Werewolf!Boyfriend who wants to stay secure in your arms while he transforms under the full moon instead of being alone like always but he's scared he'll hurt you.
Werewolf!Boyfriend who you hold in your arms, petting his hair and assuring him nothing he could do would hurt you.
Werewolf!Boyfriend who clings to you when night falls and it begins, his bones and skin aching as he starts to pant.
Werewolf!Boyfriend who whines against you in pain as his body starts to shift, burying his head deeper against your lap as he mumbles about how its going. You tell him reassuring words as he grunts.
Werewolf!Boyfriend who grabs onto your arm for support as he feels fur start to sprout on him, trying not to dig his claws into you as he groans in pain, sharp fangs crowding his mouth.
Werewolf!Boyfriend who collapses on your lap fully transformed, tail thumping as you stroke his ears and tell him that you're still here for him.
The England vs France match had been something—6-4. By the final whistle, he was satisfied and sweaty… victorious. The locker room erupted in cheers. After the match, Jude made a quick decision—Spain first. You had mentioned you were there on a vacation, and Jude hadn’t seen you in weeks. The distance between them during tournaments was always hard. So instead of heading straight back to England or staying with the team for recovery… he booked a flight to Spain. No announcement, just pure impulse. A surprise reunion was coming.
By 7 PM, Jude’s cab pulled up to the sleek hotel where you were staying. Jude hadn’t warned you he was coming… too eager to surprise you after everything. He paid the driver and walked into the lobby, scanning for directions to your suite number.
Jude stood outside your suite door, heart pounding just a little. After confirming the right room number from the front desk, he reached out and pressed the doorbell—once. A simple ding-dong echoed inside. Jude waited, suddenly hyper-aware of his travel-worn clothes and messy hair from being on planes all day… but too excited to care.
The door swung open, revealing you—in casual clothes, even barefoot. Before you could even say hi properly, Jude launched himself forward, arms locking around your shoulders in a tight hug. You staggered back slightly from the force of it—but instantly wrapped your arms around Jude too, squeezing him like you hadn’t seen him in years, even though it’d only been weeks.
Your laugh was warm and relieved, arms tightening around Jude like you never wanted to let go. You buried your face in the crook of Jude’s neck for a second—breathing him in after weeks apart. The hug lasted longer than expected… no rush to pull away. Just two people who missed each other so much finally reconnecting. A soft kiss landed on Jude’s cheek—sweet.
You effortlessly lifted Jude—one strong arm hooked under his rear while the other grabbed both suitcases. With practiced ease, you kicked the hotel room door shut behind them. Jude clung to you like a koala, legs locked around your waist as they moved inside. The luggage clattered softly against the floor by the entrance—you weren't letting go of Jude just yet.
Your teasing grin widened as you finally set Jude down on the bed—only to immediately poke his chest playfully. The 6-4 scoreline was still fresh, and you couldn’t resist roasting England’s aggressiveness.
“6-4? You Englands are greedy” you snorted, “Couldn’t just settle for a normal 2-0 like civilized people.” The sarcasm dripped… but it was affectionate. You loved watching Jude and his teammates dominate on the pitch.
Jude rolled his eyes at your teasing—classic him, always cracking jokes after matches. He couldn’t stay mad.
“Greedy?” Jude echoed, smirking as he pulled you down with him on the bed “It’s just right.” Jude didn’t care. Right now, he just wanted to kiss his boyfriend stupid after weeks apart.
Jude flopped onto his back beside you after kissing you senseless—sprawling like a starfish, limbs taking up way more space than necessary. One arm draped over your waist lazily, pulling you slightly closer without fully cuddling. Just Jude—tired from flight as he stared at the ceiling. You turned your head slightly, studying Jude’s relaxed expression. Your voice was soft—curious.
“Sleepy?” you asked, nudging Jude’s shoulder gently with your own. The question was simple… just checking if the post-pleasure crash had hit him hard enough to pass out right there.
“Not really. I slept through the flight.” Jude’s mind wandered. Then remind.
“Tomorrow,” he started “I'm gonna… bring you home” The ‘home’ part carried weight—the Bellinghams’ house, meeting Jude’s family properly as boyfriends…not childhood best friends.
“Yeah?” Your eyes lit up at the mention of going home with Jude—That changed everything. The relationships between two families.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling softly. The Bellinghams had known you for years… but this visit would be different. Official. A mix of nerves and excitement buzzed in him—meeting them again under new terms.
Jude shifted onto his side. The post-game high hadn’t fully worn off—his skin buzzed with energy. It was perfect clubbing time in Spain… neon lights, music pulsing.He turned to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Wanna hit the club?” he asked—voice already excited at the idea of dancing and taking shots to celebrate his win.
“Of course you would suggest that” you rolled your eyes but smirked—Jude’s post-match energy was predictable. Of course he’d want to hit a club. The snort was affectionate, though. You weren't saying no… just teasing Jude for being so predictable.
Jude whined dramatically—nose scrunched, lips pouting—as he shoved your shoulder again. Just putting on a scene because why not.
“C’monnn,” he drawled, dragging out the word, “Let’s gooo.” The neediness was dialed up to 100… relentless until you gave in and agreed to clubbing.
“Fine—geez” you finally relented with an amused chuckle, pushing yourself up from the bed. You knew Jude hated doing anything fun solo—especially clubbing. The second you moved to get ready, Jude’s pout vanished… replaced by a bright grin. Victory: achieved. Now they’d both dress and head out—probably in matching chaotic energy.
The club was just a few minutes’ walk from the hotel—close enough that they arrived quickly. The second they stepped inside, the bass thumped through their chests, lights strobing wildly. The energy was electric: crowds dancing, drinks being poured… pure chaos in the best way. Jude immediately brightened—this was his element.
You, ever the provider, had your wallet out before Jude could even blink. Whatever Jude wanted—shots? Done. Another round? Paid for instantly. The bartender slid drinks their way without hesitation, you tipped generously too. You didn’t care about the cost… seeing Jude happy and loose was worth every euro.
Jude, buzzing from the shots, grabbed your hand and yanked you toward the dance floor—no hesitation. The music pulsed through them as Jude started moving shamelessly. He wasn’t a perfect dancer… but he was enthusiastic, swaying with hip movements and grinning like an idiot. Pure joy radiated off him. He pressed close, grinding against you in rhythm with the beat. The alcohol had him extra tactile, his body loose and playful, arms looping around your shoulders to pull you closer. They were a tangle of limbs under the club lights.
Jude was wasted—slumped over your back like a sleepy koala, limbs loose and face smushed against your shoulder. Every few steps, Jude mumbled something incoherent.
“You’re handsomeee…can I have your number?” With that cheeky grin you can’t see because you’re busy focusing on the road. You carried him effortlessly—used to Jude’s post-celebration drunk antics—and just focused on getting them safely back to the hotel.
You entertained him back anyway: “Can’t. I have a boyfriend…his name is Jude Bellingham”
Jude’s hands wandered clumsily—tracing your jawline, poking your chest, even squishing your cheeks like a tipsy toddler discovering texture. Every touch was sloppy and affectionate, Jude giggling quietly to himself. His fingers kept exploring your face… then sliding underneath your shirt.
“Really?...That's too bad…I think you deserve two boyfriends. I’m Jude Bellingham, can I get your number?” Jude muttered again. This is going to be a long night taking care of drunk Jude. But fine, you can do this.
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, sharp and unforgiving—directly onto Jude’s face. He groaned, a low, miserable sound escaping him as his head pounded like it was being split open with an axe. The hangover hit him full-force: dry mouth, nausea creeping at the edges of his stomach. His body was tangled awkwardly in the sheets—arm thrown over your chest like he owned you while sleeping, one leg hooked over yours too. It wasn’t graceful or cute—just his usual disaster sleep position that always left both of them stuck to each other by morning no matter how they started out at night. Jude didn’t move yet though… not even when sunlight made his eyeballs throb worse. Too busy suffering silently and regretting every single shot from last night.
Jude shifted slightly—careful, even through the hangover haze—because he knew. You always took care of him like this. Without words, without being asked twice. You’d wake up first in the mornings after nights out and wordlessly fetch medicines you always pack with you, grab a glass of water… So Jude nudged you again with his forehead—a soft bump against your shoulder—half-conscious but intentional. It wasn’t demanding or whiny, just that quiet trust between you two where actions spoke louder than groggy apologies ever could.
“What is it…babe?” Your voice was rough with sleep—low and sleep-warm—and it made Jude’s chest tighten for a second, despite the pounding headache. He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly at you through half-lidded eyes, the sunlight still hurting him but not enough to stop this quiet moment between you two.
Then he swallowed hard, his throat dry as hell and finally managed:
"My head hurts…" His words came out sluggish, quieter than usual. No dramatic whining—just stating facts like some pathetic drunk who’d learned his lesson last night but forgot immediately upon waking up today anyway. And then… almost shyly…He leaned forward slightly—not asking outright—but hinting that maybe water or medicine would help…if you wake up and take it for him.
“Mhmm…” you hummed. The bed creaked softly as you untangled yourself from Jude’s weight—careful not to jostle him too much—and sat up. No eye-roll, no sigh of annoyance. Just a quiet routine. The kind that had formed over months of this: you taking care of him after anything. You padded barefoot to your luggage, there’s a bag where you kept everything essential.
Then the mini fridge next—cold water poured into a glass, condensation forming on its surface as you carried both back toward the bedroom. Jude watched through hazy eyes… still curled under blankets like a guilty but hungover stray cat waiting for scraps. And here you came anyway…
Jude took the glass and pills slowly, fingers brushing against your palm—just a brief touch. He swallowed two painkillers with a sip of water, wincing at how even that small action hurt his head. Then he glanced over at you as you lay back down… eyes already closing again like sleep was pulling you under before you could fully wake up. His parents were expecting them both to arrive together by 7AM in the morning, it’s nearly 6AM right now.
That look crossed his face. The one you knew too well—half-lidded eyes, the way Jude’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before flickering back up with quiet heat. Jude scooted closer on the bed without breaking eye contact—slowly now—as if asking permission without words. The early morning light still filtered through the curtains. But neither cared about time anymore…you took him to party at the club but yeah. He wanted more. And it’s not like you’re going to say no to his face.
“Gonna reward me for third place?” Jude smirked. Nothing new, really. The bed dipped under Jude’s weight as he closed the distance between you two, his movements smooth despite the lingering hangover fog.
“Yeah…you’re lucky I love you” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Because nobody asks for morning sex right in your face without saying good morning first. But you have an exception.
He dropped the lube and condom onto the mattress beside you—no teasing or slow buildup this time, just focused intent. His hands found your waist first, warm on your bare chest as he leaned closer.
Then his mouth crashed into yours—not rough, but hungry. A kiss that tasted like morning breath and regret of consuming too much alcohol. Jude didn’t speak—just kissed deeper while one hand roaming your body.
“You’re not tired?” You groaned against his mouth. Jude broke the kiss just enough to huff against your lips—annoyed you’d even ask that. Tired? Yeah, his head still pounded a little from last night’s drinking. His body felt heavy. But this? Morning sex with you? That was non-negotiable.
So he rolled his eyes, affectionately before diving back in, kissing you harder this time—all teeth and desperation. One of Jude’s hands slid up your chest while the other tangled roughly in your hair…
“Do you want me to start the day happy? Of course yes. So shut up and do me.” Jude huff, this can fix his hangover pain right now—he believes.
Jude didn’t hesitate—boxers already tossed aside, muscles flexing as he moved. When you grabbed the lube and squeezed some onto your finger, Jude’s breath hitched slightly—watching with darkening eyes. No teasing now, just quiet anticipation. He lay back against the pillows without being told, one arm stretched above his head while his other hand reached for you automatically—pulling you closer by your hip like a silent “come here.” The early morning light caught every scar and tan line on your skin…
The kiss was deep and slow—different from the frantic one earlier. Jude melted into it instantly—lips parting under yours with a soft sound—and then came the sensation of your finger pressing gently against him. He tensed for half a second, always did at first, but didn’t pull away. Just breathed through his nose and leaned deeper into the kiss… letting you work him open slowly.
Jude tilted his head to the side instinctively, giving you better access to his neck—his breath coming quicker now as your lips and teeth worked over that sensitive spot just below his ear. He loved this. Loved how precise you were—how you knew exactly where Jude liked it, how hard or soft to press… like muscle memory from months of intimacy. A quiet moan slipped out when your fingers curled just right inside him—a sound half-surprise, half-relief—and one of Jude’s hands fisted in the sheets beside him while the other gripped your shoulder.
Jude made a tiny, frustrated noise—actually whined—when your fingers left him when it was about to get good. He was right there, so close to that sweet tension-building pleasure… and then you pulled away to strip. His chest rose faster now, eyes tracking every movement as you peeled off your shirt, kicked out of sweatpants. Jude bit his lower lip unconsciously—equal parts impatient and turned on by the way you moved with quiet confidence.
But damn if it didn’t feel like forever while he just lay there bare already… watching you undress slowly in the morning light.
Jude’s gaze traveled over you—appreciating every defined line of your torso, the way your shoulders flexed slightly as you pulled off the last piece of clothing.
You weren’t just hot—you look like someone who could probably bench-press half your teammates without breaking a sweat. And Jude? He loved it. Loved how you looked right now—all lean muscle and confidence—and suddenly he was impatient again. No more waiting. So before you could even crawl back onto the bed properly, Jude reached out and yanked you down by a hand on your shoulder…
The kiss was feral—Jude’s lips crashed into yours with zero finesse, just raw need. Like he hadn’t kissed you in years instead of minutes. His hands immediately fisted in your hair, tilting your head to deepen it further while his tongue slid against yours—hot and demanding. Jude breathed through his nose between desperate kisses, chest rising fast as if oxygen didn’t matter nearly as much as this.
Jude exhaled sharply as the kiss broke—chest still heaving—but his eyes stayed locked on you while you grabbed the condom packet. Jude watched, lips slightly parted, as you stroked yourself—slow and deliberate—to get fully hard. The sight of him like this: naked, waiting, legs loosely bent clearly affected you too. His own stomach tightened with heat when he noticed the way your eyes darkened—how your breath hitched just a little at the view of Jude already open and ready for you. Then the rustle of foil as you rolled the condom down properly before shifting closer on your knees between his thighs. Jude exhaled shakily—anticipation coiling low in his belly.
The kiss was soft at first—just lips meeting, tender and lingering—but then you trailed down Jude’s jawline with his mouth, pressing warm kisses along the sensitive skin there. Jude shivered. By the time your lips reached that spot just below his ear—the crook of his neck where you knew he was extra sensitive—his breath hitched audibly.
And then came it: That first brush of your tip against him… tentative but deliberate. Jude tensed instinctively—not from fear or hesitation, but because anticipation always made him hold his breath like this.
Jude’s fingers dug into your back—nails grazing skin lightly but possessively—as you pushed deeper. Not rough enough to hurt, just… needing to hold on. Every slow inch sent sparks through his body, he bit down on his lower lip hard, trying not to make too much noise even though they were alone. His legs lifted slightly without thinking, knees bending to give you better access as the stretch filled him perfectly. No pain yet—just that delicious pressure of being connected like this after weeks of distance. Jude exhaled shakily through his nose… eyes fluttering shut for a second before reopening again—to watch you.
Jude’s breathing turned uneven—each roll of your hips sending waves of pleasure through him. He wasn’t tense anymore, his body had melted into the rhythm, adjusting perfectly to your pace like they’d done this a thousand times, because they basically had. A quiet moan escaped Jude as you hit that spot inside him—the one that always made his toes curl—and his hand slid from your back up to tangle in your hair instead. Not pulling, just… holding on.
His arousal was obvious—chest flushed, lips parted with little gasps.
Jude’s gaze was locked onto yours—dark, unfocused with pleasure—as he watched the way your cock disappeared and reappeared inside him. The visual of it alone was filthy—the glisten of sweat on your skin, the rhythmic snap of hips meeting his body—and it sent heat straight to his core. He couldn’t look away. Every thrust made a soft sound between you two—the slap of skin, Jude’s hitched breaths.
His eyes can’t stop tracing every detail—hungry—as you move above him. The sharp V-line of your stomach, the faint trail of hair leading downward… all leading to that cock, thick and relentless as it hammered into him with increasing roughness. He loved this view. Loved how effortlessly strong you looked right now—muscles flexing with each thrust, sweat glistening on your shoulders—and how completely focused you were on pleasuring him. No teasing slowdowns anymore, just pure, unfiltered fucking that had Jude’s head spinning and his hips lifting instinctively to meet yours.
Jude’s curses were breathless—mumbled against his own shoulder or the pillow when they slipped out, too overwhelmed to care about volume. “Fuck—” Each one punched out between gasps as you got rougher, hips snapping harder now with that athlete’s strength. His nails raked lightly down your back— A reflex, his body craving more friction even while being completely dominated by your rhythm. The bed creaked softly beneath them… morning light still painting everything gold around their tangled bodies.
The rhythmic thud-thud of the headboard slamming against the wall echoed through the bedroom—each sharp impact syncing with your punishing pace. Jude barely noticed it over his own ragged breathing and moans.
The creaking wood blended into their sounds—the slap of skin, Jude’s bitten-off whimpers when a particularly deep thrust hit just right, your quiet grunts as you worked him open relentlessly.
Jude hated how effortlessly you could pin him—how one large hand easily trapped both of his wrists above his head, holding them there with zero struggle. It was infuriating… and hot as hell. Being smaller and leaner than you meant he’d never been manhandled like this by anyone else—no other guy had the strength or size to just… restrain him so completely during sex.
And right now? You weren't even trying, it came naturally—the way your fingers curled around his wrists, keeping them in place while your hips kept driving into him. No chance to squirm away if Jude wanted to.
Jude was already breathless, sweaty—his body thrumming with pleasure—but you showed no signs of slowing down. That fucking stamina. Your endurance wasn’t a joke. Just endless thrusts that made Jude’s thighs tremble slightly from the constant stimulation… his earlier frustration at being pinned long forgotten under waves of sensation.
Jude’s climax hit him like a freight train—sudden and overwhelming. One second he was gasping, body strung tight with pleasure… The next, his back arched slightly off the mattress as he came untouched, stripes of white landing messily across his stomach. His toes curled into the sheets, muscles tensed for a heartbeat before melting into blissful aftershocks. Pinned beneath your weight and strength? Yeah—that did it. The combination of being dominated physically and mentally pushed him over too fast. Now he just lay there dazed… catching his breath while you kept going above him.
The shift was immediate—you released Jude’s wrists, instead bracing your arms on either side of Jude’s head as you leaned down to kiss him. It wasn’t rough or demanding, it was loving. Soft lips meeting softly, a tender contrast to the brutal pace of your hips still hammering into him. Each deep thrust punched another moan out of Jude—his body overstimulated but not wanting it to stop. The kiss swallowed most of those sounds… just quiet whimpers against your mouth now. This relentless fucking wrapped in affection—the kind only they could balance like this.
The sensation of your teeth on his neck—gentle but possessive—sent a shiver through Jude just as he felt the hitch in your rhythm. Then came those last few deep, grinding thrusts… all the way in, holding there as you came with a low groan muffled against his skin. Jude gasped quietly at the sudden fullness—the warmth between them—as you stayed pressed together like that for a long moment.
The kiss was lazy now—soft, almost drowsy after the intensity of what just happened. You pressed your lips to Jude’s gently, a quiet “mhmm” humming against them before slowly pulling away.
Then you carefully withdrew, moving with deliberate slowness to avoid discomfort for either of them. The room was thick with the scent of sex and their mingled sweat—but neither seemed bothered by it. You rolled onto your side next to Jude…
“Let’s take a shower, starfish” you chuckled at Jude’s laying position after resting for a while. Jude cracked an eye open at the nickname—starfish—and scoffed, but there was no real annoyance behind it. If anything, he found it kinda cute how you came up with weird pet names for him.
"Shower sounds good," Jude mumbled, stretching his arms above his head before sitting up slowly. His body ached pleasantly—the kind of soreness that reminded you of exactly what happened this morning.
You took the driver’s seat without question—Jude never drove anyway. He doesn't even have a license yet, his mom has always picked him up or Jude just relied on teammates or now, you for rides. The car ride was quiet but not tense—just the hum of the engine and Jude watching whatever on his phone. They pulled into Jude's neighborhood, familiar streets leading to his house… The place looked fancy as ever: manicured lawn, curtains in the windows slightly open like someone was peeking out. Jude swallowed hard. First time bringing a boyfriend here.
You noticed Jude’s glance—silent but asking for reassurance—and without a word, you leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. No pressure in it. Just warmth… something soft to ground him before facing his family. The kiss lasted only a few seconds before you pulled back, thumb brushing lightly over Jude’s cheekbone as if saying “you got this” without words. Then you unbuckled your seatbelt and stepped out of the car—rounding to open Jude's door for him like an automatic gesture by now.
The warm smell of breakfast hit them as soon as they stepped inside—Jude’s mom stood at the stove in a colorful headwrap and long apron, stirring a pot with focused energy. At the table sat Jobe—his younger brother, already scrolling on his phone while waiting for food. They both turned when Jude walked in… followed closely by you.
Jobe blinked once. Then twice. Oh. His eyes darted between them—the way Jude subtly leaned into your side—Jobe knew. His smirk widened—so obvious—and he muffled a snort into his palm when Jude glared at him.
Meanwhile, their mom turned around from the stove, wooden spoon in hand… and her face instantly lit up.
"Jude!" she exclaimed in that rich, warm voice of hers—all love and no hesitation as she immediately opened her arms for a hug.
You stayed where he was for half a second… suddenly aware this was the moment. First meeting his girlfriend's parents. Except… it wasn't just any girlfriend here, it was him.
Jude practically launched himself into his mom’s arms—hugging her tightly. She hugged him back just as fiercely, rocking slightly while squeezing him. The scent of spices and her floral perfume wrapped around them. Then she pulled back, cupping Jude's face with both hands to look at him properly—eyes soft but scanning for any changes.
Only then did she notice you standing nearby… quiet and respectful near the doorway. Her gaze shifted to you—and immediately softened even more.
Mrs. Bellingham didn’t hesitate—she pulled you into a hug just as warm and tight as the one she’d given Jude. Just motherly love extended to you like you were already family—which, in her mind, you basically were.
She squeezed you gently, patting your back twice before releasing you… then immediately cupped your face with both hands—studying it closely like she always did. You have grown into a handsome gentleman, not the same 10 years old kid carrying her Jude home after he hurted his ankle during a football match.
Jude took a deep breath—suddenly nervous despite knowing his family liked you.
They’d all known you for years, you’d come over for holidays, eaten meals at their table, even helped Jobe with homework. But now? The relationship status was officially boyfriend. So Jude cleared his throat slightly and said—calm but firm:
"Ma…uhm Y/N. He’s my boyfriend." The words hung in the air—just stating it plainly like that was how things were now…
Mrs. Bellingham’s eyebrows shot up, her spoon still hovering mid-air like she’d frozen in place.
"What?" she repeated—voice higher than usual with surprise. "When was this?" She turned fully toward them now, eyes darting between Jude and you as if expecting one of them to laugh and say “just kidding!” But no.
Meanwhile, Jobe bit his lip hard—trying not to grin like an idiot because this reaction from his mom was gold. His dad remained silent for a beat… just absorbing the news calmly from where he stood near the fridge.
Your voice was calm as you answered honestly.
"Last summer, Mrs. Bellingham."
His mom blinked rapidly, spoon now clutched in both hands as her brain recalculated. Last summer meant… they'd been dating for nearly a year without telling her?
Jude stepped forward immediately. "Mom… I’m sorry." he said, voice softer than usual—genuine regret lacing his words. "We didn’t mean to hide it from you guys… we just—we weren’t sure how you’d react."
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. The truth was? They had talked about telling their parents eventually—but Jude had been nervous, worried about how conservative some relatives might be… so they waited. Now that silence felt heavy in hindsight.
Mrs. Bellingham turned off the stove with a quiet click, wiping her hands on her apron before exhaling slowly—like she was organizing her thoughts.
Then she spoke, calm but firm: "I’m not mad… just surprised." She looked between them again—not angry, not disappointed… more processing.
"Y’all have been friends for how long? And now you’re dating?" A small frown creased her brow—not in disapproval of you yourself she clearly adored you, but at the idea that they’d kept this from them for so long.
Your voice was steady—earnest and sincere as you spoke directly to Mrs. Bellingham, meeting her eyes without flinching.
"I love Jude genuinely, Mrs. Bellingham," you said, the weight of your words clear in every syllable. Then added: "And I promise… I’ll take care of him."
Mrs. Bellingham exhaled again—long and slow, like she was letting go of a mental image she’d carried for years. She had always pictured Jude bringing home a nice girl someday… someone who’d make him happy, who he could settle down with. A future daughter-in-law she could fuss over, teach recipes to… maybe even grandbabies eventually. Now? That vision shifted completely—but not in the way most people would expect. Her expression softened further as she studied you—the man her son loved so openly—and something clicked into place for her…
Mrs. Bellingham’s face softened completely—any lingering surprise melting into quiet acceptance.
“As long as Jude is happy, then I’m happy. You’re welcome here."
Then she smiled at them both… and declared:
"Breakfast is ready.”
Jude’s eyes widened slightly—genuinely surprised—as he watched his mom’s calm reaction and then casually announce breakfast like this was the most normal thing in the world. He’d braced for harsher questions. Maybe even mild disappointment or confusion from her… not instant acceptance.
But there she was: already turning back to the stove, plating food with that same loving focus she always had—now including you as part of their family meal without missing a beat. Jobe, meanwhile, smirked into his orange juice at Jude’s stunned expression. Yeah… Mom liked you. If it has to be a man, she’s glad it was you.
Now that she knew about their relationship, everything made sense: Why Jude relied on her less, How he’d suddenly started planning weekends away—always with you, The way his mood improved whenever his phone buzzed.
She studied Jude carefully over her tea cup… then asked gently: "So… how did this even start?”
Jude set his fork down, the sausage now tasting like cardboard in his mouth as he gathered his thoughts. It had been that one fight—the explosive argument after you announced you were leaving Real Madrid to join Manchester City. The tension between them had been unbearable… until it all snapped.
"We argued" Jude started, voice quieter than usual. "After Y/N said he’s leaving I lost it.” He glanced at you briefly—no anger there anymore, just history hanging in the air between bites of breakfast…
He swallowed hard. "It was during that time I… figured out that I liked him. Everything felt empty without him so I decided to confess. And Y/N said yes." he admitted quietly to you across the table—words he’d never said aloud until now…
Mrs. Bellingham took a sip of her tea, then—ever the master of subtle interrogation—shifted gears entirely with a new question.
"So," she began casually, setting her cup down "when are you two moving in together?"
Just straight to housing plans like it was the most obvious next step in their relationship. Jude nearly choked on his orange juice… while you blinked once, caught off guard by how quickly she’d jumped from emotions to logistics…
Jude cleared his throat, setting his glass down carefully.
"Uh… it’s complicated," he admitted with a slight shrug. "Y/N is in England now—Manchester City—and I’m still here with Real Madrid." The distance wasn’t something they could ignore: time zones, busy schedules, only seeing each other during breaks or quick flights between matches. He glanced at you briefly—both of them knew long-distance wasn't ideal… but they also weren’t ready to end things just because of geography yet…
Mrs. Bellingham’s face brightened immediately—like Christmas had come early after you explained your plan.
Oh. So they were planning to be together long-term after all. She smiled, a real one this time, and took another sip of her tea as you explained your plan: finishing your Manchester City contract before potentially returning to Spain… possibly joining Real Madrid again if the opportunity arose.
Jobe whistled under his breath at that level of commitment…
Mr. Bellingham—who had been quietly observing this whole conversation from the head of the table—finally spoke up, his deep voice calm but laced with genuine curiosity.
"Wait," he said, setting down his fork. "You’re really considering leaving Man City… for him?" He studied you carefully—not skeptically, just trying to understand how serious that commitment was. Giving up a top club like Manchester City wasn’t something athletes did lightly… unless their partner meant everything.
You didn’t even pause. "Yes, sir." You answered immediately—voice firm, eyes steady on Mr. Bellingham’s without a single flicker of doubt. Just absolute certainty that yes, you would give up your current club if it meant being with Jude full-time… career implications be damned. The room went quiet for a beat—even Jobe stopped chewing his toast to watch the exchange…
Mr. Bellingham leaned back slightly, still studying you like a puzzle he was trying to solve—but now with a glint of respect forming in his gaze.
"Alright," he said after another sip of coffee. "So if you move back… where would you two live?" No beating around the bush—he wanted details about how this actually played out logistically…
You answered calmly, keeping your tone respectful but confident. "I’m planning to buy a house here in Madrid, sir." you said—already having researched properties discreetly for months now.
Mrs. Bellingham suddenly clapped her hands together—excited—like she’d just mentally decorated the entire estate already.
"Oh! A house here in Madrid?" She glanced at Jude, eyes sparkling with approval. "That’s perfect." No more long-distance calls. No more counting hours until they could see each other again. Just… home. Together.
Jobe kicked Jude under the table subtly—grinning like an idiot because his brother had bagged someone serious. A silent “You got a whole man who would buy you a house. Congrats” in his teasing gaze.
Jude shot Jobe a half-hearted glare—stop grinning like that—but he couldn’t deny the truth in it.
You were a full package: loyal, devoted, strong… and now willing to uproot your entire career for him? That wasn’t just luck—that was love. His chest warmed at the thought. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bellingham kept smiling to herself while clearing plates—already imagining Sunday dinners with them both living nearby…
After breakfast, you stood up—insisting on helping Jude’s mother with the dishes.
You rolled up your sleeves and started washing plates at the sink while chatting with Mr. Bellingham the local farms in Norway—the simplicity of it, early mornings milking cows, how hard work was just part of life. Mrs. Bellingham listened eagerly from her chair… then perked up when you mentioned cooking.
"Oh! You cook too?" she asked warmly.
“Yes ma’am. I’m a fast learner” you say with a faint smile.
Mrs. Bellingham’s eyebrows shot up. "Wow" she breathed out—genuinely impressed by how versatile you were. Meanwhile, Jude smirked into his cup… remembering all those times you had surprised him with homemade meals even though you two were very busy training.
You flashed that charming smile—the one—soft and genuine as you turned slightly toward Mrs. Bellingham, still drying your hands on a towel.
"I'll take care of dinner tonight, if you let me." You offered… not in a boastful way, but like someone genuinely wanting to contribute.
Mr. Bellingham gave him an approving nod, any man who offered to help with meals was already winning points…
The living room buzzed with life—Jude’s cousins, both older and younger than him had arrived, along with his nephew, a hyperactive 5-year-old who immediately latched onto Jobe. Laughing kids ran around while the adults chatted in clusters: Jude's aunts gossiping over tea, uncles debating football… and you still comfortably holding court with Mr. Bellingham about agriculture.
Meanwhile, Jude sat on the couch sandwiched between two cousins—one teasing him about finally bringing a boyfriend home after years of being single…
The little nephew plopped himself right onto Jude’s lap like it was his royal throne, tiny legs swinging as he munched on a cookie. Meanwhile, the cousins bombarded Jude with rapid-fire questions—way too excited about his new relationship status:
"Is Y/N really that tall?"
"How did you two get together?"
"Do you guys kiss all the time now? Eww!" one cousin teased dramatically. Jude chuckled at their nosiness… but answered patiently between sips of iced water while balancing the kid in his arms…
Jude watched the chaos around him—the laughter, the sibling bickering, his little nephew now trying to touch his hair—with quiet warmth. Even though he was dating a man… this? A big, loving family with kids running around someday? That future still felt right to him. He’d always imagined having children one day—maybe not through traditional means—adoption or surrogacy, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was love… and building something like this.
His gaze flickered toward you across the room for just a second—imagining it all together…
You moved calmly through the buzzling market, thinking of what to cook while two little voices bombarded him with endless chatter—Jude’s cousins insisted on going to the market to shop for ingredients with the two.
"Can we get those chips?"
"Why are you buying so many onions?"
"Is that for cooking? You’re gonna cook dinner? Cool!"
They bounced around your legs like hyperactive puppies, occasionally grabbing items from the rack randomly—only to be gently redirected by Jude.
You balanced the grocery bags effortlessly in two hands—strong from years of training and carrying equipment—but still made space for Jude. Without a word, you stuck out your pinkie, for Jude’s hand to hold… which they did naturally, fingers linking as they walked through the parking lot. Then—because he couldn’t help it—Jude leaned down and kissed you quickly on the lips right there.
The cousins gagged dramatically:
"EWWWW! GROSS! GET A ROOM UNC!!!" they yelled, waving their tiny hands.
Jude shot his cousins a playful glare, still holding your single free finger.
"One day you will have someone you kiss all the time," Jude said matter-of-factly—like it was an inevitable law of life. "So get used to it now." The kids scrunched their noses in protest but didn’t argue further…you chuckled under your breath at Jude’s parenting skills—effortlessly shutting down their dramatics with logic…
Jude let out a soft, content hum—warm breath brushing against your neck as his hands wandered under the fabric of your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy patterns over toned abs. He was perfectly happy like this: holding you from behind while watching you cook with that focused intensity… the way muscles flexed in your arms as you stirred pots.
Without thinking, Jude murmured against you:
"You look really sexy doing domestic stuff." The compliment slipped out naturally—genuine admiration laced in every word….
Mrs. Bellingham observed them from the kitchen doorway… and her expression softened into something tender and happy. Not just because of their relationship—but how right it felt seeing them together like this…
The dining room filled with the sound of chairs scraping and lively chatter as fifteen people—Jude’s entire extended family—settled around the long table. Aunts, uncles, cousins young and old… sitting at the head with a proud smile. The aroma of your cooking had everyone eager. Mrs. Bellingham took her seat beside Mr. Bellingham while Jobe plopped down next to his giggling cousins—the ones who’d called Jude and you "gross" earlier for kissing now eyeing their plates hungrily….
"When’s the wedding?" one aunt joked, grinning into her wine glass.
"Yeah! You two look like you’ve been married for years already." another added.
An aunt leaned over and squeezed Mrs. Bellingham’s arm:
"Y/N? He cooks like this? Ohhh he’s a keeper."
Jude smirked but didn’t deny any of it—his hand resting casually on your thigh under the table…
Mrs. Bellingham shot the aunt a light huff—half-laughing, half-defensive—as she waved her hand dismissively.
"Don’t pressure the kids!" she said warmly but firmly, shaking her head like calm down! She knew they were just excited… but marriage wasn't even on tonight's agenda, though you cooking this well definitely didn't hurt your case.
When it was time to leave, Jude stood up and gave his mom a quick hug—"I’ll be back tomorrow, just have some business to handle." He said smoothly, not a lie…serious business with…you. Mrs. Bellingham raised an eyebrow but didn’t question him, just kissing his cheek before shooing them off.
You grabbed the car keys without a word—used to Jude’s impulsive decisions—and followed as Jude gently tugged you toward the front door by their linked hands…
You paused with the car door open, turning to Jude—genuine question in your eyes.
"Why? We can stay if you want." You said softly, not assuming anything. Maybe Jude had other plans… maybe he just wanted to get away from family for a bit…
Jude didn’t answer with words—just that sly smirk you knew too well.
"You know exactly why." He said. Jude leaned in and kissed you right there by the car—quick but heated—a silent promise of what was coming once they got to the hotel. Then he pulled back just enough to slide into the passenger seat… leaving you standing there for a second, processing how obvious Jude’s intentions were…
The second you parked the car, Jude was out of the passenger seat—eager. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the hotel entrance, practically speed-walking like he couldn’t wait another second. You laughed under your breath at Jude's impatience but matched his energy… both of them brushing past late-night guests in the lobby without breaking stride…
The second the hotel room door clicked shut, Jude crashed into you—lips meeting in a hungry kiss as his hands immediately went to work—fingers fumbling with your belt buckle while their mouths moved together messily, breaths mingling in the small space between them. You let out a quiet sound against Jude’s lips—half-laugh, half-moan—as they backed toward the nearest wall without breaking contact…
Jude crowding you, all urgency and possessive gratitude. The belt clattered to the floor, forgotten. Zippers came next—Jude undoing your pants with quick fingers, his own breathing uneven. Every second of you cooking for his family today… serving them perfectly… had Jude wired. He didn’t care if you were tired. This wasn't about fatigue. It was about reward—about showing appreciation in the most intimate way possible…
Jude’s teeth scraped lightly over your neck—claiming, marking you up without hesitation—as he pushed the fabric of your pants down past your hips. Each nip and kiss was deliberate, a mix of affection and appreciation. A reward for the hours you spent cooking, for being so damn perfect with Jude’s family today… No words beyond that whispered "This is a reward." before Jude sealed their mouths together again—hungry, insistent…
Your faint smirk stayed in place as Jude dropped to his knees without hesitation—determined. The cool air hit your skin briefly before Jude tugged your boxers down, revealing everything beneath. No further teasing buildup, just Jude looking up at him with dark, focused eyes… like this was the only thing he wanted right now.
Jude’s expression was painfully open—eyes full of love, no teasing left in them. Just pure, overwhelming adoration as he gazed up at you from his knees. There was no hiding it. Jude leaned forward and pressed an achingly tender kiss… right where it mattered most.
Your breath hitched—sharp—as Jude dragged a slow, searing lick up your length, the heat of it making your hips twitch instinctively. Then came those soft kisses—teasingly light at first… testing… before growing bolder with each press of Jude’s lips.
Jude’s tongue curled around the sensitive tip, swirling with deliberate precision—before his teeth gently grazed it. A teasing nibble. Not enough to hurt… just enough to send a jolt straight through your nerves, making your fingers around his cheeks shiver. You just put it there.
Jude hummed quietly at the reaction—loving how responsive you were tonight…
Your mutter came out strained—”God, Jude—” as that soft, kitten-lick brush of his tongue sent another wave of pleasure through you. Then Jude took you properly into his mouth… warm, wet and perfect, the suction just right. A broken groan escaped you this time, feeling a burn coil at your stomach as you braced one hand against the wall to stay upright…
Your breath came unevenly—by the sight of Jude on his knees, moving with quiet devotion. Every bob of Jude’s head sent heat coiling low in your stomach… the warmth, the wetness, Jude's throat fluttering around your cock—it was intoxicating.
The sensation hit Jude’s throat—just the tip brushing there—and for a second, his reflexes kicked in with a small gag. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he swallowed around it, forcing himself to relax as his lips stayed sealed tight… determined to keep going despite the brief discomfort. You felt every flutter of Jude’s throat around your length—the effort and devotion in it making your pulse spike…
Your moan slipped out—low and rough—as Jude’s throat flexed around you again, the tight heat overwhelming for a split second before Jude pulled back just enough to reset. Then he dove right back in, rhythm steady now—bobbing his head with focused enthusiasm, taking you deeper each time like he was on a mission. Just pure dedication to making this good.
Your moan spilled out louder this time—”Oh fuck—Jude!” as those strong hands gripped your thighs, holding you firmly in place. Just Jude controlling the pace, making sure you felt every second of this slow burn… even though the pleasure was building too fast, too intense—threatening to tip you over the edge already…
Your breath hitched—gasped—when Jude’s nose brushed against your skin, taking your cock all the way in each bob, that tiny sensory spark tipping you over the edge. A shuddering climax ripped through you, waves of pleasure crashing in seconds as you came right then… still braced against the wall with Jude between your legs.
Jude kept moving—gentle, rhythmic bobs of his head even after you had come—milking every last pulse of pleasure from you. Just tenderness… letting you ride it out fully while Jude kissed and nuzzled along your thighs afterward like a kitten, easing the intensity down gradually.
Jude swallowed without a single grimace—cleaning up completely like it was nothing—before pressing soft, lingering kisses to your muscular thighs. The gestures were soothing… grounding. A way to calm you down after the intensity, his lips brushing over warm skin in quiet affection.
Jude stood slowly, still warm from being on his knees—and without hesitation, he kissed you deeply. It was a slow, sweet kiss… letting you taste yourself on Jude’s tongue—hint of salty, mildly sweet and intimate and undeniably them.
Jude studied your dazed expression—the slightly glazed eyes, the soft exhale still lingering from his lips—and smirked. Adorable. He couldn’t help it. Reaching up, Jude brushed a thumb over your cheekbone before leaning in to kiss you again—softer this time… almost playful after all that intensity…
Jude’s eyes flicked toward the bed—subtle, but loaded—before sliding back to you with a look that was pure mischief. Jude stepped closer, hands already reaching for your waist to guide you backward… That gaze said everything:
when the destiel fic has both religious guilt AND internalized homophobia tags so ik whatever im about to read is going to destroy me emotionally for days to come
Adrian being crazy obsessed over you. Like in the sense where you have a shitty coworker and he gets all defensive over you. For example you’re talking about your day and how awful that said coworker made it and Adrian gets more pissed for you.
“Dude fuck them! You’re awesome and perfect and people like that are just hyper jealous of you!” While he’s talking with his hands and fixing his glasses from how much he’s moving.
Getting to the point where you have to talk Adrian down from storming into work and showing who’s boss and not to mess with his stunning boyfriend. (Which he totally would say “mother fucker” exactly how he said it in the ep where he throws the trash can into the jail window.)
pairing: Jon Snow x male!bottom!reader (powerful)
summary: Y/N Swansgate returns to Winterfell for war. Instead, he finds Jon Snow alive, resurrected — and standing too close to a Dragon Queen. Ten years of silence, one stolen kiss, and a jealousy that burns like wildfire. On the eve of the Long Night, the truth finally breaks loose.
wc: ~4.8k
details:
↳ warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
↳ tags: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Jealousy, Emotional Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Sexual Tension, Arguments, Fighting, Angry Kissing, Love Confessions, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Years of Separation, Curses, No Smut (but intense tension)
↳ rating: R (because of the swearing)
from author: My English isn't perfect, so there might be some mistakes.
Winterfell did not smell as it once had.
Snow lay upon the battlements in a grey, compacted mass, and the wind howled through the arrow slits, dragging with it the stench of soot, horse dung, and heated metal — the forges worked without pause. Y/N Swansgate rode through the eastern gate on a lathered stallion, feeling the cold bite at the scars beneath his chainmail. Water and wild berries — that was what clung to his cloak, soaked through with the damp of the last encampment by the river. That scent had burrowed into his skin, into the fur, into his very soul. Jon had once said he would recognize it with his eyes closed. "You smell like the lake," he had said then. Before everything. Before the kiss. Before the flight. Before Ramsay Bolton slaughtered half of House Swansgate for refusing to bend the knee.
Now Y/N looked upon the courtyard turned into a war camp. Dothraki riders darted between the fires, Free Folk sharpened their axes, and Northmen eyed the strangers with their customary grim wariness. In the center of this anthill, by the blacksmith's forge, stood Jon Snow.
Something in Y/N's chest tightened into a hard, sick knot.
Jon had changed. Not the way time alone changes a man. Death had left its mark upon him: in the sunken eyes, in the way he held his shoulders — as though he carried a weight that could not be shared. But the jaw was the same, and the way he tilted his head when listening to someone — that was the same. Y/N remembered that manner too well. He remembered how, fifteen years ago, Jon had listened the same way to Robb, and Sansa, and to him — a stubborn boy with the sigil of a swan upon his chest.
Sansa.
She appeared on the gallery leading to the Great Keep — tall, auburn-haired, in a grey gown lined with wolf fur. The Lady of Winterfell. Y/N dismounted and tossed the reins to his squire. Snow crunched beneath his boots. Sansa noticed him and stopped. For a moment her face — that mask of calm authority — cracked, revealing the girl who had once laughed at his attempts to pronounce "valar morghulis." She stepped forward, and Y/N, forgetting protocol, forgetting the long years and all that had fallen between them, pulled her into an embrace.
"You're late," Sansa whispered into his shoulder. Her voice trembled.
"I know," he answered, feeling her arms tighten against his back. "I tried. I gathered men. When I reached Winterfell, your wolves were already hanging above the gates."
She drew back, studying his face. A faint smile touched her lips.
"You're alive. That's more than most can say."
They had no time to say more. From the side came a voice that turned Y/N's throat to dust:
"Your scouts reported a column near Grey Hill. Was that you?"
Jon approached soundlessly — a habit left over from the Night's Watch. Y/N turned, and the knot in his chest pulled tighter. Black curls dusted with snow, a new scar above the brow, and on his lips — that half-smile he wore when greeting a friend. Jon did not look away. He stared directly, and in those dark eyes, in their very depths, something burned — not embers, but flame.
"Yes," Y/N breathed. "A hundred and twenty swords. All that remains of Swansgate."
"Good. We need you."
Jon stepped forward and gripped his forearm — a warrior's greeting, tight enough to grind bone. Jon's fingers lingered for a moment, squeezed a fraction harder than they should have, before releasing. Y/N noticed it. He noticed how Jon inhaled a little deeper, catching the scent of lake water and berries.
And then she appeared.
Daenerys Targaryen moved through the crowd of Northmen as though it was not her dragons that had cast terror across all of Westeros. Small, silver-haired, with a smile that seemed almost human. She stopped beside Jon — too close. Her shoulder brushed his elbow. A gesture that spoke louder than words.
Y/N noticed how Jon turned his head slightly — almost imperceptibly — toward that touch. He did not pull away. He did not tense. He accepted it as though it were his due.
"Is this the friend you told me about?" she asked, and her voice sounded soft, but with that faint authority granted only by right of birth.
"Y/N Swansgate," Jon introduced. Was that pride in his tone? "His house stood with my father. He survived the Boltons."
"Stood with your father," Daenerys repeated, and something flickered in her intonation — was it sympathy? Condescension? Y/N could not tell. "A loyal house, then. A rarity these days."
She shifted her gaze to Y/N. Studying, calm. Not hostile — appraising. The way one looks at a tapestry, deciding whether it will suit the wall of a throne room. She extended her hand. Y/N, hesitating for a split second, bowed over it. The Queen's skin smelled of ash and something spicy, foreign.
"Jon said you are one of the few he trusts," she said. "Enter Winterfell as a friend. We will need all who can hold a sword."
We. The word sounded so natural, as though she and Jon were a single entity. As though she was the one receiving him here, and Jon merely stood by, affirming her will.
Y/N straightened. One of the few he trusts. The words should have warmed him. Instead, they cut with a dull blade. Trusts. Like a brother. Like a comrade. And what had happened before his flight — the brush of lips in the dim stable, the taste of salt and despair — had become, it seemed, a youthful mistake to Jon, forgotten and buried beneath the weight of years.
"Thank you, Your Grace. I will not fail you."
He stepped back. A polite smile froze upon his face like a crust of ice.
The days flowed like thick honey mixed with iron.
Preparations for the siege devoured time without mercy. Y/N shuttled between garrisons, checked posts, argued with blacksmiths about steel for arrowheads. He did everything to avoid crossing paths with Jon. But Winterfell was too small, and Jon was too omnipresent.
The first splinter drove into his heart on the third day.
Y/N was crossing the lower courtyard when he heard her laugh. High, clear, unexpectedly warm for one they called the Mother of Dragons. He stopped by the arch of the smithy, not knowing why. Inside, amid the glowing forges and the clang of hammers, stood Jon and Daenerys. She was handing him a dragonglass dagger — black as a starless night, with a hilt wrapped in dragon hide. Jon took it, weighed it in his palm, and she, leaning forward, adjusted his grip. Her fingers slid over his wrist, lingering longer than the lesson required.
"Cut upward," she said, and her voice sounded almost intimate, as though they were alone in all the world. "Dragonglass does not forgive mistakes. Neither do I."
Jon raised his eyes to her. In that gaze, Y/N saw something that made his jaw clench: admiration. Quiet, deep, undeniable. The way one looks at a flame, knowing it will burn, yet reaching for it anyway.
"A fine blade," Jon said. "Thank you."
"You deserve better."
She smiled. Jon smiled back.
Y/N retreated into the shadow of the arch. His chainmail suddenly felt unbearably heavy. He passed a palm over his face, wiping away sweat. Fool. You are a fool, Swansgate. But his feet had rooted to the ground. He watched as Daenerys touched Jon's shoulder, as she said something about dragons and kings, as Jon listened to her with the same expression he had once worn when listening to him — in childhood, by the lake, when Y/N told him the legend of the swan lake.
The second splinter — the next day, in the training yard.
Y/N arrived early to loosen up with a sword before the general muster. But steel was already ringing on the practice ground. Jon and Ser Jorah Mormont circled each other in a sparring match, and Daenerys stood by the fence. She did not take her eyes off Jon. When he evaded a thrust, she leaned slightly forward; when he counterattacked, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was rooting for him. It was so obvious, so utterly human, that Y/N felt sick.
After the bout — Jon won, knocking the sword from Mormont's hand — she approached him. She offered a cup of water. A cloth. She touched his cheek, where a mark from a flat strike remained.
"You do not take care of yourself," she said.
"I'm fine."
"No." She shook her head. "I need you whole. And not only as an ally."
The last phrase was spoken more quietly, but the wind carried it to Y/N with lethal clarity. Jon took the cup. Their fingers met. Daenerys did not hurry to pull her hand away.
Y/N turned and walked away. The sword he carried felt like a white-hot iron rod.
In the evening — the third splinter, and it sank deepest of all.
Supper in the Great Hall. Y/N sat at a lower table, among his own men. Jon and Daenerys sat on the dais, beside Sansa. They spoke of war strategy, but Y/N did not hear the words. He saw only how Daenerys leaned toward Jon, whispered something in his ear, and Jon... Jon smiled. Not that tight, strained smile he wore like armor. Another one — soft, relaxed, almost boyish. The smile Y/N had once drawn from him himself, slipping him stolen lemon cakes from Lord Stark's table.
"My lord?" His squire's voice pulled him from his stupor. "You've barely touched your meat."
"Not hungry."
He rose, feeling his stomach clench. Passing the dais, he accidentally caught Jon's gaze. Jon looked at him with a silent question: Is everything all right? Y/N gave a short nod and walked out into the night, into the snowfall.
All right? No. Nothing was all right. Everything was damnably wrong.
The days crawled on, and jealousy smoldered like a peat fire — invisible, but inexorable.
Jon, to his credit, did not forget his childhood friend. More than that, he sought his presence with a persistence that bordered on torture.
"Come." His hand landed on Y/N's shoulder during supper. His fingers squeezed noticeably, leaving no choice. "Sit with us. You haven't seen Tormund."
And Y/N went. He sat down beside him. He listened to Tormund spin tales of giants, drank bitter ale, and felt Jon's presence at his side — shoulder to shoulder. Daenerys sat on the other side. Sometimes she laid her hand over Jon's when he grew somber. Sometimes she passed him bread, as though they already shared a table as man and wife. Jon accepted it with the same silent gratitude with which he accepted everything she gave.
"You're not eating," Jon observed one such evening, leaning toward Y/N. Their shoulders touched. Warmth passed through layers of wool and leather. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"You're lying." Jon stared into his eyes, and that look made Y/N want to fall through the stone floor. "I know when you're lying. Right here..." He touched the corner of Y/N's lips, where the skin pulled tightest. "A shadow appears."
Y/N turned his head away, breaking the contact. Too intimate. Too painful.
"I'm just tired, Jon. The long road. The preparations. All of it..."
Jon nodded, but something distrustful, searching, remained in his dark eyes.
Or at night, in the library. Y/N was searching for old maps of the Shivering Sea. Jon followed, ostensibly to check the posts. They remained alone among the dusty scrolls. The silence stretched, became tangible as fog. Jon stood by the shelf, rolling an extinguished candle between his fingers. Y/N felt his gaze on the back of his neck.
"Why did you leave back then?" Jon asked quietly. "Without even saying goodbye."
There it was. The moment when everything could be said. Or severed once and for all.
"Duties of an heir," Y/N answered without turning. His voice came out steady, almost cold. "My father sent a raven. An urgent summons."
A lie. They both knew it was a lie. Jon remembered that evening. He remembered the taste of those lips — the taste of those very lake berries. He remembered freezing, stunned, and when he finally opened his eyes, Y/N had already bolted away, snapping branches in the night forest.
"I thought..." Jon began and broke off.
"Don't," Y/N interrupted, sharper than he intended. He turned at last. Met those dark eyes. "It was a long time ago. We were children. There are more important matters now."
"Matters," Jon repeated flatly. "Yes. Matters. The Queen, the dead, the North."
He said "the Queen" strangely — with bitterness, with weariness. And Y/N could not find the strength to ask what it meant.
They did not touch each other. But the air between them crackled.
And then came that conversation in the armory.
Y/N came to inspect a shipment of arrows for his archers. Inside, by the far wall, stood Jon and Daenerys. They did not hear his footsteps — the steel on the tables rang out, drowning the sounds. Daenerys held a wolf pelt in her hands, old and worn.
"This was on your father," she was saying. "Sansa kept it. You should wear it. The North should see the Stark in you."
"I am not a Stark," Jon replied. His voice was hollow. "I'm a bastard. You know that."
"You are the King in the North." She stepped toward him. The pelt remained between them, but Daenerys pressed it to Jon's chest, as though crowning him, granting him the right. "And to me... to me you are far more than that."
Y/N froze. An avalanche of ice collapsed inside him, burying the last remnants of hope. He watched as Jon raised his hand — not pushing her away, but covering her hand upon his chest. That gesture was more eloquent than any vow.
"Daenerys..." he began.
"Do not answer now," she interrupted. "Just know. Just think."
She left through the rear door. Jon remained standing, staring at the floor. The wolf pelt hung from his hand.
Y/N stepped out of the shadows. Not because he wanted to. His legs had gone numb, and he stumbled, knocking a rack of arrowheads. The clatter.
Jon turned.
"You heard."
It was not a question.
"Yes."
"Y/N, I—"
"Don't." He raised a hand, stopping him. "You owe me nothing. She is right. She is the Queen. You are the one people follow. You are a pair."
The words came out like sawdust from his throat: dry, prickly, tasteless. Jon stepped toward him.
"You don't understand. What you saw — it's not what it seems."
"It's not my business, Jon. Truly."
He turned and left. But his back burned — all the way to the turn in the corridor.
Everything exploded on the eve of the Army of the Dead's advance.
Y/N stood in his chambers — a small, cold room given to him as commander of a contingent. He was pulling off his chainmail when the door burst open with such force that the hinges shrieked and the latch flew from its socket, clattering across the stone floor.
Jon. No cloak. In an unlaced shirt, with the wild-eyed look of a man who had not slept for three days and had finally found someone to unleash upon.
"What are you doing?" he breathed, stepping inside as though he meant to kill.
"Going to sleep. And you?"
"I mean your men." Jon slammed the door shut with his foot. The sound echoed through the room, making the candle flame shudder. "You placed your people on the Honey Wall. That's the eastern flank. The heaviest assault will fall there. Are you trying to die?"
Y/N straightened. The chainmail fell to his feet with a clatter. He stood in only his undershirt, soaked with sweat, clinging to his body. The cold of the room bit at his skin, but heat was already rising inside.
"I placed my archers where they will be of most use. Or have you forgotten that my house has always been known for its bowmen? With grace we strike, remember?"
"Don't you dare play the hero!" Jon stepped closer. His voice dropped, turned low and ragged. "You weren't here! You didn't see what those creatures bring! This isn't a battle for a castle, it's a slaughter! Your men will be crushed in the first charge!"
"They are my men!" Y/N snarled. "And I did not ask your permission, Lord Commander! Or what should I call you now? The Queen's Protector?"
The word lashed like a slap. Jon froze. Something twitched in his face — not hurt, no. A snarl. Feral, baring teeth.
"What does she have to do with this?" he said, low and dangerous. Every syllable like a drop of molten lead.
"You don't understand?" Y/N stepped forward himself. The distance between them shrank to a single blow. The air grew thick, viscous, as before a storm. "You follow her like a leashed dog. You look at her as though she pulled you from the grave and now owns you. I saw you. In the forge. In the yard. In the bloody armory. Her fingers on your wrist. Her lips at your ear. You let her touch you the way..."
He choked off. His throat seized. Jon stared at him, unblinking, and in that gaze churned something Y/N could not at once name. Anger? Yes. But deeper — something else. Hunger, mingled with desperation.
"The way — you?" Jon stepped even closer. Now only two fists separated them. "Finish it, Swansgate. You always knew how to cut with words. Go on."
"The way I dreamed you would touch me!" Y/N shouted. His voice cracked into a rasp. "I have loved you since childhood, Jon. Since the time you taught me to hold a sword. Since that night by the lake, when you fell asleep by the fire, and I sat watching the snow melt on your lashes. I left because I thought you had pushed me away! I left because after that kiss, you looked at me as if I were a leper!"
"I looked at you as the one thing worth holding onto!" Jon grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him so hard Y/N's head snapped. "I froze because I was afraid! Afraid you were joking! That it was a game! That I wasn't worthy of you — the heir of Swansgate, with your white swans and ancient blood! I'm a bastard, Y/N. All my life, I've been just a bastard. And you... you were everything I couldn't allow myself to have."
"You allowed her!" Y/N tore free, shoved Jon back — roughly, a palm to the chest. Jon retreated a step, but only to surge forward again. "Daenerys! The Dragon Queen who looks at you like a future husband! You stand beside her as though it's how it should be! She touches you, and you don't pull your hand away! You smile at her! And me... you ask me questions about war and look at me like a ghost who returned at the wrong time!"
"Because I don't know how to look at you!" Jon slammed into him, grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanked upward. The fabric tore at the seam. Y/N felt cold air touch his bared shoulder. "Because every time I see you, I'm fifteen again, and I can't breathe! You came back, and I don't know what to do with my hands! I don't know what to do with this!"
He seized Y/N's face — roughly, with both palms, squeezing until his cheekbones ached. Their foreheads collided. Their breath mingled: hot, ragged, tasting of ale and salt.
"Do you have any idea what I felt when you left?" Jon's voice broke. Not into hysteria — into that quiet, terrible desperation worse than a scream. "I stood in that stable, fingers pressed to my lips, and couldn't move. And in the morning, you were gone. No letter. No word. Only the smell of water and berries on my coat. I hated you. I prayed to the gods for you to come back. I..." He swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking. "I thought of you every night. Every damn night. Even when I died. Even when I came back."
Y/N went still. His chest heaved as after a long run. His hands rose of their own accord, gripped the fabric of Jon's shirt at his sides, squeezed as though trying to hold onto a slipping world.
"I saw her kiss you. In the gallery before the Great Keep."
"She didn't kiss me."
"She ran her palm over your cheek! You closed your eyes! I saw it!"
"I closed my eyes because I remembered you!" Jon nearly shouted it into his lips. The voice echoed off the stone walls. "Because her touch smelled of ash, and I wanted it to smell of the lake! I was thinking of you, Y/N! Of your hands! Of your mouth! I stood before the Queen, and I wanted to be standing before you!"
The world stopped.
And then Y/N slammed into him like a wave into a cliff.
He drove Jon into the wall with such force that the tapestry behind him slid sideways. Their ragged breathing mingled. Y/N pressed his whole body against him, feeling the heat of the other's skin through damp fabric, feeling the frantic pounding of a heart — not his own, his. Jon groaned — low, guttural, from somewhere deep in his chest — and the sound rolled down Y/N's spine like a wave of fire.
"I won't give you up to her," Y/N whispered, and his voice was hoarse, like a dying man's. "I won't. Curse the war. Curse the dragons. You're mine. You've been mine since the day you smiled at me over the map of the Starks. You just didn't know."
"I knew." Jon grabbed him by the hip, squeezed hard enough to hurt, pulled him closer. Their hips met. Both froze for a second, feeling everything: the heat, the tremor, the impossible closeness. "I always knew. I was just afraid."
"Of what?"
"That you wouldn't let me."
Y/N exhaled raggedly, as before a plunge into icy water. Then he crushed his mouth against Jon's — not gently, no. Roughly, demandingly, with the fury accumulated over ten years of separation. Jon answered with no less hunger. His hands slid under Y/N's shirt — palms traveled over ribs, over scars, over the spine, leaving trails of fire. Y/N tore the fabric on Jon's chest harder, baring old scars and a newer one, still pink, from a healed wound. He pressed his lips to the spot where a vein pulsed beneath the skin. Jon jerked, groaned through clenched teeth, buried his fingers in Y/N's hair and pulled — roughly, possessively.
"You drive me mad," Jon breathed. "Ten years. Ten years I lived with this."
"I won't leave again." Y/N raised his head and looked into his eyes — those dark, tormented, beloved eyes. "Do you hear me? Even if the dead devour us tomorrow. Even if the whole world crumbles. I will stay."
Jon caught his face in his palms — gently this time, but his fingers trembled. He stared as though trying to memorize every line.
"Swear it."
"I swear by ice and fire. I swear by the bones of my father. I swear by the Swan, Jon. I will stay."
They were drawn to each other again — with the same inevitability with which waves crash upon the shore. The kiss deepened, hardened, grew more desperate. Hands roamed over bodies, squeezing, scratching, demanding more. Y/N pinned Jon against the wall, slid a knee between his thighs, and Jon sobbed — not from pain, no. From relief.
They pulled apart only when the air ran out entirely. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing steadied slowly, in uneven bursts.
"Tomorrow," Jon whispered. "Tomorrow you'll be on the eastern flank. I'll be at the gates. We survive. Both of us. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And don't you dare die. I only just finally..." He did not finish. The words were unnecessary.
Outside, the wind howled, a harbinger of the storm. The Army of the Dead was closing in on the walls. But here, in the cramped room, two men stood clutching each other, and the whole world had shrunk to that embrace — rough, desperate, healing old wounds.
Y/N kissed the scar above Jon's brow, the corner of his mouth, the salty trail he had not noticed he had laid with his tears.
"We'll survive," he repeated, pouring all the steel he had left into the words. "And when it's over, I'll take you to the lake. Show you the swans. Teach you to swim the way only my house knows how."
Jon laughed quietly — for the first time in long, long years. And that laugh, hoarse and broken, was the finest sound Y/N had ever heard.
"First survive," Jon said. "Then show me."
They did not loosen their embrace until dawn. Not even when the bell tolled the alarm.
p.s: I just realized that the swan and the wolf are one of the most faithful partners in nature…How symbolic…
warning: Ryan Gosling x Ryan Gosling, dissociative episodes, Driver and Casey are the same man but are often referred to as separate entities when Casey is dissociating or reflecting, minor injuries, kissing, mentions of Colt Seavers and Holland March, Human!Rocky and Human!Adrian.
note: hihi! this is my first EVER fic, so please give me some grace (haha. heh. el oh el.) during this fic <3 these guys are very dear to me and i don’t see a lot of them so…yeah. requests are open for more fics!
just to help y’all out- chapter changes and pov switches are under the lined cuts! enjoy!
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
Ryland Grace has never felt more embarrassed in his life. Here he was, standing in the middle of some small mechanic’s place (what was it, Dave’s? Dan’s?) asking for his bicycle to be fixed. Yes, a bike. He didn’t own a car- teacher salary barely gets him by, so paying off a car note wasn’t in the budget. Plus, cardio! But unfortunately, on today of all days, the chain of his bike had snapped. He was already running a little late to school too…Grace already took the initiative to call out sick and ask for a sub. Better get the problem fixed sooner than later.
There’s a blonde man in the corner that the unimpressed teen up front pointed to. He’s a little slim but well built, hiding halfway under a nice 1970’s Chevrolet Chevelle. Ryland feels a lump in his throat as he pushes the bright yellow bike up with him. Was it extra hot in auto shops? It had to be- normal San Francisco summer heat wouldn’t beat down on him this hard at 9am. Well, here goes. Dr. Mr. Ryland Grace clears his throat.
“Uh- Excuse me?” Grace feels himself shake. He didn’t book an appointment in advance, didn’t pay ahead, he should just turn around and walk back to his condo- NO! No. He’d get this done here and now. “I-I said, excuse me.” The man slides out from under the car. Oil splattered a little on his face, grease on his hands, sweat on his shirt. Ryland feels his face burn even hotter. Jeez, can he get a grip?
“The uh- the man at the front desk said you were available to help me?” He stammers. Get It Together Grace.
“With…what, exactly? Engine issue?” The Mechanic’s voice is rough, but gentle. Very contradictory, Grace.
“Oh! Well-no, not exactly. You see…my bicycle chain broke. I don’t own a car. So I need this to get to work, and I hate the bus and trolley systems around this city so it’s really not an option for me, so I-I was wondering if you could fix my bike.” There’s a pause. Oh no. “Or not! I-I see you’re already busy with a car and-“
The Mechanic interrupts him. “I can fix your bike. Bring it over to my workbench, let me take a look.”
Ryland Grace has never swooned before. But he thinks there’s always a chance to try something new..
Grace is sat on a stool next to said Mechanic’s workbench. ‘Casey’ is what reads on the Mechanic’s name tag. Huh. Casey’s focused on this bike as if it’s the most important thing in the world, and even just freshens up bits of the bike that were starting to rust or get old. Occasionally, he’d ask Ryland to hand him a tool. Now, Ryland’s not a dunce. He has a PhD in Microbiology, thank you very much. But when tasked in manual labor, it was always a quick call to his brother Colt or his best friend Rocky.
“Ratchet, please.” The Mechanic- Casey, as his nametag reads- asks, and Ryland has to play it carefully here. Ultimately, he takes too long, and Casey just points at a tool with a small grin. Grace stammers out a noise, and hands it to him. Good Going Grace.
The bicycle is better than ever. Ryland didn’t even know bikes could get this clean. “Thank you so much! Do uh- do you take card?” He beams.
“…No. We don’t take card. Cash or checks.” Ryland is, for lack of a better word, dumbfounded. A business in San Francisco in 2026 not taking card is a very, very rare sight. Unfortunately, until he gets paid, he only has the 50 bucks Colt Cashapped him.
He sighs, “Do you have an ATM nearby?” Casey shatters that strand of hope with a head shake. Fudge. “How…how about I get you lunch? There’s a nice place a few minutes from here- they serve breakfast all day but they have really good burgers too…” he pauses his ramble to avert his eyes from Casey. “I-If that’s not your style, I can make you something? Maybe?”
“…Okay.” Casey responds. Easier than Ryland thought. “We can go to that diner. I’ve…I haven’t had the chance to eat locally yet,” Casey shrugs.
“Perfect! We- um. Do you mind if we take your car?” Ryland asks sheepishly. He can’t really fit Casey on his pegs, and especially not on his handlebars.
Luckily, Casey nods. “Let me just finish the oil change on my car.” Ryland raises a brow at that, then realizes the car he was working on earlier is his car. So, after a few minutes of waiting, Casey eventually opens the passenger door for Ryland.
Lunch was a hit, at least to Ryland. He did most of the talking- Casey’s quiet, and an excellent listener. He gives his suggestions to Casey on the menu, cracks a few jokes, gets a little grin out of the mechanic. A fair payback for a broken bike.
————————————————————
That stupid, stupid bike! Ryland hates this thing now, he’s decided. The school year is over, luckily, so there’s no rush. But he was planning on having a nice little bike to the coffee shop and then heading over to Colt’s apartment. Colt’s in town for some movie shoot, and Ryland wouldn’t miss a chance to see his brother. But this bike! He completely ate the concrete while on the way to that coffee place. Handlebars broken, tires flat and the chain busted. “Oh-Fudge!” Ryland can’t help but groan, assessing the damage. Is he bleeding? His knees are skinned- of course today of all days he wore shorts. His face hurts a little too, and his palms sting.
“You know…” a softer, more monotoned voice says behind him. Could it be? The Mechanic? The one Ryland’s been constantly thinking about for the last two weeks? He perks up- Casey never starts conversations. But Casey continues, “for someone who can barely walk without tripping over his own two feet, I’m surprised you don’t have a car- you could end up hurt.”
“Yeah, well. Teacher salary.” Ryland sniffles. He gets up with a hiss. “I didn’t even know I was near your shop…” he sighs.
“You were too focused trying to not crash. Let me help.” Casey picks up his bike, and before Ryland can protest, takes it into the garage. Ryland follows with a wobble in his step.
Ryland’s never been more embarrassed in his life. Well, actually, he’s always getting himself into relatively embarrassing situations. But this one is just his most recent. Instead of fixing the bike and leaving Ryland with a shitty small first aid kit, Casey’s decided to fix him up. Ryland feels all eyes on him. The other mechanics look over to Casey’s lot occasionally to see not a car, but the same loser from last week who needs fixing up too.
“Skinned your knee pretty bad,” Casey murmurs. “This’ll sting.” A hiss escapes Ryland as the antiseptic wipe rubs the dirt and grime off of his knees. Casey continues to patch him up. It’s as quiet as an auto shop can get- the constant whirring and clanging of restoration and repair. After his knees and hands are all wrapped up, a bandage is placed gently on his nose. “All done. Wait here while I fix your bike.” Casey commands him once more, and Ryland stays.
After a little while, the stupid bike has been repaired. Ryland sighs. “Thank you again. I-I don’t really have time to get lunch, but I can bring you something?” He smiles gently, appreciating Casey.
“…Sure.” Casey gives a little thumbs up. And that’s enough for Ryland to smile even wider. They bid one another goodbye.
The next day, a brown paper bag is placed on Casey’s workbench by someone else. He looks up. It’s his older coworker, Jakob. He strays away from the rest of his coworkers- he doesn’t want a repeat of L.A. Casey steadily reminds himself that he’s left that life behind before taking the bag. Inside is a thing of tupperware, complete with a sticky note signed with the letters “R.G.” and a shabby doodle of a bike. Casey remembers the man from yesterday and two weeks before that, and how he promised lunch today.
“Someone brought you lunch, eh? You got a missus waitin’ on y’at home, huh?” Jakob teases. Casey doesn’t dignify the snark comment with a response, just shakes his head subtly. Inside the tupperware is a sandwich cut perfectly in half- loaded with what looks like alfredo sauce, chicken, and cheese. It's grilled a golden brown, and after one bite, Casey sees stars. He gets the realization that he’s been living off of takeout and instant noodles for too long.
“Your girl makes some good food, huh? Ask her to bring the rest of us guys some, alright?” Jakob pats him on the shoulder- ugh- before moving on back to his lot. Seems he didn’t see Casey’s head shake. Casey won’t correct Jakob though if it means more meals for him to enjoy. Despite being his payment for a good deed, Casey feels the need to give the man an even better payback. A series of one upping, if you will.
The man with the bike beats Casey to it.
Two days later, on Friday, another bag was dropped off from the front to his workbench. It’s definitely bigger than the one from Tuesday, and inside is a box of cookies. Snickerdoodles, to be specific. They’re perfectly golden, and smell delicious.
Another note is attached, reading, “Hello, Casey! I made some desserts for my brother and the rest of my family but I had a LOT left over! I hope you enjoy them! Share some with your coworkers, will you?” Signing the note was the same initials- R.G.- and the same shabby doodle of a bike. How cute. Casey takes a majority and places them in his own lunchbox, as well as pocketing the note, before leaving the bag in the break room.
His other coworker, Mark, confronts him in the break room. “Heard you got a little thang with you now, huh loverboy? Well. Tell her she makes a damn good pastry. What, she works at a bakery or something?” Mark teases. Casey sighs, shaking his head no. He’ll entertain the idea of a fake girlfriend for a while- he wanted his actual life to stay anonymous anyways. A little white lie won’t hurt them.
————————————————————-
Casey’s taken a liking to the awkward bicycle man. Ryland, he learns, likes to bike by in the mornings and wave at him. He sometimes eats lunch with Casey, or he’ll leave the food with another note. It isn’t another Irene- he feels no overwhelming anxiety for Ryland. Rather than making him alert, Ryland puts him at ease. It’s a different change of pace. He gets nightmares sometimes- flashes of Ryland in the elevator instead of Irene. Ryland grieving a husband and replacing him with Casey. Casey would always love Irene and Benicio, but he moved away from L.A. for good measure. Ryland is what he needs- someone to make him laugh, someone to make him calm.
Unfortunately, Casey’s coworkers are relentless. They ask about Casey ever proposing to the fake woman who brings him lunch. They tease and poke and prod, despite never saying anything about their own lives. It drives Casey up the wall. If he didn’t love his job, he’d skip town by now. Oh well. At least he’s getting free meals now.
One blazingly hot afternoon, Casey is running over time on his lunch break. An engine on this old pickup truck has a part that manufactures refuse to make, and he needs to find an alternative. Covered in grime, he hears the soft sound of heels against concrete. His mind flashes to a blonde bob in the apartment next to his before he snaps back to the engine. One of his coworkers would take care of the Woman With Heel’s car, then their day would continue.
But it wasn’t a woman. It was him- his light, his friend(?) with the kindest soul. Ryland. He’s dressed to the nines, holding a brown paper bag. He looks completely out of place.
“Hi, Casey!” He beams. Ryland puts the bag on his workbench. “I came to give you your lunch but the intern up front isn’t there to put it on your workbench. I can’t chat long though- my friend Adrian has some big art gala opening in an hour.” Ryland gives a sheepish grin.
Casey wipes his hands off on a towel, wiping his sweat away too. “That’s fine. I…I hope you have fun.” Casey can’t help but stare. He curses himself- this is a pattern of behavior he needs to end. Perversely going after kind blondes with soothing souls…get a grip, Driver!
“Oh, I will! Anyways, I gotta run- Adrian’s waiting for me in the car with their husband. It’s um- it’s fettuccine alfredo today, and I had a slice of chocolate cake leftover so I put it in there too.” Ryland smiles. There’s a pause, and it feels as if the auto shop has gone quieter too. “Well, um. I hope you like it!”
“I will,” Casey smiles. “Go have fun. Come by…anytime.” He offers out. A rare occurrence for him, sure, but love makes you do stupid things. Casey keeps telling himself it’s too early to feel love, but that flutter in his chest disagrees.
“Of course! Goodbye, Case.” Ryland beams. He turns, exiting through the doors with the clacking of his heels. Casey sighs once more, and takes his brown paper bag to the lunch room.
—————————————————————
Ryland’s crush on this mechanic is getting out of hand. With school out, he’s had nothing productive to do except lesson planning for the next school year. Rocky, his best friend since their senior year of Highschool, had suggested cooking. Adrian, Rocky’s spouse and a good friend of Ryland’s from his academic career years, agreed. Since then, he’s hand-made every lunch he could for Casey. Of course, Rocky and Adrian get their fair share. But Ryland is hoping for a new friend out of Casey, so he puts in the effort.
There’s a car show in town, and Ryland can’t help but instantly think of Casey. Rocky teased Ryland relentlessly, Adrian occasionally butting in, about taking Casey to this show.
“Grace, come on,” Rocky shakes his shoulder as they sit on the couch in his apartment. “This mechanic- Casey, he would love it! Grace says he always takes such good care of his car. Imagine his face around many cars!”
“I dunno, Rock,” Ryland sighs. “It’d probably be like leaving work and going straight back to it- but spectating instead,” he hiccups. It’s a Friday night- he likes to get a little wine drunk and crash with Rocky and Adrian.
“But Grace, you love what you do. You teach all year long and continue to learn and teach in the summer,” Adrian sits next to Grace calmly, topping off his drink. They hold Grace’s hand as Rocky leans on Grace’s shoulder. “I think all I’ve heard is that mechanic’s name for the past few weeks. Take the initiative, Grace. Ask him out to that car show.” Adrian’s voice is calm as they offer advice. They were opposite to Rocky in that way- two beautiful souls that gravitated around one another. Ryland loved being a part of their orbit.
“Well…jeez, okay. I’ll ask him Monday.” Ryland sighs. He’ll do it! He’ll take Casey out to dinner and a car show.
“That is the spirit, friend Grace!” Rocky bounces with joy, and before Ryland can blink, both Rocky and Adrian peck his cheeks.
“Rocky would like to be your best man at the wedding I believe. I’ll be the ring bearer,” Adrian teases gently. Well, if things ever go wrong with Casey, Ryland will always have his best friends.
————————————————————-
Casey’s night isn’t filled with the same warmth Ryland has. He lives alone in a small apartment near the auto shop- close enough to walk to. He barely sleeps most days. Sways on his feet or takes short bursts of naps. He’s grown accustomed to insomnia, but not to the nightmares. L.A has left him a shell of a man, a husk. Driver and Casey fell into two separate entities most days. Driver remembers the crunch of a face against his foot, the smash of an arm under his hammer. Casey remembers the warmth of Irene, of holding her and kissing her, of watching cartoons with Benicio. His mind torments him with these memories, especially now that Casey has a light in his life again.
Ryland. Sweet, gentle Ryland, who eats lunch with him and waves to him from his bike. Who doesn’t know the difference between a screwdriver and a wrench. Who sometimes sits at Casey’s bench and grades papers as he waits for lunch. It’s soft, it’s warm, but unfamiliar. Casey relishes in the light of him, whereas Driver feels like a child being thrown into the deep end of a pool.
He wakes up in a cold sweat on his couch- he hadn’t gotten the chance to go to bed. It was supposed to be Irene in that elevator. Irene, whose life was in danger, who he needed to kill a man to protect. But it wasn’t her. It hasn’t been for quite some time now. Driver sees Ryland Grace. Ryland standing beside him, splattered in blood and brain matter, crying as a man dies beneath Driver’s foot. Ryland, who kisses him and his stubble tickles Driver’s chin. Ryland, who calls and screams his name.
It’s 4am. Might as well get ready for the day. Casey sighs, wiping his face of sweat as he walks to the bathroom. He gets dressed in his uniform, but doesn’t recognize the face in the mirror. Doesn’t feel the familiar sting of the homemade stitches on his gut. Doesn’t notice a new warmth to his face when he thinks about the teacher that he’d befriended. Driver doesn’t know who, or what, it is. Casey tries to be as much of a man as he can.
——————————————————————
Ryland, despite being a little hungover, is going to listen to his friends and ask Casey out. He gets ready, Rocky pestering him to bring Casey an extra cinnamon roll and Adrian judging his choice of a polo and khakis again. Ryland takes the familiar bike route to Dan’s Auto Repair and locks his bike on the bike rack. He waves hi to the teenage intern always up front, Ellie. Then, he makes his way over to Lot 3, where Casey’s workbench resides. Casey’s tinkering with something on a beat-up pick up truck. Ryland lets his presence be known by pulling out the stool.
“Hey,” Ryland greets with a smile. Casey waves but doesn’t look up, as per usual. Ryland opens his bag. “I brought you some brunch. It’s a cinnamon roll and some coffee.” Ryland sets it down on Casey’s workbench.
“Thank you.” Casey wipes his hands and face, walking to the bench. Sweet, sweet Ryland, bringing him food. He reminds himself that he’s in a different part of California now. Casey bites into the warm, gooey pastry, a gentle smile on his face. Ryland’s whipped for him, and eager to see that smile again.
“I…I wanted to ask you something.” Ryland fidgets. Casey looks at him, setting the roll back in the tupperware. He nods for Ryland to continue. Ryland takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Well, there’s this car show coming to town. Free entry, pretty nice cars. It’s this Saturday. My um…my friends can’t make it so I was wondering if you wanted to come with me…?”
Casey feels his heart flutter. It’s good to feel something this morning other than the emptiness. He nods. “I’d like that.” He pauses. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in.”
Ryland whips his phone out, happily obliging. Casey puts his number in, naming the contact Casey from Auto Shop. As if they weren’t already more than that. Ryland sends him a quick and simple emoji so that Casey has his number too. He deletes the job title next to Casey’s name, and puts a little wrench and a heart. “Wait- I need a photo for the contact!” Ryland loads up the camera.
Casey pushes it away, a small smile on his face. “No, no, there’s no need.” Ryland takes the candid photo anyway, giggling. Casey just sighs and goes back to eating his cinnamon roll. They, well, Ryland, talk about nothing and everything. Casey listens. Casey listens to him complain about how doting his roommates are, about how annoying his brother is, about how he wants to visit his Uncle March in Malibu for the 4th of July weekend. It’s their routine. Familiar, sweet, and theirs.
——————————————————————
Ryland wouldn’t consider himself to be “fussy.” Attentive to detail is a better description for his actions. But Rocky and Adrian watch him pace around in his bedroom, attempting to get ready for his Not-Really-First Date with Casey.
“Ryland, not the khakis. Please,” Adrian shakes their head, rubbing at their temples. Rocky rubs Adrian’s back in sympathy. Ryland frowns.
“Come on! They’re a neutral color! It’ll tie my outfit together.” Ryland takes them off the hanger.
“Ew. Does Grace hear himself?” Rocky shudders at Adrian. They share a disinterest in Ryland’s choice of fashion. Years of academic study and career have left Ryland permanently dressing for work. But this is a car show! With cool, hip, young people! And sleek cars and nice drinks!
Adrian, unable to take it any longer, pushes Ryland out the way. They dress him in some loose fitting jeans that accentuate his hips, a black belt, white polo with subtle blue stripes, and matching white sneakers. “There, Grace. You look 20 years younger now.”
“Ha hah. Get out of my room.” Ryland deadpans, and the couple leaves with a giggle.
Similarly, not too far away, Casey is having a similar dilemma. He’s never had a real chance to care about what he wears. There’s been no one to impress since Irene. But lingering in the back of his closet, something gold catches his eye.
In its glory, curled up into a far corner, sits his scorpion jacket. The bloodstains have faded. There’s a rip where the stab wound on his stomach resides. But the scorpion…it remains spotless. Clean. Casey isn’t that man anymore- he’s trying his best to never revert back. But the scorpion calls to Driver. Beckons him forward like Sleeping Beauty and her spinning wheel. He picks it up. Tries it on. The familiar emptiness settled in his gut once more, and his hands strain for the hammer again. He shrugs it off a few seconds later.
Casey will burn the jacket later, get rid of all reminders of a town 5 hours away. But for now, he shrugs on a simple tee shirt and some jeans, and goes on to see his light. His Ryland.
————————————————————
Casey picked up Ryland around 5pm that night. He greeted him at the door, walked him to the car, and opened the passenger side door for him. Ryland gave him a polite smile and thanks as Casey rounded the car to the driver’s seat.The drive to the car show was silent- a comfortable silence, one that both men could relax in. Ryland chatted about his day and gave simple directions to the venue. Casey listened, nodding along or giving his own input. Their little routine.
The venue wasn’t necessarily packed, but there was a wide variety of cars. It was placed behind some shitty dive bar, neon lights illuminating each show car. Novelty cars, older models, high tech futuristic ones…you named it, a version of it was here. After parking, Casey and Ryland walked into the venue. Ryland noticed a shift in demeanor instantly. It was as if Casey was surveying his surroundings before judging each car. His element. Ryland was expecting more excitement, but at the same time, he knew who he was on a date with. Could he consider this a date? No, Ryland. A hangout between a few new friends. No need to be perverse.
Casey felt an uncomfortable sense of familiarity in the car show. Cars with janky parts, neon lights under heat, shady mechanics and drugged-up or drunk onlookers. Open area. A good amount of exits. Enough time to get Ryland out if an altercation were to occur. But then again…it was a nice night. The cars were something familiar but not uncomfortable. He took his time with each one, answering Ryland’s questions and nodding along to the owners of the cars.
Behind the venue was a beat up plastic sign with the words, “DRAG RACING- $100 DOLLAR CASH PRIZE, $20 ENTRY FEE!” written in red sharpie. Various cars zoomed by on the rocky homemade track, and an announcer stood on a few plastic boxes with a megaphone and a $100 dollar bill in hand. Ryland looked closer. That…that was a fellow scientist. One whom he recognized from the fated UNESCO conference. The one that ruined his career in microbiology. It wasn’t the staggering waste of carbon, but his intern-slash-groupie. Apple didn’t fall far from the tree, huh? Waste Of Carbon was a failure, and it seems his protégé made money in slightly illegal places as well. Ryland sighed, and Casey looked over with a puzzled expression.
“Hm? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just- the guy with the speaker, I um. I know him. We weren’t on the best terms. I um… his boss was the man from UNESCO.” Ryland explains sheepishly, and blushes as Casey’s eyebrows raise. He hopes the neon purple lights drown out the pink on his cheeks.
Casey feels a semblance of embarrassment for Ryland. He’d be mortified if anyone from his past appeared in his current life, especially with how good things are going. “Do you want to leave?” He felt himself ask. Or was it Driver pleading with him to keep Their Light safe? God only knows.
“Oh-oh, no! We can stay.” Ryland protests. He doesn’t want to leave just because he’s a little uncomfortable. Casey’s expression softens in a way that makes Ryland’s heart jump.
“…I meant leave the racing area. There’s more cars to look at.” Casey clarifies. He’s been getting better at that- his coworkers tease him for being too vague. He can’t help it- he thinks he’s being clear enough. Even so, he tries even harder to be gentle with Ryland for reasons Casey isn’t ready to face.
Ryland blushes further. “Yeah! Yeah, let’s leave the race. I-I think I see the Mystery Machine down there. Y’know- from Scooby Doo?” He beams. The mood lightens once more. Ryland rambles and Casey nods. Their routine.
It’s around 11pm when they leave the venue. The car show was amazing- a chance for both of them to share an interest. Ryland still can't work on a car to save his life- but at least he knows the difference between a hatchback vs a wagon. Their hands brush as Casey opens the passenger door of his car for Ryland. It’s a gentle spark.
Casey turns to Ryland from the driver’s seat. It’s quiet, the soft hum of the radio playing a techno tune. “Wanna go for a drive?” He offers. Ryland’s eyes light up, and he nods.
They speed through an empty road, windows down and LED lights illuminating the road ahead. It’s fast, it’s quick, and it exhilarates both of them to their core. It settles the ache in Casey- the adrenaline Driver relentlessly chased after he left L.A. Ryland has an ecstatic look on his face and a warmth in his cheeks that Casey wouldn’t trade for the world. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.
They pull over and back onto the main road around midnight. Casey drives Ryland home- walks him up to the front porch. Ryland stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a nervous expression before he gets the chance to walk back to the car.
“Casey. Before you go, I just-“ he sighs. “I just wanted to say that I really had fun tonight.” Ryland smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something else.
Casey, worried about the outcome of, well, their relationship after this, blurts out the million dollar question. “Was this a date, Grace?”
“Oh- um-well!” Ryland regains more warmth in his cheeks. Red as a tomato, he fidgets. “If-if um, if you want it to be. If not, that's fine!”
“I want it to be.” Blue eyes stare into green. The only noise following is the hum of cicadas in the trees.
“…Then it was a date.” Ryland sighs. The smile reaches his eyes again. Casey smiles back.
“I’ll see you soon, Grace.” He nods. “Thank you for the date.” And before Casey knows what overcame him, he kisses Ryland’s cheek. A peck. It felt unreal, an entity separate from Casey and Driver. He wants to dart to his car, crawl into bed, and dream of the angel in front of him. Stopping him from doing that is the warmth of lips against his. Ryland’s kissing him. Soft, gentle, and unfamiliar…but a kiss nonetheless. They can’t help themselves, and share a few more kisses on the front porch of Ryland’s home once more.
“If you need to go back to Casey’s for the night, Friend Grace, me and Adrian aren’t surprised." A creak in the front door and a little voice breaks the warm, magical spell around the two men. Ryland jumps like he’s been burned.
“Rocky!” Ryland hisses at the shorter man, redder than ever. He turns back to Casey. “I…Sorry. This is Rocky, my friend. Rocky, you know Casey.”
“Of course Rocky know Casey. Hello. But I would like to sleep, Grace. It is…one thirty. In the morning.” Rocky pokes Ryland’s side. Ryland pushes Rocky away.
“Jeez, okay,” he sighs once more. “Sorry, Case. I’ll um…I’ll see you soon.”
Casey smiles. Warm, sweet, loving. “I’ll see you, Ryland. Nice to meet you, Rocky.”
Casey walks back to his car, aching for Ryland’s touch again. Oh well. He’ll see him soon.
—————————————————————-
Ryland loves his best friends, he really does, but their teasing is simply relentless. After being caught practically making out with his date on their front, Rocky saw their opportunity for teasing and took it. It’s 9am on the Sunday after their first date, and Grace is slowly coming alive to the Earth while nursing a coffee. Rocky’s brewing another pot, and Adrian’s whipping up something for breakfast.
“Grace,” Rocky nudges Adrian, “did especially well on his date last night.” He giggles. Ryland makes a choked noise, trying to not spit his coffee out.
“What do you mean?” Adrian quirks a brow. He puts the pan of bacon on the stove to medium heat.
“I opened the door around…one am. Adrian, fast asleep. There was Grace and Casey, sucking face!” Rocky laughs once more.
“Ew, don’t call it that Rock!” Ryland groans. He turns to look at Adrian. “Me and Casey…might’ve gotten a little carried away. But it’s safe to say we like each other."
Before Rocky can let another annoying tease out, Adrian covers his mouth. They smile at Grace. “I’m very happy for you. I know how nervous you were for this date. I’d love for Casey to come over to dinner.” Rocky licks Adrian’s hand, and they just sigh and uncover Rocky’s mouth.
“You sound like my uncle, Adrian.” Ryland chuckles. “Thank you though. He…he makes me very happy.”
“Grace get happy somewhere else when Casey kisses him!” Rocky giggles before Adrian pops him on the shoulder. “What???!! It’s true!”
Ryland just sighs. Mornings like this aren’t uncommon- the retelling of previous events and the jokes that come with it. The morning is always warm with the buzz of his two best friends. He lets his mind wander, thinking about how well Casey would fit into their space. Casey behind Ryland as he makes breakfast, Casey helping wash dishes and clean the kitchen up afterwards. Possibly a messy day, where they attempted baking and ended up with batter and flour smeared all over one another. Ryland blushes, realizing how stupidly domestic his fantasies sound. It’s a sickening sweetness, but a welcome one.
Rocky and Adrian pull him back to reality- Adrian serving him a beautifully cooked breakfast and Rocky chattering about his day. Ryland happily listens, letting them do the talking. The birds chirp outside the window, and the sun shines down on all three roommates from behind lace curtains. A quiet moment, that Ryland wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.
——————————————————————
Casey has a pleasant buzz in his chest as he goes to work Monday. His Saturday night date with Ryland had left him feeling like a new man. Driver was dead in his old car in L.A- Casey was here with Ryland. Both him and Ryland agreed to go on a few more ‘real’ dates before becoming official with one another. Casey was unable to deny the happiness he felt after Saturday though.
The garage was busy today. A few bad wrecks, a few oil changes, and unfortunately Ryland couldn’t come eat lunch. Oh well. Casey stands at his workbench, munching on Ryland’s homemade leftover chicken tikka masala. Soft indie rock floats through the garage from his new coworker’s station. Casey isn’t opposed to it- it’s better than whatever country music Mark plays.
As if on cue, Mark walks over to Casey’s station. “Hey- Case!” He beams. Casey acknowledges him with a head nod, so Mark continues. “I notice that face. Lemme guess- you took the missus out on a nice date and got a lil’ reward, huh?” He laughs, crudely.
Gross, Casey thinks. Sex has never been as important of an aspect of a relationship to him. Coincidentally, the new mechanic’s speaker plays a song that goes, “Why Do I Feel So Weird?” Casey often wonders the same. Answering Mark, he shakes his head no. He didn’t take this missus out on a date- and he’d have to reveal there is no missus soon. The thought of that is daunting.
“C’mon! You gotta take her out sometime. There’s a nice place downtown- me ‘n my spouse frequently go there. Real nice Italian joint.” Mark pokes him on the shoulder, and Casey subtly flinches.
“I’ll…I’ll think about it.” Casey sighs. It shuts Mark up, satisfying the other man, so they both go back to work. Jesus, what is he going to do?
———————————————————————
Grace is so bored. Unbelievably bored. Rocky and Adrian are redecorating their home and are preparing for Ryland to move in. Stupid landlords and their policies on late rent. Whatever. Ikea wasn’t as fun of an idea as Ryland expected. It’s mainly just him third wheeling his two best friends. And don’t get Ryland wrong-he loves them! But not when they’re arguing over what type of bedframe they want. He wishes sometimes he was a kid again so they could drop him off in Ikea’s kiddie area.
“Grace, listen! Adrian is stupid stupid stupid. The white wood is much much better with seafoam green walls, yes?” Rocky pokes him, huffing.
“I dunno, Rock. You’re the architect.” Grace shrugs, getting another poke in return.
“It’s engineer now. Grace is stupid stupid too.” Rocky walks away, and Adrian chuckles as they trail after him. Grace pushes their shopping cart, holding his phone in one hand to text Casey.
Grace 🧪💙: do u know anything abt interior design?
Casey 🚗❤️: No, not really.
Grace 🧪💙: crap
Grace 🧪💙: rocky & adri are fighting over new bedframes n shit
Grace 🧪💙: we’re redoing the whole house
Casey 🚗❤️: Sounds awful.
Grace 🧪💙: it is!!! but hey, we’re throwing a housewarming party! you wanna come.
Casey 🚗❤️: Sure. Just tell me when 👍.
Grace 🧪💙: hehe okay baby ❤️❤️
Casey🚗❤️: 💙.
Grace 🧪💙: ❤️!
Well, Casey would be at the housewarming party after refurbishing the home was done. There’s a bright side to everything, Ryland supposes. Even a brightside to being in the middle of a domestic dispute.
———————————————————————
Ryland’s family situation has always been…complicated. Colt, his twin brother, was a consistent rock that he could lean on. When needed, their Uncle March would step in whenever their Mom and Dad were unable to care for them.
Slowly, Uncle March gained full custody of Colt and Ryland. They stopped treating him as their uncle and more like their dad. Holly, March’s daughter, was like an older sister to them and Jackson Healy, March’s partner, was a secondary father figure for the twins. Ryland kept in contact the best he could as they grew up…and then Colt went M.I.A for a few months. His name was eventually cleared, and he changed it from Colt Seavers back to his birth name- Colton Grace. Ryland was overjoyed to be reunited with his best friend, his brother, once more. Now, they do weekly or monthly calls with one another.
“I’m telling you, Ry, that boy loves you.” Colt says over the phone, voice a little distorted as he drives in the car.
“You don’t think it’s too soon to tell?” Ryland sighs as he puts together a cabinet from Ikea. Colt was actually driving over to help with the construction of a few things around the house. Until he was cleared to work in Hollywood once more on stunts, he was stuck living off of his girlfriend, Jody.
“C’mon, Ry. That boy kissed you like that on your first date! He does a bunch of crap for you, listens to you…and this jackass didn’t use his turn signal. Fuckin’ asshole.” Colt sighed. “Anyways. Just keep goin’ on dates with him. God knows you need a win.”
Ryland snorted. “Hey, don’t get too cocky.” His hands tinkered with the screwdriver as he secured the cabinet door into place.
“When are you planning on telling Papa March?” Colt asked. Ryland froze. March was…over the top. Ryland would never forgive himself for the embarrassment he’s subjected Rocky and Adrian to. Casey would be unable to match his energy completely- he was reserved, a little judgemental, and his past was a can of worms that Ryland was intimidated to open. March would surely make Casey run back home with his tail tucked between his legs. Ryland thinks all this without answering. “Ry? Did I lose you?” Colt asks.
“Hm? No. I-um. I dunno if I’m gonna tell Papa yet. You…you know how he gets. Remember Linda? And-eugh, Tom? And Simon?” Ryland cringes at all the partners he’s introduced March to. “Don’t even start on Rocky and Adrian. Adrian barely keeps up with him and Rocky got into that fight with him on Christmas Eve once.” He groans.
“Shit, yeah. But you gotta say something eventually. He always has those big holiday parties- bring Casey to the fourth of July cookout!” Colt suggests.
“You mean the one where Jody almost got lit on fire by a sparkler?” Ryland sighs.
“HAHA! Yeah. Man, I forgot about that. Shit was funny. I promise you, Ry, you’re doing that thing again where you spiral and nothing can ever go right. It’ll be fine.” Colt pauses. “Listen. If Casey truly loves you, he’d accept our weird ass family for how it is. Yeah?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Thanks, Colt.” Ryland tests the cabinet door he was working on. Minimal squeaking, well put together. Nice one, Grace!
“Yeah, don’t mention it. Okay, see ya soon, I’m pulling up.” Colt hangs up the call before Ryland can even reach his phone. Oh well, that’s just how his twin is.
——————————————————————-
Ryland didn’t anticipate exactly how hard it was to completely refurbish a home while keeping up with lesson planning and a potential new boyfriend. He was run ragged, barely spending time with Casey and absorbed in all his responsibilities. They finished the house though, and cleaned it all up for the housewarming party. Ryland could finally relax, sending Casey the address and laying down in his new bedroom to take a nap.
Casey pulled up to the driveway of a lively large home. It was in a smaller neighborhood with a visibly higher income than his own neighborhood. He wondered what Ryland’s roommates did for work to afford such a luxurious life. The mailbox had their last names, and the last name Grace, so he was sure it was the right place. Grace didn’t answer his arrival text though. Strange, but not unusual. He could be wrapped in conversation, helping serve food or just showing off his lovely home. Casey knocks on the door.
The man who answers is not Ryland, but looks strikingly like him. There’s a few differences. The shabby beard, the bad highlights and frosted tips, not to mention the purely athletic wear. And no glasses. Colt raises a brow. “Is…This is Ryland Grace, Rocky, and Adrian’s housewarming party, yes?”
“Yeah man, come in!” The Man (not Ryland) beams, letting him in. Casey’s suspicious of him immediately. Who was this man? Where was Ryland? He spots Rocky and Adrian- curled up in the conversation pit talking to some equally classy people. Casey feels just as out of place as the man in athletic wear next to him.
“Do you know where Ryland is? I came here for him.” Casey asks. The Man beside him instantly gives him a side eye. Casey notices the shift in body language, he’s locked up at the mention of Ryland.
“Why? He invite you?” The Man raises a brow at Casey. Casey matches his defensive stance with a roll of his own shoulders.
“He did, actually. And who are you to him?” Casey responds. Before either one of them could snap at each other, Ryland comes down the staircase. Rocky and Adrian greet him happily, teasing him. Ryland says hi to everyone then spots Casey. He beams, rushing over.
“Casey, you came! And you met Colt!” Ryland beams, hugging him.
Casey hugs back. “Hey. And…Colt?” He pulls back to look at Ryland, then gestures to The Man beside them with a tilt of his head. “That’s Colt?”
“Yeah, he’s my twin.” Ryland giggles. That explains the striking physical similarities and defensiveness against Ryland’s name.
“Oh, crap, you’re Casey!” The Man- Colt- says with a tease. “Ryland’s told me so much about you. Nice to put a face to the name. Colt Seavers.” He extends a hand to shake.
Casey sighs, shaking his hand with an equally firm grip. He doesn’t particularly like shaking hands, the last time he shook hands with a man in athletic wear it got him almost killed. But this is Ryland’s brother, there’s no cause for concern. They stop shaking hands after about 4 ½ seconds. No, he wasn’t counting.
“I’m glad you guys are getting along.” Ryland smiles, holding onto Casey’s hand. Casey squeezes his hand back. He’s missed him. They’d seen each other less and less as Ryland had more responsibilities to take care of. Casey would be a fool to deny the yearning feeling he gets for Ryland.
The party has music now, Casey sees out of the corner of his eye as Adrian turns a speaker on. Nice, lively jazz swings through the house. Seems as if Casey was the last to arrive. He isn’t upset about that, he’s glad no one followed him in. He notes the exits, the new pool outside, the wallpapers a cool seafoam green. Ryland snaps him back to reality.
“Hello? Earth to Casey? I was asking if you want a drink, honey. Or something to eat.” Ryland offers. Colt’s already pouring himself a wine and going to sit by some blonde woman that Casey doesn’t know.
“No alcohol, I’m driving home. I’d like something to eat.” Casey shrugs. Ryland’s made dinner, it seems. Wonderful as ever- it’s a wide selection of pasta and finger food. Everyone happily eats and chats in the conversation pit, which is where Ryland drags Casey to. Casey greets a few other people with a nod as Ryland introduces him.
Casey can’t leave Ryland’s side the whole night. It feels magnetic, as if something was forcefully pulling them together. They were almost as bad with PDA as Rocky and Adrian, and those two were awful. Ryland would laugh and curl against Casey tighter, grip his arm a little firmer. The warmth that radiated off of Ryland was entrancing, and like a moth to a flame, Casey gravitated toward it. They walked around the house together, Ryland giggling and smiling at him all the while. The party continued on for a good while, everyone a little wine drunk except for Casey and Ryland. They sat away from the party, sitting by the pool now. The soft blue hue of light shined on Ryland’s face perfectly in the darkness that surrounded them.
Music drifted from the house to outside. Inside, Ryland could see Rocky and Adrian dance together a little with their own friends. Colt and Jody had their own dancing going on as well. Ryland giggled, turning to Casey. “Do you dance?”
“…Not really. I never…I never really dance.” Casey shrugged. He ran his thumb over the back of Ryland’s knuckles. Ryland looked shocked.
“Never? You’ve gotta be kidding. I-I mean. Everyone dances at least once.” Ryland rolls his eyes when Casey shakes his head again. He stands. “Come on, just try it with me. We don’t have to do anything crazy.” Ryland pulled Casey up, interlocking their hands. The song drifted around them as Ryland led them to a comfortable sway. His hand on Casey’s waist, his other hand holding Casey’s hand.
♫ Strangers in the night
Two lonely people, we were strangers in the night
Up to the moment when we said the first “Hello,”
Little did we know, love was just a glance away
A warm embracing dance away…♫
Ryland blushed, glancing away from their eye contact. He chuckled. “Kind of…kind of fitting, huh?” He laughed nervously again. Casey returned the smile, breaking the tension in the air by placing a soft kiss to the side of Ryland’s mouth. Ryland sighed, going in for the full kiss. The music from inside slowed, the instrumental swelling around them as they shared a loving kiss right beside the pool. Mouth against mouth, a desperate yearn for one another that neither of them knew they had.
They kissed, and kissed, and kissed. Still swaying, still moving, until Ryland lost his footing. Soon, both of them fell into the pool with a startled noise, gasping as they came up for air. Ryland looked mortified, red in the face. “Aw, man! I’m so sorry Case…y.” He paused. Casey was giggling. Not even giggling, full on laughing. It was such a stupid, rom-com movie moment, and it had tickled Casey to hell and back. Ryland laughed with him, holding onto him once more.
“Hey, jackasses! Rocky and Adrian and Grace throw housewarming party! Not pool party!” Rocky shouts from the back door. Ryland looks up.
“I’m just showing him the water temperature, Rocky!” Ryland laughs again, swimming back up with Casey. Rocky mutters a few words of disappointment to himself, heading back inside. Ryland and Casey keep laughing until their sides get sore, going inside and upstairs into Ryland’s bedroom. The party still goes on downstairs, but up in Ryland’s room, they share a comfortable buzz. Casey borrows some of Ryland’s clothes, and unless one of them is showering, they can’t keep their hands off of one another. They continue their poolside activities, laying down with one another, giggling and kissing. It’s beautifully domestic, and it’s theirs.
(it’s that time of the month 🩸/slight dysphoria) Yeah listen guys, the seasonal depression is hitting hard. But this’ll try to be for everyone pre t or not, but in this story u don’t have bottom surgery. Yk I feel like that’s obvious, congrats if u do got tho! But menstrual cycles are the topic.
You had been really busy on missions today, barely time to rest as much. Normally the extra work is not a problem, since Robert would half the time send you off to non emergencies.
But today, most of the emergencies consisted of fighting villains. Again. Not a problem. But for you, it was a huge inconvenience. You had your period. All day the cramps were consistent, off and on due to running across everywhere at once.
You were paired up with Flambae and got sent out together to take down this really big villian that was spot wrecking things across the town. Everyone else was too busy to take the mission with you, so you got stuck with him.
You usually kept to yourself away from Flambae, out of most of the guys on team Z. Reasoning? Well all the other male dispatch members were cisgendered. You weren’t. It was hard to figure out if you could trust the team, despite realizing everyone was mostly nice and didn’t care.
Reason you didn’t tell certain members before, is just because you weren’t sure what reactions to expect yet. But Chad, you definitely hadn’t been planning to tell him.
He was just really obnoxiously self-centered, and had a lot more pride than you. But in a lot of ways you found traits of him that were likeable, to you at least from observation. But you never thought he would like you as a person.
A few times he would say something to you that sounded like he was trying to be nice, but other times it felt like more of a backhanded compliment, or maybe he thought you would be another person to bully easily. You brushed him off half the time though.
Maybe he knew, that you weren’t a boy. Or just didn’t see you as one, and wanted to take advantage of making you feel crap about it. In the back of your head, you could admit to yourself he was attractive. But Chad was gay. You were a guy, but you knew you wouldn’t ever be one to him. Not one enough for him to like you either, or tolerate you.
You were doing fine while fighting, until you could feel just below your stomach throbbing repetitively. Flambae was shooting fire at the villian until he got swatted away like a bug.
This villian was a some big inhuman made of metal. So it was fire resistant, and it charged straight at you. You dodged, still having adrenaline enough to ignore the stomach pain.
You jumped, throwing yourself at him about to strike him in the back. Until he spun around, punching you right in where it hurt.
You went flying across the air, bouncing off someone’s car and crashing into the road, breaking it. You didn’t have a scratch at all on you. But the cramps in your stomach intensified. The running, the fighting, and getting punched in the stomach made it impossible for you to focus on anything else but the pain.
You pulled yourself up and took off while you were holding your stomach with the other hand. “Fuck- that. That was it. I’m done Robert! I quit for today. I’m sorry” You spoke out loud as you left the scene.
Flambae was now fighting the villain that punched you. But when he heard you over the dispatch, ultimately giving up and ditching him in the process.
You brought yourself back immediately to the SDN. You were hunched over and stumbled through the office, your arm was fully holding your stomach.
“Y/N, you okay? What happened to you out there?” Robert was still on his computer and glanced from his screen to you. Normally you wouldn’t quit over something so small or look like you were injured easily.
“I really don’t feel good. I’m sorry. I’ll stay in the building if I feel better again to go back out, but it’s too much for me right now, man. I’m sorry. Just let me lay down in the break room for a few.”
You looked over at him in hopes he could understand and not ask any more. Which Robert nodded in response. “Just take the day off if you need. That was all my fault. Flambae also pulled out just now too, but we got it covered.”
You changed out of your hero suit, into a t shirt and sweatpants. Once you were at the break room, you went over to the booth chair at the back of the room. Wincing as you bent and laid down, and curling your legs to your aching stomach.
“Just let it pass.” You kept saying in your head, rubbing below your stomach to try and soothe yourself. But every time you felt the pain become nearly invisible, you felt the stong jab in your stomach. And then everything would ache again.
It only felt like it got worse as the minutes passed. The pain was so unbearable this time than most. The aching sensation spread from your lower stomach, to your lower back, and thighs.
It made everything hurt more than just the soreness from moving across the city. You kept eyes shut tightly, trying to get over the pain and maybe sleep it off.
Your eyes welled up as every muscle you moved, sent shockwaves of pain into your body. You hated it, wishing something would make it stop. Somebody if they physically had the power to do so.
“So you left me to go nap? Pretty fuckin’ dramatic. Get the fuck up.” Your eyes snapped open again to see Flambae walking towards you glaring. “The fuck is wrong with you?! Acting like you can’t take a-...punch.”
He stood right in front of you, where you laid at the edge of the seat. Looking down at you, with one eyebrow raised. He always looks angry to you, so you couldn’t tell if he was still pissed off, or confused now. “…-You cryin’ man?”
Staring back up at him, you had heavy tears rolling down your cheeks. So you couldn’t lie about that. You tried to answer, but you hissed instead. Feeling a long sharp pain stabbing you. You hugged your stomach again hard with both arms.
“It won’t- stop. Just go away please!” You raised your voice and rolled onto your other side, facing away from Chad. But then you heard him scoff. “Okay. Stop being a faker. I seen you take harder punches.”
Faker? Seriously?! While you were in pain.
“NO! I have cramps, and I can’t help it! They keep coming and going, so leave me the fuck alone!” You shouted, with your head buried into the seat cushion.
You choked back a sob, and groaned out loudly as you clutched your stomach. “I don’t want to feel like this! It’s all the time every fucking month!” You shut your eyes tightly again. “I tried! I tried to come in and ignore it but nothing I took is helping!”
The throbbing continued below your stomach like it had its own heartbeat. All the sudden, you felt your own hand being pulled away from your stomach. Only to be replaced with a hand that wasn’t yours. You looked down with tears blurring your eyes, seeing Chad’s left hand.
He had his hand laid out flat on your stomach, before slipping it into your pants. You jolted in confusion and quickly turned your body to sit up, only to get pushed to lay back down.
“They say if men had periods, they would be whining and bitching nonstop. God. They were right.” He smiled while holding you down with his right hand weighing down on your shoulder, despite only having 3 fingers on that one.
The throbbing vanished when Chad put firm pressure onto your lower stomach with his left hand, as you looked back up to face him with realization.
It was kind of awkward, because he had his hand down your pants. He wasn’t moving any lower or touching you weirdly, but at this point it was so obvious you didn’t have a dick. But he still made sure that his hand wasn’t hot enough to burn you, or set your clothes on fire.
You could feel the heat radiate onto your lower half, on the spot that ached and soothed your pain. He actually was trying to help you feel better, by using heat compression from his own powers. Your gaze softened from relief, realizing that it didn’t matter. In his eyes you really were just like other men to him.
Flambae loomed over your body, staring at where his hand was. Until he looked back at you and leaned in closer to your face. “Are you gonna stop crying for me now, tough guy?”
You immediately nodded, but you couldn’t stop yourself from sniffling and trying to blink the tears away. He smiled watching you try to stop yourself before he leaned in, lightly pecking you on the lips.
And then it actually hit. You were more than just ‘other men’ to him. Chad actually did like you. That’s what made you different compared. It had nothing to do with how you were born. He saw you, and he liked you.
The rest of the day you ended up clinging hard onto Flambae, as he was now your human heating pad. He would cuddle and wrap his arms around your stomach as it’s cramping.
You forced him to carry you around with your legs wrapped around him too. You betted on that he couldn’t lift you, just to make him do it. His whole body just felt like a warm blanket, that you couldn’t resist it now.
Lol why did I pick this GIF for the thumbnail for the story bro
