✦ Moanologue / aka Ririel - a name I chose not just for the moans, but for the monologues that ache behind them.
Sometimes I write like I’m whispering in someone’s ear.
Sometimes I write to scream into the void.
But mostly, I write to feel...
to explore obsession, dependency, intimacy, vulnerability.
to build soft cages and call them comfort.
to peel skin with words and call it healing.
✦ECU: malfunction. Side Effects May Include Attachment (Ateez, Yunho/Mingi)
↳ updates when the vibe hits
↳ themes: dark romance, psychological obsession, silence as intimacy, marking what’s yours, finding peace at 200 km/h
✦ Luxe & Haze (Formula 1, George Russell / Kimi Antonelli)
↳ updates when I can
↳ themes: dark obsession, emotional addiction, power games, desire as control, hotel rooms and bad decisions
That’s the heart of this blog. That’s where my energy lives.
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There might be moments when I share
☁ aesthetics
☁ fragments of other fandoms I love (Wuthering Waves, Where Winds Meet, some manhwas(maybeツ), k-pop(Skz and Atz) when I have breath for it)
☁ thoughts that have nothing to do with fiction but everything to do with me
This is not a NSFW blog. But it is vulnerable, sensory, and a little shameless in its emotional nakedness.
If you’re into hyperfixations, slow-burn control fantasies, and soul-picking prose - welcome ;)
The sea remembers. The first week of August, the island of Mykonos. I watch two men arrive in a helicopter, one vibrating with need, the other so still he might be made of stone. They do not know it yet, but I have seen this before. Every summer, the same hunger. Every summer, the same mistake, believing that obsession can be controlled.
The helicopter rotors hadn’t even fully died before Lando felt the first roll of impatience coil in his stomach. Lando pressed his forehead against the window, watching the white cube of the villa grow larger beneath them, clinging to the cliff like a sugar cube about to dissolve into the turquoise water below and all his exhausted brain could loop, was the image of the door clicking shut behind them and Oscar’s hands finally on his skin.
But Oscar wasn’t moving like a man in a hurry.
He thanked the pilot, and then he stood at the edge of the helipad, letting the salt wind push his hair back from his forehead, drawing the Aegean air deep into his lungs as if he were savouring the first proper breath he’d taken in months. The sun is already sinking toward the water. Oscar stood perfectly still, and Lando felt a spike of irritation mixed with something hotter, something that bordered on awe. How could he just stand there? How could he not be burning with the same frantic, clawing need that was currently liquefying Lando’s insides?
Lando fumbled with his own bag, sweat already prickling at the back of his neck. The heat was a thick, physical weight even this late in the evening. Below them, the villa sprawled white and low across the cliffside, its infinity pool catching the last bruised-pink light of sunset. It was disgustingly beautiful, the kind of place Lando would have killed to flaunt on Instagram any other day. Right now he just wanted to be inside. Preferably pinned against a wall with Oscar’s thigh shoved between his legs.
“Are you going to stare at the view all night,” Lando called, “or do I have to start without you?” He’d aimed for bratty, landed squarely on needy, and the corner of Oscar’s mouth curled in response.
“You’re impatient.”
“I’m exhausted,” Lando corrected, though they both knew it was the same thing. Exhaustion always stripped his filters. Left him raw and greedy for Oscar’s attention in a way that would have been embarrassing if Oscar hadn’t already proven, a hundred times over, that he wanted that rawness.
With a slow exhale Oscar finally moved, picking up both their bags as if Lando’s was weightless. “Come on, then.”
The steps from the helipad to the villa entrance were broad and stone, carved into the cliff-face rather than built over it, flanked by walls of rough plaster thick with bougainvillea. Lando trailed one hand along the wall as he descended. The plaster was warm, still giving off the day's stored heat in slow pulses, and his fingers moved over rough stone and the dry edges of fallen petals and, once, the vanishing scrape of gecko feet before it was gone. Below, through the gaps in the bougainvillea, the sea caught the dying light in long copper horizontal stripes.
The villa was all clean lines and cold marble, every room opening onto the sea. A housekeeper had been and gone – there were fresh flowers on the dining table, a bowl of figs and peaches, a bottle of white wine sweating in an ice bucket. Lando kicked off his shoes the moment he crossed the threshold, groaning at the feel of cool stone under his feet.
“Shower,” he announced. “Then bed. In that order. Possibly simultaneously if you’re creative enough.”
Oscar set the bags down near the staircase. “You should eat first.”
“I’m not hungry.”
✨ Surprise, surprise ✨a new trilogy is coming💕
I wrote a brand new F1 summer trilogy, and in my universe, their summer break lasts the entire month (because why give them only two weeks of chaos when they can have thirty days of it?)
I’m teasing the banners for now (just to get us all in the feels 👀), but the full stories are dropping on AO3 very, very soon😝
Relationship: Andrea Kimi Antonelli/George Russell
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Chapter 2, 3, 4, 5 - POV: George
I wake at seven, and I'm already restless.
Some thoughts are stuck in my head about the ninth turn, about mirrors, about a white helmet that fills my rear view and just won’t go away. I lie still for a moment longer, letting that dream fade away. Then I remember last night and stop trying.
He's been in my head for the last six months now. Ever since he qualified three-tenths behind me, ever since he looked at me with those unreadable eyes and said nothing at all. It's not that I'm worried about him as a competitor, I've beaten better drivers than him. It's that he's always there. In the garage. In the briefings. In my peripheral vision.
I get up and head for the shower. I don't count the minutes. I just let the steam fill the room, let my mind go blank.
When I finally step out, the mirror is fogged. I wipe a patch clear and look at myself. The same face I've worn for years. The same careful neutrality that's carried me through every victory and every defeat. I’m practicing my smile for the press conference so that it’s at just the right angle and shows just enough warmth to seem sincere. By now, it’s become muscle memory.
I dress in my team kit. The Mercedes logo sits over my heart. I check my phone – nothing important. No messages from him. Why would there be? We don't text. We don't call. We just... exist in the same space and pretend we don't notice. I lock it and slip it into my pocket.
Before heading out, I make coffee in my hotel room. This habit started around my third season after many mornings spent standing next to coffee machines that brewed a drink that was technically correct but fundamentally wrong, I began making my own coffee. I carry it in a thermos mug to the parking lot. Outside, the March morning is sharper than it looks from the window: the kind of Melbourne autumn light that makes everything look defined and slightly unreal, the air cold enough that my breath ghosts in front of me for a second before I get in the car. I drive to the circuit with the heater low and the cup braced between my knees, and I let the roads be quiet for as long as they'll let me.
The motorhome is already buzzing when I arrive. Engineers huddle around monitors, strategists murmur into headsets. I know all their names. I know their children's names. I know which ones are having affairs and which ones are going through divorces and which ones will stay at this team until they retire. And still, I feel like a stranger among them sometimes. Especially lately. Especially since he arrived and suddenly I'm not the only one they're watching. I set my cup down at the head of the table with a small ceramic sound that the room swallows immediately. Toto is across from me, discussing tire degradation. I nod along, but I'm not really listening. Degradation. The gradual breakdown of a surface under stress. I know something about that.
Marcus slides a tablet across the table. Kimi's sector times from yesterday's practice highlighted in blue.
"Thought you'd want to see his S2 before we go through strategy," he says, quiet enough that no one else catches it. I glance at the numbers. The middle sector. Seven-tenths faster than his qualifying time, run on a set of tires that by rights should have been ten laps dead. Seven-tenths. On dead tires. That's not talent. That's the kind of pace you find when you've stopped caring whether you crash.
I hand the tablet back without comment.
"Impressive for a rookie," Marcus adds.
"He's not a rookie," I say. "He just drives like he has nothing to lose."
And that's the problem, isn't it? I have everything to lose. Championship. Reputation. Control. He has nothing. He can drive like a maniac and they'll call him brave. I drive like a maniac and they'll call me reckless. With conclusions like that, I just want to put my fist through something.
ECU: malfunction. Side Effects May Include Attachment
Chapter 3 - POV: Mingi / Full Tank
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Rating: Explicit
Category: M/M
Fandom: ATEEZ (Band)
Relationship: Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi (ATEEZ)
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The gas station is eleven minutes from the garage on the route I don’t take when I’m in a hurry, which means I take it almost never, which means I’m here at half past eleven on a Tuesday with no particular reason except that the needle was at a quarter and I decided that was unacceptable. That’s the reason I’m using. The needle at a quarter. Technically true. I fill up at a quarter when something is already pulling me in this direction and I need something in my pocket that sounds like a reason.
The station is compact, three islands under one flat canopy, six pumps and bright white LEDs overhead. I recognize his truck at pump two before I've finished turning in: driver's door open, him already leaning back against the rear panel with his arms crossed and his head tipped back. Throat exposed, the long line of it catching the overhead light from underneath. Right next to where he’s filling up, I pull to pump three , turn off the engine, and then sit there a little longer because my brain has just done something useless: it has taken a completely ordinary image of a man standing at a gas station looking at the sky, and decided to render it in higher resolution than the situation calls for. His collar sits open. The tendon on the left side of his neck is a clean diagonal from the angle of his jaw to the hollow above the collarbone. The light makes the skin look cooler than it probably is. My eyes trace the line once and then I get out of the car because staying inside with the engine off and the windows up while I look at another man’s throat is not a thing I’m going to do.
I tap my card and lift the nozzle. I make myself look at the fuel door while I open it. Normal sequence of actions. I have performed this sequence hundreds of times. It does not require any additional cognitive load.
The pump clicks on. I can see him in my peripheral vision, which is generous to an embarrassing degree. I’ve been told I have exceptional peripheral awareness on the night runs, that I process lateral movement faster than most when threading between concrete pillars and civilian traffic. Right now it is processing the angle at which his collar sits against his neck, and I want to have a conversation with whichever part of my brain made this decision about resource allocation. He hasn’t looked over. His eyes are still up, looking into the empty darkness with the kind of absolute fixity he usually reserves for a broken chassis. That's a familiar sight to me. These tense lines of his shoulders, his complete ignore of the rest of the world. Having once been on the receiving end of that heavy, clinical gaze myself, I see him wasting it on the empty night, and it causes my pulse to skip a beat with unease, though I immediately decide to ignore it. Don't waste it on the sky. Look at something that can use it.
I watch the numbers tick up on the pump display. Liters. Price. The sound of fuel moving through the line is white noise. Everything here is regular and boring. The station lights buzz at a frequency I can feel in my back teeth. At the far end of the forecourt, a car pulls in and a woman gets out and her shoes make sounds on the concrete and somewhere on the service road a truck downshifts. Ordinary Tuesday night sounds.
He drops his chin. Looks at the pump. Looks across the forecourt. Looks at me. I don’t move. There’s a version of me that nods, that lifts a hand, that does the normal human thing you do when you encounter someone you know at a gas station apparently stayed in the car. What I actually do is hold eye contact for a few seconds and then look back at the pump display, which reads seven liters and is still going, and which has suddenly become the most interesting object in the immediate environment...
ECU: malfunction. Side Effects May Include Attachment
Chapter 2 - POV: Mingi / Frequency of Noise
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Rating: Explicit
Category: M/M
Fandom: ATEEZ (Band)
Relationship: Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi (ATEEZ)
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The first night comes back to me more often than I'd like, and almost never when I go looking for it. It comes looking for me. Some nights I can go weeks without it surfacing, and then something stupid, like the smell of grease, a stranger's notebook left open on a counter, the particular angle of a half-open gate, triggers it and I'm back there before I've decided to go. I've tried, a few times, to just not think about it. It doesn't work. I've replayed it so many times now that I genuinely don't know anymore which details are real and which ones I've added, smoothed over, sanded down through sheer repetition.
The car had been making a sound for two weeks before that. A tick under load, somewhere around 4000 RPM, gone by 4500. I'd had it looked at twice. Both times the guy shrugged and told me it was nothing, charged me for the privilege of hearing that. I didn't argue. There's a specific kind of fatigue that comes from being told you're imagining something you can hear with your own ears, and after the second guy I just paid and left, because arguing would have meant explaining how I know the difference between a sound and a feeling, and I didn't have the energy to sound that unhinged to a stranger in a polo shirt. I knew it wasn't nothing. You learn to trust the sounds a car makes more than you trust most people, because the car has no reason to lie to you. It just reports what's wrong. People report what they think you can handle.
The tick had been there two weeks when I almost ended the car entirely. Second corner of a back-road run, just me and three other idiots who'd decided three a.m. was a reasonable time to find out whose brakes were better. I caught a patch of gravel mid-turn that shouldn't have been there, and for about a second and a half I was a passenger in my own car. I got it back. Mostly. The left side took the wall, not head-on, just enough of a kiss at speed to peel the paint straight down to bare metal along the door and most of the quarter panel, and the metal itself had a texture I’d never seen on this car before, and it looked pretty strange, when you see the surface of an object you know well turn into something it’s not supposed to be.
One of the other three pulled up alongside afterward, window down, engine still running, and just looked at the door for a second before saying, "Bro." I told him I was fine. He said, "I didn't ask if you were fine," and drove off, which is the most honest exchange I'd had with anyone in about a month.
Someone from the meetup lot came over and gave me the look that means could have been worse and we both know which way. Then handed me a piece of torn receipt paper with an address on it. Industrial side, warehouse seven. Guy doesn't ask questions, so don't expect a conversation. I remember thinking that sounded fine. Better than fine. I'd had enough conversations that month to last several lifetimes, mostly the kind where people were trying to figure out something about me they weren't going to say directly. I wanted a transaction. Car broken, car fixed, money changes hands, eye contact optional.
I pulled up outside a gate that didn't look like it led anywhere worth going. No sign except a 7 welded crooked out of rebar, lit by one streetlamp doing its best from half a block away. I sat in the car for a minute before getting out… well, just like now, except that night I didn't do it to let the noise die down. That night the noise hadn't started yet. That night I was just deciding whether the risk of getting jumped in an empty industrial lot at two a.m. was worth a quieter engine. Worth it either way, I remember thinking. A quieter engine or a reason to stop driving for the night. I wasn't picky about which one I got...
ECU: malfunction. Side Effects May Include Attachment
Chapter 1 - POV: Mingi / Gravity by Default
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Rating: Explicit
Category: M/M
Fandom: ATEEZ (Band)
Relationship: Jeong Yunho/Song Mingi (ATEEZ)
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The engine is still ticking down when I kill it outside the gates. Two AM and the asphalt hasn’t given up the day’s heat. It pushes back against the soles of my boots like it wants me to remember I’m still on the ground. I don’t like remembering that.
I rest my forehead on the steering wheel for a few minutes. Not because I need it. Just long enough to let the last of the race noise bleed out of my skull. Two hundred and twelve kilometers an hour on a deserted stretch of industrial frontage road, dodging potholes and the occasional abandoned tire. The kind of speed that makes everything else shut the fuck up for a while.
At that speed the body stops belonging to biography. No history, no names, no old cities. Just pressure. Steering correction. Timing. The exact second your hands stop being hands and become input. That’s the part nobody understands when they talk about risk like it’s a death wish. They think speed is about wanting to die. They’ve never felt what it does to the noise. They’ve never had their thoughts cut cleanly enough to miss them when they come back.
Then I get out. The night breeze catches the bare skin of my shoulders, cooling the sweat under the straps of my tank top. The light from the sodium streetlamps reflects off the glossy black paintwork of the doors, highlighting a distinctive matt pattern of horizontal black flame-like stripes that run along both sides, stretching from the rear bumper right up to the hood.
The right gate opens easier than the left, like always. I touch the metal in the same spot I always do. Cool despite the night. My fingers come away with the faintest trace of grease. Good. Means he’s been working.
Inside, the garage is a different planet. Dimmer. Quieter. The air smells like oil and old leather and something wooden. My shoulders drop before I tell them to. I don't fight it. My body decided something about this garage months ago and I've been showing up ever since to pretend I made the decision myself.
There. The first real breath since some local kid dropped his arms to start the run back at the industrial park. It hits the back of my throat like heavy water, coating the raw edges of the adrenaline. My lungs expand, instead of just taking those short, shallow sips of oxygen I live on when I'm behind the wheel weaving through midnight traffic and dodging unlit median strips.
As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I look past the half-shadowed bay and spot him. He’s standing beneath a Civic fully hoisted on the left lift, illuminated by the stark work-light. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt with a slightly deep V-neck that highlights the sharp line of his collarbones as he tilts his head back. His sleeves are rolled high up his forearms, muscles tense as he reaches up to torque a bolt on the undercarriage. I don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.
I drop onto the crate by the tool chest, legs stretched out, and just watch. My head is still loud from the race, but it’s quieter here. Not silent. Just… dialed down.
I rub my thumb over a callus on my palm and tell myself I came for the car. The left rear camber was pulling a little on the last set of turns. That’s why I’m here. That’s the only reason.
He lowers his wrench, steps out from the heavy shadow of the lift, wipes his hands on a rag that used to be red, and finally looks at me. Dark eyes unreadable in this light. Or maybe I just don’t want to read them.
“Nightjar,” he says.
I nod once. He already knows the car...
Hey loves,
Can you feel it too? 🤭🎀 That shift in the air, longer days, warmer nights, the kind of freedom that makes your mind finally relax and say “Okay, now let’s make some creative stuff💅”
After a pretty intense winter-spring writing sprint (re-reading old drafts from winter, tearing apart scenes that didn’t hit hard enough, rewriting until my eyes burned and then a necessary pause to not completely burn out), I finally have enough free time to return to writing properly 😄😄😄 Some of you may have noticed that I've been quietly working behind the scenes for a while now, and I think it's finally time to talk about what's coming next.
This summer, I'm planning to focus on two long projects that have been living in my documents, notes apps, and brainrot folders since winter:
"ECU [Emotional Control Unit]: malfunction. Side Effects May Include Attachment"
Ateez | Yungi | Street Racing AU
Driver Mingi. Mechanic Yunho.
Speed, obsession, bad decisions, and the kind of attachment that slowly turns into a problem neither of them knows how to fix.
and
"Luxe & Haze"
Formula 1 | Russonelli | Canon-based
Built around real events, real races, real mistakes, and the dangerous line between admiration, fixation, and obsession.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The funny thing is that neither of these projects is actually new. I started planning both of them back in winter, and whenever I had enough energy, I kept writing scenes, outlines, and entire chapters.
The less funny thing is that after rereading everything, I realized some chapters simply don't work anymore.
Some need editing. Some need heavy revisions. A few probably need to be rewritten from scratch.
So that's why I'm not posting anything immediately.
Right now I'm going through old drafts, checking chapters, fixing plot points, and making sure both stories are something I'll actually be proud to share. If everything goes according to plan, the first chapters should appear on AO3 sometime during the second half of the month or in the last days of June.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
P.S. Since I know some people are probably wondering about "Say It Again" (Hawaii Five-0)... "Say It Again" is alive.
The truth is that it's still very much in development.
What I didn't expect when I started writing it was how difficult the story would become. Most of the time, I'm arguing with myself because Steve and Danny keep refusing to tell me which ending they want, so we've been stuck in negotiations for an embarrassing amount of time. Every path feels right for one reason and wrong for another.
The fic isn't abandoned, the author is simply being held hostage by her own plot, so I ended up picking up new projects to either give myself a break... or make things even worse by adding more stories to my workload.
As a result, updates for all three of my main projects will probably be irregular. I don't think I'll be able to maintain the "new chapter every Friday and Saturday" schedule that I somehow managed a year ago.
I'd rather take more time and post chapters when they're ready than rush them just to meet a schedule.
Hey everyone! I'm excited to share what I'm calling my "New Year's Trilogy" - a special collection of fanfiction that I've put together to celebrate the holidays and the new year.
✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ So what exactly is this trilogy?
It's a curated set of stories from three of my absolute favorite fandoms: NCIS, Black Butler, and The Mentalist. For each fandom, I've written two versions: a General Audience version that everyone can enjoy, and an Explicit version for those who prefer more mature content.
✧₊⁺🕯⋆.˚୨ৎ That means six stories total, letting readers choose their own adventure based on their preferences and comfort levels. Whether you're looking for something cozy and wholesome or something with a bit more heat, there's something here for you!
≽^•⩊•^≼ I had so much fun exploring these different universes and giving each one the New Year's treatment. I hope you'll check them out and let me know what you think!
As we step into 2026, I wanted to take a moment to look back at 2025 through my favorite photo from each month. Each of these images captures a day filled with memories that are very precious to me.
📚 8+ Months on AO3: A Journey as Moanologue
It's been just over 8 months since I started sharing my stories on AO3 under the name Moanologue! Here's what this year brought:
9 works shared with the world
154,423 words in my longest fic (Say It Again)
56 subscriptions, 161 kudos and 107 comments on that story alone
Countless hours of writing, editing, and connecting with this amazing community
Every hit, every kudos, every comment has meant so much to me. Thank you for reading, for supporting and for being part of this creative adventure💕💕💕💕💕
🎮 Gaming Adventures
The charm of these games never ceases to amaze me💖💖💖
🎵 December Soundtrack
And because music fuels everything I do, here's what kept me company this December: my top 20 tracks featuring ATEEZ, YUTA, Marc Moon, and so many others. From "Fame is a Gun" to "Now this house ain't a home", these songs were the backdrop to my writing sessions and daily life.
And in 2026, there will be even more stories, more memories, and more moments worth capturing. Thank you for being here with me🌟
Relationship: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
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The darkness is soft when I wake, not the heavy kind that presses down but the gentle pre-dawn dimness that means morning's coming but hasn't arrived yet. There's movement in the room: fabric rustling, the quiet clink of a belt buckle, the familiar creak of Steve's closet door.
I blink, my eyes adjusting slowly, still caught in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness. Steve's silhouette moves through the room. He's already half-dressed. Cargo pants on, the dark fabric hugging his hips in a way that would normally make my brain short-circuit, but it's too early for that. His shirt's still off, dog tags catching the faint light as he reaches for something on the dresser. (…?) The metal glints as he moves, and I watch the play of muscles across his back, the way his shoulders roll as he pulls open a drawer.
The room smells like fresh coffee and clean laundry, that particular scent of pressed uniforms that reminds me he's going into commander mode. Not the Steve who kissed me breathless last night, but Commander McGarrett, head of Five-0, the man who walks into dangerous situations like he's got nothing to lose.
I should say something. Should let him know I'm awake. But I'm caught just watching him move through the pre-dawn routine, this intimate glimpse of him preparing for the day. There's something mesmerizing about it… the economy of movement, the quiet focus, the way he's already mentally shifting into work mode even as he's still in our bedroom.
He reaches for his tactical vest, and that's when the digital clock on the nightstand catches my eye: 5:17 AM in harsh green numbers.
Shit. Wait-
My brain finally catches up, sleep-fog clearing in a rush of panic.
Five-seventeen. We're supposed to be at headquarters. The case. The surveillance. Am I late? Did I oversleep? Are we supposed to be leaving together?
Panic flutters in my chest, and I start to sit up quickly, the sheets sliding down to my waist. Cool air hits my bare chest, and I remember I'm still naked from last night.(…) Heat creeps up my neck at the memory, but I push it aside because… fuck, if we're late, if I'm making him late…
"What time is it?" I already know, but the question gives me something to say besides don't go. "Are we leaving? I can get ready in-"
Steve notices the movement immediately, turning from the closet with his Five-0 polo in hand. Even in the dim light, I can see the soft expression that crosses his face when he realizes I'm awake.
"Easy, Danno." He sets down his polo, and moves to the bed. "It's early. Just past five. You're not late."
"But you're-" I gesture at him, at the tactical gear, at the time glowing accusingly on the nightstand. "You're dressed. It's five in the morning. I thought…"
"I'm leaving early. Go back to sleep." He sits on the edge of the bed near my hip, the mattress dipping under his weight. His hand finds my chest, palm flat over my heart where it's hammering too fast. "Just for a couple hours. Early meeting about the warehouse surveillance. Nothing you need to be there for yet."
"Yet," I repeat, my brain still trying to shake off the sleep. "What does that mean?"
"Means today's going to be long. Probably run into tonight." The pressure is firmer now, pinning me in place. "You should rest now while you can."
But I should be there from the start, I should be up and dressed and following him out the door like a real detective instead of lying here in his bed while he goes to work without me. I'm his partner, aren't I? His second? I should be beside him, not…
Yet the weight of his hand on my chest and the exhaustion still clinging to my bones makes protest difficult. His hand is so warm, so solid, and I can feel my heart beating faster and faster against his palm.
"I'll call you when it's time to head in. Probably around nine, nine-thirty. That gives you a few more hours." His thumb strokes once, twice, across my chest.
A few more hours in his bed, in his space, surrounded by the scent of him. The thought should probably feel more pathetic than it does.
"And you?" I counter, because I can't just let it go completely. "When did you sleep? Because I know for a fact you were awake after I passed out."
"I'm fine. I've run on less."
"That's not an answer." I try to hold his gaze, though it's hard to be confrontational when I'm naked and horizontal and he's dressed and looming over me with that fond exasperation in his eyes.
"It's the only answer you're getting right now, Danno." He leans down, and I think he's going to kiss me properly, but instead his lips press against my forehead. The tenderness of it makes my throat tight. "Stay here. Rest. And don't forget to eat, there's stuff in the fridge. Don't just grab coffee and call it breakfast."
The specific instructions settle something in my chest that I don't want to examine too closely.
"Tsk, yes, Dad," I mutter, aiming for sarcasm but landing somewhere closer to affection. The word slips out without thought, a verbal eye-roll, and I freeze for a second as I realize what I've said.
Steve's laugh is quiet, dangerous in the pre-dawn stillness. "Dad?" His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and he tugs gently. My head tilts back automatically, exposing my throat, and I feel the vulnerability of the position even as my body relaxes into it. "That's not what you call me, Danny."
My breath catches. The shift in his tone and the tug on my hair sends heat pooling low in my belly despite the early hour, despite the fact that he's supposed to be leaving. "Steve-"
"That's better." He leans down, his lips brushing my ear, and his voice drops to that commanding tone. "You're going to stay in this bed. You're going to sleep. You're going to eat the breakfast I told you to eat. And when I text you, you're going to come to headquarters. Understood?"
The commands wash over me like warm water, and I feel my body respond before my brain can catch up. Muscles relaxing, resistance melting, that strange sense of relief that comes from having someone else make the decisions.
"Understood."
"Good boy." His lips press to my forehead in a kiss again. His hand tightens for just a second before releasing. "I'll call you when it's time to head in."
His hand stays on my neck for another moment, thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear, and I can feel him watching me, making sure I understand. Making sure I'll obey. Then he releases me, and the loss of contact feels like cold air on wet skin.
I sink back against the pillows, my head still spinning slightly from the combination of sleep and submission, and watch him finish getting ready. He pulls the polo over his head, the fabric settling across his shoulders, pulls on his tactical vest, checks his phone, grabs his keys from the dresser.
When he heads for the door, he pauses, looking back at me one more time. "Stay," he says again, and it's not a request. "I mean it, Danno."
"I will." Even though part of me wants to argue, wants to prove I can handle being there from the start, I won't. Because he told me not to. Because obeying him has become easier than fighting.
Because I'm his good boy, and good boys do what they're told.
The door closes with a soft click, and I hear his footsteps through the house, boots on hardwood, the distinctive sound of his tactical boots that I'd recognize anywhere, the jingle of keys, the front door opening and shutting. The engine of his truck rumbles to life, then fades as he pulls out of the driveway.
The silence that follows is oppressive.
I lie there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. The space where Steve was lying still holds his warmth, and I find myself rolling into it without thinking, burying my face in his pillow and gasping for breath.
More… More coffee, metal and that cedar cologne.
The scent of him surrounds me, and my body responds with a wave of relaxation so profound that I feel like I'm in paradise.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, and I reach for it automatically. No messages yet, but it's only been five minutes since he left. The screen shows 5:23 AM when I tap it, the brightness making me squint in the dim room. I set it down, pick it up again, check the time. 5:23 AM still. Time hasn't moved. I set it down again, this time face-up so I can see if the screen lights up with a message.
Get some sleep, he said. I'll call when it's time.
I should be able to do this. Should be able to spend a few hours alone without feeling this low-level anxiety humming through my veins. It's not like I've never been alone before. I lived alone for years before... before everything went to shit.
But now, in Steve's bed, wrapped in his sheets, the house feels too quiet. Too empty. Like something essential has been removed and the air pressure changed with it, leaving my ears ringing with the absence.
I force my eyes closed, practicing the breathing exercises. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The rhythm helps, slows my racing heart. The exhaustion from yesterday's full day starts to creep back in, my muscles relaxing into the mattress.
Just a few more minutes...
•
•
•
I'm in a car, not Steve's truck or the Camaro, something else. Something unfamiliar but not quite wrong. The dashboard is too clean, the seats too stiff. I'm in the passenger seat, hands folded in my lap, seatbelt tight across my chest. Not uncomfortable, but present. Noticed.
Someone's driving, but when I try to look over, their face is just a blur of features, a suggestion of a person rather than a person themselves. It might be Steve. The build is right, the set of the shoulders, but I can't quite focus enough to be sure.
The road ahead is familiar: Honolulu streets I know by heart, routes I've driven a hundred times. But they're wrong somehow. Too wide, or too narrow, or the buildings are in the wrong places. That restaurant should be on the left, not the right. That intersection shouldn't exist. The light is strange, too, neither day nor night but some liminal space between, everything washed in silver-blue like a photograph left too long in the sun.
We're moving fast. Not dangerously fast, but with purpose, like we're going somewhere important. I want to ask where, but my voice doesn't work. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
The driver beside me says something, but the words are distorted, underwater. I catch fragments: "...almost there..." "...just breathe..." "...trust me..."
I do trust them. That's the strange part. Even though I can't see their face, can't understand their words, my body knows this person is safe. My hands stay folded in my lap, my breathing stays even. I'm not afraid.
The road changes. We're suddenly on a bridge. A long one, stretching over water that's too dark, too deep. The ocean, maybe, but wrong. The water isn't moving the way it should. It's still, glass-smooth, reflecting the strange silver light until I can't tell where the bridge ends and the water begins.
The car slows. Stops. We're in the middle of the bridge now, suspended over this impossible dark mirror, and I realize I can hear my own heartbeat. It's too loud, drowning out everything else.
The driver turns to me, and for just a second, I see Steve's face, really see it. His eyes are that intense blue, fixed on mine, and his hand reaches over to rest on my chest, right over my heart.
"Don't move," he says, and his voice is crystal clear now, cutting through the dream-haze. "Don't breathe yet."
It's not a threat. It's an instruction, delivered in that same commanding tone he uses when he's trying to keep me safe. And my body responds without thought, going completely still, breath held, waiting for permission.
The water below us rises. Not slowly, all at once, like someone flipped a switch. It surges up around the car, dark and heavy. Steve's hand is still on my chest, anchoring me, and his voice cuts through the sound of water against metal.
"Not yet. Wait for me."
The water reaches the windows, and still I don't move. Don't breathe. My lungs are starting to burn, my chest tight, but Steve's hand is there, steady pressure, and I trust it more than I trust my own panic.
The seconds stretch. The burning gets worse. My vision starts to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing, but I don't move.
Just when I think I can't hold it any longer, his hand lifts, and his voice says: "Now. Breathe."
