is long and curved, requiring a decent stroke from dexterous-looking fingers that have your mouth watering the more you stare at them. precum leaks from his flushed tip.

it's a pretty cock.

one that you think you'd like to suck.

a whimper escapes your throat as you grind down against the pillow, the corner pressing just right into your swollen clit, and pleasure vibrates up your spine.

the man groans again, gravel-rough, and fuck—you think you could get off to the sound of his voice alone.

you tug your underwear up a little higher over your hips, tightening the pressure against your slick folds, sticky arousal soaking into the fabric.

and then he wraps the panties around his cock, fucking into the fabric, and you inhale sharply at the sight, at the way his hips stutter on the impact.

(like he's not just doing this for show. like he's getting off on this just as much as you are.)

you imagine the feeling of him rubbing his cock against your panties, dragging his shaft up and down your clothed slit until you're a gushing, sloppy mess. until he can't help but pull them aside and plunge inside of you—

he lets out a punched out, needy moan that has you humping your pillow so desperately, your entire bed frame creaks in protest as you tightly grip your sheets and keen.

and then he grabs another pair of panties suddenly, ones that are far less sexy looking. they're white with little daisies printed all over them, and they actually look like the pair you lost in the laundry bas—

the man accidentally hits the camera with his foot, just enough to show his face.

dirk deveraux drags a hand through his tousled, black hair before he throws his head back and gasps as he wraps your underwear around his leaking, throbbing cock.

and for whatever reason, the thought of dirk jerking off with your dirty underwear bypasses any and all mortifying confusion at this situation as you start moaning his name while you rub your pussy up and down on your pillow with frantic need.

"god, this is hot."

you'd probably be a little more startled by the very present sound of dirk's voice if you weren't a drooling, cock drunk mess at this point.

but as it were, you carry on, and this time, when you gasp his name, it's directed right to the man now kneeling beside you on your mattress.

"dirk, please."

dirk chuckles, voice low and syrupy, and your empty hole flutters around nothing as you continue thrusting.

in the video, dirk's pumping his cock so hard, the video footage becomes shaky.

dirk's breath is warm against the shell of your ear as he leans in, and you can feel his body heat folding over your own. "i like using the ones you leave all sticky and wet for me, you know."

you can feel him tug your panties aside, just enough to slide a finger into your tight, dripping hole. your cunt spasms in pleasure, and you buck backward into his touch, trembling and begging. dirk's quick to slide another finger in, like he knows how badly you need to be filled, and you choke out a sob.

with one hand grasping your hip, he guides you back into humping your pillow while he finger fucks you, and the dual sensation has you seeing stars, lips perpetually parted as you pant and whine and shake.

on your phone screen, the dirk in the video lets out a groan that boils over your insides like a flash flood, and pleasure floods your body from head to toe in a slick, gushing downpour as you watch his thick, hot, sticky load of cum shoot right through your panties and leak all over his fist.

dirk kisses the curve of your jaw as he fingers you through your own orgasm, his soft hair tickling your cheek as you leave a soaked mess all over his fingers, your panties, and the pillow.

the video ends, and your phone falls flat onto the mattress, enveloping the room in darkness.

Gabi and Falco stare up at him with wide eyes from their spot on the floor, kneeling over a box which they’ve already proceeded to dig through (unprompted, of course).

Levi found them just like that, upon crossing the threshold. It’s nothing he isn’t used to; the two kids have been spending more and more time at the little house he has settled into. He might grumble about it, but he secretly finds that he doesn’t mind it all that much.

He isn’t familiar with the box, however. A delivery of some kind, he guesses, but its contents—what looks like memorabilia—don’t make much sense to him.

Until his eyes land on a fragment of the past that he’s suddenly compelled to pick up, that is.

Until the two brats sitting in front of him utter your name. And, as if that wasn’t enough to make him dizzy, they just have to start asking about you.

He supposes he can’t blame them. They must’ve heard of you in passing, here or there. Nothing but fond words, he’s sure.

He’s also aware of how he must look right now. They might be young, but Gabi and Falco aren’t clueless; the lovestruck look on his face only fuels their innocent desire to know more.

“Please, please, please!”

Levi wouldn’t often consider himself a talkative man. And yet, with his eyes stuck on the small object in the palm of his hand (the mediocre looking pendant you’d wear everywhere because he’d gifted it to you; a useless thing, really), the words seem to flow out of him as easily as a river in its own bank—perhaps because he wants the kids, the world, the galaxies and the whole goddamn universe to know how good you are.

…were, he catches himself. Truth is it’s been difficult to run from the thought of you, but he should have known it was going to find him on a beautiful day like today.

Finding a way to begin is the hardest part. There is so much to say, and not nearly enough words. The kids would have loved to spend even just a day with you—and you with them—and maybe he can give them the illusion that you really are here for a moment. Maybe he’ll end up believing it for half a second, too.

He wants to do that without fault, to allow them to know you as you were.

And though he never was one to wear his heart on his sleeve, he tries his best. For you. Despite his best efforts not to, he lets himself remember.

Because there are corners of his mind that are yours and yours alone; letting them collect dust simply won’t do.

So he tells them how you’d fall asleep anywhere. He never understood how someone could sleep that easily, but you did. Against trees or on a chair with your forehead pressed to a stack of reports you swore you’d finish before dinner. He got used to waking you up; a touch to the shoulder was all it took, and you always looked like you’d wandered back from somewhere far away. Then you’d smile—that small, shy smile he’d give anything to see one more time.

Levi has to let out a shaky breath. When did his voice stop being steady?

He’s not going to force you to wake up into a broken world anymore. You’re free to rest for as long as you like, now.

He tells them that you used to leave him notes. Stupid reminders and bad jokes, on his desk or tucked away in his coat pocket. Your handwriting was a mess, probably because you thought faster than your pen could follow. He used to complain, and, if you were feeling particularly annoying, you’d find a way to make him read it out loud just to watch him struggle.

There were days when you couldn't get out of bed. Still, you moved through the day. You probably thought no one noticed; he always did. He’d find you in the mess hall, food untouched, staring through the wall.

But most days you were bright, and maybe that’s why, with the sun so high up in the sky, today is the perfect day to remember you and the way you used to hum when you cleaned your gear. Hange would try and guess the tune, but they never got it right. Quite the pair, the two of you.

Your voice would go up half a note when you lied. You didn't lie often, but when you did, it would be something small: "I ate," when you hadn't. "I'm fine," when you weren’t. He let it slide more than he should have, just like he does now when the kids hide their giggles behind his back, thinking they’re so clever.

He remembers your hands, always warm and always busy and how they shook sometimes. He can feel them sneaking their way around his neck, only to find their rightful place on his chest as you place a tender kiss on his shoulder. Relax, you’d say. Just relax.

You bruised so easily. You’d always end up hurt one way or another during training, and he’d always take care of it (no one else could do it right). You’d tell him ridiculous stories about your scars while he worked, laughing at yourself. That’s how he remembers you: bleeding, and still trying to make the room feel lighter.

People changed around you.

He changed around you.

You made them believe things could be good again. You made him believe it, at times.

You used to keep lists of things people loved, of places you’d been and the ones you wanted to see. He wonders if he’ll find them in that box, among other pieces of you he thought were lost forever.

Maybe he could go sightseeing, one of these days. You’d like him to.

You said it helped you believe there was something waiting for you, after everything. When he asked you what that after looked like you told him to imagine coming home tired, cold and warming his bones beside the fire. You’d spoken those words like you truly wanted to be the one he came home to.

Levi could hardly believe it, but each day he spent near you it felt all the more possible.

He never believed in home either, and yet you were his, weren’t you?

…so where is he supposed to go now?

You had a way of noticing the parts of him he didn't think were worth seeing, and you never asked him for more than he could give. You’d look at him like time had taken pieces, but never all of him. Like there was still something worth holding on to. He still doesn’t understand how you did that.

He thinks he loved you before he even knew what it meant.

You probably knew, just like you knew the right time to bring him his tea, or that he’d often need to rest his head on your lap, just for a moment. You were insufferable like that.

He never told you; what a waste of a perfectly good chance to make you smile.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

(With the look she’s giving him, Gabi probably agrees.)

Most of all, he hates the silence you left behind. It is deafening, which is rather confusing; it seems to him that your presence has never been louder. You like to make yourself known whenever he least expects you to.

The space you filled is all but empty. The love you wore like a second skin is there in your stead: he can see it now, feel it—touch it, if he reaches for it.

It’s like you’re daring him to forget you.

As if he ever could.

You were just... you. The one who made him feel like there was nothing he should face on his own, who’d whisper sweet words onto his skin, words that had no business patching up his ugliest scars. The one who’d hold him oh so tight.

Perhaps tonight you will. Perhaps his nightmares will grow tired of tormenting him and, for once, you won’t become dust slipping through his fingers.

Instead, your hand will settle into his. Softly, surely, perfectly—like it should, like it always did.

He hadn’t said a word since he crashed in after work, moving on autopilot through your home to do his routine like he lived here—changing clothes, stealing half your dinner, showering. Years of knowing him helped you figure out his silence equaled space to sort his thoughts. But still, why here? Why your place? Why in your proximity when responsible for his mood was you?

You shoved another piece of fruit into your mouth and chewed slowly, sneaking another glance at him.

Katsuki raised the glass to his mouth, ice clinking against the wet walls, and took another swig, frowning at his screen. His scrolling slowed. Then stopped.

“Oi. C’mere,” he said, the command in his voice jump-starting your heart.

You quickly looked back down at your plate, suddenly fascinated by the colors and textures and scent of the fruits, cheeks burning. No, your whole body did, buzzing with restless energy that you couldn’t shake off the whole day.

Friends. Friends. Friends.

How were you still friends when, the second he slept over after a long time, you had a wet dream about him? When your subconscious took that as a green light to shove your ass against him, chasing the phantom rhythm of him pounding you to tears from behind? When you found him—real him, not dream him—hard, hot, throbbing, and wanted nothing more than reenacting the dream?

“Didn’t you hear?” Katsuki tried again, and you turned your head like someone had tugged a string in your neck. “Get your ass here.”

Ass.

The same ass that, on its own volition, had matched his sleepy, needy rocking too.

You pinched your thigh to kill the thought and sighed, dragging your feet the few steps to him like it was a chore.

“Hold this.”

He handed you the cold glass, eyes narrowing at something on his phone. Next thing you knew, his hand hovered over your lower abdomen, making your shaky breath catch.

“What are you doing?” you asked, heart beating a little bit faster at the heat radiating off his fingers.

His thumb angled down as his middle finger pointed up, both stretched to maximum, measuring something that had your head spinning.

“Checkin’.”

“C-checking…what?”

He didn’t answer, simply planted his palm flat under your navel and swung his legs off the couch to stand up. You gasped when his mouth dipped to your ear, grazing your feverish skin. Hot. Teasing. A temptation dressed up in the platonic, way too eager to strip.

“Next time you moan my name and grind that ass on my dick in your sleep,” his middle finger flicked your waistband, “I ain’t gonna check. I’ll test. See just how well I fit.”

Katsuki took his glass from your stiff hand and walked away like he hadn’t just burned the lines of what you were supposed to be—friends.

Jack Abbot hates the rain.

Back when he didn't wake, fingertips reaching out for a body that was no longer there, or an itch without a source, he would happily submit to a sudden downpour. Let it wash over him: mind and body. It had been a welcome change from that smothering dryness of the desert.

He relished afternoons spent beneath layers of scratchy blankets and a warm pair of legs stretched languidly across his lap. He never minded the cramps, either, although he’d dramatically complain every time he reluctantly stood to refill the chip bowl. Jack would’ve gladly let both legs go numb for days if it meant she was there with him, sleeping safely.

But that was then. A lifetime ago, it seemed.

In this new life that he finds himself in, rain is no longer romantic: the heel of his prosthetic slips against slick asphalt, and phantom aches bloom beneath the pressure of the storm.

So, he stopped walking to work at even the tiniest threat of a downpour. Started driving instead, one hand loose against the steering wheel while the city blurs in grey and yellow beyond the windshield. His stomach still lurching each time a headlight reflects off his left hand.

Somewhere along the way, you’d fallen into the habit of leaving your umbrella by the front door. This morning was no exception, despite the storm that had loomed over Pittsburgh since you'd woken for the day shift.

Slowly, almost without either of you noticing, the passenger seat beside Jack becomes occupied more often than not. By now, it feels natural: Jack waiting outside your apartment before sunrise, two coffees balanced precariously in the cupholder, the low murmur of the radio carrying you both to and from PTMC.

It’s been a couple of months now, but you still think he sees you as something wounded and uncertain, all stumbling limbs and creased scrubs. At first, the rides home had felt clinical in their politeness, the kind of thing a man like Jack would offer to any young, vulnerable woman walking home alone. An attending physician making sure one of his nurses gets home safely after a shift. Nothing more.

Yet, somewhere between winter bleeding into spring and spring bleeding into summer, rides home become rides to work too. Not that you’d expected it of him. The first time he texted I’m outside before dawn, you stared at your phone for nearly a full minute, assuming the message had arrived by mistake. Truthfully, the time spent beside him at the beginning and end of each day had quickly become your most cherished part of the week, though admitting that aloud would probably kill you instantly.

There is just something about the quiet intimacy of it all. Knowing the inside of Jack Abbot’s truck by heart feels strangely sacred, like stumbling accidentally into a part of him no one else gets to know. You know the cracked leather smell of the seats, the faint bite of industrial-strength antiseptic soaked permanently into the fabric of his jackets, the pine-and-smoke air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror that he pretends not to notice, replacing every few weeks.

You know he taps twice against the steering wheel whenever he’s stuck at a red light too long. That he drives one-handed when he’s relaxed enough. That he always leaves the radio low enough to talk over, even if neither of you says much at all.

Sometimes he leaves you alone in the truck while he pays for gas inside, and you find yourself sitting there in the strange quiet intimacy of his absence, surrounded by discarded receipts and the lingering warmth of him in the driver’s seat.

When he finally relented and handed over control of the Bluetooth, you started building entire playlists around songs you thought he might like. Older songs, mostly. The kind that sounded right played low through sleeping streets and rain-heavy mornings.

The first time a Jeff Buckley track played through the speakers, Jack glanced sideways at you so abruptly you nearly laughed.

“Kid,” he’d said, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, “how the hell do you know about Buckley? Were you even alive when he was making music?”

“Wow,” you’d muttered, feigning offence while staring pointedly out the windshield. “That doesn’t make you sound ancient at all.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him then, brief enough you almost missed it. “Answer the question.”

Warmth had spread embarrassingly fast through your chest. “My dad had all of his records,” you admitted. “He would play them every Sunday morning, without fail. Coffee brewing, windows open, the whole house smelling like burnt pancakes.”

Jack had gone strangely quiet after that. “Sounds nice,” he’d said eventually, voice softer than before.

You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you would spend the rest of your life chasing the feeling that single sentence gave you.

This morning, however, Jack had nearly rear-ended a Prius at a stoplight when Otis Redding flooded suddenly through the speakers.

“Fuck––” he braked hard, enough for the coffees to slosh dangerously against their lids.

You burst into laughter immediately, fumbling for the skip button. “You trying to kill us before shift, Abbot? I didn’t realise you felt that strongly about Otis Redding.”

Something unreadable crossed his face then. Quick enough, you almost missed it. “I’m sorry,” was all he had replied.

Of course, you were entirely oblivious to the fact that he’d once held his wife close to that same song in the soft yellow light of a rented reception hall.

Suddenly, he had been twenty-nine again, one hand at his wife’s waist, convinced happiness might actually last forever. He can still remember the weight of her against him. The damp curl of her hair at the nape of her neck from dancing too hard, too long. She’d laughed when he stepped on the hem of her dress, all breathless disbelief, like she couldn’t understand why someone as solemn as him had chosen her.

Someone had told him once that wet knots were harder to untie. Jack remembers hearing it the morning of his wedding, while rain hammered against the reception hall roof and guests stumbled inside carrying dripping bouquets and ruined umbrellas.

Later on, he’d watched as water dripped from his wife’s eyelashes, dress plastered against her knees, and kissed her beneath a storm-dark sky. Of course it is, he’d thought. Nothing on this earth could pull us apart.

Despite the steady pull of nightfall, the remnant heat of the day still presses hard against the windows. A couple of hours into your shift, the air conditioning had finally coded after years of being on the brink; also known as Gloria's so-called "to-do list". Now, every surface feels like it's sweating, and every fluorescent light buzzes too loudly.

In the room next to you, somebody bleeds onto the floor of trauma three.

Outside of ordering around overheated interns, Jack has barely spoken for the entirety of your shift, not that the others have picked up on it. To everyone else, Jack Abbot is always stoic, vaguely irritated, and entirely in control. It's part of his whole thing. But you'd come to learn the difference between Jack's tiredness and absence.

Even exhausted, Jack keeps the music low on the drive to and from PTMC. He still asks what you’re doing for dinner afterwards, still tucks away pieces of his day to tell you during the quiet stretches between traffic lights.

But this version of him, with all that vast, unreachable space that leaves you fumbling blindly in the dark, prefers the low hum of the road instead. You think it steadies him. Quietens whatever is clawing around inside of him.

Tonight, Jack is somewhere else.

You watch as he moves through the department with clipped efficiency, jaw locked so tight it hurts just looking at him. He answers questions with one-word responses, broad shoulders tense beneath black scrubs, already darkened with sweat between the shoulder blades and armpits.

Twice, you catch him staring blankly at nothing after trauma pages. The third time, you find a moment to slip beside him, fingers skimming his arm against his behind the privacy of paperwork.

“Hey,” you whisper. He blinks hard and sucks a breath deep between his teeth, like you'd dragged him up from underwater. “You okay?”

For a second, something unfamiliar to you flicks across his face. “I'm fine.”

His hand flexes once against the counter between you, silver flashing beneath fluorescent light. A stupid ache twists unexpectedly beneath your ribs. He isn’t yours, and you’re not even sure he ever could be.

Around you, monitors beep. Someone shouts for respiratory. Rain hammers steadily against the ambulance bay doors with sudden force.

Jack is already turning away. “I’m trying to work.”

The sentence lands clean between your ribs. Heat lightning pulses silently behind dark clouds.

“Right,” you say quietly, resting your hands on the desk in front of you. "Of course."

By the time the words fall from your lips, he's already gone.

The storm breaks fully an hour later. Thunder rattles the entire building hard enough to shake already wobbling ceiling panels loose, while half the waiting room complains about flickering lights. Ambulances keep coming anyway. Wet footprints mesh with stray drops of blood that fall from passing gurneys, streaking across the tile.

You stop looking for him. Stop drifting unconsciously toward whichever trauma bay he’s ruling over. You make the conscious decision not to double-check if he’s eaten, if he needs coffee, if he remembered to take something stronger than aspirin for the headache he’s been nursing since noon.

And the ER continues to move around both of you in frantic bursts: trauma pages, crying parents, soaked paramedics tracking rainwater across the floor. But now there is something strained and invisible stretching between you; it hums louder than the fluorescent lights overhead.

Dana corners you near the nurses’ station while peeling off a pair of latex gloves with her teeth.

“You two fight or something?”

You nearly fumble the stack of charts in your arms. “What?”

Dana snorts softly. “Please. The air pressure in here dropped ten degrees the second Abbot snapped at you.”

“He didn’t snap at me.”

“Mm.” She arches a brow. “I hope you remembered your umbrella.”

Despite yourself, your gaze flickers instinctively across the department.

Across the ER, Jack stands with one hand braced against the trauma board while an intern stumbles through a patient presentation. You can't help but let your eyes fall to his broad shoulders, tense beneath dark scrubs. His wedding band catches briefly beneath harsh fluorescent light.

You know about his wife; you understand enough to know this has never really been about rejection. The problem is almost worse than that. Because sometimes, in the quiet moments between shifts and traffic lights, it feels painfully possible that Jack wants you too.

Dana follows your line of sight before nudging your shoulder lightly. “He’s been in a mood all day. I doubt it's you, kid.”

As though he feels you looking, his head turns. Your stomach knots stupidly, and you look away first, busying yourself reorganising charts that don’t need reorganising. “He was fine this morning.”

“Fine for Jack or fine for a normal person?”

Despite yourself, a small laugh escapes through your nose.

“No, I mean…” You hesitate. “He was okay. We were talking like normal in the truck.” Your chest tightens unexpectedly. “And then something just switched.”

Dana’s expression softens slightly. “What happened?”

You think of the way his face closed the second you touched him. Like a door slamming shut.

“I don’t know.” The words come out quieter than intended. “Dana... Sometimes I can’t tell if he actually wants me there or if I’m just…” You trail off.

“Just what?”

You stare toward the ambulance bay, where rainwater runs in shimmering rivers beneath harsh fluorescent light.

“A distraction, maybe.”

Even saying it aloud feels ridiculous. Jack isn’t yours to lose. There’s no relationship to question, no promise sitting between you waiting to be broken. Just shared rides to work, lingering glances, coffee cups balanced between the seats of his truck. A thousand tiny things that you so dangerously wish meant something more.

Dana snorts immediately. “That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

“Sometimes I think he likes needing me more than he likes… me.”

“Maybe at first,” she admits carefully. “Men like Jack… they cling to whatever keeps them standing.”

Your stomach drops. Dana watches the expression cross your face and immediately sighs.

“Hey.” Her voice softens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It kind of sounded like what you meant.”

“What I mean,” Dana says softly, “is that Jack’s been drowning for a long time.”

The rain batters harder against the ambulance bay doors, loud enough now to shake through the walls.

“And?” you ask quietly.

She glances across the department before answering. “And people who’ve been drowning long enough don’t always realise they’re allowed to want more than just survival.”

Your throat tightens painfully, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I loved her too, you know.”

“Dana—”

“I’m serious.” Her expression gentles. “She was my friend.”

Guilt blooms hot and immediate beneath your ribs, ugly enough to make you feel suddenly sixteen instead of twenty-six. Dana must see it on your face, because she reaches over and briefly squeezes your forearm.

“Oh, honey. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

She lowers her voice slightly. “Loving him doesn’t make either of you disloyal to her.”

Your chest aches so sharply it almost pisses you off.

"I never said that I—"

Before you can finish, a parademic calling out a trauma page cuts violently through the hallway.

Your head snaps up instantly, and just like that, the moment is over.

By the time handover finally arrives, the storm has swallowed the entire city. Water pours in silver sheets beyond the ambulance bay, gutters overflowing enough to sound like rushing rivers. Somewhere miles away, thunder groans low and endless.

You pull your bag onto your shoulder without looking toward the trauma board. You can still feel him anyway; that awful magnetic awareness.

Jack appears beside you silently a moment later, keys spinning once around his finger. He always does that when he’s tired; an unconscious little movement that grows faster the longer his shifts run.

Usually, the sight of it softens something in you instantly. Tonight, it feels mocking.

“You ready?” he asks.

You zip your jacket slowly. “I’m going to walk.”

Jack’s brow furrows immediately. “What?”

“I said I’ll walk.”

Outside, heat lightning fractures the sky in white bursts.

For a second, he just stares at you, genuinely confused, like the possibility never occurred to him. Somewhere along the way, your place beside him had become inevitable. Passenger seat. Coffee cup. Shared silence before sunrise.

“Don’t be crazy,” he says. “It’s pouring.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Another roll of thunder shakes the garage.

You should let him drive you home. You know that. The walk to your apartment isn’t exactly safe in weather like this, and Pittsburgh streets flood if somebody sneezes too hard near the river.

But something ugly and wounded still twists beneath your ribs.

Dana’s voice echoes unpleasantly in your head, and maybe she's right, but people look at beautiful things all the time without intending to keep them.

“You’re tired,” he says flatly. “Just get in the truck.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

Before he can answer, you push through the garage doors into the storm.

The rain is brutal immediately.

Cold water soaks through your scrubs within seconds, hair plastering to your skin as thunder cracks somewhere overhead, sharp enough to make you flinch. Cars hiss past through flooded streets, headlights smeared gold against rain-slick asphalt.

Anger keeps your spine straight for almost half a block. After that, exhaustion starts creeping in around the edges.

Your soaked scrubs cling uncomfortably to your skin with every step. Water fills the seams of your shoes. Somewhere above you, old fire escapes rattle in the wind hard enough to sound like distant applause.

Rainwater splashes around your ankles as you step off the curb. Five minutes later, headlights appear beside you through the storm.

Jack’s truck crawls slowly along the flooded curb lane, and the passenger window lowers with a mechanical whine.

“You’re being insane,” he calls over the rain.

You don’t look at him.

“Go home.”

The truck keeps pace beside you as thunder rolls overhead.

“Please get in the truck.”

Rain batters violently against the hood as the truck crawls beside you. You wipe water from your face angrily, though it’s useless.

“I said no.”

Jack exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tightening against the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ, what is this about?”

The question stops you cold. Because that’s exactly it, isn’t it?

He still thinks this is sudden. Like your hurt appeared out of nowhere instead of being carved slowly into you over months of almosts and maybes and careful little silences.

You turn toward the open window, finally. Rainwater drips from your jaw onto the pavement below.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you earlier.”

“That’s not the point.”

Something flickers across Jack’s face then. Frustration. Confusion. Fear. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. For a second, he just stares at you through the storm.

Then the truck shifts abruptly into park, and the engine dies. Jack shoves the driver’s door open hard enough for rain to blow immediately into the cab.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath as he steps out into the street.

Water darkens his shirt within seconds while he comes around the front of the truck toward you, expression tight with something dangerously close to desperation now.

“Help me out here, kid,” he says. “What is this really about?”

Thunder cracks overhead hard enough to rattle nearby windows.

Your laugh comes out thin and disbelieving. “You pull me close every time you want something to hold onto, and then the second it feels too real, you shove me back out again.”

“That’s not fair.”

Lightning flashes somewhere overhead, bleaching the entire street white for half a second. In the sudden brightness, Jack looks exhausted.

Your anger falters dangerously before hardening all over again.

“No?” Your voice rises despite yourself. “Then what exactly are we doing here, Jack?”

Rain streams from his hairline now, dampening the collar of his shirt where the storm blows through the open window.

“You think you’re protecting people,” you say, quieter now. “But you’re not. You’re just hurting them before they get the chance to hurt you.”

Jack’s jaw tightens visibly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Something hot and furious twists suddenly through your chest.

“No,” you snap. “You don’t get to do that.”

His expression hardens. “Do what?”

“Act like you’re the only person on earth who’s ever had something terrible happen to them.”

The words disappear instantly beneath the storm. Rainwater drips steadily from the edge of the truck roof between you both. Somewhere nearby, thunder groans low enough to vibrate beneath your feet.

You can see the exact moment he starts to answer automatically — defensive and wounded, ready to shut the conversation down entirely. Then, something in your expression stops him.

“What does that mean?” he asks finally.

Your throat tightens. You hadn’t meant to say that much. “Nothing.”

“Hey, don’t do that.”

A sharp laugh tears out of you before you can stop it. “That’s funny coming from you.”

Jack ignores it, eyes fixed entirely on your face now. Rain darkens his shirt collar, curls damp against his temples.

“What happened to you?”

The question lands like a bruise; not because nobody has ever asked before, but because Jack asks it like he already knows the answer will hurt him, too.

You fold your arms tighter across yourself instead, fingers digging hard enough into your sleeves to ache.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters if—”

“No.” Your voice cracks sharply enough to surprise both of you. “No, Jack, it doesn’t.”

Heat rushes suddenly beneath your skin despite the freezing rain.

“Because that’s not the point.”

Jack’s expression shifts again. You look away from him first.

Cars move through flooded streets behind you both, headlights smeared gold and white against rainwater. The entire city feels blurred at the edges.

“You think I don’t understand fear?” you ask quietly.

Jack says nothing.

“You think it’s easy for me to let people touch me?” The words scrape painfully against your throat. “To trust them?”

His face changes instantly, and you laugh again, softer this time. Bitter around the edges.

“Yeah.”

Jack opens his mouth, then closes it again. Windshield wipers drag furiously across the glass beside him, rhythmic and desperate.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Every day,” you continue, staring hard at the sky, “there’s this feeling—”

You press a fist briefly against your sternum.

“Like somebody left a knife inside me and every time a person gets too close, it twists a little deeper.”

Jack’s entire expression crumples for half a second before he catches it.

“But I still try,” you whisper. “I still wake up every day and make the choice to trust people anyway.”

Your eyes finally meet his again through the rain.

“I’m sorry, Jack.” Your voice shakes slightly now, exhaustion bleeding through the anger. “I really am.”

He looks away immediately. Rainwater drips from the edge of his jaw while one hand comes up briefly, rubbing hard across his mouth like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“I’m sorry you lost her,” you continue quietly. “I’m sorry the love of your life died, and I can’t even begin to imagine what that did to you, and what it continues to do to you.”

His nose scrunches sharply for half a second, pushing away the first hint of pain before it gets the chance to reach him.

“But you can’t have it both ways.”

Jack’s eyes close briefly.

“You can’t pull me close every time the silence starts feeling too heavy and then shove me away the second you remember why you’re scared.”

The storm presses around both of you in violent sheets of rain.

“I can’t be the person who makes you feel less lonely when it’s convenient and then take the brunt of your grief every time it catches up to you.”

He flinches, and you think it might be the first time you’ve ever seen him look genuinely ashamed.

Your throat aches around the next words.

“You have to be brave enough to let this be real,” you whisper. “Or you have to leave me alone.”

Rainwater streams steadily down Jack’s face now, impossible to separate from anything else.

When he finally looks back at you, he looks devastated.

Jack stares at you through the rain for so long you start to feel hollowed out by it.

His chest rises once beneath soaked black fabric.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says finally.

The words come out rough and stripped raw. He shakes his head once, hard enough to send rainwater scattering. “You don’t understand.”

Something inside you splinters quietly as he laughs once under his breath. The sound is horrible.

“I buried my wife.” The sentence seems to fight its way out of him.

“I had to stand there while strangers asked me what kind of wood she would've wanted for her casket.” His eyes unfocus somewhere beyond you. “I had to pick flower arrangements. Do you understand what that does to a person?”

You stare at him for a long moment, rainwater dripping steadily from your chin. "No, I don't."

“But, Jack... I can’t keep standing in the doorway of your life hoping you’ll eventually let me inside.”

Your voice breaks softly then. Worse somehow than yelling.

“And I love you too much to let it turn me into someone who begs for scraps.”

Jack physically recoils like the words hit him somewhere vital.

When he still says nothing, that’s how you know it’s over. Thunder rolls somewhere far above the city, softer now. Tired. Your chest hurts, and now that the adrenaline has worn off, you can feel the cold seeping into your bones.

You wipe uselessly at your face with a soaked sleeve before stepping toward the passenger door. The handle sticks slightly before finally giving beneath your grip.

Jack looks over immediately, startled.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cold, and I want to go home,” You say quietly.

The words sound exhausted rather than angry now.

You climb into the truck without waiting for permission, soaked scrubs sticking unpleasantly against the leather seats. The interior smells faintly like rainwater, old coffee, and pine.

Home. The feeling nearly makes you nauseous.

Jack says nothing as you pull the door shut, just hauls himself inside, next to you but far away, and shifts the truck into drive.

Rain hammers steadily against the roof while Pittsburgh slides past in blurred reflections of red brake lights and flooded sidewalks. Somewhere near downtown, a traffic light flickers weakly against standing water.

You stare straight ahead the entire drive.

Once, at a stoplight, Jack opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but quickly thinks better of it.

Twenty minutes later, the truck pulls to a stop outside your apartment building. Neither of you moves.

Your fingers tighten slowly around the strap of your bag. “Goodnight, Jack.”

His jaw flexes.

“Kid—”

You can’t survive hearing whatever he has to say right now.

“Don’t.”

The word comes out smaller than intended, and Jack falls silent immediately.

For one awful second, you almost take it back. Almost lean across the centre console and kiss him just to stop this feeling from happening.

You force yourself to open the door instead. Cold air rushes instantly into the truck.

“I meant what I said,” you whisper without looking at him. “You have to leave me alone if you can’t be brave about this.”

Then you step out into the rain and close the door behind you.

Jack watches you disappear into the apartment building without moving. He stays parked there long after the hallway light above your door finally clicks off.

By the time Jack gets home, the storm has started to weaken. Rain still falls steadily, but softer now. Exhausted around the edges.

His prosthetic clicks dully against the front steps as he climbs toward the porch, each impact softened by waterlogged carbon fibre. Somewhere nearby, gutters overflow in uneven streams.

The house greets him in the same empty way it always does.

Water drips steadily from the hem of his jacket onto hardwood floors she once insisted were charming because of the scratches. Jack had argued about refinishing them for almost a year after moving in.

She’d laughed outright. “If a house looks like nobody has ever lived in it, what’s the point of having one?”

His chest caves suddenly around the memory. Jack shuts the front door behind him and abruptly cannot breathe.

Both fights replay violently in fragments behind his eyes.

You stood in the rain, water running down your face in silver streams beneath flashing streetlights, being braver than he had ever been.

The look on your face when he told you he couldn’t do this. His chest tightens hard enough to hurt.

He reaches automatically for the kitchen counter and misses. His keys hit the hardwood first, then the rest of him follows.

Jack sinks heavily onto the kitchen floor with one hand crushed hard against his mouth because the sound trying to crawl out of him feels unbearable.

He hasn’t cried like this since the first night without her.

Not at the funeral or while signing paperwork. Not while packing her clothes into boxes that lie dormant in the guest bedroom.

Only once. The night he rolled over half-asleep and reached for a body that was no longer there. The memory of it still lives inside him like a wound that never scarred correctly: cold sheets, darkness, and the split second before remembering.

A broken sound tears violently out of him before he can stop it.

“What am I supposed to do?” he chokes helplessly into the empty house.

Rain taps softly now against the kitchen windows. Jack lowers his head hard against the cabinet behind him, shoulders shaking beneath soaked fabric.

“Please,” he whispers.

He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to anymore. God? His wife? The version of himself that existed before grief hollowed him out from the inside?

Outside the kitchen window, the storm has finally broken apart. Water still drips steadily from gutters and telephone wires, but above them, the clouds have started to split open. Pale gold light bleeds softly through the darkness beyond. Jack stares at it through blurred vision. And suddenly, horribly, he remembers her laughing beneath the awning outside their wedding venue while rain soaked the hem of her dress.

Rain always stops eventually, Jackie.

The memory lands differently this time; alive enough in his mind that for one impossible second, Jack can almost feel her hand slipping damp and warm into his. God, she would’ve been furious with him for mistaking loneliness for love all these years. Furious that he’d turned surviving her into the only thing left of himself.

Jack lets out a breathless sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, rubbing hard at his face with the heel of his hand. And for the first time since she died, the memory of her does not feel like being dragged under. Rather, it feels like somebody reaching back for him through the dark.

"It's a shame, you looked good in the dresses and skirts during Revenge," It's almost comical how thick he's laying it on, like a caricature of a man hitting on an uninterested woman.

"That was because we were going for romantic vampire looks,"

"Have you considered wearing a dress again for The Black Parade?"

"That is a question for Gerard, he's the mastermind behind the aesthetic," You shoot him a smile when you spot Frank waving you over. "I think they need me, sorry,"

When you're close enough he reaches up to fix your collar.

"How are you so bad at keeping this straight?"

"Sorry, Mr. Private School,"

He huffs out a laugh, brushing some imaginary lint off your shoulder like he's your mom. "He's not bothering you, is he?"

You shake your head. "Nothing I'm not used to,"

Frank pulls a face and you pull one back. None of you like the fact that this is a common occurrence, that you get more questions about clothes than drums, but you'll push through. It's a small price to pay for all the good that comes from being in this band, and being questioned about pants has long since stopped bothering you.

"One of us can handle him if you want,"

"It's only one interview, I'll be fine,"

~

The photo shoot goes well. This photographer has worked with you all before and is one of those guys who seems to get the band. He gets the theatricality and dramatics whether it's reds and blacks and pinstripes and velvet or monochrome and sharp lines and suits. It'd almost be enjoyable if it weren't for the fact that the interviewer is staring at you.

You thought at first he was just watching the band and you just kept catching him when he was looking at you, but three times is a pattern that you don't like.

They're doing trio photos now, Gerard with the two guitarists first. You and Mikey stand off to the side, waiting for your turn. You bonk your head on his shoulder and he stacks his on top.

"Boo guitar," Mikey monotones.

"Boo, guitar. Rhythm section supremacy," You respond.

The interviewer is towards your back right. You want to check, to see if he's watching the photos or watching you, but men tend to get the wrong idea when a woman keeps looking at them.

"You're tense,"

"You're squishing my head into a pancake,"

Mikey's arm reaches around your back to poke you, then settles over you. It's an offer, an offer to hear you now or to wait till later or to help you out however you want. Mikey's not always a man of many words or facial expressions but he'll show you his love in actions.

"Is the interviewer looking?"

Mikey's head lifts and then settles. "At us, but he looked away,"

"Alright, can… can you just keep an eye on him?"

His arm shifts to tighten around you, his head turns so he mumbles the words into your hair. "You got it,"

~

Photos done means you get ten minutes to change into something a smidge more comfortable. You've picked up your bag and are about to run to the space serving as a dressing room when the interviewer sneaks up on you.

"You're a natural at that,"

"Thanks," You try to side step but he's faster than you.

"I mean it, you could totally be a model,"

"Uh huh," Maybe if you give non-answers he'll leave you alone.

"It's like, why are you drumming? Victoria's Secret could use someone like you, you'd be great as one of the angels,"

"Ray!" You stick your empty hand up as you shout Ray's name. Like an angel he recognizes the sign you're giving him and comes over. "Ray I wanted to run an idea by you,"

This time the interviewer lets you pass and you and Ray walk side by side away from the creep.

"What was that about?"

"Just him being overly friendly,"

"Do you want us to—"

"No, we're doing this interview. Once he has Gerard he'll forget the rest of us are even here,"

Ray pauses with his hand on the door knob. You know what he wants but it'll just cause issues.

"…He said I could be a model,"

"And?"

"For Victoria's Secret,"

"I really think—"

"I don't want a scene. I just want out of these pants,"

Ray sighs. "Fine, but I'm not stopping the others,"

"Thanks,"

Inside the room the others are in various states of undress, any sense of modest you had as a group was killed swiftly in the van. You take a look at your street clothes, at the tight t shirt and skinny jeans that no longer say "casual wear" and now say "look at my body".

"Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Could I borrow your hoodie?"

He smiles as he hands it over.

~

Interviews have a pattern to them now. Gerard sits in the front with either Frank or Ray depending on the day while you and Mikey sit in the back with the other. They'll be a few group questions that Gerard will take the lead on and occasionally offer up for another's opinion. Then you get into some individuals, Gerard discussing his artistic vision and Ray and Frank talking about guitar and Mikey explaining bass. You pick at the loose thread on Ray's cuff while you wait your turn.

"So, you're the only girl in the band,"

"I am, but the boys don't make a big deal about it,"

"Really?"

"Yep, they aren't in the business of caring about my bits. I'm just their drummer who happens to be a woman,"

"That must cause some issues though,"

You shrug. "The scene is definitely male dominated, drums in general isn't fond of women, but I don't let it get me down. If I quit because someone called me a bitch what message does that send to the girls watching me?"

"I mean issues in the band,"

You feel the way the boys react to that. It's a common assumption but one that never stops making their hackles rise.

"I said we don't have issues. We all work together as a group, we wouldn't get this far if they had a problem with me being a woman,"

"What about your love life? Does that cause issues? Have you ever had relations with anyone in the band?"

You see Gerard readying his reply and cut in before he can. "Me dating is none of your concern,"

"I think it's a fair question to ask! Living with four men surely you've at least considered it!"

You aren't fast enough this time and Gerard's "Excuse me?" hits while you're still inhaling.

"I'm asking her a question,"

"Ask her a question that's relevant, ask her about the drums or back up vocals,"

"Her being a woman is relevant,"

"To what, exactly?" He's on a rampage now, like when he heard about the band making girls show their tits for backstage passes or caught a guy refusing to leave you alone during Warped. "We are here to talk about The Black Parade, you understood that with the rest of us, why can't you understand it with her?"

"Gerard, I—"

"No! I'm not done!" Mikey's placed his hand on your knee, lip caught between teeth as he watches his brother. "Even if you did want to ask a question about the experience of being a woman she gave you her answer! You don't need to keep pressing her for some sort of hot gossip to run a headline! You got your response! Move on!"

"Also," You shoot your eyes to Frank who's next to you today. "You've, like, a total creep this whole time. It's really fucking weird to sit and watch someone while they're being shot,"

"Seriously?" Gerard whirls around to look back at you, Mikey and you nod in confirmation of the accusation. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I, I just think," As he speaks Ray stands up and you all follow his suite, tired of this bullshit and ready to leave. "I just think! That she's a nice looking girl!"

"That's fucking weird! You're fucking weird!" Gerard is standing over the interviewer as you and the others start to leave. "Act professional! Christ! What's wrong with you!"

His voice slowly dims as you speed walk away. Some poor assistant tries to get you to come back but you brush her off, cashing in those rock star moments you've piled up over the years.

Gerard comes and joins you a minute or so later as you all wait for the taxi Mikey called. His arms wrap around you and tug you against his chest, tight and grounding.

"He's an ass,"

"I know, Gee,"

"I'm going to complain to everyone about him. Turn his reputation to dust,"

"Think you'll just end up with the reputation of being a diva,"

"I've already got that,"

"Yeah, pimp coat did a number on your tough guy persona,"

"It was a nice coat, why do you all hate it?"

"It wasn't nice it was really fucking ugly. I still can't believe you bought multiple of it,"

"You bought multiple of those velvet dress,"

He means it teasingly, the same way you called him a pimp seconds ago, but all it does is remind you of the comments made at the start of this all.

"…Hey, I was thinking we should all go and watch a sci-fi movie. We could stop somewhere and pick up snacks too,"

"We aren't watching Star Wars again,"

"But it's Star Wars!"

"I wanna watch Fantastic Planet,"

"Guys?"

"I'm with her, Fantastic Planet is awesome,"

"I don't care as long as we get ice cream,"

"Let her watch Fantastic Planet, Gee. She's earned it,"

The door groans open. A tall figure fills the frame, backlit by the late evening floodlights. Choso Kamo. He’s today’s headline monster: the vampire prince concept you designed weeks ago, and he wears it like he was born into it. The vampire prince resonates with Robin Hood, except his concept steals orgasms and from woman and... gives himself some too. Hair half-tied, a stray strand catching the overhead light.

“You’re later than the rest,” you say without looking up, though you can feel him watching.

“Traffic in the underworld,” he deadpans, voice low enough to rumble.

That draws a quiet laugh. “Sounds serious.”

He steps inside, and the room seems to pull tighter around him. Cloak half slung, a silver chain catching the light, he smells faintly of clean soap and something metallic, like rain on iron. You motion to the chair. “Sit, Prince of Darkness. Let’s see if you live up to the sketch.”

“Your sketch,” he points out as he settles in. “If I look bad, that’s on you.”

“Then I won’t let you look bad.” You dampen a sponge. “Stay still.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes following your movements. “I can do that.”

“Don’t talk or I’ll mess up the contour.”

A pause. “You always threaten your clients?”

“Only the ones who need it.”

He huffs a soft sound but stays still. His gaze doesn’t wander. You reach for the black contacts, when your fingers brush his a flicker of warmth sparks between you.

“These might sting a little,” you warn.

“I’ll survive.”

The trailer quiets: the faint drag and dab of sponge on skin, the low pulse of music. He watches you with a steady calm that feels almost tangible. Close up, he’s absurdly handsome in that brooding undead way, sharp cheekbones, a mouth made for trouble, lashes too long to be legal.

“You ever bite? You know like move your jaw?” you ask, teasing, as you dab cold foundation along his jaw. This man's jaw is unreal.

“Only when asked,” he murmurs, and the trailer suddenly feels five degrees warmer. You roll your eyes and laugh a little. The air hums with static. Each brushstroke becomes a dare. You paint a vein of dark crimson down his neck; he tilts his head just enough to watch you from under heavy lashes.

When you step back, the vampire prince stands before you: obsidian eyes, blood red sigils curling across his throat, lips a shade too pretty for a public haunt. Your reflection wavers in those dark lenses, and for a moment you forget to breathe.

“Well?” you ask. “Convincing?” you tilt your head to the side.

He rises, cloak whispering across the floor. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “You did more than convincing.”

You arch a brow. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he answers, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leans just close enough for the iron tang of stage blood to brush the air between you. “See you in the dark,” he adds quietly, and then he’s gone, the door swinging shut, leaving the trailer thick with the scent of sticky paints and the echo of a heartbeat you can’t swear is yours. How fucking ominous.

-

The Blood Moon Maze breathes like a living thing. Shattered cathedral walls loom overhead, their stained glass fractured into jagged halos. Mirrors catch stray beams from the strobe lights, slicing the crimson fog into flashes of scarlet and silver. Every few seconds, a thunderous church bell echoes through the air, deep enough to rattle your ribs. You flash the staff pass at the entrance guard and slip inside. The world outside falls away until there’s only the chill of damp stone and the sharp tang of woodsmoke. From somewhere deeper in the labyrinth comes a low ripple of screams that are startled and then delighted.

Choso is already a phantom. One moment he’s a distant silhouette: cloak sweeping the floor, runes burning faintly like embers across his chest. The next, he’s gone, dissolving between the strobes. A startled group of teens stumbles backward when he reappears behind them without a sound. Their squeals echo off the broken walls; he simply inclines his head as if blessing them with dread. You trail the crowd, keeping to the edges, letting the fog hide your grin. He’s… magnificent. He makes a sudden movement and pivots, and for a heartbeat the maze is just you and him. His eyes catch the flash of a mirror, black contacts glowing under the crimson light. He tilts his head slightly, a single, deliberate motion. Like a silent dare. Your breath sticks. You tip your chin back in the barest nod. His mouth curves before he disappears again into the strobe.

The maze erupts in another wave of screams. A girl in a sequined devil horn headband trips over a loose stone and yells, half laughing, “Marry me, Harbinger!”

Without breaking character, Choso stops, turns with a slow regality that could belong to a monarch or a nightmare. He lowers his chin in a solemn nod, cloak sweeping dramatically around him. The queue of waiting guests loses it. Someone claps. Someone else shouts, “We’ll be at the wedding!” The staffers at the rope line double over, choking back laughter.

You bite your lip to keep from cackling out loud. He glides on unbothered, when he passes a cluster of mirrors, his reflection multiplies. One Choso, then six, then none, until the guests can’t tell which figure is real. A child squeals. An adult curses. The fog rolls thicker, as if the maze itself is in on the trick. Through it all, he keeps catching your gaze. A flick of eyes here. A subtle lift of a brow there. Each time it feels like a secret only the two of you share in the middle of the chaos. By the time the last group filters out, the maze is a crimson hush again. You linger by a cracked stone arch, watching him drift back toward the staff exit. He moves like the night owns him.

When he finally reaches you, he doesn’t break character, just tilts his head the way he did before. “Enjoy the show?” His voice is a low thread, the faintest smile hiding in it.

You can’t help but laugh. “You stole the entire maze.”

“Stole?” He shakes his head, cloak rustling. “It was mine from the start.” And with that he steps past you, the last curl of crimson fog swirling after him like a bow.

-

The diner’s neon sign sputters B-O-N in flickering red, the rest of the letters forever dead. But its the only place open at 2 a.m, the place glows like a half forgotten dream. The glass door sighs open as your crew spills in, still streaked with fake blood and glitter. The smell of strong coffee, burnt sugar, and fryer oil wraps around you like a heavy blanket.

You slide into a cracked vinyl booth, the seat sighing under the weight of a dozen chaotic nights just like this one. A ceiling fan clicks lazily overhead, each rotation stirring the faint tang of fake blood clinging to everyone’s clothes.

Nobara dives for a menu with a flourish. Yuji barrels in behind her, still wearing a plastic crown tilted like it survived a war. Their voices crash through the quiet diner, bouncing off chrome and formica.

“Pancakes have soul” Nobara declares, slamming down a coffee mug for emphasis.

“Waffles are architecture” Yuji fires back, gesturing with a fork he must have stolen from another table. “They hold the syrup. Science says waffles win!” a syrup packet zips across the table like a golden missile. Someone catches it midair and everyone cheers loud enough to wake the dead cook in the back. The night shift waiter barely glances up, his expression is the exact blend of resignation and amusement that says 'I’ve seen weirder.ʼ

Through the clamor, you feel the seat dip next to you. He's got no cloak now, just dark clothes and the faint smear of crimson paint along his jaw, like the night refuses to let him go. His hair is still half tied, strands falling loose in a way that looks both careless and deliberate. He doesn’t jump into the waffle war; he just watches, quiet and unshaken, like a calm center in the storm. It’s the first time all night you’ve seen him outside the maze’s shadows. Without the black contacts, his eyes are a deep brown; warm and unsettling all at once. The sharp edges of his character are still there, but now you can see the quiet beneath the performance. You lean forward, palms on the edge of your seat. “What’s your verdict? Pancakes or waffles?”

He tilts his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Whichever keeps everyone arguin' this much. Good entertainment.”

The simplicity of it makes you laugh, It warms you more than the coffee in front of you. “Dodgy if you ask me,” you say, shaking your head.

“Maybe.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “But it’s honest.”

You reach for a syrup packet just as he does and your fingers brush. It’s nothing and everything at once, the soft drag of his fingers against your skin, a tiny spark that rushes straight to your pulse. The diner’s hum fades: no clatter of silverware, no jukebox hum, only the static between you. You freeze for a heartbeat, aware of the heat of him across the table, of the faint scent of stage paint and something darker, like smoke after rain. Is Choso a smoker? Your breath catches.

“Guess we’re both pro syrup” you say finally, the words thin but steady. God, i'm so corny. why the hell would i say that?

His eyes hold yours, steady and unreadable. “Guess we are.” oh thank fuck, he doesn't think i'm stupid. The moment stretches, delicate and dangerous, until Yuji slaps the side of the jukebox. A distorted guitar riff bursts to life, breaking the spell. Nobara throws both arms up and shouts triumph. Someone else, probably Megumi, half asleep at the counter starts a slow clap. Syrup packets become projectiles again. The diner becomes a storm of laughter and sugar. Through it all, Choso remains calm. Not distant but quietly present, a grounding weight in the swirl of noise. When you steal a glance at him, he’s already watching you, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes like an unspoken question.

“You survive the night?” he asks softly, pitched so only you can hear.

“Barely. You?”

“Still standing.” The words settle between you, gentle but heavy. You wonder if he feels the same strange ache you do, a mix of exhaustion and the thrill of being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

The jukebox hits a high note. Nobara hops onto the bench to air guitar, Yuji crowns himself King of Waffles. Syrup drips across the table, sticky and sweet. The diner smells of coffee and adrenaline, a midnight world that feels like it could last forever.

But what lingers isn’t the sugar or the noise. It’s that quiet spark from the brush of his hand still buzzing in your veins, a silent promise that the night isn’t over, not really atleast.

-

The maze was supposed to be empty. You’d stayed behind to double check your kit. Makeup brushes washed, palettes packed, while the crew clattered off to the parking lot. The cathedral wall set loomed around you in jagged silhouettes. A mechanical machine hissed somewhere out of sight, even though the switch should’ve been off.

You zipped your bag, turned and froze. One of the cracked mirrors leaned at a new angle. You were sure you’d left it straight. A faint scrape echoed through the corridor like someone dragging fingernails along stone. “Hello?” Your voice wobbled, swallowed almost instantly by the thick haze. Only the crimson fog answered, curling around your ankles like smoke from a bad dream. Your heart spiked. You spun, but the corridor behind you was empty.

The lights above flickered violently. once, twice. Casting long, broken shadows across the ruined walls. For a moment, it was hard to tell the difference between fog and shadow, between mirror and corridor.

Something slid across the floor behind you, a piece of stage furniture, though you hadn’t touched it. It stopped when you spun around. Your pulse thundering, you tried your phone. Dead. Completely dead. Oh my God this is a horror movie and I'm gonna die. A warm, amused voice came from the shadows. “Thought I’d missed you.”

You startled so hard a scream departed from your throat so unceremoniously that you nearly dropped the bag. Choso stepped from a pocket of fog, runes faintly glowing against the dark fabric of his cloak. Leftover paint from the night’s performance traced his jaw like moonlight.

“Seriously?” you said, hand over your racing heart. “are you trying to kill me?” He tilted his head and smirked. “Nah, not tonight.” you were gonna say something but then the maze lights hummed. A cold breeze whispered through the broken cathedral set, carrying a faint rustle of fabric that wasn’t his. Your shoulders tightened.

“Something weirds going on,” you admitted. Then you started listing off your fingers, one by one. “Props moving, lights flickering. my phone just fucking died, and I sure as shit charged the damn thing.”

Choso scanned the dark with an ease that made the hair on your arms rise. “Probably Yuji screwin' with you,” he said, though his eyes narrowed like he didn’t believe it. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

You meant to protest, you weren’t that spooked but the word stuck in your throat when he extended a gloved hand with his palm up. You slipped your fingers into his. The leather was warm, softer than you expected. He didn’t grip tight, just enough to guide you. Each step together sent a quiet electricity up your arm.

They say silence can be awkward; this one wasn’t. His cloak brushed your leg now and then, each pass a slow-motion spark. The fog thinned as you neared the exit, revealing the moon outside, silvery grey, huge and hanging low like it was watching.

“See?” you said, trying for lightness. “Totally fine. No ghosts.”

“Mm.” He glanced down at you. “You still look like you'd seen one.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy. “Maybe I did.”

He didn’t answer right away. The pause stretched, thick with something unspoken. The only sounds were the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the soft rustle of his cloak. At the staff gate, he released your hand slowly, like the movement deserved attention. The night air smelled of damp earth and stage paint.

“Thanks,” you said, hoping the darkness hid the heat in your cheeks. “For, uh…not letting the ghosts get me.”

His gaze lingered on you, deep and unreadable. “Any time,” he said quietly. Then a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “But if the maze wants you, I can’t promise it’ll listen to me.”

Something about the way he said it made the world tilt, half joking, half like he meant it. The distant rumble of Yuji’s car horn broke the spell. Choso opened the gate for you, the faint glow of his sigils catching the edge of his smile. “Drive safe.”

You walked to your car feeling the echo of his touch in your palm, unsure if the chill on your neck came from the night air…or from the thought that maybe, just maybe, the maze hadn’t been entirely empty after all. Fuck me if it wasn't.

The maze had never felt so alive.

Strobes cut the darkness into fractured shards, flashing over broken cathedral walls and jagged mirrors. Fog so thick it tasted metallic curled around your ankles. Music pounded through the stone, a live DJ spinning beats that rattled your ribcage and made your pulse sync with every bass drop.

You ducked under a tilted archway just as a guest shrieked from behind a fake tombstone, their flashlight skittering across the floor like a runaway firefly. You lunged for it, tripping over your own laces, and scrambled to grab the beam before it rolled under a pile of props.

Behind you, a coworker in a skeleton bodysuit barreled forward, aiming for the same flashlight. “Hey!” you shouted, lunging, and nearly collided in a heap of fake blood, fog, and limbs.

And then, a raccoon. A fucking raccoon wearing a staff lanyard bolted past your legs like a furry comet, yipping like it owned the maze. Yuji went after it, arms flailing, and tripped spectacularly over a fog machine. Nobara screamed, half laughing, half panicking, as her crown slipped sideways. You were caught somewhere between exasperation and hysterical laughter.

Through all this chaos, you felt it: that unmistakable, magnetic pull. Choso. He appeared first as a shadow against a crumbling wall, cloak brushing the floor, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he was gone, then there, weaving between the fog and strobe lights like he was a part of the maze itself. You could feel his presence with every heartbeat, a quiet heat that pressed against your skin without touch.

“Careful,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than anyone else, as a guest screamed, dropped their flashlight, and bolted past you into the fog. A strobe flashed, and for a second, Choso was right there, his hand brushing yours as you both reached for a stray prop sword. The touch was brief, but it set every nerve on fire. You jerked back just enough to make it seem accidental, but your pulse betrayed you.

“Still standing?” he murmured, just low enough that the fog swallowed his words, but not your ears. “Barely,” you breathed, heart hammering, aware of the space between you.

The maze had become a symphony of chaos. Guests shrieking as they ran through strobe lit corridors. Someone tripping spectacularly into a stack of fake skulls. A fog cannon exploding behind a mirror, sending crimson haze spiraling like smoke from a battlefield. Nobara, who is dressed as a horror clown with a hammer for a weapon shrieked at a flying packet she mistook for a ghost. Yuji howled and pointed.

But Choso? He was everywhere and nowhere at once. One second, leaning against a broken archway, arms crossed, watching your antics with that faint smirk tugging at his lips. The next, he’d vanish between strobes, only to reappear behind a group of shrieking guests, tilting his head as if daring them to scream louder, or maybe daring them to chase him.

Your chest tightened every time he appeared. Every brush of cloak against your arm, every brief eye contact in the fog, felt electric. He didn’t need words, his presence, his controlled, predatory movement, and the faint curl of amusement at the corners of his mouth said everything.

You ducked behind another pillar, clutching your flashlight like a lifeline, breath shallow, trying to ignore the rapid pulse of heat spreading through your chest and down in your belly too. You weren’t just dodging props and guests, you were dodging him. And you definitely didn’t want to.

A bass drop shook the walls. Fog swirled around Choso as he stepped forward, just close enough that the heat of him brushed your arm. “You keep up,” he said, low, teasing, the words almost lost in the chaos, “or I’ll leave you in the maze.”

You gasped from the deliberate intimacy in his tone. “Like I’d let you,” you shot back, though your voice trembled from adrenaline and the thought of this man fucking you right here, right now. Vampire blood and all. I could give him another pulse to suck on.

A guest screamed as a mechanical bat swung from above. You ducked and pulled yourself out of your frazzled buzz. He was suddenly at your side again, just close enough to feel the faint warmth of him through his cloak. His presence pressed into you, steady and unrelenting, as the chaos continued all around.

By the time the last group of guests barreled out, collapsing in laughter and shrieks at the exit, you and Choso were left alone in the fog drenched, strobe lit ruins of the maze. You leaned against a crumbling wall, catching your breath. Every muscle ached from running, dodging, and laughing. But you couldn’t stop thinking about the heat of him beside you, the want for him to be inside you, the way his gaze lingered even when he didn’t touch you. You hoped he'd touch you. He tilted his head, cloak brushing the floor again, eyes dark and unreadable. “Not bad,” he murmured, faint amusement in his voice. “You survived the real show.” You swallowed hard.

The fairgrounds were silent now, just a long stretch of wet pavement reflecting the red security lights. Your car sat alone at the far edge of the lot, dew beginning to settle on the windshield. Choso walked a half step behind you, the faint squeak of his boots were the only sound besides the distant hiss of machines winding down. You were painfully aware of him. the weight of his presence, the slow, deliberate rhythm of his stride.

“You don’t have to walk me,” you said, voice softer than you meant. He glanced sideways. “And let the maze finish what it started tonight?” A laugh escaped you. “So you admit it’s haunted.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t elaborate, but the corner of his mouth tilted up just enough to make your stomach flip. You tightened your grip on your keys. “You like keeping people on edge, huh?”

“Only you,” he said simply.

The words landed like a quiet thunderclap. Heat crawled up the back of your neck. You slowed, suddenly aware of the empty lot, of how close his hand was to yours—an inch of space that felt charged, alive.

When you reached the car, neither of you moved to break the silence. He leaned one shoulder against the driver’s side door, eyes catching the red glow from the overhead light. You could feel the tension gathering between you like static before a storm.

“Thanks for the escort,” you said, but it came out as more of a breath than a sentence.

Choso didn’t move back. He tilted his head, eyes catching the moonlight, and the corner of his mouth curved.

“Guess I should say goodnight, huh?”

Your pulse jumped. “You guess?”

That was all it took.

He stepped closer, slow enough to let you stop him, fast enough to make you forget how to. One heartbeat later his palm was at your jaw and his mouth found yours

The first kiss was a soft press, deliberate and warm, a question you answered by leaning in harder. It deepened with a rush, a pull that left you dizzy, all tongue and teeth, this tongue licked the inside if your mouth and you softly groaned. Your back met the car door with a muted thud. You broke for a breath only to take off his hoodie, murmuring, “Don’t stop,” against his mouth.

Choso chuckled into the kiss, a rough sound that sent heat spiraling through you.

Your hand found the door handle, pushing it open in a single practiced motion. Without a word you slid backward into the backseat, a silent invitation in the way you tugged his sleeve. He followed, careful but sure, one knee sunk onto the seat beside you.

You fell against the seat as he braced a hand near your head, the other tracing the line of your hip. Choso pulled away and you made a noise of protest. He chuckled and pulled on your nipples through your shirt, you moaned and presses your hands onto the window above you. “shhh... Can I take care of you?” his hands stop short of your jeans. You answer him by jerking your hips in the hair towards him. Choso hums but his hands are in the air while his eyes stay fixed on yours. “Please.. Yes. Please Cho”

Choso slowly peels off your jeans and tosses it into the front seat. His hands slowly explore the feel of your thighs in his palms, the weight of your boobs, slowly he runs a hand down your tummy, when his hand curls over your pussy he rubs a thumb there through your underwear. Your eyes close while a moan escapes.

Choso sits on the seat and lifts you up and turns you so that your back is flush against his front. He spreads your knees using his legs, slowly he pulls your underwear off and runs a careful fingertip down your wet, swollen slit. You throw your head back against his shoulder and catch your bottom lip between your teeth, he chuckles and nips your ear.

“Fuck...” he sighs and reaches down, rubbing your clit with two of his fingers. His middle finger slides inside you, curling up to touch that spot that makes your brows knit and your breath catch in your throat. His other hand reaches up and pulls your bra down, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers. He sets a slow, deep pace with his fingers, sliding them in and out, your toes curling against their heightened position on the seat.

“You like that?” you let out another affirmative moan, pushing your hips into his hands. His fingers curl inside you, blindingly hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes you cry out. You whimper into his mouth when he dips his head for another opened mouth kiss. Your head falls back while he marks the sides of your throat. You coil your arms up and into his hair, clumsily kissing whatever part of him your lips can reach as you buck against his hand.

Choso groans into your neck when he feels you clench and cum around his fingers. He's never felt so close to losing his sanity as he has now. His cock is rock hard in his pants. Straining against his zipper but hell never pull it out, not unless you ask.

You're trembling as you start to come down from the high place your orgasm threw you to. Your cheeks are flushed pink, your lips are red and swollen. Choso doesn't know which part of you to look at, his eyes bounce from angle to angle, not knowing which part of you he wants to memorize first.

Your grin is lazy and sultry when you turn around to face him “Choso...”

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he's so desperate for you, he wants to ravish you, ruin you, fuck you until you're crying and cumming in his cock. Preferably both at the same time. He wants to tell you what a good girl you are and how absolutely fucking delicious you look like right now. He drags his hands that where in you into his mouth and licks his fingers like a lollipop, his eyes never leaving yours. He rolls his eyes back and groans. The taste of you so pleasant on his tongue, he wouldn't mind tasting it every day for the rest of his days to come.

“Put your back against the door.” you say. Choso is confused for a bit when you turn around to face him. You tuck your knees under you and reach for his pants “Let me see you”

He let's out a soft, shakey breath and helps you unbutton his pants. “Fuck... Pretty” his voice drops to a husky whisper. “You're killinʼ me here. Makinʼ me wanna” he pauses, his face mere inches from your own. “God... you're practically begginʼ me with those eyes” he exhales deep.

You laugh and run your hands down his now pantless cock. You pull the edge of his underwear away and slide it down his legs. His cock springs out, hard and hitting his navel. Ready for you to please it, suck it, fuck it, ride it. He's so thick you can barely cover it entirely with both your hands. You kiss his tip before taking him into your mouth and out again, his hips buck and his words sputter. Playfully, you lick one side of his cock and use your hand to massage the other. Your exhales are punctuated with wet sucking as your saliva coats both Choso's cock and your hand.

You take the tip into you mouth and he let's out a low, rough grunt. He starts twitching inside your mouth that you can barely cover, your head bobs up and down, while your hands twist and turn, up and down in blissful strokes. Choso's head falls back, jaw slack and maw opened wide. His hand comes to cover your head and pushes you down onto his cock. “Oh f-fuck me — nngh— pretty... wait!” You reach a hand to cup and massage his balls, his thighs tremble and his moans get lounder and shorter. Choso cums in hot spurts, hips bucking wildly, his cock reaches as far as it can possibly fit down your throat. Ragged moans fill the car space when you pull your head off his cock with a soft pop. You swallow his cum and sit back against your heels.

The car windows had fogged to a soft haze, streetlight halos blurring in the glass.

You stayed kneeling on the backseat, hair a little mussed, heartbeat still racing.

Choso leaned back against the opposite door, chest rising slow and steady, a half smile tugging at his mouth. For a beat neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just the sound of rain beginning to tick against the roof. He finally broke the silence, voice low and a little rough.

“You always this… distracting after hours?”

You laughed, breathless but warm. “Only when someone stares at me like that.” His gaze softened. “Like what?”

“Like you already know the answer,” you teased, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Choso’s eyes followed the motion; then he reached across the seat and brushed his thumb across your jaw, slow enough to make it a question. You leaned into the touch, and he let out a quiet, contented sound. “Come here,” he murmured. You crawled across the seat until you were infront of him, knees brushing.

He drew you against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding you both.

Outside, the world stayed muffled, just rain, just night. “You okay?” he asked, softer now.

You nodded into his chest. “More than okay.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Good. Because I’m not done stealing moments with you yet.” Your fingers found his, lacing together as the rain kept its rhythm. No rush. Just warmth, the quiet hum of shared breath, and the unspoken promise of whatever came next.

Naked as the day you were born, but hey, orgasms, am i right?

You have to say that you liked it. (ง •̀_•́)ง

In fact, he's never heard of anyone ever catching a shooting star. So, his blood was already buzzing from being the first to do it.

There was a loud BOOM like testing the Merry's canons for the first time again, and then the sky looked like someone punched it. It stretched like his own rubber body, and then it cracked like a mirror. He almost thought it was Ace’s birthday, the way colors sparked from it like fireworks.

And then there's a loud splash, and the light is suddenly right in front of the Sunny. It’s a rippling fountain of bright gold and silver. It fizzes and bubbles like a soda bottle. Bubbles that were nice enough not to burn Zoro when he managed to fish you out.

Zoro had rubbed his hands in shock afterward but hadn’t complained, so Luffy figured whatever it was, it didn’t hurt.

And when they finally saw you, they were all shocked. Not that he really knew what to expect when fishing up fallen stars. Nami seemed to think you would be bright and glittery, but when they pulled you out of the water, you seemed so normal.

You looked just like them. Feet, hands, nose, ears but even with a plain face he could see something. A shifting layer of light lying over each other and turning into shapes and colors like a kaleidoscope of color and ripples. Like the warm ocean reefs, rippling under the water as the ship sailed on clear days.

It was so cool. It made his mind buzz with questions. The longer he stared at the colors, the more they seemed to stick and settle. Like the scales on a mermaids tail.

He had so many questions.

What's The Ocean Above like? Are the waters as heavy as the ones that sink him like a stone? Can you swim in them? Can you teach him to swim in them?

Can you grant wishes? He wasn't sure he wanted to make one. Why take the fun out of things and ask you to grant his wish when he could do it himself? Just thinking about it, he decided. No granting wishes. It's cheating.

Can he have you?

He's not dumb enough to think he could keep you. You're a star after all. Just the thought of it already felt like trying to keep himself on land. It'd drive him crazy and make him snap and snarl as the itch would get too itchy and the crowds would get too boring.

But one of the most burning questions in his mind…Do stars poop?

It's the first thing he asks you when you open your kaleidoscope colored eyes. It was like he tossed a rock in a river. That same shift and shimmer rippled. Like an unrecognizable reflection, unable to decide its original shape before settling on a presence that couldn't be anyone else but You.

You stare at them the way bad guys stare at him when they realize too late that they’ve made the mistake of underestimating him and his crew.

You even make that same punched-out noise they do—before your head rolls back.

Chopper had quickly batted them away and like the greatest doctor in the whole ocean, took charge and did what he did best. Told Franky to carry you to the infirmary and then kicked them all out to do doctor things.

Chopper said you had passed out from shock and that despite falling from out of nowhere-...

“From out of the sky.” He corrected because it's stupid to pretend that they didn't all just see it.

-...you seemed ok.

A heartbeat, skin, blood. There was that same weird thing about how you looked that made Chopper squint but shake his head.

And then you woke up again. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that came before a storm. The kind of quiet that makes him wanna poke and prod to see just how much power that storm had.

A storm like the ones he and Ace and Sabo used to scream at to see who could be louder than the thunder.

He knows he shouldn't. He doesn't. Even though he thinks your storm gets in your own head because sometimes your eyes get cloudy and your fingers get twitchy. Chopper tells him it’s called shock. Which, if your own storm is hurting you, how is he supposed to help?

“Give them time.”

And he huffs and tries to do what Chopper says, but you looked lonely. He doesn’t like doing it, but he waits for you to tell him it’s okay or for when you say it's okay and it's really okay.

Or at least until Chopper says it’s okay.

And the more he watches and waits, the more he sees that, just like Ace, you’re not gonna get better on your own.

When you sit on the deck, he knows that heavy silent weight that bears down. Your eyes wide and distant with fear make him think it’s kinda lame that you haven’t even given this world a chance before deciding to be scared of it. Closed off and lonely.

It makes him itch, and despite Chopper trying to slap him away, he doesn't leave you alone.

If Chopper says you shouldn’t leave the ship yet, that’s fine.

He just plopped himself down next to you on the deck, humming while your brain slugged along like a snail most days.

But he could tell by the disbelieving but appreciative smile you send him. It was just enough to help settle you to your new life on his crew.

You were their lucky star, after all. He decided to make up the new station on the spot. The Straw Hat crew's very own lucky star.

It took a while, slow and steady, but you warmed up to him so much faster than the others, which made sense. He was the captain.

One day, out of the many days of what felt like months, you had taken a deep breath when he managed to drag you aboard sharing his captain's seat, and you talked.

And he listened in that way not a lot of people thought he knew how to do. He listens the way he fights with reckless focus, missing nothing, grasping at details like treasure. The way people underestimate his ears, the same way they underestimate his fists, it always makes him grin.

You talked, and they weren’t just stories, Usopp tells stories. You talk about your life from another world, another star entirely. From one star to another.

Immediately, he was hooked. He felt like he was talking to Shanks again as you told him of your life and your home. Phenomenal things. Things that sounded impossible.

You said weird things sometimes that made him laugh. You said sad things sometimes that made him want to punch someone.

Then, one day, you made a noise. It sounded strange at first, like wearing new sandals. It falters, cracks, then bursts free all clumsy and golden, bubbling up like something you forgot you even had. It was the sweetest sound he ever heard, and he had almost started to worry that you had forgotten how to laugh.

When you smiled, he understood that despite how normal you seemed, your smile was as bright as the stars. Pulled your cheeks up into apples he wanted to sink his teeth in.

Your laughter filled the ship, your tears fell like raindrops, and that’s when the thought truly settled. In the way he knows he’ll be Pirate King, deep, absolute, and undeniable.

The kind of truth that doesn’t need proof, because it’s already there, had been dropped right in front of their ship and now decorated their journey with starlight.

You were his star. You were meant to be his and your laugh proved it. Yeah. It’s right. He feels it as sure as the wind in his sails, as loud as the laughter echoing from his deck. So he grins, wide and sharp, and makes it official, like it wasn’t already obvious.