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redisaid · 2 years ago

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In Good Company - Chapter 25 - FINAL

Willow/I Hear a Symphony

A small epilogue, she said, 8000 words ago. Thank you all for coming on this self-indulgent elf fic journey with me. Onto the next one!

8618 Words

Read it on Ao3!

“Hello mother. It’s been a while.”

The portrait, as always, had no response. Lireesa Windrunner’s form was but a rendering of oil paints, and though Sylvanas knew this, and has always known it, she still came to talk to her mother, even now. But it had indeed been a while since she’d been in this room. Years, surely.

And years ago, that thought would have caused a pang to run through her. Something like neglect. But as morbid as Vereesa was, she was right. Sylvanas knew that too. Dead things cannot be neglected. They were dead. Sylvanas was not.

No, Sylvanas had never been more alive, and that’s why it had been so long.

“The world is a very different place now,” Sylvanas started. There was little way to summarize it otherwise. “I’ve had a very busy decade or so.”

To an elf, a decade should be nothing. A blip. A blink of an eye. But this one had been anything but that. Sylvanas had lived more and done more and seen more in the last ten years than she had in any or the prior century or so of her life. Perhaps her constant proximity to a human now had her living at their breakneck pace. Or perhaps that particular human just seemed to carry the winds of change themselves with her.

“Let’s start with a report then,” Sylvanas said as she stepped up closer to the portrait, finding her shoulders rolling back and her spine straightening out of instinct. A proud soldier at parade rest--the very picture of the Ranger General her mother had worked so hard to leave as her legacy.

“The Orcs still reside in Kalimdor, where the mages sent them. I believe they originally thought it a way to be rid of them once and for all, but they’ve thrived there. They’ve managed to make an alliance of sorts between themselves and the Darkspear Trolls and Tauren of all things. They’ve built themselves a city and ships and have become our trading partners on that wild coast, if you can believe it.”

If she were here, alive and able to respond, Sylvanas knew her mother would be most incredulous about that, of all things. Like many elves, she never took the Orcs and their Horde seriously, believing them to be a ploy for troops and sympathy from the southern human nations. Only when they were at the very gates of Quel’thalas did it occur to her that they were capable and their numbers just as terrifying as reported.

“They even managed to find where the Night Elves have been hiding,” Sylvanas went on. “Remember how you used to tell us stories of Tyrande Whisperwind? I almost thought she was someone you made up, honestly, but I received a letter from her in a barely decipherable version of our language, just as you said they spoke. She’s due to visit Silvermoon in a few months, to discuss the state of the world with our leaders and form a diplomatic relationship with ‘the children of the Highborne’.”

That was not a meeting Sylvanas was looking forward to, despite the wonder and prestige that came with it. Tyrande, in her strange and stilted letters that even more strangely came from Orcish ships, wrote as if she were regarding naughty children. It had taken some time too for Sylvanas to convince her that she was not indeed the sovereign ruler of the elves, or well, the High Elves, as she was trying to remember to distinguish. There had been many more letters passed between her and this Night Elf queen of sorts than to Anasterian, though she’d finally relented and started corresponding with him a few months ago. Her letters to Sylvanas, and the vaguely scolding tone of them, though, had yet to cease.

“Speaking of the Highborne,” Sylvanas carried on. “Anasterian has yet to choose an heir. I was afraid that by now, he would relent on his punishment of Kael’thas and reinstate him. But I have to give the old loon credit. His boy is still imprisoned in Dalaran’s Violet Hold. Anasterian washed his hands of him and sent him to the mages to be tried for his use of fel magics and apparent courting of demons. He was apparently trying to summon one into this world when he pushed Jaina into the Sunwell, you know.”

A decade had not wrought as many answers from the former prince as Sylvanas would have liked, and even those Kael’thas had spouted off in a rage during his trial with the Kirin Tor had made little sense. Something about how Jaina had been the one to block their way before, thuse she was the one the demons had to have as a sacrifice. When asked “Why?” for all of it, Kael’thas had simply answered that he was on the side of the inevitable, and that they had only bought themselves more time in foiling him.

But Sylvanas had thankfully not seen hide nor hair of a demon in these last ten years, so she was fine with it. And very happy to see him put into the world’s most secure prison for his crimes.

She found herself pacing now, fingers dragging along the mantle the portrait hung over. The marble was cold to the touch, free of dust thanks to the housekeeping staff who kept this empty room tidy, but also free from offerings. Again, guilt should have rang through her like a bell in that she didn’t plan to leave anything there this time. But again, the dead did not really need to hold onto the trinkets and connections of the living. Besides, Sylvanas had no decaying wedding bouquet to offer. The last thing to have graced the mantle had actually been two little locks of red hair that Vereesa, chief skeptic herself, had left behind when she came to introduce her twin sons to their elven grandparents.

But even those had long been swept away.

“We’re still in good standing with the Grand Alliance, General,” Sylvanas continued in her report. “Better than ever, I’d say. King Terenas is still alive and kicking, and himself heirless in his old age just like our king. He’s not my biggest fan due to how I’ve positioned myself in that fact, but it’s not just Lordaeron that makes up the Alliance, despite what they think.

“And mother, as for us, well. I think you know. I think Vereesa and Lirath come to tell you, even as they make fun of me for doing this. You know that she’s a mother now, and her children are little half-elven terrors. I make her regret every moment she annoyed me as a little sister by buying them the toys that make the most noise. Lirath is ranking up through the magistrate faster than I can keep up with anymore. Father, you’d be so proud of him.”

Sylvanas did feel a bit of guilt then that she almost never addressed her father in this room, although he looked down from the same portrait. She’d never felt the obligation to report to him thusly in life, so it didn’t feel right in death. Still, he deserved to know that his only son and the only mage he’d managed out of his children had gone on to be everything he’d hoped for and more.

“There is still no sign of Alleria or those who followed her into the portal,” Sylvanas told them both as she looked back up at the portrait. Maybe even her older sister’s face, who smiled down at her, looking nearly as old as her parents. Maybe it was time she started talking to Alleria too. “But her son is now a proud paladin of the Silver Hand. She’ll be pleased to know that Arator is taller than all of us, though he must have gotten his height from his father. Certainly not from her.”

Alleria had been endlessly bothered by being the shortest of her siblings, while the oldest by centuries. So if Sylvanas was going to start talking to her sister like she was dead too, she might as well start with a dig at her height.

Or maybe not yet. No. Something still felt unfinished about Alleria Windrunner’s story. It had been nearly twenty years since Sylvanas last saw her, last begged her not to leave. But decades like that were nothing to an elf. Certainly nothing to Alleria. If anyone could survive being stranded on a strange world, it would be her elder sister. No, Sylvanas was quite certain that she didn’t want to speak to her sister as she spoke to the dead quite yet.

“I guess I should tell you about me,” Sylvanas said. She stopped in her pacing, looking up again, as if awaiting encouragement to sparkle in Lireesa’s eyes. But nothing changed. The painting was the same as always. And just as she always had, Sylvanas didn’t really like to talk about herself when it came to personal matters.

But she did anyway. Mother would want to know. She deserved to know that Sylvanas was happy, even in the chaos that was her life these days.

“I am still the Ranger General. I finally feel like I am, though. It took a long time for me to feel deserving of your title, or I guess, to feel like it could be me and not only you,” Sylvanas told her mother’s ghost.

The mantle of Lireesa’s long reign in the title had often felt so heavy on her shoulders. Especially in those first few years after her death. Through the war and the years outside of it, Sylvanas had been struggling. A struggle she kept to herself, behind a mask that grew heavier and heavier to wear each and every day. Only she hadn’t realized just how weighty it had become until she was finally able to remove it.

“But I make do,” Sylvanas said with a little laugh. “I think you’d approve. I hope, at least. I’ve managed to change up the Rangers a bit, but I think you’d like what we’ve done. Jaina gets to take most of the credit for that, though. She works so hard and does so much. You’d love her. And I love her so very much. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

In the whirlwind of change, it felt like Jaina’s presence at her side had been the only steady thing Sylvanas had, but it was the only thing she needed. Ten years had flown by, really. It was strange to think they’d been together that long.

As much as she relied on her, Sylvanas had done her best to give Jaina her own space to grow and become what she would become in Quel’thalas this past decade. Jaina even still kept her own apartment in Silvermoon, though she almost never slept there. Officially, she wore Sylvanas’ token and Sylvanas now wore a matching one--a pendant comprised of a brilliantly cut aquamarine set amidst Kul Tiran pearls. Officially, they were known to be courting and had been. Officially, they were working hard together to make the dream of the Spellbow Corps into a reality.

Unofficially, in the rare quiet moments they enjoyed out of the spotlight, Sylvanas had never been more in love with someone than she was with Jaina. Unofficially, she still felt a shiver up her spine at every idle touch of a hand against her wrist. Unofficially, she cried out her insecurities and fears into Jaina’s chest, and held her as Jaina woke from her occasional nightmares and wept for a man she hated but never meant to hurt. Unofficially, they woke more often tangled in the sheets from much more pleasurable nighttime activities, the memories of which would make Sylvanas grin to herself like a sabercat until the next time they could manage to steal with time away to do it again.

Unofficially, she loved Jaina Proudmoore with everything she had, and was quite certain Jaina loved her back with equal ardor.

Time and tide had brought no change in those feelings. Sylvanas very much doubted that anything would now.

“Funny enough, we’re going on Thalasdiel again as of tomorrow,” Sylvanas reported to the portrait above her. “As much as I really would rather not take months out of my schedule again, I’m very much looking forward to being able to spend them with Jaina.”

Sylvanas felt along her uniform jacket for the pocket, slipping her hand into it to draw out a small wooden box. It wasn’t very heavy, but at the same time, felt like a lead weight in her hand. She didn’t know why she was nervous. It was such a stupid thing. But, then again, the living were allowed to have their silly emotions. Even if they didn’t make sense.

She opened the box and set it on the mantle. Even in the dim magelights of the chamber, the gold and diamonds of the ring within still sparkled. Sylvanas had been delighted to find out that this human tradition didn’t require her to craft the ring--so she’d commissioned Illeryn to craft this delicate thing for her in a manner far more elegant than she ever could.

“I don’t know if you know about human traditions much,” Sylvanas said as she smiled at the ring, then back up at the portrait. “I’m still learning myself, honestly. But the way this works is that I have to give her a ring to announce my intent to marry her. And I do intend to. I know it’s been a while. I know I maybe took too long and gave her too much time, but Jaina has been patient with me. She’s been so patient. Hopefully she’ll be patient enough for me to figure out when on this walk I want to give this to her. I still haven’t decided.”

“I think you’d approve, mother. I’m very happy.”

The words echoed hollow in the chamber, even as much as they meant to Sylvanas. As much as it was often hard to say, though it was true. She wanted very much in that moment for Lireesa to smile down at her and tell her she was happy too. That she was proud.

But the stillness of this place was all Sylvanas had left of her. And even so, she felt compelled to come to it and show her mother the ring she would put on Jaina’s finger sometime in these next few months. She wasn’t sure when or how or where. Maybe at Lake Elrendar, where they’d first fought together, back to back against the trolls? Maybe at Farstrider Enclave, where Jaina had enchanted everyone with her songs and her magic? Maybe in the borderlands, where Sylvanas had made a fool of herself in her concussed state and touched Jaina as her heart wanted to, and not as her mind said she should? Maybe here at Windrunner Spire, in this very room where they’d first kissed?

It was hard to choose. So many of these places held some nostalgia for both of them and the budding of their relationship across the last Thalasdiel they had walked. Sylvanas resolved that she would know what to do when the time came. Still, she was nervous. She would be nervous until Jaina said yes, even if she already knew that answer was a certain thing.

Sylvanas had to imagine her mother’s approval. That was all she could have. And though she craved it, she didn’t need it. All that warmth and more was waiting for her in Jaina’s arms. It was true. She was happy. She had everything she needed right here, among the living.

Sylvanas smiled to herself as she closed the ring box and slipped it back into her pocket. “Goodbye, mother. Maybe next time I see you, I’ll have a fiancee. Maybe even a wife.”

For once, she felt fuller, having left that room behind. She dimmed the magelights on her way out, and grinned at her brother as he met her in the courtyard below.

“All done?” Lirath asked with a half smirk.

“Tease me all you like, little brother,” Sylvanas retorted. “I know you talk to them too.”

“We’re all a little fucked up, Sylvanas,” Lirath noted. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be light-hearted about it now, does it? Either way, you haven’t been up there to mope in a long time. Even since you’ve moved back here and taken the title of the Lord of the House from me.”

“Please, we know that’s always going to be your title,” Sylvanas told him. “Jaina and I just live here when we want to get away from the city. And you love our company.”

“Correction, I love my future sister-in-law’s company,” Lirath said with a full smirk now, one that saw one of his fangs drag along his lower lip with purpose. “That is, if you ever plan on marrying that poor girl.”

“Eventually,” Sylvanas replied with a wave. “All good things take time.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, if you are planning to propose to her next time you’re here, please do it in the central gardens. I have worked very hard to ensure they’ll be lovely in two months' time. There’s a particular arbor there that will be absolutely rife with wisteria by then. Jaina loves purple, you know. Just think of how romantic that would be,” Lirath noted while very gently digging a golden elbow into her side.

These days, she hardly noticed that his arm was a construct. He used it as easily and efficiently as if it were always a part of him. He and Jaina had worked tirelessly to rebuild and refine Rommath’s creation to the point where it was so elegant and functional that people who didn’t know Lirath often mistook it for a fashionable gauntlet, rather than a complete prosthetic. And he’d made it something of a calling to reproduce that work for others in need of such things, who had seen similar injuries to his as part of their service to Quel’thalas. Indeed, Lirath was often too busy with this work to see much of them when she and Jaina were at the Spire. He spent much of his days in his tower now, building arms and legs for rangers and mages alike and animating them to a semblance of life with crystals and incantations that Sylvanas would never quite understand--even if she would patiently listen to him and Jaina babble about them for hours.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sylvanas told him with a smile.

She liked the gardens better now that Lirath had started to make them his own. His flower choices seemed to put more importance on colors and overall vibrancy, rather than the cloying sweet smells of her father’s garden--those that still mixed with blood in her nostrils and the memory of finding her brother struggling for breath beneath their father’s corpse.

But Sylvanas shook that image from her mind. It was easier to do that now. This world was for the living, she told herself, and kept repeating. And she was alive. So alive. She had to look toward the future, not the past.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting a portal back to Silvermoon?” Lirath asked, knowing that was exactly what she would want.

He’d even promised her as much over lunch not more than a few hours ago, the little shit.

“I’m afraid I do, in fact, have to get back to the city and finish wrapping things up before this damn walk starts,” Sylvanas told him.

“Not without a hug first,” Lirath protested.

“A small price to pay,” Sylvanas mouthed even as she wrapped her brother’s lean form in her arms without further protest.

One shimmering portal later, she stood in Farstrider square. Evening was just beginning to descend upon the city, but that hadn’t slowed the constant shuffle of rangers who poured in and out of the buildings and across the square between them. Most of them took quick notice of her, offering salutes and nods. A few of the younger ones just stared until an officer clapped them on the back and demanded they respect their Ranger General. Sylvanas, for her part, just smiled. She didn’t need the acknowledgement, but was content in knowing she wouldn’t escape it. She nodded back, even greeted a few familiar faces as she made her way to her destination.

Lor’themar had quarters here similar to her own, though he’d taken to making them quite a bit homier. He preferred the city to the Theron estate, after all. Perhaps that was why his apartments always seemed to be a gathering place of sorts.

At least, this was a pretty fair guess as to where Sylvanas would find Jaina at this time of day.

The faint notes of a song on the other side of his door confirmed her suspicions as she knocked.

“It’s unlocked, come in!” Lor’themar shouted from beyond, breathless between the lyrics of the song.

Sylvanas opened the door to music. That was usually the case at Lor’themar’s house. From the sound of the myriad of instruments and voices, there were quite a few people here, adding their various parts to the song. Of course, Jaina’s mandolin was instantly recognizable to her, so Sylvanas was already certain she’d made the right choice in tracking down her lover.

Wife certainly had a better sound to it than lover. Yes, it was about time she made yet another change for the better.

Sylvanas rounded the corner from the little foyer, stopping just before she’d be fully visible to those gathered in the parlor, yet still at an angle where she could see most of them.

Piled onto Lor’themar’s couches were a motley crew of rangers and mages, and even a High Priestess. Liadrin sat on the corner of the couch, with Valeera on the arm next to her, and only she seemed to notice Sylvanas. She didn’t say anything though, as she was too busy offering her alto voice to the chorus of the song, and merely smiled softly in the Ranger General’s direction.

She too, had been busy and happy this last decade. She too, was not married and Sylvanas wasn’t sure she ever would be. Her and Valeera’s relationship, while beneficial for both of them, was even more casual than Sylvanas and Jaina’s. But it worked for them. And they worked for each other, so much so that Valeera’s gold and emerald token still gleamed in Liadrin’s red hair as it held it back into her preferred ponytail, just as it had all these years.

Next to them, Lor’themar splayed across the middle of the couch, playing an ornate guitar and singing the lead part, of course. The star of his own show, always. Sylvanas was lucky he didn’t have such ambitions towards his role as a Ranger Lord, lest he decide to oust her and take over as Ranger General. Thankfully, he was content to host his parties and impromptu jam sessions, and gracious enough to keep the politicking of the other Ranger Lords away from her to the best of his abilities. Next to him, squeezed in, was Magister Rommath, playing a fiddle that Lor’themar would only trust him to borrow--no doubt conned and weaseled into such a feat by one of the two Ranger Lords he spent much of his time with.

Or both, as Sylvanas caught sight of Halduron in the kitchen, dancing to the tune as he poured glasses of wine and cut up a small wheel of cheese.

And against the other end of the couch, there was Jaina--her eyes shining a brilliant blue as she played along on the same mandolin Lor’themar had insisted on giving her at Farstrider Enclave, occasionally joining her own voice to the harmonies. The glow had stayed, and while that had been fascinating to Liadrin, Sylvanas had found it concerning at first. She wanted nothing more for it to fade and for Jaina to be able to forget what happened to her at the Sunwell, or well, in the Sunwell. But it hadn’t, and she hadn’t seemed to forget or even regret it.

And as the years went by, Sylvanas found that she didn’t regret it either. Jaina was thirty-five now, well of an age for a normal human woman to be showing a few gray hairs and wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. And Sylvanas had been more than ready to welcome those signs of aging with open arms, more than ready to kiss them and assure Jaina that she didn’t mind or care and loved her all the same. But Jaina had none of these. Liadrin was quite convinced she would not have them for quite some time.

“Look at it as a blessing, Sylvanas,” Liadrin had assured her once she’d begun to investigate the matter a few years back. “At least that’s how I consider it. The Sunwell let her go. It let her live. And I don’t think it’s quite done with your Jaina. I feel like she might be around and unchanged for centuries yet, causing all kinds of trouble and nagging us to make all the changes we should have made eons ago.”

So now such concern had been replaced by comfort, in knowing that the glow and its remaining gave her more years with Jaina. How many more, no one could be sure, but Sylvanas was more than ready to find out.

She hoped it would be a long, long time.

Jaina looked so beautiful as she played, unaware she was being watched just yet. A laugh curled on the edge of her voice as she sang along with Lor’themar’s overzealous and belted version of the song. Her fingers splayed gracefully across the neck of the mandolin, switching back and forth across the strings with practiced ease--the same sort of ease with which she now wore a uniform similar to that of the other rangers here, because Jaina too was now a Ranger Lord, just having been promoted this year. Even the stuffiest among her peers agreed that the leader of the Spellbow Corps should, after all, wear the highest title that could be given to her, and had earned as much.

But beneath the sparkling prestige and showy armor and bureaucratic red tape, Jaina hadn’t changed much, despite being the catalyst for all of the change around her. She still wore her snowy hair in the same loose braid she adopted during her own Thalasdiel. Sylvanas had come to know every freckle on her body, and then some, as she was now peppered with them from spending her days under the warm sun of Quel’thalas. The fire in her eyes was unchanged despite the glow of them. She was still herself. She’d never been anything but Jaina.

Jaina, who was perfect for Sylvanas in every way. Jaina, who fit right in amidst this strange land and its stranger people, playing their songs and introducing her own as if that had always been how things were here. She was at home. Maybe even at a measure of peace. And Sylvanas would do everything in her power to make sure things stayed that way. But the funny thing about Jaina was that she didn’t need her to do anything. No, Jaina had always been able to write her own fate, whether she knew as much or not. Sylvanas was just here to watch her do it, and to love her all the while.

As the song started to come to its end, Jaina caught her eye and beamed a smile over to her that would put Belore herself to shame.

As soon as the song was over, she called over, “Sylvanas! There you are! Come on, sing with us.”

---

As crowded as it was today, Jaina was happy to take her place on the edge of Lor’themar’s couch to play yet another evening away. She would miss this after tonight, as they’d be away on Thalasdiel for a while, but it was only three months. Funny, how that seemed an eternity to her the first time she’d heard the expected length of the ritual. Now it was a sabbatical that she both welcomed and didn’t. She had a lot of work to do, sure, but could she use a mandated break from it? Of course.

If anything, it would make Sylvanas happy to see her take some time off, even if it was required time off. And Jaina, for her part, did look forward to Thalasdiel. At least, she’d have to get herself back into good musical shape to keep up, but thankfully Lor’themar had always provided plenty of opportunity for that.

She was a regular at these evening gatherings and had been for most of the past decade. At first, he’d dragged her in, insisting she played mandolin far better than anyone else who would deign to entertain him. Sylvanas had encouraged it as a good opportunity for her to ingratiate herself into the social circle of the most social of Ranger Lords. But now, and for a while now, Jaina only came for the pleasure of the company of friends and the music they made together.

And it was damn good music. She closed her eyes to enjoy, led by Lor’themar’s confident baritone and guitar. Magister Rommath, whom she now counted among her friends here in Silvermoon, added accompaniment with Lor’themar’s precious fiddle. But this was a song for Jaina to carry as much as any, and carry it she did. Lor’themar always had its chords strumming when she was in the room--both because he knew it was a favorite of hers and because it was very obviously a favorite of his to sing.

But such was the nature of any good song. And this was one that had many parts that could be sung--many harmonies and many instruments that could be added or taken away, depending on who was present.

So Jaina added her voice too, filling in the response part to Lor’themar’s call with Liadrin, Valeera, Rommath, and even Halduron from the kitchen. The richness of their combined voices filled the room almost as sweetly as the scent of the fragrant mana wine he was pouring, and the savory scents of the large pot of stew that was cooking on the hob, large enough even to feed a room full of hungry rangers.

Once, she had questioned why the rangers loved their trail songs so. She understood that they had purposes, and that they were a good way to pass the time, but still had felt apart from the thing that made them so integral to her elven squadron sisters. But she knew it now. She knew in her very bones as they vibrated in time with the meshing of harmonies. This was belonging. Being a part of something larger, something beautiful and purposeful. It was all she had ever wanted, and she had found all that and more here in Quel’thalas.

And so she sang on with the final words of the song, strong and loud and proud and happy. She was very happy here.

“Be the ground underneath my feet, I'll walk with no need to worry. Consume the stream rushing ‘round my knees, I'll wade with you till the morning. Be in the wind I hear whispering, I'll carry you when you're weary. Below the willow will I be, Come live with me beneath the tree.”

Only when Jaina cracked open her eyes to make sure her fingering was correct, and pay the correct amount of concentration it would take to the finish the rather complex end of the mandolin’s part, did she spy a change in the room. She played out the notes flawlessly, but smiled as she did so, recognizing the singular grey eye that she could spy peering at her from around the corner by the door.

And of course, the bit of smirk that went with it. Sylvanas often acted like she would rather be anywhere but Lor’themar’s living room, but in truth, joined these gatherings as often as Jaina did--even if it was just with the pretense of escorting her home.

But tonight, Jaina wouldn’t particularly mind being escorted home. As much as the stew was starting to smell fantastic, and as much as she knew Halduron had a loaf of fresh bread cooling for them, she would much rather spend her last night with Thalasdiel with Sylvanas.

It was hard to put a title on what the Ranger General was to her anymore. She was indispensable in Jaina’s life, certainly. But Jaina was also cautious about that for Sylvanas’ sake. She took things slow with Jaina. Painfully slow sometimes, but always out of respect for her and fear of overwhelming or overexposing her. And while Jaina had always told her she didn’t mind, it had taken some years for Sylvanas to believe her.

Even so, their public personas were very much not their private ones. In the safety of their apartments or Windrunner Spire, Sylvanas was silly. She did frivolous things and made bad jokes and was so very affectionate. And Jaina, for her part, loved every childish gift of wildflowers, laughed at every bad joke, and was perhaps even more affectionate. And she loved her. She even loved the austere and gruff Ranger General that Sylvanas had to be otherwise.

She loved her so much that she was tired of not knowing what to call her. So Jaina had gone to Illeryn, who still refused to let Jaina call her Captain Autumnsong even in professional settings, and had her make a ring. She wasn’t sure Sylvanas would understand the significance or the question the object itself posed. She was pretty certain she would cock her ears sideways in that adorable way she did and say something about them having already exchanged tokens. Elves saw marriage as a thing of contracts and paperwork and officialities rather bound in romanticism. So Jaina had come up with a speech to accompany the ring.

But she was still working on it and workshopping it. Well, workshopping it with herself, really. She couldn’t trust any of these nosy elves not to ruin the surprise, after all.

But she did intend to figure it out soon, and to ask Sylvanas to be her wife before this next Thalasdiel was over. Because it just made sense. And there was no one else that Jaina would rather spend the rest of whatever percentage of eternity she had with.

That, apparently, was a thing as well. While it was normal for human mages to have extended life spans, they aged normally. They just enjoyed a century or two extra of old age. Jaina still didn’t look a day older than twenty-five--not a day older than the day she was pushed into the Sunwell.

Liadrin and her fellow priests had little comment on it, other than they agreed with Jaina’s self-assessment of her lack of aging and postulated that it must be Belore’s will. The mages too had little to say, but some had suggested experimenting with the Sunwell’s waters on other humans in close enough earshot for Jaina to shut them down with a degree of violence in her voice that was perhaps a bit more than necessary.

Or perhaps not, knowing mages as she did.

But Jaina, for her part, tried not to worry. She counted herself lucky, and assured herself she’d find plenty to do with any extra time she got out of this. Not to mention that it meant more time to spend with Sylvanas.

Sylvanas, who was peering out more from the corner now, smiling at Jaina as she finished the song.

It was then that Jaina decided she should pay for her creeping around, “Sylvanas! There you are! Come on, sing with us.”

The room erupted as the others realized that the Ranger General had graced them with her presence. Though among friends here, Sylvanas was a third version of herself. A little more reserved than she was with just Jaina, but far more honest and open and at ease than the Ranger General ever could afford to be. But Jaina loved her too. She loved her as she watched her embrace Valeera and Liadrin, and bat the guitar away so she could do the same for Lor’themar. She laughed, clear as a bell and ringing just as sweetly, and took a glass of wine from Halduron before she finally came to Jaina, and bent to kiss her.

Jaina would never tire of kissing her. Whether it was a quick greeting peck on the cheek like this, or a deep and passionate kiss in their bedroom, she never tired of them. Ten years. If three months had seemed an eternity before, ten years surely should have been a lot of time to be kissing the same person. But it wasn’t. It never would be. Jaina was ready to kiss her for ten centuries, if either of them lasted that long.

Only time would tell, and until then, she’d keep kissing Sylvanas.

“I was hoping to find you here,” Sylvanas whispered to her as she strayed from Jaina’s cheek to her lips for one more kiss.

And perhaps the fact that such a sentiment was so obviously shared made it ring that much more true for Jaina.

“I would say I told you that I was going to come here after I settled things with my officers, but you don’t want to hear it,” Jaina jabbed even as she savored Sylvanas’ lips a bit too long to the point where Lor’themar whistled at them.

“I would say that I didn’t know how long it might take you,” Sylvanas replied, smirk growing into a wide grin. “As you’ve now got the same problem I had on my last Thalasdiel, what with both yourself and your next in command absent at the same time.”

“Tell me about it,” Jaina laughed, then turned to the middle of the couch. “Lor’themar, you wouldn’t happen to want to take over the Spellbow Corps while I’m walking, do you?”

“It’s a little late to ask that of me, my dear,” he chuckled back, strumming out a few sour chords on the guitar he’d restored to his lap. “But I will make sure your officers keep things in line. After all, it’s the least I can do, as Ranger General.”

“Acting Ranger General,” Sylvanas corrected him. “And you won’t be until tomorrow morning.”

“I shall wait until then to grow mad with power,” Lor’themar assured with a less than reassuring cackle.

Jaina shook her head at him. “And we’ll miss your interfering with our Thalasdiel like you did last time, of course.”

“But you’ll have Cindel’s all new squadron to do so,” Lor’themar offered. “The very first led by a Spellbow. And you’ll be too busy to miss me, having to do all the mage work now.”

“Yes, portalling tents and rations twice a day is indeed all-consuming,” Jaina answered with a roll of her eyes.

“We considered it to be until you decided to give those poor magisters more work to do. Always causing trouble, that’s you, Jaina Proudmoore,” Lor’themar admonished.

She offered him a mock bow across the couch. “It’s what I do.”

“Damn right,” Valeera agreed from the kitchen, having used this distraction to abscond with some of the cheese Halduron had been cutting up from them.

“And I suppose you’ll blame Jaina for the prank wars you start during our walk for that very reason,” Liadrin scolded her even as Valeera dutifully handed her her own plate of cheese.

Those two were as much a mystery in what to call them as Jaina’s own relationship had been. But she didn’t see marriage in their future. Still, she knew for certain that Valeera had carefully selected each of those cheeses, knowing exactly which ones Liadrin liked and didn’t like. That in itself should be worthy of a word or title that described an appropriate level of devotion without overt commitment. However, such a thing was lacking in both Common and Thalassian. Jaina wondered if any language in this wild and wonderful world had a fitting term in it.

But Valeera and Liadrin were just…Valeera and Liadrin. And they would always be.

“For the record,” Jaina said, bringing the conversation back a bit. “I am immensely proud of Cindel and plan to give her and her rangers plenty of space to enjoy the experience for themselves. And I would encourage the rest of our squadron to do the same.”

“Lirath did demand that we meet at the Spire, you know,” Sylvanas reminded her.

“Of course he did and of course we will,” Jaina assured her. “It’s tradition.”

“It is,” Sylvanas agreed with a little laugh.

Jaina gestured to the empty arm of the couch next to her, bidding her lover to sit. Sylvanas shook her head and made a subtle gesture toward the door.

So she had similar plans for the night.

Unfortunately, Lor’themar noticed. “You’re here to steal my mandolin from me. And for three months afterward! Fiend! Scoundrel! Didn’t you hear how good we sound? Just leave Jaina with me. Find yourself another mage.”

“Sorry,” Sylvanas answered with a shrug. “Even so, I believe I’ve laid a bit of a claim.”

Jaina wore said claim proudly on her chest, gleaming in the warm magelights that Lor’themar lit his quarters with. She’d even had Illeryn polish up the feather pendant when she picked up the engagement ring from her a few days ago. The old elf had such an insufferable look on her face then. Almost as bad as when Jaina had gone to her years back to get help with her own token--the one that Sylvanas proudly wore now. It made her think just how much a talented jewelry like Illeryn would know in elven society, where the creation and exchange of jewelry was such an intimate and important thing. But even with her shit-eating grin, Illeryn had kept whatever secret she was last privy to to herself--despite all the weedling Jaina had done when she’d gone to pick up that ring.

Maybe Selanay had finally found someone to settle down with? Maybe young Artemesia had found someone worthy of getting around to crafting her token for. Or maybe it was something less personally salacious and more professionally so. Illeryn was still scouting and mapping the borderlands when she wasn’t cutting jewels and helping amateurs with their favors, but surely news of the ever-looming threat of war wouldn’t make her smile like that.

“I suppose you did,” Lor’themar sighed. “And it’s a pity that Jaina seems to like you a lot, or I’d try to take it from you.”

“Sorry Lor’themar,” Jaina laughed back at him. “I’m flattered, but very taken.”

“A shame,” he snorted. “But as much as I want to hear Sylvanas sing with us, I suppose I can let her have you.”

“Thank you for your conscientious sacrifice, Lord Theron,” Sylvanas said with a sage nod.

“Get out of my house, before I find you two half-naked in the pantry again,” Lor’themar threatened as he elbowed Jaina to shoo her off the couch.

“That was one time and I was very drunk,” Sylvanas reminded him.

“And very much without a shirt, right next to where I keep my food. I’m happy you’re in love, Sylvanas, but my onions don’t need to see it,” Lor’themar replied. “Either way, I love you both and will miss you dearly. I promise not to call unless something is actually on fire.”

Jaina bent to hug him goodbye and laughed. “I’d offer to at least leave the mandolin for you, but I fear the twins will have my head if I don’t take it with me.”

“Jaina, for the last time, it’s been ten years and it’s your damn mandolin. Take it and play it for your rangers. I am honored every time you do,” he assured her.

They quickly made the rounds of the room to say their goodbyes. They’d see everyone besides Rommath the next morning anyway. They’d be quite sick of Liadrin and Valeera after months of walking with them soon enough. And the warmth and music of Lor’themar’s living room would be there waiting for them when they returned.

Soon enough, it was evening in Farstrider Square. Lor’themar’s quarters were in an officer’s barracks opposite the main Ranger hall, where Sylvanas’ quarters were. Well, the Ranger General’s apartments. Most of Jaina’s things were there, though, or at least not the ones she left at Windrunner Spire. Her own apartment that she’d bought when she’d first officially moved to the city was barren now. And for sale, but Sylvanas didn’t know that part quite yet.

Jaina was working it into her speech about what an engagement ring was. Or well, how she’d ask Sylvanas to marry her.

Again, she was workshopping it.

But the square was dim, save of the magelights. Belore had well and truly set, leaving behind a sky of slowly dulling purples and blues, with blackness and stars threatening at its edges. Sylvanas held out one hand for Jaina as they walked together. She looked beautiful like this, dashing and strong and cutting an impressive figure in her officer’s uniform. Jaina’s was not too different from hers now. Tomorrow they’d trade uniforms for armor, and Jaina would walk this Thalasdiel in the new colors of the Spellbow Corps, a mixture of purples and ranger blue. Lighter but still practical armor. A special gauntlet to protect the casting hand but also allow for the firing of regular arrows. A hood that could be worn correctly with or without the aid of long elven ears, as more and more humans had come to join their training program these days.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Sylvanas asked softly as they walked, hand in hand.

“Hmm, there are a lot of them,” Jaina warned.

Sylvanas laughed at that. It was such a wonderful sound. Like a familiar and favorite song. Jaina would never tire of it. “You always have a lot of them.”

“I suppose I do,” Jaina said with a grin. “But chief among them is that, as excited as I am to go on Thalasdiel and for Cindel’s new squadron to have their first one, I’m going to miss having some time with just me and you.”

“We’ll have it when we get back,” Sylvanas reassured her. “But I get it. I will miss that too.”

“But I’ll also have you with me all day, which is nice,” Jaina said. “Even if I have to share you with the others. And it’ll be nice to see everyone too. It’s been ages since I’ve seen Tessandra or Ayndais. And I still haven’t met our new recruit, if you recall.”

“Mmm yes,” was all Sylvanas offered in return.

“What about you? How many coppers would I need to cover everything rattling around in that thick skull of yours?” Jaina asked, jabbing at Sylvanas ribs with her elbow and earning another little laugh in return.

“Too many, of course,” Sylvanas relented. “But that’s always the case.”

“It’s why we work so well together,” Jaina told her. “We are career worriers. But at least we never have to doubt that the other left the oven on or something like that.”

“Mmm no,” Sylvanas answered.

And rather than pressing her again, Jaina just squeezed her hand.

After a time, as they were nearly across the square, Jaina felt the need to say, “I love you, Sylvanas. You know that, right?”

“You say it at least once a day, so I should hope so,” Sylvanas said, rousing to a grin.

“I would say it more,” Jaina told her. “I should, even. Because I do.”

“But what prompted you to say it this time?” Sylvanas asked.

Maybe it was because this would be their last night alone? Maybe because Jaina was very much in the mood to skip a lengthy dinner and opt to take Sylvanas to bed instead and find a snack sometime after. Maybe it was because she hoped to ease whatever worry was distracting her. Maybe it was the ring box that she had hidden deep in her pocket, poking at her hipbone as she walked, reminding her that she had to work on that speech of hers, that question.

Or maybe it was because Sylvanas deserved to know how much Jaina loved her, and how little that had changed over the course of a decade. If anything, she loved her more, and fiercer than ever.

“Because I love you. And because I like this. I like you. I like walking through the city, holding your hand. I like you coming to fetch me from Lor’themar’s. I like how you kiss me. I like how at home I feel whenever I’m with you--how complete.”

This was dangerous territory. Dangerously close to words she had rehearsed in a mirror. No, not yet. She’d skipped ahead on their first kiss and caused problems that way. No, if she was going to ask Sylvanas to marry her, it would be perfect.

Sylvanas turned to her. She stopped walking. She smiled softly and held Jaina by her hips. She brought their lips together in a sweet, chaste kiss, with a hinting promise of unchaste things she would do later, out of the public eye, in the form of just a hint of fang and tongue. Their hips brushed, and Jaina felt the odd poke of something sharp against her. What on Azeroth did Sylvanas have in her pocket that was shaped in such a way?

“Well, I love you too,” Sylvanas told her as she pulled away from the kiss. “And I like you. And how you make everything better. How about that?”

“Oh, I didn’t know it was a competition,” Jaina said as she opened the door to the main building for them. “In which case, I will have to be more poetic. Oh wait, I’ll steal one of Lor’themar’s songs.”

“Oh Belore, what have I done,” Sylvanas laughed. Music, sweet as music it always was.

But Jaina sang.

“I used to hear a simple song, That was until you came along. You took my broken melody, And now I hear a symphony.”

“It’s so corny,” Sylvanas sighed even as she held the next door for Jaina and laughed again.

“It is, but what’s worse is that I mean it,” Jaina told her.

“And I love you for it anyway, Jaina. And I could stand to tell you that more too,” Sylvanas said as they started up the stairs to their apartments.

Yes, their apartments. Jaina was going to consider it officially so now. She’d get around to telling Sylvanas the news eventually.

“You could and you shall,” Jaina declared. “But for tonight, I’ll be content just to enjoy one last evening with just you. You, all to myself.”

“I suppose that I can give you that,” Sylvanas answered slyly. “Anything for you.”

Jaina beamed back at her, all but racing her up the stairs, if racing involved tugging on her competition’s hand, that is. She should have felt silly, thirty-five years old, in charge of a brand new division of an ancient and powerful army, and still head over heels in love like a schoolgirl. But Jaina wouldn’t change a thing about her life as it was now.

It was perfect. A magnum opus of a symphony, if ever there was one. And the best thing about it was that she was still writing it. Still singing the song even as it went on and on.

#Sylvanas Windrunner #Jaina Proudmoore #sylvaina #fanfic #in good company #the beast is finished #and it is long #too long #but it was fun

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justagirlsearchingforamuse · 4 years ago

Note

Could you write a reunion fic as a sequel to the Heisenberg 'alone time' that you wrote? While smut would be wonderful, I'd just be grateful for apologetic Karl forced to be humble for once in his life.

(Also im DYING to know what he did, did OC/Reader discover his Soldats or about Rose? Im so curious and itching for more)

Your writing is awesome and I hope to get to read more Heisenberg goodness from you!

A/N: Thanks so much and I'm glad you guys are enjoying what I'm writing, sorry if it took so long and I'll be happy to answer more asks (including angst and fluff) for RE8. Sorry if this is so damn long but hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless. Also decided to make it gender neutral as I didn't want anyone to be left out.

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, The reader riding Karl, The reader not afraid to talk back to Karl, Stitching, Cursing/Inappropriate Language, Oral, Kissing, Arguing, power bottom' Karl, fluffy smut, unprotected sex, dirty talk, Fluff, and nearly 8000 words.

It's been far too long since you have seen that man and you hoped not to see him for as long as you both may live, for a time you thought it was just 2 people with different paths that force them apart but in a way you couldn't be more wrong. You understood and still understand his need to get rid of his troubling and frankly corrupt family, you both shared a dream to run away from the Village and to live somewhere with beautiful sights. To have some form of happiness even if it doesn't last, sure normal life may seem boring but it's all that you both wanted, happiness away from reminders of Miranda and the rest of his seemingly fucked up family. But what it took to for him to get it, his plan that he seemingly thought was so brilliant only made you boil with rage and painful reminders of your past is brought from the dark corners of your memories and into the light of your mind. Children. They're so innocent, good, and pure ... they bring out everything in people, children are something that you hold near and dear to your heart. Children are everything that the world isn't, at least until they're forced to grow up and deal with the cruelty of the world. This wasn't the first time that you had disagreed or fought with Karl in your mind, but what really caused you to boil over was his plans.

A heavy huff slips from your lips as your heavy steps full of anger echoed throughout the factory, your hands are balled into tight fists and your fingers trembled along with your body, you just couldn't fucking take it. You weren't going to stand by and turn a blind eye to sacrificing an innocent child for your happiness, you weren't going to and Karl as usual tried to convince you into it. Make it seem like it'll be worth it in the end. He's stomping after you, following after you like a dog and you can hear him desperately trying to get you to stay, you keep your eyes forward and keep making your way towards the exit. Just as the door is in sight, he reaches out to grab your wrist causing you to gasp before trying to pull out of his grasp, he pulls you firmly towards him and makes you meet his eyes. His green eyes are clouded with ... desperation, they're soft and vulnerable but it didn't phase you. Not one bit. "Come on, (Y/N) ... you know that I'd do anything for you. ... You know I love you ... that's why I have to do this, kitten. You have to fucking understand ...!" He pleads with you, you turn away from his face, that bitter taste still remains on your tongue and his words fall deaf to your ears. "You don't understand! You don't understand at all! You're in your own fucking bubble ...! I can't do this! I can't live with the fact that the man I'm in love with is willing to sacrifice an innocent child for a chance at happiness." You growl at him, your words are breathless and harsh and it stings like poison to his soul, his expression begins to slowly fade into resentment. A look you had never seen before, especially towards you. "Listen to me! ... The fruits of our labor shall come ... but it all comes with a little sacrifice." He barks, his grip on your wrist slightly tightening with his anger rising as he tries to plead with you, get you to understand but you could care less. "Then I don't want to share that kind of happiness or freedom with you at all ...!" You bark back, your words are dripping in poison and there isn't much care behind them, a huff leaves your nostrils and you once again try to get out of his painfully tight grasp but he wants you to hear him. Fuck. "I thought ... fuck ... I thought you fucking loved me. All those nights, all those late-night talks, the passionate love we made ... I guess it meant fuck-all to you, huh? I guess you never gave a fuck about me ... I wanted you to ... I wanted you to understand." Karl seethes, his words are in a low growl and his green eyes are clouded with bubbling rage and fury. Fuck.

"I did love you, Karl. I still do but you have to leave or do something, I don't fuckin' know but there should be a limit to the price you're willing to pay for a chance at freedom. ... I'm not willing to. This ... this brings back too many painful memories, I would never let myself live if I let her die." You almost sob, your anger that was once boiling and alive was now being put out by the melancholy that rested deep within your soul. That baby reminds you so much of ... your history. You never told him about your past and the trauma you somewhat suffer from it that makes you long and ache for freedom. But now wasn't the time. At all. "I can't do that ...! You know I can't ...! You can't leave me, (Y/N) ...!" He shouts at you, desperately clinging to his relationship that is burning, crumbling right in front of his very eyes, he's trying so hard to save it but the thought quickly floods in what if he can't save what you have? His jaw clenches and his throat begins to tighten, breaths become hard to even get out and you can hear his low growl of rage and sorrow echo through your ears. Your throat had tightened the moment he reached out for your hand and now the tears were swelling in your eyes, leaving them uncontrollably. "I love you, Karl. But this is the end of us. The end of our story together." You managed to choke out as his expression softens yet he's stiff, a frown is plastered on his lips, and doesn't seem like it's leaving anytime soon. Regrets plague his mind, "I regret ever opening up to you. Fuck, I never should've let you into my life especially if you were gonna fuck me over and leave me alone." He thinks to himself and immediately lets go of your wrist, he forces on a blank expression and forces his tears to be hidden away, he pushes away his heartache and goes back to the only way he knows how to not fall apart, to not lose himself and to become weak.

"I never wanna see your fuckin' face again. Leave. Don't even think of coming back. You fuckin' ... you fuckin' hurt me ..." He grunts and growls at you, even lightly pushing you towards the door before turning his back on you as he crosses his arms. Fuck. "I'm sorry for the pain I've caused." You manage to say in a whisper, wiping away your tears and sniffling to yourself before leaving out that door and never looking back, it was hard leaving him behind to wallow and experience his pain alone that you caused. But you stand by your choice that you couldn't stay if he had to use Rose for his plans. Still, he plagued your dreams, still had nightmares about that man, about losing him in so many graphic ways. You tried to live your life, going to work and just trying to find a way to live without seeing Karl ever again at least you thought. You never forgot him. It was around 2 in the morning and you managed to sleep for just a few minutes until your phone rang obnoxiously loud, ringing and vibrating against your nightstand. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, and an annoyed groan left your lips before you picked up your phone, though you had lost his number you knew it was in that village and it meant that he was the only one calling you. You almost want to toss your phone across the room, a familiar bitter taste begins to coat your tongue and you slowly take in a breath staring at the phone in your hand. "God fucking damn it." You curse bitterly, regretfully pressing the answer button on your phone, scratching at your head you answer with a bitter and low "hello" that is answered with heavy ragged breaths. Coughing soon follows after and echoes through the phone. "What the he-" You begin to ask before you're interrupted by his sudden cursing and rage-filled words. "Stupid fucking Ethan Winters ... the bastard ... couldn't even ... finish the job ..." He coughs into the phone, blood pools in his gut, fuck he was ruining one of his favorite shirts and an empty swallowing pain aches through his stomach. But he barely cared.

"The fuck are you rambling about, Karl ...?" You ask harshly, standing up on your feet as you press the phone to your ear, waiting for an explanation. "Oh, fuck off! You wouldn't understand ...! Or care!" He howls back before you can hear him cough once again before a wince soon slips from his parted lips, an agitated expression twists onto your face. "You must've thought I would care if you thought to fuckin' call me. Tell me what's up or I swear I'll fucking hang up." You bark at him, clenching your fists tightly as heavy ragged breaths left your body in the presence of your anger. " ... If you do give a damn ... then your ex is bleeding the fuck out in his factory ... with no knowledge of medicine and shit." He coughs out, he presses his hand firmly onto his large wound, fuck was he in bad shape and Ethan Winters had fucked him up but like a coward left him alive. "I might be there. Keep pressure on the wound and try not to die, dickhead." You huff in a ragged breath before hanging up quickly, in a way you thought it was karma for him wanting to use a baby and possibly murder a baby to get rid of his toxic and frankly not real family.

You sit back down onto your bed with a heavy sigh leaving your lips and a question on your mind. Was it gonna be worth it? He could be trying to trick you, you thought to yourself and really questioned if you should drive there and help him supposedly. As much as you wanted to be bitter, to hold onto that resentment but your heart and soul ached to see that filthy man, it called out to him desperately. Your heart sang to see him, to hear him despite your mind's warnings and reasonable viewing of the situation. Like a dumbass, you listened to your heart and began to get dressed, you threw on some old coat and a pair of washed-up skinny jeans, you grabbed a med-kit and some stitches and quickly rush to drive to the hidden and eerie village. With your foot pressed hard on the gas pedal, you kept wishing and praying that he'd be fine, that the waste of gas and the risk of being pulled over by cops worth it. When you finally make it to the factory, it's grim and dark and seemingly stopped working, the smoke that came from the factory is gone, the noise and the racket that his factory produced every second. You quickly get out of your car, medkit, and tools in your arms as you enter, you can hear his heavy strained breaths echoing through the factory that is now seemingly dead. Lifeless. A series of coughs leave his lips as he sits slumped up against the side of his bed, his blood drips and oozes off his hand, covering his stomach wound as the pain just continued, it still ached and stung like salt on an exposed wound. His head is dizzy with a haze over him, fuck was his head aching like a motherfucker and everything on his body ached and cried out in pain. "Karl ...?!" He hears you shout desperately searching for the man, he could hear the distress in your voice, the panic that came in your hurried and seemingly quick steps. "I-I'm h-here ..." He weakly responds in a low whisper, blood begins to coat his tongue and the unfamiliar taste of iron rests upon his tongue. You hear his cry weakly and you quickly rush to his bedroom, heavy breaths leave your lips in your pursuit to find Karl before he bleeds out or chokes on his own blood. What an idiot ...

He's in seemingly worse shape than when you left, his lips are beginning to become tainted with his own blood, many small wounds were all over him but the most concerning was the one on his stomach. He's coughing and trying to take in oxygen, trying to taste something other than iron on his stomach and he turns to find you, standing there before him. Damn. He forces on a wide toothy grin when he meets your gaze, damn he could feel the tension and could see that dark haze in your eyes, full of disappointment and resentment. "So we f-fuckin' meet again, huh?" Karl coughs out as a short series of chuckles soon follow after, he's trying to keep what little pride he had intact. He couldn't be seen as weak after you broke him, you left him in pieces and chose to leave him because of some stupid sacrifices he had to make in pursuit of the happiness and freedom you deserved. "So we do, asshole ... let me guess, the plan that you were so persistent on working didn't fucking work ... what happened to never come back?" You growl at him, crossing your arms as bitterness seemingly runs through you, you could feel your heart thump in your chest and your hands curled into tight fists. " ... That doesn't m-matter right now. I just n-need your fucking help!" He snaps, his words strained and choked before a series of coughs soon leave his lips. You slowly take in a breath, considering whether to just hand him the medkit and fucking peace out but you know the asshole lacks medical knowledge and would die. You let a deep sigh leave your lips before you kneel beside him, putting one of his arms around your shoulders, and with a loud groan of pain, you set him down on the bed, lying him down on his back and making sure he was comfortable. "I'll only be able to take care of this and stop you from bleeding out. You'll have to be still, Karl otherwise I'll fuck up." You advise him, getting up to go wash your hands and make sure that you don't get him infected whilst you're at it, you come back into his bedroom and open the medkit and begin to get to work on the wound. Karl would've never thought or had the pride to call up his ex, the one person he told himself he'd never need again is forced to put his pride on the side and is forced to let his ex attend to his wounds. All he can do is frown deeply, turning away from you to stare out the window, and all he can think is that Ethan Winters is still out there. He's gonna kill Miranda. That was his job, that was something he spent his life working towards doing, getting rid of that bitch Miranda and stealing her precious power. He's forced out of his thoughts when you begin to rub alcohol onto the wound causing a sharp stinging sensation to shoot through him, he grits his teeth at the stinging and almost burning sensation plaguing his body. "Warn me next time, will ya?" He says before a heavy cough soon follows, you sigh deeply as you continue to rub the alcohol on his wound gently, making sure it doesn't get infected and die from an infected wound.

"Warn you? ... It's just rubbing alcohol not a lighter." You respond, rolling your eyes at the man before you as you set down the towel and begin to pull out your thread and your needle. If he thought the alcohol was painful then he is truly in for a rude awakening. "This is gonna be painful, Karl ... I'll try to be quick with it." You state, somewhat warning him of the pain to come. "Please do ... I can't wait until you fucking leave ..." Karl bitterly spat, still unable to accept the fact that he needed you, that you were right, that he wanted you back into his life because, in his mind, it's better to bottle it up. "I won't treat you if you act like an ignorant dog." You spat back, your eyes meet his for a moment as an expression of anger twists onto your face, he begins to try and speak before a wince fell from his lips at the sensation of the thread going through his skin, he slams his fist down onto the bed and hisses at the pain once more. "Says you, you literally came in here pissed. Maybe just shut up and do ... ah!" He begins to say, his words are filled with anger and irritation before another sharp sensation of pain shoots through him. "Look, my bad alright but it's not every day you want to see your ex who was willing to ..." You begin to retort back at him, giving him a mean glare before he barks back. "You have to make sacrifices for everything! ... Now Ethan is going to get his daughter, probably gonna murder Miranda when I deserved the right to kill her. To watch the bitch suffer and choke on her own fucking blood." He growls, bitterness comes to him like air and he lets out a huff through his nostrils, a bitter and sour expression twists onto his face as he thinks of the fact that Ethan nearly murdered him, he thinks to the fact Ethan is going to steal what he worked so hard to get. "Whether you kill her or he does, she'd still be dead. ... You need to just ... let go of it and be grateful he let you live ... besides can't you finally be free out of that woman's grasp?" You say, less bitterness in your voice than before as another painful wince slips from his parted lips, he sucks in a breath through his teeth and lets out a heavy ragged breath. "That's if that fool can kill her. That's why I needed Rose. I needed her power to help me kill her. I needed it." He growls, slamming his fist against the wall in frustration.

"Did you ...? If Ethan nearly killed you then you severely underestimated how powerful he is ... probably can rival Miranda's power or maybe it's ... it's because he loves his daughter so much, it drives him to keep going." You say, your once bitter expression faded into something more dreary as you are reminded of your past, you would've done anything for that child. He scoffs to himself, turning away from you as you stop stitching him up as a truly bitter and painful expression twists onto your beautiful face. You force his face towards your own and gaze deeply into his eyes, you want him to feel, to see the pain that you felt and he did feel it. "You act like it's so terrible to be human ... it's so terrible to fall victim to your emotions ... that man loves his child just like how you loved me. He would've sacrificed anything for that child, he was willing to try and kill you, he was willing to kill Lady Dimitrescu, he was willing to do it all. That's what being human is. That's what's strong, so fucking strong." You exclaim, slowly inhaling a breath into your nostrils as silence quickly fills the air between you both, you can see the realization in his eyes flicker before him and how he softens in a way. Licking your lips, you push him back and hide that urge that was a habit you had, leaning to kiss him whenever your eyes met his whenever you saw how he softened before you. You missed that so much. You didn't say anything more, you go back to stitching up his stomach wound with an unreadable expression on your face, it was a mixture of pain and frustration and Karl saw it but most of all he saw your pain. It reminded him of his own. He would do anything for you. If you wanted him he would take you back in a heartbeat and he was afraid to admit that. Afraid to admit that he was still weak to you, still weak under your human ways that he used to relish in with you and he was afraid of being open, being hurt, being vulnerable, and falling victim to you in case you left him again. In a way you were weak to him too, stubborn as well but more willing to open up to him, to be vulnerable in front of him, willing to take the bait if it meant you would get hurt again. You were almost numb. To it. The pain that he had caused you but it was still there, stinging you at whatever moment it got and you let it become what you see Karl as. Another reminder of your pain, another man willing to sacrifice whatever for a taste of freedom and revenge. But despite that you loved him.

"I apologize for acting like a bitch when I came in here. I just ... I never thought you'd call or need me ever again and I didn't think I needed you either." You say in a somewhat soft breath, you meet his eyes for a few moments before turning your attention back to his wound and he turns towards you, licking his lips before he runs his finger over his bottom lip. "Thank you." He says smartly with a prideful smile soon curling onto his lips before you roll your eyes at him, you bite your tongue to stop any laughter from coming out. "Come on, you have manners don't you Karl? You acted like a bit of a dick too. Or is it too low of Mr. Karl Heisenberg to apologize?" You tease, a natural warm smile curls onto your lips for a few moments, Karl's heart feels light once more and it pulsates in his chest at the once familiar sight he used to see all the time, he missed that smile. Chuckling, he looks down and can feel the bitter irony taste on his tongue begin to fade away slowly but surely it is. "I apologize for acting like a dick earlier. There. That make you happy?" He says, rolling his eyes to himself before you nod with a chuckle soon falling from your lips, your hair had changed, your fashion sense had as well but you were still the same with that warm smile that made him nearly have a heart attack. "Alright, I should be done in a moment ... I'll clean your wound once again and make sure it doesn't get infected ..." You say once more, your tone has returned to its initial seriousness and he sighs to himself, just when he thought you were letting the mask fall, just when he thought things might be going back to normal. "It's fine, do what you have to do ..." He responds, waving his hand in a motion to allow you to keep doing what you were doing. You continued for a few moments longer, trying to stay focused on stitching his wound up but suddenly thoughts starting appearing in your head, what if things could go back to normal? What if you can be free together now? What if you can share happiness with him? Maybe you were an optimistic fool but having hope that things might change between you two is something that you happily looked forward to.

"Alright, I'm done. You shouldn't bleed out and die and ... I'd say try not to fuck up your stitches. But I should be going if I am not of any help to you anymore, Karl ..." You say lowly, reaching out to seize your medkit before he suddenly grabs your wrist, just like the last time you saw him causing you to nearly jump at the sudden grasp on your wrist. He realizes what he's doing from your somewhat distressed expression and lets go of your wrist quickly. "I'm sorry for ... that. But ... I'll probably need more medicine or more care to make sure I don't fuck up my stitches." He rambles, allowing himself to be vulnerable for just another moment, licking his lips his eyes meet yours once again and you see that familiar desperation in his eyes. But this time, you thought what if you stayed and so you set your medkit back down and let a deep breath leave your lips, you somewhat missed the familiar sound of his factory working and working tirelessly. "I hope you aren't planning on stopping Ethan. I'm sorry but it's just fucking stupid ... let him take care of Miranda and let him have Rose then you have what you want. Freedom. Happiness." You exclaim, sitting on the opposite end of the bed beside him with legs resting on the mattress. "I ... I want to. ... Miranda has caused so much pain, so much agony to me ... she doesn't see me as her son, nor will I ever see her as a mother. She's just ... she's just a crazy bitch who decided to steal a fucking baby and hope it could be a vessel for her fucking precious little Eva." He growls bitterly, a sour expression twists onto his face as he crosses his arms, still bitter to the core and revenge is still tainting his mind, no thought of freedom or happiness crossed his mind. Just Miranda. "I know. All she cares about is finding a body for Eva ... but you could finally be happy away from that crazy ass woman. Besides ... this plan has already been a huge failure." You exclaim in a gentle sigh, licking your lips before taking in a breath and so many memories flood back to your brain whenever you stare at something. Even this bed has so many memories.

"I ... I haven't failed. Besides blame Ethan for ruining an otherwise amazing plan. So much for working together." He spat, rolling his eyes at the thought that he was possibly bested by a mere human makes his blood boil. "This plan has nearly cost you your life and cost you a chance at even getting a sliver of freedom." You explain, another sigh leaves your lips as you stare down at the mattress beneath you, silence fills the room once more because Karl's pride won't allow him to see that maybe he had failed in his plan. "You even lost me ..." You muttered lowly almost in a whisper but Karl heard it and his expression twisted from bitter to disheartened and remorseful. "Look, I get that I hurt you and I hate it. But I needed to do it ... I needed to try and get rid of her! Get some kinda control over my own fucking life! I am done with being another experiment for her to use for her wishes! I ... I just want to be free ..." He exclaims, all manner of emotion is pouring out of him and seeping through his mask of charm, taking in a slow shaky breath as his throat tightens and memories flicker of his family, his real family. His mother, her warm smile that is reminiscent of yours, her warm comfy hugs and just remembering it had tears traveling down his cheeks as he clenched his jaw firmly. Your expression softened at the sight before you, a saddened and pitiful frown curls onto your lips as you can sense his pain, he really lost his life to being Miranda's experiment, to being her slave. A soft breath leaves your lips and you rest your hand upon his shoulder, expressing comfort as he inhales another shaky breath, pain is what became of him and he tried to fix himself only to become more broken.

"Karl, listen to me ... you're allowed to be happy ... you're allowed to smile, allowed to be angry, you're allowed to be happy." You coo, your words are gentle but powerful and your eyes are sincere, warm, and delicate to his eyes. He turns to you, eyes slightly puffy and an expression of pain is twisted on his face, letting a gentle breath when he looks at you, when he gazes into your eyes for a few moments, he's reminded of happiness, he's reminded of warmth, he's reminded of love and family. He still loves you. His eyebrows furrow before he wraps his arms around you, clinging to you desperately as he buries his face into you, still pain torments him when he can and it destroys his life. It destroyed his relationship with you, it destroyed everything around him and it almost destroyed him, he would've sacrificed everything just for freedom, just to have his life be his own. He sees it now, it comes to him painfully raw and honest and he almost hates it because of how he hurt you, the one damn good thing in his shitty miserable life. "I hurt you. I fucking hurt you and you came back for me? I ... I don't fuckin' deserve you ... at all ..." He exclaims, his words muffled into the fabric of your clothes as he can feel your arms wrap around him, your hands gently massage him and the simple gesture puts him at peace and ease. "I came back because as much as you hurt me ... you don't deserve this, Karl ... despite how I left you, I still care so much about you. Hell, when it's you I listen to my heart rather than my fucking brain. With you, it's different ... with you, I could never forget you. At all." You confessed with a soft sigh leaving your lips at the end of your words, your hands move to his long untamed grey and brown locks, you gently run your fingers through his locks and you nearly chuckle at the unique texture of his hair. "I didn't either, butterfly ... I hurt you and I see how I fucking hurt you, hell I didn't care if you left me I was still going to continue to plan despite how it hurt you. I'm an asshat. I wouldn't want to remember me if I did that." He exclaims, a gentle smile curls onto his lips as he stares up at you with a familiar smile that warms your heart, it leaves it jumping in your chest and leaves your stomach with butterflies.

"It's good that you see that and I hate that hurt you too ... I know that I left feeling so bad, so bitter about this whole fucking plan ... but this plan the only good thing it brought to you was bringing me to find your nearly dead ass." You chuckle, a wide smile curls onto your lips as a peaceful and joyful expression is plastered onto your face, another chuckle leaves your lips as a warm familiar smile remains on your lips. He can't stop himself from smiling as well, savoring these moments you share of nothing but pure joy, and he can't help but cup both sides of your cheeks. His fingers gently caress your cheeks, his smile warms your heart and your soul and the familiar sensation of his hands against your cheeks made you melt before him. Silence fills the room as he admires you, your beautiful features, and everything along with it. "Out of everyone in the world, I could never hate you ..." He chuckles almost like a giggly child at a toy store, a wide smile remains plastered on his face and his soul is singing, calling out for you and his heart thrashes wildly in his ribcage. You let out a gentle breath and suddenly his lips are pressed gently against yours, your stomach is crowed and flooded with butterflies, your heart is pulsating in your chest, and everything is calling out to Karl. Moments after, he pulls away from your lips with a somewhat worried expression on his face, he questions was he moving too fast, did you not want him but his thoughts are put to stop when your lips collide passionately against his. It came to you so naturally and once the thought appeared in your head, your heart followed along with it along with your body, and here you were passionately kissing the man who you hadn't seen in over 6 months. He groans against your lips, savoring and relishing the familiar sensations that came as his eyes flutter close, he was such a fool, such a fool to not see that he was risking the only thing that mattered for a chance at even getting freedom. He was but a child ...

Groaning against his lips as you began to clutch a fistful of his hair, the kiss quickly grew deeper and more heated, heavy breaths left both your lips as you gently devoured each other's lips, greedy for the sensations it brought you both. Groaning into your mouth once more, Karl's hands slip your jacket off of you, he throws it to the floor and buries his lips into your neck, kissing and sucking lightly at the sensitive skin earning a soft gasp from your lips at the sharp sensation. "Karl ..." You say in a ragged breath, hands still entangled in his locks of hair as he continues to kiss and suck on your neck, your body begins to heat up with arousal and your body begins to ache for Karl. "Damn ... I just can't get enough of you, can I?" He chuckles, grinning devilishly at you as his eyes glance at your lips once again, he pulls you into another heated kiss that has his tongue prying your lips apart. His tongue enters your mouth, his tongue grinds against yours and your tongues begin to dance erotically together causing both of you to moan against each other's lips at the tingling sensations that spread across your tongues. Karl's arousal begins to show with the bulge that swells in his pants, he continues to kisses you, moaning and groaning at the overdue sensation of a warm body against his. Pulling away from your lips, heavy ragged breaths leave both of your lips and he can't help but notice your flushed cheeks as a breathless expression remains on your face. "Do you want this ...? Do you want me, (Y/N) ...?" He asks in a ragged breath, his hand cups one of your cheeks, as he gazes intensely into your eyes, lust, and desire, clouded those beautiful eyes of yours and it was one of his favorite expressions on your face. "I want you so much ... I want nothing but you and your naked body to be mine ..." You answer, smirking devilishly at the man before you as a low chuckle soon leaves your lips, grinning widely at you he kisses your lips once again, cherishing the smooth and delicate feeling of your lips.

"Mmh, your lips feel amazing, darling ... I missed all of this, the kisses, the touches, the way you worship me ... I missed it all so much." He purrs lustfully as a chuckle soon follows after, taking in a breath he pushes you onto your back earning a gasp from you before he gets in between your legs. He stares at the tank top you wore, it hugged your body perfectly, and hell it exposed a lot of skin, though it was basic it was enough for him. You'll always be enough for him and more. "Arms up, darling ..." He chirps, you raise your arms, and off comes your tank top and your torso was immediately met with multiple kisses and bright hickeys that decorated your skin. Wrapping your arms around his chest, he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, he lightly sucks on one as his other hand explores your torso, caressing your skin gently and with care. Your heart is thrashing, pounding in your ribcage, and heat floods through your being, arousal comes with that and it leaves you aching so terribly with a need for sweet release. Heavy ragged breaths leave your lips, licking your lips as you can only think of Karl, what he was going to do to you, what you were going to do to him. He takes your nipple out of his mouth, trailing kisses down your stomach as he gets lower and lower until he reaches your bothersome pants, letting out a growl he harshly pulls your pants down and throws them somewhere before he immediately buries his face into your crotch. His tongue moves gently, caressing all your sweet spots as the heat begins to boil up deep inside of you, you relished and savored the moist heat that caressed you in such amazing ways. Moaning against you, his hands wrap around your thighs to keep you from moving too much but he thought it was all about making you feel better, tonight was all about what you wanted, whatever you wanted you will have it. "Oh, Karl ...! Hah ... shit ... shit ..." You moan shamelessly, your hands clutch and grasp at his long locks of hair as heavy breaths are pried from your lips along with whispers of his name falling from those beautiful lips of yours. "Enjoying it, darling ... am I being good for you? Am I a good boy? Tell me I'm a good boy, kitten ..." He purrs erotically, his words roll gracefully off his tongue before he buries his tongue back into you, kissing, licking, and sucking on all of your sweet spots. "Good boy ...! Oh, so good ... fuck I missed your mouth so much ..." You whine needily, clutching at the sheets beneath you as you lick your lips, waves, and waves of heated ecstasy washes over you in sharp and powerful waves.

"That's it ...! Fuck, don't stop ... don't stop fucking me with that tongue of yours ...!" You cry out in a series of moans that are soon followed by ragged breaths, you grind your hips against his mouth eager and aching for some form of release, eager for more of the ecstasy he gives you. But he suddenly stops as he can barely hold himself back from taking you right here and right now, he begins to unzip his pants and fights to get them off. An annoyed expression twists onto your face as you roll your eyes and get up from the bed, grabbing him by his shoulders and turning him around towards the bed as you push him onto the bed with a devilish grin. "It's my turn, love ..." You chuckle as you begin to straddle his lap with your arms pressed into his chest and you begin to take him inside of you as a heavy breathless moan of his name leaves your lips the moment his thick cock fills you. It throbs and twitches inside of you, making you nearly jump at the sensation before you take all of his thick throbbing cock inside of you, the way he fills you is like no other, his cock stretches you and fills you perfectly. The way your walls clung and hugged his thick throbbing cock drove him insane, a heavy groan left his lips at the tight heat that surrounded and embraced his throbbing cock. "Oh, fucking hell ...! Shit ... so damn tight and ... hot ... come on, darling ride me nice and hard. Leave me at your mercy ..." He purrs devilishly as a long chuckle soon follows after, lust clouds his remarkable green eyes, his hands reach up to cup your flushed cheeks as a warm joyful smile curls onto his lips. You smile back at him, joy washing over you like a breeze as you rested your hands upon his shoulders and began to chase eagerly and joyfully after your sweet and euphoric release. Your hips grind and roll against his lap, heavy breaths are pried from your lips as heat begins to build and rise through your body, Karl's heavy ragged breaths can be heard along with yours as he wraps his arms around your neck. A low "fuck" leaves his parted lips as his eyelashes weigh heavy on top of his shut eyelids, sharp electric sensations of bliss shot through him every time your hips went lower. Burying his teeth into his bottom lip, a heavy groan leaves his lips at the blissful heat that envelopes his throbbing eager cock, all he can do is stare in awe at your expressions of bliss and ecstasy. It's so amazing.

"Mmh, baby ... you're so goddamn beautiful ... so exquisite. Come on, tell me how much you love me ... show me how much you've missed me ..." He purrs with a devilish smile on his lips, biting his lips soon afterward he places his hands on your hips gently moving them back and forth just to speed things up a bit. Your cheeks quickly become flushed at his words as you lightly squeeze onto his shoulders, heavy breaths still leaving your parted lips as you begin to throw your hips up and down onto his thick throbbing cock. It presses and drives into you eagerly, lightly hitting your sweet spot causing whines of Karl's name to be pried from your lips, licking your lips you entangle Karl into another heated passionate kiss that is so full of tenderness and consideration. "Karl ...! F-fuck ...!" You whine needily as you pull away from his lips, your eyes flutter at the bliss that courses through you as the heat floods through you. Your teeth grind against your bottom lip gently before you begin to slam your hips down onto his throbbing cock that perfectly curled onto your sweet spot as it repeatedly hits that sweet spot making his name fall from your lips again and again. "Oh! Karl ...! Mmh, Karl ...! It's so fuckin good, Karl ...!" You moan breathlessly, throwing your head back at the ecstasy that washes over you in burning relentless waves, skin hitting against skin echoed through his bedroom as your moans and heavy breaths are Karl's melody. Groaning deeply, his hands move lower onto your ass cheeks, wrapping his fingers around the area he lightly squeezes them with a chuckle following after, it's not a minute before he's nearly arching his back and a long whine is pried from his throat. "Fucking hell, sweetheart ...! Ooh, hah ...!" He whines deeply as waves and waves of ecstasy washed over him, he couldn't be happier and everything in his being felt like it could cry of joy. "Karl ... I'm gonna ... oh fuck ... fuck ... gonna c-cum!" You manage to say, heavy breaths fill your throat and your heart thrashes and pounds erratically in your chest, thighs tremble and shake against his legs, and your entire body throbs and aches. "Kiss me, oh please kiss me ... tell me how much you love me ..." Karl rambles in a series of heavy breaths as he wraps his arms around your torso, leaning in for another heated kiss as you continue to slam your hips down as hard as you can moaning shamelessly against his lips. Your entire body trembles and pulsates erratically as you had boiled over, heat travels through you along with sweet sweet ecstasy that left you nearly screaming his name against his lips. Pulling away from his lips as heavy ragged breaths leave your lips, you gaze intensely, it's not moments before your name falls breathlessly from his parted lips and his expression of joy quickly fades into one of ecstasy and relief. Sharp powerful sensations of ecstasy shot through him relentlessly as began to cling to you, wrapping his arms around you clinging to you and to what for a second feels so much like a damn dream.

Wrapping your arms around him, you find serenity in his cool embrace and you find serenity in the idea that things are gonna be okay, that things are gonna change from today to hopefully years from now. You smile into his embrace before pulling out of his embrace, moments later as you gaze into each other's eyes once more, passion and warmth clouded his green eyes. That look in his eyes like he was just so ... happy and like you're the one thing that matters in his erratic and wild world. "So ... Karl, what's next for us? ... After Miranda is dead and all that bullshit ...?" You question with a curious smile resting upon your lips, you rest in his embrace and he can't help but chuckle at your words. "Whatever it is that is next for you ... whether it's fucking staying here or leaving for better places ... you go and I'll follow." He answers warmly and confidently as a chuckle soon follows after his words. "Oh, so I made you my loyal dog, have I?" You chuckle, beaming at the man before you as he can't help but chuckle once more at your words. "In a way, yes you have ... made me weak for you ... made me unafraid to be myself around you. ... You are incredibly special to me, butterfly ..." He says in a gentle breath, smiling warmly at you as you can't help but flush different shades of red at his words. "You're even more special ... I love you more than you will ever know Karl ... and I've loved you all this time ... I hope I will never stop loving you. That no matter how bad things get that we will get through it together." You exclaim in pure joy as you both end up smiling sheepishly at each other before you rest your head in the nape of his neck and he wraps his arms around, hoping for a more optimistic and brighter future than he could've ever imagined.

#resident evil 8 #karl heisenburg #karl heisenburg x reader #smut #re: village #resident evil #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg smut #karl heisenberg x you #gender neutral y/n

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rollercoasterwrite · 2 years ago

Text

I’M SO CURIOUS [CHAPTER 6]

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2 CHAPTER 3 CHAPTER 4 CHAPTER 5

Prompt : Jjong is a college student with tight money, but manages to get into a prestigious uni where he becomes friends with Taemin. One day, Tae asks him to go out on a blind date with his cousin Jinki, a notable lawyer who still hesitates about dating someone. Jjong refuses, but the amount of money Tae offers is a sight he can’t ignore. Jinki adores him immediately and after several dates, Jonghyun falls in love with Jinki, but he doesn’t know how to tell Jinki about his agreement with Tae.

Chapter title : Lonely.

Pairing : Jongyu

Genre : romance, fluff, angst, smut

***TW for this chapter*** some abusive exchanges

Word Count : 8000 words approx.

Links : AFF & AO3

Special thanks to Cheryl, my beta once again!!!

The room was plunged into a dead silence, the only sound cutting through the quietness being the rhythmic ticking of the clock hanging over the closed door. Its two hands were showing that it was close to 9 pm. Normally, no one would be there to witness when it reached this hour of the night, but over the past few weeks, this hadn’t been the case. Someone had been there without fault every night working until he couldn’t anymore.

There was something about the calm and peace that engulfed everything around this time. He could pretend he was alone in the world and that nothing could get to him. This illusion had been his biggest comfort lately and he wasn’t ready to let it go, even if the dark circles under his eyes were telling another story.

He was overworked, he was exhausted, but that’s the only way he knew how to survive. When everything else failed, work was always there to keep him company and give him a semblance of purpose.

His eyes settled back onto the papers in front of him, looking for the best courses of action to tackle his newest case. This one was going to be tricky. Mergers were never simple. There were tons of negotiations and compromises to be made on each part to insure the best transition possible towards the new entity. The demands came easy, but never what each part was ready to let go to make things work.

Change is hard, he thought with a sigh, before flipping on to the next page of his growing file.

Before he could start reading again, a knock on the door interrupted him. He lifted a brow, puzzled.

"Yes?" he answered from his desk.

The knob turned and the door cracked open, revealing his best friend. He sunk back into his chair, relieved. But that relief was short-lived as he caught a glimpse of his friend’s expression.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

The tall one crossed his arms over his chest, effectively emphasizing his disapproval.

"Jinki, that’s enough," Minho finally said, making the other’s brows furrow from confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"You working that late every night," the younger one clarified. "I let it go thinking that it was only temporary, but clearly, this has become a bad habit and I can’t let you go on like this."

Jinki let out a long-drawn-out sigh as he rocked back into his cushioned chair.

“I understand your concern, but I assure you that I’m fine. I just have lots of new cases I need to work on."

"Yeah, because you decided to take on more than you could handle," Minho reproved.

"I can handle them just fine. Do you hear me complaining?"

"You never complain, Jinki. Doesn’t make it okay," his friend pointed out with the stubborn resolve he regularly displayed towards him.

Sometimes, Jinki was grateful for it, but other times, like right now, he wished the other would just leave him be. He was a grown adult. And that meant that he was the sole person responsible for whatever decision he made. Even the senseless ones.

"Minho, go home," he gently ordered. "I’ll be done soon," he reassured before his gaze flicked down to his papers once again.

For a moment there, Jinki had been hopeful Minho would comply and leave him to his work, but that hope was soon shattered as the taller one walked over to his desk and took the file away from him.

"No, we are going home," the latter countered before opening the closest filing cabinet and sliding the file in.

"That’s not where it goes," the one sitting directed.

"I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about where that file goes," Minho snapped as he turned around to look him straight in the eye. "Work is over and you are going to get some rest now," he instructed with an authority that Jinki was more than familiar with.

The latter knew there was no arguing when his friend used that tone. Minho would always be more stubborn about getting the last word than he would ever be.

"Okay, Chief,” he conceded with another sigh before getting up from the chair that had seen him through most hours of the week.

He slid his blazer on and grabbed the few things he needed, watching Minho staring at him from the corner of his eye.

"Do I have something on my face?" he inquired as he slid his car keys in his pants’ right pocket.

"You lost weight," Minho didn’t hesitate to say.

That made Jinki smile.

"Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you."

"It’s not," the other objected. "It means you’re not eating enough."

"I mean a few pounds off my bones won’t hurt," Jinki lightly dismissed. ‘’I had to lose some weight, anyway.”

"No," Minho interjected again. "You didn’t have to lose weight. And even if you wanted to, that’s not the way to go about it," he went on in a disapproving tone.

"You need to take care of yourself, Jinki," he reiterated as the disapproval morphed into worry once more.

That effectively put an end to the conversation. Jinki couldn’t argue with that. He knew Minho was right. He knew he wasn’t healthy in every sense of the word. The problem was, a big part of him didn’t care that he wasn’t. He didn’t see the point. He would build himself back up and then what? Something else would come along to crush him to pieces?

He was so tired of fighting for his happiness. Maybe that wasn’t something he could ever get. Maybe his life was meant to be as plain as possible and dreaming for more was just pure madness.

As he settled into Minho’s car after the latter won the debate about which car they would take, Jinki took out his phone to check if he had any missed calls or messages.

“You’d better not be checking anything related to work," Minho warned as he started the engine.

"I won’t answer, I promise."

Jinki looked at his screen and saw he had missed a call. When he clicked on the notification and saw who it was, his heart stopped.

He immediately slapped his phone face down onto his thigh as he tried to will his heart back into a normal rhythm. Without realizing, he had closed his eyes to breathe through his internal ordeal, making his friend steal worried glances his way every few seconds.

"Jinki?" the one driving finally called out as he brought the car to a smooth halt at a red light.

The sound of his friend’s voice startled him, his eyes shooting open instantly.

"Yeah?" he replied, trying to gather his thoughts back into an organized puzzle.

"What’s going on?" the younger one pressed. "Is a client stressing you out?"

A client… I wish.

"Um, no… I just… Um…"

Thanks for nothing, brain, he mentally kicked himself as it kept drawing blanks.

"Is it who I think it is?" Minho asked as his eyes focused back on the road.

Brain, you can still help me lie about this. Come on!

His desperate request amounted to nothing more than an increase in his unease. He sighed, abdicating to the truth.

"Yes," he finally uttered as his gaze shifted to the window where his eyes could focus on the landscape that was running past them.

"Oh fuck," Minho let out loudly, eyes growing wide. "What’d he say?"

Jinki felt his jaw tense up.

"I don’t know, it’s a voicemail…"

"Oh…" the other expressed in a much softer tone. "What are you going to do?" he then asked, treading carefully.

Jinki let out a longer sigh, feeling his whole body abandon itself to the crushing feelings that had been looming over him for weeks now.

"I don’t know, Minho…" he managed to utter under his breath. He bit on his lip as he felt it quiver. "I just…" he started again before realizing his throat was closing on him.

Fortunately, Minho knew him like the back of his hand.

"No need to talk about it right now, Jinki," he reassured. "We’ll get you home so you can eat, drink something warm, and rest."

Jinki nodded, knowing he wasn’t in his right mind to make any kind of decision at this very moment.

As they finally made their way up to their loft a while later, Jinki felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He cocked a brow as he felt it, trying to figure out when he had taken it out of its silent mode. As it buzzed again, he pulled it out, walking closely behind Minho as they stepped out of the elevator.

It was an incoming call…

It was him… His heart skipped a beat. Again….

Feeling anger fight its way through his turmoil, he picked up on impulse.

"What?" he harshly answered, forgetting himself.

There was a pause, a brief window of silence.

"Jinki…"

And just like that, the voice he knew too well, but had tried his best to forget, came through on the other side.

His grip tightened around the device at this ear, his knuckles turning white.

"Why are you calling me?" he said through gritted teeth.

Another pause.

"I… was wondering when you were getting back, I-"

"Why’d you want to know that?" he sharply interjected, feeling the seams of his control rip apart thread by thread. He felt Minho’s gaze on him as he matched his pace, eager to reach his safe haven.

But before he could do so or get an answer from the other, he came to a halt mid-way through the hallway, his arm dropping to its side as he saw what, or rather who, was waiting a few meters ahead.

Everything suddenly seemed to come to a full stop. They all froze into place simultaneously, bracing for what was to follow. Jinki was in the middle of it all, caught between a worried gaze and a troubled one. He suddenly couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t even see clearly. Nothing was making sense anymore, throwing him into a panic that felt foreign, but all too familiar at the same time.

A steady hand squeezed his shoulder before lips grazed his ear.

"If you want me to get rid of him, just say the word."

The words were clear, but his feelings towards them not so much. He felt torn between his lingering anger and his desire for closure.

"Ming?" he quietly said, gaze still fixed ahead.

"Yes?" the other replied, staying close.

"What should I do?" he found himself asking as the internal battle continued inside him.

The taller one sighed.

“I can’t choose for you… But if you don’t feel like you can deal with this right now-"

"I don’t think I can deal with this at any time," he cut in, distressed.

"So I’ll tell him to go then," Minho settled before moving.

But before he could continue on forward, Jinki grabbed his arm.

"Wait."

Minho looked back at him, confused.

"I’ll… I’ll deal with him," Jinki said, mustering up all the courage he had in him in that moment.

Minho frowned, concerned.

"You sure?"

"Yes, yes," Jinki quickly dismissed. "Can you, uh…"

"Want me to leave you guys alone?" the other guessed.

Jinki nodded, gaze lowering to his feet as his request weighed on him.

"Okay," Minho immediately agreed, as if it were nothing. "How long do you need?"

"Not long, I suppose… Like twenty minutes?" Jinki offered for good measure.

"Okay." Minho turned fully towards him before adding in a low voice, "Don’t let him fuck you over, yeah?"

Jinki’s gaze met his and he nodded, grateful for the reminder.

Soon after, his friend’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, gradually fading in sound before they turned silent. Now, he was truly on his own and that thought was terrifying. Yes, he was angry, yes, he knew what was best for him, but he was also feeling very vulnerable and hurt and those two things made for a very dangerous cocktail if not kept in check.

Despite these thoughts, he willed himself into action and took step after step, closing the gap between them in a matter of seconds. If he had felt himself falter before, it was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. Gazing up close into those hazel eyes was like jumping headfirst into hot lava. It was threatening to burn him down to the core.

And somehow, he could feel that it was a shared feeling as the one looking back at him started wiping his hands over his loose-fitted black joggers. It prompted a quick assessment of the other’s attire, feeling a flutter in his chest at the matching all-black attire, complete with his favored black Timbs. The younger one’s blonde hair looked as fluffy as ever and Jinki found himself wanting to run his fingers through it.

Stop, he silently reminded himself, before fishing for his keys inside his pocket. Without a word, he led them inside, both pausing silently to remove their shoes.

"Do you want something to drink?" he instinctively asked as he made his way to the fridge.

"Um, no… thank you," the blonde replied, uneasy.

"It’s no problem, really," Jinki said as he opened the fridge’s door.

"I’m fine, thank you," the other reiterated.

"Okay," he acknowledged before pulling out a can of beer for himself.

He definitely needed some liquid courage.

He then made his way back to the lobby and gestured for Jonghyun to sit down with him in the living room. They naturally sat on either side of the center table, facing each other while keeping a comfortable distance.

Now that they were in each other’s presence again, everything felt surreal. It felt like they were stuck in a plane of existence that wasn’t actually real. Jinki didn’t want to say it felt like a dream, but that was the closest way he could describe it. There was a part of him that just wanted to jump the gun and let loose while an equally strong part of him wanted to keep everything locked in.

After all, Jonghyun had come to him and even left him a message prior to that, so it was probably best he let him say his peace before deciding on his best course of action. With that settled, he relaxed into the armchair and took a long sip from his beer.

He watched as Jonghyun was almost folded in two before him, forearms resting on his thighs as he stared down at the nervous dance his hands were conducting on their own.

Jinki felt impatient for him to break the ice, but he bided his time, willing himself to keep silent.

After a few long seconds, Jonghyun straightened up and cleared his throat.

"Did you listen to my message?" he asked in a quiet voice.

The brunette shook his head.

"No, I just saw it not long ago as we were coming back," he explained.

"Oh…" Jonghyun’s hand followed suit to rub the back of his neck, a gesture Jinki had grown accustomed to seeing whenever he was trying to soothe himself.

"Don’t… um… you can delete that," he then said.

Jinki frowned.

"Why?"

"It’s a bunch of nonsense… I didn’t think, I just, I left it impulsively and that’s why I came here actually, " he cleared up through his rambling before diving right back in. "I figured it would be easier to explain everything to you face to face, even though I wasn’t sure if you’d even talk to me."

"Well, I’m very interested in knowing more about whatever nonsense you left on my phone," the brunette persisted as his gaze zeroed in on the reddening cheeks of his ex-lover.

Jonghyun’s head dropped down again, eyes stilling onto the space between his feet.

"It’s mostly just me crying and sniffling… " he paused, swallowing down the lump that was forming in his throat. "And begging," he added in a voice close to a whisper.

"Begging?" the older one echoed, frowning.

The blonde nodded, still not looking up.

"Yeah, I was desperate…"

Jinki kept looking at him, confused.

"Desperate for what? More money?" he blurted out.

The grimace he caught on the other’s face before he dared look up at him again was enough to tell him that the words he had chosen had stung like he had wanted them to.

"Do you really think that’s why I’m here?”

The response was filled with hurt, but Jinki wasn’t without noticing the undercurrent of anger in his tone.

"I don’t know, you tell me," he threw back at him before taking another swig from his can.

"You know that’s not why I’m here," Jonghyun fought back. "That was never why I kept things going with you," he reiterated as his voice grew coarser.

"And why should I believe you? Just ‘cause you say so?" Jinki taunted, words dripping with contempt.

Jonghyun sighed to give himself a breather, letting his back rest against the soft cushion of the couch.

"That’s what I thought," Jinki said as he took the sudden silence as confirmation of his words.

"Can you just… give me a second?" the blonde requested, closing his eyes to think.

"Why? So you can build up more lies?" the older one kept on, relentless.

He wasn’t up to playing games. He wasn’t up to be fooled again. He was tired.

"No," Jonghyun immediately countered, keeping his mounting frustration in check.

"Why did you come here, really?" Jinki threw right back at him, straightening up in his seat.

The silence that followed and the helpless look the other gave him told him he had won this round.

"Ah," Jinki expressed in realization before delivering his next hit. "Did you come here to get your money’s worth?"

The blonde frowned, half-offended, half-confused.

"What?"

"You were probably expecting sex after having put all that hard work into this charade," he coldly laid out as he fully unleashed all the resentment he had keep inside these past few weeks.

Oh, and how much damage that did. Whatever composure Jonghyun had managed to keep instantly crumbled in front of him. Jinki’s emotionless gaze maintained the other’s devastated one, partly enjoying the power he was having right this moment.

The other part of him knew it was a matter of time before the overbearing weight of guilt would come crashing down on him, leaving him breathless. Nonetheless, he didn’t want to regret his words. Not when he had been flip flopping all this time in between believing what they had was real or it being the product of a well-crafted scheme.

Jinki wanted to be trusting, but he still had enough self-preservation instincts to know he couldn’t just give out that trust over and over again without any regard towards his well-being.

"Jinki," the blonde managed to croak out between quivering lips.

Jonghyun’s vision blurred despite himself, but he felt resolved to say what he had been wanting to say ever since their last encounter, ever since the moment they had last seen each other.

"I love you," he finally let out, the words knocking the breath out of him for a split second before tears rolled down his cheeks and painful sobs rose from his chest.

This was not how he had wanted to confess, but it felt like there was nothing else he could say, nothing else that mattered.

Jonghyun couldn’t see the other’s reaction, too busy wiping the tears out of his eyes and off of his face and trying to get himself together again. He couldn’t see how Jinki’s eyes widened and how his body froze as soon as those three words hit the air between them. He couldn’t see how Jinki’s mouth fell open and how his chest heaved as the words wrecked his synapses, taking over the control board in his brain.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for that. All the confidence he had mustered as he delivered blow after blow dissolved, leaving him stunned, almost knocked out.

He might’ve won the battle, but Jonghyun was threatening to win the war. He couldn’t have that.

"You love me?" Jinki echoed, making sure his tone was derisive and taunting.

Yeah, he really couldn’t have that.

But that didn’t seem to deter the one who had just bared his heart in front of him.

"Yes, I do, Jinki," he reiterated.

Finally being able to stare at him again, he repeated, "I love you. I love you so much, Jinki."

Jonghyun’s voice dripped with desperation, and he knew it, but he didn’t care anymore. He wasn’t going to have another chance at this, he knew it.

The older one’s lips thinned as his jaw clenched, trying to keep his guard up, still. He needed a moment to think, he needed a moment to figure out his next move, because clearly, Jonghyun wasn’t going to hold back anymore.

And that was scaring the shit out of him. He could be tough and mean all he wanted, but under his hard armour, was an utterly vulnerable and needy human being.

Not being able to find his words yet, he resumed his drinking, finishing up all the beer left in his now dented can. It had turned lukewarm inside the warmth of his hand, but nonetheless, the break it provided was quite appreciated.

Once he was done, he set the can down by his feet, before getting up.

"Where are you going?" Jonghyun asked from his seat, panicked.

"Need another beer," Jinki mumbled under his breath before walking back towards the fridge.

He welcomed the fresh air that hit his face as he opened the stainless-steel door in search of more liquid courage. But before he could grab another can, a hand met the middle of his upper back, startling him.

He turned back around to see Jonghyun standing right in front of him, so close to him…

"What are you doing?" the taller one blurted out as he looked into determined hazel eyes.

Jonghyun gnawed at his bottom lip, actually showing some hesitation, before pushing the fridge’s door closed with his hand.

"I want to know how you feel," he answered as he searched his ex’s face for any clues.

"How I feel about what?" Jinki feigned, in a poor attempt to buy himself some time.

That made the blonde scoff.

"I guess you have to be difficult about it."

That made the brunette mad.

"You think I’m being difficult?" he exploded. "Did you really think that after only a month I would forget what you did to me? Did you really think it would be as easy as you just showing up, saying I love you, and then I would just forgive you and take you back?"

"No, Jinki, I-"

"I fucking hate you," he interrupted as his body quaked with rage.

This was not like him. This was not like him at all. Yes, he could get mad, but no one had ever made him lose his mind so much before. He truly hated how this man could completely throw him off in a matter of seconds. His fists clenched by his side as he breathed heavily, waiting.

Jonghyun blinked at him, taken aback. It took him a few seconds before he seemed to come back to himself.

"You have every right to hate me," he acknowledged, keeping his voice soft to not add to the fire that was menacing to engulf everything. "I knew you would… I know you do," he went on, voice close to a whisper. "But it doesn’t change how I feel about you and what I am willing to do to be with you, even if it means waiting for however long," he added before stepping back to give the other more space. "I am sorry I just showed up like this and ruined your night," Jonghyun then said, feeling remorseful. "I won’t contact you until you are ready to tell me what you want… even if it is that you never want to see me again."

He then started turning to leave, but a firm grip on his arm had him spinning around and before he knew it, his back was against the cold stainless-steel door.

"You’re a piece of shit, you know that?" the taller one spat at him as his two hands settled at each side of the blonde’s head, trapping him.

The latter just gulped, scared, hurt, and confused.

"You really just came here to fuck with my head again and make me doubt everything, huh?" Jinki kept on, needing to let the venom spill out of him before it could kill him.

He was looking down on the smaller man like prey, ready to rip him apart any moment now.

"Jinki…" Jonghyun breathed out. "I am not messing with you, I never was," he once again stated, before adding, "I know the premise of us meeting shatters all my credibility, but what I have felt for you from the start has all been real."

When Jinki stayed silent, he took this as permission to go on.

"And I’m really sorry I agreed to take that money. I should’ve never done that, that was fucking stupid and selfish."

"It was," the brunette immediately agreed.

Jonghyun looked down at that, hit with even more guilt under the accusing eyes of his ex-boyfriend. But he couldn’t hide long.

The older one pushed his chin up with a finger, locking their gazes together once more. Jonghyun waited for him to speak, to keep on raging, but nothing came. And before he could say anything, soft plush lips brushed against his, making him shiver.

He gave an expectant look to those luscious lips, but before he could taste them, they travelled to one side of his face, connecting with his ear.

"You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?"

Jonghyun felt his heart skip at that, his body inflaming with desire.

"Jinki," he softly whined.

This was so much and so little at the same time, but Jonghyun didn’t know what he could or couldn’t do at that moment. He could just keep still, anticipating.

It felt like time was standing still, waiting for either of them to move before retrieving its course. Which didn’t take too long once Jinki grew more and more impatient. His lips travelled down to the blonde’s neck, leaving a trail of feather-like kisses, knowing how much he loved that.

"Fuck," Jonghyun let out under his breath, biting on his lip right after to keep himself from whimpering.

Jinki felt prideful of the effect he was having on the man who had hurt him so much, but who he desired nonetheless. He stopped his teasing ministrations to look at him again, allowing himself to admire his flushed face and glossy gaze.

Something dark, something visceral coiled inside him and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to ruin the blonde completely.

"Bedroom," he growled before dragging the other with him towards said place.

Something in the back of the other’s mind told him this wasn’t a good idea, but who was he to refuse Jinki after everything he had made him go through?

So he just followed and didn’t say a word when he was thrown onto the bed and was towered over immediately by the other’s heavier body. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he caught the brunette’s predatory gaze, all signs of the Jinki he knew, gone.

A faint alarm sounded in his mind again and he couldn’t help but listen to it.

"Jinki, maybe we shouldn’t-"

He was silenced by a brutal kiss, that was more teeth than lips, a stark contrast to the always gentle even when passionate kisses he was accustomed to. When he felt the other’s tongue forcefully roam inside his mouth as he pinned his wrists to the mattress, Jonghyun knew this wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

He wanted Jinki to love him back, not use him and then discard him.

"Jinki, stop," Jonghyun pleaded as the other pulled back to catch his breath.

The brunette cocked a brow before snickering when the blonde’s serious expression remained unchanged.

"What? Don’t want me to fuck you?" he mocked as he let go of the other’s wrists.

"I don’t want that, not like this," Jonghyun said, pushing on Jinki’s chest to signal him to move off him.

But Jinki didn’t move.

"Oh, suddenly you’re a fucking prude, huh?" Jinki belittled in contempt. "You wanted me to fuck your brains out on the first date, but now you don’t want it?" he remarked snidely.

It took everything for Jonghyun not to lose his temper and slap him right then and there, but he knew that was what Jinki was looking for. For him to further prove himself to be the asshole Jinki thought he was.

He wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

"No, I don’t want it," Jonghyun confirmed, voice steady and resolute. "I don’t want you to hate-fuck me. If we are ever in bed again together, I want us to have sex because we love each other."

"Aaaw," Jinki voiced sarcastically. "How fucking romantic… the whore who got paid to go out with me is now looking for true love. That’s really cute."

Jonghyun’s hand flew before his mind could stop him. He felt the sting of his slap thrumming through his palm as he watched the brunette retract in shock.

Now that there was more space between them, reality seemed to sink in for both of them and it wasn’t pretty.

"Jinki, I’m so sorry," Jonghyun started, eyes widening as he sat up on the bed.

The brunette rubbed the side of his face, trying to get a hold of the situation. He suddenly realized what he had just said and what he had been about to do and it made him sick to his stomach.

"No," he interjected. "I’m sorry, Jjong," Jinki said, shame washing over him.

They just stared at each other, feeling awful for what had just transpired.

"I think I should go…" Jonghyun finally said, cutting through the painful silence.

Jinki just nodded, not knowing what else he could say. Part of him wanted to ask him to stay, but the rational part of him knew the best thing they needed right now was space.

Nonetheless, Jinki didn’t want to leave it that way. He wanted to at least show that he wasn’t a heartless monster. So before Jonghyun could make it past the doorframe, he hugged him from behind, closing his eyes as the other’s body warmth settled his heart a bit.

"Let’s talk at another time, yeah?" he carefully asked against him.

"Yeah, sure," Jonghyun accepted as he relaxed in his arms.

After a few more seconds of shared silence, this one much more comfortable, Jinki let go of him, not without some regret.

Jonghyun wanted to look back, but he didn’t, knowing he might lose it again.

So he left the room, breaking away, despite the pain he felt doing so.

Jinki watched him leave until he couldn’t see him anymore before slumping down back onto his bed, choking up on sudden tears.

I love you, too, Jonghyun, I do, he silently admitted to the now empty room.

I knew way before we met…

***

6 months earlier

(3 months before they met)

Jinki knew the obsession was starting to get unhealthy, but he couldn’t help himself. As he set the broom to rest against the counter, he looked through his phone for the song he hadn’t been able to get out of his head. It had taken some arguing and pleading with Taemin to get a hold of it, but now that he had it on his phone, there was no looking back.

Soon enough, the first haunting notes of piano started playing on their wireless sound system, filling the empty loft with grief and sorrow. This was probably not the best song to listen to while doing some Sunday cleaning, but there was nothing else he wanted to listen to right now. Ever since, he had heard his voice, it felt like something had changed in him. It felt like he had found a part of himself again.

Dust flew across the wooden floor to collect into a neat pile at the center of the living room as he pondered the words that were so beautifully sung.

My reflection inside the closing elevator

Looks miserable

But still, I live on…

That was the bit that hit the hardest. It felt like the one singing had found the words he often failed to find to express how he felt about his life. To the outside world, Jinki was well accomplished. He was a successful corporate lawyer at a young age, he lived in a prized part of the city and owned a luxurious car and fancy suits.

But Jinki had never cared about how he looked to the outside world. He had only cared about pleasing his parents first and foremost, but it seemed like nothing he did was ever enough for them. They never really acknowledged the life he had built for himself, the only words rolling out of their mouths being how he should’ve settled already, started a family, and attended country club events to be visible in the right circles.

But Jinki was done bending every which way to please them. Now that he had entered his thirties, he realized it was time for him to make changes that would make him feel better, not worse. He wasn’t without feeling the harsh claw grip of guilt seize his stomach every once in a while when he thought about his parents, but he always tried to remember how much his mood had improved since he had minimized contact with them to the strict minimum.

Speak your heart out

I can tell you're very lonely

Tell me some more

You know you can't take it anymore

Jinki froze mid-way on his way back to the kitchen as those words sunk in.

Yes, I’m so lonely…

He felt a lump form in his throat as the realization dawned on him.

Since when have you been all by yourself? The song threw back at him.

Seems like forever, he answered as if a reply was needed.

The last bit of the song played out leaving the room in an eerie silence. Jinki just stared into space, his shaky hand threatening to spill the content of the dustpan he had been holding. He didn’t know how long he stood there, sitting in the immense void he had never seemed to be able to fill.

But however long it was, it was suddenly interrupted by the door opening, signaling his best friend’s return. Jinki snapped out of his daze as the door shut behind the taller one and resumed his trajectory towards the trash can, getting rid of the mess.

"Hey, guess what happened to me today?" Minho said as he swiftly made his way towards him.

Jinki’s brow cocked for a second, but he quickly caught on to what that question hid.

"Ah," he deadpanned. "You worked your charms on a girl again?"

"No need to sound so exasperated," Minho reproached, clearly taking offense.

Jinki gave him a blank stare.

"Am I wrong?"

Minho crossed his arms over his chest, defeated.

"No, you are not, but this was different."

"I swear!" he then exclaimed as his best friend’s unchanging gaze had him vehemently wanting to make himself credible.

"Okay, okay," Jinki conceded. "What was different about this one?"

He now set his cleaning supplies to the side to give his full attention to the one standing before him.

Minho’s face immediately beamed with excitement as the memory of his previous encounter unfolded in his mind.

Jinki couldn’t say that didn’t warm his heart. Despite his harrowing feelings of loneliness, he would always be happy that his friend could find companionship so easily. Even though he never kept his girlfriends around long, the time he spent with them always seemed to do him good.

"So you know how I was out shopping for new suits?"

"Yeah…"

"Well that didn’t happen, ‘cause after I helped out an elderly woman cross the street-"

"Of course," Jinki interjected as he rolled his eyes.

Somehow, Minho always ended up doing the most stereotypical gentlemanly things ever. It was quite literally impossible to hate the guy, but his seemingly effortless perfection could get on one’s nerves at times.

"Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me!" Minho called out. "It’s only natural to help out someone who is struggling."

It took everything from him to keep himself from rolling his eyes again.

"Yeah, yeah," he dismissed. "Get on with it now".

Minho glared at him for a split second, before going on with his story.

"So as I was saying," he went on after clearing his throat. "I helped this elderly woman out and suddenly, this young lady came out of nowhere and grabbed her arm in panic. Before I could figure out what was going on, she started yelling at me and hitting me with her handbag," the younger one detailed as if recounting a movie scene. "Can you imagine? Everyone was just looking at us in shock, thinking I was being inappropriate or something."

Jinki’s brows furrowed in confusion.

"I fail to see why you sounded so excited to tell me about this encounter."

There was a sudden shift in his friend’s expression, his face shining with delight as his lips thinned out into a self-satisfied smile.

"Well… " he prefaced. "The elderly woman, who turned out to be her grandmother, started yelling at her in turn and explained how nice and helpful I had been to her."

The older one’s face lit up.

"Aaah, I see…" he exclaimed. "So you and that elderly woman hit it off, huh?"

The blank expression that instantly settled on his best friend’s face was enough to make him burst out laughing.

"Ladies of every age love you," he stated, still laughing. "Don’t act as if I said the craziest thing in the world."

"If I remember correctly, older women are usually attracted to you," Minho knowingly threw back at him, effectively stealing his friend’s amusement and turning it into his own.

"You will never let that shit go, will you?" was Jinki’s annoyed response.

"How could I?" Minho promptly riposted. "I have to keep bringing up the same old anecdotes, ‘cause you refuse to get your grown man ass out there and date someone," he then reminded.

Ah there it was. His Achilles’s heel.

"I’m not you, Minho," he quietly replied, his jaw clenching with the underlying anger he felt towards his friend, but also towards himself.

"No, you are not," the younger one agreed. "But that doesn’t mean you don’t have the same ability to make anyone fall for you. You just need to tap into your confidence again."

Jinki sighed as he felt the never far-gone ball of self-loathing roll inside his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to throw it away, but somehow, knowing it was there made him feel less lonely.

"Well, how about you finish that story so that I can take notes from the expert?" he managed to swiftly turn around to get the focus off his pathetic state.

Minho’s gaze narrowed at that.

"I know what you are doing, but I’ll indulge you for now," he accepted, catching the other’s relieved expression.

"So," he resumed. "Even though her grandmother explained to her what had happened, she still looked at me like I was a criminal," Minho recounted as his eyes grew wide from the passion of his storytelling.

"Okay…" Jinki voiced, still trying to figure out what was coming next.

"So of course, I felt like it was my duty to crush that perception completely."

"Aaah, so you went all out," the older one gathered.

"No, I couldn’t," Minho said with an amused smile that made him confused again.

"How come?"

"She wouldn’t let me treat them. She said I was too nice and that it was suspicious," he added with his signature hyena cackle.

"To be fair, I am surprised that has never happened to you before," Jinki observed. "I’m your best friend and I sometimes also find your kindness and generosity somewhat suspicious," he specified, half-joking, half-stating.

Minho’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets at that.

"Eh??" he exclaimed in disbelief. "Are you saying I’m faking it?"

"Not at all," Jinki refuted. "I just think that the universe gave you the most of everything and left the rest of us with crumbs,” he explained with an airy laugh.

The tall young man crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed.

"First, that is not true. Secondly, it’s sad that genuine kindness has become suspicious in today’s world."

Jinki nodded as he pondered those words.

"I can agree with that, but unfortunately, a lot of people out here are using people as a means for their personal interests."

Minho gave him a sympathetic look.

"I know where you and others are coming from, but it’s not everyone. There are still good, honest people out there."

"Hopefully," Jinki replied, tone heavy.

"No, not hopefully," Minho countered. "There are and I know you will find that special gem that’ll prove it to you."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," the older one dismissed before he found himself entertaining that hope for too long. "So how did it end with that girl?"

A wolf’s grin lit up his best friend’s face as he was thrown back into the memory.

"Very well. I saw that she had a squash racquet peeking out of her backpack and once I pointed it out and we started talking about it, it was pretty much a done deal," he boasted. "Her face lit up as if she hadn’t just thrown daggers at me with her eyes and she just marveled over the fact that I knew so much about the sport. So not long after, she gave me her number and we planned a squash game date for next Sunday," he finished with a proud smile.

If Jinki had been drinking, he would’ve spit out all of his drink onto the floor.

"A squash game date? Really?" he managed to utter before losing it to a fit of laughter.

"I don’t see what’s funny about it," Minho said as he felt his ego get pricked.

"How are we even friends?" Jinki let out between a wave of laughter. "You get excited about the weirdest shit, I swear. A few months ago, it was golf and now it’s squash. What’s next?"

His continued laughter granted him an immediate snarky response.

"What’s next is me getting into the sport of kicking your butt, that’s what’s next."

Unfortunately, that only made the older one laugh harder.

"Oh, you would most certainly excel at it, too," Jinki said as he caught his breath.

"You know what sucks?" Minho started. "It’s that you are incredibly strong for a guy who doesn’t work out that much, but you don’t put any of your natural strength to good use," he pointed out with a tone of reproach.

"I know you’re saying this so that I can accompany you on your sports’ outings, but that’s not going to happen," Jinki shut down, amused.

Minho crossed his arms, pouting as if he were a five-year-old who had just been denied candy.

"Suit yourself, then. But I still think you should get back into something outside of work."

The shorter brunette couldn’t dispute that. The monotony of his days and the encompassing boredom that had taken over his life was getting more and more unbearable. He felt like he had been stripped of any passion that could fuel him. He didn’t even know what it felt like to want something anymore.

And suddenly, the song he couldn’t shake came to him again, bringing to life the exact way he was feeling.

I think I know all the trifling stories in the world

But I don't know anything about you, with whom I've shared my breath my whole life,

I don't know, don't know who you are…

"I know," he finally said before looking downwards.

"You really have so many talents, Jinki," Minho kept on, emphasizing his point. "You just need to pick something and see where that leads you."

Jinki nodded, acknowledging his friend’s words with sincere consideration.

"I was thinking about taking piano lessons again…" he shared, somewhat embarrassed.

"Oh my fucking god," Minho exclaimed, almost jumping up and down in excitement. "Fina-fucking-lly!! "

Jinki laughed softly at that.

"Calm down. I am only considering it."

"Still, that’s big. What made you change your mind?" Minho asked, unable to contain his bewilderment.

Him. His voice. His words. His music.

"Um… just heard a beautiful piano piece and felt like learning it," he vaguely answered as he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Oh nice. What piece was it?"

Fuck.

"Uh… I don’t remember actually…" Jinki slightly fumbled before going on. "I mean, it’s been a while since I heard it, but it awakened something in me for sure."

"Whoever it is from, I am eternally grateful to them for bringing you back to life," Minho said in a tone that was meant to be teasing, but that was utterly sincere as well.

Once again, Jinki had to roll his eyes.

"You are so dramatic."

"Seems like it works just fine for me, so I will take that as a compliment," the younger one turned around to his advantage.

"You’ll take anything as a compliment," Jinki said with slight exasperation.

"And you’ll take anything as a flaw," Minho riposted. "That’s why you need to do the things you love. Maybe then that’ll give you the push you need to get into the dating scene again."

"Eh," the older one shrugged, indifferent. "We’ll see about that."

"Oh, we most certainly will," Minho affirmed with a grin.

Despite his air of indifference, Jinki felt a pang in his chest as if a string was menacing to pull his heart right out.

I can tell you're very lonely

Tell me some more

You know you can't take it anymore

No, I can’t, he finally admitted to himself.

And somehow, that realization was enough to make his heart race again, breaking free from its restraints even if just for a moment.

#jongyu #shinee fanfic #sarastuff:jongyu #jonghyun #onew #i'm so curious #shawols #babywols #minho #platonic onho #angst #slice of life #music inspo : piano lessons by colin munroe and elevator/lonely by jonghyun #this chapter was started in May and then I had a blockage so really happy I got that done #I feel like that Jongyu scene is one of the realest most intense scenes I have written so far

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hyunsracha · 5 years ago

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even a fool knows — lee minho

word count: 2.6k

summary: if you go further away, i might fall apart by myself.

“No.”

Han Jisung whines beside you, “Please? He said he doesn’t feel comfortable doing it with anybody else.”

You send the boy a quick glare before shutting your locker, “He should’ve thought about that before taking the role. If he doesn’t feel comfortable, why doesn’t he give it to Hyunjin or Jeongin?”

“Because Hyunjin is the cameraman and Jeongin doesn’t have the same charisma as I do,” Speak of the devil, Lee Minho slides up next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulders, sporting his signature cocky grin. You roll your eyes and you shift your lyric books around in your arms.

Minho most definitely wasn’t your best friend. You had been acquainted with him since the beginning of high school, but you were never the closest. Your closest friend was Jisung, as you two had been together since you were in diapers. You only became friends with Chan, Changbin, and Minho through Jisung.

You sigh through your nose, pushing his arm away, “I’m no actor, Lee. Why can’t you just do it with Yeji or Jeno?”

He pouts, “Because I wanna do it with you! You’d be a great love interest.”

You roll your eyes again, trying to ignore the heat rising to your face. Minho is always like this; flirty towards you for no reason, and at this point you try to tune it out.

“Please, Y/N.” Jisung speaks up again, trying to shove a carton of banana milk towards you. Banana milk was your favorite, and Jisung always bought it for you when he wanted something from you. You click your tongue and take it from him, dramatically stabbing the straw in.

“Fine. I’m in. But I demand lots of banana milk.” You sip from the straw, looking at Minho from the corner of your eye. He looks down at the ground, a soft smile growing on his face.

“Finally! Okay, after school…” Jisung breathes a sigh of relief, pulling a notebook out of his backpack and flipping to a page he had previously dog-eared. He starts rambling about where to meet after school, what your costume is going to be, and who is going to give you the script. You’re not listening, though. You’re too distracting watching Minho transform into someone less cocky and more shy.

The bell rings, and you bid the boys goodbye before heading to your first class: composition. You go to an art school, and while most of your friends want to be in the limelight, you are more reserved. You want to make music for other singers; you don’t want to be on the stage. You hate being in the spotlight, to be honest. Jisung, Chan, and Changbin are in a rap trio together, and they perform at a lot of the local clubs. Minho is a dancer, and he’s been in a few music videos for idols.

Changbin is in your composition class. When you walk into the classroom, his forehead is pressed against the desk, a blank sheet of staff paper next to him.

“It’s not 1970, why are we still using paper to write?” He groans.

You chuckle, setting your backpack next to your seat, “I like it. Looking at screens for too long makes my head hurt.” You sip on your milk, taking a sheet of staff paper out of your binder. You get to work pretty quickly, as you always have some sort of a melody stuck in your head, “By the way, Jisung and Minho convinced me to be in your short film.”

Changbin drops his pencil, a short gasp escaping his lips, “Really? You know you have to...be on camera for that?”

“God, don’t remind me. Minho kept saying he wouldn’t be comfortable doing it with anyone else. He’s so weird…” You’re talking to yourself more than anything, but of course, Changbin hears you.

“That’s because he likes you, Y/N.” He’s coloring in a quarter note, saying something that holds so much weight like it was nothing. It’s like he just told you there’s pizza in the cafeteria today.

“What? No he doesn’t, we’re just friends.” You chuckle awkwardly.

“Nah...I bet he’s got a crush on you. You’re definitely his type.”

“Great. All I’ve ever wanted to be was Lee Minho’s type.” You don’t look up from your paper as you speak with a monotone voice. You don’t even know what your type is, why would you know Minho’s? The thought sticks in your mind as you write. Does he like the quiet type? People who say all they need to in just a few words, leaving room for him to say everything on his mind? Or does he like the creative type; those who are like him, who can bond with him over their passion? You shake your head. It doesn’t matter; you don’t like Minho.

After school, you make your way to the courtyard behind the school where Jisung told you to meet. Everyone else who is working on the project is there: Jisung, Minho, Changbin, Chan, and some people you aren’t friends with. You recognize them though, as these guys are some of the most popular on campus: Lee Felix, Kim Seungmin, Yang Jeongin, and Hwang Hyunjin.

“Finally!” Jisung cries out, rushing towards you with a stack of papers and school uniform that definitely doesn’t belong to your school, “Go get changed and hurry back. We’re doing a table read today.”

Table read just meant you all sat around and read the script together, either in incredibly monotone voices or in funny accents.

“Jeongin, your Australian accent makes me want to rip my own ears off.”

“IT’S GOOD, MATE.”

“NO, NO IT’S NOT.”

You had never hung out with half of these guys before, but you’re having fun. They make you feel a little less nervous about being on camera. Of course, you get a lot more attention than you would like, being the love interest to Minho’s main character and all. You two and Jeongin are the only actors, with Jeongin playing the comic relief side character. That would explain the voices.

The first week is mostly prepping. Figuring out sets and lighting situations and learning your lines. You spend most of your time with Minho and Jeongin.

Minho practically has to feed you your lines, “Can you at least try and sound like you’re into me?”

“Um...okay. I...I like...ugh. I hate scenes like these-”

“Y/N!! Is it that hard to say you like me?” He pouts, “Here.”

Minho cups your cheeks, twisting your head to face him, “I like you.”

You flush, trying to pull away from him, but he’s got you trapped. After a few moments of silence, he giggles, “See! It’s not that hard.”

The next week marks the start of the shoot, and on the first day, you feel like you’re going to be sick. So sick, in fact, you asked to be excused after three takes.

You sit in the hallway of the school building, your knees pulled up to your chest as you take deep breaths.

“Hey.” You look up, half expecting to see Minho. But you were wrong.

Hwang Hyunjin takes a seat next to you, sending you a soft grin that’s bright enough to make you feel dizzy.

“H-Hey…”

“I know this stuff can be hard. And the lights get really hot after a while. But I think you’re gonna do great!” His voice is gentle, and you have to hold your breath to hear every syllable.

You chuckle, “Sure. Just make sure you get my good side, alright, Mr. Cameraman?”

Hyunjin stands and reaches out, giving you a hand to hold onto, “Every side is your good side.”

And so your infatuation with Hwang Hyunjin begins.

You so desperately want to avoid him, but that’s hard when he’s shoving a camera in your face for hours a day, and then taking you and Minho into the editing room to watch the progress.

The videos embarrass you. Is that really what you look like on camera? Bright red cheeks and bumbling footsteps?

When you voice these concerns, Minho cooes, “But you look so cute! You look like you have a big, fat crush on me.”

You shove his hand away from rustling your hair, “As if!”

Going back to watching the footage, you miss the way Minho’s face falls ever so slightly.

“I don’t want anybody else. It’s always been you.” He reaches out for your hand, lacing your fingers together and squeezing.

You look up at him, disbelief written all over your face, “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, but I do,” He steps closer to you, his other hand coming up to hold your face. He leans in, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones. His nose brushes against yours, and you feel his breath against your lips and-

“Cut!” Hyunjin calls out.

Minho backs away, giggling at you and pinching your cheeks before walking away.

You thought that things with Minho would be weird, with filming all of the love scenes and all. But he seems to love it. You don’t understand how he can look at you so intensely while he delivers his lines, and then giggle at you after the scene is over.

You sigh and shake your head, wandering over to Hyunjin, who’s staring intently at his laptop.

“Hey,” You start.

“Oh! Hey, Y/N. That scene you guys just did was perfect; hardly any editing needs to be done. Sit down, come look at this!”

You think you’re obsessed with the way Hyunjin speaks. When he gets excited, he stumbles over his words, and he’s always excited when it comes to the short film. He thinks in 8000 words per minute, but his mouth just can’t keep up. He’s gotten over apologizing for it, as every day you tell him that it’s fine and you understand him. Now, he just keeps going, and you rest your chin in your palm as you listen. You hardly watch the footage on the screen, as you’re still embarrassed. You only look when he points at it, wanting you to see a frame that was particularly beautiful to him or a line that was delivered well.

After shooting is over, you all still agree to meet in the courtyard every day after school, just to hang out and talk about the film. One of these days, Hyunjin calls you into the editing room.

“Now listen. I’m not supposed to tell anybody this, but I’ll tell you because you’re my favorite.” You try to ignore the way your heart flutters at his words and nod.

“This short film was just supposed to be for my film production class, right? Well! I pulled some strings, and they’re going to show it to the whole school! And post it online! So many people in the industry are going to see it and know who made it!”

You’re glued to your seat, lost in thought. On one hand, you’re so happy that your friends are going to get the recognition they deserve. They’ve worked so hard on this. But on the other hand, your face is going to be plastered on screens all over the school.

When you don’t reply, Hyunjin starts to get nervous, “Y/N? Are you okay?”

You shake your head, pushing any negative thoughts away. You’re excited for your friends. They deserve this. Hyunjin deserves this. You jump up from your seat, “So many people are going to know who you are, Hyunjin! I bet at least one person is going to want to work with you!” You grab his arm excitedly as you speak. The boy squeals, pulling you into his arms. Your heart thuds against your ribcage as you realize that Hyunjin is hugging you. You hold onto him tighter as he starts to spin around with you in his grip. You’re so busy yelling for Hyunjin to stop in between your bouts of laughter, you don’t even see Minho standing outside the door, watching it all happen.

The next day, you’re sitting in the courtyard, at the table you and the other have spent lots of time at. You’re studying for a finance test, fingers rubbing at your temple as you feel a headache forming, when a carton of banana milk is slammed on the table in front of you. You look up slowly, making eye contact with Minho, who’s breathing heavily.

“Why did it have to be him?” He yells, and you flinch at the sudden volume.

“Minho…” You sigh after a moment, but he cuts you off.

“No! Don’t say my name like that. Like you care about me. You never cared about me. It’s always been him.”

“Of course I care about you, Minho. We’ve been friends for years-”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. And you know it.”

His words silence you, and you find yourself unable to keep eye contact.

“This was supposed to be my chance. He was finally behind the camera. No one was looking at him for once. Except for you. Even when I was right there, right in front of you. Did those scenes mean nothing to you? You didn’t feel anything when I held your hand? Anything?”

“We were acting, Minho, it was a movie.” Your eyes are locked on your notes, and you feel a lump forming in your throat.

“Not to me! I was never acting. That was all Minho out there. And you still felt...nothing.” He sniffles, and you can hear his voice crack when he speaks again, “Did you wish it was him?”

“It doesn’t matter-”

“It matters to me! It matters because I like you and I’ve done everything I can to get you to notice me. And even when I’m the person holding you, you’re thinking about Hyunjin!”

You swallow your tears, slamming your notebook shut and standing from your seat, “Just leave me alone, Minho.” You push past the boy, not missing the lone tear streaking down the boy’s face. You hurry into the school building, finding an empty practice room and locking yourself in. You slide down the door with your eyes shut tight. You feel so, so guilty, but you never meant for this to happen. You didn’t even want to be in the film in the first place.

You wipe your eyes. Minho will come around, you tell yourself. He’ll come around and the two of you will be friends again and everything will be okay.

Your phone dings from your bag, and you pull it out to reveal a text from Hyunjin.

[ hyunjin ]: hey!! minho just came up to me and gave me some banana milk?? and said that it’s for you?? i didn’t even know you like banana milk lol … anyway where are you? i’ll bring it to you!!

You sigh and send Hyunjin your location, feeling too down to even be excited that your crush was coming to see you. When he comes, you sadly sip on your milk and listen to him talk about the premiere of your short film. You’re supposed to be excited, but the thought of seeing you and Minho on screen together, looking like you’re in love, makes you feel sick.

“I think Minho likes you,” Hyunjin teases when you throw the carton away.

“He does.”

Hyunjin gasps, “And do you like him back? I thought you guys were a couple when you first came on set, he was so excited to see you.”

You sit next to Hyunjin on the piano bench, your fingers dancing over the keys.

“No. I wish I did though. That would be a lot easier.”

“Why?”

“Because if I liked Minho, he wouldn’t hate me right now.”

“What? Why does Minho hate you?”

You turn to look at Hyunjin, faces only inches apart on the small bench. You admire his features for a second. He was so pretty, and you wish you could blame him for all of this, but you can’t.

“Because I like you.”

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avasghost · 4 years ago

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When We Drown Update #1

wip intro here.

DISCLAIMER: this is my original work. please do not plagiarize in any way.

hello!! i’m back with the first when we drown update!

so. i’m around 8000 words into the draft. i started writing on february 15, and its currently march 20, so its already been over a month which is ... wild. time flies when ur having fun kids.

its flowed a lot smoother than crane anatomy so far. i’m really enjoying the process, since i’m not trying that hard to make it good?? i didn’t know i was capable of “not trying to make it good” but maybe i am 👀

the writing style is very different from crane anatomy. CA is very flowery, but the prose in WWD is a lot plainer. i really like both prose styles, which is why it’s nice to be able to alternate between them when i feel like writing in one and not the other.

i used to get these random line ideas when i was only writing crane anatomy, but they didn’t fit the prose of that book. i’ve realized that those lines fit perfectly into the style of this book so yay my children found a home <3

excerpts under the cut.

chapter 1: the lighthouse

the story opens on a lighthouse on new years eve, 1999. this was an image that popped in my head while i was brainstorming and i decided to jump in and start writing because i was Intrigued. it’s a snowy night, and a woman and her four-year-old son (elias) are on the run from other members of the cult she is part of. we see her finally picking up the courage to run away, because unfortunately in this cult leaving isn’t allowed and they want to kill her. this is why she’s so depressed all the time because :) cult trauma :) they escape from their pursuers by hiding in the lantern room of a lighthouse, and then the woman gives birth to a daughter, the protagonist. her brother, elias, is referred to as “you”, and even though she wasn’t born yet, april narrates this scene because she’s been told the story so many times that she thinks of it almost like a memory, sometimes she wonders if she actually does remember it slightly.

the first line:

The first time I met you was on the lighthouse. It was the midwinter of 1999, new years eve, five p.m., already dark. I wasn’t born yet.

i quite like this opening! every opening i’ve written for the last four books has been good so that’s good

anyway here’s some night ocean and moon imagery:

The black ocean dilated in a gauzy breeze far below, waves ruffling like crow’s feathers. The distant sloshing drowned out some of the noise of the men’s boots clattering on the stairs. A cloud slipped in front of the moon, puddling its glow.

then the woman and elias hide under some tarps in the lantern room and the men who are hunting them come and look for them and somehow don’t find them which is completely unrealistic but :) if they got found april would never be born so :) that wouldn’t work would it :)

and then the men leave and april is born in the lantern room which was the most aesthetic birth i could think of okay. i had to. also the new years fireworks start going off:

We slept in the lantern tower. The beam that guided sailors lanced over our heads, a pinprick you hardly noticed. The fireworks all burst at once – a blur of orange, green and blue lights popcorning in the dark. I was tiny, too skinny, I shouldn’t have survived the night, but I did. Mother told me years later that I was the last baby of the 20th century, and that made me lucky.

the irony <3

chapter 2: lacuna

this is a chapter that takes place years later (and covers the first nine years of april’s life) and talks about her awful childhood. her older brother, elias, is her only friend other than two other girls (Elena and Magnolia). lets just say her life is terrible and i’m v happy i’m not her!

Mother always said I looked like her, and you looked like our father. I never thought so, even though I’d never seen pictures of him. Mother never showed us any. I couldn’t bring myself to associate you with him. From what I’d heard of father, you and him were opposites, different entities, born in different worlds and buried in different graveyards.

and their mother tells the story of april’s birth so often that april thinks of it as a memory, which is why she was able to narrate it:

She retold the story of my birth so frequently that every detail was visceral in my mind: the snow sparkling in juts of moonlight, a lonely rowboat almost invisible in the dark sea, the footsteps thudding along the passage, fireworks sparking in the sky and lighting the night on fire.

chapter 3: found and lost

in chapter three, ten-year-old april and fourteen-year-old elias play hide and seek and april fails to find elias. he is unfortunately never seen again.

the first line of the chapter:

There was a stretch of time when life was at its fullest, even if, for me, that meant half-empty. Ten years old, you were fourteen. Still friends, we didn’t share the usual sibling rivalry. It was midwinter, four days before my birthday. Ice glossed the branches of the spindly elm trees that studded our quiet street, scabbed the pavement so it was hard to walk.

yes i know this is set in BC and it doesn’t snow that much here but the aesthetic was too perfect so this is apparently an alternate BC where it snows a lot <3

another brief lighthouse description:

The lighthouse was a pinnacle that made an incision in the sky, clouds spiralled around it. Close enough to walk, too far to see in detail. Its lonely beam jittered over the water, even in broad daylight.

april counts and then goes to look for elias

Snow crinkled in my mittens, numbed my fingers so I could hardly move them. Rice-paper clouds obscured most of the sun, so the light that dribbled through was watery and lukewarm.

but she can’t find him

I searched every corner of the forest, every backyard of every stranger, I searched the lighthouse where I was born, I searched the rim of the ocean, which churned like a flame, licking the sand, eating it, spitting it out. The world snowglobed around me, disorientating every thought and movement. No birds, no beasts, no you. In that frozen world I was alone. The sky melted into a deep Aegean blue, and the stars winked like exit wounds, every tear an ocean, every finger an ice cap. Tears shuddered down my cheeks. They shattered on the icy pavement as I walked home, hoping you would hop out from behind a tree, a house. Maybe you were already home, maybe this was all a joke.

and time passes and they still can’t find him

Everyone said you must have drowned, even though they searched the ocean floor for days and never found your body. Maybe it had already drifted beyond our reach, they said. Maybe you were eaten by something, and your remains coated the mouth of some sea monster long assumed to be extinct.

at the end of chapter three, there’s a scene break that flashes forward to when april is fourteen, walking along the beach in a mist, and she sees elias’s ghost for the first time, and is momentarily convinced that he’s still alive, just like she thought.

It was almost unnoticeable, the way you popped up. A face in my peripheral, probably just a memory in the corner of my mind. But when I looked, you were there: a pearly mist with a face, eyes, a mouth. You breathed daylight, basked in fog like a natural habitat. I stared, unsure of what you were, where you were. Was this it? Had I been right all along? You were here, drifting in front of me, disembodied but still very much alive.

chapter 4: gooseberries

short flashback chapter! i wrote this entire chapter in about half an hour. its only 700 words, but i’m a very slow writer and that’s a lot of words for me to write in such a short time. also this chapter helped me realize that i want to write this book non-linearly! i love non-linear books and i think its a perfect form for this book!

the flashback goes to when april is still a baby (i know she shouldn’t be able to remember this but? she just does okay) and their mother takes her and elias to the woods and they hide in the roots of this tree while she goes and gets stuff for them to eat: gooseberries and pine needles (had to look up an article about edible wilderness food). april chokes on a gooseberry and elias helps her, which creates trust, and distrust of the mother because she didn’t try to help at all. thats it thats the chapter. not entirely happy with this, it needs a lot of work, but i think its still necessary to keep in the book for now.

She left, and like a mother bird, found food and brought back heaps of veiny gooseberries, her pockets stuffed with red pine needles, which she knew were edible from a wilderness survival course she took in high school. I had no teeth back then, the craggy flesh of my gums wasn’t enough to chew berries or pine needles, my throat too frail to swallow.

that’s all i have for this update! i know i said in the wip intro that there wouldn’t be updates very often, but i think the next WWD update will be soon because i’m really in flow atm!

- Ava

Taglist (please ask to be added or removed!) : @shaelinwrites @august-iswriting @wildswrites @nodeadnarrators @annlillyjose @shaonharryandpannisim @letsgetsquiggly @strangerays @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @chloeswords @teaandtypewriters

#my writing #excerpts #am writing #writers on tumblr #writing update #when we drown #writeblr #when we drown update #boosts appreciated

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pikapeppa · 4 years ago

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Samson/Roman Hawke smut and fluff: Trash

A little Satinalia special for @schoute featuring her divinely cranky Roman Hawke and Sammyboi! Including PARTY BANTER, fluff, and as always, NSFW smut. Note: the smut may appear dubcon for those who aren’t familiar with this pairing, so read at your own risk.

~8000 words; read here on AO3 instead.

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Roman gazed balefully at the entrance to the Hanged Man. The usual tavern racket was way louder than usual — so much so that she could hear the music and laughter and singing emanating through the door.

She didn’t want to go inside tonight. She usually liked coming here, insofar as she liked being anywhere in Lowtown. But tonight, the Hanged Man was somewhere that Roman would rather have avoided.

She couldn’t avoid it, though, not without hurting Varric’s feelings. She gritted her teeth, then finally pushed through the door.

The noise and heat hit her like a tidal wave. The Hanged Man was packed with at least fifty more people than usual, and their laughter was more boisterous and drunk than Roman was accustomed to hearing. The troupe of musicians in the corner was louder and livelier than usual, playing a cheerful driving song that was, unfortunately, prompting people to dance — very badly, by Roman’s estimation, not that she was an expert dancer herself or anything. It was smelly in here too, like hot cider and roasted meat and sweat from all the people dancing, and Roman wrinkled her nose as she slunk over to the bar.

The bar, too, was more crowded than usual with people clamouring for attention. Luckily, Roman was enough of a fixture here that one hard look had the bartender hurrying over. “Champion!” he panted. “Er, I mean, Miz Hawke, um—”

She cut him off. “Two fingers of whiskey,” she said. She glanced around at the writhing bodies in the tavern, then turned back to the bartender. “Make it three.”

The bartender nodded, and a long minute later, he slid a tumbler along the bar. “Happy Satinalia,” he yelled over the noise.

She nodded brusquely and left him a gold royal for a tip, then gulped down her drink in two big swallows before looking around the room more carefully. Now where the fuck was Varric?

She didn’t bother looking at the dance floor; Varric was about as fond of dancing as she was. She scanned the tables, and when she finally spotted him, she couldn’t help but smirk.

He was sitting at the head of a long rectangular table toward the back of the room, in the comfortable padded armchair that usually sat in his suite at the back of the Hanged Man. He was overseeing a game of wicked grace, looking comfortable and happy and giving the distinct impression of being the man in charge.

He kind of is, she thought. He’s hosting this big fucking party, after all. Ever since the Arishok had sacked the city three years ago, Varric had started sponsoring a Satinalia party at the Hanged Man. The first one had been to celebrate the reopening of the Hanged Man, seeing as it had been partially destroyed by the qunari. But for the following two years after, he’d continued to host these Satinalia parties every year, paying for the food and the drinks and the entertainment — a small fortune, given how much the greedy residents of Kirkwall could eat and drink.

“Why do you do this?” Roman had asked him one year.

“Why not?” he replied. “It makes people happy. We can always use a little happy around here, especially in Lowtown.”

Roman curled her lip. “It’s not like it makes a difference. They’ll eat all your food and drink all your booze today, then go back to talking shit about you behind your back tomorrow.”

Varric shot her a sympathetic look and patted her elbow. “It’s one night, Hawke. A night where we can forget all that shit and have a good time. You should try to join in.”

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, and Varric chuckled. “Besides, if you’re worried about me losing money, don’t. I’ve got a special fund I keep specifically for this party, and you know what it’s made up of?”

“What?” she said suspiciously.

His smile widened. “Winnings from wicked grace.”

Roman gave him an incredulous look. “You pay for all of this with your winnings from wicked grace?”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy.”

Roman actually laughed at that, and since then, she hadn’t questioned him about throwing this party every year. Besides, it was nice to see Varric looking all happy indoors, rather than looking all disgruntled while trampling around the fucking countryside with her.

She slunk through the crowds toward him. “I’m here,” she yelled.

He looked up from his cards and smiled. “Hawke,” he yelled back, and he waved for her to join the table. “Come on, sit down, I’ll deal you in the next round.”

She shook her head; she didn’t know anyone sitting at the table right now, and she wasn’t in the mood to make chit-chat with strangers. “Just wanted you to see I’m here. And now that I’ve shown my face, I’m going home,” she said, only half-jokingly.

Varric smiled. “Ha ha. Seriously though, get some food, enjoy yourself, find the others. I think the whole crew is here except for Blondie and Choir Boy.”

She nodded. Of course Sebastian wasn’t here, since he never did anything involving booze or fun. And Anders was probably stuck at the clinic in Darktown.

I wonder if Samson is here, she thought. Then again, she wasn’t sure he was even going to come. He’d shown up at Varric’s Satinalia party only once in the past three years, so there was no guarantee he would come this time. Maybe he’d just gone straight to Roman’s mansion to go to sleep.

Lucky asshole, she thought. “I’m stealing this,” she said to Varric, and she took his mostly-full stein of lager from the table.

He waved affably, and Roman made her way toward the nearest wall, intent on getting out of the crowd. But the revelry in the tavern was so uncontained that by the time she was pressed against the wall away from the worst of the people, a big mouthful’s worth of lager had gotten sloshed over her hand and onto her skirt.

“Fuck’s sake,” she muttered. She gulped down the drink as quickly as possible, then swiftly placed the empty stein on a passing waitress’s tray and grabbed a fresh drink from the tray at the same time.

She sniffed the drink, and a faint aching feeling tugged at her ribs. The stein contained mulled wine, and the distinct Ferelden smell made her feel both homesick and resentful at the same time — kind of like being at this party made her feel.

Roman had never been fond of parties. The cheerfulness and the jollity always made her feel as though there was something wrong with her. The bigger the party, the more isolated she felt, like the divide between her own moodiness and other people’s carefree cheer was even more stark and glaring, and she had never known how to bridge that divide — not that she really wanted to, since most people were shit and she hated small talk.

Still, sometimes she wondered what it would be like to have a gift with people, like Varric had: to be comfortable around people, to see the good in them and chat with them and not be braced any second for them to suddenly decide that she was an evil piece of shit for being an apostate with a temper and a foul mouth that even sailors would cringe away from.

She took a big gulp of mulled wine, and the aching feeling in her rib cage swelled even more. Then someone sidled up beside her — someone she wouldn’t have expected to seek her company willingly.

Fenris nodded politely. “Hawke,” he said.

She nodded in return. “Surprised to see you here,” she said.

“Varric insisted,” Fenris said dryly.

Roman scoffed. “Yeah, he’s pretty fucking persuasive.”

“That he is,” Fenris said, and he took a sip of his wine — normal, non-mulled wine.

Roman curiously eyed his glass. “Is that that Aggregio shit you like?”

He shook his head. “It’s Orlesian. A bit on the vinegar-y side, but I will take what I can get.” He gave her an odd look. “Besides, they don’t import goods from Tevinter here.”

She scoffed and swirled her drink. “Not legally, maybe. You should ask Varric to hook you up, get you some black-market fancy wine. He knows people.”

Fenris huffed in amusement. “That is an understatement. That dwarf knows everyone and their mother.”

Roman smirked at him, and she was surprised to find him smirking as well. Then she was surprised to find herself feeling this relaxed in Fenris’s company. They usually spent any time together walking on eggshells to avoid falling into the kinds of shouting matches he and Anders usually had. He must be pretty fucking drunk.

She glanced down at her half-empty stein of mulled wine. Then again, she was pretty tipsy already too.

She took another deep drink, and Fenris sipped his wine as well. Then Aveline joined them. “Fenris, Hawke,” she said with an officious little nod. “Happy Satinalia.”

“And to you,” Fenris said. Then he raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised to see the captain of the guard here.”

“I’m here for Varric, as you well know,” Aveline said testily. “Although I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have a member of the city guard here to keep the peace. Just in case.” She frowned at the boisterous patrons in the room.

Roman rolled her eyes. “Don’t fucking bother. If you get involved in any fights here, you’ll only make things worse.”

“She’s got a point,” Fenris said. “It would be prudent for you to not get involved.”

Aveline pursed her lips, then sighed. “Donnic said the same thing,” she admitted.

“He is a wise man,” Fenris said.

Aveline shot him a resentful look. “You’re only saying that because he goes to your house every week to play cards.”

Fenris shrugged. “If you wish to rejoin our games, take it up with your husband, not with me.”

Aveline harrumphed and folded her arms, and Roman hid her smirk in her stein. Then Isabela and a pink-cheeked Merrill pushed their way through the crowd.

“Ooh, hello everyone!” Merill said breathlessly. “Isabela was teaching me an Orlesian two-step! It’s very hard work though, a lot more hip twirling than I would have thought.”

Hip twirling? Roman thought. She didn’t think that Orlesian dances were known for their hip action. She glanced at Isabela, who winked at her.

Merrill was looking around the tavern with wide eyes. “I’m so thirsty. I wonder if I can get a glass of water here?”

“Not likely, kitten,” Isabela said. “But here.” She plucked a stein from a passing tray and sniffed it, then handed it to Merrill. “Cider. Not water, but close enough.”

Merill beamed at her, then took a big gulp of cider, and Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You ought to eat something,” he warned.

Merrill lowered the stein and gave him a chiding look. “Don’t fuss, Fenris. I can hold my liquor, you know.”

Fenris pursed his lips and looked away, and Isabela chuckled. “Now children, don’t fight, just dance. Who’s going to dance with me next?” She tilted her head cheekily at Aveline. “What about you, big girl? Care to dance?”

Aveline frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

Isabela grinned. “No, actually. Why? Are you a bad dancer?”

“I never said that,” Aveline said — defensively enough that Roman knew she must be a terrible dancer.

“It’s all right if you are,” Isabela said soothingly. “If you’re dancing with me, nobody will be looking at you anyway.”

“I’m not dancing with you,” Aveline said stiffly.

Isabela sighed. “Fine, fine. What about you, Hawke?”

“Not a fucking chance,” Roman said, and she finished off her mulled wine.

“Oh come on,” Isabela coaxed. “I can sense that you have moves.”

Roman sardonically lifted her eyebrow. “Ask me again and the only moves I’ll make are toward the fucking door.”

Isabela laughed. “All right, sweet thing, no need to get sassy.” Then, finally, she gave Fenris a slow and salacious smile.

He lowered his mostly-empty glass. “What?”

“What about you?” she said silkily. “Care to dance?”

Fenris shook his head. “I don’t dance.”

“Not even with me?” Isabela simpered.

“No, Isabela,” he said patiently. “Not even with you.”

She sauntered right up to him and trailed her finger down his chest. “How much do you want to bet that I can change your mind?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Aveline stepped away. “All right, I’m going, er, elsewhere.”

“Me too,” Roman drawled.

“Me too!” Merrill said with a nervous giggle. They all dispersed, Aveline toward the opposite side of the room and Merrill toward Varric’s table and Roman back toward the bar, all of them chased by Isabela’s husky laugh.

Roman carefully pushed her way through the crowd at the bar and held up three fingers. A moment later, the bartender handed her a tumbler of whiskey, and she deftly flicked him another gold royal for a tip, which he caught in mid-air with a smile.

A deep, sarcastic voice spoke behind her — one she didn’t recognize right away. “Ain’t that flush of you, Champion.”

She turned around and immediately stiffened. The person speaking to her was a tall and pasty fellow that she instantly recognized as one of Meredith’s more loyal Templars, accompanied by a shorter man who was also a Templar, both apparently on shore leave.

An instinctive flush of anger bloomed in her gut, but she forced herself to ignore it. She might be half-drunk, but she was sober enough to know that getting in a fight with Templars at Varric’s party would be a shitty thing to do.

“Yeah, it was,” she said. “Fuck off and enjoy the party.” She started to step around the Templars, but they shifted in front of her.

Roman gave the taller Templar a flat look. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t listen; instead, he and his crony stepped closer. “We heard you’re a blood mage,” he growled.

The anger in her gut curdled, and she lifted her chin. “You heard that, huh?”

“Yeah,” the shorter Templar said. “So? It true?”

She laughed nastily. “You think I’d tell you if it was? How fucking stupid are you?” She tilted her head. “Oh wait, you’re Templars. Never mind, I answered my own question.”

The shorter Templar curled his lip and took a step toward her, and she tensed her fists, ready to hit him if he took another step. She wouldn’t use magic, not during this party, but she had no fucking qualms about punching someone in the face.

The shorter Templar stepped even closer, and Roman bared her teeth in a snarl. But before she could raise her hand to strike, another voice interrupted. “Evening, fellas. Is there a problem ‘ere?”

Samson, Roman thought, and her shoulders loosened. He was standing just behind her with one hand tucked in his pocket and the other holding a stein, and his lips were curled in a polite smile — or seemingly polite, at least, though Roman could see the hint of mockery at the corners of his lips.

The Templars were looking at Samson now instead of her, and the taller one sneered. “Samson. The fuck are you doing here?”

“Having a drink, same as you,” he said, and he lifted his stein. “Happy tidings and all that.”

The shorter Templar snorted, and the taller one folded his arms and jerked his head at Roman. “You friends with this apostate cunt or something? That why you’re stepping in for her?”

Roman swelled with anger. “Cunt?” she snarled, and she took a step toward the taller Templar. “Who the fuck are you calling a—”

Samson grabbed her arm, and the shorter Templar laughed. “Oh ho, look at ‘im, putting the brakes on mages like he thinks he’s still a Templar.”

Roman wrested her arm away from Samson and glared at him, but he wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the two Templars still, and there was a quizzical look on his face now. “Does Cullen know you’re here?” he said.

The taller Templar went tellingly still, and the shorter one’s face crumpled into a scowl. “What’d you say?”

Samson shrugged and tucked his free hand back in his pocket. “Just askin’ if Cullen knows you’re here. Last I heard, the Knight-Captain had forbidden all of you from going to the Hanged Man or the Blooming Rose on your nights off.” He smirked. “Too much of a distraction, I heard.”

The shorter Templar stared at Samson. “How the fuck d’you know—”

The taller one elbowed him. “Shut it, you dimwit,” he hissed. He shot Samson and Roman a venomous look, then pulled his crony toward the door, and a moment later, they were gone.

Samson turned to her with a half-smile. “Bird,” he said, and he sipped from his stein.

She tutted. “I was handling that just fine without your help,” she said, but without any real heat. She hadn’t expected him to come, and frankly, it was kind of a nice surprise that he was here. He was wearing a rust-red shirt that was unbuttoned partway down his chest so she could see his chest hair, and… okay, fine, if she was being totally honest — an honesty she would entirely attribute to the mulled wine — he looked pretty attractive.

She took a gulp of her whiskey, then squinted at his chest. His shirt wasn’t unbuttoned, actually; he was just missing a couple of buttons.

“Something wrong?” he said.

She scoffed and plucked at his open shirt. “You look sloppy as fuck.”

He twisted his lips ruefully. “Yeah. Nicest shirt I’ve got, if you can believe it.”

“You should just let me buy you something new,” she said, for the umpteenth time. “Then you don’t have to go around looking like shit.”

“If I look like shit, why’re you staring?” he asked.

She tore her eyes away from his chest and scowled at him. “I’m not staring.”

“Sure you are,” he said. “It’s all right, Bird. You look good too.” His eyes travelled from her low-necked top to her knee-length skirt, and he smirked. “There’s a stain on your skirt.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know. Someone made me spill my fucking beer.”

“And you’re nagging me about being sloppy?” he said archly.

She gestured emphatically at her skirt. “This was an accident! You showed up looking like this!”

“Give me credit, will you? I tried,” he said plaintively.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You did not. You didn’t even shave. You’re all whiskery.”

He tsked. “You and the whiskers. I can’t figure out if you like them or not.”

“They look good,” she said without thinking. “They feel like shit on my skin.” Oops, that was more candid than she’d intended.

She frowned resentfully at her half-empty tumbler, and Samson chuckled — a rough little heh-heh-heh that lifted an annoying buzzing sensation between her legs. “That doesn’t help me decide whether to shave the bloody whiskers off or not,” he said.

She shrugged and looked away from him. “Just do what you want. It’s your face. I don’t care what you do.”

He sighed and shifted a little closer to her — close enough that their arms were touching. “You’re a bloody pain in the ass, you know that?”

She clicked her tongue. “Ah, fuck you, too.” She tapped her tumbler to his stein and finished off her drink.

He grinned at her, then took a gulp from his stein before speaking again. “You’re in a good mood. Having a nice time then, eh?”

“Not really,” she said. “I don’t like parties.”

“Me neither,” he said. “Never really felt right when I was at them. Always got the feelin’ like there was something I wasn’t quite in on, even if I was right in the thick of it.”

She looked at him in surprise. That was exactly how she’d always felt at parties.

He met her eye, then rubbed a hand over his chin. “What? Something on my face?”

“If you don’t like parties, why did you come to this one?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I knew you had to come, for Tethras. Thought I’d keep you company.” He gave her a crooked little smile. “Misery loves company, or so they say, and I figured you’d be pretty bloody miserable.” He drank from the stein, and Roman watched the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed.

He lowered the stein and looked at her, then lifted his eyebrow. “What—”

She grabbed his shirt and dragged him into a kiss.

He grunted in surprise and wrapped his arm around her waist, and Roman twined her tongue with his for a moment before pushing him away. “Your face is scratchy,” she said.

He stared at her stupidly for a second, his half-bared chest rising and falling as he panted for breath. Then a broad smile stretched across his face. “You bloody minx,” he said.

She smirked. Then a tall burly man bumped into her shoulder hard.

She stumbled slightly, annoyed but unfazed; this fucking tavern was way too crowded, after all. A second later, however, the man’s disparaging tone made it clear that the bump was definitely not an accident. “Look at this,” he drawled. “The Champion’s a whore for the beggar.” He bared his yellowed teeth at her in a semblance of a grin. “Times so desperate that you’ve got to fuck the trash on the street?”

A ringing rage suddenly burst in her ears. Without thinking, she swung her empty tumbler up and smashed it across the burly asshole’s face.

“Roman!” Samson barked.

The man stumbled back with a howl of pain, and the people around them cried out in shock and tried to shuffle away. Roman ignored them and took a threatening step toward the burly asshole, and Samson grabbed her arm.

“Roman, stop,” he hissed.

She twisted out of his grip. “He said you’re trash,” she yelled. “You’re not fucking trash. He’s the trash.”

Samson opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the burly man’s big hand squeezed her shoulder in a painful grip. “You fucking bitch—”

She viciously clawed at his hand, and when he whipped his hand back with a yelp, she raised the now-cracked tumbler, ready to smash it across his face a second time.

“Stop!” Aveline shouted. She pushed through the crowd and stepped between Roman and the burly man. “Hawke, what’s happening here?”

“She hit me in the face, that fucking bitch!” the burly man bleated.

Roman snarled and took another threatening step toward him, but Aveline held up a hand. “Enough,” she said loudly, and she turned toward the burly man. “Outside, now. Unless you want to come with me to the holding cells.”

“Yeah, get the fuck out of here,” Roman spat. “If I see your fucking face again—”

Samson grabbed her hand and pried the tumbler from her fingers. “Come on,” he said in exasperation, and he started pulling her away toward the back of the tavern.

She tried to pull her hand out of his grip. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

“Getting you somewhere quiet to calm down,” he gritted.

“I am calm,” she yelled. “It’s that asshole who isn’t calm! You heard him, he fucking started it!”

Samson didn’t reply, and he didn’t let go of her hand. He kept pulling her through the tavern, out of the main room with its music and its noise and through to the inn area at the back, which was much quieter.

She sighed loudly and smacked his arm. “Let me go. I’m fucking calm.”

“No,” he said, and he kept tugging her through the corridors until they were in a secluded back corner of the inn, where a few dilapidated crates and barrels sat there waiting to either be repaired or thrown away.

Samson finally released her hand and folded his arms. “I told you not to get into fucking fights for me.”

She glared at him. How dare he scowl at her like he was the angry one? “It wasn’t my fault. He was looking to start a fight!”

“You made the fight happen,” he accused.

“I did not!” she retorted.

He gave her a chiding look. “You hit him with a bloody tumbler, Bird.”

“You’re not fucking trash!” she yelled.

He wilted and rubbed his forehead. “Bloody Maker’s balls…”

“You’re not trash,” she railed. “There’s nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even fucking know you, how can he just go around—”

Samson suddenly clasped her neck in his hands and pinned her against the wall, and Roman gasped at the impact of her back striking the wall. “You’re lookin’ for an excuse to fight,” he said roughly. “You say you’re not, but you are.”

She glowered at him, stung by the injustice of this accusation. “I am not,” she retorted. “I don’t want to — I don’t want to be this way! You think I like being all — fucking pissed all the time?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just…” He sighed. “Maker, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just… don’t want you to get in fucking fights for me. I can fight for myself.”

“But you don’t,” she said. “You don’t fight when they pick on you, and I hate it.”

His eyebrows rose, and he released her neck. “Right, right. Because I’m a coward, right?”

Her frustration ratcheted higher. “You’re not a fucking coward!” she shouted. “You’re — there’s nothing wrong with you!”

He scoffed and folded his arms. “Are you blind or something? I’m a lyrium-addicted beggar with missing buttons on my best bloody shirt.”

She glared viciously at him and prodded his half-bared chest. “There’s nothing wrong with you that isn’t wrong with me too. If you’re fucking trash, then so am I.”

He stared at her without speaking, and Roman’s belly twisted; his expression was softening from anger into something far softer and more unnerving.

She curled her lip. “What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?”

A little smile lifted the corners of his lips. “That was almost romantic, Bird.”

She recoiled slightly, then shoved his abs. “Don’t be fucking stupid. It was not.”

He didn’t move. “It was, sort of. You going to be giving me roses in the moonlight next?”

His smile was broad and his tone was playful now, and Roman’s annoyance swelled, along with the hot feeling in her cheeks. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, and she shoved him again.

He grabbed her wrist and pinned it back against the wall, and a sudden hot rush of lust flooded between her legs. She twisted her wrist, and Samson stepped closer, close enough that she was trapped against the wall by his body.

He stroked her cheek with his other hand, and Roman twisted her face away. “Quit it,” she snapped.

He gripped her jaw and turned her face to look at him, and her heart thudded between her legs at the force of his hand on her jaw. She slipped her free hand into his open shirt and twisted his nipple, and he gasped in pain and released her jaw.

His hand on her wrist only tightened, however, and Roman gasped with excitement at the firmness of his fingers around her wrist. Then he captured her other hand and forced it back against the wall as well.

“Bloody wildcat,” he growled. “Just calm down, will you?”

“Then let me go,” she snapped breathlessly.

He huffed. “See, I don’t think you really want me to.”

“Yes I do,” she said belligerently.

He lifted his eyebrows skeptically. “You sure? Then tell me again to let you go, and I’ll do it. Go on, say it again.”

His tone was taunting, and it was like tossing oil on her flaring temper and her lust. She sneered at him but didn’t speak, and he let out a smug little laugh. “Didn’t think so. I know what you’re really looking for.”

“You don’t know shit,” she snapped.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, and he pressed his hips to hers.

His cock was a hard ridge pressing against the vee of her thighs, and her lips fell open with a gasp. Then Samson pressed his mouth against her ear. “You want me to fuck you,” he whispered. “That’s why you’re wearing this skirt, isn’t it?”

She dragged in a breath and wriggled in his grip, rubbing herself against his groin in the process. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she panted.

“This skirt,” he murmured in her ear. “This is the one you had on when we first fucked in the alley outside.”

His voice was low and sly, and the heat in her cheeks and her abdomen swelled even more. He was right, unfortunately; this was that same skirt, the same one Samson had shoved up before pinning her against the wall to fuck her from behind, and she’d be lying if she hadn’t thought about it when putting it on this evening. She wasn’t very well going to admit that, though.

Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t need to; Samson was laughing softly against her ear, that smug and knowing little chuckle that both enraged her and riled her up to a maddening degree. “Aw, you got dressed up for me tonight, eh?” he teased. “That’s romantic too.”

“Fuck you,” she spat. “Fuck you, fuck you, I hate you—”

He released her wrist and slid his palm up along her thigh, and Roman broke off with a convulsive gasp. Then he was rubbing her sex, his fingers sliding against her throbbing pussy through her smalls, and he was talking in her ear once more.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Bird,” he murmured. “I picked out this shirt for you, too.”

His fingers between her legs, his voice in her ear, his whiskers scratching her face… She fucking wanted him, and it was so annoying. She gasped in a breath and tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. “You picked the shitty shirt with missing buttons for me? Fuck you,” she moaned.

He laughed softly and pressed his fingers against her clit. “No, you daft idiot. I picked the one in your favourite colour.”

Her heart squeezed, and she scoffed. “Whatever. You’re the idiot.”

“And you’re a bloody pain in my ass,” he purred. Then, without warning, he pushed the crotch of her smalls aside and slid one finger inside of her.

The unexpected pleasure of his finger drove a cry from her throat. She twisted her free hand in his shirt, and he released her other hand and covered her mouth. “Shh,” he hissed. “Keep your voice down, eh?”

His finger was curling relentlessly inside of her, striking at a spot inside of her that was making her legs feel shaky, and she couldn’t stop herself from moaning against his palm. She thrust her hips eagerly toward his hand, and he exhaled hard.

“Maker’s balls, Bird,” he groaned. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

She twisted her face away from his palm. “Fuck me,” she rasped. “Fuck me right now.”

“Where am I supposed to do that?” he said quietly. “There’s no furniture here.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” she said.

He smiled slowly at her, then suddenly pulled his finger free. Before Roman could protest or say a word, he was lifting her up and depositing her on a dusty barrel at waist-height.

He roughly reached into her skirt, and she lifted her hips so he could pull her smallclothes off. “If I get a splinter in my ass, you’re helping me get it out,” she threatened.

He shot her a reproving look as he shoved her smallclothes in his pocket. “Look, d’you want to fuck here or not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then stop complaining and spread your legs,” he commanded.

She glared at him as she parted her knees. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

He gave her a reproachful look as he unbuttoned his trousers, but Roman ignored it; she was too focused on his cock, the thick hard length of it straining against the fabric of his smalls, and now he was pulling his cock out and stroking it with one hand while he stepped closer to her…

She eagerly shifted closer to the edge of the barrel, and Samson’s eyes dropped to her thighs. “Come on, Bird, let me have a look at you,” he breathed. He lifted the edge of her skirt to look at her pussy, and Roman spread her legs wide so he could see her better.

The look on his face grew hungry, and Roman stared at his lustful expression with a growing hunger of her own. “Pervert,” she accused.

He looked up at her and grinned. “Takes one to know one,” he teased. He stepped closer to the barrel and grabbed her hip, then thrust into her hard.

She gasped and jolted, then wiggled closer to the edge of the barrel so he could fuck her deeper, and he groaned and grabbed her thigh. “Put your legs around me,” he urged.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her ankles together at the small of his back. He thrust into her again, and this time she was forced to cry out with pleasure; the edge of the barrel was digging into her ass a bit, but with her legs wrapped around him, it felt like he was striking much deeper inside of her with every thrust.

He gripped her hip with one hand and the edge of the barrel with the other and slammed his cock inside of her, and Roman moaned again.

“Shut the fuck up, Bird,” he groaned, and he slammed into her again. She gasped and sank her teeth into the side of his neck, and he groaned and thrust into her over and over, rapid deep thrusts that sent ripples of pleasure through her fingers and her toes, and she greedily sucked and bit his neck to stop herself from moaning at how fucking good it felt.

After a couple of blissful minutes, Samson gasped fitfully and dug his fingers painfully into her thigh, and she grunted against his neck as his cock grew even harder inside of her. He came a moment later, shuddering and painting against her collarbone as he thrust into her a frenzied blur, and Roman savoured the forceful striking thrusts of his cock as he rode out his climax.

A long moment later, he sighed heavily and nipped her neck, and the feeling of his teeth on her neck sent a little shiver down her spine. He patted her thigh, and she untwined her legs from around his waist with a little grimace.

“My ass hurts,” she complained.

He smirked at her as he stepped back and tucked his cock into his trousers. “Sorry,” he said.

“You are not,” she accused.

“Ah, you’re right, I’m not,” he said unrepentantly, and he helped her down from the barrel. She immediately felt his seed dripping down the inside of her thigh, and she quickly untied the red scarf from around her wrist to wipe it up.

“Hey, I’ll do that,” Samson said affably, and he reached for the scarf.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Why?”

“Because I’m a gentleman, o’course,” he said. “Gentlemen clean up their messes.”

His face was lit with a broad shit-eating grin, and Roman couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh or to smack him. Instead, she shot him a flat look as she wiped the inside of her thigh. “You really want to be a gentleman? Then you can go down on me.”

His grin fell into a look of surprise. “Eh?”

“I didn’t come,” she said.

He grimaced. “Oh. Balls. Sorry, Bird.” He eyed her uncertainly. “You… you really want me to go down on you? Now?”

She paused in her wiping and raised her eyebrows. “What, you’ll fuck me at the back of the Hanged Man but you won’t go down on me?”

“It’s not that,” he said hurriedly. “It’s just…” He scrunched his face up a bit. “I already came in you.”

“So?” she said.

“So I’m not really keen to, uh, eat my own cooking, if you get my meaning,” he said.

Roman gave him a withering look. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah…” He sighed and wilted. “You want me to do it anyway, don’t you?”

She clicked her tongue. “You’re the one who was saying you’re a gentleman.” She went back to wiping the inside of her thighs.

Samson rubbed the back of his neck. Then, to her surprise, he kneeled in front of her. “All right, twist my bloody arm,” he grumbled. He pushed her skirt up to her hips, and Roman felt a fresh thrill of heated anticipation pooling between her legs.

He leaned in and kissed her hip, and her pussy pulsed at the nearness of his mouth. Then he sighed. “Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, and he drew his tongue along the length of her cleft.

She gasped and sank her fingers into his hair. Despite his reluctance, he was doing just as good a job as he always did: his tongue was circling smoothly around her clit, teasing her with the exact amount of pressure that felt fucking good while making her crave an even firmer touch of his tongue.

She dragged in a shaky breath and rolled her hips toward his mouth. He drew his tongue firmly over her clit, and the firm pressure sent a shock of pleasure through her body.

She gasped and clenched her fingers in his hair. He lapped at her clit again, and she bucked toward his mouth. He reached up and placed his palms on her bare thighs to push them wider apart, and the heat of his hands on her skin sent another thrill of pleasure through her limbs.

She rocked her hips toward his tongue, and within seconds she was grinding against his mouth, her rapture rising steadily with every smooth hot stroke of his tongue against her swollen clit. She gasped convulsively and pulled his hair, and he growled into her pussy and tugged at her clit with his lips, and she let out a moan.

He leaned away and shot her a resentful look. “Seriously, Roman, shut up—”

“Don’t fucking stop,” she gasped, and she pulled his head between her legs once more.

He grunted and sealed his lips over her clit, and she shoved the back of her other hand against her mouth to stifle herself, and not a moment too soon: a few blissful licks later, she was shuddering and slumping back against the wall as her rapture rippled from her pulsing clit down to her calves and all the way up to her scalp.

She closed her eyes and leaned her back against the wall, giving the wall all of her weight as the pleasure washed through her limbs. When her climax had finally ebbed away, she dropped her hand away from her mouth and sighed.

Then Samson kissed her and thrust his tongue into her mouth.

“Mmph,” she protested, but his tongue was sliding against her own. She poked his belly and bit his tongue, and he pulled away from her.

“See?” he said pointedly. “Doesn’t taste so good, does it?”

She gave him a shut-the-fuck-up look. “Tastes like it always does when I suck you off after you fucked me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

She snorted and reached into his pocket to take back her smallclothes. “You really are a fucking idiot,” she told him. She pulled her smalls back on and smoothed out her skirt, then started to sidle past him toward the corridor, but he stopped her with a hand on her hip.

She paused and looked up at him, then frowned; he looked quite serious. “What’s wrong?” she said.

“Stop getting into fights for me,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

She sighed in annoyance, and he squeezed her hip. “I mean it, Roman. You have to keep your head down more.”

“Are you going to tell the whole world to fuck off and leave me alone, then?” she said archly. “Because if everyone gets off my case, I’d gladly keep my fucking head down.”

He clicked his tongue wearily, then pecked her on the forehead and gave her butt a little smack. “Forget it, all right? Let’s go get another drink.”

She shot him a resentful look and made her way from their dark abandoned corner back into the nearest corridor, then stopped short in surprise: Isabela was leaning casually against the wall.

She looked up at them with a knowing grin, and Roman stared at her. “Were you listening in?” she demanded.

“Yes, actually,” Isabela said.

Roman recoiled. “Why the fuck were you listening in?”

“I was guarding this hallway so you could have a private moment,” Isabela said. “It’s hardly my fault that you make so much noise.”

Roman deflated a bit. “Oh. Fuck.”

Samson rubbed his chin and gave Roman an I-told-you-so look. Roman hunched her shoulders defensively, and Isabela let out a throaty laugh as she approached them. “Don’t look so embarrassed, sweet thing. Having a quick one at the back of a tavern is perfectly natural. We’ve all done it.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Roman muttered.

Samson eyed Isabela cautiously, then touched his fingers to his forehead in a small salute. “Kind of you to keep an eye out for us, cap’n.”

Isabela raised her eyebrows. “Well well. Captain, you say? Talk dirty to a girl, why don’t you?” She elbowed Roman. “You should invite me to join you next time.”

Roman rolled her eyes. “Maker’s fucking balls,” she complained, and she started walking away.

“That wasn’t a no,” Isabela called after her.

She shook her head and didn’t reply. A second later, Samson caught up to her. “Er, what was that exactly?”

“Approval from Isabela,” Roman grunted.

“Really?” Samson said. “That’s, er, nice?”

“Whatever. I don’t need anyone’s approval,” Roman said. But for some reason, she didn’t feel as irate as she would have expected from having Isabela listen in to her and Samson fucking. And Isabela had even been friendly to Samson, which was — well, not unexpected necessarily, because Samson and Isabela had barely ever spoken. But Roman was so accustomed to seeing people treat Samson like a pile of nugshit that witnessing the opposite was… nice.

Yeah, it was nice. The more Roman thought about it, the more she realized that she was actually feeling… pretty good, actually. She was still a little tipsy from the booze, and her damp smallclothes were reminding her of the excellent illicit sex she and Samson had just had at the back of the tavern, and someone other than herself had treated Samson like a person…

Damn, she thought in surprise. Against all odds, she was actually feeling… kind of happy.

She looked up at Samson with a little smile, and his eyebrows jumped up. “What’s with you?”

She shrugged. “Nothing,” she said. “Come on.” They stepped back into the main room of the Hanged Man, and Roman balked for a second; it was somehow even more noisy and crowded and hot than before. The musical troupe in the corner were playing a song with a hard driving beat while the majority of the patrons twirled and spun to the music with varying degrees of coordination and drunkenness. Every few minutes, a howl of laughter and dismay would go up from one of the tables where people were playing cards, and the entire room was scented with mulled wine.

A funny swelling feeling filled her chest. Then Samson leaned in close to her ear. “It’s bloody hopping in here,” he yelled. “I’ll find some drinks, you find us a corner?”

“No,” she yelled back. “Come on.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the middle of the crowd.

She ruthlessly pushed her way through the pulsing crowd of bodies until they reached Varric’s table. He was still sitting in pride of place at the head of the table, and the rest of their little crew was sitting with him and playing cards: Fenris and Merrill were on the left side of the table and Anders was on the right, having apparently gotten away from the clinic at last. Aveline was sitting beside him with no cards and her arms petulantly folded, and they all looked up when Roman pushed her way through the crowd.

Varric smiled. “Hawke! Samson! Have a seat, join us.”

“Thanks,” Roman said, and she poked Anders’s arm. “Move over.”

“Happy Satinalia to you too,” he drawled as he shifted over. “Where’ve you been?”

“Busy,” she said. She pushed Samson down onto the bench beside Anders, then seated herself on the padded right arm of Varric’s chair.

“Busy doing what?” Isabela said as she sashayed over.

“None of your fucking business,” Roman said, but with no heat.

Isabela winked cheekily and sidled around to sit on the other arm of Varric’s chair, and Anders snorted in amusement. “This is rich. Varric, you look like the owner of a harem now.”

Isabela tsked. “A harem of two isn’t much of a harem. Merrill, you should come and sit in Varric’s lap to round us out.”

Merrill tittered. “Who, me? Oh no, I couldn’t!”

Anders glanced at Aveline. “What about you, then? You could go on up and sit in Varric’s lap.”

“Over my dead body,” Aveline said flatly.

“Over mine, actually,” Varric said drolly. “I don’t think I could survive all of Aveline’s muscle.”

Merrill, Anders and Isabela laughed, and Aveline smiled faintly. Then Varric tapped Roman’s arm. “Are you and Samson joining in the next round, then?”

His tone was casual, but his expression was faintly hopeful — the look he usually wore when asking if Roman would play cards with them, even knowing that she was going to say no.

But today wasn’t a usual day, and Roman wasn’t in a usual mood. She shrugged. “Yeah, deal us in. Right?” She looked askance at Samson.

“I suppose,” he said tentatively. “I, uh, haven’t any coin to bet, though.”

“That’s okay,” Varric assured him. “The elf here hasn’t got any coin, either. He’s just playing on good faith.” He jerked a thumb at Fenris, who sighed and tugged his ear.

“I’ll win it back next week, I swear it,” he grumbled.

Varric nodded affably. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say.”

The others chuckled as Fenris tsked, and Roman watched contentedly as Samson’s posture relaxed a bit. Then she looked at Varric once more, and an unusual feeling of warmth spread through her chest. He was smiling broadly at her, and Roman knew that he understood the significance of her agreement to play cards.

She shrugged and looked away from him. “Happy Satinalia or whatever,” she muttered.

He chuckled. “You too, Hawke. Now come on, let’s play.”

“We’re all waiting on you,” Anders pointed out.

“All right, all right,” Varric said affably, and he set down a card. “Okay, Daisy, it’s your turn.”

The round of wicked grace continued, with Anders seeming to have the winning hand. Roman listened quietly as they chatted and teased each other in turn, and she marvelled at the strangeness of the situation — the strangeness of sitting here with this weird little group of misfits, all of them victims of shitty circumstance in one way or another, now joined together in a mish-mashed group of semi-friends who spent most of their time together and helped each other out when help was needed, whether they even particularly liked each other or not.

Kind of like a family, Roman thought, and that weird squirmy feeling of warmth invaded her chest again.

She shifted slightly on Varric’s chair. Then Samson subtly squeezed her ankle. “You all right, Bird?” he said quietly.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine,” she said. And for once, she genuinely meant it.

#samson #samson da2 #raleigh samson #samson/hawke #samson x hawke #romanson #pikapeppa writes #schoute CREATES AMAZING OCs THAT I ADORE

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swtorpadawan · 4 years ago

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Writing Ranking 2020

I was tagged by @dragonheart-swtor and @blueburds for the 5 Works Meme which was very flattering and then I saw @sunsetofdoom put out a Writing Ranking 2020 that I thought was very cool. So I'm basically combining these two ideas in a single post.

Getting personal for a moment, 2020... like for many of you... was not a great year for me.

It began with the death of my father. This was not an unexpected event in the least, as he had several long-term medical issues that had been impacting him for years. Nevertheless, the experience was still painful, and i still feel like i left too much unresolved with him.

Health-wise, i was expecting to make progress on a number of fronts. That did not materialize, and while that was certainly impacted by the pandemic, I must own that most of the responsibility is mine.

Professionally, I was impacted by the pandemic like so many others, eventually leading to my being furloughed. So - not a great situation.

Personally, a couple of people on Tumblr who i had once admired and even considered "internet friends" decided that I was the worst human being ever because of how i perceive a fictional character in a fictional universe. (Yeah, people are jerks.)

So yeah - not swell.

Frustratingly, my writing, which i like to think of as an outlet for my frustrations, did not seem to improve either in quantity of output or quality. I theoretically had the free time to do much better than this.

But it's always good to re-assess and learn. So here are the nine actual pieces I posted this past year, in reverse order of how satisfied I am with them :

9) Promises

It's not terrible, but Promises was more of a case study on the Jedi Knight companions than it is an actual story. This isn't even necessarily specific to my main OC, Corellan Halcyon. I think I have some good stuff in there, and I love exploring under-developed characters like Rusk. 8) Perspectives

Again, closer to a case study than a proper story. I had tons of notes and I realized I was likely never going to incorporate many of them into "proper" stories. I do like exploring how different members of the Eternal Alliance feel about Corellan, even if that is a little bit of a "wish fulfillment" type of thing. The game doesn't give us much for most of these characters, so I liked exploring this as an academic exercise.

7) Weaknesses

This one was really short. At some point, I'll give Kira and Vette a proper one-on-one scene, but for now, it was enough for me to establish this connection. Xalek seemed an excellent choice of character to say something totally tactless that everyone was wondering. I'd rank it higher, but length was the issue - it is easier to write a shorter piece.

6) It Could Always Be Worse

I have this... fixation, I guess? - with taking minor, 30 second NPCs from the actual game stories and expanding on them with a story. I wanted to approach the KOTFE galaxy - and the Alliance - from the perspective of an outsider. A recurring theme throughout the game is people doing things or not doing what they should be doing out of fear. It seemed timely to try to tackle that. Even so, it was a bear to write. 5) Breaking Even

I've barely ever done anything with either Errul Marsh or Rhi'khi, as they aren't part of my more prominent legacies. But this was kind of fun conceptually, and i had some fun banter from Errul. (I was shooting for a Han Solo in The Force Awakens vibe.) And i got to express some of my own thoughts on the unpleasantness of aging. (Spoilers: It sucks. Like, a lot.)

4) Surprised! Not Dead

A very short piece, indeed. BUT - it got me to get back into my Awakenings series. Also - I loved exploring the Kira Carsen / Bela Kiwiiks relationship post-KOTET. It was very touching in the game story, and deserved to be addressed. So I’m glad I did this. 3) Small Favors

Okay - so - I had TONS of notes on a hypothetical conversation between Kira and Theron post-KOTET. I assumed turning these into a short piece would be easy. Weeks and more than 8000 words later, I produced this... thing. It's a bit flawed, since it's just a one-on-one and most their conversation is about Corellan. I put it third because I'm so relieved i actually got it done. The lesson I SHOULD learn from this is to try to start with an outline if I'm going to have more than 2K words, because otherwise it will get away from me. 2) A Dead World

This was for my 'A Simple Choice' series. There were all these dangling threads from KOTET and the Jedi Knight story, and I wanted to tie them up. All the Outlanders wind up going to Nathema, but one of them has known about it for years. Plus, I liked looking at Corellan and the Alliance from Arcann's perspective.

1) Clothes Make The Jedi

This was just self-indulgent, fluffy fun, from very early in Corellan and Kira's association. I wanted to explore how they saw each other at this point. (I also felt the need to explain my wardrobe choices for Kira.) It will never be my best work, but it's one of the most enjoyable.

So yeah.

Thank you all for listening to me re-hash my writing experiences for 2020. Hopefully, it will turn out that I’ve learned something. (Then again, I've always learned things the hard way.)

In closing - I know a lot of you are going through things right now, and I'm perfectly well aware that many of you have it harder than I do. I'm okay for the moment, and I’m thankful for that.

Give yourselves a break. Take care of yourselves. And remember that half of growing up is about realizing that there are things in our lives that might bring us momentary pleasure, but aren't healthy for us in the long run. No one else can tell you what those things are. You have to figure it out for yourself.

Thanks for reading. And good luck in 2021.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #Writing Ranking 2020 #oc: corellan halcyon #oc: errul marsh #oc: rhi'khi

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lastbluetardis · 4 years ago

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Chemical Reaction (20/22)

Summary: Though their chemistry class is now over, the chemistry between James and Rose is just getting started. Together, they navigate the highs of new love and the lows of coping with past trauma to forge deep and unbreakable bonds of love and commitment. Part 2 in the Catalysis series. Tagging @doctorroseprompts

This chapter: ~8000 words, explicit

If you like my stories, consider leaving me a tip? I know these are trying times, but if you are able, I would really appreciate it xoxo. And as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated as well.

AO3 | FF | TSP

Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14 | Ch15 | Ch16 | Ch17 | Ch18 | Ch19 | Ch20 | Ch21 | epilogue

James awoke slowly, groggily. His head was pounding and his eyes were scratchy and blurry. He had slept deeply and dreamlessly, and now that he was drifting towards consciousness, he had absolutely no idea where he was or what day it was. If he’d had to give the year or month, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to do it.

He would have been perfectly content to close his eyes and try to fall back to sleep; however, the cat yowling at the foot of the bed was making that impossible, as was the sharp, pulsing ache in his bladder. Had he gone out drinking the night before? That might explain his throbbing head, his desperate need for the toilet, and the reason he was asleep in a strange bed.

“Pippin, shut it.”

James blinked through the haze of his vision. Rose lay next to him, but they weren’t in his bed. And they definitely weren’t in Rose’s bed; he had way too much room to splay his legs without them falling off the mattress. But the room was familiar. They were… in his guest room?

The events of the past night finally clicked. Rose was here. Rose was here after they’d made up from their awful fight, and she’d stayed the night with him.

His chest warmed with love and gratitude at the sight of Rose pulling a pillow over her head as Pippin began meowing more earnestly upon realizing both humans were awake.

“I hate your cat,” Rose mumbled, her voice nearly inaudible.

“You love him,” he cooed. Pippin paced in the thin strip of space between their bodies, then stepped onto James’s lower belly. James yelped and swiped his cat to the floor, ignoring Pippin’s cry.

Rose snorted. “All right?”

“I really need a wee,” he squeaked. He vaulted out of bed and sprinted across the hall to the guest bathroom, ignoring Rose’s laughter behind him.

After attending to his over-full bladder, James stumbled to the kitchen—noticing with a grumble it was only seven in the morning—and he filled Pippin and Merry’s food dishes. Preemptively, he went into the basement and placed their bowls down there, knowing he would start painting before too long. Neither cat realized what he intended to do until he trekked up the stairs and closed the door behind him. He heard the frantic sounds of racing feet, then the scratching of paws and claws at the door, followed by the most piteous mewl he’d ever heard.

“Oh, you’re fine,” he said. “Go eat your breakfast, bud.”

Not particularly wanting to stand there arguing with his cat, James turned away from the basement door and went into his guest room. Rose was snoring lightly, her chest rising and falling with her even breaths.

He hadn’t been sure if he would see this sight again, and he knew he would never take it for granted. Though wide awake, thanks to his stupid cat, James instead slipped beneath the sheets once more, nestling deep into the mattress. It wasn’t as cozy as his mattress, a little too firm for his liking. He suddenly wondered whether Rose liked his other bed or favored this one; in all the months they’d been sharing a bed, he never once thought to ask if she preferred firmer or softer mattresses. Maybe they could invest in one of those fancy, dual-firmness mattresses he was always seeing commercials for on the television.

James began getting antsy after only a few minutes of lying beside Rose. He tried to ignore it, to take advantage of snuggling with her, but his mind was awake and itching to do something. Plus, they weren’t really snuggling. He was on his side, watching her sleep.

Not creepy at all, he muttered to himself.

Noticing that he was beginning to fidget, James relented with a sigh. Pecking a soft, barely-there kiss to her forehead, he slipped out of bed again and padded into his kitchen to start coffee and clean up the dishes from the night before.

Quietly as he could, he emptied the dishwasher and hand-washed the few dirty dishes in his sink while his coffee brewed. He had the belated realization that the scent of coffee might be enough to disturb and wake Rose. Oops.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He grabbed his hazelnut-flavored creamer from the fridge and poured a healthy dollop into the bottom of his caffeine molecule mug. He took his coffee to the kitchen table and grabbed a crossword puzzle book to keep himself busy; he didn’t want to start painting yet, since the fumes and the noise would probably wake Rose, if she wasn’t already awake.

Surprisingly, it was another hour before Rose joined him. James was deeply engrossed in his crossword and didn’t hear her soft footsteps; he jumped when she linked her arms around his neck and rested her chin on the top of his head.

“Morning,” she murmured, voice gravelly.

“Morning.” He tilted his head up, accepting her kiss.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Mhm. Like a rock. Which is nice, since I slept for maybe four hours last night. Well. Last morning. I didn’t actually try to go to bed until six, and I didn’t really sleep. Just sorta dozed on and off and…”

“You went to bed at six?” Rose interrupted, a frown evident in her voice.

“I was busy,” he said, a little defensively. “Gollum wee’d on my bed and the guest bed, so I had to wash all the sheets and duvets. D’you know how long it takes those things to dry? Oh, by the way, Gollum’s got a UTI. He’s at the vet. I should be able to pick him up today or tomorrow. But I was busy washing all of the blankets and sheets, and then I figured I would vacuum and wash my bathrooms between loads, and then I realized I hadn’t dusted in a while, so I—”

Rose leaned down and silenced him with a swift, hard kiss. His mind went blank as he cupped his hand around the back of her neck to hold her in place. She pulled away too soon for his liking and utterly ignored his pout.

“I love you, but blimey, you need to work on not talkin’ so much before I’ve had my first cuppa tea,” she drawled, ruffling his hair.

She moved away from him to start the kettle and to grab a mug and tea bag. James stood and refilled his mug with his third cup of coffee.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, filling the mug to the brim to finish off the coffee in the pot.

“Not really,” she admitted.

James’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. Was it the mattress?”

Rose blinked. “What? No.”

“Is that mattress too firm?”

“No, it…”

“Do you like the mattress in my bedroom? I was thinking this morning that I never really considered the type of mattress you like, and if you don’t like what I have we can go shopping together for something you and I can both comfortably sleep on and…”

“Jesus Christ,” Rose muttered under her breath, rubbing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

James abruptly stopped speaking, his ears and cheeks burning. “Er, sorry.”

“Your mattresses are fine,” she said. “If you would’ve let me finish, I was about to say I had weird dreams that kept waking me up. I dreamt Jimmy showed up. In one of the dreams, you and him became best friends…”

“Fat fucking chance,” James blurted, irrationally irritated at his dream self. “Rose you know I would never…”

Rose rolled her eyes. “I know. Didn’t keep my subconscious from dreamin’ about it though. And in another, Jimmy kept shoutin’ at me for the most ridiculous things that I can’t really remember. I didn’t want to keep dreaming about him, so I figured I’d get up and we could start painting your bedroom.”

James stepped up to her, arms outstretched for a hug, if she wanted it. She did, and tucked her head beneath his chin, linking her arms around his hips.

“I haven’t responded to Jimmy yet,” she said quietly. “I didn’t tell him I got his letter. I don’t know what to say to him. Or if I even should say anything.”

James gave her a tight squeeze. He wanted to tell her to block his number and burn his letter, but ultimately the decision was hers. He would simply be there for comfort and support, a shoulder to lean on, an ear to vent to.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “So proud. I’ll be here for you no matter what.”

She tightened her hold around him, nearly clinging to him and ignoring the beeping of the kettle.

“Thanks.” She sighed and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “I’m gonna make an effort to tell you when I talk to Jimmy. If I talk to him.”

James ran his fingers through her hair. “I’ll be here to listen when you’re ready.” He kissed her gently. “Can I make you some tea and toast?”

She nodded and loosened her arms from around his hips, then allowed herself to be guided to an empty kitchen chair.

They ate a meager breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs while they sipped their respective hot beverages. When they’d finished eating and their plates and mugs were in the sink, James led Rose to the guest bedroom and found some old, ratty clothes she could borrow. He donned the shorts and paint-splattered t-shirt he’d worn the day before, and gave Rose a pair of mesh shorts and a frayed, stained t-shirt he often wore to do yard work.

“Right! Ready to get painty?” he crowed, clapping his hands together,

Rose giggled and nodded, but paused and asked, “Are Merry and Pippin gonna get in our way?”

“Locked ‘em in the basement,” he assured. As though to alert the world of his displeasure, Pippin began meowing very loudly from the basement door.

Ignoring his wailing cat, James took his phone with him in case the vet called, then he walked down the hall and flung open his bedroom door. The paint smell had dissipated somewhat overnight, and to his delight, all the walls looked dry enough for a second coat of paint.

They took a few minutes to discuss a plan of attack, wherein it was decided James would put the second coat on the ceiling while Rose started on the walls. That was how the next few hours passed, with James climbing up and down the ladder and working around Rose.

When the ceiling was completed, James opened up the can of glossy white paint to get started on the crown molding. Rose had finished two of the four walls, and they looked beautiful; the paint was even, with no brush or roller marks left behind.

His legs and core were getting sore from balancing on the ladder, and he wanted to say sod it to the crown molding. But he hadn’t been particularly careful when applying the paint to his walls and ceiling; as a result, the trim work was speckled with blue-gray paint. With a sigh, James dipped one of his smaller brushes and began the arduous, painstaking task of painting the trim around the ceiling.

After about an hour of scaling up and down the ladder, of reaching up and out to apply the paint, his back and shoulders were nearly burning with exertion. While he wanted nothing more than to stop for the day, he was eager to have this damn project finished. He was tired of his house smelling like paint and of needing to keep his poor cats sequestered in the basement.

He climbed down the ladder and returned the lid to the paint can, figuring they were due for a lunch break. With a groan, James leaned down and touched his toes, twisting slightly. It crackled like a bag of crisps. He exhaled as he straightened, then lifted his arms up and over his head. His back popped loudly, spreading relief through his entire spine.

“God that felt good,” he sighed, raking his hands through his hair. It felt a little damp with supposed perspiration.

“You’re covered in paint.”

James glanced over to where Rose was working the paint roller up and down the walls to apply a clean, even coat. His focus narrowed to the flex of her shoulders, visible even through the over-large t-shirt she was wearing. His mind’s eye could easily see the soft, smooth expanse of her back, the jut of her shoulder blades, the flesh on either side of the valley of her spine, the subtle dimples that peeked just above the waistband of her trousers. His fingers itched to push her shirt up, to map out her back and her belly, to press himself against her and kiss the side of her neck and her shoulder and…

He forgot she had spoken until she glanced over her shoulder at him expectantly.

He cleared his throat. “Well, you’re one to talk. You’re covered in paint too.” She’d pulled her hair up into a messy bun at the beginning of their venture, and several strands had escaped over the course of the morning, billowing around her face. Small streaks of paint adorned her forehead and cheeks from where she no doubt impatiently pushed her hair aside. “Besides, we’re painting. By default, that means we’re going to end up covered in it.”

Rose grinned, her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth. His stomach gave a funny little lurch, and he wanted to chase her tongue with his.

“Your hair is practically white,” she teased.

“No, it’s not,” he said, rolling his eyes fondly. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Oh yeah?” she challenged. “Look at your hands.”

He blinked at her, then glanced down. To his horror, he saw that most of his right palm was coated in paint. He looked to the ladder: the brush he’d been using had wet, sticky paint all along the handle.

“Oh, no,” he moaned. He raced into his en suite and saw that Rose was right: paint was streaked and clumped in with his hair.

He groaned.

“Told ya.”

Rose stood behind him and linked her arms loosely around his middle. She rested her palms on his stomach and began to rub long, lazy lines up and down his torso. Goosebumps rippled across his skin and he tried to keep himself from shuddering at her touch.

“You ought to be more careful about where you set your brush,” she murmured, stretching onto her tiptoes to plant a kiss to the nape of his neck, right above his shirt collar. “Want some help washing it out?”

“My beautiful hair,” he whined, mostly to hear her laugh.

He succeeded; she giggled and reached up to ruffle his poor, paint-splattered hair. He could feel how stiff it had gotten with paint.

“C’mere.”

Rose dropped her arms from around his middle and skipped into the bedroom for the roll of paper towel they’d been using to try to keep their hands relatively clean. Clearly he had failed in that regard, and his hair had paid the price.

While she did that, James washed his hands, scratching at the dried paint with his nails until his hands were spotless and pink once more. He then angled his head at Rose when she finally joined him in the en suite. But she shook her head and boosted herself up onto the vanity countertop instead. She ripped off a few sheets of paper towels and ran them under warm water to moisten them.

She gestured for him to step closer, and he readily did. He was not expecting, however, for Rose to link her legs around his hips. She hooked her ankles over one another behind his thighs and pulled him even closer. He sucked in a sharp breath as the front of his hips met with hers.

Automatically, he rested his hands on her thighs. Her borrowed shorts had ridden up, and he couldn’t help but touch her bare skin. Her legs tensed, drawing him in, before they relaxed again.

“C’mere,” she repeated, and he leaned into her.

He dropped his head so it was in easier reach for her; his new vantage gave him a teasing view down the front of her shirt, which had gaped low in front as she leaned forward and up. He couldn’t see anything beyond the soft swell of the tops of her breasts and he had the ridiculous urge to rip the front of her shirt open.

Rose sank her fingers into his hair as she began to scrub the damp paper towel through it. He bit his lip as sparks of pleasure shot across his scalp whenever she used her nails to scratch at a particularly stubborn bit of paint.

“God, you really worked it in deep,” Rose muttered, voice an octave lower than normal.

“What can I say? I’m very thorough.” His voice cracked, and he cleared it impatiently.

Rose’s hands gradually stilled in his hair. She set the damp cloth to the side and he took that to mean she had given up on his hair. He lifted his head and met her gaze, as dark and hungry as the desire churning in his gut.

He wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly their lips met, softly at first them more urgently as Rose flung her arms around his neck to pull him closer. Not knowing where to put his hands, he cradled them at her lower back, splaying his palms across her spine. James groaned and shuddered as her tongue slid against his, mapping out the contours of his mouth. She flicked her tongue along the roof of his mouth, then the backs of his teeth, then his upper lip. Next she sucked his lower lip into her mouth and bit it gently, scraping her teeth across it before she released it.

Heat unfurled low in his stomach, twisting and tightening his guts as it concentrated into a steady, dull ache in his groin. He could feel himself getting hard as Rose tightened her legs around his waist, pulling him in, in, in.

God, he wanted her. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her, body, mind, and soul. He wanted to make love with her, to hold her tightly as he pleasured her. He wanted to make her forget all about the heartbreak of the last twenty-four hours and to simply feel.

But after what she’d told him about makeup sex with Jimmy, would she even want to have makeup sex with him? He didn’t know, and so he would be perfectly satisfied to simply lose himself in her kisses for the rest of the afternoon. It would be enough to cradle her in his arms and let their breaths mingle in the same space as they shared kiss after kiss.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Rose mumbled into his mouth, reluctantly pulling away. Her lips were red and slightly swollen, her eyes dark and hooded. He recognized that expression, and his stomach clenched with anticipation.

“Sorry,” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

However, she pressed her hand to his chest. “Wait. Do you want to be doing this?”

“You can’t feel my interest in this?” he drawled, smirking. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but was hard enough that there was no way Rose couldn’t feel it. Even so, he pressed himself lazily into her.

“There’s a difference in you wanting it versus your body reacting to it,” Rose said with a shrug. “If you’re not into this…”

“I am,” he promised. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to share with her what had been going on in his head. “I was just wondering if maybe you weren’t. What you said yesterday about makeup sex with Jimmy…”

He trailed off with a small shrug. Rose’s expression softened, and she leaned forward to press a gentle, brief kiss to his mouth.

“We used to have angry sex instead of talking,” she said. “You and I spent an hour last night talking things out and apologizing. You opened yourself up to me and made me feel comfortable to open myself to you. You let me know how I hurt you without raising your voice, calling me any rude names, or swearing at me. And you let me tell you how you hurt me without getting all defensive or dismissive about it.”

James’s blood began to boil as his hatred of Jimmy Stone was rekindled. He pushed it aside, however, to stay in this moment with Rose. Jimmy didn’t get to take up space between him and Rose, especially when they were sharing such intimacy together.

“That’s what I want from a relationship,” Rose concluded. “And now I would like to make love with my best friend because I want to make him feel good and show him how much I love him. And I want to forget about anything else because nothing else will ever be more important than him and me and what we share together.”

James’s chest tightened and he swore he had never and would never love anyone more than he loved Rose. He covered her lips in a frantic, hungry kiss, feeling as though he couldn’t get close enough to her. She moaned into his mouth and slipped her hands beneath his shirt, mapping out the planes of his stomach, his obliques, his chest. He shivered at her touch, nerves sparking.

He stuck one of his hands under her shirt, walking it up to her breast, while his other dipped into the front of her borrowed shorts. They were loose, giving him plenty of room to work. He groaned when his fingers met with her wet heat.

“Got hot and bothered watchin’ you,” she gasped as his fingers teased her, tracing long, slow lines through her. “Was gonna snog you on the ladder but figured that probably wouldn’t end well. Don’t really want you breaking your back falling off the ladder ‘cos I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.”

James snorted lightly. “I was getting distracted watching you too. I love seeing you in my clothes.”

“Good thing I like wearing your clothes. God.” She hissed when his fingers circled that wonderfully sensitive bundle of nerves. Her hips arched into him, urging him on.

He eagerly complied, keeping his touch light and unhurried, relishing the variety of sounds she made. From the low moans to sharp inhalations, the noises she let out tightened the coil in his belly. He was so hard and desperate to rub against something, or to shift aside their clothes and enter her. But he also wanted to continue pleasuring her, so he worked to ignore the demands of his body.

Rose, however, was as in tune with his body as he was, and must have sensed how tense he’d become. She stuck a hand down the front of his shorts and wrapped her fingers around his hard length. He groaned at the sensation, at the friction of her hand moving lazily up and down. Her rhythm was as slow as his, mirroring the motion of his fingers against her.

All the while, James kissed her. Their kisses grew clumsier as their breathing turned ragged. He gave up on kissing her and instead lavished attention to the side of her neck, concentrating his efforts on the sensitive skin beneath her ear and where her neck joined her shoulder.

“Rose, I want you,” he rasped, his belly clenching impatiently. “I want to be inside you. Let me make love to you. Let me make you feel good.”

She let out a whimper, her fingers tightening around him. He arched his hips greedily, urging her to continue even as he fumbled with the best way to shift her clothes.

Sensing his deliberation, she reluctantly took her hand out of his pants. She moved them to the edge of the vanity on either side of her hips.

“Here,” she panted.

She unhooked her legs from around his waist, then tightened her abdominal muscles and arms as she lifted her bum off the counter. Wasting no time, James hooked his fingers in the waistband of her shorts, grabbing them and her knickers. He slipped them down her hips and thighs in one smooth motion. She impatiently wiggled her legs, helping him remove her cumbersome clothes, before he finally got them free of her feet. He threw them to the floor, then made to drop to his knees in front of her.

“No,” she said, grabbing the front of his shirt to halt his movements.

He blinked. She loved oral, just as he liked giving it. “But…”

“Later.”

“Promise?” he asked with a pout.

She grinned. “You can go down on me for as long as you like later. But for now…” She cupped her hand around his erection through his shorts, stroking him slowly. He shuddered as his breath escaped him in a low groan. “I want you inside me. Right now.”

Carefully, she lowered his shorts to free his erection. He worked them all the way down his legs and kicked them off behind him. He next grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. Rose scrabbled with her shirt as well. She threw it to the floor, then reached behind herself to unclasp her bra.

The heat in James’s belly tightened as her breasts were revealed. In his (totally unbiased) opinion, they were the most beautiful pair of beasts in the world.

Now that they were both naked, it dawned on James that there were far comfier places to do this.

“Let’s move to a bed, love,” he said, even though it was so, so tempting to stay right as they were. It would be easy to step between Rose’s legs and push himself into her wet heat; it would feel incredible, being surrounded by her, making her moan, feeling her clenching and throbbing around him.

He shuddered violently as his need spiked, but Rose was already hopping down from the vanity countertop in all of her naked glory. He couldn’t help but catch her in his arms and kiss her. He hissed when his erection pressed to her hip. He grabbed her arse and pulled her into him.

“Y’know, standing-up sex is much more difficult and uncomfortable than countertop sex,” Rose drawled, though her words died on a gasp when he covered her breast with his mouth. He flicked his tongue against her nipple and scraped his teeth across it.

It became too awkward to keep his neck bent like that, so he instead replaced his mouth with his hand and moved his lips to the side of her neck.

“You are utterly irresistible,” he breathed, repositioning his hips so his erection was stimulating her as well. He flexed and arched his into her, ignoring that primal urge to enter her, to make hard and fast love with her.

“Counter’s right there,” she sighed, threading her fingers through his hair and hooking a leg around his waist.

Oh, God, that was the angle he needed. On his next forward grind, the tip of his cock slipped through her folds, teasing him with a hint of heightened pleasure. Fire blazed through him, a desperate, aching, burning heat as his body exploded with sensations.

He thought he would never again get to do this with her, yet here he was, mere seconds from joining with her in that most intimate way that belonged just to them. She was the only one he would ever share this with, the only one he wanted to share this with.

“Rose,” he gasped helplessly, grinding into her harder and faster.

Raw desire overwhelmed him, and he could hardly do anything but cling to her.

“Bed.”

Rose lowered her leg from around him, causing him to slip away from her. He grunted in displeasure as his cock was met with the cooler air of the en suite.

A small, soft hand slipped through his, pulling him into the bedroom. The smell of paint was all around them. Brushes and rollers and paint cans were strewn around the room, but in the center of the room was a beautiful, glorious, comfortable bed. It was covered in a protective cloth canvas, but it would be a simple matter to shift the canvas aside.

Rose, evidently, had the same idea. She grabbed the edge of the canvas and shoved it to the foot of the bed, leaving them enough space to crawl onto the mattress.

They moved in perfect synchronicity, with Rose settling on her back, legs fallen to the sides, and James hovering atop her, his hips cradled in hers.

Rose wasted no time; she took him in hand, lined him up, and guided him inside of herself. He couldn’t help the soft cry as he was surrounded by her. She echoed his moan, locking her legs around his hips and digging her nails into his shoulder blades.

James began to shake. Hot shivers pricked across his body, and he had the mortifying dread that he was about to come any second. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think about anything other than how good it felt to be inside Rose, how safe and loved he felt, how relieved he was to be making love with the love of his life when, for a long, exhausting, harrowing day, he thought he’d lost her and broken this beautiful life they shared.

It was then that he realized his body had been telling him he was about to start crying. Hot tears slipped down his cheeks, before they were brushed away by gentle hands.

“James.” Rose caressed her thumbs beneath his eyelids, a silent request. He opened his eyes and saw that hers, too, were glistening with tears. “I love you. More than I can say. More than you’ll know. More than I thought I could ever love someone. You are my happy ending, the happy ending I never thought I’d have, and I want to spend the rest of my life loving you and laughing with you and crying with you.”

A choked sob bubbled up his throat and he spared a thought for how ridiculous they must look, lying on a bed in a paint-strewn room, connected as intimately as two people could physically be, and yet they were both crying.

“I love you, Rose,” he answered, voice raw. “Thank you for…” For what? For loving him and letting him love her? For letting him apologize and giving him an apology in return? For being patient, kind, and loving? For making him feel at home for the first time in a long, long time? “For everything.”

She brought his face closer to hers and brushed a ghost of a kiss to his cheeks overtop the tear tracks, then to his lips. She planted kiss after kiss to his lips, gently at first, then more frantic as he slid his arms under her shoulders to hold her closer. Their mouths moved greedily together, falling into a rhythm they each knew well as James began to move atop her.

Rose broke the kiss with a sigh, arching her hips into his. Their kisses grew more sporadic, with James concentrating his efforts on her neck and collarbone. She felt amazing, the slick drag of her tightening muscles around his cock sending frissons of pleasure across his entire body, head to toes.

He gathered her impossibly closer, burying his face into her neck as he breathed her in, her scent overpowering the smell of paint in the room. He was surrounded by her, by her warmth, her body, her love. With every thrust of himself into her, he was being consumed, giving himself willingly to her and receiving all of her in return.

Rose began trembling, clenching around him as her breathing hitched. Shifting his weight and balance, he took one of his arms away from her to slip his hand between their bodies to rub the place they were joined. Her back arched, thrusting into him as she squeezed him tighter, tighter, tighter…

She cried out his name, the sound full of pleasure and relief as she was swept away by the force of her orgasm. Shuddering and shaking, her nails dug hard into his spine as she clung to him. He could feel his own pleasure mounting, feel the urgency building within him as he quickened his pace.

His body was too small to contain the maelstrom brewing inside of him. His lungs constricted, leaving him panting raggedly at her shoulder as he moved within her. Rose had stopped pulsing around him, so he returned his arm to the mattress, bracing himself as he snapped his hips harder and faster, chasing his release.

Rose scraped her nails up and down his back, raising goosebumps across his skin and pulling a low groan from deep in his throat. Fuck, she felt incredible. He never wanted to leave this moment, yet he was desperate to reach his climax, to join her in that overpowering ecstasy.

Her lips were at his ear, her hot breath tickling it deliciously as she whispered, “I love you, James. My James. I love you.”

He cursed and cried out as the tension in his belly flared sharply, then rolled outwards, boiling his blood and leaving pleasure in its wake. He’d never felt so good and was sure nothing else would ever feel as amazing as this, despite the past four months proving to him that making love with Rose would always be addicting and overwhelming.

He was thoroughly exhausted when the tide receded and he slumped bonelessly into Rose. He could hardly catch his breath and he was sure his arms would never stop shaking.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Rose mumbled, sounding as worn out as he felt, “but if makeup sex with you is always going to be that intense, we’re gonna need to find things to argue about at least weekly.”

James snorted, then giggled, before he was full-on belly laughing. Rose was laughing just as hard beneath him, her shoulders shaking as she gasped for breath. His abdominals ached by the time he managed to pull himself together.

“Your hair is still a mess,” Rose said, running her fingers through it.

Shivers prickled across his scalp. He moaned and pressed closer.

“I think a shower is gonna be the only way to get all the paint out,” she continued.

“Mmm. I could use a bit of help. To make sure my hair is utterly paint-free.”

She grinned. “I s’pose I could be persuaded to join you. After all, I might’ve gotten paint in my hair and need someone to check it out for me.”

“See? I’m doing you a huge favor,” he said.

Rose pinched him, then sighed and melted into the mattress and pillows. “We probably ought to get more painting done before we shower though.”

“I dunno about you, but it would take an act of God to move me from this bed right now.”

At that moment, James’s phone began to trill with an incoming call. He grunted in annoyance, unsure where he’d left his phone, and figured whoever was calling couldn’t be more important than his post-coital cuddle with Rose.

“Aren’t you gonna get that?” she asked, trailing her nails lightly up and down his spine.

He huffed. “Unless God is calling, no.”

“It could be the vet,” Rose said as his phone continued to ring. “Didn’t you say Gollum could come home today or tomorrow?”

With a displeased groan, James pushed himself up to his forearms, then carefully rolled off of her. His muscles complained at the movement; his legs barely held his weight as he stumbled around the room, searching for his phone. The call had ended by the time he found it sitting precariously top of the canvas-covered nightstand. Rose had been right: it was the vet. He learned upon listening to the voicemail message that he could pick Gollum up any time that afternoon before six o’clock.

“Let’s shower then fetch him,” Rose suggested. “We got a lot done today and can finish up tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

James was sure he would be even sorer tomorrow, but he absolutely did not want to do any more painting today. He enthusiastically agreed, and then waggled his eyebrows and said, “Shower time?”

Rose rolled her eyes but a small smile crossed her lips. She shifted off of the bed, looking as stiff as he felt; hopefully the warm water would help loosen their muscles.

James should have known it would be impossible for their shared shower to be purely functional. As they washed themselves and helped each other scrub off stubborn flecks of paint, they found any excuse to stand closer than necessary. Their damp, soapy bodies rubbed together deliciously and James couldn’t help but trail wet kisses across her skin as his body thrummed with renewed desire. When Rose shampooed his hair and dug her nails deep into his scalp to scrape away all of the paint, James thought he was going to combust on the spot. All of his blood pulsed into his cock with dizzying intensity; by the time Rose rinsed the suds from his hair, he was grinding himself firmly into her hip.

“Again?” she asked with a smirk.

“Please,” he rasped. “I want you.”

“Shower sex requires more balance and strength than I currently have,” she said, sliding her palm down his belly to take him in hand. “But I can think of something else I can do with this.”

With that, she dropped to her knees before him and wasted no time in slotting her mouth over him. Pleasure sparked up his spine and goosebumps prickled across his skin despite standing beneath the warm spray of water. Her tongue drummed across his cock while her hand stroked the base of him.

She built him up with a steady rhythm, and James let himself be lost in her ministrations, for once unbothered that he wasn’t going to last very long. He couldn’t bring himself to care, not when the friction of her hand and the suction of her mouth felt so bloody good.

He grunted out a warning when the heat in his belly coiled in on itself. Smirking, she took her mouth off of him and pumped her hand harder and faster down his cock. She arched her chest closer, the overhead lights shimmering off her wet, flushed skin as the head of his cock brushed the swell of her breasts, and oh God, he was done for.

The tension unsnapped in a sharp wave of pleasure and relief that left him moaning and curling his toes into the wet, textured floor of his shower. He thrust into the sensations rocking through his body as her hand continued moving on him, drawing out his orgasm for as long as she could.

He cursed when his ears stopped roaring and his head stopped swimming. Rose was still crouched in front of him, evidence of his pleasure spattered across her breasts as she lazily stroked his softening cock. He shivered.

“Thanks,” he croaked a bit stupidly.

She grinned. “My pleasure.”

“Pretty sure the pleasure was all mine, actually.” He helped haul her to her feet, and he crashed his mouth to hers. Between kisses, he murmured, “That felt incredible. Thank you.”

“I love doing that to you,” she replied, sighing when he tilted her head back to kiss her neck.

“Looks like you got all covered in paint again,” he drawled, trailing his fingertips across her breasts.

“Really? That’s your line?” she snorted.

He pouted. “What’s wrong with my line? That was a brilliant line.”

She simply rolled her eyes, but another smile tugged at her lips. “That was a terrible line and so cheesy and so dorky.” Before he could splutter out a rebuttal, she kissed him and said, “But you’re my cheesy dork.”

His blood warmed and he hummed, his body overflowing with love and appreciation for her. He kissed her softly and whispered, “Since I got you messy, it’s only fair that I wash it all off.”

“Hmmm?”

James trailed his fingers up and down her sides, from her breasts to her hips, in long, slow strokes. Her nipples pebbled and tightened so invitingly, and he couldn’t keep himself from taking one into his mouth. She arched into his touch, fisting her fingers through his hair to hold him in place. As if he would ever want to move.

Time ceased to mean anything as he lavished attention to her breasts, letting his tongue and the spray of the shower rinse her chest clean. Her breathing turned ragged the longer he allowed his teeth and tongue to tease her nipples and the curve of her breasts. When his back and neck grew too sore to remain hunched as he was, he dropped to his knees before her and gave the same attention to her hips and lower belly.

She thrust closer to his touch, trying to get him where she wanted him, but he smiled to himself and grabbed her hips, halting their impatient movements.

“James,” she whined, tugging at his hair. “I didn’t make you wait.”

“As I recall, earlier you told me, and I quote, You can go down on me for as long as you like later. It’s later, isn’t it? And I am nowhere near satisfied yet.”

“James, please,” she begged, and fuck, if she didn’t know what that did to him.

He shivered and tried to continue kissing her hips and thighs, but he was desperate to taste her, to hear her sounds of pleasure.

“C’mere.” He tapped one of her legs, encouraging her to drape it over his shoulder. “I won’t let you fall.”

Rose obeyed, bracing her back on the shower wall for balance and leverage. She gripped his hair tightly with one hand while her other shot to the washcloth holder. Her knuckles went white from how hard she clung to it.

“Relax,” he breathed, planting barely-there kisses right above where he knew she wanted him.

She growled in frustration and arched into him. He caressed her leg, then finally lowered his mouth and lick a long, slow line through her folds. She cursed and squeezed his hair, before loosening her hold.

He feasted on her as though he were a starving man. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t taste enough of her. Her urgent moans spurred him on, and he redoubled his efforts.

“James. I’m gonna…”

He hummed into her, loving her sharp cry as she trembled apart around him. Her thighs shook and he made sure to brace himself to take on more of her weight in case she lost her balance. Rose dug her heel into his spine, pressing him closer to her as she sighed his name and a string of curses.

Many long moments later, Rose shakily unhooked her leg from his shoulder and urged him to his feet. He held her to him trailing his fingers up and down her spine as she worked to slow her breathing.

“I love you,” she mumbled, face buried in the side of his neck. “You are so good at that.”

He puffed up with pride. “You deserve nothing less. Besides, I love doing that to you. Though I’m miffed you wouldn’t let me go on for longer.”

As though to contradict him, their hot water turned lukewarm, then went suddenly frigid. James, who had his back to the spray, yelped and leapt out of the water’s path, knocking Rose into the wall.

“Christ that’s cold!”

Rose cackled and ruffled his wet hair before she reached around him and turned the water off. “See. It’s a good thing I didn’t let you carry on. I would’ve been furious if a jet of cold water interrupted that.”

James sighed, then grudgingly stepped away from Rose to exit the shower.

“Dunno about you, but I’m starving,” Rose said while they towel dried themselves.

“Worked up quite an appetite, did you?” he asked, winking.

“Nah, I think it’s just ‘cos it’s way past lunch time,” she replied sweetly.

When they were dried and dressed once more, they exited the bedroom and closed the door behind them, then released Merry and Pippin from the basement.

They inhaled a quick lunch of turkey sandwiches and sour cream and cheddar crisps, with half of a cupcake for dessert. As James cut the cupcake in half—horizontally between “happy” and “birthday”—he remembered the gift he’d had stashed away in his backpack all month long.

“Oh, bugger,” he muttered to himself, ignoring Rose’s look of confusion as he abruptly dropped the knife and rushed to the front door where his bag hung from a peg on the coat rack.

He rifled through it until he found the thin, rectangular velvet box. He had nearly decided on a thicker square box until he realized the box looked like it might hold a ring, and he hadn’t wanted to send mixed messages. If—when, he thought hopefully—he proposed to Rose, he wanted that to be the first and only time she thought a proposal was coming. He didn’t want to tease it in front of her without following through.

Necklace box in tow, he returned to Rose and held it out to her. “Happy birthday. I’ve been carrying it around all month to give to you whenever you told me it was your birthday. It slipped my mind last night.”

Rose’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink as she accepted the box from him with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and a brief kiss. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked on his toes and heels as she took the lid off of the box.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she breathed, running her fingertips delicately across the silver chain and pendant. She looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you. I love it.”

He exhaled in relief; he hadn’t been sure what her response would be, since she had an aversion to gifts. But he’d seen the infinity heart design and hadn’t been able to resist.

Rose must have noticed his reaction, and she smiled sheepishly. “I’m trying to be better about accepting gifts. Especially since you enjoy giving them. I really love it, James. Thank you. Will you put it on me?”

She took the necklace out of the box and handed it to him. He draped it around her neck then clasped it, brushing a kiss to her nape to sign off on a job well done.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, unable to resist kissing her again.

She hummed and melted into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He leaned forward to press a kiss to her lips as she said, “Let’s finish lunch then we can collect Gollum.”

“I’d rather continue kissing you,” he countered, leaving kisses along the side of her neck.

“We can keep kissing when we get home,” she answered, though with how she threaded her fingers through his hair, she was in no rush to put an end to their activities either.

“Or… we can kiss now.”

Rose breathed out a laugh. “You should be a responsible pet owner. Let’s fetch Gollum, then when we get back, we can snog on the couch for the rest of the night.”

“Hmmm, you drive a hard bargain.” He planted a final kiss to the patch of skin right below her ear, enjoying her slight shudder, then pulled away to guide her to the kitchen and their shared, halved cupcake.

#ficandchips #doctorroseprompts #dwfic #doctor who #ten x rose #ten x rose au #james x rose #university au #romance #lemons #my fic #chemical reaction #catalysis series #chemical potential sequel

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brycelahelas · 5 years ago

Text

take care

rating: mature

book: open heart

summary: God. God. It was a bad idea going here. You want nothing more than to head to the bathroom and crawl out the window and just fucking run wherever the hell your legs take you. You want to run until the ache in your legs makes you forget all of your memories tainted with Rafael, until your lungs constrict to the point that you forget what it felt like to have Rafael’s lips on yours.

Maybe Landry had it right. Maybe emotions do hold us back. And maybe that’s your fatal flaw: you feel and care and love too much to the point that it bites you in the ass. It always did, in the end.

word count: 8000+

notes: THIS TOOK SO LONG FOR NO REASON....literally took me four weeks to complete bc i cannot finish anything in a timely manner. but i hope you all enjoy this 8k+ piece. i love to see interaction so pls reblog and like if you enjoyed! and let me know what you think of it! you can also read this on ao3 here.

dedicated to my lover my wife my shawty my life miss jade... happy birthday!!!

tagging: @zadiechoi @zigtheeortega @senatorraines @bigtoughswordboy (if you would like to be added to the list let me know!)

Of all the emotions you could be feeling right now, you find that, at the core of it all, you feel nothing.

This feeling isn’t indifference. Because if it were, you wouldn’t have this ache reverberating all over your body. And although you have a heightened sense of the blood coursing through your veins, of your heart pulsating against your chest, you bite your tongue, shake Sora’s hand, and say nothing when she kisses Rafael goodbye.

When she leaves, you look him in the eyes, sharply inhaling as you struggle to say, “You two are cute together.”

“You think so?” he answers, careful with his words as he eyes Bryce warily. When Bryce gets the message and leaves to greet Ethan, Rafael looks at you once again, eyes almost apologetic. You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you two and the tension that has settled in the air. As he moves closer towards you, you instinctively step forward, but upon realizing what you’re doing, you move back, away from the arms that you know so well, away from the man who once loved you.

He notices this and frowns, only slightly. “Listen,” he starts, voice so low you could mistake it for silence. “About us...I want you to know I still—”

You raise your hand, cutting him off. With your eyes squeezed shut, you take slow breaths and hope that the tears would go away if you didn’t look at him anymore. “Don’t worry, Raf,” you say softly, defeat resound in your voice. “You don’t owe me an explanation. I get it. She’s your childhood sweetheart.”

Just as you turn away from him to go into the hospital, you hear him say, tone just above a whisper, “...Okay.”

The defeat in his voice sounds exactly as it did in yours.

“Are you okay?”

You’ve never heard Esme sound so panicked. As you snap out of your daze, you find that you’ve been standing next to a patient, hands shaking as you hold a needle next to a protruding vein. Thankfully, the patient’s eyes are squeezed shut, looking away in hopes that you would insert their IV quickly.

You insert it in one fluid movement, leaving the plastic tube in and pulling the needle out. Once you let the nurses take over, you grab your clipboard and walk out of the room with Esme trailing close behind you.

“How long was I just standing there?” you finally say once you both enter the elevator and you press the button for the ICU. The silence is palpable, as it usually is with Esme, but her eyes betray a sense of concern.

“Too long,” she answers. “Look, really, are you okay? You’ve been out of it all day.”

“I’m fine,” you say, although visibly the opposite. Esme, being Esme, doesn’t push further.

Silent devastation.

Nothing comes close to accurately describing how you feel about this Rafael situation, but that’s what you settle on. There are no painkillers strong enough to dull the ache in your heart, no way of relieving you from the reality that Rafael isn’t yours anymore. But you live with it, day by day, and it’s apparently starting to show.

After shift change, Bryce bumps into you in the atrium and announces that it’s a Donahue’s night. “My treat,” he tells you, smiling wide as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. “You need it. And you can’t say no because it’s doctor’s orders.”

That elicits a small chuckle from you. “And if I do end up saying no?”

“Then you’ll have to sign an AMA form. But, as you know, it’s not recommended to go against medical advice.”

“Well, I guess I have no choice,” you tell him, grinning softly. “To Donahue’s it is.”

He flashes you that thousand kilowatt smile again and steers you out of Edenbrook and into Donahue’s.

On Fridays, Reggie always makes sure to decorate Donahue’s in a specific theme. Tonight is Samba Night, according to the flyer by the door. Mainly Edenbrook employees crowd Donahue’s, but the vibe is jovial as always, with more five dollar margaritas scattered around the place than usual. You spot your friends in their usual booth, joined by a few of the interns, and they wave you over excitedly.

“Over here!” Sienna calls out as she spots you and Bryce at the entrance. She’s sidled up next to Danny but makes space for you to sit next to her.

As you settle into your seat, all your friends suddenly blast you with questions about your day. How was your shift? Did you have any codes? Did you hear about the rapid response in ICU? Did you hear about the code grey in ED? It’s a dizzying array of questions, and something feels off about it, as if they’re saying so many things at once to startle you. You don’t realize what it is they’re doing until you follow Sienna’s line of sight.

When Rafael walks in with his arm around Sora’s waist, you fall incredibly still. Beside you, Jackie scoffs.

“What is he thinking bringing her here? God, I’m gonna need another shot.”

“I’m right there with you,” you say, suddenly feeling a heaviness in your chest. You turn sharply towards Bryce. “Bryce? Your treat, right?”

Bryce looks at you worriedly but stands right away. “On it,” he says and heads towards the bar.

God. God. It was a bad idea going here. You want nothing more than to head to the bathroom and crawl out the window and just fucking run wherever the hell your legs take you. You want to run until the ache in your legs makes you forget all of your memories tainted with Rafael, until your lungs constrict to the point that you forget what it felt like to have Rafael’s lips on yours.

Either way, you couldn’t bring yourself to care anymore. Rafael made his choice, and it wasn't you. Fucking deal with it. Huffing, you grab Elijah’s margarita (much to his dismay) and down it all in a few sips. You needed all the alcohol you can get in your system in order to survive the inevitable interaction between you and Sora and Rafael. Dr. Yoeun, Elijah’s intern, watches with wide eyes as you slam the completely empty glass on the table.

It’s Sora who spots you first. Eyes bright and lips pulled into a smile, she basically drags Rafael to your table in order to greet you. You feel yourself tense up as the both of them get to your table, but you feel a hand slip into yours and squeeze. It’s a presence that feels reassuring and familiar. As you look down and realize it’s Sienna’s hand, you can’t help but smile at the interaction and squeeze her hand back.

“Hey! Long time no see!” Sora says, diving into your arms and wrapping you in a tight hug. With your free hand, you give her a soft pat on the back, and she pulls away, grinning. “This is such a nice bar! I’ve never been here before.”

Rafael pipes up from next to her, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I just got off a shift and wanted to show her Donahue’s. Hope that’s okay.”

“Come on, Raf, you know we don’t own Donahue’s!” Elijah jokes. His tone offsets the tension at the table, which helps Rafael ease up a bit. “You’re welcome here anytime. You don’t need our permission.”

Rafael nods, looking away from the table. “Well,” he finally says, exhaling a bated breath, “I hope you guys have a good one.” Sora quickly waves goodbye, and the two head off to another part of the bar, most likely in an effort to avoid you.

When Bryce returns to the table with the drinks, you immediately down your whole shot. And another. Then another. It’s probably a good thing that you’re off tomorrow because tonight you’re just going to drink to your heart’s content and cease to think.

The thing is, you can’t bring yourself to hate Sora. She always leaves nice comments on your Instagram posts, and she always makes it a point to greet you whenever you run into each other at Donahue’s. There isn’t anything to hate besides the fact that she’s your ex’s new girlfriend. (Or is it old girlfriend? New-old girlfriend? Rekindled flame?)

Well, whatever she is to Rafael, she’s nice to you. And she’s wonderful to him, which is all you can ask for, really. No matter how desperately you want to hate her, you can’t. She’s given you no reason to.

There you go again. Feeling and caring and loving too much. It really will be the death of you.

You don’t see Rafael for a few months after that. At this point, it isn’t him avoiding you; it’s just that your jobs don’t make you cross paths, as is expected. Whatever Rafael-sized ache you had in your heart is gone. It’s just the thought of what could have been that bothers you occasionally.

And you do think of him, occasionally. It’s hard not to. You’re always wondering how he’s doing—if he’s eating enough, if he’s sleeping well, if he’s staying safe. Rafael’s always been such a selfless person, someone who lives by the philosophy that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. That worries you. For someone who is always taking care of other people, he doesn’t take quite good care of himself, and one day that’s going to bite him in the ass.

Well, in any case, it’s out of your hands now. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You have your own patients to deal with and a grizzled senior resident to report to.

A low, menacing voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “You.”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. When you turn around, you see Zaid beckoning you towards him. “Emergency Department. Now.”

As you fall into step with Zaid, rushing towards the Emergency Department, you ask, “What’s the situation down there? Do we have to run triage?”

“Not necessarily,” he answers. “It’s just high census there right now. Lots of virus scares, among other things. The ED physicians are getting overwhelmed so they enlisted our help.”

You nod silently. You were never too fond of the Emergency Department as an intern. Too much panic and frenzy down there with not enough space to think. You worked better on floors like the ICU or Medical Surgical, where you can take time to actually speak to the patients and work on a diagnosis. At the very least, the ED presented a challenge to you that could potentially be useful in building your diagnostician skills.

When you step through the doors of the ED, you see what Zaid means about high census. All the rooms, including the overflow beds, are filled with people, and every room presents a different case. While you definitely wanted to start in the rooms whose patients likely had an infectious disease, your eyes are drawn to an overflow patient who is wearing a very familiar paramedic uniform. As you draw closer to the patient, your walk quickly turns into a sprint when your suspicions about who it is are confirmed.

“Rafael, what happened?” you ask him, panicked. He’s clutching his side, face grimacing in pain. When you inspect him closer, you see that blood has seeped into his blue uniform.

A nurse approaches the two of you with the suture cart and stops right beside you. “The patient got stabbed during a call, but it’s only a surface wound. No pulmonary or great vessel trauma. A suture is needed though.”

The second she finishes, a call light goes off in ED Room 1, and you notice that she eyes it with a sigh. “ED Room 1 is your patient?” you ask her.

“Yes,” she answers. “Sweet old lady. She’s needed water for the past five minutes, but I haven’t been able to get her because of the craziness going on.”

“Go,” you tell her, waving her off. “I’ll take care of this suture for you.”

The nurse thanks you and walks off, leaving you and Rafael alone. After gathering your supplies for the suture, you sit next to him, aseptically clean the area, and get to work. Neither of you say anything until you rub numbing cream around the stab wound. It’s then that he lets out a hiss.

“You need to stop getting yourself into these situations, Raf,” you murmur softly as you finish the preparations for the suture. When you move to change your gloves, you hear a soft, restrained laugh coming from him.

“You, of all people, should know that I can’t do that,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes as you proceed to prepare the needle. “It’s my job to protect people—to rescue people. I’ll keep getting into these situations if it means I save someone’s life.”

“And if it costs your own?”

He answers without hesitation. “Then so be it.”

“We’re stitching in three...two...one...” You enter the needle into his skin, but he doesn’t react due to the numbing cream effectively desensitizing the area. As you stitch his wound together, you say, “Well, for now, let’s make sure you keep yourself safe, okay? You can’t exactly help people if your body is banged up like this.”

He laughs, this time a bit louder, that sound of familiarity returning to his voice. “It sounds like someone’s worried about me.”

Without missing a beat, you answer softly, “You know I am. I always am.”

It’s the first time you’re really seeing him in months, and he is beautiful. His hair has grown a little longer now, with curly brown wisps covering the nape of his neck. But besides that, he looks the exact same. When your eyes meet, it’s difficult for you to look away, but you find that it’s the same for him

“How...how have you been?” he asks you, snapping out of a daze. He gets up with significant effort but manages to sit upright to look at you properly. “It’s been a few months.”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “You know I’m always busy. No new stories to tell.”

He smiles that goddamn smile that made you fall for him all those months ago. It’s just as soft as you remember. But as you admire him, that small voice in your head just repeats over and over that he didn’t choose you, he chose Sora, and suddenly you’re the first look away.

As you put away the items you used to stitch Rafael up, your mouth seems to run faster than your brain, and you blurt out, “How’s Sora?”

Rafael looks confused. And rightfully so. You don’t even know why you asked that question when you weren’t prepared to hear the answer.

“She’s fine,” he answers, mindlessly. “At least, last time I saw her she was.”

“...last time you saw her?”

“Yeah. We’ve been broken up for a while now.”

“Broken up,” you echo. The words sound so bittersweet in your mouth. “What happened?”

He looks you straight in the eyes, thoughtfully regarding you for a second. “A certain doctor was always on my mind,” he answers nonchalantly. “And it wasn’t fair for Sora to stay in a relationship with me if I obviously liked someone else.”

Wait. “Wait. Hold on. What?” you sputter, watching him as he attempts to stand up.

“Huh, good job on these stitches,” he says, admiring your handiwork. “They’ll heal up nicely.”

“Rafael,” you say exasperatedly, but he holds his hand up to silence you.

“Considering the amount of patients you have, it might not be the best time to have this conversation,” he answers you, a mischievous grin on his face. “Let’s expand on this during dinner tonight.”

Dinner? With him? Tonight? Holy fuck, everything is moving so fast that you’re overwhelmed. Before he leaves, he pauses next to your shell shocked body and leans in, placing a soft kiss on your cheek. “It’s great to see you again.”

And he leaves. Just like that. As you watch him walk out of the Emergency Department and link up with his other paramedic buddies, you stand still in the spot he left you, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. In your periphery, Zaid’s shrill whistle alerts you to his presence, and he marches his way towards you in his usual Zaid way—overzealously angry.

“What the hell are you doing just standing there? Get that suture cart out of the way and get in ED 5!”

It isn’t until Zaid basically bulldozes you into a patient’s room that you remember you still have a job to do. As he grits his teeth at you, he grunts, “Why are you so smiley all of a sudden?”

You don’t answer, instead logging into the computer to pull up the patient’s chart. As Zaid sighs heavily and gets on with his initial assessment of the patient, you see your reflection in the screen and find that you can’t bite back your smile, no matter how hard you try.

Whenever you’re tangled in Rafael’s arms, you wrap your hand around his curls and just memorize. You memorize the way he feels so that there’s never a chance you’ll forget. The way his hair feels under your fingertips, the musky notes of his scent, the corded muscles on his back—everything, anything, you touch and feel and memorize.

After all, you lost him once, and once was enough for you to learn your lesson. Now, every time Rafael finds himself in your arms, you take in his warmth, his curls, his lips, his eyes, his touch. Clinging onto him as if he’ll go away one day, as if he’ll disappear despite his promises of forever.

Forever isn’t guaranteed. You’re a doctor. You know this. In all your years working in the hospital, from the very first time you set foot in one as a high school volunteer, you’ve seen enough death and destruction and despair to know that life is finite. But you’ll believe Rafael anyway, foolishly. A more rational person would question this way of thinking because it’s stupid, perhaps even irresponsible, for you to hold Rafael’s promises to such high standards.

But your mother once told you that if two people were meant to be, the universe will let it happen. And the universe, for all your faults and flaws, gave you a second chance with Rafael. While you’d like to believe that he is your forever, you definitely aren’t going to take your chances. For now, you memorize and memorize.

Rinse and repeat.

Since the moment you two got back together, officially, Rafael has made it a habit to bring you to the street market near his neighborhood at least once a week.

He says it’s a tradition at this point. The amount of times you beg him to bring you back to your favorite taco place, just so you can buy yourself your favorite carne asada taco as a treat, almost warrants the street market becoming a tradition for you two. Not that you’re complaining about it at all. Any excuse to get your hands on a soft, doughy flour tortilla filled to the brim with carne asada and cebolla y cilantro makes you a happy camper.

Today is no different. After rounding the market to see what each vendor has, you two decide on what to get: unsurprisingly, three carne asada tacos for you, and two chicken tamales for him. He likes the way this vendor makes their masa, and you like the way they make their salsa verde. So, not so secretly, you stash four sauce containers of it while he orders, just so you have enough to completely douse your tacos and his tamales.

“Maybe you should get a fifth cup,” Rafael says, voice oozing with faux concern. “I’m sure Delia didn’t notice you taking her entire stash of salsa verde.”

You give him a pointed look. “If Delia didn’t want me to take her entire stash, maybe she shouldn’t have made it so good? Checkmate, Aveiro.”

“Touché,” he says as you two take a seat at one of the empty tables near the tamale stand. Taking the lid off the container, you excitedly drench your tacos in salsa verde, the green sheen of it reflecting against the fluorescent lights above you. Nothing in the world is more mouthwatering than these tacos. Doesn’t matter if you see them every week. You’d eat them every day if you could, and you just know you won’t get sick of them. Rafael’s eyes crinkle as he laughs, and he coats his own food with the salsa. “God, you really love Delia’s salsa, huh?”

“More than anything,” you answer quickly. “Even you. I’m sorry, babe.”

“Guess we’ll have to ask Delia to cater our wedding, huh?”

“Oh my god, can we really?” you ask, taking a bite out of your food. “Man! Have her work with Oscar from the taco stand because these two together are just perfection. Absolute perfection. I don’t care if the people who come to our wedding hate tacos. They’re going to eat tacos. Period.”

Rafael looks at you thoughtfully, with so much affection in his eyes that you can feel butterflies in your stomach. It almost makes you stop eating. Almost. But your food tastes too good, and you’re too hungry to stop, and it doesn’t matter how he looks at you. You’re digging in.

By the time you finish with your first taco, he still hasn’t touched his food. You quirk your eyebrow and ask him, “Why are you just staring at me? Not hungry?”

“What if we got married? For real?”

He asks it so suddenly that you’re caught incredibly off guard. You make a choked sound, almost spilling the salsa verde all over your clothes.

��W...what?” you ask him, embarrassed at the way you reacted, wiping away the sliver of salsa drooling from your mouth. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to get married. In fact, you’ve thought about this very much, to the point where it was almost obsessive. It’s just that you don’t understand how you stuffing a taco in your mouth brought up a genuine conversation about marriage and what that meant for your futures.

“We’re coming up on two years now. We’ve been through a lot of things, tough things, that we’ve survived through together, and we’ve been living together for a while. Marriage is the next logical step, I think.” He licks his lips, looking down as if he’s nervous to continue. “I know how you feel about marriage—how it's an institution that perpetuates gender roles and how couples don’t need to be married to show that they’re committed to each other. But I’d like to marry you, very much. I truly do.”

“Oh, Raf,” you say, but he immediately cuts you off, sounding panicked.

“And I don’t mean to bring this all up to you so fast. My words sound so garbled because I’m so nervous. I don’t even know why. Just know that I don’t expect an answer immediately and that you don’t have to take my last name. Your last name is on the medical degree that you earned, and I don’t want you to think about changing it for me. We can even take your last name. Or hyphenate. I don’t care. As long as I can marry you and be with you for the rest of my life.”

You’re quiet for a while, taking in everything that he’s said. The man really is wordy when he’s nervous, and he looks like he’s sweating bullets. As you take his hand, you notice how clammy he is, and he looks at you expectantly.

“I can’t imagine marrying anyone but you, Rafael,” you answer, genuinely. The words sound so right coming out from your mouth, and that’s how you know it’s true. Rafael’s always been the one for you. You’ve known ever since the day you met him. Doesn’t matter the speed bumps along the way. All that matters is that you’re here now, together, finally deciding what the future holds for the two of you.

You expect him to look relieved. Instead, he looks exasperated. “God, it took you that long to say that? Can’t you feel how nervous I am?”

You grin and squeeze his hand tightly. “I can. And I’m enjoying it.”

He shakes your hand off his and finally stuffs a forkful of tamale into his mouth. “You’re a riot,” he says, low and steady, shaking his head. Although he tries not to smile, it spills out anyway.

A low hum reverberates in your throat. “A riot that you want to spend the rest of your life with.”

“If you keep that up, I’ll uninvite Delia and Oscar to the wedding.”

“Please don’t. If you do that, they might not give me the recipes for their salsa and tacos!”

“Somehow, I doubt they were going to do that anyways,” he answers, finishing the last of his tamale. “Now let’s hurry up so I can buy you the cream puffs you like.”

As you watch Rafael dig into his second tamale, you think back on the things he mentioned about your opinions on marriage. Marriage was something you didn’t believe in, partly due to your gender studies professor in undergrad and partly due to your parents’ failed marriage. People just get married too young, too fast, and divorce is an ugly, expensive thing. As much as you wanted to believe that true love exists, you couldn’t bear to relive through the hell that was your parents’ relationship, which is why you’ve always abstained from the thought of contractually binding yourself to another person. Images of your parents fighting—the passive aggressiveness, the bad mouthing of the other in hopes that you’d take their side—flit in your mind, a constant reminder that keeps you away from readily admitting that marriage was for you. But you are not your parents. And you will not make the same mistakes they did.

You’re glad your parents got divorced. Separately, they’re wonderful people, but they just didn’t fit. And maybe that’s the key to it all. People are like puzzles: their nooks and crannies have to fit just right in order for you to see the whole picture. So maybe that’s why your parents never worked out. Instead of falling in love with the whole person, they fell in love with fragments, only loving the parts they chose to see. To love a person, you must love them whole. And that’s what’s so different about your relationship with Rafael.

As someone who keeps herself guarded due to the trauma of parental divorce, the idea of soulmates didn’t particularly strike you as reality, but perhaps you’re beginning to think that they are real. Because as you sit here across from Rafael, you finally feel as if you’ve found yours.

The birds are chirping today.

It’s pleasant. Especially since you don’t have an alarm blaring into your left ear every thirty minutes. As you roll over, you sling your arm over a sleeping figure, who snuggles closer to you at the first sense of your touch.

“Mmm...five more minutes...” Rafael’s voice is low and scratchy in the morning. It reminds you of how sandpaper feels. You fling your leg over him, and now your whole body is cuddling him. Kind of like a sloth.

“No one’s asking you to get out of bed, silly,” you murmur, giving him a soft kiss at the top of his head.

“Good,” he says, craning his neck upwards to return a kiss to your lips. “Don’t wanna get up. This weighted blanket you bought was a good investment.”

“If it keeps you in bed with me, then I’d say it’s a pretty good investment too.”

He chuckles at that, opening his eyes a peek. His eyes are just so brown that it makes your heart ache. They’re so beautiful, especially in the sunlight, and it’s so surprising that he doesn’t think they’re anything special. As you push the bits of his bangs covering his eyes, you two stare at each other for a moment and share a knowing smile.

You think it’s fair to say that you’ve never truly known love until now.

“You gotta stop buying things that’ll keep me in bed, babe,” he grumbles, closing his eyes for a moment. “I won’t be able to get up for work.”

“Here’s an idea, then,” you begin, closing your eyes too. You listen to his breathing, so soft to the point of silence, and wrap your arms around him more tightly than before. “You and I both call in sick today. We stay in bed. Maybe even kiss a little.”

“Tempting,” he says, a smile dancing on his lips. “But as much as I’d like to kiss you all day, I gotta pay for my half of rent.”

“Alright, alright.” You throw the weighted blanket off you but leave his side intact. “You stay in bed for now, and because I love you so much, I’m going to cook you breakfast.”

Once you slide off the bed and put on your fuzzy slippers, you trudge towards the kitchen in a sleep-deprived haze. But before you can reach the door, you hear Rafael say, “Wait.”

You turn around to find him sitting up on the bed, body leaning languidly as he eyes you. “You know that I love you, right? And that I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve someone like you?”

Bemused, you lean against the doorway with a smirk on your face. “And this is suddenly coming up because?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. I know that I tell you I love you every day, but today feels different. Might be a special day for us.”

“You sound like my Co-Star app,” you tell him. He laughs at that and waves you off, pulling your weighted blanket over his head. As you make your way into the kitchen, you look at your phone.

5:49 am.

Today will be a special day. You just know it.

“What’s going on?” Sienna asks, frantic.

As Zaid and Ines lead a group towards the Emergency Department, you feel a chill going through your spine. There’s no reason to have this many residents working in the ED, unless—

“We’re running triage,” Zaid says, more solemnly than you’ve ever heard him in your life. “Huge fire downtown. It’s chaos in the ED, and we need all hands on deck.”

“Why are they coming here?” asks Jackie. “Mass Kenmore is a Level I Trauma Center. Are there really that many patients that they had to bring some to Edenbrook?”

“I’m afraid so,” Ines answers her, voice trembling a bit too much for comfort. “According to reports, the fire spread so quickly that it was almost impossible to get people out.”

That does not sound good. At all. As Zaid and Ines rattle on about the specifics of the situation, you can’t help but worry about Rafael. Your mind always wanders to him, instinctively. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s on scene, helping as many people as he can, because he’s always been one to go above and beyond for people in situations like these, even if that meant endangering himself. Rafael won’t let you change that, won’t let you stop him from doing his job, and so you don’t. All you can do right now is hope that he’s safe wherever the hell he is.

The second you fly through the doors of the Emergency Department, a breath gets caught in your throat. Zaid wasn’t kidding when he was saying ED was in a state of chaos. You’ve never seen so many burn patients in your life. As you start giving out tags, you worry that the endless flurry of patients will never end but worry more that the flurry will end with people you know.

Walking into ED 13, you find that your patient is conscious but barely. His oxygen saturation is dangerously low, and the nurses have already put him on oxygen to stabilize his vitals. You take note of his wheezing and the red tinge on his skin. Must have been a terrible, terrible fire for all of this to happen to so many people. You can’t count how many patients you’ve seen today that look like the one right in front of you.

To your relief, he starts perking up the second he sees you. As you approach him, you see a few second-degree burns you didn’t notice before and make a mental note to chart that the second you get a chance to. “Mr. Huston, I’m your doctor for this afternoon. How are you feeling right now?”

“Honestly, I’ve been better.” The man can still joke, but a violent wave of coughs soon takes over him. “Have...have you seen my wife? I been...askin’ around, but...none of the nurses...”

“Take it easy, Jamal,” you caution him. “Breathe in and out of that mask for me, will you?”

He listens. Now, with more oxygen in his system, he takes the mask off and continues. “My wife was in the building when the fire started. Went there to visit her...then one thing led to another...and...”

“Fire broke out?”

Mr. Huston wheezes as he nods.

“Did you breathe in a ton of smoke while you were in the building?”

“Not as much as other people thanks to this nice young paramedic that pulled me out.”

You try to bite back a smile as Mr. Huston tells the story of the nice young paramedic’s heroics. Of course, Rafael’s out there doing his thing, rescuing people from burning buildings, performing CPR on victims without pulses, and being an all-around good fucking human being. From what Mr. Huston tells you, Rafael is doing things that are way above his pay grade, but you didn’t expect any less. He’s always been so selfless.

“Mr. Huston, where did this paramedic go after he pulled you out from the building?”

“I thought he came with me...did he not?”

Huh. You swore you haven’t seen Rafael around. As giant as Edenbrook’s Emergency Department was, you would have seen him at least once, considering that you’ve been rounding the entire unit like crazy. He must have been in and out of the ED to go back to the building site, or he was in the bathroom taking a break.

Either way, you don’t think anything of it. If anything, Mr. Huston’s story is a confirmation that Rafael is safe and alive, and in a day as crazy as today, that’s all you need. As you finish your assessment of Mr. Huston, you move over to the nurse’s station, logging into a computer to chart Mr. Huston’s signs and symptoms.

A bell chimes to notify all ED staff that the next wave of ambulances are arriving in T minus one minute. The paramedics arrive earlier than that, quickly surging through the ambulance bay doors, transporting patients to the very little overflow beds the ED has. One of the paramedics in particular catches your eye, and a look of recognition flashes over his face. It then quickly turns into a look of sympathy.

When you look closer, you realize that it’s Rafael’s partner, Max. He’s got several second-degree burns all over his arms, and his typically freshly-pressed uniform looks disheveled and charred.

That chills that runs down your spine? It returns. Stronger, this time. But you don’t understand why.

It isn’t until you look down onto the gurney he’s pushing that you realize what it is he’s so sympathetic about.

“Raf?”

You hear yourself scream but don’t remember commanding your body to do so. Somehow, your body drags itself from your spot at the nurse’s station, and you try to get to him before several nurses stop you. “Doctor, doctor,” one of the nurses says, eyes flashing in panic, “you need to calm down. We can’t help him if you can’t calm down.”

Despite her pleas, you rip past everyone trying to hold you back, lashing out at them to stay away.

You rush towards him, fat tears beginning to roll down your cheeks in waves. “Raf? Raf, can you hear me?” As you get to his side, you immediately begin to assess, your heart beating so heavily that you feel as if it’s going to explode.

You listen to his breathing, and it’s labored, as if he’s struggling to fill his lungs. His eyes, the very same ones you were just admiring this morning, are dull and lifeless. His skin is crackled, like a burning log, dark flakes peeling off with the slightest puff of air.

All you can do is freeze.

Time slows down when the world feels like it’s ending. This you know because right here, right now, as you stand beside the unconscious body of the love of your life, the world truly seems like it’s about to end.

You can’t even touch his fucking face. You can’t touch his hands, his arms, or even his waist because everything seems so fragile. His mouth is agape, and in it, you can see how dry his tongue is and how soot from the fire has dried on his lips. You can’t bear to look at him, not like this, in this condition. So, as you grip the railing of the gurney, your knuckles paling at the sheer force of it, your eyes flash towards his partner.

You can’t even see Max clearly because your tears blind your sight. This is just so pathetic.

“What happened?” you ask quietly. When he doesn’t answer, you ask louder. “What happened?”

“He...he went inside the building,” Max says, on the verge of tears. “After he pulled out the man in ED 13, we heard a woman yelling for help deep inside. She barely got out before the ceiling collapsed on him.” A beat passes before the tears start flowing down his cheeks, and his voice starts to crack. “I...I promise, I told him not to go, I told him—”

“Doesn’t matter what you told him, he was never going to listen,” you cut him off, bitterly wallowing in the fact that Rafael was too selfless for his own good.

Your own tears have streaked your face a dozen times over, and you can taste nothing but salt. It’s difficult to look down at the body lying on the gurney in front of you. All the parts of Rafael that made him Rafael were dimmed, if not gone completely. There were no more silly grins that you always saw even when you weren’t doing anything inherently funny, no more warm, strong arms to fall into when you found yourself crying over the littlest things, and no more big brown eyes to admire in the morning. As you look down at those brown eyes, hoping to see them once more, you find that, rather than seeing them glazed over, they’re transfixed directly on you.

“Raf, oh my god,” you wail, getting as close to him as you possibly can. His mouth, as dry as it is, twitches into a smile, and he reaches out to cup your chin in his palm.

“My love,” he answers, voice so weak that you can mistake it for silence.

“Raf, what did you do?” you sob.

“What I had to do,” is all he rasps out.

“You’re hurt,” you say, voice quivering. “You’re hurt, and you have so many burns...we...we need to order skin grafts...your lungs are damaged due to smoke inhalation...I just...I can’t do this, Raf, I can’t do this without you.”

More tears stream down your face, all the way to his hands. Although you want to believe otherwise, the damage to his body is severe, and you know he’s not going to make it. Somewhere in his eyes, you can sense that he knows too.

“Let me hold your hand,” he says, after a moment of silence between you both. He grasps your hand tightly, as tightly as he can, and shuts his eyes. Between labored breaths, he manages to say, “You are my forever.”

This is his goodbye. There are no grand exits for Rafael Aveiro. Just simple ones. And of all the things he could have said, he chose to remind you that he will be with you for as long as you live.

At the end of the day, that was the best thing about Raf. He died as he lived—feeling and caring and loving too much. And you’ll take that with you, into forever.

“You’re mine too, Raf,” you answer back, bringing his hand to your cheek.

He smiles one last time. As minutes pass, his grip lessens and his chest stops rising. When a nurse silently walks up next to you, you continue to hold his hand tightly, silent tears rolling down your face.

In all your years working in the hospital, you’ve seen enough death and destruction and despair to know that life is finite, but the finality of life has never felt so painful as it does right now. As you exhale a shaky breath, you open your eyes and say the words you wish you never had to say about someone you loved so much.

“Time of death: 2:34 pm.”

Rafael’s grandmother asked you to speak at the funeral. It was a difficult speech to prepare, considering the circumstances. While you wish nothing more than to send Rafael a proper goodbye, you were in no state to prepare any arrangements of any kind. Just typing “good afternoon” on the Word document brought you to tears.

But you did it anyways. If not for Rafael’s grandmother, for Rafael himself. He, of all people, deserved it.

When you stand up on the podium, you scan the crowd to see familiar faces. Everyone you know is there, including Chief Banerji and Dr. Ramsey. You’re even surprised to see that Sora is in attendance, sitting all the way in the back row with misty eyes and a sympathetic smile on her face.

Clearing your throat, you start to speak. “Good afternoon, family and friends. I want to start off this speech by saying Rafael would not have wanted us to mourn him. That is why I wrote this speech as a celebration of life because we should celebrate the life of someone as beautiful as Rafael Aveiro.

“The first time I met Raf was when we were both on call. He had just saved someone, which is always the way we met up during the first year of our relationship. When I asked him if he really went into a burning inferno to save someone, he answered, matter-of-factly: ‘Well yeah...wouldn’t you?’ And that interaction tells you everything you really need to know about Raf. He cared so much about others, even if it put him in danger. He loved his job, he loved his patients, and he loved pushing himself beyond the boundaries of his job description.

“I think that’s what drew us so closely together, what bound us together for life. Healthcare is a field where you’re fully devoted to strangers, where you’re constantly pushing yourself to be better so you can treat your patients to the best of your ability. And Rafael was so damn good at it, so damn good at his job. He loved people. He loved others. At the expense of himself. But I’ll never fault him for that. Raf’s sacrifice meant that someone else’s family member got to live, and at the end of the day, that’s what he lived for.

“The woman he saved that day was the wife of one of my patients. The two got separated in the fire, and Raf made sure that she would be able to get out and see to live another day. He was so selfless, so worthy of a long, fulfilling life. And while it’ll never get easier to refer to him as the past, I hope he knows that he will always be a big part of my future, wherever it’ll take me. Take care, Rafael, and may you rest in peace.”

As you finish your speech with a shaky breath, an applause erupts from the audience. Rafael’s grandmother is the most visibly shaken by your speech, and when you take your seat, she grabs your hand and squeezes it tightly, not letting go until the end of the service.

The service itself was a long and arduous process. You looked away at certain parts, hoping that Rafael’s grandmother didn’t see just how much you were sobbing. After all, it’s never easy to see the cremated remains of the love of your life. Looking away doesn’t make you forget that he’s gone, but it saved you from seeing another reminder of your reality.

Afterwards, once everyone gives their condolences, his grandmother comes up to you again. She looks at you, sad and mournful, and that’s all it takes for you to burst into tears. Bringing her hand up to wipe your tears away, she hushes you gently and takes you into her arms.

“You know he loved you, right?” she asks you, softly. All you do is nod because you can’t seem to croak any words out. “He loved you so much. I’ve never seen that boy so head over heels for a girl. Even asked me for our family ring so he can ask you to marry him.”

You pull back, surprised. “He did?”

“He did,” grandmother says, nodding to confirm. “He even went to the jeweler to resize it for you, just so it’ll fit on your finger when he proposed.” She steps back to appraise you with a sorrowful smile on her lips. “I wouldn’t have given it to him just for any girl, you know. The universe wanted you two together. I just knew.”

You nod, smiling through the tears. You know it did. Just not in this timeline.

Sure enough, when you finally have the strength to look through his drawers, you find that there’s an engagement ring nestled inside a small box deep within his underwear drawer. It’s beautiful—all jade-colored with gold details. And just as his grandmother said to you, it was a perfect fit.

More often than not, you think back on that day. You think of things you could have done better. Maybe if you got him on fluids, maybe if you ordered a skin graft as soon as you saw him, maybe if you just convinced him to stay home that day, he would still be alive.

But some things are just out of your control. Even if you got him to stay home, he would have hopped in the car the second he heard about the emergency. Even if you ordered a skin graft on time, there was too much surface area on his body to cover. Even if you had gotten him on fluids, he was already at the point of no return by the time you got to his body.

Too many things going wrong, too little time.

Medicine is all quantifiable data and qualitative research. As powerful as that is, it couldn’t go against death, and it couldn’t go against fate. There is nothing that is humanly designed that can go against the universe.

While that may seem terrible, it is what it is. Life is cruel. It is selfish and impatient. It takes as it gives, and it is unremorseful.

But life is also beautiful. It still gave you Rafael. It gave you his warmth in the morning and in the night, his soft kisses, and his comforting hugs. It gave you his empathy for others, his love for Caribbean food, and his dedication to his patients. It gave you a chance at knowing what true love feels like, despite believing your entire life that you’ll never find it.

Life may be fleeting, but that’s why you’ll decide to live it day by day. Because that's what Rafael would have wanted.

And you wouldn’t want to live life any other way.

#rafael aveiro #rafael aveiro x mc #rafael aveiro x reader #open heart #playchoices #choices #my writing #fic: take care

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boldly-ho · 4 years ago

Text

Another Life - Chapter 16

Fandom: What We Do in the Shadows

Pairing: Vladislav x Reader

Series Rating: E

Word Count: 1982

Chapter Summary: You ask some innocent questions about hypnosis, and Viago and Deacon grow suspicious.

A/N: Same shit as always: it’s on AO3.

“Good evening, Y/N,” Viago greeted you cheerily as he entered the lounge. He was definitely a morning person. Evening person? Whatever.

“Hey,” you shot back in a monotone. You sounded about as good as you felt. Not very.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you answered, though you were sure your tone was doing nothing to convince him. “I’m just exhausted.”

“You didn’t sleep well last night?” He asked, concerned.

“Not really. I was in and out of sleep. I think I was having nightmares.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What about?”

“No idea,” you answered honestly. Your sleep was fitful, and you felt uneasy and disturbed upon waking, but you couldn’t recall your dreams.

“Then how do you know they were nightmares?”

You shrugged. “I could just tell.”

Viago nodded in understanding. Making his way over to the ancient green couch where you sat lengthwise, taking up every cushion with your outstretched legs, he asked, “May I sit?”

“It’s your couch.” You lifted you legs just long enough for him to sit down, then laid them to rest on his lap. He set his hands on your shins, giving you a gentle squeeze as he settled.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You offered him a gentle smile. “That’s okay. There isn’t really anything to talk about, since I don’t remember the dream. Thank you, though, I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“Do vampires get nightmares?” you asked. “Do you still dream?”

“Oh yes. Vampires dream. Our dreams are a lot more vivid than human dreams, though.”

“That must make the nightmares a bitch, huh?” you joked.

He nodded, without any humor. “It does.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He shrugged it off. “I don’t have nightmares too often anymore.”

“What do you dream about?” Viago paused, and you blushed, realizing that was a very personal question. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine. My dreams are much the same as they were when I was alive, just more vivid. They’re usually quite nonsensical, just flashes of scenes, mainly. Though, I’ve dreamed about the sun much more often since I’ve become a vampire.”

You supposed that made sense, him not having seen the sun in hundreds of years. Though, with the sun’s effect on vampires, that sounded more like a nightmare than a dream. Maybe it was. You asked him, “Dreams or nightmares?”

“They’ve been both. But they’re usually good dreams. I can go out and feel the warmth on my skin and not burn. It’s nice. Though, I’m not sure it’s right anymore. I’m not sure I remember what sunlight actually feels like after all this time.”

Your heart ached for him, and for the rest of your flatmates. Petyr hadn’t seen the sun in over 8000 years. You couldn’t even begin to imagine. They had all gained so much. Transformation, teleportation, immortality. You hadn’t thought about some of the little things they’d lost. Not being able to eat human food and having to kill to survive had crossed your mind, obviously. And you were aware, of course, that they were nocturnal, but you had never really thought about their having to give up sunlight.

“Is there any way, indirectly, that you could at least look at the sun?”

“We watched a video of a sunrise when Stu was teaching us about the internet.”

“That’s nice,” you offered.

“I suppose so. It was a bit hard to enjoy. Seeing the sun pass the horizon filled me with fear, even though I knew it couldn’t really harm me.”

If your heart had already ached for him, now it had broken.

“That’s awful, Viago, I’m so sorry.”

He smiled gently. “It’s not really a big deal. Most of the time I don’t miss it, anymore. We’re supposed to be talking about dreams, remember?”

You laughed. “Oh, right. How could I have gotten so off topic?” you teased.

“What about you? What do you usually dream about?”

Deacon loudly clamored down the stairs. “Are we taking about dreams?”

“Ja. Y/N had a nightmare.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I can’t remember.”

“Vampire nightmares are especially realistic.”

“I know. Viago mentioned that.”

“Move your legs so I can sit.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, but I’m putting them back after you sit.”

You swung your legs out of the way while Deacon sat down, waiting for him to get situated before you put your legs back across both of their laps.

“I had a really freaky dream the other day,” Deacon said.

You and Viago looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I was being chased by a giant rat. It eventually caught me and I could feel myself being chewed up alive in its enormous teeth.”

Viago gave him a sympathetic look.

You shot him a look somewhere between dumbfound, disgust, and disbelief.

“Uh…” You had no idea what to say to that.

“Your nightmare couldn’t have been that bad, Y/N.”

No, probably not. So at least there was that.

“Is Vlad awake?” Deacon asked. “He made me promise to move a body with him this evening.”

The woman from last night. The one he’d hypnotized. He’d slept in the same room as a corpse? How horrifyingly macabre. You thought back to the dirty cereal bowl on your bedside table and wondered if that was comparable.

“No, he hasn’t been down here yet,” Viago answered.

“I met her last night. The body.” You winced a bit. “The woman,” you corrected. “She ran down here and Vladislav hypnotized her in front of me. Can humans get hypnotized by proxy?”

“By proxy?”

“Yeah. If someone gets hypnotized in front of me, could I also get hypnotized? Even if I’m not the one being hypnotized…? Or spoken to? Or whatever?”

They were both looking at you, seemingly puzzled.

“Did you get hypnotized last night?” Viago asked.

“No!” Your face heated, both from answering too quickly and strongly, and from the memory of last night. You tried again, more calmly, hoping they hadn’t noticed. “No. Just hypothetically. If a vampire is hypnotizing someone, could a nearby human also get hypnotized?”

Deacon, either not hearing or choosing to ignore your explanation of this being hypothetical, asked, “What did he hypnotize her about? Did you end up doing the same thing?”

“Nothing! He didn’t- It’s just an example. I was just curious.”

Deacon gave you a suspicious glance.

“Well, vampires can hypnotize multiple people at once, but it’s extremely difficult,” Viago explained. “Vladislav is known for his hypnotizing abilities, and can hypnotize entire crowds on his better days. But it takes effort; you can’t accidentally hypnotize anyone.”

You nodded. That was good. Not that it mattered. You weren’t hypnotized. You couldn’t have been, because you didn’t- Well, because you just weren’t hypnotized.

“Besides, if you are hypnotized, you usually don’t remember it happening.” Viago told you this in a tone that was probably meant to be comforting, leading you to assume that he also didn’t believe you were dealing in hypotheticals.

You knew you weren’t hypnotized; you should have just kept your mouth shut.

Thankfully changing the subject, Viago asked, “What are your plans tonight, Y/N?”

“I have no plans. I’m just going to order food because I’m lazy and tired, and then go to bed early. Why?”

“I’m trying to plan an evening. Nick says he knows a good drinking game, and we have some alcoholic blood in the refrigerator.”

Deacon perked up, officially moving on from your previous line of inquiry. “Yes!”

It was a bit jarring to see Viago, looking and dressing the same now as he did in the hundreds of years old portrait behind him, discuss throwing a small party of drinking games and getting pissed. It was astounding how they managed to incorporate aspects of so many different time periods into their personalities at once. You decided, though, that that was not the most interesting thing to take from Viago’s statement.

Instead you asked, “Alcoholic blood?”

“Ja,” Viago affirmed. “When humans drink, the alcohol enters their blood. If they’re very drunk, their blood can can get vampires drunk.”

“Huh.” Interesting. Logically, that made sense, you’d just never thought of it before. A lot of things about vampires made sense, if you’d only think of them before they were brought up.

“It works with things besides alcohol, too,” Deacon said. “Anything that can get into the blood. Like drugs. A few years ago, when psychedelics were big…” He trailed off, making a blissful facial expression.

“Were psychedelics big a few years ago?”

Deacon nodded. “Oh yes.” His face grew more pensive before he added, “I think it was a few years ago. It could have been more.”

“Are you talking about the ‘60s?”

His face lit up. “Yes!”

“So, more than a few years ago, then.”

He shrugged.

“Well, either way, I’m not up for getting drunk tonight, but I’m very up for seeing you all get drunk at some point, so keep me posted.”

“I’ll find a night when everyone is free,” Viago said.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard the expression ‘three’s a crowd.’”

Three heads turned up towards the top of the staircase, to where Vladislav now stood.

“You know there are other places to sit in the lounge, right?”

You gave him a sour look. “We’ll, I’m comfortable.”

He smirked down at you. “You might be the only one.”

“Just how heavy do you think I am?” you asked, feigning offense.

“Actually, I am feeling a bit cramped,” Deacon admitted.

You sighed, swinging your legs off the couch and sitting upright, letting Deacon migrate from the couch to an armchair.

“Hey, Vlad,” Deacon called as he settled in his new seat, “Did I hear you with a human down here last night?”

You froze. What did he think he was doing?

“Yeah,” Vladislav answered. “Her hypnosis lapsed. She realized what was happening and tried to get out. I met her down here and brought her back up before she left.”

“I hate when they do that,” Viago muttered.

Ignoring him, Deacon pressed on, “What did you do? Hypnotize her again?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?”

If looks could kill, Deacon would be dead twice over. If he saw your heated glare, he ignored it.

Vladislav shrugged. You had hoped he would find Deacon’s question too invasive or too strange. It didn’t seem as though he did, however, as he answered, “I told her she wanted me and wanted to come back up to my room. Just normal stuff.”

“Oh, right,” Deacon replied.

To his credit, he didn’t turn to you, or give you a strange look. Unfortunately, you caught a side eyed glance from Viago.

You thought about getting Deacon alone and throwing your necklace at him, or singing a hymn, or-

“Am I the last one up?” Vladislav asked, effectively moving the conversation past Deacon’s prying.

“No,” Viago answered. “Petyr hasn’t come up here yet.”

“Someone had better wake him up,” Deacon said. “If he sleeps too late, he’ll be up all day, just standing in his tomb. And I’m not doing it,” he added quickly, before anyone could ask him to.

“I’m not doing it either. I do it all the time, and he’s nasty when he wakes up.”

“Well, I’m not doing it,” Vladislav said, leaning forward onto the banister. “Besides, Deacon and I have something to take care of.” Disposing of the body.

Three heads turned to look at you.

“What, me?” you asked, surprised.

“Why not you?”

Because he’s apparently ‘nasty’ when he wakes up? You didn’t voice that concern. Instead, you rose from the couch, and headed downstairs to wake up your fourth flatmate. It was better than helping someone transport a corpse, you supposed, and certainly better than remaining up here in uncomfortable silence with Viago.

You sighed. At least you could go to sleep in a few hours.

#wwdits #what we do in the shadows #vladislav #vladislav x reader #another life #al fic

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storybycorey · 5 years ago

Photo

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

(Full Version, A-Z)

author: @storybycorey

rating: R

word count: approx. 8000

summary: The ABC’s, as told by Fox Mulder.

For those of you looking only for part Z, just scroll a bit more than halfway down! (or take a read back through the whole thing- there are references back to the first 25 letters in the final installment!)

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days. Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him. Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things. He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there.

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably. Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting. On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer. The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch).

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back. With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now).

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise. His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days. Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal. But Dana is an enigma. He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free. It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path.

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know. He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really. But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse. The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly. Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls? Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas? He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between. He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays.

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife? Girlfriend?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes. Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice. He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried. Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away? Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything.

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha. Spin the Globe it was called. They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away. He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head. Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully. Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe. Antarctica.

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder. That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand.

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire. He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand. It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute.

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.”

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip. He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket. The nice thing about it? She doesn’t even pretend not to want it. She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in. They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub. She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years. Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy. He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned.

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it. It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks. He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars...

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres. Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this: In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time.

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks. It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure. Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully. He’s not sure what else he expected. Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day. He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes? Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.” He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then. Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that.

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk. She giggles. Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…” She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal. Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer. Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket. He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be. The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb. How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job. More than a career path. It’s a downright quest.

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends. It astounds him really.

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel. She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking. It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel. She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself. For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front. Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes. She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one. She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum. It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”

She’s got a point of course. They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve. But umpteen is most definitely a word.

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting. Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair. Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her. It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says). He usually lets her win.

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized. There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn. Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between. They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America.

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left. Soft. The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe. Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed. Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes. “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for XFiles

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does. It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too. They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner. It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery. She’s the very definition of an X-File. It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth. These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields. The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to. All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill. Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z is for Zipper

He’s awoken by the sound of her skirt zipper, the dip of the mattress as she sits on the bed.

“Scully?” He’s not sure how long he’s been out, but the stillness in the air and a new moon slanting through the blinds suggest hours.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “I tried not to wake you...” He’s never heard her voice in his bedroom this late at night. It’s softer than he’d imagined. Younger. “It’s late. I’m not sure I should drive. Do you mind if I—”

“Sure, yeah.” He props up on an elbow. “Do you want me to…” He motions toward the living room, still half-asleep but awake enough not to assume anything he shouldn’t. Hotel room sleepovers (which they’ve partaken in) are in a different category than apartment room sleepovers (which they haven’t), and he knows this.

“I don’t mind,” she answers in silhouette, slipping off her skirt, “…not if you don’t.” She’s stolen her way beneath the sheets before he has the presence of mind to offer her something to wear.

“Of course not.” He can’t think of anything he’d mind less than Scully lying beside him in his bed, near enough he can smell this morning’s perfume still on her skin.

She settles, and is so close, her breaths tickle his bare shoulder. Once, twice, three times. He shudders.

They’re quiet. He listens to her nighttime sounds—the swish of her hair against the pillow, the cadence of her breaths, the occasional wet slide of her tongue across her lips. He wishes he had his little recorder on the nightstand. He’d make a mixtape, label it Sounds of Scully and play it every night for the rest of his life.

He longs to touch her. A hand, a foot, even just the tip of a finger.

They lie there long enough and silently enough he thinks she may have fallen asleep, but then she shifts. Or he shifts. Or maybe they both shift, but out of nowhere her still sweater-clad back spoons perfectly against his chest.

A quiet gasp leaves her lips, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t readjust. Neither of them breathes.

“Is this… okay?” he asks finally.

“Yeah, it’s…” The heel of her foot brushes his shin. “It’s nice.”

Quiet again. His arm finds a place to rest wrapped around her waist. His thighs nudge her bottom. Her skirt is off, and possibly her nylons, too, but he thinks instead about her hair tickling his nose, her sweater against his belly. He doesn’t think of other things—won’t let himself.

It’s nice was an understatement though. It’s so much more than nice. He’s needed this, wanted this, for such a long time. Even if this is all it is—the two of them spooned together in his bed until morning.

She snuggles a bit closer, slips a small, cold foot between his legs. He thinks about her pale pink toenails, he thinks about Dulcinea, he thinks about being number sixteen on a list he’s sure he was never meant to read. He adds to his mixtape the sound of her hum when his thumb brushes the rose-petal skin of her arm.

“Foxtrot,” she murmurs sleepily.

“Hmmm?” He nudges the back of her head with his nose.

“Nothing,” she chuckles, “Just a passing thought...”

“Can’t have passing thoughts without sharing. Bedroom rules.” It’s strange how natural this feels, bantering with her in his bedroom, pretending this sort of thing happens often enough that rules have been made.

“Oh, in that case, maybe I’ll…” She makes to leave, pushing away covers and beginning to pull from his arms.

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens, tugging her back, wasting no time in snuggling her in even closer, wrapping himself around her like a question mark, which seems almost comically apropos on a night like this. She giggles, just barely, but it’s perfection, the sound of Scully giggling in his bed late at night.

“No, it was just…,” she continues, turned serious again. “My father was obsessed with the military phonetic alphabet—Alpha, Bravo, etcetera... He named my brother Charlie. It just occurred to me that if your father had been the same, maybe you’d be Foxtrot instead of Fox.”

He chuckles. “Guess I should count myself lucky then. Would’ve been a lot to live up to in the ballroom classes my mother made me take…” She hums in amusement, and the vibration travels all the way through to his chest. “Sounds like you’re a bit lucky, too. Unless I’m mistaken, it was Dana, not Delta, who snuck into my bed tonight...”

“Hmm,” she ponders, “Maybe Delta's not as brave as Dana is....” He sometimes thinks nobody’s as brave as Dana Scully is, least of all himself. “Frankly,” she adds, “I always fancied Juliet anyway.”

“Juliet—I like it.” He pictures her out on a balcony, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing, lover’s name tumbling from her lips. “You’d need a Romeo…” He doubts Wherefore art thou, Mulder is quite what Shakespeare had in mind.

“Who says I haven’t got one?” she flirts. Her hand rests just inches from his own, and he twines their fingers together, curls them against her abdomen. He sometimes wonders how his heart can possibly contain the amount of love he feels for her. People die of broken hearts; do they ever die of ones so full, they’re overflowing?

“Hey,” he murmurs into her hair, “What’s got you thinking about all this at…,” he tilts back his head to squint at the clock, “…one o’clock AM?” Her body is warm and impossibly perfect against him.

“I guess…,” she says, a contemplative tone to her voice, “I don’t know. These last few days have been a lot. I’ve been forced to consider things I haven’t thought about in years. My past, the way things used to be... What I used to assume my future looked like.”

“How’d it look?” They’re both nearing that point these days, where their paths can’t just keep continuing in the same straight line. They’re nearing a fork, he can feel it. Question is, will they both continue in the same direction?

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, “I was surrounded by Navy men, Navy wives, Navy families. We were taught call letters before learning our ABC’s. I always felt that sort of life was expected of me, too.” His air conditioner kicks on, fills the room with a gentle whirr. She burrows even closer. “It’s just funny how far we stray from what’s expected…”

“No more call letters, huh?” His lips catch on her hair as he talks. It’s wonderful.

“No, I guess not…To be honest, I sort of miss them. Things were simpler then. There were right choices and wrong choices, or at least it seemed that way.”

He realizes as they lie there that this moment is the fork in his path. That though the line between right and wrong choices may be blurred these days, there’s one choice he’s never once questioned. Dana Scully is the rightest choice he’s ever made. With her mouth full of questions and her head full of answers, her ever-arched eyebrow and her ever-open heart—she’s been his choice, his only choice, from the very beginning.

Scully is the Juliet to his Romeo—hell, she’s the Delta to his Foxtrot.

“Scully,” he murmurs, heart beating bravely in his chest, “Have I ever told you about the Fox Mulder alphabet?”

“Hmm, let me guess...” There’s humor in her voice, that wry Scully humor he adores. “A is for Alien, B is for Bounty Hunter, C is for…. Am I close?” Christ, but he loves this woman.

He pokes her gently in admonishment, answers, “Good try, smartypants, but no… No, you’re actually not close at all.”

“Tell me then, Mulder.” She pulls their hands up to rest beneath her cheek. “Tell me about your alphabet.”

And so he does. He takes a deep breath and he does.

He begins at the beginning. A is for Apple.

He tells her how watching her eat an apple once made him ache for her, how he can’t bite into a Red Delicious, or a Fuji, or even a Grannysmith anymore without thinking about her lips.

It scares him, being this honest, but there’s something in the air tonight, something in her mood, in the way she slipped off her skirt and climbed into his bed after falling asleep on his couch.

She’s quiet while he speaks, still—eerily so. Her breaths fall quickly against his hand. He’s sure he can feel her heart beating, or maybe that’s just his own, pounding much too dramatically within his chest. There’s a lump in his throat as he finishes, the No that’s terrified him for close to seven years dangling above like an anvil from some misguided Loony Tunes short.

He waits. And he waits. And is about to apologize for assumptions he shouldn’t have made when—

“More,” she breathes.

Not no. More.

He burrows his nose in her hair, presses a kiss of relief to her ear.

He gives her more, he gives her everything—he pours his entire heart out into silly little stories about a basketball game, about candlelight illuminating the skin of her back. The words spill out more quickly than he intends them to, but the dam has been breached; he cannot stop it.

She’s quiet through the basketball game, quiet again through the candles. Her little body doesn’t move. He understands. He knows it’s a lot to take in—the flood-like musings of Fox Mulder’s mind. Her ears are all he asks of her tonight.

By the time he’s reached D though, she gives him more than her ears. “D is for Dana,” he begins softly. And instead of more silence, she whispers his name.

By E, there are tears at her cheek. He wonders for an instant whether that long-ago jewelry store could possibly still be open, whether she’d wait for him here while he makes a quick trip.

By F, she’s pressing barely-there kisses to his knuckles. Friends don’t do that, he’s sure. Their relationship may be uncertain, but friends don’t press kisses to knuckles, they don’t lie in beds at one in the morning, tell stories in hushed whispers with backs pressed to chests.

By G, she’s murmuring my God against his palm, Mulder against each of his fingertips. His basement globe spins and it spins. Never could it have predicted an adventure like this.

H… I… J... Her toes slide along his shins, they follow the curves of his arches. Her long-lost jacket hangs nestled in his closet not ten feet away.

K... “New Year’s Eve, Scully… That kiss…” He tells her she’s all he could want from this millennium, or the next, or even the next (that’s illogical, Mulder, he expects her to say). She doesn’t though. She doesn’t say that. Instead, she turns in his arms, raises big, wet eyes up to his.

“Keep going…,” she urges him on when he pauses, “Please, Mulder, keep going.” Her fingers tremble as they move across his chest.

And so he keeps going. L... (“Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully, Scully,” he breathes)… M… N… With each new letter, her touches grow surer—small, gentle hands find his ribs, his shoulders, the wildly-beating pulse at his neck. By O, those same hands are in his hair, they’re cradling his cheekbones, they’re fingering the soft, curved shells of his ears.

P... “That plum,” he whispers, “…the juice…your thumb...” Her thumb (the same one he sucked into his mouth so many months ago) skims over his stubbled chin, makes its tentative way to his lips. His tongue steals out for a taste, and she sucks in a breath, her eyes fluttering shut. She drags her hand away before he can swallow her whole.

Q... (“Dulcinayyy-uhhh,” he sings quietly)… R… The heat of her breath hits his neck, hovers beneath his jawline until he can barely speak. “Don’t stop,” she whispers when he falters. Her mouth slides against his throat and he groans.

S… T... By U, he can’t keep from touching her. A hand tangles finally in her hair, the other slips beneath her sweater and molds to the warmth of her back. She whimpers, her body arching sharply against him. Umpteen is the number of times this very scenario has played itself out in his dreams.

By V, his lips are at her temple, “V is for Volume” spoken directly against her skin. She turns the dial all the way to the left, sighs so softly he almost misses it.

W and X fall between kisses, his lips on her eyelids, at her jaw, wrapped around the lobes of her ears. Barely-there whimpers slip from the back of her throat, and he reaches for that imaginary recorder, adds them to his mixtape as well. Her legs tangle with his and he pulls her even closer.

“Y is for Yawn,” he murmurs against her hairline, “Tonight, out there, while we sat on the couch…”

“I’m not…,” her voice is low and husky, so close to his ear that he shivers, “…m’not yawning now, Mulder…”

He shifts, rests his forehead against her own. Hot, ragged breaths collect on the pillow between them. He can hardly believe a few hours ago, they were out on his couch drinking tea, a few years ago, they were meeting in the basement for the very first time.

“What about…,” she breathes, the tip of her nose nudging his, “What about Z?” Their hands roam freely now, sensuous and slow. She angles her pelvis against his, presses softly.

“Z…,” he barely gets out, “…is for Zipper.” She’s trembling against him, and it’s the sexiest thing in the world. “The zipper from your skirt that woke me half an hour ago, the zipper that—”

She swallows the rest of his words with a kiss, open-mouthed and desperate, body melting against his.

Her lips, her tongue, the flutter of her fingers at his cheek… He forgets about candles, about earrings, about Rick Channing and Don Quixote and even about the wristwatch lying just across the room on the dresser. He forgets about everything in the world except Scully and her mouth, about the way she kisses him with her whole damn body, with hands in his hair and toes flexed at his shins and hips arched so divinely against his, he worries he’ll faint.

As her sweater slides over her head, he marvels at the way everything has fallen into place, how a crisp, juicy apple led to a basketball game, how sleepy, sexy yawns led to the undoing of zippers, how all of it combined led to them being here, now, discovering each other for the very first time.

Their lovemaking is slow, achingly so. It’s the Standard English Alphabet, the Military Phonetic Alphabet, and the Fox Mulder Alphabet combined—whimpers and sighs and Romeo and Juliet and ice cream and globes and… Amazingly, in the end, it all makes perfect, wonderful sense.

As they move together, the beginnings of a new alphabet emerge in his head—A for the arc of her hips as they rise; B for her short, quickened breaths; C for her cries, for her moans, for her whines; D for the softest derriere he’s ever held in his palms; E for her elbows, laid either side of his ears; F for fuck, for oh holy fuck, Scully, sweetheart, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…

“It’s crazy really, isn’t it?” he murmurs afterwards, Scully tucked beneath his arm, her leg slung sweetly over his sweat-damp thigh.

“Hmm?” Her fingers play at his lips, trace over and around and between.

“That it took us seven years…,” he mumbles around a pinky, “…when in the end, it really was as easy as learning our ABC’s.”

She hums, presses a kiss to his chest right above a nipple. “You could have had me all the way back at C if you’d wanted to, Mulder...”

He smiles, pulling her impossibly closer. Her breasts are soft against his chest and her chin rests at his shoulder, and for a moment, all is right in their windmill-riddled, impossible dream of a world.

“I think Z was perfect,” he says, kissing the disheveled part of her hair, “Absolutely perfect.”

#I hate it I love it I don't even know anymore #but it's here #I hope it was worth the wait guys!#The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet #my fic

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bold-lettered-blog · 5 years ago

Text

#17

things i imagined

kyungsoo/sehun, pg-13, 8000+ words

sehun is really proud of having more than two lines (and kyungsoo is too)

(sorting through my old computer, i found this gem i started way back in 2015, after the promotions of ‘love me right’. i don’t write fics anymore, which is kind of sad and somehow inevitable given the very different life i’m living right now, but it was so heartwarming to reminisce about all the beautiful times i spent loving sesoo and writing and this fandom... i thought i’d share it with you. so here it goes, in all it’s raw, unfinished, un-proof read glory, a draft from something that could have been a whole novel. at the end, there’s a long note i wrote to myself how the story would turn out)

The manager hyungs tell him the exact same thing that Baekhyun's been saying all along. "I feel it, I feel it sooo deep in my heart that you're going to slay the next comeback. You're going to have more than two lines, you'll see," is what Baekhyun said, but it left Sehun feeling nothing else but a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He is perfectly aware of his incapabilities of singing, and he has so much to improve both dancing and rapping wise, he knows that, yet the cold fact that he has pretty much nothing to work with makes him grim and gloomy.

That is why, on a sunny Thursday morning, when all the members are gathered in one of the practice rooms with Jongin dancing to himself in one of the corners, he lacks the feeling of any kind of excitement. The lyrics are about to be handed to them - some of the parts he's heard, mostly Yixing's, when he was singing in the shower, but he has no idea what's about to come right to him. Maybe Baekhyun's right, and he's going to have more than 6 seconds to prove his talent, but that seems too beautiful to be true. God, Sehun, get yourself together, he thinks. Jongdae pokes him in the waist then, staring into his soul like he's looking at his only child. Oh, Sehun often forgets that his face is like a mirror to anything that's going on in his head.

"Why so down?" Jongdae says to him, his frizzly poodle hair crowning his head almost perfectly. Sehun sometimes feels jealous, because Jongdae is one of the very best vocalists in SM, even if he's not as smooth as Kyungsoo.

Kyungsoo. Well, if Sehun could be anyone for a day he sure would be Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo the brave, the manly, the one with the silky voice. He would sing like an angel and more. He would be smiley, and nice, and very delicate and soft. Because – and Kyungsoo would hit him if he heard that – this is what Kyungsoo is. And Sehun wants that, even if just a little bit, to feel that kind of power in his voice, to feel small and cute and down to earth at the same time.

Sometimes Sehun forgets Kyungsoo is human. He is, after all, but Sehun likes to think that Kyungsoo is an alien, because only an alien could be so inhumanly impeccable all the time.

Chanyeol would oppose to that, surely, but Chanyeol is not someone Kyungsoo would want near 24/7. Who Kyungsoo wants near is Jongin, and Minseok, and Joonmyeon. He wants near Jongdae and Yixing and sometimes Baekhyun and very rarely Chanyeol. But he does not want Sehun, and the thought cuts down right to his core where it hurts the most to leave him bleeding out all cold and lonely.

I'm horrible, Sehun thinks, to view hyung's distance that way when obviously he has reasons, but Sehun can't help himself. Can't help himself now when Tao is gone to LA and Lu Han is in China. The distance is too much, yet feels nowhere as far as Kyungsoo is to him.

"And Sehun," the manager says, and Sehun snaps out of his reverie. He takes his paper and bows. From the corner of his eyes he sees Kyungsoo smiling, bright, but it's not aimed at Sehun. Never at him.

Baekhyun was right - as much as Sehun didn't believe it, he got a whole of two more lines to work with, and Chanyeol comes up congratulating him grinning, patting the small of his back.

"You've worked hard for this," Baekhyun says, and Sehun feels grateful, and strong, and invincible. Almost like Kyungsoo.

Jongin laughs at him, then, saying he needs to improve his english even more, but Sehun pays no attention to him. All he cares about is the plus two lines he got and this brilliant opportunity to show himself and everyone else how great he actually is.

After practice and reading through the lines to the new song and mini album, 'Love Me Right', Sehun stays back at the washroom. He dismisses Junmyeon with a slight wave of the hand when Junmyeon tries to coerce him back to the dorms.

"I'm good hyung, don't worry," Sehun says to him when Junmyeon looks too adamant about staying in with him. "Just need a bit of fresh air."

"Alright," Junmyeon says hesitantly and slowly turns to leave. His face is all soft lines and little curves. He is beautiful and sings just right, and-- god, there it goes again, the awful feeling of not being enough screwing a hole right to the middle of Sehun's heart.

There are times that you feel not quite comfortable in your body, Sehun knows, and he's been through those days, months, even years, but still, the defeating sense of being worthless stings five times more than anything. Being worthless means being unwanted, and even though Sehun is familiar with the feeling, he hasn't been exposed to that kind of emotion in a long time.

It hurts. There is no physical pain, but it hurts just as much as having your throat cut right open. It itches. Lingers. Then you bleed out.

I'm pathetic – is what he thinks next. The water from the faucet has been running for a good ten minutes now. He sinks his hands under it, watches the drops falling apart somewhere between his knuckles. It's akin to the way he feels his own heart breaking right now.

He hears the door clicking open, and someone steps in. Sehun almost spins around to say something not so very nice, but when he registers Kyungsoo standing by the entrance, his back plastered to the closed door, he looses all his words.

Looking at Kyungsoo now is almost as bad as having his heart laying around in tiny little pieces. Kyungsoo the brave, the great, the smooth voiced, the awesome. He really is awesome, and also so far away. It makes Sehun feel a hundred times worse.

He splashes his face with cold water, his fingertips going numb pretty fast. Oh, how he wishes his feelings could go numb just as simple as that. He turns off the faucet, stares at himself in the mirror. Kyungsoo is still there, with his back to the door. He hasn't moved an inch. It makes Sehun feel bad for him, because Sehun hasn't been particularly nice. He turns to say something, something cheerful, something that would make him feel empty inside, like, "I'm alright. I was just feeling hot," or, "I'm feeling okay." All of them would be a lie.

"I'm proud of you, Sehun-ah."

Kyungsoo says that. Just when Sehun thinks about a truth to tell that would not be as judging or hurting, Kyungsoo simply says that. Smoothly. Sincerely. Like he has his whole heart behind it.

"There is no need to pity me, hyung," Sehun says, and it's true, although it doesn't entirely feels right on the tounge. Sehun isn't the type to make a big fuss, he's just loud and sometimes overhyped and childish, but he's never the one to start a fight. The simple thought of having a quarrel with someone makes him nauseous throughout his body.

"Why would I pity you," Kyungsoo takes a step forward. There is only about a meter between them but it feels like a whole ocean. "When you are so talented? I only pity your limited opportunities."

Sehun goes quiet after that, just stares at the little bow above Kyungsoo's lips. He has a pretty mouth, and a pretty voice, with a pretty face. A pretty, petite body. Nice muscles. Sehun has none of that, and something self-destructive tries to tentatively climb its way up his throat. Sehun tones it down with a shallow smile, but the way Kyungsoo leans towards him indicates that Sehun doesn't have to hide anything from him.

He doesn't realise how long they stand there, wordlessly, Kyungsoo boring holes into his soul with his eyes. Sehun would feel self-conscious if it wasn't for the fact that he's practically empty inside.

"Um, alright," Sehun speaks up after what feels like an eternity. He starts for the door, to where Kyungsoo is standing. His back isn't pushed against the frame anymore, but Sehun still senses his presence there when he goes to click the door open. "Let's go back to the dorm."

Kyungsoo just stands there, staring at him. Sehun stills his hand on the doorknob. Kyungsoo looks majestic, even while shifting his weight from one leg to another. The eeriness of Kyungsoo's being makes him kind of calm, but doesn't fill in the empty cracks in his soul.

Sehun then suddenly realises; this is the way Kyungsoo gives comfort. Sehun knows Kyungsoo isn't really good with words, because he has his feelings too complicated to say out loud. Kyungsoo shows affection with body language and slight brushes on the arm, the fingers, the knees. Kyungsoo is good at praising but never comforting. Kyungsoo is not an alien. Kyungsoo is a boy with dark eyebrows and a rich dip above his lips that Sehun will never have.

Kyungsoo reaches out to him. The moment his hand spills out wide on Sehun's back is the moment when the empty space inside him slowly starts to fuel up with untamed longing, the kind that you cannot foresee or outrun. It's just a feeling there, at the back of your heart, pulsing all vibrant and bright until it dies out in your throat.

Sehun reminds himself it's Kyungsoo. His bandmate. Ex-roommate. Brother. Friend. Someone Sehun could never...

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't dare to. Instead, he shies away from the touch.

Kyungsoo isn't taken aback. Kyungsoo doesn't usually have his reactions excessive - he is always collected, meanwhile Sehun is falling apart.

"Okay," Kyungsoo says, waits until Sehun opens the door and emerges. As Sehun watches him walking afore, the longing kicks back with full force.

When did he become so infatuated? Kyungsoo has been there with him pretty much from the very beginning, the trainee days when Sehun was almost the same height as him, when they were still little kids with only dreams in their pockets. Kyungsoo knows every aspect of him, but Sehun doesn't know half of Kyungsoo's heart. How did Kyungsoo make him so defenseless?

Maybe he was whipped from the start. Maybe it was when Kyungsoo walked in with his arms fasted close to his side, glasses high up on his nose. Maybe it was years later, around debut, when Kyungsoo first let Sehun really into the hall of his heart, but never opened more rooms for him. Or maybe, just maybe – it was the way Kyungsoo's hands stilled over his back mere fifteen minutes ago.

---

Sleep doesn't come easy that evening. He still remembers the warmth of Kyungsoo's palm on his back, the longing that the touch awoke - the fact that this simple genuine act of kindness affects him so much keeps him twisting and turning throughout the night.

Junmyeon is fast asleep on the other side of the room. There is not much light, only a faint blue ray of moon shines in through the cracks of the blinds and paints Junmyeon's hair grey on end. Sehun takes the image in, thinks, if Junmyeon were to stay with him in the washroom, would have he felt the same longing that washed over him without warning? Would Junmyeon's touch on his back make him feel not as empty as much?

Maybe it's just about his attachment to his hyungs – after all, they've been through so much, ups and downs, awards, tears, angriness – that he feels this connected. They are close. All of them.

So why does a touch of Kyungsoo make him this needy? Years ago, this touch would have meant nothing – or, at least, nothing that it means now. It would mean "I'm here for you", or, "There's no need to be sad". It wouldn't mean "I want you so much".

He shivers at that thought. He doesn't really want Kyungsoo, does he? Yes, Kyungsoo is small, and kind, and soft, but Kyungsoo is Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo is his bandmate. Ex-roommate. Brother. Friend. Someone Sehun could never...

There's this thought again, scratching the back of his mind all tireless. It leaves Sehun unarmed and a sudden tiredness washes over him, the weight of the world pressing his eyelids closed. These confusing feelings are draining him of energy and if he doesn't sleep now, yesterday's dance practice will hurt like hell.

He wills himself to sleep at half past three, staring at Junmyeon's hair painted all various greys.

---

Promotions for Love Me Right are cut short - it's mostly because of individual schedules and the remaining stops of their Asian concert tour. Sehun doesn't really have anything to do - one photoshoot here, an other there, but mainly, there's nothing in his line up.

"They ain't no giving you schedules because they don't want to," Jongdae says to him one particular night out with the beagle-line. "It's because the company has a lot of controversies going on."

Sehun rolls his eyes at that. He wishes Jongdae could stop defending this shitty regime SM built up. He doesn't tell him how SM cut short Super Junior's promotions as well, doesn't argue him about f(x) being neglected, or SHINee unpaid, even though he would like to oppose.

Jongdae is not the right person to have a quarrell with. He is bold and loud, words sprouting out his mouth like fire yet inside he's mellow and delicate. It's all contradictions; Jongdae sees only good, but his words are sharp, even if his heart is made out of butterflies and fine china.

"Um, let's not talk about this," Baekhyun says, but Sehun has enough of not communicating about their problems. This is the exact thing that happened when Kris, then Lu Han and Tao left, it's the same thing that is happening now. Sehun has enough of not talking. He wants to, but doesn't quite know how when all his members want to talk about is patbingsu, and the thought eats him away. He's long lost his appetite, but Chanyeol is still shoving fat dumplings down his throat.

By the time the patbingsu arrives, Sehun collects his courage enough to say, "I think we need to speak more often. About... Our... Problems."

He feels three pairs of eyes boring holes right into him, but doesn't dare to look up. He knows what they'll look like anyways; having their mouth open, paralysed, a dumb expression gracing all of their faces. Sehun knows talking isn't one of his characteristics per se, but there are things that need to be said. Even if it hurts.

He wonders if Kyungsoo felt exactly like this, the other day back in the washroom when he had his narrow little back pushed against the door. He wonders if Kyungsoo struggled to say those words out, just like Sehun was struggling right now, if he had the same whirlwind of thoughts creeping to the back of his head. He wonders if it's anything more than it already is; if it was something Kyungsoo had on his mind all day long, and the thought spreads a warm tingling sensation throughout his chest.

"Well... Let's talk then," Jongdae says. He has ice cream running down his chin, and for a split moment Sehun wants to reach out and wipe it away, wants to see if touching Jongdae feels the same as swiping a hand down Kyungsoo's arm.

"Yeah, let's talk," says Chanyeol, nodding, "It's true we haven't really had a conversation about... things."

Sehun tries to speak, tries to say something relevant, something meaningful, but every jumbled word of his gets stuck halfway between two mouthfuls of shaved ice. This is an opportunity to open up, as if he wasn't open enough, and now, goddamn, there's no sound coming out of his mouth. He thinks, why am I being like this, when he was the one to start up this conversation and they could talk for real this time, and, god, there is nothing he can say.

Baekhyun notices he's struggling. Baekhyun, on regular, notices a lot of things; he's observing, everything and everyone to the point where he realises individual gestures of feelings. He especially notices Sehun, lately, and it makes Sehun feel safe, like he has someone to lean on when the day is hard and heavy, the two of them sitting quietly at the back of the van, not really talking but still, Baekhyun's caresses are speaking to him. A light stroke on the hand means, "you are not alone," and two fingers circulating Sehun's wrist says, "you can tell me anything". Baekhyun can communicate well with both words and body, and that is something Sehun lacks. Too. Sehun lacks a lot of things. A strange feeling floods him all blue to his toes and he shoves the patbingsu away.

"Sehun-ah, we know it's been hard on you," Baekhyun says then, not looking at Sehun but watching his abandoned patbingsu instead. "The other members leaving does not mean we will leave you too."

Damn, Baekhyun observed Sehun too much. The cold truth of his feelings being said out loud by somebody else feels like a rock hard punch to the stomach. His hands are shaking, so he hides them under the table, never really looking Baekhyun in the eye.

"Is that why you're so down lately, Sehun-ah? I noticed you shying away the other day after practice. We're here for you, you know?" Jongdae says. His voice is smooth and rich like honey. It's another punch right to Sehun's core.

"Yes," Sehun says. He could tell them about Kyungsoo, and Kyungsoo's hand, and his narrow petite back, but chooses not to. They do not need to know that.

"Don't be sad, Sehun-ah. Smile instead," is all Chanyeol says. It's unlikely of him, to talk this little, but Sehun knows the three ex-members leaving has made all of them sad in different ways.

"I'm not sad anymore," says Sehun, and for the first time that night, he smiles. It's a real smile, and it comes forceless and easy, even though the feeling of blue still stings at his sides.

The car ride back is happy, Baekhyun and Jongdae singing along to crappy songs on the radio and Chanyeol beatboxing for them, but inside the dorm, locked in his room, Sehun cannot find his peace.

Sehun catches himself wondering too much lately – wondering about his worth, abilities, opportunities, chances he had missed, chances he had taken. Thinks about the times when training for being a part of an SM boyband was enough for him, when feeling like he belongs was his only desire. Remembers the the long afternoons spent in various practice rooms with boys just like him, scrawny kids who haven’t grown into their own skin yet, didn’t even know how to. All they knew was what they wanted – being stars, dancers, singers, maybe a bit of all three. But did they know what they needed?

Junmyeon groans in his sleep across the room. Sehun looks in his general direction, but doesn’t see much – just stares into black nothingness, but imagines Junmyeon fast asleep with his knees drawn close to his chest, his hair crowning his head like a halo on his five hundred thousand won pillow. Wonders if sleep came to Junmyeon easy this night, if he dreams in colour, about things he wants to do, about things he loves.

Wonders if Kyungsoo wonders as much as he does on sleepless nights when his bones and muscles are dense from too much dancing, stomach too full from after-practice dinner. Wonders, what if Kyungsoo is only nice to him out of pity, even though he said he doesn’t pity him; what if Kyungsoo is not particularly kind just to him, if he’s nice to anyone else, anyone other than Sehun, only he didn’t notice it, and the thought itself sends an ugly, deep, coiling feeling to his guts. He turns, away from Joonmyeon’s direction, stares at the plain greyness of the cold wall.

When he finally falls asleep, there’s a strange sense of guilt etched under his skin. It still stings in the morning.

---

The filming of Pure Love begins in June, summer heat too scolding hot to bear. Kyungsoo goes swinging between their concert tour and shooting, with very limited time on his hands to spend some quality “alone-ness” in the dorm. The absence of Kyungsoo’s being makes Sehun put his head under cold water, seeking a kind of strange comfort in anything he can find; an evening out with Jongdae, an afternoon spent with Jongin and his dogs, a brunch shared with Joonmyeon, but none of them truly makes him feel any better. The past few months of indescribable, unpredicted heartbreak and gloominess spent in agony and wondering about that particular day at the practice room cannot just go away with few laughters. Not even with a true, hearty one, one that Sehun tries to entertain throughout June, when Kyungsoo is away most of the time.

The TV is on with Chanyeol’s face in the jungle on it when Kyungsoo comes home late at night, on a Sunday almost-morning. Sehun is somewhere between letting his eyes closing in shut and forcing them open, but the minute Kyungsoo steps in the living room, he’s wide awake. Every nestle Kyungsoo makes sounds ten times louder now with everyone gone to their respective rooms, only Sehun lounging around on the couch at this ungodly hour. Tomorrow they have practice for their concert, and Joonmyeon has been alarming him of it throughout the evening, but sleep hasn’t again come easy to Sehun this week, leaving him switching through channels all restless.

Kyungsoo’s tired, is the first thing Sehun notices. He puts his keys on the hanger swiftly, but the next moment he comes stumbling across the room, one thing Kyungsoo rarely does. Clumsiness is not an adjective of many to describe Kyungsoo, Sehun knows, and when Kyungsoo hits the pillow next to him, Sehun doesn’t think twice about circling his hands around his waist.

“Rough day?” Sehun asks, voice low, calm. Chanyeol’s face flashes on the screen.

“Just long,” Kyungsoo answers. “Had a lot of scenes today.”

His body has a sheen of sweet summer sweat all over it. Sehun collects them with his thumb as he swipes it over in circles on the back of Kyungsoo’s hand. “Maybe you should skip practice tomorrow.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes are fixed on the TV screen but his gaze is unfocused. Sehun wonders if he only sees colours and abstract shapes. “No, I’ll go,” Kyungsoo says, in return, a few heartbeats later. The sweat on Kyungsoo’s hand is slowly starting to dry, and Sehun stops drawing loops on his palm.

“Maybe you should go to sleep then,” is what Sehun says next. Kyungsoo looks down at their hands, almost intertwined. When Sehun starts to circle his thumb around Kyungsoo’s palm again, Kyungsoo stretches his fingers for Sehun’s to meet in the middle. It almost burns, the faint touch of Kyungsoo’s skin on Sehun’s, but it’s soft, almost like a feather. Almost like it isn’t there.

It’s a pure movement, lacking any kind of ulterior motive or menace, needing no response. Yet still, the undeniable force of wanting to put their hands together strikes Sehun with dispatch, something he cannot foresee, something that is impossible to outrun.

But want and incidence does not necessarily align. Kyungsoo’s hand is gone. He stands, starts for the bathroom. Sehun looks at him from across, the light in the hallway illuminating Kyungsoo’s sun-kissed skin that practically glows under white-ish led lights, and Sehun can’t help but think about ways to let Kyungsoo know that he wants his hand over his a little longer, a little more. By the door, Kyungsoo says, face slightly turned back to look at Sehun, “You should go to sleep too.”

“Okay, hyung,” Sehun says, but dwells there for a moment or two. Maybe Kyungsoo is just a really good friend with really beautiful skin, and a majestic voice, and deep brown eyes.

Sehun can’t really pinpoint out what brings him to follow Kyungsoo into the bathroom – need… want? –, yet he’s there, arm slightly pushing against the doorframe in a try-hard nonchalant way. Kyungsoo is too tired to take notice of him or even acknowledge his presence with a mere humm as he takes off his shirt.

Suddenly there’s not enough air for Sehun to breathe in, the walls turning in on him too soon, too fast. Kyungsoo is just standing there, right by the shower as he waits for the water to cool down, and with a facile move, one blink of an eye, he’s in, completely naked.

It’s not like they haven’t seen each other naked before. In fact, Sehun has seen the entire band in their natural state, especially Baekhyun, who doesn’t care about what anyone thinks. Oh, how Sehun wishes he was anything like Baekhyun. But he’s not. Instead, he’s standing in the bathroom, Kyungsoo about an arm and a full ocean away, in all of his naked sun-kissed wet glory, and he feels like a fool. How did he get here, exactly, again?

The shower stall opens. Cold air gushes all over Sehun’s body. “Are you getting in or not?” Kyungsoo says. Like it’s nothing.

Maybe it really is nothing. Maybe they’re really just nothing, and this moment of vulnerability as Sehun stands there, wordlessly taking his clothes off, is barely just a dream of feverish thoughts.

The water is cool enough to keep Sehun standing on both of his feet. Kyungsoo puts shower gel on a sponge, traces his skin with it over and over again. Sehun watches him, without a sound, because he doesn’t know what else to do. To be clear, he doesn’t know anything, not even lately. All he knows is Kyungsoo’s skin is beautiful and glowing and tan. He’s nothing like Sehun.

Kyungsoo turns to him then, offers him the sponge. It’s still wet and soapy, and Sehun can practically smell his own desperation over the scent of coconut shower gel. He finds himself mulling about the muscles on Kyungsoo’s back as he turns, reaching up for shampoo, the muscles that he has never seen before. How long has this been happening? How did Sehun not notice? And why does the simple thought of Kyungsoo being close to him send him into overdrive?

By the time he’s soaped himself up, Kyungsoo is out, a baby blue towel fastened low around his waist. Sehun has little to no time to comprehend the deficit of Kyungsoo’s body heat. Everything is happening so quick, like a sketchy dream, in a non-linear realm of disjointed occurrents. Sehun feels like he’s out of his body and mind, and Kyungsoo’s gone again, only a few patches of water left of him on the bathroom floor.

---

Sehun knows something is changing. Or, as Baekhyun says on a lovely, mildly hot August summer evening out on the roof of their apartment, stuffing their faces with ordered bulgoggi, “something has already been changed”.

“What do you mean?” Sehun says, mouth full of spicy rice cake. He very well knows what Baekhyun means, but it’s too soon to admit that. He’d rather play blind, like he’s been playing for who knows how long.

“You very well know what I mean,” Baekhyun says, pointedly. Sehun hates how he sees through a lot of things. Even more now, when he sees right through him. “Kyungsoo. And you. Or should I put it this way; your feelings for Kyungsoo?”

Sehun is compelled, at first, to say something opposing like “What, no,” or “Haha, you’re kidding me,” but nothing comes to his mind. It’s only blank, his heart, with a little vibrato at the base of his lungs and at the top of his stomach, sizzling with little heat and a nervous trembling. Somehow the half full bowl of bulgoggi seems disgusting right now, but he has no strength to push it away. An after-image of the practice room door and Kyungsoo’s tiny back pushed against it comes to him, accompanied by a ghost of Kyungsoo’s fingers against his flashes right before his eyes, clear, unabashed, unchanged. Then there’s the feeling: the feeling of not being good enough and being too much, too loud, too forgettable makes his heart sink, just a little, right where his stomach is pulsing with unkindness. Baekhyun sees right through him, but when has he ever not?

Baekhyun reaches out, takes the bulgoggi of Sehun’s hands, puts it on the ground. The sky is simmering in blues both pale and deep dark, underlined with a kind of warmness of the setting sun, painted in low oranges and yellows at the bottom. It’s only after he’s sitting fast and close next to Sehun, his hands around his shoulder when he says, “You’ve been out of focus lately… If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

The closeness of Baekhyun is not unpleasant, but it’s nothing compared to Kyungsoo’s body heat hitting Sehun in the chest warm and kind and fast. Sehun feels like choking up, because, even if he tries not to, somehow he grew too fond of Kyungsoo and his many talents; his voice, his cooking, his body…

If Sehun could shout right now he would, he would let out a shriek so sharp it would almost represent his bleeding heart. Baekhyun senses his discomfort, so he pulls him closer, so close Sehun’s head fits under his perfect little chin. Baekhyun is as easy to hug as he is easy to love, something Sehun can’t identify with. An ugly bubble of jealousy boils up inside him, and now he’s full of colours, all sad blues and yellows of envy.

If he doesn’t speak now he’s going to burst, so he does what he has to do; at least this he knows, so he says, quietly, “Why does everything have to be so confusing and hard?”

Baekhyun’s hands are still around him, holding him in place so Sehun doesn’t completely fall apart. Sehun appreciates Baekhyun’s sensible nature, but somehow thinks nothing, not even Baekhyun’s emphatic solacement could ever take away these blues.

“That’s just life,” Baekhyun’s voice is soft. “It happens to everyone, every now and then.”

Sehun breaks away from Baekhyun to look him in the eye. “Does everyone feel this worthless as I do?”

“Having ups and downs sometimes is human,” Baekhyun responds. There’s a chill breeze swiping past them the moment these words roll off his tongue and Sehun feels helpless. “Not being able to comprehend our worth is human. Hell, some people never get to know their real worth. Having someone you like, and maybe falling in love with them, and maybe loving them unconditionally and getting nothing in return is human. Loving someone of… the same sex is okay. Even if your parents say otherwise. Even if society says otherwise. And I hope you know, Oh Sehun, that I love you. And I want the best for you. And I also want you to know that having complicated feelings is okay. Everybody has. Everybody has to, at some point in their life, face hardships. But we will pull you through. We are almost brothers, remember?”

A moment of silence passes between them. Sehun is trying to make sense out of Baekhyun’s words, even though Baekhyun has been clear from the very start. Damn, Baekhyun is really good at unfolding the deepest, darkest pits of Sehun’s irregularly beating heart, but Sehun does not yet know what Baekhyun’s words mean to him. Is he really– in love? With Kyungsoo hyung? Kyungsoo hyung, who cooks for him at midnight, who accompanies him to movies no other wants to watch with him; Kyungsoo hyung, who not only has a voice, but has the looks, the strength, the passion, the heart? Kyungsoo doesn’t usually have his heart out on his sleeves, at least, not like Sehun has his right now, laid out bare and raw in front of Baekhyun to touch. Because Baekhyun, out of all people, is now seeing it; the rush of sadness that escapes Sehun in form of tears, hot and wet down the side of his cheeks. He’s crying, in relief or grief, in realisation or deny he doesn’t know; all he knows is he’s crying, on the goddamn roof, his bulgoggi growing cold on the ground, with Baekhyun’s arms around him in a consoling manner.

There are times when Sehun is too lost, too deep in his thoughts to listen to anything that’s said to him. But this time he does, he really, truly listens, but Baekhyun’s words he cannot comprehend – yet. So he just cries, soundless, his broad shoulders shaking as he tries to wipe away tears that had been trying to break out ever since on that unfaithful day at the practice room.

“Good,” says Baekhyun, hand coming up to Sehun’s nape to linger a little bit. “We, I think, need to embrace sadness as well as we embrace happiness. Cry it out, Sehun-ah.”

So he cries and cries.

---

They say, after the rain comes the sun, and for Sehun it might just happen. The experience shared with Baekhyun on the roof with cold bulgoggi and mildly dark-yellow setting Sun and a lot of crying made Sehun feel ten times lighter in the chest. In some strange way, letting his emotions out in form of tears provided as a moderate temporary solution for an aching heart, even if Sehun was always sceptical of this form of pain-relief: he usually laughed away his tears with either too much dance or too many food, but this time around, crying his tiny heart out served him good, leaving him feeling a lot fresher in the morning. Not even the burnt toast Joonmyeon made him as a lame excuse of a breakfast took away his smile as he sat at the table, poking Jongin in the ribs with his index finger till Jongin had enough, pushing at him in revenge, and when it’s time for dance practice later, at around ten o’clock, nothing seems to make him feel down.

Until Kyungsoo appears. Because he does, he dares to show up in a slick black training suit, his hair a muzzled nest on the top of his head, with all of his brownish glowing skin, and Sehun suddenly feels a stone drop in his stomach, deep and low and hurting.

The uneasy feeling stays throughout dance practice. However hard he tries, he just simply can’t bear to look away from Kyungsoo’s reflection in the mirror, and the longing that has been keeping him up at night for the past several months makes him unable to coherently rehearse his lines, leaving him feeling all kind of different blues again.

Practice lets out at three in the afternoon, and everybody is up for lunch. Sehun doesn’t really have an appetite right now, seeing as how well Kyungsoo gets along with either Chanyeol or Jongin or Joonmyeon. Sehun sticks with Jongdae, sits close to him in the booth at their favourite diner with Kyungsoo across him.

Jongdae tells him bad jokes as Sehun watches Kyungsoo’s hand slide along Jongin’s shoulder, laughing at a very funny thing Chanyeol just said. Sehun couldn’t care less, he thinks, and turns back to Jongdae to feign a smile at another bad joke of his, the kind that only Baekhyun appreciates, but damn, halfway along the tenth shaggy dog story Baekhyun tells Jongdae, Sehun’s attention wanders back to the other side of the table. Apparently he cares, and wonders if Kyungsoo cares about him too the way he does about him. Wonders if that night in the shower meant the same to him as it did to Sehun. Oh wait, he doesn’t even know what it meant, or if it means anything at all. Questions he cannot yet answer flood his mind and the lightness he felt in the morning now seems so far away, even farther than Kyungsoo feels a few feet away to his upper right, laughing in a kind of joy Sehun can’t possibly share.

Above a table full of food and light chatter on both sides, Sehun still ponders, thinks about the times when his feelings were left unchanged and discerning happenings in life seemed easy and quick. Now, all he has is a depot of amphigoric thoughts and a confused heart and Kyungsoo is still sitting over at the table in his pretty tracksuit and pretty face and Sehun can’t think about anything else.

Somewhere between a bite of galbi and yet another fart joke from Baekhyun, Sehun’s fingertips start to tickle on end. Kyungsoo has reached over the table for a side dish, but missed and took Sehun’s hand instead. Sehun’s mouth goes dry as sand as Kyungsoo smiles at his own foolishness, and gives a light pat on Sehun’s hand before reaching over for kimchi. The chopsticks in Sehun’s hand are starting to slide off, and Sehun decides to collect himself. He won’t let the knot in his stomach stop him from eating all this delicious food, so he starts stuffing his face with various meats, korean barbeque first and foremost. Yixing laughs at him, says, “Sehun-ah, you’ll choke on your food, eat slowly,” but what Yixing doesn’t understand is, if Sehun stops forcing huge bites down his throat, he might as well suffocate from the knot in it.

“Sehun-ah has been working very hard lately,” Kyungsoo says. “He needs to eat well.”

“True that, but he’s eating like a machine,” says Baekhyun, puts a hand over Sehun’s shoulders mid-bite. “Sehun-ah, you’ve been showing us your many talents this past comeback, you shouldn’t kill yourself with too much barbeque. Right, Kyungsoo?”

It’s a huge bite that gets stuck in his throat and makes Sehun gag, Sehun would like to think, not Baekhyun’s rather smart remark to Kyungsoo. Baekhyun just smirks at him and Sehun thinks he wants to put his hands over his neck and just simply squeeze him to death, but that would be inappropriate in a diner Joonmyeon loves. And Sehun loves Joonmyeon, so he wouldn’t dare to make all of them get banned from here, so he sticks for killing Baekhyun mentally, maybe later on the roof of their dorm.

“Told ya you would suffocate considering the amount of unchewed meat you shoved down your face,” Jongdae laughs and Chanyeol snickers with him, clapping his hands together.

“Thanks for the reminder, hyung,” Sehun says in reply. Kyungsoo is just smiling at him, warm, kind, a heart-shaped smile Sehun could never erase from his memories, because the imprint would be always there. This, he determines, would he like to remember later, and not Jongdae’s unfunny jokes.

---

Staying in means wearing no clothes whatsoever while the others are out at their favourite bowling place. Sehun likes to call it ‘Hours’ with a capital H, indicating that it’s his very own, very special time he gets to spend by himself and himself only. Sometimes he likes to go out with the band, just to see the wrinkles of worry dissolve from Joonmyeon’s otherwise wrinkless face. They would go out and play games, mainly bowling, with Jongdae shouting over both Baekhyun’s and Chanyeol’s voice as Yixing sits behind them, snickering about something Joonmyeon just said to the others that has no effect on the shouting whatsoever. Jongin would lounge in one of the seats, popcorn all over his shirt, his hands, his mouth. And Kyungsoo – Kyungsoo would stand beside them, hands crossed on his chest, lips stretching far out into a wide smile at the others. Sehun does not know if he’s ready for yet another emotionally tumultuous day with either the Beagle-line or Kyungsoo, so he chooses to stay in, telling Minseok that it’s only because of tiredness.

Partly it’s true. He’s genuinely tired from all the photoshoots and commercials and concerts and music programs, but he’s also tired from a completely different aspect, something he only could ever share briefly with Baekhyun. Good old Baekhyun… if only he could lift the weight off Sehun’s chest so Sehun could breathe properly again and not with restrain or guilt or pain or tears.

Sehun doesn’t know how long he can stand this—this feeling, this sense of overwhelming thoughts, the feeling of not being good enough, of not being good of anything, of not being… Of not being enough. Simply. Truly. At all. Not for the band. Not for his parents. Not for the world. Not for Kyungsoo.

Is there a way to wipe my head clear of these thoughts?, he thinks to himself as he rolls over in bed to his other side. Or is he stuck in this blue nothingness forever with little to nothing to hold onto; not a single joy in life. Even food doesn’t taste the same as back then, back when he experienced happiness with the same intensity as he experiences these blue days of fog and self-loathing and question marks inside his head. There is, a possible way out, of course, is what he thinks the next minute, but the sadness comes back, kicking the front door to his heart open and leaving it torn into pieces without any kind of consolation; is that how it’s going to be always? For eternity? How does a person feel so low about themselves for this long – for months, not only a few weeks, but months, long months, on end and on end an on end. Without stopping. No rest to the sad heart. No rest to the sad mind, either.

He sits up straight, stares out the window. Summer is ending soon, trees that have been blossoming in green slowly turning into a harsh palette of browns and oranges. Everything around Sehun changes, but Sehun’s confusing feelings stay the same, the same as ever. Undiscernible. Hurting. As if someone took a knife and put it between Sehun’s ribs right through his skin and meat to the middle of his heart and left it bleeding. Nothing changes there.

Maybe it’s really all just tiredness. Work has been cruel, to be honest, this past year, especially on his body. He knows he’s losing weight. And he also knows it’s not the main reason.

It’s… and it’s hard to even think to himself, let alone to say it out loud, it’s because of Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo the beautiful, brave, the amazing, the muscular, the toned, the one with The Lips. The Voice. With everything Sehun doesn’t have. But what Sehun doesn’t especially have is, and what he’ll never could possess has nothing to do with how Kyungsoo looks. Or how Kyungsoo sings. Because those things can be changed; those things can be learned. What can’t be learned is how to have someone who’s heart is not reserved for you. Who’s not thinking of you the same way as you think of them. Who can’t, no matter how hard he tries, reciprocate those feelings for you. Because a person is a person; and not a thing to learn, or to change. A person has a mind of their own. And Sehun can’t possibly have that. Can’t have Kyungsoo when Kyungsoo doesn’t want him.

He glances outside then. There’s a tree, a single tree in the street, right at the front of their apartment block. Birds usually sit there and chirp all day long if the weather is nice enough. The sun is shining today, but there are no birds on the tree. Not one. It makes Sehun feel even worse, as if the simple knowing that today he is alone because he’s unable to engage in normal human contact on any levels wasn’t enough.

Maybe if he stared at the tree enough, some birds would come fly there and sit and chirp. But Sehun is no magician; he can’t make things go the way he wants. He can’t cast spells.

The front door is unlocked. Sehun hears it clicking open. He takes a look at the clock; it’s only half past six. The guys usually come home around one a.m., slightly drunk, irritably loud. It’s still too early for that.

He cranes his neck to take a peak through the open door – he’s almost scared how fast he recognises the footsteps coming in through the hall. Sehun just simply cannot know it by the sounds. Kyungsoo sticks his head in then, leans against the frame of the door. “Hey. Joonmyeon said you’d be home.”

“I am,” is what Sehun answers. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Didn’t want to leave you all alone here, by yourself,” Kyungsoo says, closes the door behind him. It closes obnoxiously loud. “Can I sit with you?”

“Sure,” Sehun says, trying really hard to sound nonchalant, or at least not as wrecked as he feels. Kyungsoo sits next to him, clothed thighs slightly brushing up against Sehun’s naked ones. Sehun is now awfully aware of his own nakedness; he only has his super high gymshorts on, the bright blue one that Chanyeol always mocks him for having. He suddenly realises he feels exposed and it makes him shrink away from Kyungsoo, if even only by a few millimetres. Some sort of awkward silence takes a seat in between them, the kind that makes you fidget restlessly. Sehun often doesn’t know what to say; neither does Kyungsoo – but even in that aspect, there’s a gap between them; a gap in which Sehun is on one end, being the one who doesn’t know what to say – and Kyungsoo on the other, who knows what to, yet doesn’t know how. Sehun wishes he’d know what to, but wouldn’t be able to say – even in that way Kyungsoo is someone he looks up to. It’s hard. It’s hard to know your flaws and live with them, especially if those flaws are what restrain you from living your life to the fullest. And Sehun always wants the best. Always wants things he doesn’t have. What he cannot have.

“Sehun-ah, don’t frown this much,” Kyungsoo says then, makes Sehun whip his head towards him. Kyungsoo is dressed in full black, and he looks sleek, breathtaking even. How Sehun wishes he could peel away the black layers and reach beneath Kyungsoo’s skin to take a grip at his heart the same way Kyungsoo is squeezing Sehun’s right now. How he wishes he could do that, but he can’t, and shouldn’t, because Kyungsoo is his friend, brother, bandmate, ex-roommate… everything and nothing to him all at once.

Kyungsoo too, is looking at him right now, all deep brown eyes and dark eyebrows knocking together in a questionable way, like he’s thinking too hard about something.

“What?” Sehun asks. It comes out weak and breathless. He pulls his knees up higher on the bed so he can lay a hand around them, as if hiding from Kyungsoo, even though he very well knows he can’t.

“Wow, I just,” Kyungsoo says, looking down and away, pushing a hand through his hair. It’s cut short and even, laying perfectly onto his sun-kissed bronze skin on the sides. “I just realised something. Something I shouldn’t exactly be feeling… and yet…”

Deep breath and exhale. All the things Sehun thought he wanted to say are completely gone. In fact, all of his thoughts are far away. He says, with struggle, “What did you just realise, hyung?”

There’s a drop of sweat rolling down Kyungsoo’s nape, straight from his hairline disappearing into his loose black t-shirt. Summer has come to an end, as had Sehun’s thoughts just moments ago, and here he is now, following the trail Kyungsoo’s sweat makes all the way down his neck. It’s tempting to reach out and collect it with his fingers, brushing away the wetness and leaving traces of a tender touch on Kyungsoo’s skin.

“Something I don’t exactly understand… Nor am sure about,” Kyungsoo says. There is no trembling in his voice, no hesitance. He’s saying it like it’s a fact, like it’s easy to talk about such things, when Sehun perfectly knows it’s not Kyungsoo’s best feature. “And I’m not exactly sure about how could this thing… my realisation… affect you.”

Sehun’s heart beats like crazy. “Well… if you just told me, hyung… Maybe we could see the outcome.”

Kyungsoo turns quiet awhile. His hand rests on his thighs. Not quite sure how to continue, Sehun takes a glance at Kyungsoo, head hanging low as if he doesn’t dare to really look at him. All he sees is just a soft nervous tremble that radiates off Kyungsoo now, and it makes Sehun uneasy, equally nervous. He knows this something that could either break them or mend them together, but he doesn’t know how to say it out loud.

He wants to say something, or do something, maybe just a nudge of a knee or a slight touch of an index finger -- but before he knows, the moment is gone, and Kyungsoo is on the other side of the room, gingerly clasping at the doorframe.

“I’m... I’m sorry Sehun-ah. Forget it. I am just tired.”

And with that, he’s out the door, leaving Sehun with all this inner turmoil and indecisiveness alone. He looks at his hands. The sweat has gone cold on his palms.

---

Weeks pass with promotions and dance practices and interviews, but all he thinks about is the last month - Kyungsoo has been very nice to him lately, and that is something Sehun can’t quite put his finger on. Not like Kyungsoo isn’t nice on a daily basis; he is a man with a great sense of politeness and good manners, characteristics that resolve in everybody loving Kyungsoo. What is there not to love? Sehun likes to think he is just as polite as Kyungsoo is, but who is he trying to fool? The only thing they truly share is their quietness – nothing else. Sehun is nothing like Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo is nothing like Sehun, and Sehun wonders if that palpable difference between them could dissolve one day.

[sehun keeps wondering about kyungsoo; the days go just like that. this is the era of “its ok its love” and sehun’s feelings for kyungsoo deepens as time goes farther. kyungsoo gets more affectionate towards sehun while sehun wonders if that is all that is; two good friends, holding hands sometimes and being affectionate with each other but every time kyungsoo puts his hands on his waist his heart beats faster, harder, irregular. sehun knows somethings’ changing, and he keeps wondering about his worth, about his abilities or lack thereof. kyungsoo is always there for him to assure him of his worth, to make him feel not so empty inside. sehun starts to wonder about what you want and what you have; if the two can align. can you get what you want, or you should get what you need? whats the difference between want and need? what if we could never get what we truly want or need? we cant have everything sehun knows, but he keeps wanting kyungsoo until the very day that he realises he really, really, really does want it. he doesn’t know how he wants kyungsoo, all he knows is kyungsoo’s presence makes him feel tingly and good and happy. meanwhile sehun realises kyungsoo is just as defenseless and self concious as he is, and they develop a very close friendship, a friendship that’s not yet enough for sehun. one time, around the promotions of another winter lovesong exo puts out regularly, on a slightly drunken night of winning a music program, sehun kisses kyungsoo and they start an affair of purely physical love. sehun is in too deep, even when he knows he wants emotional love as well as physical. kyungsoo is affectionate to him but he is affectionate to the other members as well which leaves sehun all sad, and begins to wonder about wanting and having. whats the endgame I don’t know yet, but I know the last words will be this: when he leaves, he leaves the door open.

ok so the physical side of love continues until sehun cant take it anymore; after wondering about months and months of what this means to him, he goes to ask kyungsoo about it. kyungsoo is surprisingly calm during the talk, explaining to sehun that he too, as sehun could notice, wants the affectionate closeness but not the emotions; hes not in love with sehun nor will he ever be; he doesn’t want anything more than there is. sehun is, at first, devastated, but later realises that that’s how life is; you truly can’t always get you what you want. after he accepted the fact that kyungsoo doesn’t want anything else, he feels thankful for kyungsoo of showing him so many things; of teaching him to love himself through the physical and emotional acts; to teaching him the difference between need and want indirectly. once sehun realises all these things, they stay good and close friends, although the memories of being more than that but not quite anything still mars sehun’s mind. a year later in a café he meets a boy with auburn hair, someone who he can connect with. in the end, sehun is happy and in love and is secure with himself, continuing his time with exo and being best friends with kyungsoo. a bittersweet ending!]

#sesoo #hunsoo #sedo #kyungsoo #sehun #d.o.#exo #fic #shortfic #bold-lettered #what a beautiful time it was to be alive #such an era #such boys #such love

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accioscorp · 4 years ago

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writer tag game

Thank you for the tag @xpectopatronerd

(Apologies for how long this got !!! I’m on the app and can’t add a “keep reading”)

write late at night or early in the morning

I usually prefer to write in the morning/late afternoon as I get tried sooo early but there has definitely been times where I’ve stayed up until 3am to write (literally happened the other night) but yeah I’d say early in the morning !

Prefer dialogue or description

100% description !!!! It’s truly my favorite write and I just love being able to hopefully give the read a vivid and clear image of what I’m attempting to describe. I also love writing fics that are solely description with zero dialogue, they have ended up being some of my favourite pieces I’ve written !! I’m not a fan of writing dialogue and it’s something I struggle a lot with to make it flow properly and not feel forced ...

Drink caffeine or I’ll stick to water

I do love myself an iced coffee buuuut usually I just drink water !!

Loves prompts or prefers to choose yourself

I don’t think I can decide here !! I do love that feeling of coming up with my own idea and jotting down plot points and all that buuuut there is nothing better than seeing an prompt and being able to develop your own story around that !! I do love both and my works are definitely a mixture of original ideas and prompt I’ve seen but changed up a little !!

Stickler for canon or preference for au

I do love a good canon fic but au’s are ones I truly love to read !!!! I loooove reading (and writing) a good muggle au and getting to explore what these characters may be like if they lived in the muggle world but there’s something about canon that I love to and seeing how other writers interpret that !! Also I’m a huge a huge sucker for a sports au soooo

One-shots or multi chapters

I’m definitely a one-shots type of person when it comes to reading and writing. I have very little patience so it’s always been hard for me to either have the patience to read or write a multi chapter or to find the time to read an entire multi !! I have to say though some of my favourite fics have been multis !! I just love being able to read a story that is fully thought out but it may only be like 3000 words, there’s just something I love about all that. With myself, I only have one multi and the rest are all one-shots. Even though writing my multi has been such a great experience, there’s nothing like sitting down and bashing out a new oneshot in one sitting !!

Won’t take on more than one project at once or constantly juggling several

Well when I started and for a long time after, I would always just focus on one and when that was finished I’d move on ..... but now ... I have so many random wips that either will be sitting there for months or I’ll get around to finishing eventually !! It’s so bad

Abandoned fics or completionist

I’m definitely a completionist !!! There’s been very little fics I have ever just abandoned and usually I come back to ones that have been there for a while and finish them eventually!! I don’t think I’d be able to function if I knew a fic was just abandoned completely

Gen fics or ship first fics

Definitely ship !! I always look through the ships when deciding what to read and then have a look at the summaries etc

Pwp or plot heavy

Plot heavy ! Personally I am not a fan at all of pwp so I stay as far away from it as possible !! I’d much rather read a fic that is plot heavy with lots of plot points and twist and classics tropes we all love thrown in everywhere !!

First person or third person

Always third person ! I find fics written in first person to be very hard to read and I struggle to relate and connect with the characters or to the story !!

Angst or happy endings

Can I choose angst with a happy ending ??? I’m huge sucker for angst and possibly it’s my favourite to write !! I love a good fix that can jerk on the tear ducts and cause a little tear to escape !!! But happy endings are always just so so lovely to read, I’m not the biggest fan of sad endings but I’m not against them !!!

Ff.net or Ao3

Ao3 100% !!! I’ve never actually used ff.net and tbh the website confuses me sooooo

Crossovers or one fandom only

I’d have to say one fandom only !!! I’ve never really read any crossovers but I feel I would get very confused and just probably wouldn’t enjoy the reading experience???? But then again maybe I would like it, I’d definitely be open to reading one if the write one appeared but I prefer to stay to one fandom only, just for the lack of confusion !!

Friends to lover or enemies to lovers

Friends to lovers !!!! It’s possibly one of my favourite tropes *cough* scorbus *cough* .... I love it so much buuuuut I do love me a good enemies to lovers fic as well

Slow burn or they’re together from the start

Writing wise, they’re together form the start. Reading wise, slow burn. I myself would not have the patience to do a full on slow burn fic because I want them to be together !!! The slowest burn I’ve probably written is “I Never Planned On Someone Like You” and lets be honest, it’s not subtle their feelings ..... but I truly love to read them, there just something about getting THAT moment in the final chapters of a multi or after 8000 words of a oneshot and they finally get together *chefs kiss*

I’d like to tag @sunshinescorpiusmalfoy @hyperiius @sapphicfangirll and anyone else who’d like to do this !!!

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heywritersblock · 6 years ago

Text

trust: g.d

grayson’s best friend has a bit of a problem and i think we might know a guy who can lend a hand (wink wink)

“so you need someone who you trust AND who knows what he’s doing in bed?” grayson concludes.

“so you see my problem!”

you feel him smirk and then, “i bet i could make you come.”

now complete! ~8000 words

exasperated and with more force than absolutely necessary, you throw yourself down onto the couch at the side of grayson, huffing when he doesn’t move his leg from the seat you’ve landed on quick enough. grimacing over dramatically, you both manoeuvre with very little grace to free his leg and to get yourself comfortable. gray takes one look at your face from over the top of his phone, sits up a little straighter and tosses his phone onto the coffee table to give you his full attention.

“what’s up, mama?” he says after a minute of pointedly staring at you in silence, waiting for you to spill.

“nothin’,” you mumble, purposely avoiding his gaze.

he prods your thigh with one of his socked toes as a non verbal way of saying yeah right.

he notices your body language of arms folded over your chest, legs propped on the coffee table but not fully relaxed; not like his best friend at all.

“y/n, spill. c’mon.”

you huff again, tilting your body further towards the arm of the couch grayson isn’t leaning on to try and escape the interrogation. ethan relaxes at the side of on a huge beanbag that’s been added to the living room recently, munching the popcorn you prepared earlier and waiting for the movie marathon to begin.

“y/n,” grayson repeats again, with more force this time.

“for fucks sake, are we watchin’ this movie or not?” ethan says from the beanbag, missing his mouth with the popcorn as he does. he makes an effort to look for the rogue pieces that didn’t quite make it in, then shrugs when he doesn’t immediately see them. he shoves another handful of the treat in his mouth as he keeps his gaze on the two best friends since high school who are sitting on the couch.

you turn away from ethan, finally looking at gray’s unamused face for the first time since you sat down. “exactly, gray. put the fucking movie on. E’s nearly eaten all of the popcorn with all of your dawdling,” you say.

“nah, no movie’s going on ‘til you tell me what crawled up your ass,” he retorts.

“excuse me?” you ask, body still turned away from grayson. you catch ethan wince at your tone combined with how quick your head turned to glare at his brother.

he sits up further so he’s looking directly at you, shoving the remote down the back of the couch cushion he’s sat on when he sees you trying to reach for it. “somethin’s clearly got you pissed so spill! i’m not watchin’ a movie with you with you while you’ve got your bitch face on so come on, out with it,” he encourages.

ethan rolls his eyes and empties the last of the popcorn into his mouth while he waits. he knows how stubborn you are – about as stubborn as his brother – and he’s worried this stand off could take a while.

he’s about to pull his phone out to post a snap about you both when you sigh, pull your legs up from the coffee table and fold them under you and mumble, “fuckin’ jenna,” so quietly you’re unsure if gray heard you. luckily, he did.

“ok, now we’re getting somewhere!” he replies. “what’d she do?”

you turn your body to face him more now and he moves his legs out of the way so you can get comfortable. you still don’t quite meet his eyes but he knows he’s almost cracked you.

“she can just be such a bitch sometimes. always makin’ people feel bad about themselves. she really pisses me off, y’know?” you start to open up, glancing up at your best friend to glimpse his reaction.

“she made you feel bad? she is a bitch!” he agrees immediately with genuine annoyance spread across his features at the thought of someone upsetting you. you smile; he’s always got your back even if he doesn’t know the full story. “what’s she makin’ you feel bad about?”

“so, she’s tellin’ us all about her new boyfriend and how well he treats her and how she’s so lucky to have found someone just like him and it’s like – first of all, no one asked, jenna, and secondly, you’ve been dating him for two weeks – maybe three at the most – so like, keep your opinions to yourself until you know him better, y’know?” you begin. gray nods his head to show he’s listening.

you glance around to see E’s busying himself playing a pretty loud game on his phone while he waits for you two to sort this out before he can watch the movie. you turn back to grayson to continue your story.

“so we’re all nodding politely and giving it the whole wow, jenna, we’re so pleased for you – you deserve a good guy when like, no jenna; you cheated on your last boyfriend with your sister’s crush so no, you probably don’t deserve a good guy but whatever, that’s besides the point,” you rant.

grayson can’t help the soft smile that’s spread across his face as he listens to you. the corner of his smile tugs upwards as he sees ethan’s head lift upwards from the corner of his vision and look towards you both at the story you’re only just starting.

“so that’s bad enough, right? by this point i’m practically chugging these mocktails back and praying for some sort of miracle that’ll drop the drinking age to 18 immediately so i can make it through the rest of this fuckin’ nightmare of a brunch without losing it.”

grayson huffs out a laugh at that, then shoves his unstyled hair that’s falling onto his forehead back as you keep going.

“and then gray - and this is what really pissed me off – she starts telling us all oh god you guys, and let me tell you about him in the bedroom. like, jenna! there’s nothing in the whole fuckin’ world that i want to hear less about than your sex life so keep it to yourself, y’know? but obviously she carries on. seriously you guys, find yourself a guy that makes you come three times in five minutes.”

ethan’s head’s popped up fully now, clearly engaged in what he’s just heard and about to interject before grayson shakes his head at him.

“what happened then?” he asks. he can tell you’re getting to the part that’s really upset you because you’re gesticulating a lot more now, voice getting louder and really spitting the venom into your story.

“so, me being me and feeling like i’d do anything possible to end this freakin’ story as quickly as i can, i raise my glass and say ha! must be nice! then cheers everyone. cool, story’s over, right?”

“right?”

“wrong – she turns and looks right at me and says oh, poor baby in this fucking condescending voice with this look of pity on her face and i swear to god, gray if i hadn’t already downed it, my drink would’ve been all over her,” you hiss.

“great self control, bub. ‘m proud of you,” he mumbles.

“so then the next forty-five minutes of this fuckin’ brunch was everyone giving me the sad face that i’ve never orgasmed when i’m having sex with a guy. like, is that weird?” you ask openly.

you look directly at grayson and note his carefully composed face, then whip your head around to look at ethan who’s not keeping his face in check quite as well as his brother. E looks as though he’s been put on pause with his head held halfway up from his phone like he was just about to look at you but he’s suddenly stopped in his tracks. “well?” you ask him. “do you think it’s weird, E?”

“ummm - well – i think – i…” he stutters looking up at you from his beanbag.

you raise your eyebrow at him to prompt him to finish and he frantically looks at his brother.

“you got this, gray?” he asks, quickly standing up from the beanbag when gray smirks at how uncomfortable his brother is and nodding his head.

“ok, i’m so not used to these conversations. i’ll just leave you to it. shout when you’re ready for the movie. fuck, being best friends with a girl is hard, bro,” he says, and then makes a run for it.

you turn back to gray, still waiting for your answer. you sigh, “i’m gonna take your lack of an answer as yes, y/n, it’s fuckin’ weird you giant freak.”

“hey, hey, hey, hold on. no jumpin’ to conclusions. i’ve gotta get my thoughts in order,” he soothes.

you hide your head in your hands; you’re still pissed that jenna’s got you questioning yourself like this and it’s also a pretty embarrassing conversation to be having with your hot best friend of almost eight years.

“so, can i ask you a couple of questions before i tell you that is absolutely not weird so stop freaking out?”

your hands are still covering your face so when he hears a muffled reply and a nod of your head, he continues. “so i’m assuming from what you said earlier that you’ve come when you’re alone, yeah?”

you groan with embarrassment instead of replying and fling your head back to rest on the back of the couch and look up at the ceiling, questioning exactly why you thought this would be a good idea.

grayson’s not having any of it though. “hey, stop it. it’s only me – you don’t have to be embarrassed. everyone does it, it’s natural. so, you’re good when you’re alone?”

he waits for you to close your eyes and then nod your head minutely.

“ok then. that settles it,” he says.

you wait for him to continue but when nothing else comes from his mouth, you roll your head that’s still resting on the back of the couch to face him with a quizzical look on your face.

“settles what?” you ask.

“that it’s absolutely not weird that you’ve never come during sex with a guy. it’s clearly not you - you’re just pickin’ guys that haven’t got a fuckin’ clue what they’re doing,” he says with a grin and a shrug.

a loud laugh escapes you at his honesty, already feeling a little better after your best friend’s wise words.

“ok, so how do i know i’m picking someone who does know what they’re doing then? do i need to ask for reviews before i go on a date with them? i’m literally wasting weeks of my life with them and then i find out that they’re shitty in bed.” you whine.

“hey, a review system sounds like a dope dating app idea,” he says, bursting into laughter as he dodges the pillow that you’ve thrown at him.

“if this really bothers you, have you thought about maybe skipping out on the dating part? can you not find someone just to hook up with? get the job done, y’know? then you can get this stupid idea that you’re weird out of your mind,” he explains.

“it doesn’t work for me like that,” you sigh. “i dunno, sex is a big deal for me. it’s like, the closest and most intimate you can be with a person. the idea of being like that with a stranger? it just doesn’t do it for me.”

“no, no. i totally respect that. so you need someone who you trust AND who knows what he’s doing,” he concludes.

“so you see my problem!” you laugh. you pick at a thread on your shorts and then look up at him and see he’s staring at you, eyes focused in thought.

he sees you glancing at him and he smiles, hiding a small laugh and picks up the cushion you threw at him earlier to cuddle. he’s still not breaking eye contact.

his laugh seems to be infectious as you giggle, “what? what’s so funny?”

he shakes his head and then he smirks, “i bet i could make you come.”

he seems surprised that he’s actually said it out loud judging from the slight flush that blooms on his cheeks but he shrugs, fishing the remote control out from the back of the cushion he’s sat on.

you gape at him, eyes wide as a laugh huffs out of you. you’re speechless – for once – which is a fact that isn’t lost on grayson who’s still got that sinful smirk smudged across his mouth.

he spins the remote in his hand so it’s the right way up and points it at the TV that they’ve got shoved in the corner of the room, setting up the movie as confident and cool as anything.

you’re still looking directly at him, trying to work out what the fuck has just happened when he looks back to you.

he shrugs and says, “offer’s there,” before yelling for E to come and watch the movie with you.

“did you get the – er - problem sorted?” ethan asks awkwardly as he plonks himself back down in the beanbag for the second time today.

“not yet, but bear with us,” his brother mumbles, sending a wink in your direction.

it’s a couple of weeks after that conversation between you and your best friend and thankfully, life has carried on pretty much as normal. grayson hasn’t mentioned the offer since, enquiring about how your dates have been going as casually as usual. the only difference? one friday evening, you’ve joined the twins and a couple of your friends to hang out in their back yard. talk turns to your latest failing after you were set up on a blind date with a friend of a friend.

“he was a nice enough guy, just wouldn’t stop talking about how he’s trying to be ‘off grid’ whatever the fuck that means,” you recall as you sip your drink.

“oh dude, not one of those?” one of the guys sat opposite you says, clearly sharing in your disappointment.

“absolutely one of those, man! oh y/n, you don’t know how good it feels to just unplug, just be with yourself and nature. just living in the moment. like, dude, you live in LA – you’re about as on grid as you can possibly be!”

your group of friends laugh, imagining you trying to school your face into neutrality when you were listening to this dreamer.

“did you meet up with him again?” ethan asks as the laughter starts to die down.

“…yeah,” you sigh reluctantly.

“what?! no way did you meet up with him again! he sounds like such a douchebag!” ethan cries, throwing his arms in the air and leaning towards you for added dramatic flair.

you laugh, “what can i say, E? i’m fuckin’ desperate! he was my only hope!”

“hope? he was your only hope? fuck, i’d rather spend the rest of my days alone than spend them with a pretentious asshat of a man. you don’t need someone like that, y/n!” he stresses.

“what? no! E, i don’t mean he was my only hope of fuckin’ happiness and marriage and all of that – i mean i could see his package through his skin tight jeans and i thought that was exactly what i needed!”

ethan and the rest of the group are nearly crying with laughter at your statement and you glance up at gray who’s sat across from you, chuckling away at his best friend’s honesty. he shakes his head at you as he meets your eye contact.

your friends have just about calmed down from their laughter and just as you’re about to stand up and grab another drink, gray speaks.

“did he live up to your hopes then?”

your eyes glare at his as if to say don’t do this here but he doesn’t flinch. instead, he raises a single eyebrow and smirks, replying to your silent command with his own; answer the question.

the rest of the group is quiet now, looking between the two of you and trying their best not to acknowledge the intense atmosphere that’s just fallen over you.

“well, did he?” he asks again firmly.

you cough quietly to clear your throat, look him dead in the eyes and say a simple, “no,” before you grab your glass to refill.

the last thing you see before you turn around to head inside is grayson trying to hide his smug smile from the rest of the group by looking down at his converse.

you hear a muffled, “well that was weird,” from ethan, and then you slide the door shut with a slam.

night has fallen; it’s late and the group you’re hanging with decide it’s time to head home. hugs are offered and accepted as you all move towards the twins’ front door to say goodbye. you’re the last one there - E is telling you about this sick dance move he saw on twitter - when gray locks the front door and starts to head to the kitchen.

“um, hello? i was just about to leave,” you call. “what’d you lock the door for?”

grayson walks back around into the hallway with a confused look on his face and then ethan speaks for the both of them. “what’re you talkin’ about? just stay in the guest house like usual,” he says and then turns you in that direction with a brotherly shove.

“but-“ you begin.

“y/n, really? what’s the big deal? you always stop over. stop bein’ weird - you’re creeping ethan out,” gray calls across the hallway to you.

you sigh, shaking your shoulders a little because he’s right – why are you being so weird?

“yeah, sorry. guess i’m just more tired than i thought?” you lie. “i’ll see you both in the morning,” you reply, voice carrying through the house as you head towards the guest house.

a chorus of love you and sleep tight bub followed by their brotherly bickering echoes after you and you shut the door behind you with a soft click.

thirty minutes later, you’re showered, teeth brushed, face cleansed and laying in the comfortable bed trying to fall to sleep.

another thirty minutes pass and with a huff, you accept the fact that sleep isn’t very likely any time soon. with a tug on the light covers, you roll over and fumble for your phone that’s discarded on the night stand at the side of you.

after scrolling mindlessly for a while, you see that it’s not even that late – only around 11:30. you sit up and peak through the window of your bedroom facing the house and smile when you see gray’s bedroom is still lit up through his curtains. feeling calmer that you’re not the only one who likes their sleep to still be awake, you settle back onto the bed. you bring up your phone and tap out a quick text:

whatcha doin?????

an immediate reply flashes up on your phone:

sleeping

you smile, then reply:

liar your light’s still on why are you lying??? what are you possibly doing that you can’t tell your best friend?? oh are you…… busy??? wink wink

your phone flashes again:

first of all – stalker second of all… ;)

you’re surprised by the flood of heat that spreads quickly through your body upon reading his reply. is he joking with you or is he really less than twenty feet away from you jerking off? if he is, why is he texting you back whilst he’s…? why can you not get the image out of your mind when you close your eyes? what the fuck is going on?

during your mini crisis, your phone lights up again:

did i scare you off

running your hand through your hair, you swallow loudly to try and get rid of the dryness in your throat and then you reply:

little bit

you take in a deep breath when you see he’s replied again, and glance at the ceiling before looking at your phone:

didn’t mean to sorry :( was only joking

you shake your head and smile when you see his reply. this boy, honestly. the overwhelming feeling of fondness towards him floods through you which might be what encourages you to send a cheeky reply. just banter between friends, right?

that’s a shame was just about to ask if i could join

just as you press send, you wince inwardly and place your hand not holding your phone over your eyes. through your fingers, you see the tell tale notification.

??????? thinkin about that offer are you

the heat from before rages through you again and you can feel a twist deep down in your body. shit. he’s flirting with you – and it’s fucking working. you’re turned on. your best friend is turning you on. you start to type out a reply but then delete it quickly. attempt number two at replying is also deleted. how the fuck do you respond to that?

the tell tale ellipses that shows you’re typing then deleting has clearly shown grayson that you’re unsure of what to say. he takes control of this situation and replies:

come to my room x

your eyes open wide as you read, then re-read the text on screen, just to clarify that you haven’t made this up. shit. your heart beats fast in your chest and your skin feels a little clammy. shit.

he’s impatient now.

y/n stop freaking out come over

not allowing yourself to overthink this situation any further, you listen to your gut, throw your covers back and step out of the room. tip toeing your way across the living room and then down the hallway that leads to the twins’ bedrooms, you try your best not to make any noise so ethan isn’t alerted to what’s going on. whatever that is. as you make your way to gray’s familiar bedroom door, you pause. you can hear ethan yelling at his video game and you smile softly to yourself. you take a deep breath to steady your sudden nerves, and then raise your hand to tap lightly on the door.

within seconds, the door swings open revealing a worked up, sweatpant wearing grayson who’s hair has broken free from its product from running his hand through it. he meets your eyes immediately.

“hi,” is what comes out of your mouth. you inwardly face palm at how awkward you’re acting.

he smirks, then, “hi yourself.”

he pulls the door open wider and jerks his head inside the room as a silent invitation when you appear to be stuck stood in the hallway.

you take one last look into his deep eyes, darker than you’ve ever seen them and step forward, taking the door handle from his hands and shoving it closed. the heated look he gives you as you reach behind yourself to twist the lock shut makes the decision for you.

“so… about that offer?”

he breathes out a stuttered fuck as he steps closer to you, looking you up and down and taking in your appearance.

his dark eyes rake over your bare legs; silky pyjama shorts that you keep in the guest bedroom covering the tops of your thighs but not much else. he pulls his gaze upwards across your shirt – or rather his shirt that you stole – and his jaw clenches and he swallows loudly. as his eyes move across your chest, you self-consciously cross your arm over yourself, moving your gaze to the floor nervously. at your movement, he forces himself to look at your face – that familiar face that he’d forced himself to think only neutral thoughts about; never allowing himself to imagine the things he was thinking right now.

he notices that you’re nervous; on edge for more reasons than one. the look in your eyes gives him some encouragement so he takes a step closer to you, feeling more relieved than he’d like to admit that you don’t flinch away from him. he lightly runs his large, calloused hand lightly down your neck, brushing over your shoulder until he reaches where your arms are still crossed. a soft smirk blossoms on his face as he looks up from where he was following the slow path of his hand to see your eyes have closed at his touch. with the slightest bit of pressure, he pushes down on your folded arms to get you to drop your arms back down to your sides.

“hey none of this. there’s nothin’ to be embarrassed or nervous about. we don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want to,” he whispers reassuringly. the hand that pressed at your folded arms creeps forward and he slowly – surprisingly gently – intertwines his strong fingers with your smaller ones. eyes still closed, you take shuddering intake of breath, then open them slowly as you feel him step even closer. you look up to meet his eyes and notice that his forehead is almost touching yours. any doubt in what you were about to do starts to dissipate as you feel his breath brush across your cheek and then your lips as he shuffles closer still. you grip his hand you’re holding tighter as rational thought leaves your mind, leaving you only with one focus – him. you make the move he was waiting for and push your forehead against his lightly and mirror the grin that covers his face at your movement.

“hi again,” you whisper, pleased that you at least managed to speak.

“hi,” he replies still whispering, not wanting to break the intense atmosphere that is cocooning you both. “whatcha thinkin’?” he mumbles as he nuzzles his nose lightly against yours.

the constant tiny movements he’s making – nose rubbing against yours, breath tickling your cheek, stubble scratching at your soft skin – feels like he’s hypnotising you.

“thinkin’ i wanna kiss you.”

he breathes out a whispered shit and moves forward to finally – finally – press his lips to yours. lightly at first, so, so lightly to make sure you’re comfortable, in control and not freaking out. the pressure of his lips against yours, reacting effortlessly to your every movement drives that feeling of pure want in you and you use the hand not gripping his to slide up to the back of his neck and pull him forward. the feel of your nails at the base of his hair makes him groan almost silently – you feel more than hear it – and he pushes forward to meet you. he kisses you properly then – now he knows you really, truly want him to – and fuck, your mind empties at the pure bliss he’s causing you. his tongue kitten licks at your plump bottom lip and immediately, you grant him entrance. shit, if this is how he kisses, you’d grant him anything he wanted right now.

the hands that you’re holding untangle from each other for a second before both pairs relocate to grip each other’s bodies, trying to ground yourselves from this earth shattering kiss. your hand slides up grayson’s hard bicep to join your other hand on his neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer. his are both resting on your back; one cupping the back of your neck beneath your hair and the other low on your back, keeping you pressed close to him. you’re plastered against him now and he kisses you and kisses you and kisses you. the intensity between the two of you is on fire. you pull away with a gasp but effortlessly he tilts your head to the side and continues his attack onto your cheek, then straight down onto your neck. a breathy moan escapes your mouth as his tongue flicks on that spot right below your ear. his teeth scrape against your skin as a reply and then he sucks that same spot. fuck, you need more.

dragging your hands away from his neck and pulling them down to his chest, never once losing precious skin contact, you push gently and whisper, “gray.”

he replies to your statement of his name by trailing his lips back up to your ear, resting his temple against yours and nodding, not yet opening his eyes.

you feel his breath against your ear and you squirm in the best possible way, gripping your hands in his shirt just by his ribs as you try to arrange your thoughts enough to speak a full sentence.

all that comes out is, “shit, gray.”

you feel that familiar smirk against you and he turns his head to smash another open mouthed kiss against your burning cheek, his other hand holding you in place on your other cheek.

you try again, “gray. please. want you.”

you hear his groan this time and he swoops his lips down to capture yours intensely again. he kisses you so thoroughly you whimper as he retreats from you, placing one last kiss against your lips before finally opening his eyes to look at you.

he sees the burning red flush on your cheeks, your plump, red, swollen lips and the already fucked look in your eyes and wastes no time in tangling his fingers back up with yours and walking backwards into his room, pulling you along.

the coloured lights in his room glow a sensual red and as he stands in front of his bed still holding onto you, you glance behind him. the white sheets were still neatly made from this morning and show no signs of wear. you glance to your left to see the computer on his desk with the editing software loaded, clearly half way through a video.

you frown and look back to his face. you say simply, “you weren’t jerking off.”

he rubs the back of his head nervously. he’s been caught. “err… not at that moment.”

“why’d you say you were?”

“haven’t stopped thinking about that offer i made you since we talked about it,” he replies honestly. he rests his forehead against yours again, unable to not be touching you in some sort of way right now. “wanted to see if i could get you worked up after you talked about that douche earlier. thought i’d blown it to be honest with you. thought i’d scared you off. was so pissed at myself.”

you shake your head slightly and smile, “fuck, i’d convinced myself i didn’t want your offer to happen. as soon as i read your text, i couldn’t think straight.”

he untangles your fingers again, grasps the back of your head with one hand and caresses dangerously low on the bottom of your back with the other as your lips frantically meet again. you physically ache with want. barely moving your lips from his, you mumble, “bed,” authoritatively, the embers of lust bursting into the flames you had desperately tried to keep at bay since he made that ridiculous offer as he immediately followed your instruction.

almost flinging himself backwards in want, he bounces ungracefully on the bed as he shuffles his way further up towards the headboard. he reaches immediately for you and grins cheekily as he sees you trying to hide your giggles at his eagerness.

“keen, are we?” you tease.

“baby, you have no idea.”

his honesty and gruff voice makes you shiver – something that he definitely notices - and you give into the heat that’s flooding through your body and accept his awaiting hand. you plant your knees on either side of his legs at the bottom of the bed and crawl upwards until you’re positioned just above the zipper on his jeans. the heat in his gaze as you make your way slowly up his body makes you feel unbelievably sexy and makes the ache for him in between your legs pulse even more. you finally take a seat in his lap, legs straddling either side of him when he sits up suddenly, desperate to meet your mouth again. you can’t quite register where his hands are at this point – all you know is they’re all over your body and fuck, they feel good.

he moves his mouth across your cheek again and down your neck, making sure to give that secret spot he discovered a little attention. he moves around to the front of your neck and starts to suck a bruise into there. your hand is grasped in his hair, tugging lightly as you moan at the feeling he’s creating in you. needing more of him, you reach behind him and tug gently at the shirt he’s wearing. when he doesn’t immediately respond – he’s still busy marking you up – you groan and tug harder. he pulls back reluctantly, smirking when he sees the red mark that will soon blossom into a bruise and then planting a quick kiss on your chin.

“what’s up, baby?” he teases. “you want somethin’?”

this smug little shit knows exactly what you want right now and the fact he’s teasing you even in this situation works you up even more.

“shirt. off.” you command through gritted teeth.

he winks at you, removing one of his hands from your back and reaching to the back of his neck, quickly shucking his shirt off over his head and tossing it to land on his desk chair.

“if you want somethin’ baby, all you have to do is ask,” he mumbles into your ear and returns his hands to your body.

you breathe out a moan at his openness combined with the feeling of your hands meeting his bare back. your nails scratch slightly as you rake them across the newly exposed skin and his hands travel immediately down to cup your ass through your shorts in response. the material of them is so thin you can feel the callouses of his fingers through them and you immediately grasp his chin to bring your mouths back together.

the force of your kiss sends him backwards and he soon ends up laid flat on his back, you bearing down on top of him, tendrils of hair from your bun falling at each side of his face. he huffs a tiny laugh against your lips which causes you to pull back - only enough that his face isn’t blurred to you - and raise your eyebrow in question as if to say i’m kissing the hell out of you here, why the fuck are you laughing?

he giggles again, trying to school his face into neutrality when he responds, “tickles.”

you pull back even further as if some distance from him will allow your brain to catch up with what he’s talking about when he removes one of his broad hands from your ass to twist in the tendril of your hair that was touching his face.

laughter bursts out of you as you realise what he’s meaning and you fall forward again, this time landing your head in the crook of his neck. his hands pull you close, completely plastered against him as you both shake with laughter. when only short giggles are left between the both of you, you push against his chest to lift up your head and look at your best friend’s face. the offending locks of hair drop forward to tickle his cheek again so he reaches up, sweeping his hand through your hair until he finds your hair tie and then tugs. your hair cascades down over your shoulder and you sweep it to one side so your view of grayson isn’t obscured.

he smiles up at you, tucking a tiny bit of hair behind your ear.

“better?” you whisper to him.

“the best.”

he pulls you to him again, mouth meeting yours and gasping when your teeth nip into his bottom lip. he unconsciously pushes his hips upwards at the movement and you both simultaneously groan at the feeling. he wants – definitely wants you – as much as you want him. you both pause, waiting for the other to react. when he doesn’t make another move, you decide to take control, reaching your hands back to meet his that have travelled back to your ass. placing your hands on top of his, you squeeze and grind your hips down into his hardness.

this is the sign he wanted – needed – from you and the deep moan that echoes from his chest at your movement reminds you of the heat of want burning inside you after your joint moment of laughter. still rocking your hips in that delicious rhythm, grayson’s hands travel under your shirt, moaning into your mouth when he confirms his suspicions that you’re not wearing a bra and then cursing into the heated air when you sit up and pull the shirt straight over your head.

you hear him whisper, “fuck, you’re fuckin’ gorgeous,” before his sinful mouth attaches itself to your breasts. you can’t help the high pitched whine that escapes out of your mouth, quickly turning into a squeal of surprise as grayson flips you - arm securely around your waist - and lays you carefully back onto his bed. his mouth is still laving at your hard nipples as he settles his weight firmly between your legs. you buck up your hips as if to say move and you feel his rock hard bulge pressing through your whisper thin shorts up against where you desire him the most. you grab his face in order to pull his lips back to your mouth – firstly to keep the sounds threatening to keep spilling out of your lips in and secondly because you think you might be addicted to the feeling.

the intensity of his weight on top of you, bare skin on bare skin, desperate hips rocking together and his devilish tongue battling yours gets a little too much for you, forcing you to pull your mouth away from his to gasp out, “gray, gray. please, gray.”

he nods against your cheek, replying in a deep, breathless grumble, “i know, baby. i know. what do you want?”

you groan louder than you’d planned to as his hips continue their movements and his mouth relocates back to the mark he’d sucked into your neck earlier as he waits for your reply. you lift your legs and lock them around the back of his thighs, moaning out, “fuck. want you gray; want you now.”

he returns your groan, nodding eagerly which internally makes you smile, seeing how enthusiastic he is to please you, but physically you can do no more than tug and grind against him to get what you want. you can’t recall ever being this worked up when you’ve been intimate with others in the past.

he speaks, “yeah. ok. yeah, wanna taste you,” and begins to move downwards towards your pulsing centre but is quickly stopped by your hand behind his head, pulling him right back up to where he’d just come from. you look directly into his eyes, pulling your legs extra tight around his waist and you watch his eyes roll backwards at the pleasure you’re giving him. tugging on his hair lightly to get him to refocus on you, you say quietly, “gray, if you don’t get inside of me in the next 30 seconds, i’m going to fucking scream.”

he huffs out a laugh, smacking a fond kiss on your cheek at your directness that he’s grown to love over the years and whispering a cheeky, “yes ma’am,” before reaching over to his bedside table and fumbling around in there for a condom. once he finally locates one – taking far too long for your liking – he turns back to you, smiling sheepishly at your raised eyebrow and throwing it lightly to land on your chest. you grab hold of it as he reluctantly detangles himself from you and quickly stands to the side of the bed and strips out of his sweats and underwear, leaving them discarded in a messy pile.

quickly, he moves back to you, kneeling between your still clothed legs and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. he looks up at you to gain permission and groans when he looks at your face; your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth as you look at him, gloriously naked and waiting to please you. you sit up on your elbows, condom still gripped in one hand as you take him in your other. the relief of your tight grip around him makes him almost fall forward but he catches himself by placing his hands tightly around your hips. his eyes flutter closed after watching your hand move up and down his length a few times and he breathes out a shuddering breath before swatting your hand away. before you can question why, he laughs out an embarrassed, “shit, if you don’t stop that the offer will be over before it’s even started.”

you join him in his laugh, feeling that familiar fondness bloom again in your chest as you look at his pink, blotchy cheeks flushed with embarrassment whilst he looks at you openly, waiting for permission to remove the only items of clothing that are still separating you both. you nod, leaning forward even further to brush your lips against his coloured cheek before laying back down on the bed, letting him take control as he gently tugs your shorts and underwear down your legs.

it’s your turn to blush now as he leaves you bare, throwing your clothes to join his in the pile, black eyes never once leaving your throbbing core. he reaches forward, finger running lightly through your folds as you keen loudly, rocking your hips up to follow his hand, desperate for more. he pulls his hand away, tacking his fingers together and looking mesmerized at your wetness on his fingers before he returns his hand to your clit, rubbing small circles until you’re moaning again.

ungraceful but desperate in your attempts to get him inside of you, you throw the condom you’ve been holding tightly onto at him, hitting him in the chest as it takes him by surprise.

he grabs the condom up from the top of your thigh beneath him where it finally landed and teases, “tryna tell me somethin’?” with a grin.

you nod your head, too worked up to reply using words and breathe in deeply at the sight of him rolling the condom down his length. as he positions himself at your entrance, he checks – just to be doubly sure – “are you sure? do you need anything? maybe my fingers first? shall i get some lube or-“ before he’s interrupted by you.

“fuck, gray. i’m sure – so, so sure. i’ve never wanted anything – anybody – as much as i do right now. i’m ready so please fucking move,” you plead.

he nods and rocks forward, his tip just pushing inside of your walls before he stops at the sound of your whine. “you good? just tell me to stop if –“

“keep going, oh god,” you moan in pleasure. he’s big and you know he’s going to feel incredible when he’s fully in you. you rock your hips forward to encourage him and rub your hand against his hip as he breathes out, “oh fuck.”

eventually, he’s in deep, pressed fully into you and you both pause breathlessly to take in this moment. he leans forward to press a soft kiss to your lips, placing his hands on either side of your head to hold his weight from crushing you. you rock your hips slightly upwards to encourage him to move and his kisses you once more and whispers, “fuck, y/n,” before he pulls out almost to the tip and then grinds back in. his pace isn’t fast and furious but holy shit – it’s intense. you throw your head back in silent ecstasy as gray positions himself just right and hits your spot continuously. his hands are still holding himself up as he sucks more marks into your neck and chest, never faltering in his delicious rhythm. your hands are gripped onto his ass, pushing and pulling with his thrusts, nails pressing in and dragging quiet, cut off groans out of him.

the noises he makes start to get louder and more frequent, echoing in your ear and driving you closer and closer to that sweet edge that you’ve never achieved with another person before.

“shit, y/n, you feel fucking incredible,” he whispers.

“like we’re made for each other, holy shit,” you breathe in return.

“fit me like a fuckin’ glove,” he grins, before slamming harder into you, covering your noise with his mouth so his oblivious twin brother remains that way.

he lowers his weight onto his elbows beside your head and suddenly he’s so close, surrounding you everywhere and in every way and you feel as though you’re drowning in him in the best possible way. he positions all of his weight onto one strong elbow and he reaches in between your two writhing bodies to press the tips of his calloused, broad fingers to your clit. your noises turn to almost silent breathes now, eyes tightly closed and hands and legs gripping to the boy making you feel this incredible.

gruffly into your ear, he whispers, “fuck. can feel you clamping down on me.”

you moan in response, gritting out, “feels so good, gray. so close,” to which he doubles his efforts, pounding into you harder, rubbing at you deftly in mind blowing figures of eight. you’re there - you’re right there - and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, not only to muffle your sounds but to cover the elated grin that’s covering your face.

grayson notices – of course he notices – and he huffs out a laugh, combined with a simple, “what? what is it?” still not stopping his movements.

you look him directly in the eyes, remove your hand as there’s no point in hiding it now and you say, “you’re gonna make me come.”

he laughs again, the vibrations from both of your giggling making you both groan too, and he replies, “damn straight i am,” as you finally, finally snap, body convulsing in waves of pleasure as you hit your high. you’re only aware of two things right now: the intense pleasure that’s flowing through you and the boy who’s caused it, looking at you in disbelief and a few moments later, following you right over the edge.

seconds, maybe minutes pass, when grayson finally lifts his head from the crook of your sweat covered neck. he’s not looked at you yet as he pulls out of you, slips the used condom off and ties it, throwing it skilfully into the trash can beside his desk. then – then, he looks at you. you’re lying on his bed, marked up by his mouth and blissed out, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and hair wild on his pillow and shit – he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

you smile softly at the look of wonder on his face and burst out into a laughing grin which he quickly mirrors. he reluctantly lifts himself off you and lays himself gently at the side of you, close enough to be sure that your arms can still touch – he can’t quite pull himself away from you fully yet.

“so,” you begin, both of you looking up at the ceiling. “that was pretty fuckin’ sensational.”

he guffaws out in the loud bark of a laugh that you’re so fond of and agrees, “it certainly fuckin’ was. wow.”

“you must be feeling pretty smug right now,” you prod.

he laughs again, more of a smirk this time, and turns his head to face you. “oh yeah? why’s that?”

“first boy to ever make me come - a pretty special feat, i’d say.”

“shit, that’s hot,” he replies honestly with an embarrassed little giggle, turning his head back to face the ceiling so he doesn’t have to see your reaction to his confession.

“damn straight it is!” you respond enthusiastically, making him laugh again. “i’m not sure any other boy will ever live up to you. don’t think i’ve ever been as turned on in my life,” you flirt, loving how your honesty is making him squirm at the side of you.

he throws an arm over his eyes at that, groaning out loud, “stop, you’re making me hard again and i literally only came like two minutes ago!”

laughing, you roll onto your side, planting your elbow into the mattress and propping your head up on your hand. “wow, what a terrible thing that would be to happen. i sure would hate a round 2,” you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes at your clueless best friend.

grayson quickly removes his hand from his eyes and surveys your face quickly, looking for any signs of you teasing him. his pupils dilate again and that sinful smirk grows on his face. “yeah, yeah. sure would be an awful thing to happen,” he plays along whilst turning on to his side to pull you back down flat to the bed. “what was that jenna said? her dude makes her come 3 times?”

“so she fuckin’ says,” you say, accompanied with an eye roll.

he nods, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he prepositions directly into your ear, “how about we go for 4?”

i hope the full fic was worth the wait :) thank you for being patient!

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