Are Conner and Hudson twinning around Canada pics amazing? Yes BUT
I’m purposefully refusing to like and reblog any of them because I think it’s fucked that they’re getting stalked. Like, even though someone already took it and the damage is done I feel like interacting normalizes it and creates more demand.
Like if we could all boo and shame people stalking them and taking pics and vids I think it would massively cut down on it all.
Not to be parasocial I just think everyone deserves to not feel unsafe at work/in private. I’ve had weird situations like this for other reasons and it’s v violating and fucks with you a lot even if nothing “bad” happens.
laughing about the idea of shane who has no real firsthand experience with curls (beyond messing them tf up while fucking ilya) trying to make ilya presentable after sneaking off with him to smooch but who just ??? seems to be making it worse?? oh fuck??
like his memories of hair fixing someone else are his mom finger combing his hair? but that appears?? to be making this worse?? oh god??? wait no?? stop getting frizzier!! be neater!! everyone return to your assigned curl!!
and ilya who COULD be helping is just. letting this happen. no help at all. shane increasingly is just making it worse and more obvious what they've been up to and ilya is just enjoying being pet and watching shane get flustered.
genuinely nothing is more corrosive to love, respect, or trust than the insecurity of forever being second and last in line. of always being the plus one but never invited; always tolerated on their behalf but never wanted on your own. of knowing that nobody's jealousy or admiration is about you at all, only your place at their side. you tell them that you feel like you only exist when you're with them, and they laugh, charmed, but it isn't a figure of speech. it's not enough that they love you best if everyone else loves them better.
fuck it I think if shane died ilya would live a long and fulfilling if not happy life dedicated to him. he'd achieve great things supported by yuna and david and wouldn't even consider dating again. but if ilya died shane would most certainly kill himself within the year
Ilya always has a mop of frizzy wild curls at the cottage because
They're always in and out of the water – lake swims, pool swims, hot tub, showers – so doing his curl routine each time would be crazy when he could be spending that precious time sucking his boyfriend's dick.
Shane's not the biggest fan of how Ilya's styling products feel. He'll tolerate it, but Ilya can tell by his face that the texture isn't his favourite. Less product = more hair touching.
Shane's hands are always in his hair. When they're kissing. When they're watching a movie. When they fuck. When Ilya sits with his head in Shane's lap. When they're napping on the couch together. Shane's hands are usually full of a handful of Ilya's curls.
Shane seems to really like it. One time Shane said Ilya's fluffy hair made him look like a duckling and he's been chasing that high ever since.
He just prefers this version of him that doesn't need to look perfect and be perfect to be loved and adored. Shane never makes him feel lazy for letting his hair get a little wild over summer. He kisses his temples and tells him he's so fucking beautiful.
if i think too hard about the state of modern feminism it makes me want to weep. some of my most leftist friends have fallen into "girl math" to justify buying trinkets. they brag about their "girl dinners" that provide no nutritional value. they can't possibly ask for directions, or fix that chair, or block that guys number, because they're all just a girl!!!!!! they ALL have to shave for sensory reasons. they're body positive, of COURSE! buuut still, have you seen the hack for making your waist look smaller? they wear a full face of makeup to the gym because it's empowering , no other reason! it's the divine feminine ?!! cosmetic surgery is so girl boss! hahahAHAHAHA!!!!
There are many things Scott has given you in a short period of time: migraines, high blood pressure, and a son you would do anything for. A son he doesn’t know exists. Cutting him off was hard enough — welcoming him home might be worse.
▸ PAIRING: Ex-FWB!Scott Miller x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, former situationship to baby daddy to lovers (all at the same time tbh), fingering, slight degradation and dumbification, oral (f!receiving), pussy pronouns, bickering is their foreplay, breeding kink, mean in bed!scott, grumpy scott in general, hurt/comfort, emotionally avoidant!reader, miscommunication (my favorite, of course)
▸ WORD COUNT: 14.1K
▸ A/N: wowowow this is the second and final part of this story!!!! thank you so much for all the love in the first one <3 i'm glad we're all hyperfixated on this man who has no screen time together. i wrote this over a month ago but i've been rereading it aggressively to make sure it's good to free into the world. one of my fave things i've written and i fucking love scott my angsty husband <33 i hope you enjoy. if you do, please comment and reblog, i'd love to hear your thoughts!!!!
↤ main masterlist | part one
“I extended my trip.”
It’s the first thing you hear when Scott shoulders past you in the evening. You’re still standing, shell-shocked by the door, trying to comprehend how this man is in your apartment hours past his supposed flight time. He comes in bearing paper bags with your local fancy grocery store stamped onto the front.
Scott has never grocery shopped a day in his life.
“Why?” You question slowly. Your eyes briefly fly to Ben who’s scribbling on the coffee table, he looks up curiously when he sees the familiar face.
“Uncle Scott,” he beams in greeting.
Scott matches that expression, the sweetest he’s ever looked, as he comes over and ruffles his hair. “Hey, big man, what’re you working on?”
“Me, mom, and dog.”
“Dog, huh?” he chuckles, “I’m sure we can arrange that.”
Ben brightens, hopeful eyes turning to you. You’re going to strangle this man. “Let’s talk about it after dinner, bud.” Your narrowed eyes switch over to Scott. “A word?”
He confidently strolls back over to you, disregarding your glare as he begins to pull out all sorts of things. Mushrooms, vegetables, packs and packs of meat. USDA Prime. Jesus Christ— “What are you doing?”
“Unpacking groceries.”
You pinch his side. He’s built like a brick wall, he doesn’t even flinch. “Scott.”
He says your name in response. A teasing lilt hanging to each letter.
“Why are you here? What is all this?”
“Groceries.”
“Don’t be an ass. Why did you extend your trip?”
“To spend time with you.” He begins to organize your fridge. Worst part? He knows exactly how you like your fridge arranged so he’s putting all the things in all the right places.
“I’m serious,” you hiss.
“What makes you think I’m not?”
You swallow, gaze flying to Ben again who’s back to drawing out his dream dog. It looks more like a deformed puppy but you get the gist of it. “We can’t—” you take a deep breath, “Listen, Ben is young. He’s going to latch onto you if you keep coming around.”
“Would that be so bad?”
The question infuriates you. You scowl, “Are you fucking kidding me? That would be a nightmare. What happens when you leave? He’s going to be asking around for Uncle Scott who will never come around again. There’s a reason why I don’t bring around just anyone to meet him.”
Scott’s eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, but you know him better than that. “You bring others around to meet him?”
“I— no, that’s not what I meant. Jenna’s really the only person who comes over other than my mom. The staff at the hospital know because he pops by time to time. I don’t— I’m careful about who I expose him to. I don’t want to have to answer questions about where someone went or pick up the pieces of a boy who shouldn’t have his heart broken because people disappear on him.”
He seems to mull over this for a moment. His next question sends a shock through your system.
“Who says I’m leaving again?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Traitorous little thing is getting excited for nothing. “What’re you talking about?”
“Storm Par is set up and running. We have a good team down in Oklahoma always collecting data. I’ve been managing mostly strategy and investor relations.” He looks a little too pleased when he says, “I need to be closer to potential funders anyway, a lot of them are in the northeast.”
“You’re not—” Your breath hitches in your throat, “you’re not considering moving back, are you?”
A proud look settles on his face. “Just signed for a sublet for the next couple of months while I look for a more permanent apartment. How’s this neighborhood? I don’t remember it being particularly nice, but it seems good. How do you feel about moving?”
“Scott,” you snap. “That’s insane. You can’t just— that’s crazy. You were literally supposed to leave today. Suddenly, you’re deciding to stay here? On a whim? What’s wrong with you?”
“Not a whim, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve… just decided it’s the right move.”
“In one night?”
“I don’t need more time than that.”
You give him a look. “That’s stupid.”
“It’s efficient decision-making.”
“Scott.”
“What’s for dinner? Does he have any allergies?”
“Scott.”
He takes a deep breath, sapphire eyes dulled out as he looks up at the ceiling, praying for some lord almighty to save him. “We can spend all night arguing about this but it’s a done deal. I like Boston, I’ve decided to come back. Is that so hard to believe?” Before you can say yes, absolutely, Scott continues, “I’ve thought about this for a while. Trust me when I say I am not doing this impulsively and I’m not just going to change my mind.”
The two of you are locked in a stare-down, neither budging. Two stupidly stubborn fools.
Scott’s eyes are jagged when they first land on yours, sharp in a way that could cut. But the longer he looks at you, the more they thaw, like ice melting in the changing of seasons. It’s a soft transition that warms your frozen heart.
However, then his gaze trails to your mouth, the way they’re parted, teeth peeking out in aggravation, tongue pressing against your teeth as your jaw is clenched. His eyes go molten, scorching as they sear into your skin, tracing your bare shoulders, the length of your neck, exposed collarbones.
“Should put more on you,” he mutters.
“What?” You jerk back, confused.
“Nothing. Dinner? I don’t know how to cook.”
“Then get your own damn dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”
He challenges you with a raise of his eyebrow. “But I bought groceries.”
“That I didn’t ask for.”
“I fuckin’ forgot how bull-headed you are sometimes. Arguing for the sake of arguing.” He huffs a laugh through his nose, hip leaning against your counter, eyes sparkling. “If you wanted to fuck, just say so.”
His voice is low, low enough that you know Ben doesn’t catch it over the sound of the television, but it still puts you on high alert. “Can you not say insane things when my son is around?”
“Always picked a fight when you wanted a fuck,” he smirks.
Your lips part, ready to tell him off, but he turns to the sink instead, beginning to wash his hands.
“Now, what do you need help with?”
Scott’s reappearance has thrown your life for a loop, adding this new, uncontrolled variable that you’re not sure how to handle. He drops you off and picks you up from work. The moment he heard that you’ve been taking the train an hour each way to work, he made that call with no room for argument. He refuses to even drop you off a block away from the hospital so you end up with your coworkers’ curious eyes on you when you’re pulling up every morning in Scott’s stupidly shiny car.
“Have a good day at work, honey,” he would call out obnoxiously through the open window.
The furious glare you throw his way does nothing to deter this behavior. Now, you’re bombarded with questions about him every time you have a moment to yourself, which means you no longer have a shred of peace at work.
He comes by nearly every evening; you say nearly because you had to cut him off, tell him that he cannot show up every single day.
“Why not?”
“Scott. You can’t just come here everyday, he’s going to get confused. You are not family.”
“Yet.”
“What?”
“Fine. Every other day, but full weekends.”
It’s a compromise that you tried to negotiate down, but he refuses to budge on.
The worst part is that Scott is terrific with Ben.
He’s smart and answers all of Ben’s questions with tact. The moment your son learns that Scott works with tornadoes, chasing after them and being smack dab in the middle of the action, he’s absolutely enthralled. You have to emphasize to Scott that you will murder him if Ben ever tells him that he wants to be a tornado chaser.
“I’ll protect him, don’t worry,” is all he says.
You still worry.
Beyond that, Ben seems to enjoy his company, has started asking when Uncle Scott would be coming around again so he could show him the progress he’s made on the massive Superman LEGO set that Scott had gotten him.
“You can’t spoil him too much,” you frown when he pops by on his assigned day, a gift box in hand. It’s the fourth in two weeks.
“He’s a kid. He likes toys.”
“You can’t spoil him,” you mutter.
Your worry is partially rooted in the fact that you can’t just give Ben whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but it also stems from your guilt for not being able to provide all this. It’s not as if you’re not making money; you save enough from your salary, but Boston is an expensive city.
Scott seems to understand this. He dials it back, but you know that he’s itching every time Ben mentions something new he’s curious about. He just picks and prioritizes what he gets him.
Otherwise, he’s good. Too good even. That seems to be a pattern when it comes to him.
You tell yourself it’s because he doesn’t know he’s the father. It’s less commitment, less pressure. He plays the role of a cool uncle who showers Ben with gifts and attention.
Scott has pressed again, of course — who’s the father, when did this happen, do I need to have a conversation, you could fight for child support — to which you answer no repeatedly. An easy denial to give him none of the answers he’s looking for. It never stops him from asking again; he thinks he’ll wear you down eventually.
Truth be told, you think that Scott will bore himself soon. He can’t possibly be serious about permanently moving back to Boston. You’re convinced that in the next couple of weeks, he’ll realize that this pretend domesticity isn’t the life he wants, and he’ll pack up his bags again and leave. When that day comes, you won’t be disappointed.
As long as he never finds out Ben is his son, you’ll be fine.
(Maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll actually believe your own words.)
However, you seem to have a knack for putting your foot in your mouth and speaking too soon, because your worst nightmare comes to fruition one day when you let your guard down. Usually, you do a pretty good job of keeping track of their conversations, making sure they stay on safe territory that gives away nothing. Ben has zero clue about his father anyway, so there’s nothing really to give away.
Or so you think.
You’re caught up trying to balance sending work emails and batting away your mother’s efforts to inquire more about Scott. She’s been badgering you nonstop to learn more about your history, prodding Scott whenever she’s here to share more, even going as far as to drop the most obvious hints.
“You know, she is very single. Incredibly single.”
“Mother!”
“I’m aware,” Scott smirks. “Refuses to let me change that.”
You don’t appreciate the way he’s looking at you now, how your body is tingling all over from the memories. The press of his fingers on your hip, how his mouth feels mapping out the curve of your breasts, the burn between your legs when he pushes himself in with a hungry groan.
Heat unfurls across your face and you’re quick to turn away, missing how your mother and Scott share knowing looks.
But now that she’s not here, she’s still torturing you with incessant, inane questions about him. The only thing you manage to catch in the midst of your stress is Scott saying, “Your birthday’s in Decem—”
You don’t think much of it. Not for a moment. Until it hits you.
By the time you look up, Scott’s already directing his eyes towards you. Your blood runs cold.
It’s not a question. He knows. He’s not a fool.
Born the December in the year that you graduated college, it’s not difficult to do the math on when Ben was conceived. If you retrace your steps, it’s not difficult to know who had done the conceiving.
The two of you don’t address it, not out loud. Not yet. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to configure an excuse or a lie that would work in this instance. You’re running on empty, especially when your heart is beating straight out of your chest. Everything feels hot, your body can’t seem to handle this stress very well.
You have maybe an hour left before Ben’s due for bed and you’re half tempted to keep him awake because that means keeping Scott’s anger at bay. You can feel it roll off him in waves, crackling energy that zaps you even from this distance.
The minutes tick down much too quickly and, before you know it, Ben is yawning on cue and you’re getting him ready for bed. You spend a little longer than necessary tucking him in, reading him his story, all the while Scott is standing in the doorway watching the two of you.
He’s being considerate of Ben, maintaining his distance before he probably rips you a new one. You appreciate it, but you press an extra kiss or two onto your son’s face before you exit the room — for good luck.
When the two of you are back in the living room, Ben completely out cold to the world, Scott doesn’t ask. He simply states the irrefutable truth.
“He’s mine.”
You clear your throat. “Technically, he’s mine.”
“Don’t fucking act cute with me right now,” he snarls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the hallway both of you just left. “That’s my kid in there. Are you fucking kidding me?”
Wincing, you take a step away from him. “Can we not do this?”
“Like hell I’m letting this slide. You’ve got to be shittin’ me. That’s my kid. Ben is mine.”
The pulsing in your head only worsens the harder he glares, the more he seethes. “You’re the father. Doesn’t make him yours.”
You hear the sharp intake of breath. The confirmation landing firm in his chest. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Why does it matter?” You snap, throwing his irritated look right back at him.
“You’ve got to be on another fucking level of insane to think it doesn’t matter.”
“I was going to,” you begin, “tell you, I mean, but the timing never felt right.”
Scott looks at you, completely aghast. “Timing never felt right? You knew. You knew before I left, before we graduated. All those times you didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to eat sushi, this was why. You had all the fucking time in the world to tell me.”
“Would it have changed anything?”
“It would’ve changed everything!”
Your lungs feel devoid of oxygen as you look at Scott, his frustration palpable. Fury is carved into the lines of his face, eyes blazing with the sort of anger you’ve never seen on him. However, in between the twist of his lips and the fire in his gaze, you see a flicker of something warmer. Softer.
Hurt.
The kind of hurt that comes with a betrayal that you cannot take back.
Scott breathes out. “I would’ve been here for you.”
“I never asked you to.”
“You never asked,” he spits out, “you never let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you let me believe that I had fucked up something between us. You cut me off and I didn’t even know why.”
“It would’ve been selfish,” you argue.
“It would’ve been fair,” he insists. “You should’ve trusted me to make my own judgment call.”
Your fingers wring together in front of you. Is this it then? The point of no return. You can’t seem to find the words to say to remedy the situation.
“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” you murmur. “Between me and your dream.” The unsaid words being I didn’t want to watch you choose your dream over me.
Scott has always been larger than life. He is meant for greater things, to innovate and create. He has gone so far since you first met him. He’s become an even bigger person than you could’ve imagined.
What right did you have to hold him back from all that?
“Again, that’s not for you to decide,” he sighs, “Have you ever considered they’re one and the same?” Your gaze flies up to meet his weary one. “You’re an idiot,” Scott mutters. “So fuckin’ stupid.”
You press your lips together into a thin line. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”
“Does he know?”
With a shake of your head, you lean back. “No, he’s been… pretty good at not asking too many questions about who his dad is. It’s only a matter of time before that curiosity grows though, especially once he starts school and the other kids will undoubtedly ask him.”
“I can help you with all that, you know. I am his father after all.”
Wincing, you swallow thickly. “You don’t have to, Scott. It was my decision to go through with the pregnancy. You don’t have to feel like you have to participate.”
“Why do you keep saying it like that?” He lets out an exasperated sound. You frown in question. “Like I don’t want to be here. For him. For you.”
“I— I just don’t want you to feel pressured to—”
“Sweetheart,” he begins and your heart feels like it’s been dipped in syrup, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I’ve been present, haven’t I? And that was before I even knew he was mine. What makes you think I’m going to change my mind?”
“It’s different! Being here to support me as a friend and being here as— as his dad! As a parent.”
Scott looks up to the ceiling again, inhaling deep through his nostrils. “Tell me how it’s different.”
“A fun uncle is not a co-parent.”
“So I want to co-parent.”
“You don’t know what that means.”
“It means being here for you, for him. It means having equal responsibility and stakes in raising him. It means you’re not doing this alone.”
A lump grows in your throat as you look at him. His determination is evident.
“So I’m going to need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to piss you off, you’re going to piss me off, but we’ll make it work.”
You laugh, tears pricking the corner of your eye. “Maybe if we don’t kill each other first.”
His lips curve into a smirk. “You can’t kill me. I’m your baby daddy after all. Fucked you so hard that your birth control didn’t work.”
You almost choke on your own spit. “You’re such a piece of shit.”
He laughs. “Don’t forget the father of your child.”
Your fingers are itching to make contact with his cheek. He really can be such an asshole sometimes. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Repeating the fact that he’s Ben’s father, reminding you again that he knows your big secret now. The worst part is you know that he’s doing it intentionally; the more irritated he gets you, the better the sex. He likes it when you fight back, when you push him.
He likes it when he can put you in your place.
“Some friend you are,” you grunt.
Scott’s rising to his feet, moving towards you. With every step he takes forward, he backs you up until your lower spine lands against the kitchen counter.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” Scott says low, coming up to press you against the solid surface. With both hands planted on either side of you, he leans towards you. Your breath catches. “We’re not friends. We haven’t been for a while.”
“That’s… mean,” you whimper.
“The things I want to do with you — to you — they’re not things friends do.”
There’s a promise in his gaze that has your heart fluttering, your stomach curling with desire as heat builds between your legs.
It’s hard to breathe when he’s this close. Hard to even think. Your palm flattens against his firm, broad chest, applying pressure in a feeble attempt to put some distance. Except now you can’t help but feel the way his pecs feel underneath your fingers and you can picture yourself on top of him, sinking down on his cock while your hands are planted on his skin.
Heaven have mercy.
“Things are different now,” you gulp.
“You think I still can’t make you cum three times in a night?”
Your lips part. “That’s not—” Heat climbs up your throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Scott chuckles. “I hope you know that this only makes me want you even more. You’re stupid if you think I’m ever letting you out of my sight again.”
“Just because you want to be here and be a father does not mean that it changes anything between us.”
His joy quickly morphs into irritation again. “Why not?”
“Because Ben will always come first and we can’t… just keep fucking.”
“Again, why not?”
Because I’m in love with you. Because I’m going to get my heart broken again.
“I want to maintain some boundaries. It’ll be better for us that way.”
Scott is quiet, thoughtful as he regards you, before he straightens. “Okay then. You do that. You maintain your boundaries.”
“Thank you.”
“Doesn’t mean I’ll be helpin’ you do that,” he laughs, bitter as he smiles at you. A threat laced into his expression. “Better prepare yourself, sweetheart. I’m not here to protect your walls. I’m here to break them down.”
“We should go out.”
Your gaze lifts from your laptop, eyes instinctively wandering down the hall to Ben’s room where he’s safe and sound asleep, then back to Scott who’s on his own laptop on the dining table. “Like to get groceries?”
“No, for dinner.”
You look over your shoulder, to the take-out menus stuck to the fridge with a mismatched set of magnets. “There’s a pizza place Ben likes down the street. We could go tomorrow.”
“Finally letting me in two days in a row?” Scott cocks an eyebrow.
A glare is all he gets in return.
“I meant us. Just the two of us.”
Your fingers stop, hovering over the keyboard. “Why?”
“So I can take you out.”
“Why?”
“To spend some time together. You know, outside of parenting.”
Parenting still sounds foreign on his tongue, at least to you. Scott seems to have settled in comfortably with the title, taking on the mantle even without the official acknowledgment. The two of you agreed to ease Ben into it; he seems to have taken a liking towards Scott so at least telling him may be easier than you initially anticipated.
However, considering the situation at hand, you can only ask, “Why?”
“How old are you?” Scott snaps.
“I don’t think we need to do anything together outside of parenting.”
“Why not?”
It’s your turn to give him a look. “We are two people who happen to be raising a child together. Somewhat.”
“But we’re friends first.”
“I think co-parenting supersedes the friend label now, which means I can’t be doing that with you. Not alone.”
He knows you’re being obstinate for the sake of it, pissing him off just because you can. However, he doesn’t take the bait.
“You know what, you’re right, sweetheart. Let me rethink this.”
Scott was never one to give up easily. On the contrary, when presented with a challenge, he rises to the occasion. He goes above and beyond.
It starts off innocuous enough, subtle that you nearly think that all of it is accidental. When he’s trying to help around the kitchen and he reaches across you, arm brushing your breasts. Your nipples perk up on instinct, seeking the familiar warmth of his touch like you’ve been trained. He doesn’t say a thing so you brush it off as inconsequential. His hand on your hip when he’s excusing himself behind you. His eyes on you when he licks his thumb clean off the brownie batter you’re making.
It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. These tiny touches, interactions that shouldn’t mean anything. You shouldn’t be reacting this way. You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a while since you got laid last — unfortunately, by none other than the source of your frustrations.
But then the touches become firmer, intentional in a way that you can’t miss. He’s slipping an arm around your waist when he picks you up at the hospital, head ducking to press a kiss to the side of your head, all the while you’re mid-conversation with a coworker who then scurries away under Scott’s glare. In the car, he’s sliding a possessive hand over your thigh, squeezing when he asks you about your day. He has a hand pressed against your lower back at all times, practically manhandling you when you move around different spaces.
And god do you fucking love it. Maybe it’s because you’ve been deprived of physical touch for so long, you haven’t had anyone in your corner reminding you that they’re there. But you also know yourself better than that and the only reason all of this works is because it’s Scott and you were in love with Scott.
You tell yourself it’s all in the past. This is the remnants of your feelings long forgotten from your more youthful self.
But then it all disappears. The touches. The fleeting glances. The flirty smiles. The difference is jarring and you can’t help but notice the extra space he puts between the two of you when you’re walking with Ben, keeping him in between you two. Or how he moves away from the kitchen when you enter it, and again when you move into the living room. Or how his question actually sounds polite when he asks you how work went.
How he doesn’t even blink twice when you tell him a colleague — that same one that he had scared away — had asked you out to dinner.
The frustration builds inside of you, like he’s crafting a wall with the distance brick by brick. You find yourself leaning towards him only for him to shift in his seat and away from you. The inches between you on the couch feel like they stretch for miles, his arm extended on the other side instead of behind your back.
You feel like an addict seeking a fix, constantly chasing after him — subtly, not enough for it to be obvious, but certainly enough for him to notice.
So, by the time he suggests it again, he’s Pavlov’d you to seek his attention. Fucker.
“Do you want to spend the day together?”
You grit your teeth. Somehow, Scott has conspired with your mother that she whisked Ben away early this morning for a trip to the zoo and you end up with this asshole at your front door with a smirk on his face, shoulders squared, chin tilted up like he’s done something good.
“You did this on purpose.”
“What did I do?”
He knows exactly what he did. “All of it.”
“Come on. Get dressed.”
“You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” you snap.
“Nowhere you need anything fancy,” he says before steering you by the elbow out the door.
You allow yourself to be pushed into the car, he even straps your seatbelt in for you, before he’s driving. Destination still unknown. You try to ask and Scott tells you to just relax, tells you that you’re wrung up too tight.
Then he stops and you look quizzically out the window.
“I got you a massage appointment.”
You nearly break your neck at the speed you whip around to look at him. “What? Why?”
“Thought it would be a nice thing to do. You used to gather knots like you were starting a collection and I had to press all of that out for you. Figured, with all the years of build up and I highly doubt you’ve been smoothing those out, a professional could do a better job.”
At a loss, you find yourself only staring at him. He looks cocky, so damn proud that he’s done something right — that he knew exactly what you needed.
“Now get going, they’re not gonna find another timeslot for you.”
With your mind in a blur, you exit the vehicle. The spa is nice, a mix of lavender and eucalyptus in the air that has you relaxing almost instantly. The experience is… divine to say the least. For once, you have not a single thought in your mind and you find yourself melting into the table during your two-hour long session.
By the time you step back outside, after the people inside tell you that it’s been paid for, Scott is waiting out front. In a daze, you slip back into the car.
“Good?” is all he asks.
You nod slowly.
“Good,” he smiles, “now, let’s get you ready for dinner.”
Scott tells you that he’s taking you somewhere casual, but nice. Nice enough that you end up spending a bit of time washing your hair, doing your makeup, even fixing your hair a little bit. When you spritz on perfume, you tell yourself that it’s for your sake.
But you can’t deny that when you see Scott drink you in — how his blue eyes go ten shades darker, how his lips part when he gets a whiff of the florals clinging onto your skin — that it might’ve been for him too.
You would think a man like Scott would take you somewhere nice, somewhere you’re going to be gawking at the prices all night, wondering if you should even be in a place like that. But when he pulls up to a quiet corner in Cambridge, an Italian restaurant that seems all too familiar, you find yourself caught off guard.
“What? You would’ve preferred steak and fries at Del Frisco’s?” He’s chuckling quietly to himself, knowing full well what your answer would be.
Before you can reach for your door, Scott’s rounding the car and pulling it open, even going as far as to offer a hand.
He’s a perfect gentleman the entire night. When you hesitate on ordering because of the prices, Scott — the condescending prick that he is — orders for you, except he orders right. You’ve been eyeing that dish but you couldn’t do the math fast enough to figure out your budget for the month. He orders a bottle of red, your favorite — it’s nothing fancy, but it had been a step up when you felt like splurging in college. The food is delicious, reminiscent of the old days when he would treat you to a meal to make you feel better, right after he fucked you seven ways to Sunday.
You’re warm, body buzzing with your fill of food and wine. For the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter, like the world isn’t weighing down on your shoulders. Scott drives you back home and he stops right in front of your apartment building.
You know what’s coming. A proposition — as always. You’re going to say yes — as always. He’s always been a snake charmer, saying and doing all the right things to get one into bed with him. It worked on you for months. It used to work on all the ladies before he stopped using it on them.
It still works on you, considering you’re feeling that warmth between your legs. That anticipation humming in your veins. You can practically taste his mouth on you, the tartness from the wine mixed with the gelato you ordered for dessert. You take a breath in eager hopefulness.
However, when he walks you to the apartment entrance, he only kisses the back of your hand. “Have a good night, sweetheart.” Then he’s slowly making his way down the steps, leaving you completely gobsmacked.
You find yourself saying, “Wait,” before you can even think twice.
Scott halts, turns, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.
You should have more self-restraint. But when he’s looking at you with those bright blue eyes and an expression that promises you a good time, you’re only human.
“What is it?”
You fidget with the handle of your purse. “Where are you going?”
“Home,” he drawls, tilting his head like he’s waiting to see your next move.
“You’re not gonna stay?”
Scott’s lips quirk up, shfiting into a look too cocky for your liking. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“Doesn’t sound like you do,” he makes a face, raising his shoulders in a shrug as he pretends to slowly turn back around.
You should let him go. You hope he has fucking blue balls tonight. However, that also means you’ll be left alone with your thoughts in an empty apartment and your vibrator on a Saturday night, and that sounds a heck of a lot less fun than getting your brains scrambled by the one man who knows exactly how to do that.
“Do you want to come up?”
It’s comical how quickly he whirls around to say, “Don’t mind if I do.”
The ride up the elevator is weighed down by tense silence. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears in time with the numbers that climb, a beep in rhythm to each floor. Scott stands next to you, hands planted on the railing casually, but you hear the impatient tapping of his shoe. When the elevator finally dings, he lets you leave first and you feel the burn of his gaze on your back, trailing the length of you down to the curve of your ass where the silk of your dress rests.
Your fingers are barely functional as you clumsily dig through your purse to open the door. It’s one thing to have someone watching you, it’s another to have Scott staring at you. The hungry look in his eyes, the way you can practically feel the heat radiate off him.
You don’t even get a chance to properly set aside your bag before Scott is pressing you up against the wall. He drinks in your surprised little gasp, your instinct to move away from him only has him backing you up against your kitchen counter. With you half-seated on it, Scott’s hands slide around your neck, cupping your cheeks so he can lick into your mouth. He takes the chance to slip his tongue in between your little gasps, tasting that sugar on your tongue.
“Fuck, sweetheart, been waiting to do that all night,” he groans as his mouth travels towards your neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin until you feel the sting spark every nerve inside your body. He does it over again, like he’s zapping you with electricity every time he leaves a new mark on your body.
You’re no better, your hands immediately crawling up his chest to find his buttons and fumble with them, slipping them out one at a time until you can shove his shirt off his shoulders. God, how is it possible that he seems even broader than before? Your palms explore his biceps, feeling the way they flex beneath your fingertips, muscles tensing into a firm surface for you to hold onto.
“You got… bigger,” you note in a daze. It’s ridiculous how drunk you feel right now and it’s certainly not from the wine. It’s his scent — masculine and clean. Like rain on freshly mowed grass, earthy in a way that grounds you. You can’t help but breathe him in, making a mental note that he still uses the same shampoo.
“A lot of time lugging around equipment out there,” he mutters. As if to prove a point, he lifts you up to the counter and wraps your legs around his waist. “Always getting drenched in the storms.”
Fuck. Terrible visual. You imagine him in a white short-sleeve shirt, the fabric soaking up all that rain and clinging to every inch of his muscles and leaving nothing to the imagination. His dusky nipples poking through the fabric. Curly brunette hair with droplets, that one stray hair on his forehead whenever it gets too humid. You can practically see the light smattering of hair on his chest, a path leading down to his navel.
God forbid that the women in Oklahoma have seen him like that. That’s a visual you’d rather keep to yourself.
Scott distracts you again when he brings his face back to kiss you. He kisses like he’s inhaling you, stealing every hitched breath from your lungs. His mouth is ravenous as it moves against you, teeth grazing your bottom lip lightly in a tantalizing threat. He finally nips and you let out a little whine that he laughs lightly at as he kisses you harder. Firmer. Soft lips, only slightly chapped, as they relearn what it is exactly that makes you moan down his throat.
“Love kissing you,” he mutters, “missed doing this. I want to do this everyday.”
You’re about to tell him why that would be a bad idea but you sigh dreamily instead, tipping your head back when he begins trailing wet kisses along your jawline again.
His hands wander to your back, dragging the zipper down quietly until your dress pools on the floor. His thumb brushes over your nipples peaking through the lace. “Missed these pretty tits too. Couldn’t get enough of them last time.” He ducks his head and tugs one free from your bra, lips closing in around your nipple in a wet heat. His groan reverberates straight through you, tongue laving around your pert nipple like he’s trying to coax it out.
As he does so, his other hand reaches for the clasp of your bra until you hear the little sound before it slides down your shoulders.
“Hands on the counter.”
“Bossy,” you murmur, but do so anyway.
Scott looks mildly surprised at your obedience and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You lean back slightly and spread your legs wider to let him step in between them, his mouth warm and sweet on your tits. He mouths hungrily at your breasts, biting, squeezing, until you’re a moaning mess arching into his touch. One of his hand slides down to your lower spine to yank you closer to him, pressing your core against the thickness in his pants.
“I’ve been hard all night lookin’ at you in that pretty dress,” Scott growls, “knew exactly what you looked like underneath it, couldn’t wait to take it off you.”
You appear to have lost your entire vocabulary when he slips that hand from your back to the space between you, two fingers against the panties that’s quickly gathering moisture. The whine that is pulled from your lips is instinctual. Pure primal need.
“Imagining you stretched out on that massage bed, naked, slicked up in oil. Fuck, I had to drive around and keep myself busy for two hours so I didn’t go back and do the job myself,” he huffs a laugh as he begins rubbing your clit over the material, arousal easing the slick of his fingers even with one layer between the two of you.
A gasp is wrenched from your throat as you stare at him, wide-eyed. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”
Scott hums, shaking his head, pressing harder, pulling out another needy sound. “Stop bein’ so tense. You’re undoing all of that woman’s hard work.” Your eyes light up briefly. “I wasn’t going to let some other man touch you. I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re such a possessive asshole,” you let out a breathless laugh, “it’s just a massage.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to be the only one that gets to touch these pretty tits. Not to mention, this—” he slides his fingers under your panties, gathering up the arousal from you slick folds on his fingertips and listening to the lewd squelch as he dips his fingers in just a tad. “You’re so goddamn wet.”
Instead of clamping your legs shut, embarrassed like you always have been, you can’t help but let your thighs fall apart further, giving him room to give you the pleasure that you so badly needed.
“You’re so much easier when you’re not stressed.”
That snaps you awake. “Oh, fuck you.”
Scott pushes two fingers in, the slide is swift and wet. “Just like that,” he grins as he slowly drags his fingers out only to shove them back in. He’s rough and he’s messy, you can hear how wet you are as he watches you come undone, thumb against your clit like he has something to prove. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re dripping all over the counter. You’re so messy, pretty girl.”
“S-Scott,” you moan, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I c-can’t, mmm, please.”
“I know, I know, still so tight, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he slowly sinks to his knees. You look down to find him with his starry eyes looking right up at you as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. You can see the moment his eyes flutter shut as he tastes you, tongue lecherously poking out to lick his fingers clean. “Better than dessert.”
“You’re so corny—” your words split off into a choked gasp when Scott dives in between your legs. His tongue drags all the way up to your clit until you’re bucking against his mouth. He licks and devours, the roughness of his tongue sliding up your slick folds, lips closing in around your core, your clit, to suck until you’re shuddering against him. “Fuck, Scott, wait, slow down.”
Scott leans away, giving you a brief moment of reprieve — except, when you look down at him, his bottom half is glistening in the moonlight that spills across your floors. His eyes return to your pussy, just beneath your stomach that’s rising and falling with your labored breaths.
His index and middle fingers rest on each of your lips as he slowly pries them apart, your pussy pulses and there’s no doubt that he catches that movement. The slight tensing, squeezing, inside of you. “Look at this pussy spreading so wet and easy for me. She’s droolin’, sweetheart.”
As if he can sense another argument on your lips, Scott leans forward again to press kisses onto your inner thigh, blooming warmth with every spot he touches. He kisses up and up until he’s back with his face between your legs, your thighs closing in around his head until he’s practically suffocating in your cunt.
It’s the way he likes it though. His hands on your ass to drag you forward so he can tongue-fuck you faster, knowing full well you’re enjoying it when you’re grinding against his face with tears leaking from your eyes and his name said in prayer.
That pleasure coils humiliatingly fast in your stomach. You can feel your climax, long abandoned, surfacing quickly. God, it feels so good, his mouth — it’s only gotten better. You hate to think if he fucked anyone else while he was away, because — of course he did, he was a hot young bachelor in bumfuck Oklahoma. He was probably the hottest shit down there.
Scott scowls up at you, “You’re tensing up again, what are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” you blurt out, pressing your lips together.
He rises to his feet, fingers catching your chin. “Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” you snap irritably. Great, now you’re thinking about some cute girl in a cowboy hat he’s probably fucked the same way he did you.
“You just stiffened up again. Either you tell me, or I won’t fuck you.”
You roll your eyes, “Holding sex hostage? Real mature.” Well, two can play that game. “If you won’t fuck me, I’m sure I’ve got a few people on my dating apps that have been begging to.”
Scott’s eyes flash, your heart palpitates a little too aggressively. “Yeah? You wanna try that again with me?” Your mouth dries. “Sweetheart, you’re cute if you think I’m letting anyone else near this pretty pussy of yours. You think anyone can get you off?”
Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.
“You’re mine,” he breathes out, catching your lips again. You can taste yourself on him, his moan vibrating against your mouth.
But you can’t deny his words. Instead, you let him pick you up and carry you all the way to the bedroom. He doesn’t stop kissing you the entire way, stealing your breath every chance he gets. Your back lands on the mattress, Scott climbing over you and pressing your legs into your chest.
“Love fucking you just like this,” he murmurs, applying just a little more pressure. “Maybe I can put another baby in you.”
“Scott!” You gasp.
“Fuck, I wasn’t even around when you were pregnant. I’d do it right this time. Make sure you’re taken care of — however that may be. Heard the first trimester’s roughest, probably needed a cock to fill you up, hm? Fill you up and get you so stupidly cockdrunk you won’t have the mouth to talk back to me.”
Another protest sits on your tongue but then Scott’s unzipping his pants and his cock, thick and throbbing, is in his hands, tip sitting at your entrance. You can feel your pussy dripping onto him, a trail of slick that slides down the length of him.
“I could fuck you, cum in you as much as I want — not like I didn’t already,” he chuckles, “no more risk of getting you pregnant twice. God, I could do that to you, sweetheart. Want another kid with me?”
“You’re— fuck, you’re insane.”
Scott only grunts as he begins pushing into you. “So fuckin’ tight. I need to teach your pussy how to take me again. You were so sweet and loose for me back then, we fucked so much, your cunt was shaped to my cock. Can’t wait to do that again.”
The ache burns between your legs as Scott stretches you out, your pussy opening up painfully slowly for him. You hold your breath, tensing up as he whispers for you to relax, to just keep your legs open and let him take what he needs. Your eyes roll when he finally buries himself all the way, the head kissing the deepest parts of you.
“S-shit, fuck, that feels so good. You feel like heaven.”
“Please, please just move,” you whine.
“I know, baby, but I can’t fuck you too fast, gonna hurt you. My cock barely fits in this tight pussy of yours,” Scott coos, dragging back his hips and slowly coaxing you open with a push of his cock. “I gotta go easy on her. She’s not used to being filled up, is she?”
You call him an asshole in your head, because you don’t trust your voice not to break in the haze of your pleasure.
“Pretty girl hasn’t had anyone taking care of her in a while.”
“I can take care of myself just fine,” you defend with a snap.
“Yeah? What? Those vibrators I see you hiding? Doesn’t feel the same, does it? You needed someone to fuck you properly.” Scott smirks, “Maybe I should’ve given you a dildo shaped to my cock. That way you could fuck yourself on it whenever you missed me. I’d make you call me when you do that, wanna hear you beg for my cock while you push it inside you. Better yet, I want to see you while you ride it and realize it ain’t the same as the real thing.”
“You’re so fucking gross,” you hiss and, sure enough, it melts into a moan when Scott drives into you again, and again, and again.
“What does it say about you when I can feel you chokin’ out my cock at the thought of it?” He laughs, taunting. “You’re as fucked up as I am, sweetheart. How do you think we made a baby in the first place?”
Oh fuck, Scott feels you open up to him, mold around him. That pain dulls into a throb that only serves to weave desire between your legs. You clench around him, pussy pulsing with his every word, as he fucks deep inside of you. He pushes you back into this mating press, groaning when he feels himself reach deeper inside you.
“Shit, baby, this pussy is fucking unbelievable. I can’t believe I gave this up for years. Missed fucking this gorgeous cunt so bad,” he swallows. That vein on his neck goes taut as he tries to stop himself. “You still on the pill?”
You nod weakly, fingers digging into his biceps as he pounds into you, his hips jerking faster and harder.
Then he laughs and it sounds mean and your stomach twists. “Didn’t do us much good last time though, huh? It’s alright, sweetheart. If you get knocked up again, I’ll be here. I’ll be here to fuck all that stress out of you, give you all the massages that’ll end with my head between your legs. Get you all your cravings so you can show your appreciation with your mouth on my cock.”
It’s disgusting, The thought of returning favors when he’s the one who gets you pregnant, but something about it has you tightening, punched in the stomach with a level of arousal that you can’t seem to contain.
“Don’t need to use this pretty brain of yours, baby. Just gonna have you barefooted waddling around and you can let me take real good care of you,” he pants, sweat beading his forehead as he fucks into you faster, holding himself back harder. “Make sure you and our baby are good. Don’t you worry.”
“F-fuck you,” you stutter as he drives back into you.
The bed creaks under the pressure of his thrusts, you’re getting fucked into the mattress that you can feel your body imprinting onto the bed. “That’s right. Good girl. Gonna make you a mommy again, sweetheart. Gonna put another baby into you. You’re already so cockdrunk, you won’t even know. I’m not letting you out of here until it takes.”
That knocks all the oxygen from your chest. “Shit, Scott— hold on.”
“Can’t do that,” he grunts, “pussy feels too good. Can’t get enough of this hole. I’m going to fill you up, baby. You’re gonna be leakin’ my cum for days. Maybe I’ll send you to get another massage and they’ll see you dripping my cream.”
Scott pounds into you, each word filthier than the next. He’s driving himself and you into a frenzy as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, squelching bouncing off your four walls.
“I’m gonna print my cock in your pussy so nobody else can touch you.”
“Breed this pussy so good, keep you plugged up with my cum for days.”
“This pussy was meant to be fucked, sweetheart. You don’t need princess treatment, just need to be fucked like you need another baby in you.”
It’s filthy. It’s demeaning. It’s a fucking turn-on.
“Yeah, you wanna cum, pretty girl? You wanna cum around my cock?”
You can only nod in your haze, desperate, eager.
“Cum around me, sweetheart. I wanna feel that cream coating my cock. I wanna feel that stickiness, feel what it’s like to have my girl feel so good because of me.”
Scott pounds into you faster, deeper as he fucks you harder into the mattress. He presses you further in this position, tilting your hips up until you’re climbing and climbing and falling apart around him with a loud whine. Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm, legs quaking around him as he drags out your climax with every thrust until he himself is spilling warmth inside you. You can feel the mess in your insides, feel it slosh around, feel it leak from where you two are joined.
“Fuck,” he groans, “cumming so much, sweetheart. Fillin’ her right up.”
Your heart slams against your chest as you feel exactly that.
Scott’s hips are still jerking with his cum spurting right into you. He refuses to budge, staying there until he’s sure everything’s out. Even then, he nudges his hips a little deeper, like he’s making sure his cum stays in there.
He eases out of you slowly, but he doesn’t let go of the pressure on your legs, keeping your hips up as he watches his cum ooze out of you. His brows pucker in annoyance as he uses two fingers to push it back into you.
You wince, pussy sensitive from the friction earlier. “Gross.”
“You like it.”
You do. It’s stupid but you do. Something about him staking his claim, leaving a part of him inside you, it’s just the kind of thing that has you squeezing around his fingers again.
Scott smirks. “Do you want me to clean you up?”
Your stupid, traitorous, dysfunctional brain says no. For some reason, you really like feeling his cum inside you. But you know that the correct answer is— “Yes.” It’s the only reason Scott asks – because he knows.
His eyes scan you for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth. Then he sighs and lets your legs down gently as he disappears, coming back only when he has a damp cloth in hand. It’s so strange for him to be so familiar with your place to know where things are.
At the same time — so right.
He wipes you clean, murmuring to himself about how pretty you look with his cum inside you. You try not to let your lips stretch too wide with the heat rolling across your face.
When he’s done, Scott slides himself in next to you, pulling you close.
That’s when you freeze because — what is this? What are you? The panic sinks in fast and you feel fear claw at your chest. You have a son. You can’t be doing — whatever the fuck this is — with his dad, who he doesn’t even know is his dad.
“Scott—”
“Sleep.”
“Go home.”
“No.”
“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “You can’t be here when Ben comes home tomorrow morning.”
Scott exhales long and hard, like he’s had enough of your shit. “Why not? I get full weekends, don’t I? That includes mornings. Now sleep.”
“Sleep in your own home! You can come back tomorrow.”
Before you know it, you’re back on your back and Scott’s on top of you, pinning you down with a glare. “Sweetheart, it seems like I didn’t fuck you hard enough. If I did, then you wouldn’t be thinkin’ whatever the fuck is going through that big head of yours right now. So, I’m going to fuck you again, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you stop treatin’ me like I’m some shameful one-night stand. I’m the father of your child — our child. So take your pick — do you want me to fuck you again until your head’s too full of cock to argue, or do you want to sleep?”
You open your mouth. Sleep is on the tip of your tongue, but then you feel him and his gaze warm on you and your legs press together on instinct.
He chuckles, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss onto your lips. “Good answer.”
Sure enough, he keeps his promise and you only find yourself falling asleep when he gives you your third orgasm of the night.
There is no monumental shift. Scott acts the same way he always has — at least around Ben.
He tries to maintain some level of distance but you can tell that he’s getting a little antsy about his own son not knowing who he is. Every time he asks you, you have to shoot it down, mainly for Ben’s sake.
But you also know that you raised a good, smart kid, which means it’s not surprising when Ben asks, “Who’s Uncle Scott really?”
“He is—” you pause, “—a friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
Fuck.
“No, he’s just a friend — like the kind you’ll meet in school.”
Ben looks at the television where there’s an interview of Scott playing, the one from a local station talking about his startup. “You love him?”
Your heart slams against your ribs. Warmth creeps up on you and Ben must notice it because he’s smiling softly, patting your hand.
“I like him,” Ben gives his nod of approval before turning back to the LEGOs in front of him.
A four-year-old just reassured you that he likes his dad. His dad that he still doesn’t know about. You know it isn’t fair and you will tell him at some point, you’re just not sure how to have that conversation yet — not when Scott’s time here is uncertain, despite what he says.
Still, while Scott keeps things steady with Ben, he switches tactics with you. His hand is always touching you — your hip, your back, your shoulders. Subtle touches like a reminder that he’s here. It’s oddly comforting and you find yourself seeking his touch more than before.
Around your son, he still maintains some distance, even when you can tell he’s itching to get closer. The two of you are at the grocery store, you’re driving the cart while Ben runs ahead, giggling and pointing at everything he wants — which is really anything with at least twenty grams of added sugar.
Scott has an amused smile on his lips as he watches him.
“Think he could be a runner someday. Has the makings of an athlete. Maybe football,” he says, almost proudly with his chest puffed up.
You roll your eyes, “I’d rather avoid my son getting his head knocked around.”
“Or entrepreneur, he has a way with making you do things, you know. Smart. Manipulative.”
“Where do you think he got that from?”
Scott only smirks.
You’re scanning through your list when you realize, “Shit, I forgot to grab butter and it’s up the aisle.”
“I’ll grab it,” he says, squeezing your hip, “just get what you need here.”
Ben insists on getting chocolate milk, mainly because he’s convinced the chocolate cow on the box is real. You tell him that you could get the smaller version and that you’ll take him to a farm one day and realize that there are no cows that produce chocolate milk.
“With Uncle Scott? In Oka— Okla—” He struggles, frowning when he can’t remember.
Oh. “Oklahoma,” you add, “maybe. I’m sure there are closer farms.”
His mouth opens in a bright grin.
When you finally cave and put both the chocolate milk and the regular milk in the cart, you look back down the aisle to see Scott standing there.
Talking to a woman.
A woman who was very much his type before he met you.
Your chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s understandable that Scott has seen and is probably still seeing other women. The two of you don’t have a label on things, nothing you can tape to his forehead that says off limits.
She looks young, sweet, dressed like she has a life. She’s smiling up at him, giggling at something he’s saying in a way where you know it’s not because he’s funny. She reaches up to touch his arm and he takes a step back, a polite smile in place, then he’s saying something and looking at you. And then she’s looking at you too, face souring.
Alright then.
You turn away again, continuing to push the cart as Ben sets his mind on cereal next. He’s been on a Lucky Charms kick and you desperately need to move him off it. It’s all sugar and food coloring.
Scott appears next to you, a hand on your lower back as he puts the butter box in the cart. He peeks at your list. “Cereal next?”
“Um, yeah,” you say, eyes going over your shoulder to catch another glimpse of that woman. “She was cute.”
“Yeah, she was.”
Your lips immediately curl and Scott catches it before you can school your expression. “Didn’t get her number?”
“Told her I’m with my wife and kid,” he smirks.
Wife and kid— you’re not even sure how to respond to that, so you resort to clearing your throat with a deadpan look. “Glad to hear we can be used to avoid women you don’t like.”
“Well, I was only half lying, wasn’t I?” He huffs as the two of you turn the corner, finding Ben already with a box of Lucky Charms in hand. You sigh as Scott mutters under his breath, “Not too late to make it all completely true though.”
You try to convince Ben that cornflakes are much more fun, which is the least convincing argument you can make, until Scott steps in and says that cornflakes make him super strong like the rooster on the cover. So Ben swaps out his pick for a box of Froot Loops and declares that he wants to be strong like this bird instead.
It isn’t until the two of you are unloading groceries into his car that it hits you, and the bag nearly slips from his fingers.
Make it all completely true. Wife and kid.
“Took you long enough,” Scott chuckles smugly. “Give it some thought. Maybe we can stop by the jewelers on the way back.”
Scott is relentless to say the least. He has increased the frequency of touching, has made it all the more obvious in front of everyone. Your coworkers all know him by name, chatting with him when you wrap up work late. Sometimes, he’s the one who picks Ben up from your mom’s and brings him to meet you at the hospital.
Your mom, of course, is over the moon. She can’t stop gushing over him, telling you how he helped her fix her leaky faucet, how he’s always on time to pick up Ben even when he’s still in the middle of work, and “Did you know he was featured in Forbes?”
He finally invites you and Ben over for dinner in his new apartment. It’s much more spacious, a two-bedroom that’s twice the size of yours — one of which he has set up for Ben. So Ben is also over the moon when he sees how massive his bedroom is. He asks if the two of you can stay and you only manage a tight-lipped smile before you redirect your glare towards Scott.
“Your place too,” Scott says casually, handing you an extra set of keys. “In case you ever need some more space.”
Later, he also shows you that he’s left most of the closet empty in the master bedroom. “In case you need to stay over.”
It’s sweet. It’s thoughtful.
It’s too much.
You don’t even know where you stand with him. He takes you out again and then another time; you tell yourself that this is just friends hanging out, but you know it’s different when you end up in his bed at the end of the evening. The first time you slept with him at his and tried to leave after, you realize that your shoes are nowhere to be found.
“Where are my shoes?”
“I knew you were going to pull some stupid shit like this. So I hid them.”
“What the fuck? Are you four?”
“No, but our son is. Now get your ass back into bed.” You cross your arms over your chest, planting your foot down in protest. Scott regards you coolly. “You either come here on your own accord or I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”
He doesn’t make threats lightly, so you stomp all the way back to his bedroom where Scott proceeds to fuck you over again and makes sure that you have no energy left to move.
Things are… good.
For the first time in years, you feel almost at peace. Ben’s a good kid, raised right, adored by all around him. He’ll start school next year with a stronger support system, what with Scott vowing to attend every parent-teacher conference and other events that require his presence. The two of you agree to tell Ben in a month — a month to prepare for the conversation.
You can’t even imagine what it’s like — living four years of your life never seeing your father and then suddenly dropping one in his lap. Well, you suppose it isn’t very sudden considering Scott’s been around more often than not. Part of you hopes that Ben is hopeful about Scott, it’ll make the conversation easier.
That being said, your work schedule has been atrocious which means you haven’t had the chance to really sit down with him and have a conversation on how to broach the topic with your son. The one time you finally manage to get off work early, you decide to swing by Scott’s; he works from home and you figured all three of you could do dinner together at that pizza place.
The key rests between your fingers, pinched tight as you stare at it.
You should just ring the doorbell. Right? It isn’t your home. But Scott gave you a key and what if he’s still in the middle of something? What if he has someone else in there? No, you shouldn’t use the key. Then again, he shouldn’t have given you a key if he would be doing anything he wouldn’t want you to see.
The internal debate persists until you decide fuck it and push the key into the lock. You open the door slowly, quietly, nothing like your own creaky one. Scott’s nowhere to be found in his giant living room with his giant television. You look at that giant screen with envy, thinking about how wonderful movie nights would be with that setup. Scott has already insisted on doing movie nights at his instead, stocking up on popcorn and sugar, and you’re tempted to agree.
Muffled voices carry down the hall. He’s probably in the bedroom so you silently make your way over in case he’s on a call.
“Yeah, I’ll be back next week, alright,” Scott says, sounding agitated. You get a peek through the bedroom door and find him pacing.
An open suitcase in front of him.
Your heart drops. The scene is all too familiar. It’s like you’re twenty-two again, left behind in this town while he goes off to chase his dreams — only this time, he had promised you he would stay. Only this time, it won’t only be your heart he’ll break.
“I know it’s takin’ me a while,” he grunts, scrounging his hand through his hair, “no, I still need to pick up my shit.”
You can’t hear the person on the other end of the line but it’s clear that he doesn’t seem very pleased. A sigh heaves from his chest as he looks out the window, a mournful expression painted onto his face.
“I have to tie up some loose ends.”
Loose ends? You swallow thickly. That’s— is he talking about you? About Ben? He’s supposed to be back in Oklahoma next week. No doubt whoever is on the other side is someone at work. But he had promised you he would stay — right? He had said that he would be sticking around. Why else would he get an apartment? Why would he set the bedroom up for Ben otherwise?
But your mind has spiraled beyond the point of reason. Your survival instincts kick in again; you never want to be the person left behind. Not again. Not after that first time. So you should leave first. It’ll make it easier for the both of you.
Scott won’t have to break the news and you — you can let that hope quietly slip away.
All you can do now is… leave.
So you do. You take one step back then another and another until you’re in his kitchen. You open one of the drawers and tuck the extra set of keys he gave you inside; after all, you won’t be needing those anymore. Then you’re out the door.
You’re functioning numb as you get home. Ben greets you with a big smile and so does your mom. You force yourself to smile too and ask if the two of them want pizza for dinner. Your mom looks at you with a silent question asking where Scott is. You only shake your head.
When Scott calls you as you’re getting ready to leave for the restaurant, you don’t pick up.
Not feeling so hot.
His face appears on your screen as your phone vibrates with the incoming call. You curse yourself for texting so quickly.
“Hey,” you try to rasp.
“What is it? A cold? A fever? I can grab medicine and dinner on the way there. Maybe that wonton noodle soup from—”
“No, don’t,” you blurt out, “I, uh, don’t want to get you sick.”
“I don’t give a shit about that.” You can practically imagine his annoyed scowl. He’s probably shrugging on his jacket, you can hear the jingle of his keys as he heads to the door. “What do you want to eat? You like that wonton soup right? It’s on the way to yours.”
“Scott, please.”
“Sweetheart,” he sighs.
“I’ll be fine,” you insist, “just give me a few days to recover and I’ll text you, okay.”
Silence on the other end means that he’s giving it actual thought. Then you hear the long exhale. “Fine. Call or text me if you need anything. Seriously.” He clears his throat, “You know, your mom could also take Ben for a few days. I’ll come take care of you.”
You bite your tongue, blinking away the tears as you stare up at the ceiling. You can’t get used to this, can’t get used to someone checking in on you, putting you first. This isn’t the kind of thing that lasts.
“No, I promise I’ll be okay.”
You call in sick for work, which shocks your entire team because you’re the type to drag yourself out of your deathbed to make sure you don’t miss a day. You’re not sure you like this reputation.
Jenna calls your bullshit out immediately. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” you mutter, picking on the lint on your pajama pants. You’re waiting for Ben to wake up so the two of you can spend the day together. He’s a little confused why you’re at home for a few days, but he certainly isn’t complaining.
“Does it have something to do with hottie Scottie?”
You wince, “That’s a gross nickname. Never say that again.”
“So it does, what did he do?”
It’s not what he did. It’s what he’s about to do. “It’s not a big deal. I just needed a break. Gonna spend some time with Ben.”
“Well, Ben loves her cool Aunt Jenna so I’ll swing by after with fried chicken?”
Your lips twitch. She always knows the right things to say. “Sounds good.”
On the other hand, you spend the rest of the week dodging Scott’s every attempt to come visit. You tell him that your cold has only gotten worse (you’re fresher than a spring chicken), that your mom is taking Ben for a few days (he’s sitting at the dining table), and that you are doing fine otherwise (your heart is splintering in your chest).
He sounds frustrated over the phone and, when he does visit, you pretend that you’re too sick to see him, refusing to let him through the door.
“This is fucking ridiculous. You have a cold. I’ll be fine,” he snaps through the front door. “Will you just let me in?”
Once again, you emphasize that that’s not good practice and colds are highly contagious. You can hear Scott’s feet shuffling outside, his annoyed grunts.
“Can you just let me in?” He breathes out deeply, “Please. I haven’t seen you in days and I really want to. I just want to make sure you’re good.”
Your forehead presses against the cool door. You tell yourself to stay strong. Don’t give in so easily. So again, you deny him entry and he finally leaves.
On Sunday, he calls and you at least pick that up. “I have to fly out to Oklahoma for a few days,” he mutters, “I’ll be back. Call me, text me, fucking email me if you need to — if you need anything at all, alright.”
“I’ll be fine,” you whisper.
You’re tying up those loose ends for him.
Scott goes radio silent for the first half of the week. You think this is finally it. He’s finally cutting you loose and maybe he’s simply going to fade into a distant memory. You’re back at work when he leaves Boston, your coworkers peppering you with questions about your absence. Jenna keeps the wolves at bay, telling all of them to give you some space.
“You need to talk to me at some point,” she gives you a look.
You lick your lips, mouth trembling as you finally say the words you’ve been too afraid to say. Because it’s one thing to think it, it’s another to admit it aloud. “Scott’s gone.”
“What?” She jerks back, “What do you mean he’s gone?”
Pushing around your peas, you sigh. “He’s in Oklahoma.”
“Temporarily right?”
You shrug. “Feel like it might be for good.”
“Did he tell you that?”
No, but you heard his conversation and it’s all about the words that are said behind your back that matter, right?
“Hon, listen to me. I’ve never seen a man more obsessed in my life. That guy’s in love with you.”
To that, you laugh, heart a little lighter for some odd reason. “He’s just being a good friend. He probably felt guilty after — you know — finding out that he knocked me up.”
She gives you a look. “If you seriously believe that, I’m going to have to take you up to neuro to get your head checked.”
On Thursday, you’re finally settling with the possibility that this really is it. You’ll be okay; you survived once without him, you can do it again. Instead, you focus strictly on work, drowning in the mountains of paperwork and unfinished studies. While you’re doing all that, your phone lights up with Scott’s name.
You don’t pick up. The last thing you need while you’re stressed out of your mind is to hear him apologize, hear him tell you that he’s changed in his mind. You can have your heart ripped out of your chest later.
Blissful ignorance is better than blatant rejection, that’s always been your motto.
You’re ready for a night of full decompression, which means you’re going to cuddle up with your baby and maybe fall asleep on the couch after a filling dinner of grease. “I’m home,” you call out.
The sight before you has you freezing. Scott’s on the couch — your couch — with Ben on his lap. They’re reading one of Ben’s favorite books and your son is giggling uncontrollably. Now, he is facing the front which means he can’t see Scott’s expression.
And that is a look that has your entire body stiffening in the doorway. You’re almost tempted to run again, but how could you abandon your son? So you try to ignore your buzzing nerves.
“Mom!”
“Hey, buddy,” you smile weakly, closing the door behind you. “Where’s, uh, my mom?”
“She left earlier, said I should spend some time with Ben and you,” he smiles. It’s sweet. It’s a sickeningly sweet smile, which means you know better than to trust it. “Ben here was just telling me about all the fun you had last week. All week in fact. Said you weren’t going to work so you two could spend all day together. Outside.”
Well.
“We watched a baseball game and then got ice cream!” Ben announces cheerily. Then he begins to list down everything you did last week — everything — and he is completely unaware that he’s digging a deeper grave for his own mother.
“That so?” Scott chuckles, patting his head. “Your mom’s a real miracle worker, isn’t she? Real healthy and spry to be doing all those things.”
The evening is tense, mostly for you. Your back is ramrod straight as Scott insists on cooking dinner and you have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesn’t add anything to your food. There are smarter ways to take you out, none of them ideal for you. Ben seems to sense the thickness of the air, eyes darting between the two of you.
Of course, neither of you show a thing but the anger that rolls off Scott is nothing short of obvious. So Ben then proceeds to declare that he wants to sleep early.
He never sleeps early. He’s just hit you with a second strike.
You busy yourself with getting him ready for bed, staying for as long as you can. You’re glued at the hip while he brushes his teeth, while he picks out his pajamas at an alarmingly fast speed. He doesn’t even want a bedtime story, telling you that he’s knackered from the long day.
And he goes straight to sleep. Traitor.
You were hoping Ben could buy you more time to come up with some sort of explanation for your behavior, or at least figure out a way to turn the conversation back to him because — what’s he doing back here? Isn’t he supposed to be in Oklahoma?
When you finally step out of Ben’s room, Scott looks noticeably ticked off.
His jaw is squared tight, dimples that are usually so endearing appearing more menacing in this light. “You wanna tell me why you lied about bein’ sick?”
You shift back on the heels of your feet. “I just needed some me time.”
“Bullshit,” he spits out, “you know I would’ve given you that if that’s what you wanted. Try again.”
While you’re usually better at thinking on your feet, the glare he’s pinned you with has your brain completely scrambled. You’re coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing even remotely close to being sufficient for your lie.
“Can’t think of anything, can you? Now that I’ve caught you.”
“Scott…”
“What was it?” He grunts, “What fucking spooked you?”
You press your lips together. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve never been good at commitment, sweetheart. Been runnin’ since the day I met you. So tell me, what fucking scared you?”
A protest sits on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall from your lips. Defensive. But Scott’s looking at you wearily, a five o’clock shadow that’s rarely ever there dusted across his face.
“You were going to leave,” you murmur.
He frowns at that. “When the hell did I say I was gonna do that?”
“You didn’t have to tell me,” you sigh, “I heard you on the phone.”
His eyebrows jump, surprise coloring his expression. If that isn’t confirmation, you don’t know what is. “What’re you talking about?”
It’s your turn to look irritated. How is he going to play dumb when he’s been caught red-handed?
“I heard you — you were going to head back Oklahoma, that you needed to pack your stuff and—” the last part has your throat constricting, you’re blinking back tears as you look at him. “—that you needed to tie up loose ends.”
Scott looks far from appeased from your explanation. “Yeah, and?”
“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “If you were going to leave again, were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to disappear? Leave me here alone again.”
“That’s not fucking fair,” he snaps right back, “I reached out to you. Multiple times. I called and texted and you disappeared. So don’t turn this shit around on me like I intentionally left you.”
“How was I ever supposed to tell you, Scott? I’m pregnant, can you stay here with me instead?”
“Yes! Exactly like that,” he snarls, “it’s as simple as that. But instead, you stopped responding to me. You left me.” That shuts you up, your breath catching in your throat. “So don’t be a hypocrite.”
“It would’ve been selfish of me — to tell you,” you gulp, chest tight, “you would’ve stayed because that’s who you are. That stupid sense of responsibility despite you being irresponsible enough to go out there and chase goddamn tornadoes. I couldn’t do that to you.”
“I know, because that’s who you are,” he mutters, “you think you gotta do everything on your own. You think I don’t hear things? Your mom and Jenna told me plenty about how tough things were for you. How do you think that makes me feel? I’m the asshole that left you.”
“You didn’t know,” you breathe in shakily.
“Doesn’t change the circumstances, does it?” He snips. His face softens then, melting slightly as he sees you curling into yourself. “But I really need you to get your head checked. Something ain’t right up there if you think for a second I could really ever leave you again.”
You look up at him and he’s already taken a step towards you. His hand slides up your neck to cup your cheek, his warm blue eyes on you.
“I was wrapping things up in Oklahoma so I can move here for good. I needed to deal with some paperwork and all the transition for the fieldwork. We’re not short-handed but, you know how it is with leadership.” He pauses, searching your face for any reaction. “I couldn’t just leave my team hanging out to dry so I had to finalize everything before I officially moved here.”
Well. Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So you weren’t going back to Oklahoma for good?”
The aggravation returns to his face. “You’re shittin’ me right? Have I not been telling you for weeks that I’m here to stay?”
“I just thought you meant temporarily,” you sputter, “who picks up their entire life on a fucking whim?”
“It’s not a whim! I was planning to move back here, focus more on raising funds with investors. That was, if I managed to find you!” That has you jolting back in surprise. “I came here to look for you. Properly this time. Fuck, and I told myself that, if I found you, I wasn’t gonna get you walk away from me again.”
“You— really?”
He rolls his eyes, lips tugging up. “Yeah, really. Let go the love of my life once, ain’t doin’ that again.”
“Love of your life?” You squeak.
Scott looks up at the ceiling, praying to some almighty up there to lend him some patience. “Thought that was fuckin’ obvious,” he mutters, “for someone so fuckin’ smart, you can be real stupid.”
“That’s so rude,” you frown.
“Apparently, I have to be if I need you to get your head out of your ass.”
You lick your lips, face flushing with heat. “So, uh, love of your life? Can I get some clarity on that?”
“How can I be any clearer?” He snaps, “If you’re gonna ask me since when, you really think I’d keep fucking you back then if I wasn’t in love with you?” Your jaw practically drops. “You’re the idiot that didn’t want anything real.”
“You were fucking everything that moved!”
“Until I met you!” He shakes his head. “Jesus, you really— I don’t know how you got me wrapped around your finger all this time.”
You huff, “Are you gonna keep insulting me all night?”
“Are you not gonna tell me you love me?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. “What makes you think I love you?”
“I don’t think, I know, sweetheart,” Scott grins, arm stretching to pull you towards him. He tucks you in close, your breasts against his chest as your palms land on his shoulders, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet little moan. “Come on, say it. I know you’ve been dyin’ to for years now.”
With a roll of your eyes, you puff out, “I love you.”
He grunts, leaning down to tease you. “Don’t think I heard you.”
“I love you, Scott Miller. Now will you shut up and kiss me?”
“Never could say no to you, sweetheart.”
+ sam: thank you so much if you've made it this far!!! you've finally seen the inner workings of my mind when i'm truly hyperfixating. please know that i appreciate every single piece of engagement but i especially love to hear what you think of the story, your fave parts, etc.!!! <3
i tried making a contrapuntal poem for hollanov, which can be read 3 ways: shane’s side alone, ilya’s side alone, or both sides together. inspired by the long game.
my hot take of the day is that ilya actually runs a tighter ship than shane, not like as captain or anything i mean in the household.
1) afraid of being lazy 2) military son 3) slavic. shane has certain preferences for things sensory wise which is why he is neat abt his stuff, ilya will kill himself & everyone in the room there's a Difference. iykyk
sure heated rivalry has enemies to lovers but interview with the vampire has enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers to
Yuna realizes that Shane and Ilya are in LOVE love when she hears singing coming from the kitchen.
“Chopping carrots with Ilya,” Shane sings under his breath. “Making salad with Ilya.”
Yuna smiles softly from the dining room. This is one of her favorite things about her son. From the time he could (barely) talk, he made up little songs about anything and everything. The first time he’d done it, he’d been strapped into his car seat and watching cars go by. When he’d caught Yuna’s eye in the rear view mirror, he’d smiled with all 8 of his little teeth and waved.
“Dwiving,” he’d sung, all of 18 months old and barely able to say the word properly. “Dwivin’ wi’ Mama. Wuv Mama.”
Yuna’s not sure if it’s Shane’s way of processing the world around him, just A Thing some people do, or something special about her baby boy. All she knows is that from the first time he’d made up a little tune about Driving With Mama, everything turned into a song. When he’s comfortable and feeling at ease, Shane turns little things around him into music.
Learning to tie his shoes? “Daddy’s teaching me to tie my shoes. One lace over the other. Make the bunny ears!”
Gearing up for practice when he was 8? “Going to practice. Gonna be great. Gonna score a goal!”
Studying for a science test? “Mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. Everyone says it because it’s true. Moving on—organelles and cell walls.”
Gearing up for his first Metros game as captain? “Taping my hockey stick. Going out on the ice. Gonna kick some ass.”
It’s something so uniquely, adorably, perfectly Shane.
Today, though? As Shane’s in the kitchen preparing a salad for lunch? For the first time, someone else sings along. For the first time in Shane’s life, someone hears the tune and lyrics that only exist in his head and joins in.
“Making salad with Shane,” Ilya croons along, hooking his chin over his boyfriend’s shoulder and wrapping strong arms around his waist. “Preparing lunch with my love.”
Shane smiles and sings back as Ilya nuzzles his neck. “Being domestic with my boyfriend. Thinking of boring things we can do together.”
Ilya laughs and kisses his ear before finishing the song. “I love to be boring with yooouuuu.”
what if Ilya had a cat the whole time he and Shane were hooking up? he accidentally adopted a stray cat and treats her like a princess. (I love anya but just go with me for an Ilya as a cat dad idea)
And there’s all this miscommunication because Ilya will occasionally mention her name/talks about her and Shane thinks that this is a real woman who is possibly a girlfriend. And he’s talking about a cat but somehow this comes across like he could be talking about a woman. So all this time, Shane thinks that Ilya and (insert name here of cat) are also friends with benefits but possibly more when in fact it’s just Ilya mentioning his cat.
So they get to the cottage and they declare they’re love and make their plan and then Ilya casually drops in “it will be a big move for (kitty) but she’ll be fine, I have a plan.”
and Shane is panicking and freaking out because what?! “I…don’t understand….”
“I will have to drive her when I move, I don’t want to take her on a plane.”
“Uh.”
“I have looked up, you know, taking them on planes and they need to go into the hold. I don’t want to do that.”
Shane is panicking and also really confused because why would a person go in the hold and -
“She will love you, I think. She doesn’t like many people but you will get on well.”
Shane is tearing up because he doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, “She’s coming to Canada?”
“Uh, yes, do you not understand how pets work Hollander? Of course, she is coming too.”
Shane takes a long moment to absorb his words and understand that this woman who he’s thought for years is very special to Ilya is in fact a pet of some sort. And so he’s kinda out of it.
Ilya doesn’t understand why Shane is being so weird, he’s not realised that he never said she was a cat.
“Wait. Are you…allergic to cats?”
Shane can’t help it, “She’s a cat?!” He realises a second too late, he’s never going to hear the end of this ever.
“Yes.” Ilya smirks, “Oh! I see. I forgot I never said who she was. Did you think this was a woman??”
“NO!”
GOD he found her because he was running by the harbor in boston one morning and found a little kitten who got tangled up in a fishing net near the docks, and so ilya stops his run to get her out, and she is obviously puffing herself up like an angry little cotton ball as if her little fluffy butt isn't TRAPPED, and ilya is amused and just, "wow wow, such an angry fish. you are shark, maybe?"
and she is littol and also damp and it's COLD, so he ends up taking her home with him and names her fish because he thinks he's funny, but significantly, he calls her fish in russian, which sounds like "RIH-ba," which to an english speaking ear just sounds like the name Reba with extra emphasis on the first syllable
and reba first comes up in conversation when ilya pauses to text his pet sitter at a hookup with shane, but shane can't see the conversation and just "what? you have something more important to do right now?" and ilya who was a little worried about leaving his kitten all alone is just half-distracted goes, "mm, i am checking up on my ryba. i think she might miss me."
and shane is SO instantly jealous and just, "reba?"
"yes, is her name. she is-ah-" and the word "kitten" escapes him in the moment, so he says, "kotenok, you know this word?"
and shane who DOES know this word but ONLY in the context of when ilya has called him it during sex (and thus thinks it's some dirty talk equivalent of "person i'm fucking," maybe) is now pissed but so flatly goes, "yeah, i know that one"
"she is very cute. you want to see picture?"
and shane is SO simmering mad about it just, "no, thanks." and ILYA thinks he's just mad that sex got disrupted for this, so he playfully tosses his phone away and just, "such a face, hollander. do not worry. i have attention for both of you."
and this is NOT welcome news to shane >:( but fine >:( whatever >:( he doesn't fucking care >:(
and ryba doesn't LOVE meeting people (she is the opposite of papa 😔), so one contributing factor to shane never going to ilya's house in all those years (at least from what he tells himself) is there's no point stressing ryba out for something that's SO casual. it's the reason hookups never go back to ilya's place with him. there is already a lady of the house, and she does not like company. and shane is JUST a hookup, obviously. there's no point in stressing his cat out for something SO casual.
and then on tuna meltdown day, ilya cleaned the house up to look nice so ryba's toys are all collected in her room (because she is the only child of a millionaire--of course she has her own room), and ryba goes to chill out under the guest bed until Strange New Person is gone. but what ilya conveys is, "you might see ryba. i am not sure. she does not like new people." and so shane is now also confused because what?? he's coming over here and someone else might also just show up??
"you're not worried about her telling anyone?"
and ilya just *amused look because he thinks this is a joke about their secrecy* "no, she is very discreet. is not a problem."
and shane would like to keep pushing, but he also doesn't know if ilya is making a joke or not, and he doesn't LOVE the idea of another random person just popping in on this VERY big secret.
"i mean, i'd rather she didn't know at all"
and ilya still thinks they're running a bit here and just, "ah, is sexier, yes? staying secret." *wink* because again! ILYA thinks they're talking about his cat!
and shane is a little reassured, but it does add to the day that like. WHO is this fucking reba person??? and WHY would rozanov even joke about her finding out?? is this a kink?? is this setting up for a threesome? is that why rozanov finally invited him to his house? so fucking reba can hop in bed with them?
like a big contributing factor to shane being so "what the FUCK" on tuna meltdown day is the misunderstanding that reba is actually ryba and is just currently hanging out under the guest bed upstairs playing with a spring toy while papa's whole fucking heart gets shattered in the living room.
WAIT NO OH MY GOD EVEN FUNNIER IDEA FOR SHANE LEARNING ABOUT RYBA:
she doesn't come up during the cottage because ilya is still thinking about the logistics of the move in terms of signing contracts/planning moving his stuff/etc., and obviously ryba is going to be going with him, but he'll just put a mental pin in it to look up the process because some countries have quarantine.
but ryba then. doesn't really come up. they're trying to just enjoy themselves at the cottage and ilya misses his fuzzy girl and doesn't want to dwell on missing his cat because he knows it's a LITTLE sappy and he IS happy to have this time with shane.
but this then means that shane stays over at ilya's house overnight for the first time in the new season and gets woken up to ryba at 2 am with the zoomies (shane got up to get water and didn't know to shut the door after to keep her out), so he wakes up to SOMETHING in the bed running around like a MANIAC and jumping around and even landing on his fucking FACE briefly?? what the FUCK is happening!!! ilya what the FUCK is in your house!!!
and ilya just *groggy but obviously knows this is just his cat* "is just ryba, hollander. don't worry. she will settle. rybochka, calm down. is time for sleeping."
and shane just?? reba set a fucking wild animal loose in your house???? WHAT??
and ilya just *now equally confused* what? does she have mouse or something?
??? you tell ME???? what the fuck kind of woman were you fucking?????
and ilya now *sitting up and turning the light on and gently tossing his cat to the end of the bed when she jumps on him at this sign that it's Time To Play* hollander, what the fuck are you talking about?? you think i am fucking other people???
and shane is now looking at this O.O wound up zoomies cat and making. some connections.
and the only reason ilya's instagram isn't FLOODED with pictures of ryba is that she is a supermodel and has her OWN account that ilya doesn't openly own because he doesn't want haters flooding his beautiful rybochka's photos with beef she has nothing to do with
significantly, shane does think ryba thinks they're in competition for ilya's attention because shane has not grown up around cats and finds her a little confusing anyway, and she also has just has a habit of. intense staring.
shane gets up to get some water and ryba is just sitting in the corner of the kitchen like
and shane is more unsettled by ilya's 8 pound cat than he will EVER admit to.
svetlana ends up taking care of ryba a lot when ilya is travelling (just stays over at his house since ryba knows her and doesn't like strangers), so it's an ongoing joke that they have shared custody of their child of a divorce, ryba, and no of COURSE shane isn't jealous when ilya and svetlana make jokes about getting back together in their fictional marriage for ryba's sake he just thinks it's FUNNY how-
oh MAN they have some people over (not a ton, but just like. a grill session.) and ilya realizes at some point that it's been a LONG time since he's seen shane and goes looking for him
and finds him hanging out on the floor in the guest room talking to ryba under the bed
"-used to hide in closets when i was little, so i get it. at least no one here is going to make you wear a stupid ass sweater-"
through the nature of how pet names devolve over time, the boston team ends up calling her robert which ilya sometimes ends up saying, too, because it's funny, which means shane has a double dose of jealousy before he knows about this cat because sometimes ilya ends up saying things like "no, i am excited to be done with roadie. robert is waiting for me."
which means shane thinks there is reba AND ALSO??? some fucko named ROBERT???
ryba does adjust, but for the first several weeks she does immediately spooky arch when she crosses paths with anya as if she just. forgets that The Other Thing is still in the house. and she immediately deflates and chills.
but this does end up becoming a silent inside joke with ilya and shane where if they cross paths in the house they both arch their shoulders up at each other like ryba. before just. continuing on their way.
she is rybochka when ilya is telling her how cute and perfect she is, ryba under standard circumstances, robert when she's in trouble, and roast beef when shane wants to get on ilya's nerves
shane hollander is a jock, a dude, a 200 pounds man, a captain, he's been giving interviews and speeches before he could even walk, he plays in front of thousands and thousands of people and loud af crowds, he's a performer, he's constantly in front of cameras, he's been under scrutiny his whole life, he's an athlete, he breathes-eats-sleeps-shits sport, he swears, he's masculine, his hockey gear is probably putrid, he's a certified mcgymbro™, he only wears athletic stuff, he models, he does commercials, his main personality trait is hockey, he's kissed and hugged by his sweaty teammates in the locker room, he's ripped, he's an asshole, he's sarcastic, he's a bitch, he uses "fuck" every three words, he hires a stylish and a designer because his taste is bro. and he is all that while being neurodivergent too.
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