#I was punching the air when I read his chapters | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soaps-mohawk · 27 days ago

Text

Cherry Red, Cimson Blood

Chapter 41: Revenge

Summary: A surprise trip to America has things turning in a direction no one thought they would

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,390

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, a/b/o, alternate universe, dead dove: do not eat, graphic violence, torture, on screen death, stabbing, knives, choking, punching, blood, aftermath of death, emotions, angst, trauma, very small hint of comfort

A/N: Please, please heed the warnings. This chapter deals with some heavy topics and rehashes a lot of Chapter 34. I've put a trigger warning before everything starts and if you don't want to read it then skip from there to the next section. You'll be able to put two and two together from there.

Also if you haven't seen, I went back and changed a pretty major plot point from chapter 34 onward and it will need to be read to really understand this chapter

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“You’re in charge.” John says, passing over the keys to Dr. Keller. “Hold down the fort. Take some time for yourself.”

“Invite over Ashley.” Kyle winks as he passes.

“Cute.” Dr. Keller says, rolling her eyes.

“Call if anything happens.” John continues, ignoring Kyle’s remark. “You know how to get a hold of us.”

“I do.” Dr. Keller nods. “I’ll make sure the cottage is still standing when you get back.” She glances at the car. “Take care of her.”

“We will. We’ll make sure she’s still in one piece when we get back.”

“You better.” Dr. Keller says, giving him a look. “Safe travels.”

Kyle closes the car door, cutting off the rest of the conversation. You’re squeezed in the back of the car between him and Johnny. It is a tight squeeze between the two of them and their broad shoulders. It’s not the most comfortable position, but the decision to leave one car behind has sealed your fate.

Simon is in the front passenger seat, looking about as happy to be there as you feel. His arm is leaned against the door, his gaze set out the front windshield. His scent is thick in the air, musky and leathery. It’s a mixed cocktail of scents in the small enclosed space, but Simon’s is the loudest.

John opens the driver’s side door, climbing into the car. It felt cramped before, but now it feels almost claustrophobic.

“Just an hour drive and you can stretch your legs.” He says, and you know he’s talking to you.

“Where are we going?” You ask as he drives down the long driveway.

“America.” He says, giving you the same answer he gave you before.

“Why?” You ask, knowing what the answer is going to be.

“We have some things we need to take care of.” He answers simply.

“What things?” You pry, already guessing where this conversation is going to go.

“I already told you.” He replies. Simon glances at him, but says nothing.

“You told me nothing.” You purse your lips.

“It’s a surprise.” He says, almost like he’s rehearsed this before.

“I hate surprises.” You say, leaning back in your seat, your scent souring a bit. “If you bothered to pay attention you’d know that.” The last bit is hardly more than a murmur, but you know he heard you in the enclosed space.

It falls silent in the car, the five of you sitting there awkwardly after the exchange. It’s been a long time since you’ve been so bombarded by their scents all at once, and it’s been a long time since they’ve been so surrounded by your own scent. It reminds you of that time months ago after Simon returned from his solo assignment when you’d kissed in the car and nearly drove them all insane with an explosion of your scent.

Only this time, your scent has gone sour with your displeasure and agitation at the lack of information from John.

This time Simon is the first to cave, cracking the car window to let in some air and disperse the heavy scents.

It’s going to be a long hour.

Traveling is your worst nightmare.

Or, at least, traveling like this.

It’s only the five of you on the plane, some private jet that Kate had procured. It’s a nice plane, but at the same time, being enclosed with your pack for nine hours isn’t exactly ideal. You thought the cottage was bad at times, but at least there you could go outside and escape from them.

Now you’re really stuck with them.

Thankfully they’ve mostly left you alone for the duration of the flight, letting you sit in your seat with a book in silence. John and Simon have been in a corner conversing for the better part of the flight, glancing at you every so often. Johnny has slept through most of it, reclined in a seat not far from them. You wondered for a moment if he was faking it to listen in, but when the snores started you knew he really was out. Kyle is in a position not unlike your own, huddled in a seat with a book, minding his own business.

You really want to know what John and Simon are discussing, what has held their attention for so long. It’s gotten heated a few times, John’s brows pulling into a frown, his lips moving rapidly. Simon’s shoulders keep squaring and relaxing, giving you insight into the rise and fall of emotions during the conversation. You can imagine his face mirroring John’s, his brows pinching in worry or frustration or perhaps even anger.

Whatever it is, it’s serious enough to last a good part of the flight.

You’re ushered into a car almost as soon as the wheels touch the tarmac and the plane has stopped. You’re stuck between Johnny and Kyle again, but at least the SUV is spacious enough to not have you crammed in like sardines. Your legs are stiff and sore after sitting for the better part of eight hours, but you’re not about to complain. Not with the way John’s hands are gripping the steering wheel.

If you didn’t know better, you might have thought he was having second thoughts about whatever is happening.

You still don’t know.

They still haven’t told you.

The airstrip the jet landed in looked to be a private one as well, isolated in a grassy area with rolling hills of green and a few sparse trees missing their leaves. You almost fear it might be Texas again, given the warmth of the air for a time so late in the year, but you want to believe they wouldn’t be that cruel to you. At least you hope that’s the case.

The drive takes longer than the one in England, time seeming to stretch on endlessly as it did in the plane. You’re tired after the flight, but curiosity is keeping you awake and aware. You almost wish you had your book, but it’s stuffed in the back with the small bag you’d been allowed to bring. The others had small bags as well, and you can only imagine what is inside them.

It makes your insides crawl with nerves.

The exhaustion becomes too much as the naked trees and rolling hills continue to pass by outside the car. It’s quiet in the car, the tense silence not even enough to keep you awake as your head begins to droop onto Kyle’s shoulder.

You’re jolted awake as the car comes to a stop.

The muffled sound of car doors closing outside reaches your ears as you peel your eyes open.

“Come on.” Kyle says softly, gently shifting you with his shoulder. “Time to get up.”

You let out a quiet grunt, rubbing your eyes. The world outside is full of grey sky and naked tree limbs from the angle you’re at. John and Simon’s doors slam as they exit the car, the warmth on your other side disappearing as Johnny gets out as well. Gravel crunches outside as Kyle opens his door, easing you so you’re sitting upright.

The SUV is parked facing another one, and the world behind it opens into more green fields. Kyle slides out of the car, hitting gravel before offering you a hand. You blink the sleep from your eyes, taking the offered hand.

There’s three other SUVs parked in the gravel, people dressed in plain clothes moving around an old, rickety barn. John is standing halfway between the car and the barn, conversing with Kate. You blink in surprise. You haven’t seen her since she dropped you off with your pack almost a year ago now.

Whatever they’re discussing, it seems to be serious.

Kyle puts a hand on your back, leading you towards them.

“Hi honey,” Kate greets you with a small smile, the seriousness melting on her face in almost a performative manner. “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know.” You say, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Depends on why I’m here.”

“You didn’t tell her?” Kate says in surprise, turning back towards John.

“I knew what she’d say if I told her.” John says.

You purse your lips again, disliking being talked about as if you’re not standing right there.

Kate looks like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t, instead she takes half a step back. “Better get this over with, then.”

John turns towards you, wrapping a hand around your wrist. “Come on.”

You almost dig your heels in and demand he tell you, but you don’t. You have a feeling you’re about to find out regardless as he leads you towards the barn. Simon and Johnny are waiting by the doors, Kyle following close behind you. Nerves are starting to flutter in your stomach, your insides twisting in fear. What the hell is on the other side of those doors and why does everyone seem so serious about it?

Johnny’s face is hard set, Simon’s eyes blank as John pauses in front of the door for a moment.

They’re not themselves.

You’re looking at Task Force 141.

Simon slides the barn door open, your stomach clenching painfully. It’s dark in the barn, but not dark enough you can’t see. Grey light seeps in through holes in the roof and sides, giving the barn an eerie look, like you’re about to step into a horror movie.

John’s hand tightens around your wrist, tugging you forward into the musty air inside the barn. You want to dig your heels in now, fight him and scream not to drag you inside. Your hand is shaking, curling in on itself until your nails dig into your palm.

“Hi darlin’. Didn’t know you’d be joining us too.”

You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut, the breath leaving your lungs.

“Phil.” You breathe, nearly choking around his name.

He’s seated in the middle of the barn, restrained in a chair. He looks far too comfortable and casual sitting there, greeting you like he would an old friend.

There’s a table beside him filled with all sorts of instruments. Knives, scalpels, an ice pick.

Your stomach twists as you realize what’s about to happen.

The other four approach Phil, leaving a gap so you can see him as you linger behind. You have half a mind to turn and run out the now closed door, but something keeps your feet frozen to the ground.

“You’re wasting your time.” Phil says, addressing the four members of your pack now. “I don’t know where Shepherd is.”

“That’s not why we’re here.” John says, his voice deeper and rougher than it had been just outside. “You tortured a member of our pack.”

“Our omega.” Johnny says through gritted teeth.

“Oh I see, a little revenge then.” Phil says, a smirk lifting on his lips as he stares at you. “And you brought a little audience.”

***Content Warning: Torture ***

You jump as Simon takes a step forward, rearing back before punching Phil across the face. His head snaps to the side from the force of it, a grunt leaving his lips. Simon grips his chin, yanking his head back to the other side so Phil is looking up at him.

“We’re going to do the same to you that you did to her.” He growls out.

The words have a shiver tickling down your spine.

Simon releases Phil before drawing his fist back to throw another punch. Nausea churns in your stomach as something cracks, the sound echoing in the silence.

“Solid hit, big man.” Phil grins, spitting onto the floor before sitting up straight again. “You’re going to have to hit me harder than that.” His eyes flicker to you as you stand there in shock. “You can ask your omega how hard I hit her.”

Johnny surges forward, wrapping his hand around Phil’s throat. “Give me a knife. I’ll cut his tongue out.”

Phil lets out a choked sound, your own throat constricting a bit from the memory of Phil’s hand choking you. Tears fill your eyes as Phil’s face begins to go purple from the lack of oxygen.

“Easy.” John says, easing Johnny off of Phil. “We’re not done yet.”

Phil lets out a choking cough, his hands straining where they’re tied to the arms of the chair. “Not bad.” He coughs out, his face still red. “Gonna have to try harder than that.”

John punches him in the face, sending his head snapping the other direction. Blood trickles from his lip, his tongue darting out to lick the wound.

“Of course the alpha would spill the first drop of blood.” Phil says, letting out a chuckle, his gaze returning to you. “This is going to take a while, sweetheart. Why don’t you go back outside and wait for your boys to be done, hm?”

“No.” John says, his hand closing into a fist again. “She’s going to watch every last bit of this.”

Your stomach churns as he throws another punch at Phil, this one landing with another sickening crack. You don’t really want to watch this, but at the same time, there’s a sick sense of satisfaction filling you as your pack takes revenge on your behalf. Your omega is nearly purring, watching in glee as they drive punch after punch into Phil’s face.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that.” Phil chokes out around Simon’s hand where it’s wrapped around his throat.

“We’re just getting started.” Kyle says, grabbing a knife from the table.

Phil lets out a pained yell as Kyle stabs the knife into his bicep, slowly dragging it down his arm. It’s deeper than Phil had cut you, blood pouring out of the open wound. Your stomach twists, nausea bubbling up into your throat. How easy this all seems for them.

How easily Phil had tortured you.

Your fingers trace the thin, pink line down your own arm, your skin burning with a reminder of what happened to you.

The realization of what’s happening settles in as Kyle drives the knife into Phil’s chest, dragging it downward in another deep cut. You do want to turn around and go outside. You don’t want to watch this anymore.

The soft call of your name has you coming back to yourself. Your pack has turned to face you now. You hadn’t even realized that you had turned your head away. Tears have trailed down your cheeks, your breath hitching.

It’s John that’s called your name, his hand outstretched. He’s holding the ice pick. Your shoulder throbs at the sight of it. The memory of one almost exactly like it being stabbed into your scent gland has a whimper leaving your lips. You know what he’s asking, what he’s offering. Phil inflicted the worst pain you’ve ever felt onto you. Now you’re being offered the chance to do the same to him.

Your omega is screaming, yelling at you to take it, to return what he did back to him. It’s his fault this happened. Weeks of pain and agony that you will always remember. He did that to you.

You’re moving before you even realize it, your fingers wrapping around the cold metal. Your omega is taking over again, driving that instinctual violence forward again. Simon is standing behind Phil, holding his head to the side. He looks like shit, his face already bruising and covered in blood. The metallic scent of it is strong, your mind flickering back to those soldiers, his soldiers, the ones you killed with that knife. You wonder what happened to it, if it’s still laying out in the forest, the last lingering remnant of the violence that happened there.

You stare down at Phil, at his exposed neck. He’s jerking against Simon’s hold, as if he knows and understands what’s about to happen, as if he can already sense the pain that’s about to be brought on him. Does he? Does he really understand?

He’s about to.

Your hand moves before you can stop it, driving the ice pick as hard as you can into his scent gland. He lets out a yowl of pain as the metal slides under his skin and into that sensitive spot. You remember it, the lightning-like pain rushing through your body, every nerve-ending on fire, every movement agony for days and days and days.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” You say, pushing the ice pick as far as you possibly can into his body. “It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Worse than all those years I sat in that institute thinking about my family, the family you helped tear me away from.” You take a step back, leaving the ice pick in his shoulder. “You’ll never forget it, that kind of pain.”

Simon wraps his hand around the ice pick, pulling it free. Blood seeps out of the hole, pouring down Phil’s chest. He jerks in his restraints, his eyes squeezed shut.

“You deserve to feel that kind of pain.” You say, taking another step back.

“Look at you.” Phil laughs, tilting his head up with a wince. His eyes are on you, focused solely on you as you stand there. “Tough little thing. Turning more and more like your father, aren’t you?” His words bite at the back of your brain, your omega screaming at the insult. His eyes leave you, instead roaming over the three members of your pack standing in front of him. “No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t hide her away from this world, could you?”

He’s not talking to you anymore.

“You’d always leave a stain on her. Eventually it would come around. She’d get caught up in a life like this, a life of violence and bloodshed. Proud of yourselves?” He lets out a chuckle. “You ruined such sweet innocence.”

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth.” Johnny growls as Simon moves back around so he’s standing next to you.

“Ooh, hit a nerve did I?” Phil laughs, turning his gaze to you. “You know your dad never checked you made it to the institute? As soon as you were out of his sight he could finally stop caring about you.” Phil licks his lips. “I should have just taken you right then. No one would have known the difference. None of this would have happened. You’d still be just a sweet little innocent girl, just like you always should have been.”

Anger and rage burns through you at his words. Years of repressed fears and emotions surging out all at once. Later you’ll wish you could blame it on your omega, that she took over in this moment, but that’s not the case. It’s you in your true form, in your own rage at Phil for his words, for his actions, for the ways he’s ruined your life even still years later.

Time slows as your fingers wrap around the knife strapped to Simon’s side. It slides out of its sheath easily, your body moving forward as you grip it tightly in your hand. It won’t be the first time, your brain flashing back to all of those men, men who would have done worse things to you had your omega not acted on instinct. She’s screaming at you now, still, clawing at the poorly constructed cage you’ve forced her back in, calling for violence.

You’ll give it to her.

The knife cuts through his skin easily, sliding downward as you stab it into his neck. Blood spurts out, coating your hands in the slippery liquid. Adrenaline courses through your body, your vision going red as you yank the knife from his throat, blood spraying out of his artery from where you’ve severed it. It’s like some gruesome renaissance painting as you’re pulled back, an arm around your waist tugging you backward away from the quickly fading body in the chair, your mouth still open in an enraged scream.

The knife drops from your hand as you’re tugged backwards, your body falling against a solid one. Your legs feel like jelly as the adrenaline pumps through your system, your blood covered hands shaking as you stare at the lifeless body of a man you once thought of as a family friend. A man who played such an integral part in your life behind the scenes. A man who was almost your alpha, a man who would have been your alpha had it not been for the woman standing outside.

The man who tortured you and brought you more pain than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

He’s dead now. He can’t ever hurt you again.

Nausea churns in your stomach as you sit there, staring down at your blood-soaked hands. It’s deep red and sticking to your skin, no matter how much Kyle tries to wipe at it with a t-shirt. Your body has gone numb as reality has settled in.

You just killed a man.

“Easy.” Kyle says, his hand warm against your chilled skin as he wraps his fingers around your arm.

You’d jerked away from him, nearly slipping off the edge of the trunk. The trunk of the SUV is open and you’re seated on the edge of it, toes pushing into the gravel below to hold yourself up. Kyle had been trying to wipe the dried blood off of your hands, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, some of it wouldn’t come off.

“Here.” Footsteps approach in the gravel, the rocks crunching under boots. “Go help Simon.”

Rougher hands replace Kyle’s, wrapping around your wrists. You jump when the cold water hits your hands, shocking you out of your dazed state. You lift your gaze up to John’s face as he wipes the blood from your hands, the shirt quickly becoming stained with red streaks.

“This wasn’t our intention. I just want you to know that.” He says, his gaze focused on your hands. “We didn’t bring you here to kill him. I just thought you might want to know what was going to happen to him. Closure. Maybe you could rest easier knowing he wasn’t ever going to see freedom again.”

“He won’t see anything ever again.” You murmur.

“It doesn’t make you a bad person. Heat of the moment. He was saying some vile things to you.” John tries to comfort you.

“But that doesn’t mean I had to kill him.”

“Maybe not. He wouldn’t have lived much longer regardless.” Your hands are starting to feel raw with how hard John is scrubbing them. It’s almost like he’s trying to wipe the fact you’re a murderer from your hands. “None of us will think any less of you for what you did.”

You stare down at your hands as John finally relents his scrubbing. The blood is gone, but you’ll always remember the look of it staining your skin. “I’m sorry.”

John squats down in front of you, his hands closing around yours. They’re so warm compared to your own chilled skin. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I do. Phil was right. I’m not innocent anymore. I’m not a good omega. I lost that when I let her take over.” Tears slip down your cheeks, warm against your skin.

“That doesn’t make you a bad omega.” John says, reaching up to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “You’ve done what you had to do to survive because of our failures. We failed to protect you like we promised and we forced you into situations you shouldn’t have ever been in. We will never be able to apologize enough for what we did.”

“I’m scared, John.” You whisper. “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

His brows furrow. “Be like what?”

“I still feel like she’s in control.” You say, more tears sliding down your cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve come back to myself at all.”

Tears still sting your eyes as you sit in the back of the car, watching the flames through the rearview mirror.

“Unfortunate that the old barn burned down.” Kate says, her voice slightly muffled through the closed car door.

“Feel sorry for the poor soul stuck inside.” John says.

“Too bad they’ll never be identified.”

Their words nearly make you sick again. How easily they talk about it, how easily they can detach themselves. It is their job, you suppose. This is just a normal occurrence to them. It scares you, how easily they confront death and dismiss it. It’s cold and unwelcoming, just like their attitudes had been upon your arrival. You should have known just by that. You should have turned and left when you wanted to.

Maybe then you’d have less blood on your hands.

Phil did deserve it, after everything. At least this way you know he won’t try to find you again, won’t try and get revenge of his own against your pack. One less loose string to worry about, John had said.

There’s just one more that needs to be tied off.

“Any sign of Shepherd?” John asks.

“None yet.” Kate answers. “Alex and Farah are investigating a couple of leads. You’ll be the first to know if they find anything.”

“Good. The sooner we can find him, the better.”

“He can’t hide forever.” Kate says. “We’ll find him eventually.” She glances towards the car. “You’ll be alright?”

John is quiet for a moment. “Eventually.”

“You need anything...”

“We’ll be sure to let you know.”

Cold air rushes in with the smell of smoke as Kyle opens the car door. He slides in, quickly closing it.

“We’re almost ready to go.” He says, shifting so he can put your seatbelt on for you. You’re glad he’s doing it. You’re not sure you could have managed it anyway. “Another long flight back to England.”

You feel like you’ve spent more time on a plane in the last few hours than you have in your lifetime. You’re not even sure what day it is, or what day it will be when you get back. A week could have passed and you’d never even notice.

“We’ll stop and get food before we go.” Kyle continues. You know he’s trying to talk to keep you distracted. “Anything you want in particular?”

Food is the last thing you want right now.

“Something we can eat on the road I suppose. Don’t want to linger too long anywhere.” Kyle trails off as the doors open, Johnny and Simon climbing in. It’s a tighter squeeze this time thanks to John’s coat that he put on you to keep you warm. You don’t really need it in the car, but his scent is the only thing keeping you sane right now.

“Ye doin’ alright?” Johnny asks as he puts on his own seatbelt.

You hum in response, not trusting yourself to answer. You don’t trust yourself to say much of anything right now.

The smell of smoke hits your nose again as John opens the driver’s side door, climbing into the car. “Let’s get out of here.” He says, putting on his seatbelt before the car rumbles to life.

You lean back in the seat, staring at the smoldering ashes in the rearview mirror until they disappear around a bend as John drives away from the scene. Warm fingers brush the back of your hand, Kyle’s gaze down on your lap as he slowly curls his fingers around your hand. You stare at his hand for a moment before you look away, curling your fingers around his.

You don’t remember much of the flight back. You slept through a good part of it, reclined in a seat just like Johnny had been on the flight to America. You barely remember the drive back to the cottage, spending most of it in a sleepy daze with your head propped on Kyle’s shoulder.

Dr. Keller is there to greet you when you return, some delicious smell wafting from the open door of the cottage. It makes your stomach churn after hours of no food. You haven’t had much of an appetite, the memories of what had happened too fresh to allow you much else but the blissful ignorance of sleep.

You drag your feet up the steps of the cottage, passing Dr. Keller in a haze as you head straight for the comfortable familiarity of your bed. You can hear quiet voices through the wall as you manage to work your heavy limbs out of your clothes and into something more comfortable.

You just want to sleep more, sleep forever if it were possible. In sleep you don’t see the blood staining your hands, the spurt of blood from Phil’s neck where you’d stabbed him. You don’t see the light fading from his eyes, his body falling limp as he dies by your hand. In sleep you’re not a murderer, you can go back to when things were easier, when nothing mattered but being a good omega for your pack. Back when your only stress was making a good impression and doing your job like you’re supposed to.

What a shitty omega you’ve become. You can’t even hold your pack together anymore.

It’s not like they’re putting in much effort themselves, though.

Maybe you should let things fall apart. Maybe it would be easier on everyone if you just moved past this, moved on to an unhappy, short life in a care facility while your pack got to live out the rest of their days with nothing but a painful memory of the short stint they got as a full pack.

Phil was right. You’re not a sweet innocent little girl anymore. That person died as soon as you were forced into this pack. Maybe this was inevitable. By being forced with them you would always become like them. Good omegas learn to adapt to mesh well with their pack, giving up personality and wants in favor of making alphas happy. Maybe this is what they want, maybe this was the way things were always going to end up. You were doomed from the start to become just like them.

You press your face into your pillow as tears slide down your cheeks, willing yourself to fall into the sweet embrace of sleep once again.

“John told me what happened.” Dr. Keller says as you sit outside in the cold morning air. “I just want you to know that it doesn’t make me think any less of you.”

You wish she would. You wish she’d yell and reprimand you for killing someone. You wish any of them would call you a bad person, a wicked soul capable of taking the life of someone else.

They’re all acting like it’s normal, like it was nothing.

You hate it.

“You’re not a bad person.” She says.

“I killed someone.” You retort.

“Did you?”

Her words make you pause. You did. You remember the blood staining your hands, the warm spray of it from Phil’s neck. It was your hand that drove the knife.

“I want you to walk me through what happened. Step by step.” She says.

You let out a sigh. It’s not the first time you’ve been over it in the last day. “They were torturing him, but he wouldn’t stop talking. He said that he wished he had just taken me instead of sending me to the institute, and how that way I’d still be an innocent little girl.” Your voice starts to shake. “I got really mad. I barely remember grabbing the knife.”

“Right there.” Dr. Keller interrupts you. “Walk me through that second by second. What were you feeling beyond just anger?”

You pause for a moment, thinking it over. What were you feeling? “Blinding rage.” You say. “I was so angry because he helped ruin my life just because he wanted me.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Just the idea of being his...” Nausea churns in your stomach. “It’s like my brain went numb. It acted on instinct. I didn’t even know Simon had a knife until I was grabbing it.”

“What was your omega feeling in those moments?”

You pause to think again. You hadn’t taken into consideration your omega during your ruminations, when you’d told Dr. Keller your side of the events the last few times. “She was...angry too. But, at first, she liked it. She liked Phil being tortured. She wanted me to stab him with the ice pick.” You swallow thickly. “Why did I do that? Why didn’t I say no?”

“Revenge is a fascinating part of human thought processes.” Dr. Keller says. “In the moment, it fires up those reward centers of the brain. It feels good, feels satisfying. The desire to act on those impulsive needs to dole out justice against someone that wronged you is natural. While it’s not the best idea, it’s just human nature to want to get revenge. In the heat of the moment, logic is the last thing on your mind. Throw in an uncontrolled omega and you may find yourself doing things you don’t want to do, and you don’t know why.”

“So it was her fault.” You say, wiping your nose.

“Not exactly. Instincts are complicated things to consider. Instincts don’t care about your feelings or what society considers acceptable. They’re natural, ingrained behaviors in response to certain stimuli and events. A bear chases you, you run. An alpha threatens you, your omega fights back. While yes, what you did may be morally questionable, in the moment, your omega didn’t care about morals or societal expectations. You felt threatened and uncomfortable and your omega acted on your behalf.”

“It’s because she’s out of control.” You say.

“Yes. You let her out of that specially crafted cage you learned to keep her in, and now she’s going to fight tooth and nail to stay out. You’re in a very delicate state and it’s not surprising your omega decided to act for you.”

“She’s so violent.” You say quietly.

“Omegas and alphas only show themselves for a handful of reasons. Usually those involve danger or extreme emotions. Omegas especially show themselves when violence is needed. We are all fighters at our core, even omegas. You yourself may not be a violent person, but your omega is unsettled. She’s on high alert and any perceived threat could set her off, or any moments of high emotions, such as witnessing what you did.”

You look down at your hands, imagining them covered with blood again. “I wanted to leave. I should have.”

“We can’t change what we’ve done in the past. Your omega was likely largely responsible for what happened in those moments. While that doesn’t absolve you of guilt entirely, that also means you weren’t fully in control of yourself when it happened.” She reaches out, putting a hand on yours. “I believe you when you say you didn’t want to do it. I don’t think you’re capable of it in your right mind. You’ve been through a lot over the last few weeks. I thought it was a bad idea to take you, but you know John.”

“He thinks he knows what's best because it’s what he thinks is best.” You murmur.

“You can confront him about that.” Dr. Keller says, leaning back in her chair.

You snort. “That will go well.”

“It might. Your pack has expressed their willingness to change, to adapt to what you want. You have the power to change your pack. If you don’t like the way they’re doing something, then tell them.” She gives you a pointed look. “They won’t know what to change if you don’t tell them what you want to change.”

“I’m scared to ask them.” You admit.

“Why? Why are you scared to ask them?”

“Good omegas adapt to their pack, they don’t ask. They don’t ask their pack to change just for them.”

She gives you another look. “Don’t go regressing that far on me.” She shifts in her seat, leaning closer to you. “We’ve talked about this before. You’re a part of this pack too, just as much as they are. You have a right to communicate your needs and your wants just as much as they do. You’re an equal in this pack, and they’ll be the first to agree with that. While their actions of late have been questionable, they do still care about you and want to make you a true equal in this pack.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You huff.

“Then let them show you.” She says. “What’s the harm in asking?”

“They say no.” You say. “I don’t think I could handle it if they said no.”

“But what if they say yes?” Dr. Keller squeezes your arm. “You’ll never know until you ask. In my professional opinion, I think you hold more power now than you realize. A lot of things happened to you, but a lot of things happened to your pack as well, and within those bonds.”

“Yeah. They’re all fractured now.” You say.

“They’re in rough shape, but they’re not unfixable. You have to want to fix them. You’re the only one that can fix them.”

“I don’t like that power.” You say. “Part of me wants to end things.”

“But, that means there’s a part of you that wants to repair them. As your doctor, I suggest listening to those thoughts more than the ones telling you not to. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s worth your time to try.”

Tears fill your eyes as you sit there, thinking over her words. You do want to try. You want to try so badly, yet you can’t help that nagging in the back of your mind that everything will go back to the way it was before.

“What do you need?” Dr. Keller asks softly, brushing some of the hair from your face as you cry.

What is it you need? A new brain, a reset button, some amnesia? All things you can’t have. You’ll have to choose with what you do have. What do you have? A pack that desperately wants to help you. They’ve told you that themselves. Kyle told you things would get better, but here you are with more blood staining your hands. Kyle wouldn’t lie to you. Not like that.

You have the power now.

“Johnny.” You sniffle. “Get me Johnny.”

NEXT ->

To be notified about new chapters, please follow HERE and turn on notifications

#call of duty #call of duty fic #cod fic #cod x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #soap x reader #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

1K notes · View notes

diamonddaze01 · 4 days ago

Text

Full Throttle (ii)

pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader chapter wc: 16.7K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?) au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOW BURNNN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), some nipple-play, vaguely (?) rough (?) sex, begging

PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record

a/n: ok pt 2 here we gooooo! to kae @ylangelegy , who hasn't read the ending of this because they wanted to be surprised. i love you, im sorry, i love you // to alta @haologram , who hyped me up so much and made me feel so much better about my writing // thank you to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading! // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!

read part 1 here.

FORMULA 1 PIRELLI GRAN PREMIO D’ITALIA 2024 Track: Autodromo Nazionale Monza

Monza, the Temple of Speed. The track that had seen countless legends, where every tire mark told a story of glory and heartache. The crowd—the tifosi—roared like a living entity, their chants filling the air, demanding greatness from Ferrari’s finest. It wasn’t just a race here, it was a pilgrimage. The heat of Italy in late summer mixed with the electric atmosphere of a home Grand Prix, and Jeonghan could feel it all—the energy, the expectation, the weight of a thousand eyes on him.

The Autodromo Nazionale Monza was a track built on speed, but more than that, it was a track built on history. The sweeping curves, the long straights, the iconic Parabolica that would make or break a driver—it was a place where only the brave thrived, and only the strongest survived. Jeonghan knew the stakes: it wasn’t enough to be fast, not when you were wearing Ferrari red. He had to win, not just for himself, but for the tifosi, who saw him as their golden boy. He had to deliver.

As the weekend progressed, he couldn’t escape the growing weight on his shoulders. His performance was scrutinized with every passing second. In the pits, the team’s eyes were on him, hoping for that perfect lap. The techs, the engineers, the strategists—all working in harmony, hoping that Jeonghan would be the one to pull them across the finish line, but in the back of his mind, Jeonghan kept hearing the unspoken truth: nothing less than pole would suffice. Anything less was a failure.

He felt his pulse quicken as the qualifying session wore on, his concentration laser-sharp, every move calculated. But the tire strategy wasn’t perfect, and as the final moments ticked down, the truth settled over him like a cloud of doom. He was not going to make Q3. Neither was Soonyoung. The agony of it slammed into him like a punch to the gut.

The Ferrari garage was quiet, save for the hum of the engines being powered down. Soonyoung clapped him on the shoulder, a small gesture, but Jeonghan could see the frustration in his eyes, the mirror of his own defeat. The disappointment felt like a heavy weight on Jeonghan’s chest, suffocating, and he couldn’t shake it off. He couldn’t even look at the team, let alone the tifosi waiting outside.

The mood around the paddock was tense as Jeonghan left the garage, still in his race suit. The world felt unreal, as though it were in slow motion. He couldn’t escape it. The tifosi would be waiting to cheer their heroes, but today, he hadn’t been the hero they wanted. He was just another failure in a sea of victories that had come before him. He needed to escape it, to clear his mind.

It was then, as he walked toward his motorhome, that he felt it—a small, electric connection. Your hand brushed against his.

He froze.

Your presence was like a balm, soothing the sharp sting of defeat, but it also distracted him. The familiar, intoxicating scent of your shampoo, something floral and faintly sweet, hit him like a memory, and his heart skipped a beat. That scent, mixed with the lingering tension of the day, flooded his senses. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t form words. All he could think about was that fleeting moment—so close—and the ridiculous notion that he had never noticed how desperately he wanted to be closer to you.

You didn’t stop walking either, your movements fluid, confident. But he couldn’t help the way his eyes followed you, the way the tension built with every step.

Without a word, you both continued on, the space between you shrinking until you finally spoke. Your voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, something that told him you understood more than he let on.

“Tough luck out there,” you said, a hint of sympathy in your tone.

The words were simple, but they hit harder than he expected. His chest tightened as he swallowed. “It’s... whatever,” he muttered, trying to brush it off. He didn’t have the energy to care.

You glanced at his fist, clenched so tightly it was almost painful to watch. “Doesn’t seem like ‘whatever’ to me,” you countered, raising an eyebrow, your words cutting through the fog in his mind.

He let out a small, mirthless chuckle. “I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice more convincing than he felt. But even as he said it, he knew. He wouldn’t be fine—not until he had redeemed himself, not until he could prove to the world that he was still Ferrari’s shining star. He had to be.

But for now, there was a fleeting connection between the two of you, and it was the only thing that made his heart skip, even if just for a moment.

The race was an uphill battle from the start, as expected. Jeonghan’s starting position was far from ideal, and the track ahead was a maze of cars, each one blocking his path, each one a reminder of the high stakes. The pressure weighed on him heavily, like an invisible force that squeezed the air from his lungs. It wasn’t just about the race, it was about redemption. The tifosi—his tifosi—filled his mind with a deafening chant, a roar of expectation, as if they were willing victory into existence. The weight of their adoration and their demand for perfection followed him, a constant reminder of the legacy he carried.

But Jeonghan had never been one to back down. The track felt like an extension of himself, the tires gripping, the engine vibrating beneath him, urging him to push. Even with traffic clogging his way, he found openings. He fought for every inch of track, his movements sharp, instinctive, like a surgeon making precise cuts. Overtaking felt almost effortless—his car slipping through gaps with the grace of a dancer. He was fluid, controlled, never losing sight of the goal.

As the laps unfolded, his nerves sharpened, but so did his focus. The aggressive strategy that had been laid out for him was beginning to pay off. He was making up ground, inching forward, climbing the ladder of positions one battle at a time. The thought of the tifosi cheering, of their voices blending into one thunderous symphony, drove him. They believed in him. He had to deliver. His mind cleared. He no longer heard the roaring crowds, the whirling thoughts of doubt. All that mattered was the track, the tires, and the roar of the engine beneath him. The conditions became his advantage—he thrived in this chaos.

Through the speed-trap corners, Jeonghan carved his way through the field. The world outside the cockpit blurred into a haze, his focus narrowing into sharp precision. He saw every gap, every opportunity, and he seized them without hesitation. The rain had turned the race into a dance of risk and control, and Jeonghan was leading the waltz.

Crossing the finish line first, Jeonghan allowed himself a single moment of release. The victory wasn’t just for him—it was for Ferrari, for the tifosi, for everything that had been building in his chest since the first day he’d strapped into the car. He had done it. He had delivered.

The roar of the crowd felt like an affirmation of his own heart, beating in time with the cheers of thousands. In that moment, the weight lifted off him, replaced by an overwhelming surge of satisfaction and relief. He had proven himself once again, and it was more sweet than any victory lap could ever capture. The tifosi were wild, their cheers ringing through the air, a thunderous confirmation of what Jeonghan had already known in his heart: this was his race. This was his victory.

After the podium celebrations, the champagne-soaked cheers, and the endless barrage of media questions, Jeonghan finally managed to steal a moment of solitude. His body was spent, muscles aching, his throat raw from the adrenaline-fueled roar that had escaped him as he crossed the finish line. And yet, his mind wasn’t on the race anymore. Not on the points, not on the tifosi.

It was on you.

The fleeting brush of your hand earlier lingered like a phantom touch, a warmth that refused to fade even as the hours passed. The memory of your scent—the subtle floral notes of your shampoo—clung to him, more grounding than the overwhelming chaos of the Monza circuit.

He walked toward his motorhome, each step feeling heavier now that the adrenaline had begun to wane. The din of the paddock was fading, replaced by the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat in his ears. The glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows, and as he turned the corner, there you were. Waiting for him. Leaning casually against the side of his motorhome, your arms crossed and a knowing smirk dancing on your lips. His footsteps slowed as his eyes locked onto yours, the soft gleam of your smile both a challenge and an invitation.

“You’re late,” you teased, tilting your head in mock disapproval.

Jeonghan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he approached. “Didn’t realize I was on a schedule.”

“You’re always on a schedule,” you shot back, your tone light but your gaze sharp. “Besides, I thought you’d be faster off track too.”

His smirk deepened as he stopped in front of you, close enough that the scent of champagne and adrenaline clung to him. “Big words for someone who’s hanging around my motorhome.”

“Big win for someone who barely made it out of Q2,” you quipped, the corner of your mouth twitching upward.

Jeonghan’s chuckle was low, almost indulgent. “Touché.”

There was a moment of silence, the din of the paddock fading into a distant hum. His eyes traced your face, noting the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheekbones, the way you seemed perfectly at ease under his scrutiny. That unnerved him more than he cared to admit. You’d always been too good at staying cool, keeping him on edge.

“So,” he finally said, leaning casually against the doorframe, “where’s your article? Shouldn’t it be out by now?”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, you think I’m done? I’m holding out for an exclusive.”

Jeonghan’s grin widened, his ego soaking up your words. “An exclusive? From the tifosi’s god?”

Your laugh was soft, teasing, and it sent a warmth through his chest that rivaled the rush of the race. “Your words, not mine.”

“You want a headline that bad?” His voice dropped, his tone dipping into something darker, something that made the air between you shift.

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice steady despite the way he was looking at you now—like he was ready to devour you whole. “But you’d have to give me something worth writing about.”

It was playful, the banter you always shared, but there was something crackling beneath the surface tonight, an electricity neither of you could ignore. Jeonghan stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between you. You shifted back instinctively, your spine meeting the cool surface of the motorhome door.

“You always have something to say, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice low, intimate.

“Someone has to keep you grounded,” you shot back, though your voice wavered slightly as his hand braced against the door beside your head, caging you in. His other hand hovered near your hip, close enough to make you hyper-aware of the heat radiating off him.

“Grounded?” he repeated, his lips curling into a slow, predatory smile. “You’re doing a great job of that.”

Your heart was pounding now, the proximity, the tension—it was overwhelming. “Jeonghan,” you started, your voice quieter, more measured, “this… this isn’t professional.”

“Fuck being professional,” he said, the words slipping out like a confession. Before you could respond, his fingers tilted your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding you to look up at him.

And then his lips were on yours, capturing them in a kiss that was as fierce as it was unrelenting. It wasn’t sweet or tentative—it was raw, all the tension and frustration that had built up between you spilling over in a single, consuming moment. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid you might pull away.

But you didn’t. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands finding the front of his race suit, clutching the material as if to steady yourself. The world around you blurred into nothing; there was only the warmth of his mouth, the taste of him, the way he kissed like he was claiming something he’d wanted for far too long.

Jeonghan’s breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something—confirmation, permission, anything. Whatever he found made him grin, wicked and hungry. Without a word, he reached for the door handle, pushing it open with a sharp motion. The door swung wide, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you inside.

The door clicked shut behind you, plunging you both into the dim interior of the motorhome. Jeonghan's hands were everywhere at once, tracing the curve of your waist, sliding up your back, tangling in your hair. His lips found yours again, more urgent this time, as if he couldn't bear to be separated from you for even a moment.

You stumbled backward, your legs hitting the edge of the small couch. Jeonghan followed, never breaking contact, until you were lying beneath him, the leather cool against your heated skin. His weight pressed you down, a delicious pressure that made your head spin.

"God, I've wanted this for so long," he breathed against your neck, his words punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses that trailed down to your collarbone.

You arched into him, your hands fumbling with the zipper of his race suit. Your fingers trembled slightly as you tugged it down and yanked off his fireproofs, revealing more of his sweat-slicked skin. Jeonghan groaned against your throat as your hands slipped inside, exploring the taut muscles of his chest and abdomen.

"How long?" you managed to ask between ragged breaths, curiosity mingling with desire.

Jeonghan lifted his head, his eyes dark and intense as they locked onto yours. "Since the first time you interviewed me," he admitted, his voice low and husky. "The way you challenged me, saw right through my bullshit... I knew I was in trouble."

The confession sent a thrill through you, and you pulled him down for another searing kiss. Your tongues danced as his hands roamed your body, pushing up your shirt to caress the soft skin beneath. You gasped into his mouth as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast.

Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss. Jeonghan groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your hip before gripping your thigh, hitching it up around his waist.

“So what you’re saying,” you whispered, grinding your clothed cunt against him. “Is that you’ve been obsessed with me as long as I have with you.”

He drops his head and groans, hot and heavy, against your throat. “You’re telling me we could have been doing this for three years?”

You pull him back to your lips by his hair, relishing the way he hisses at your touch. “If only you’d put your money where your mouth is, pretty boy.”

At that, he props himself up above you, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “I knew you called me pretty in Japan!”

You desperately claw at his shoulders in an attempt to bring his mouth back to yours. After three years of cat and mouse, you do believe you’re entitled to it. “Jeonghan, I swear to everything that is holy-”

“Say it.” His necklace hangs in front of you, glinting in the dim light of the motorhome. You have half a mind to crane your neck and take it with your teeth. But instead, you choose to stare up at him in mock confusion, fingers dancing at the nape of his neck.

“Say what?”

His answering laugh mocks you a little, and he leans down to gently bite your earlobe. When he speaks, it’s low and deep. “Say I’m pretty. I know you think it when you’re drunk.”

You shiver at the sensation of his teeth grazing your ear, heat pooling in your core. His words make you flush, remembering all the times you'd drunkenly gushed about him to your friends. You'd always been careful to keep things professional in person, but apparently some of your true feelings had slipped out.

"And how would you know what I think when I'm drunk?" you challenge, trying to regain some control.

Jeonghan chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. "You're not the only one with sources in the paddock, sweetheart."

The pet name sends another thrill through you. You decide to give him what he wants, if only to move things along. "Fine," you breathe, trailing your fingers down his chest. "You're pretty, Jeonghan. Gorgeous, actually. Happy now?"

His grin is triumphant as he captures your lips again, the kiss deep and consuming. "Ecstatic, darling," he murmurs against your mouth.

Your hands roam his body, tracing the lean muscles of his back, feeling them flex under your touch. Jeonghan's fingers dance along your sides, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He breaks the kiss to nip at your jaw, then your neck, drawing a soft moan from your lips.

"You know," he says between kisses, his voice low and husky, "I've imagined this so many times. On the couch in the media room, in the garage, during those long interviews..."

You gasp as he finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck. "Is that why you always fidget so much during our talks?"

He chuckles against your skin. "Guilty as charged."

Your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, , but as one hand curls around your jaw, the other stops you.

“You first,” he breathes, sitting back on his knees to gently urge you out of your shirt.

You lift your arms, allowing him to peel your shirt off slowly, his eyes drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin. The cool air of the motorhome raises goosebumps on your flesh, but Jeonghan's heated gaze makes you feel like you're burning up.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the lace edge of your bra. "Even better than I imagined."

You reach up to pull him back down to you, craving the warmth of his body against yours. As your lips meet again, his hands roam your sides, mapping out every curve and dip. You arch into his touch, desperate for more.

His hands brush over your clothed nipple, and you inhale sharply. The sound makes Jeonghan raise his head, a faint smirk dancing across his lips. “Sensitive, are we?” He coos, hands drawing shapes against the swell of your breasts until goosebumps erupt on your flesh.

Your breath hitches as his fingers tease you though the thin fabric of your bra. “Jeonghan,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea.

His smirk widens as he lowers his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "Yes, sweetheart?" He murmurs against your skin. His lips trail lower, ghosting over the lacework.

You arch your back, silently begging for more. Jeonghan obliges, his tongue darting out to trace the lace edge of your bra. Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as you hold him close.

With deft fingers, he reaches behind you to unclasp your bra. You lift slightly, allowing him to slide it off. His eyes darken as he takes you in. You moan wantonly, arching your back in an effort to touch you - somewhere, anywhere.

“Jeonghan, please-”

A singular finger traces the curve of your waist up to your collarbone. He hums as you squirm. “Look at you,” he murmurs. You shriek as he pinches your waist. “You act so big in the paddock, and here you are, begging for me to touch you.”

It enrages you a little, how easily he takes you apart. Hell, he’s barely even touched you and you’re already rubbing your thighs together, desperate for any amount of friction.

"Jeonghan, please," you gasp, not even sure what you're begging for. More? Less? Everything?

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours. The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low and commanding.

You swallow hard, and the heat pooling between your legs feels hot enough to burn. “Y-your-”

“My what, baby?” His words are punctuated by hot, open mouthed kisses against your collarbones. He pointedly ignores your nipples, a thought that makes you whine. “Speak up.”

“Your mouth, Jeonghan,” you finally get out, hissing when his teeth find purchase on the skin of your neck.

“Yeah? Where, baby?” His hands fit themselves against the curve of your waist. “Here?”

“N-no,” you hate it, the way Jeonghan turns you into a whimpering mess. You shiver as his hands trail up your body.

“Hm…how about…here?” His thumbs brush against the underside of your breast again, and you arch your back, desperate and aching for him.

“Higher,” you breathe, mesmerized by the way his fingers dance up your body, by the way his eyes never leave yours.

“Here, baby?” His fingers tweak an already-hard nipple, and you gasp.

“Yes, please-”

“Say I’m a good driver, sweetheart, and I’ll give you what you want.”

Your eyes snap open, narrowing at him in disbelief. Even now, with you half-naked and writhing beneath him, he can't help but tease. "You're kidding, right?"

Jeonghan's grin is wicked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Not at all. Come on, darling. Just a few little words."

You bite your lip, torn between your pride and your desperate need for his touch. His thumb circles your nipple lazily, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Finally, you cave. "Fine," you breathe. "You're a good driver, Jeonghan. The best, even. Now please—"

Before you can finish, his mouth is on your breast, hot and wet. You cry out, arching into him as his tongue swirls around your nipple. His hand kneads your other breast, fingers teasing your other nipple.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Jeonghan's tongue and teeth work in tandem, drawing gasps and moans from your lips. The sensations are overwhelming, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

"God, Jeonghan," you breathe, your head falling back against the couch cushions.

He hums against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His free hand trails down your stomach, fingers dancing along the waistband of your pants. You lift your hips instinctively, silently begging for more.

Jeonghan lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire as they meet yours. "Tell me you want this," he says, his voice husky and low. "I need to hear you say it."

You nod frantically, your breath coming in short gasps. "Yes," you breathe, your voice filled with need. "I want this. I want you, Jeonghan."

His eyes darken further at your words, a low growl escaping his throat. In one swift motion, he unbuttons your pants and slides them down your legs, taking your underwear with them. You kick them off eagerly, now fully bare beneath him.

Jeonghan's gaze rakes over your body, hungry and appreciative. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands skimming up your thighs. "So fucking beautiful."

You reach for him, tugging at the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. "Your turn," you say, your voice breathy with anticipation.

He grins, standing to shuck off the rest of his clothes. Your eyes widen as he reveals himself fully, drinking in the sight of his toned body. Jeonghan's grin widened as he caught you staring. "Like what you see?" he teased, his voice low and husky.

You nod, unable to form words as your eyes roam his body. The lean muscles of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hipbones, the impressive length of his cock standing proud against his stomach - it was all even better than you'd imagined.

He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?"

That snapped you out of your daze. "Shut up and get back here," you growl, reaching for him.

Jeonghan obliges, lowering himself back onto the couch and covering your body with his. You gasp at the feeling of skin on skin, the heat of his body against yours. His lips find yours in a searing kiss as his hands explore every curve and dip of your body. When his fingers finally brush against your core, you gasp into his mouth, your hips bucking involuntarily.

“So wet,” he murmurs against your lips. “All for me?”

"Yes," you breathe, your hips rolling against his hand. "All for you."

Jeonghan's fingers explore your folds, teasing and mapping out every sensitive spot. When he finally slides a finger inside you, you moan loudly, your back arching off the couch. He sets a slow, torturous pace, curling his finger just right to hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

"More," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders. "Please, Jeonghan."

He obliges, adding a second finger and increasing his pace. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in tight, precise movements that have you writhing beneath him. You can feel the tension building in your core, a coiling heat that threatens to consume you. Your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders – you’re too drunk on lust to recognize if you’re pushing him away because it’s too much or pulling him closer because it’s not nearly enough.

"That's it, baby," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice low and encouraging. "Let go for me.”

His words push you over the edge, and you come with a cry, your body arching off the couch as waves of pleasure wash over you. Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping their relentless rhythm until you're trembling and oversensitive.

As you come down from your high, Jeonghan peppers soft kisses along your jaw and neck. "Beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "You're so beautiful when you let go."

You're still catching your breath when you feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh. Your hand snakes between your bodies, wrapping around his cock. Jeonghan hisses at the contact, his hips jerking involuntarily.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

"Show me," you breathe, thumb brushing over the tip of his pre-cum slick cock. You relish the way he shudders against you. “Show me everything you imagined, pretty boy.”

He preens a little at your teasing words, arms shaking with the exertion of keeping himself above you. “Yeah?” he purrs, hips bucking to the tempo of your hand. “You wanna see, sweetheart?”

You barely have the time to nod before he’s sweeping his arms under your thighs and sitting back against the couch, setting you on top of him. Your wet heat is inches from his weeping cock, and you give him an experimental roll of your hips. The friction is delicious, and you bite your lips at the way his head rolls back.

You take advantage of his position and press hot kisses against his neck as he squirms below you.

“This is what you wanted, baby?” you whisper against his ear, biting gently. He shudders, one arm circling your waist and the other finding purchase in your hair. “You wanted me on top? Me in control?”

He laughs breathlessly at that, hips grinding against yours with such fervour that you almost succumb right then and there. “You might be on top, sweetheart,” he hisses as you position yourself above him, one hand circling his length. “But I’m the one in char-”

He cuts himself off with a strangled moan as you sink down until your hips are flush to his. “Hmmm?” You hum sweetly against his throat, exhaling at the sheer size of him inside you. “What was that?”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back against the couch as his hands trail down to rest on the curve of your ass. “Move, please, sweetheart.”

“Tell me how much you love my writing.” The words leave you in a rush, the sight of him panting for you almost too heady to ignore. You hadn’t planned on teasing him, but his earlier words had lit a fire in your core that would only be doused once you flipped the script on him.

His head is still on the back of the couch as he barks out a laugh. “You’re a fucking menace,” he murmurs, pinching your waist. “Now, move.”

“No.” It takes every bone in your body to stay absolutely still. You can feel him, thick and throbbing, and the thought of it makes you almost forgo this insanity to ride him into oblivion.

His eyes meet yours, and he raises his eyebrows in mock outrage. “Are you serious?” He punctuates his words by dragging a hand down your body, fingers finding your clit and pressing until you jerk away from him. It’s a futile attempt though, because his other hand is still fisted in your hair, and he uses it as leverage to hold you against him, powerless against his ministrations.

With a shaking hand, your press against his wrist until his fingers stop moving in circles around your clit. “C-come on,” you tease breathlessly, using your other hand to thread through his sweat-soaked hair and yanking until he bares his throat to you with a groan. “Play nice, pretty boy. Tell me how much you love my writing.”

He groans again as you lick a stripe up his throat, the hand in your hair loosening as his resolve weakens. “Y-you don’t play fair,” he moans, legs shaking with the exertion of keeping still, of playing your little game of cat and mouse.

“Neither do you,” you whisper, your words paired with a tweak to his nipple that has him gasping and arching his back.

“Fuck!” He cries out, curling forward until his chin rests against your ribs and he’s staring up at you. “Y-your writing is perfect.”

He’s rewarded with another gentle tug on his hair and a firm, “keep going.”

“S-so perfect and wonderful, I – fuck, baby please – read every word th-three times,” he’s almost whimpering now, looking up at you with so much desire that you decide it’s time to reward him for being so pliant, so good for you. “You-you’re the best writer in the whole paddock, fuck, yes, thank yo-”

You decide to put him out of his misery, preening at his praise, you start with an experimental grind against his hips, and watch with glee as he almost melts back against the couch. You decide to take advantage of the situation for a little while longer, rocking your hips faster as his lips find your nipple.

“Who’s in charge?” you coo, fingers gripping his hair a little tighter. He draws back to give you a quick smirk. They don’t call him the fastest on the grid for nothing – one second, you feel like you’re in complete control, and the next, he’s lifting you off of him with surprising ease. Your chest meets the couch before you can even form a single thought, and Jeonghan gathers up your wrists in one of his hands.

“You really thought,” he hisses as he re-enters your aching pussy. “You were in charge, sweetheart?”

The new angle allows him to sink even deeper inside you, drawing a low moan from your lips.

"You were saying?" he purrs, chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck as he sets a punishing pace. Each thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and whimpering beneath him.

"You thought you could tease me like that and get away with it?" he groans, his free hand gripping your hip tightly. "Thought you could make me beg?"

You can only moan in response, overwhelmed by the sensation of him pounding into you relentlessly. The couch creaks beneath you dangerously.

"Answer me," Jeonghan demands, slowing his pace torturously.

"J-Jeonghan," you manage to stammer, your voice muffled against the cushions.

He leans over you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispers in your ear. "What was that, sweetheart? I couldn't quite hear you."

You turn your head, meeting his intense gaze over your shoulder. "Please," you whimper.

“Please what?” He demands.

"Please," you gasp, struggling to form coherent thoughts as Jeonghan's hips continue their torturously slow pace. "Please, I need more."

His low chuckle sends shivers down your spine. "More what, baby? Use your words. You’re so good with words, aren’t you?"

You whine in frustration, trying to push back against him, seeking the friction you desperately crave. But his grip on your hip is firm, holding you in place.

"Fuck me," you finally manage to choke out. "Please, Jeonghan, fuck me harder."

"There we go," he purrs, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Was that so hard?"

Before you can retort, he snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt inside you. You cry out at the sudden fullness, your fingers clawing at the couch cushions.

Jeonghan sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you further into the couch cushions. The hand not holding your wrists snakes around to find your clit, rubbing tight circles that have you seeing stars.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Jeonghan groans, his breath hot against your neck. "So tight, so perfect for me."

You moan at his words, feeling the familiar coil of heat building in your core. "J-Jeonghan," you whimper, "I'm close..."

"That's it, baby," he encourages, his fingers working faster against your clit. "Come for me. Let me feel you."

Every part of your body is on fire, from the way Jeonghan's hips press against yours to the way his fingers expertly stroke your clit.

You come with a cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over you. Your inner walls clench around him, drawing a deep groan from Jeonghan.

He doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through your orgasm and pushing you towards another. You're oversensitive, every nerve ending on fire, but the pleasure is too intense to resist.

"God, you're perfect," Jeonghan pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. "So fucking perfect."

You feel his thrusts becoming more desperate, his breathing ragged against your neck. "Come on, Jeonghan," you manage to gasp out.

"Come for me," you urge him, clenching around him deliberately.

With a guttural groan, Jeonghan's hips stutter and he comes, spilling inside you as his body shudders with release. The feeling of him pulsing within you sends you over the edge again, and you cry out, trembling beneath him.

For a long moment, the only sound in the motorhome is your combined heavy breathing. Jeonghan releases your wrists and gently pulls out, causing you both to wince at the sensitivity.

Jeonghan collapses onto the couch beside you, his body warm and solid as he pulls you into his arms. The weight of him, the feeling of his heartbeat drumming against your cheek, is grounding. You curl into his chest, letting the rise and fall of his breathing lull you into a rare moment of stillness. His fingers trace lazy patterns across your back, the movements unhurried, almost absentminded, as if he can’t bear to stop touching you just yet.

“Well,” he says finally, his voice rough and lower than usual, laced with satisfaction. “I think that was worth the wait.”

You huff a laugh, the sound barely audible over the soft thrum of life outside the motorhome. “Of course you do,” you mutter, your cheek pressed against the hard planes of his chest, which smells faintly of sweat, champagne, and something uniquely Jeonghan.

His fingers pause their tracing for a moment, as though considering his next move, before starting again, this time slower and more deliberate. “Admit it,” he murmurs, his tone teasing, though softer now, quieter, like the vulnerability from before hadn’t completely left. “You’ve been thinking about this as much as I have.”

You tilt your head up, catching the faint glow of the ceiling light reflected in his eyes. They’re darker now, warmer, but still full of that infuriating smugness. Your lips twitch in defiance as you fight the urge to smile. “What makes you so sure I was thinking about it at all?”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow, a lock of hair falling across his forehead in a way that’s unfairly distracting. His grin is sharp and unrelenting. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“Am not,” you fire back, though your tone lacks any real conviction. The way his fingers continue their soft, languid exploration of your back doesn’t help.

“Okay,” he says, clearly enjoying himself as he leans his head back against the couch. “So when you cornered me after qualifying that one time in Japan two years ago, that wasn’t because you couldn’t stop staring at me in my race suit?”

You gape at him, your body jerking upright just enough to glare at him properly. “I cornered you because I wanted a quote, you egomaniac.” You punctuate the accusation with a half-hearted swat at his arm.

He catches your wrist easily, his grip firm but gentle, and intertwines his fingers with yours. The warmth of his hand against yours is distracting, and it takes all your willpower not to lose focus. “Oh, you got a quote, all right,” he counters, his laughter bubbling up like he’s savoring every second of your indignation. “Admit it—you’ve been counting the days.”

You roll your eyes, the movement dramatic, though the warmth blooming in your chest betrays you. “And if I was?”

Jeonghan’s grin softens at your words, the sharp edges smoothing out into something quieter, something vulnerable. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. “Then I’d say it was worth the wait,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate.

The air between you shifts, heavier now, the teasing replaced by something else entirely. His gaze locks on yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades—the low hum of the paddock outside, the faint creak of the motorhome settling. All that exists is him, his hand still resting near your face, and the weight of his words hanging between you.

Your throat feels tight, and you clear it quickly, trying to shake off the spell he’s cast over you. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you mutter, shifting slightly to put some distance between you.

“Too late,” he replies with a ghost of a smirk, leaning back lazily against the couch. His arm stretches along the back of the cushions, the casual sprawl of his posture somehow making him seem even more confident. Then, with an easy grace that feels entirely unfair, he leans forward and plucks something from the coffee table. “By the way, your article? It’s still late.”

You blink at him, incredulous, before groaning and burying your face in your hands. “Now you care about professionalism?”

Jeonghan shrugs, holding out his hand as if offering you an invisible microphone, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Exclusive with the winner of Monza? Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

You peek at him through your fingers, shaking your head with a laugh that’s half exasperation, half affection. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he counters, his voice softening again as he leans forward to press a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there, warm and reassuring, before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “But I’ll let you pretend for a little while.”

Jeonghan’s arms tighten around you as the laughter fades into a comfortable quiet. The warmth of his hand on your back and the steady rhythm of his breathing are grounding, but your thoughts won’t stop spinning. You tilt your head up to look at him, searching his expression for something you can’t quite name.

“What?” he asks softly, his tone warm but teasing. His fingers brush over the curve of your shoulder, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“What… what are we now?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. They hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw.

Jeonghan’s gaze doesn’t waver. His thumb brushes your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. “We’re whatever you want to be, sweetheart,” he says simply, his voice low and full of something too deep to name.

You feel your heart stutter, the weight of his words sinking into you. “Can we…” You hesitate, the vulnerability of the moment making your voice falter. “Can we take it slow?”

For a second, he just blinks at you, and then the corners of his mouth lift into that infuriatingly familiar smirk. “Take it slow? After you just made me beg?” He chuckles, the sound soft but undeniably teasing. “You’re full of surprises.”

Your face heats instantly, and you swat at his shoulder, your embarrassment overridden by his smugness. “Shut up.”

Jeonghan catches your wrist before you can retreat, his laughter fading as he shifts closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I’m kidding,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. The mischief in his eyes melts into something gentler, something that makes your breath catch. “I’ll wait as long as you want.”

You glance at him, your walls crumbling under the weight of his sincerity. “It’s just…” You trail off, trying to find the right words, the weight of reality settling in around you. “Our careers, the season… It’s a lot. I don’t want to mess this up, not with everything else happening.”

Jeonghan’s expression softens even further, the teasing flicker in his eyes replaced by understanding. “I get it,” he says quietly. His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “I’ve waited three years to feel this close to you. What’s forever if it means I get to do it right?”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, equal parts devastating and beautiful. You close your eyes for a moment, letting them sink in, before leaning forward to press your lips to his—soft, brief, but full of everything you can’t quite bring yourself to say.

When you pull back, Jeonghan’s smile is softer than you’ve ever seen it, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he gazes at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“No pressure, though,” he adds after a beat, his teasing tone returning as his grin widens. “Unless you’re writing a follow-up article about me being the world’s most patient man.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest as he laughs, the sound rich and warm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you love me for it,” he counters, his hand sliding back to your hair, cradling you close.

And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.

FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AZERBAIJAN GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Baku City Circuit

The streets of Baku were as much a character in the race as any driver—a stunning clash of history and modernity, where medieval walls stood beside glimmering skyscrapers. The track was notorious for its tight corners and long straights, a playground of risk and reward. Jeonghan knew every inch of it like it was an old rival, one he had to best to keep his championship hopes alive.

Qualifying was tight—Jeonghan secured P2, just behind Mingyu. "He’s fast," Jeonghan muttered to you that evening, the weight of the competition clear in his voice. But there was no self-doubt, just the quiet calculation that always preceded his brilliance.

Race day was a spectacle. Jeonghan’s precision through the castle section was breathtaking, and when the opportunity came to pass Mingyu on the long straight during the final stint, he didn’t hesitate. The roar of the tifosi—echoing even in Azerbaijan—followed him as he crossed the line first. The team’s radio had erupted with cheers as Jeonghan crossed the finish line, and when you saw him after the podium ceremony, his champagne-damp hair and triumphant smile had made your heart skip a beat.

Later, after the media frenzy, Jeonghan pulls you aside. "Come on," he says with a conspiratorial grin, grabbing your hand. "You didn’t think I’d let you leave Baku without exploring, did you?"

The cobblestone streets of Baku feel like something out of a postcard. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the historic Old City. Jeonghan walks beside you, his hand occasionally brushing yours as he gestures to the buildings with a sense of wonder that’s rare to see in him.

“How do you know all this?” you ask, genuinely curious as he points out the Maiden Tower and recounts its legends with surprising accuracy.

He grins, tilting his head in that maddeningly charming way. “What, you thought I only studied race strategies? I’ve got layers, sweetheart.” He insists on taking cheesy tourist photos, including one where he pretends to be a knight defending you at the city walls.

“I could be your knight in shining armor,” he teases, holding his imaginary sword aloft.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re already Ferrari’s golden boy,” you shoot back, snapping the photo anyway. “Isn’t that enough?”

He’s good at this—whisking you away from the chaos of the paddock and making you forget, even if just for a moment, that the world is watching him.

Now, as you wander the streets of Baku, he’s more relaxed, his usual playful demeanor slipping into something softer. You pause in front of a street vendor selling intricate souvenirs, and Jeonghan picks up a small, hand-carved wooden box.

“For your desk,” he says simply, handing it to you before you can protest.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, but you take the gift anyway.

“Yeah, but you love me,” he teases, slinging an arm around your shoulders as the two of you continue down the street, the sound of distant music and laughter filling the warm night air.

That night, back at the hotel, Jeonghan skims your article on his phone while sprawled on the couch.

Jeonghan’s Baku Blitz: Closes the Gap to Mingyu with Stunning Victory

His smirk grows wider with every sentence. “Stunning victory, huh? You really know how to make me sound good.”

You roll your eyes, throwing a pillow at him. “It was stunning. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” he quips, pulling you into his lap. “And don’t think I didn’t notice the little shout-out to my late-braking move. Makes me wonder how closely you’re watching me.”

“Always,” you admit softly, the truth laced between your words. His grin softens, and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.

FORMULA 1 SINGAPORE AIRLINES SINGAPORE GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Marina Bay Street Circuit

The Marina Bay Circuit was infamous—its oppressive heat, humidity, and unforgiving corners made it a grueling test of endurance. It was Jeonghan’s least favorite track, something he’d muttered repeatedly during practice.

In qualifying, he delivered a masterclass, securing pole position under the glowing lights that lined the circuit. "See?" he said, leaning casually against his car afterward, sweat still dripping from his brow. "Guess the heat doesn’t bother me as much as I thought." Watching him grin through post-quali interviews, drenched in sweat but radiating confidence, had you practically floating back to your hotel room.

You’ve barely ventured outside the hotel after qualifying, and he texts you cryptically to “stay put.” Now, the air conditioning hums softly as you sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through headlines about his performance. You’re still reading when the door swings open, and Jeonghan strides in, carrying a tray.

“Room service,” he announces with a dramatic flourish, setting it down beside you.

Your eyes widen at the sight of chocolate-covered strawberries and a chilled bottle of champagne. “What’s the occasion?”

He shrugs, popping the cork with practiced ease. “Pole position deserves a celebration. Plus…” He smirks, holding up a strawberry. “I wanted to see you smile.”

You laugh, shaking your head as he moves closer, offering the berry. But when you reach for it, he pulls it back, dragging it over your lips instead, smearing chocolate at the corner of your mouth.

“You missed a spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss it away. The sweetness lingers on his lips, and before you know it, he’s pulled you into his lap, the rest of the world forgotten.

The race the next day is less triumphant. A perfectly timed pit stop keeps Jeonghan ahead of the pack for most of the race, but a late safety car allows another driver to close the gap, relegating him to P2. Still, with Mingyu out of the race, Jeonghan’s second-place finish is enough to reclaim the championship lead.

Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable when he reads your latest article:

Heat and Havoc in Singapore: Jeonghan Takes Second as Mingyu Crashes Out

“Well, at least you didn’t call me lucky,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair.

“You weren’t lucky. You earned that result,” you reply, watching his face carefully.

He hums, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Still. Next time, I’d rather win outright.”

FALL BREAK: SEPT 23-OCT 17

The crisp autumn air brushes against your face as you unlock your front door, arms full of groceries. It’s been a quiet few weeks since Singapore, the space between races stretching out like an eternity. You’ve tried to enjoy the pause, but it feels strange—unnatural, even—to be so far removed from the whirlwind of Jeonghan’s life.

Your thoughts drift to him as you drop the keys on the counter. Monaco. Ferrari’s headquarters in Maranello. Both places are worlds away from your little apartment.

You’re unloading a carton of eggs when there’s a knock at the door. Confused, you glance at the clock. It’s too late for deliveries and far too early for your neighbors to come by.

When you open the door, your heart stops.

Jeonghan stands there, his frame relaxed yet somehow magnetic. He’s dressed in a simple leather jacket and jeans, his dark hair catching the golden glow of the setting sun. A bouquet of your favorite flowers is clutched in one hand, their vibrant colors almost as captivating as the smile tugging at his lips.

“Jeonghan?” you ask, blinking in disbelief. “What are you—how—”

“Miss me?” he interrupts, stepping inside before you can fully process his presence. He hands you the flowers like it’s the most natural thing in the world, leaning in to press a quick kiss against your lips.

Your breath catches, and you can only stare at him, your mind struggling to keep up.

“You live in Monaco,” you point out, still staring at him. “And work in Italy.”

“I’m aware,” he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Of course, I missed you,” you murmur, your cheeks heating.

“Good.” He grins and takes your free hand, tugging you toward the door.

“Wait—where are we going?”

“Out,” he says simply.

You try to protest, gesturing to the groceries still sitting on the counter, but he’s already leading you down the hallway. His excitement is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite your confusion.

An hour later, you’re standing at the entrance of a sprawling amusement park, the neon lights casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the evening sky.

“You’re serious?” you ask, staring at the carousel spinning lazily in the distance.

“Dead serious,” Jeonghan replies, his tone light as he hands over your ticket. “I figured you could use a night off.”

“I’m not the one traveling the world every other week,” you point out.

“Exactly,” he counters, his smile growing. “I needed to see you smile. And this seemed like a good place to start.”

The night unfolds in a blur of laughter and adrenaline. Jeonghan, surprisingly competitive, insists on winning you a giant stuffed bear at the ring toss, only to fail spectacularly—twice. You tease him mercilessly, your stomach aching from how hard you’re laughing.

When you step off the bumper cars, your cheeks are flushed, and your voice is hoarse from yelling. Jeonghan is no better, his hair sticking up in all directions after you gleefully rammed into him three times in a row.

“I think you’ve got a mean streak,” he says, pretending to nurse an invisible injury.

“Me?” you gasp, feigning innocence. “You literally tried to corner me!”

He doesn’t respond—at least, not verbally. Instead, he grabs your hand again, intertwining your fingers as he pulls you toward the Ferris wheel.

The view from the top is breathtaking. The park stretches out below you, a sea of lights and movement, while the city skyline glimmers in the distance.

Jeonghan is quiet beside you, his gaze fixed on your face instead of the view. You turn to him, suddenly aware of how close he’s sitting.

“What?” you ask softly.

“You’re happy,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I like seeing you like this.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath. It’s slow and deliberate, his hand moving to cradle your jaw as the world around you seems to fall away.

When he pulls back, you’re both smiling.

“This is dangerous,” you tease, though your voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re going to make me think nothing can go wrong.”

“Maybe nothing will,” he replies, his forehead resting gently against yours.

FORMULA 1 PIRELLI UNITED STATES GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Circuit of the Americas

Austin brought a different kind of challenge. The Circuit of the Americas was iconic for its mix of sweeping corners, elevation changes, and a crowd that rivaled the tifosi in their enthusiasm. Jeonghan thrived here, securing P1 in qualifying and delivering a flawless race to claim another victory.

"Two wins in three races," he said that evening, pulling you into his side as you walked into a cowboy-themed bar downtown. "Guess I’m on a roll."

The bar was loud, filled with locals and fans alike, but Jeonghan stood out effortlessly. His cowboy hat tilted just right, a plaid shirt unbuttoned enough to make you wonder how he managed to look like that after hours in a car.

He kept his hand in your back pocket all night, his touch a silent claim when no one was looking. Every time he leaned in to murmur something in your ear, his lips brushed your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy," he whispered at one point, his grin wicked as he tipped his hat at you.

That was all it took. You dragged him back to the hotel, barely making it through the door before he was on you, the hat ending up on the floor somewhere between the bed and the door.

The article you write the next day earns a rare whistle of approval from Jeonghan:

Cowboy Jeonghan Rides High in Austin, Extends Championship Lead

“I think this might be your best one yet,” he says, setting the phone down as he pulls you into his lap.

“Because I complimented you, or because I called you a cowboy?”

“Both,” he answers, his lips brushing against yours. “You know how much I love it when you’re right.”

And as his hand slides to the small of your back, you can’t help but think this season isn’t just his championship—it’s yours, too.

FORMULA 1 GRAN PREMIO DE LA CIUDAD DE MÉXICO 2024 Track: Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez

The atmosphere at the Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez crackles with energy even hours after the race ends. The stands have mostly cleared, but the celebratory chaos of the paddock lingers. Jeonghan, fresh off another stellar performance, grins as reporters crowd around him, microphones extended like offerings. His hair is damp with sweat, his race suit tied around his waist as he leans casually against the Ferrari garage.

You watch from a distance, notebook in hand, trying not to let your gaze linger too long. He catches your eye anyway, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He’s been calling you his “lucky charm” ever since you started waking up in his bed on race mornings, and it’s a moniker he seems to enjoy reminding you of at every opportunity.

"Don't go too far," he says when the interviews wrap up, his voice low as he brushes past you on his way to the motorhome. The warmth of his fingertips grazing your wrist sends a jolt of electricity through you. "We’re celebrating tonight, and you’re not wriggling out of it this time."

You don’t see the ambush coming.

You’re reviewing your notes in the quiet corner of the paddock when your editor finds you. His expression is stern, almost irate, as he approaches. The celebration around you suddenly feels muffled, the weight of his presence pulling you back to reality.

"Finally," he snaps, crossing his arms. "I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days."

"Hey, sorry, it’s been hectic," you start, tucking your notebook under your arm.

He doesn’t let you finish. "Hectic? I gave you the Ferrari all-access months ago. They’re breathing down my neck about where the hell it is. Where’s the draft?"

The question lands like a punch to the gut. You open your mouth, fumbling for an answer, but he’s already barreling forward.

"And don’t think I haven’t noticed your tone shift," he continues, his voice lowering but losing none of its edge. "All this newfound niceness toward Jeonghan in your articles. What’s that about, huh? You sleeping with him or something?"

The accusation slices through you, leaving you momentarily stunned.

"That’s not—" you begin, but your voice falters.

"Spare me," he says, waving you off. "I don’t care what’s going on between you two, but I do care about the reputation of this outlet. You’ve built your career on being incisive, unbiased. So get it together, or I’ll find someone who can."

He doesn’t wait for a response, leaving you standing there as the din of the paddock swells around you. The celebration feels distant now, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears.

When Jeonghan finally finds you later that night, you’re a bundle of frayed nerves. The confrontation with your editor replays in your head like a broken record, each word cutting deeper into your carefully constructed sense of self. You sit hunched over your laptop in the corner of the media center, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows that match the knot in your chest.

“What, you sleeping with him or something?”

The accusation echoes, burrowing into your mind, where it tangles with your own insecurities. You’ve built your entire career on being sharp, unbiased, and unflinchingly honest. And yet, somewhere along the way, Jeonghan had slipped through your defenses. You can still hear the venom in your editor’s voice, feel the judgment in his eyes. The doubt wasn’t just his anymore—it was yours, too.

Was he right? Had you compromised everything for Jeonghan?

Your hands tremble slightly as you scroll through the notes you’ve been trying to organize for hours, but the words blur together, useless. Guilt presses against your ribs like a vice, mixing with a raw ache of something you’re too scared to name. You’re drowning in your own thoughts, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve let everyone down: your editor, your readers, and most of all, Jeonghan.

When he finally appears, his presence fills the doorway like a shadow cutting through the sterile light. He leans against the doorframe with a casualness you can’t match, arms crossed and head tilted slightly, his damp hair still clinging to his forehead. The sight of him, so familiar and yet suddenly so distant, sends a pang through your chest.

“Working late?” he asks, his voice low but carrying the faint edge of concern.

You look up, startled, and quickly shut your laptop as if that might erase everything weighing on you. “Just...catching up,” you say, forcing a smile that feels as flimsy as the excuse.

Jeonghan doesn’t move, his eyes scanning you with the precision of someone who knows you too well. He doesn’t buy the act—you can tell by the way his brows knit together, a subtle but telling sign of his worry.

“Catching up on what?” he asks, stepping closer, his tone light but probing.

You shrug, trying to sound casual. “Just notes. Articles. The usual.”

His gaze sharpens. “Right. And that’s why you look like you haven’t breathed in hours?”

You glance away, your fingers curling into fists on the tabletop. “I’m fine, Jeonghan. Go enjoy your win. You earned it.”

“And what, leave you like this?” He pulls out a chair and sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. “Not happening.”

The flood of emotions bubbling under your surface threatens to spill over. You want to tell him everything, but the words feel too tangled, too raw.

“I just need to get this done,” you say, your voice tight.

Jeonghan frowns, studying you more closely. "What’s going on? Did something happen?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, sidestepping him. "I just need some space tonight, okay?"

His hand brushes your arm, but you pull away, and the confusion in his eyes makes your stomach twist. "Fine," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. "If that’s what you want."

Jeonghan wakes up to sunlight filtering through the blinds, but the bed feels empty. The cool sheets where you usually sleep tug at his attention before he fully registers the weight in his chest. Frowning, he rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand, still groggy.

The screen lights up with a mess of notifications: congratulatory texts, memes from Soonyoung, and a dozen links to your latest article. He swipes through the chaos with a faint smile, already anticipating your sharp insights mingled with the familiar affection that’s always laced through your critiques.

Propping himself up against the headboard, Jeonghan opens the piece. At first, the smile lingers—he’s grown to appreciate the balance you strike between honest criticism and admiration. But the further he reads, the slower he scrolls, the words pressing into him like bruises.

His smile fades entirely by the time he reaches the paragraph describing his meltdown in Spain. The words cut too close, dragging him back to that moment in the Aston Martin garage: the oppressive silence, the rain hammering against the roof, and the suffocating realization of yet another missed opportunity.

"Jeonghan’s brilliance is undeniable, but brilliance without consistency leaves championships just out of reach."

The sentence burns itself into his mind. The carefully chosen words feel clinical, detached—so unlike you. He rereads it, hoping to find the warmth he’s come to expect, but it’s nowhere to be found.

Jeonghan tosses his phone onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, disbelief simmering into anger. This wasn’t just an article. This was personal.

The paddock is bustling, teams dismantling their motorhomes to get ready for next weekend. Jeonghan doesn’t bother changing out of his sweats before leaving his room, each step through the maze of hospitality suites and garages fueled by frustration.

When he finally reaches the media center, his chest tightens at the sight of you hunched over your laptop, headphones in, oblivious to his stormy approach. He doesn’t hesitate.

"You want to tell me what the hell that was?" His voice slices through the low hum of conversations around you.

Startled, you pull off your headphones, your eyes widening as you take him in. "Jeonghan—"

"No." He slaps his phone onto the desk in front of you, his movements sharp and deliberate. The article stares back at you, a glaring reminder of the wedge you’ve driven between you. "Don’t ‘Jeonghan’ me. What is this?"

"It’s my job," you say, standing to meet his intensity. The tremor in your voice betrays your composure. "You’ve always said you respected that about me."

"Respect?" His laugh is sharp, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You think I respect this?" He gestures to the article like it’s a living thing, something venomous and cruel. "You went for my throat."

"I didn’t go for your throat," you argue, though your voice cracks at the edges. "I wrote the truth."

"The truth?" His hands ball into fists at his sides. "You think I don’t know when you’re pulling punches? You tore me apart for no reason."

"You’ve been avoiding media days. You had a meltdown in Spain," you fire back, your tone rising as your frustration bubbles to the surface. "Those are facts, Jeonghan."

"You didn’t have to highlight them," he counters, his voice quieter but no less cutting. "You know how much this season means to me."

"And do you think this was easy for me?" you ask, tears pricking at your eyes. "Do you think I wanted to write that?"

"Then why did you?" His voice softens, the anger slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable. "Why would you do that to me?"

"Because I had to!" The words explode out of you, breaking the fragile tension. "Because people already think I’m biased. That I’ve gone soft. That I’m compromised because of you."

The weight of your confession hangs in the air, pressing down on both of you. Jeonghan’s face shifts, the fury giving way to something heavier—hurt, confusion, disappointment.

"I never asked you to compromise anything for me," he says quietly, his voice thick. "I never would."

You look away, your gaze falling to the floor. "I know. But this isn’t just about you. It’s about my career. My integrity."

"And what about us?" he asks, his voice breaking slightly. "Where does that leave us?"

You have no answer, the words lodged in your throat. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of activity outside the room.

Finally, Jeonghan exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I can’t do this right now," he mutters, taking a step back. "I need...I need to get out of here."

Jeonghan finds himself at the bar later that evening, the neon lights washing over him in hazy blues and reds. The whiskey in his glass is halfway gone before Soonyoung slides onto the stool next to him, his arrival quiet but not unnoticed.

"You look like shit," Soonyoung says, his tone light despite the obvious concern in his eyes.

"Thanks," Jeonghan mutters, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

They sit in silence for a moment before Soonyoung breaks it. "Want to talk about it?"

Jeonghan stares at his drink, the ice melting faster than he can keep up with. "I don’t know what we’re doing anymore," he admits, the words coming out heavier than he expected. "Me and her."

Soonyoung hums thoughtfully, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You two have always been complicated."

Jeonghan huffs out a humorless laugh. "That’s one way to put it."

"But," Soonyoung says, setting his glass down, "you’ve also always figured it out."

Jeonghan doesn’t respond, his thoughts a tangled mess of frustration and longing.

"You’re not going to fix it tonight," Soonyoung continues, his voice quieter now. "But if it matters—and I know it does—you’ll find a way. Just...don’t wait too long, yeah?"

Jeonghan nods slowly, the whiskey burning on its way down. Soonyoung’s words linger, a reminder of what he already knows but isn’t ready to face.

Not yet.

FORMULA 1 LENOVO GRANDE PRÊMIO DE SÃO PAULO 2024 Track: Autódromo José Carlos Pace

The rain is relentless in São Paulo, hammering down on the paddock and turning the atmosphere into a chaotic mess of drenched personnel and frayed nerves. Qualifying has been suspended indefinitely, the downpour rendering the track undriveable, and the mood in the Ferrari garage is grim. The asphalt glistens under the floodlights, reflecting streaks of color from team banners and sponsor logos. It feels like the world is holding its breath.

You’ve never liked rain. It has a way of amplifying what’s already simmering under the surface, and today is no exception. Your heart pounds as you weave through the maze of garages, dodging puddles and sidelong glances from team members. You know exactly where he’ll be—Jeonghan never strays far from the Ferrari setup, even when there’s nothing to do but wait.

Sure enough, there he is. Sitting on the edge of a workbench, his race suit unzipped to his waist and his damp undershirt clinging to his torso. His head is bowed, one hand gripping the edge of the bench while the other pushes wet strands of hair back from his forehead. He looks exhausted—physically, emotionally—but the moment your shoes scuff against the concrete floor, his eyes snap up to meet yours.

You’ve been blowing up his phone all week. Texts, calls, voice notes—all unanswered or met with cold, clipped replies.

"Jeonghan," you start, the sound of your voice barely carrying over the rain pelting the garage roof.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. "What are you doing here?"

The coldness in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, but you force yourself to step closer. "I could ask you the same thing."

His laugh is short, bitter. "Why are you surprised? This is where I always am."

"Don’t do that," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don’t act like this is normal. You’ve been ignoring me for weeks."

"I haven’t been ignoring you," he snaps, pushing off the bench. He stands tall now, towering over you, his hands resting on his hips. "I’ve been busy."

"Busy?" You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "You call one-word replies busy? Jeonghan, I’ve been calling and texting nonstop, and you’ve barely said anything to me."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the distant clatter of tools being packed away. Finally, he exhales sharply, running a hand through his damp hair again.

"Maybe I’m tired," he says, his voice quieter but no less sharp. "Maybe I’m sick of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."

Your heart twists at the admission, but you push it aside. "What’s not fine? Tell me, Jeonghan. Because I don’t understand why you’re shutting me out."

He shakes his head, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. "You don’t understand?" His voice rises, cracking with the weight of his frustration. "How could you not? You tore me apart in that article like I was just another driver. Like I meant nothing to you."

"It’s my job," you argue, but the words sound weak even to your ears.

"Your job?" he repeats, throwing his arms up. "You mean the job where you’re supposed to be unbiased? Yeah, I’ve noticed how ‘unbiased’ you’ve been lately. Especially when it comes to me."

"That’s not fair," you shoot back, taking a step closer. "You know I’ve always tried to be honest—"

"Honest?" He laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. "You call dragging my worst moments into the spotlight honest? You didn’t write about me; you dissected me. Like I was nothing more than a story."

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away, refusing to let him see how much his words cut. "I didn’t mean to hurt you."

"But you did," he says, his voice softening but losing none of its edge. "And now I don’t even know where we stand."

"We stand..." You falter, your throat tightening. "We stand where we’ve always stood. I care about you, Jeonghan. But this is complicated."

He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "It doesn’t have to be. It’s only complicated because you’re making it that way."

You look away, unable to hold his gaze. "You don’t understand what this means for me. For my career. For the season."

"And what about me?" he presses, his voice breaking. "What about what this means for us?"

The weight of his words hangs between you, heavy and suffocating. You take a shaky step back, the sound of the rain growing louder in the silence. "Maybe I should go," you whisper, turning toward the garage entrance.

"Don’t," he says sharply, and before you can take another step, his hand wraps around your wrist. “Don’t walk away from me.”

You barely have time to register the movement before he’s pulling you back, his other hand cupping your face as his lips crash against yours. The rain spills into the garage, soaking you both as his kiss deepens, desperate and unyielding. His hands slide to your waist, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead presses against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I won’t give you up," he whispers, his voice raw. "But I need you to choose."

"Jeonghan..." Your voice trembles, but he cuts you off.

"You love me," he says, his hands cupping your face. "Yes or no."

You hesitate, the weight of his question pressing down on you like the storm outside.

"Come on, sweetheart," he pleads, his voice cracking. "Don’t make me beg."

"I’m scared," you admit finally, your voice breaking. "Scared of losing myself. Of losing everything I’ve worked for."

He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Are you willing to lose me to keep writing?"

"I..." The words catch in your throat, the truth slipping through your fingers. "I don’t know."

His hands drop to his sides, and he takes a step back, the distance between you like a chasm. "When you decide," he says quietly, his voice heavy with resignation, "give me a call."

The rain clears just in time for Sunday’s race, and Jeonghan is unstoppable. He weaves through the slick track with the precision and grace that made him a legend, crossing the finish line first and extending his lead in the championship.

But you’re not there to celebrate with him.

You watch from the media center, your chest tight as the cameras capture his triumphant smile. But there’s a hollowness in his expression, a flicker of something unspoken as he scans the crowd for someone who isn’t there.

The post-race interviews blur together, and even as you type up your article, the words feel lifeless. Without him beside you, the hotel room feels cold and sterile, the thrill of the race dulled by the ache in your chest.

The days leading up to the Las Vegas Grand Prix are a haze of press releases and anticipation. Jeonghan is one race away from becoming a world champion, but all you can think about is the sound of his voice, the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you under the floodlights.

Your editor calls to praise your latest pieces, but the compliments feel hollow. The articles are polished and professional, but they lack the spark you used to feel when writing about him.

You glance at your phone, your thumb hovering over Jeonghan’s name. You haven’t called. Haven’t texted. Haven’t dared to.

Because the truth is, you’re terrified.

Terrified of losing yourself.

But even more terrified of losing him.

FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN SILVER LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2024 Track: Las Vegas Strip Circuit

The sun sets over Las Vegas in a haze of neon and desert dust, the city already buzzing with anticipation for the final race of the season. But in the paddock, the air is electric for all the wrong reasons.

Jeonghan crashes out in Q3.

Your eyes are glued to the screen as Jeonghan’s car slides violently into the barriers, the sharp sound of the impact slicing through the usual hum of commentary. Gasps ripple through the room, but your stomach lurches with something deeper than professional concern.

You’re in the media center when it happens, staring at the screen as his time locks in. The commentators speculate, the other journalists start drafting headlines, but you can’t hear a word of it. Your heart is already in free fall, and you don’t breathe again until he climbs out of the car, his hands held up in frustration as he waves off the medics.

P8. A disastrous result for the race that could make—or break—his championship. It might as well be the end of the world.

The room erupts into murmurs as analysts speculate on strategy and rival team fans cheer, but you barely hear them. Your editor sidles up to your desk, his grin practically gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"Well, well," he says, leaning over your shoulder. "Looks like we’ve got our headline for tomorrow. ‘Jeonghan’s Championship Dream in Tatters.’ Perfect angle to dissect his mistakes, maybe even his cocky attitude catching up with him—"

His words fade into the background as something clicks inside you. Every fiber of your being recoils at the thought of reducing Jeonghan—your Jeonghan—to nothing more than a headline. You love writing, yes, but this? This isn’t writing. This is tearing apart the one person who matters most to you, all for clicks and ad revenue.

Without thinking, you swivel in your chair, fixing your editor with a glare so sharp it silences him mid-sentence. "This is my two weeks’ notice."

He blinks, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." You stand, grabbing your bag and laptop. "I’m done."

Before he can argue, you’re already out the door, leaving behind the cacophony of keyboards and camera flashes. The paddock is chaos as you weave through the throngs of team personnel and fans, your heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and urgency.

You run.

The Ferrari garage is chaos. Engineers scramble to pack up the car, Jeonghan’s manager barks into his phone, and his publicist looks ready to faint. You push your way through it all, ignoring the glares and the shouted protests.

“He doesn’t want to see anyone right now,” Soonyoung says, stepping in front of you as you approach the motorhome.

“I don’t care,” you snap, shoving past him.

The motorhome is empty.

For a moment, you’re frozen, your chest heaving as you glance around the pristine space. The stillness only amplifies your worry. And then it hits you, like a sudden gust of wind: you know exactly where he is.

You sprint again, your heartbeat pounding louder than the chaos of the paddock behind you. The world blurs into streaks of neon lights, the hum of distant conversations, and the faint roar of engines being powered down for the night. The grandstands loom ahead, their cold metal steps stretching upward like an impossible climb. Each step burns in your legs, your breath coming in shallow gasps, but you don’t let up.

You don’t stop until you see him.

Jeonghan sits alone, halfway up the grandstands, his figure slouched as though the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders. The floodlights bathe him in a pale glow, illuminating the soft curve of his profile, his hair catching the light in strands of gold. His head is tilted back, eyes fixed on the track below as if searching for answers in the lines he couldn’t master tonight. A half-finished beer dangles loosely from his fingertips, the bottle swaying slightly with every small movement. Beside him, another bottle sits untouched, condensation pooling on the aluminum seat beneath it.

Waiting.

You take the last steps slowly, your chest tightening as your breathing evens out. Up close, his exhaustion is palpable—dark shadows under his eyes, his usual sharp features softened by an unfamiliar vulnerability.

“I knew you’d come,” he says without looking at you, breaking the silence. His voice is soft, but it carries a weight that settles heavily in your chest. He doesn’t even look at you, his gaze still fixed somewhere far ahead, lost in thought.

You hover for a moment before lowering yourself into the seat beside him. The cold aluminum seeps through your jeans, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your own skin after the sprint. Jeonghan doesn’t move, doesn’t turn toward you, and the distance between you feels like a chasm.

“Jeonghan...” you start, your voice hesitant, but he cuts you off with a bitter laugh.

“This is what happens when my lucky charm leaves me,” he mutters, a sad smile curling at the edges of his lips. His tone is light, but it does nothing to hide the ache in his words. He takes a slow sip of his beer, the motion unhurried.

You glance at the track, the sharp turns and straightaways now cloaked in shadows. “It’s not your fault,” you say softly, your hand reaching out to brush his arm. He flinches at the contact, his muscles tense beneath your touch, but he doesn’t pull away.

“P8 doesn’t mean it’s over.”

This time, he turns to look at you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The raw vulnerability there makes your chest tighten further. His voice is quieter now, almost fragile. “You don’t get it,” he murmurs, shaking his head as his gaze drops to the beer bottle in his hand. “This race... it’s everything. If I win, I’m a champion. If I don’t...” He trails off, his words hanging in the air between you.

“I’m scared, Y/N.” His voice cracks, and the sound is almost unbearable. “Scared of all of it. The pressure, the expectations... losing.”

You stare at him, the usually unshakable Jeonghan, the Golden Boy, the Ferrari God, unraveling before you. Your hands move without thinking, cupping his face and tilting his chin so he’s forced to meet your gaze again. His skin is warm beneath your palms, a faint flush from the alcohol—or maybe the stress—lingering across his cheeks.

“Jeonghan,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm in your chest. You press your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his as you close the distance between you. “You love me. Yes or no.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. And then his hands come up to grip your wrists, his touch firm but trembling. “Yes,” he whispers, the word spilling from his lips without hesitation, raw and resolute. His voice shakes, but his eyes hold yours, steady and certain despite the tears brimming there.

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, your lips brushing against his forehead in a feather-light kiss. “Good,” you whisper, the word carrying a quiet strength. “You’ll always have me.”

His grip on your wrists loosens, his expression shifting to something between confusion and hope. “But your job... your writing?”

“I’m quitting,” you say simply, letting the words hang for a moment. You watch the shock bloom across his face, his eyebrows shooting up as he sits back slightly, pulling your hands with him.

“You’re what?”

You laugh softly, brushing your thumb against his cheek as if to soothe him. “Not writing, idiot,” you tease gently. “I’m still going to write. But I’m not writing for any organization that profits off me tearing the man I love to shreds.”

His lips part, but no words come. He blinks rapidly, trying to process, and you take the opportunity to continue.

“Besides,” you add, your voice lighter now, “Sky Sports has been trying to recruit me for an on-air job for almost a year now.”

He stares at you, his gaze searching your face for any hint of doubt or regret. Finally, his voice comes, soft and uncertain. “You love me?”

The corners of your mouth lift into a playful smile, and you raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you decide to focus on?”

“Y/N,” he says again, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost desperate. His hands move to clasp yours, his fingers lacing through yours as if afraid you’ll slip away. “Do you love me?”

You answer with action, leaning in and capturing his lips in a quick, tender kiss. His breath hitches, his fingers tightening around yours. “Win tomorrow, golden boy,” you whisper, your lips brushing his as you speak. “And I’ll tell you my answer.”

For the first time that night, Jeonghan smiles—a real, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and softens the tension in his face. And in that moment, as the world fades to just the two of you under the floodlights, you know he’s already won.

Jeonghan is going to lose.

He’s sure of it.

The car feels like it’s fighting him at every turn, the tires slipping just slightly when he needs them to grip, the brakes locking up when he’s trying to conserve them for the final laps. His body aches from the sheer force of the race—the g-forces on the corners, the strain in his neck, the tension in his hands from gripping the wheel too hard.

The numbers on his dashboard blur together, his mind a muddled mess of strategies, tire temps, and sector times. He’s made up four places since the chaotic start and sits in P4 now, but every gain feels like a herculean effort. Every corner feels like it could be his last.

He slams the steering wheel in frustration as he exits another turn slower than he should, the car wobbling slightly under him. “This isn’t working,” he growls into the radio, his voice clipped and strained.

His engineer’s calm voice filters through the crackling static. “We know, Jeonghan. Stay focused. We believe in you.”

Jeonghan clenches his teeth, a biting retort forming on his tongue, but before he can spit it out, the radio crackles again.

“Your girl is here. In the garage. She’s watching.”

“What the fuck?” The words come out before he can stop them, his tone incredulous.

“Soonyoung wanted to surprise you,” his engineer explains, and Jeonghan can practically hear the grin in his voice.

His mind stutters to a halt, and for a moment, all the noise fades—the engine’s roar, the tires screeching against the asphalt, even the deafening wind rushing past his helmet. He blinks, the image of you sitting in the garage flashing in his mind, your presence there grounding him in a way nothing else can.

And then, like a light cutting through the fog, your words echo in his head. “Win tomorrow, and I’ll tell you my answer.”

His grip on the wheel tightens, his breath steadies, and something in him clicks. It’s not just the car anymore—it’s him. His mind, his body, the machine—they all fall into alignment like pieces of a puzzle.

“Copy,” he says into the radio, his voice calm now. The frustration is gone, replaced by a steely determination.

Lap 50. Jeonghan is chasing down P3, the gap shrinking corner by corner. His tires scream in protest as he takes each turn with precision, braking just a fraction later, accelerating just a fraction earlier. The car isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t need to be. He’s making it work.

As he dives into the braking zone at Turn 7, the car in front of him falters, locking up slightly. Jeonghan seizes the opportunity, darting to the inside line and slipping past with a calculated aggression that leaves no room for error.

P3.

Lap 53. The leader pack is within sight now—Mingyu in P1, his closest rival, and Seungcheol in P2, a surprising dark horse this season. The three of them have danced this dance all season, but tonight feels different. Tonight, everything is on the line.

Lap 55. Seungcheol’s car begins to falter, his tires degrading as he struggles to maintain pace. Jeonghan hovers in his slipstream, biding his time.

On the main straight, he pulls to the outside, pushing his car to its limits. The engine roars as he edges past Seungcheol, the two of them side by side into the braking zone. Jeonghan holds his line, his heart pounding as he feels the car stick.

P2.

Lap 58. Mingyu is just ahead, the gap less than a second now. Jeonghan can feel the strain in his body, his hands cramping from the sheer effort, but he doesn’t let up. Every ounce of energy he has left is poured into these final laps.

Lap 59. DRS is open, the rear wing flattening to reduce drag as Jeonghan closes the gap on the straight. Mingyu defends aggressively, forcing Jeonghan to the outside.

They enter Turn 10 side by side, the apex inches away. Jeonghan holds his breath, his tires brushing the curbs as he edges ahead. But Mingyu doesn’t back down, his car pushing right up to Jeonghan’s rear wing as they exit the turn.

Lap 60. The final lap. It’s a battle of wills now, neither of them giving an inch. Jeonghan’s heart feels like it’s about to burst, the sweat dripping down his face soaking into the padding of his helmet.

The final corner looms ahead, and Jeonghan knows this is it. Mingyu is on his inside, the two of them neck and neck as they approach the braking zone.

Jeonghan brakes just a millisecond later, his car sliding slightly as he takes the tighter line. He holds his breath, willing the car to stay steady, and then he’s through.

The checkered flag waves, the two cars crossing the line almost simultaneously.

Jeonghan’s chest heaves as he slumps back in his seat, his mind a blur of exhaustion and adrenaline. He doesn’t know if he’s won or lost—everything was too close, too fast.

The radio crackles to life, and for a moment, all he hears is chaos—shouting, cheering, voices overlapping in a cacophony of noise.

And then, cutting through it all, your voice rings out.

“YOON JEONGHAN, TWO-TIME WORLD CHAMPION!”

The words hit him like a lightning bolt, and a yell tears from his throat, loud and raw and triumphant. He punches the air, his entire body trembling with emotion as he lets out another scream, so loud he’s sure the neighboring cars can hear him.

He’s done it.

Through the static of the radio, he hears your laughter, bright and unrestrained, and it’s the only sound that matters.

Jeonghan rolls into Parc Fermé with deliberate precision, the sound of his engine fading into silence as he pulls to a stop. His hands are shaking, his knuckles pale from the grip he’s maintained for the last grueling laps. The cockpit feels stifling, and yet he lingers for a second longer, the enormity of what’s just happened crashing over him like a wave.

He’s done it.

The realization leaves him breathless. His fingers fumble with the steering wheel as he pulls it free, his movements automatic even as his mind spirals. Around him, the world is chaos. Fans scream from the stands, the floodlights of Las Vegas painting the scene in stark gold and shadows. Through the static in his earpiece, his engineer’s voice is still ringing with elation, and he hears indistinct shouting from his crew, but it all blends into a distant roar.

All Jeonghan can think about is you.

He climbs out of the car, bracing his foot on the halo as he pushes himself upright. For a brief moment, he stands tall atop the machine, his body vibrating with adrenaline. His fists shoot into the air, and he lets out a triumphant yell, a sound ripped from deep within his chest. The Ferrari crew erupts in response, a sea of red swarming toward him, shouting his name, their arms outstretched in celebration.

But Jeonghan’s eyes are already searching, scanning the barriers beyond the chaos, darting from one face to another. He’s not looking for his engineers or the cameras or even his teammates. He’s looking for you.

And then he sees you.

You’re there, pressed against the barricade, your hands gripping the edge so tightly your knuckles are white. Your face is wet—tears streaming freely—but your smile is brighter than anything he’s ever seen. It’s disbelieving, joyous, and so achingly familiar that his breath catches in his throat.

In that moment, everything else fades away. The cheers of his team, the flashing cameras, the rules about protocol—none of it exists anymore.

Jeonghan jumps down from the car, tossing the wheel to a waiting mechanic, and tears at his helmet strap. The world around him is a blur of movement and noise—his team surging forward, the cameras flashing, the announcer’s voice booming overhead—but none of it registers. His helmet comes off with a sharp tug, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he grips the sleek surface in one hand and bolts toward you.

He’s moving before he realizes it, his boots pounding against the pavement as he cuts through the throng of people. The barricade draws closer, and the sight of you—your tear-streaked cheeks, your trembling shoulders—grounds him in a way nothing else could.

When he reaches you, he doesn’t stop.

His hands find you immediately. One curls around your neck, his palm warm and steady against your skin, while the other cups your face, his thumb brushing away the tears tracing paths down your cheek. His chest is still heaving, his breath ragged from the exertion of the race, but his touch is impossibly tender.

Your lips part, and your voice comes out in a trembling whisper, just loud enough for him to hear over the chaos. “Congratulations, pretty boy.”

It’s like the world holds its breath. For one fleeting second, it’s just the two of you. The noise of the paddock fades, the flashing lights dim, and all that remains is the quiet intimacy of your words.

Jeonghan’s lips curve into a smile so pure, so unrestrained, that it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm. “You love me,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. His forehead dips to rest against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Yes or—”

You don’t let him finish.

Your arms shoot out, locking around his neck as you pull him down into a kiss. It’s desperate and dizzying, a culmination of everything left unsaid. Jeonghan freezes for the briefest of moments, his eyes widening, before melting into you entirely. His lips move against yours, soft but insistent, and the hand on your neck slides up to thread through your hair, holding you close as if you might disappear.

“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth, your voice breaking. Your hands fist in the front of his race suit, anchoring yourself as you press your forehead to his. “Yes. I love you.”

The barriers around you tremble as the Ferrari crew erupts in celebration, their cheers deafening. Jeonghan barely registers it. His fist shoots into the air, his lips still brushing against yours as he laughs—a sound full of pure, unrestrained joy.

“You’re my lucky charm,” he murmurs, his voice shaking with a mix of awe and certainty.

And when you smile back at him, it’s brighter than the floodlights, warmer than the victory.

EPILOGUE

FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Albert Park Grand Prix Circuit

The air at Albert Park hums with the kind of energy that only a new season can bring. The stands are packed, a sea of flags waving for drivers and teams, and the scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the faint tang of engine oil. It’s not quite spring yet, but the Melbourne sun still beats down relentlessly, leaving Jeonghan’s fireproofs clinging uncomfortably to his skin as he strides out of the Ferrari garage.

His mind buzzes with the aftermath of qualifying—P2 isn’t pole, but it’s close enough to feel like a promise. Yet, beneath the satisfaction, there’s the familiar tug of nerves that always follows a strong start. Tomorrow is what counts.

His publicist catches up to him, clipboard in hand. “Sky Sports first,” she says, her tone clipped but not unkind.

Jeonghan barely suppresses a groan, already knowing what awaits him. He doesn’t mind media—not entirely—but right now, his thoughts are miles away from answering questions about his out lap or tire degradation.

He rounds the corner into the media pen, where cameras are trained on bright logos and polished smiles. But his eyes find you immediately, waiting just behind the barricade, a microphone in hand, your hair catching the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.

You’re a vision.

He slows as he approaches, his publicist muttering instructions he doesn’t bother to hear. Your eyes catch his, and a secret smile spreads across your lips. He mirrors it, his heart lifting in a way that has nothing to do with his qualifying position.

Jeonghan leans against the barricade, his hands braced on the metal. It’s casual, nonchalant—a stark contrast to the spark simmering beneath the surface. As the questions begin, his fingers shift, brushing yours. The touch is featherlight, a soft sweep of skin against skin, but it’s enough to make his chest tighten.

The lanyard around your neck gleams in the sunlight, a stark reminder of how much had changed—and how much hadn’t. You’re still you.

And you’re wearing it.

The chain glints faintly against your skin, the two charms catching the light with each movement. One is the microphone, delicate and detailed, perfectly crafted. The other is his initial: J. Small, simple, yet undeniably his.

(You’d teased him endlessly when he gave it to you at Christmas. “Modest as always, aren’t you?” you’d laughed.

“Of course,” he’d replied, his voice low and teasing as he leaned into your hair. “One charm for your new job, because I’m so proud of you. And one for me, because I’m so amazing.”

“Two-time world champion,” you’d corrected, poking his ribs.

“Two-time world champion,” he’d agreed with a grin, pulling you into his arms.)

“Jeonghan,” you greet, a secret smile tugging at your lips.

The sound of his name on your lips—professional but laced with affection—sends a warmth through him that he doesn’t bother to hide. “Y/N,” he replies, his tone light but his eyes heavy with meaning.

The interview begins, your questions sharp and to the point. Jeonghan answers with his usual ease, the confidence that had earned him his titles. But he’s distracted, his focus flickering between your voice and the way your thumb absently brushes the microphone charm as you speak.

“You’re awfully cheerful for someone who only managed P2,” you tease, tilting your head slightly.

He leans closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Just keeping it interesting. Wouldn’t want to win everything too easily.”

You roll your eyes, but the soft laugh that escapes you betrays your amusement.

The banter continues, each exchange laced with an undercurrent of warmth that only the two of you can fully understand. To anyone watching, it’s just another driver and journalist sharing a lighthearted moment. But to Jeonghan, it’s everything.

When the cameras finally cut, the energy between you shifts. He leans over the barricade without hesitation, his hands curling around the edge for balance as he dips his head toward you.

The first kiss is quick, a soft press of lips that feels like a punctuation mark to the conversation.

The second is slower, more deliberate, as if he’s savoring the fact that he can do this now.

The third lingers, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

“Jeonghan,” you murmur, glancing around with a mix of amusement and exasperation. But your grin is wide, and your cheeks are flushed, and he knows you’re not annoyed in the slightest.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice so low it barely reaches you. His eyes are soft, his expression open in a way that’s reserved only for you.

Your hand finds his wrist, your fingers curling gently around it. “I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady, your gaze unyielding.

For a moment, the world around you fades—the bustling media pen, the hum of conversations, the clicking cameras. All that exists is the space between you, filled with unspoken promises and the quiet certainty of what comes next.

And as Jeonghan straightens, reluctantly stepping back into the whirlwind of his world, he knows he’s carrying a part of you with him—just as you carry a part of him. Always.

a/n: and that, was full throttle. i cannot express to any of you how proud i am of myself for finishing this. i think i spent more time deleting things on this doc than i did writing it and somehow, i fucking love the way this turned out. alta, kae, if you're reading this - thank you. from the bottom of my heart. this story would have never happened had it not been for the two of you motivating me to get this out of my head and onto a doc. you both inspire me every day and i am lucky that i had you on my side for this one.

454 notes · View notes

i-am-hungry-24-7 · 8 months ago

Text

[I almost killed your boss with my grilled cheese sandwich]- Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Summary: You sigh when it's the fifth time someone fights in your poor tea shop this month. You just open it two months ago, in an area ruled by mafia called '141'. Maybe you should find their boss and give them money or what to stop the bullshit keeps happening in your shop. (well, here they come)

Mafia!TF141*F!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

After the unexpected encounter with Soap and Ghost, your shop finally owns the vibes of peace.

The customers become so ‘normal’, almost feels like you aren’t in the same area as before – if you ignore the blood on their shirts or recall the memory of seeing them punching someone across the street. You assume the men must tell them to behave in your shop, but you must say the minions become a bit overreacting. They call you ma'am, chat as quietly as possible, and one of them even apologizes when he accidentally touches your finger as if you will chop off his pinky. You start doubting if they view you as a secret henchman of 141.

It’s morning now, the shop usually has more people at this time, but you haven’t had a single customer since you opened it 30 minutes ago, they just vanished without any hint, hence you start testing out new recipes for your bread.

Lilting the song that’s fully out of tune, you slice the bread you just baked into pieces, and throw one into your mouth. Perfectly crunchy outside, fluffy like clouds inside. Oh my, you’re such a genius.

You’re totally unaware of your visitor until he stirs the air with a cough and his voice.

“Pardon me?” He calls you again, but you’re left in a trance when you land your eyes on him.

Damn, he looks just like your imagination of the man in the Dilf next door fic you just read yesterday on co5. Your eyes travel from his well-trim beard, south to his belted waist. Why does a man with a toned body – which his khaki coat can’t even hide – have such a tiny waist? Your mouth's agape at the sight as you’re about to respond.

“mmsadjsmm” The man raises his eyebrow in confusion, and you hear your voice not forming a proper sentence too. Ah, you forgot the bread’s still stuffed in your mouth.

“ehemm, Sorry Sir, I mean what would you like to have?” Quickly swallow the bread and try to pretend you didn’t just dumbfounded in front of him, you speak again.

“English breakfast, please.” He croons with an infatuating smile as he saunters to take a seat.

His voice is quite soothing, you admit in your mind as you start brewing said man’s tea, just like you presumed the Dilf in the fic… okay, you really should clear those nasty brainrots during work.

The tea is nicely served in the tea cup and brought to the man shortly after.

You can’t help the smile crawling onto your face when you see him grin at you after a sip. You love watching your customer enjoy your tea, and he obviously relaxes with it have you bask in your achievements.

“Don’t finish your breakfast?”

“Just trying a new recipe. I want to add it to my menu.” you reply with a shake of your head, and after a brief halt, you add a question “ Have you eaten breakfast yet, Sir”

“Call me John, love.” The man – John sets his cup on the table before continuing “And no, I haven’t”

“Then… would you like to have a grilled cheese sandwich? I can’t finish the bread myself, it would be great if someone could help me with it... Of course, it isn’t a must!" You hurriedly complement when John widens his eyes slightly at your suggestion, but he meets your eyes with interest within.

”I would love to.”

You beam up as you get the affirmation, and walk behind your counter again.

Slices of bread are already prepared. The pro tip for a delicious grilled cheese sandwich is giving the bread some nice seasoning first, so you pick up your black pepper jar before inquiring about John’s preference.

“How much pepper would you like, John?”

“Would be great if it’s more.”

“Alright.”

You turn back to season the bread, but when you pick up the pepper jar and about to shake it, a question slips into your brain making you pause.

How much is “more”?

The man doesn't have time to sit here and wait for you to contemplate the philosophy of seasoning, so after biting your bottom lip and thinking for 30 seconds, you shake the jar. More is better, you recall what John told you as your hand keeps moving.

You shake it 10 times, since more is better.

Apart from the bread, you hold full confidence in your grilled cheese sandwich. Placing generous amounts of cheese in between, the coveted smell flooded your little shop as you plate the well-toasted sandwich.

“It surely smells great.” John praises before diving in.

You hang a big expecting grin until John takes a bite and starts coughing like you will put him into the ER with a sandwich.

“It’s– it’s okay…love…” He tries to comfort you when you apologize abundantly and rush back to your counter to fill him a cup of water. Holy, isn’t more pepper better? Now you're going to send the man to heaven with a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Here’s water!” You go back to John as fast as you can with the cold water in your hand, you’re busy checking out John, who stops coughing madly but cheeks pink with the spices, and you don’t see the leg of the chair sticking out of its usual place.

A pair of arms catch you from slamming onto the floor, but the cup isn’t that lucky as it flies with Newton’s help and clatters on the floor.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!” You stabilize yourself in John’s support. But wow, now the man not only just recovered from a fatal attack to his throat, but also has a wet spot spreading along the chest part of his shirt.

“No worries, love. It’s just a shirt.”

Even though John attempts to calm you, you still can’t help the sheepishness creep to your cheeks and stain it with the same pink as John’s, or stop thinking about if the balance in your bank account is able to buy the man a new shirt. You remember you wanted to get some cash out of the cashpoint but it shoved an ‘insufficient funds :(‘ into your face.

You really don’t want any customers to come in right now, even if it means your little tea shop will close down because you only have one from the start of today, but fate always gifts you things you crave when you don’t need them.

“Sorry boss, I’m late.”

You look at the tan-skinned man standing like a model just escaped from his manager, staring at you shoving a towel on John’s chest and both of your cheeks smeared with suspicious red.

“What happened?”

I almost murdered your boss with my grilled cheese sandwich. Apparently, you can’t answer with this, so you face John for help.

and he’s looking at you too, with a sly smirk awaiting your explanation.

You wonder if you can just make two sandwiches to shut these men up, with one more for yourself to end this predicament now.

a/n: ty for reading :D have a nice day/night!

No John Price is harmed in this chapter.

tag list :D - @blackhawkfanatic @nexthyperfix @danielle143

1K notes · View notes

mcrdvcks · 2 months ago

Text

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1900 - with you i'm free

chapter summary: Logan meets you again in a small town in Pennsylvania. Only this time, you are married to another man, but your marriage is far from perfect.

word count: 11.4k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this is a bit darker than the other chapters, past and future, so this'll probably be a 'one off'. please read the tags! the domestic violence isn't described too heavily, but there are still some descriptions and scenes involving it. you've been warned!

warnings/tags: angst, mentions of brushing hair, outdated mindsets on women, domestic violence, bruises, cheating, blood, character death

series masterlist - chapter 2 → chapter 4

Logan found himself in a small town in Pennsylvania 20 years later. Victor was doing who knows what, he wasn’t sure if he even cared, so he was alone, once again.

Coal mining was the primary job in this town, so he found himself doing just that. After work, the guys would go to a nearby bar and get drunk, go back home, and repeat it all over again.

This was his second week here, and the guys finally learned that he only came along to do one thing- drink.

You walked into the dimly lit bar, the smell of tobacco and cheap liquor hanging heavy in the air. The men, mostly miners from the town, were crowded around tables, drinking and laughing loudly after a long day of work. The sound of clinking glasses and rough voices filled the room, but your eyes were drawn to the man sitting at the bar, quiet and distant.

He didn’t look like the others—he wasn’t laughing, wasn’t part of the group. He just sat there, nursing a glass of whiskey, his dark eyes focused on the amber liquid as if it held answers to questions he wasn’t ready to ask. Something about him felt familiar, though you couldn’t place why.

You hadn’t intended to come inside. George was already drunk somewhere in the back, and you knew what that would mean when he got home. But something pulled you toward the bar, toward him. You made your way over, hesitating for just a moment before slipping onto the stool beside him.

“You new in town?” you asked, your voice soft but cutting through the noise around you.

The man didn’t look at you right away, but his hand tightened slightly around the glass. His jaw clenched, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deep inside him. Slowly, he turned his head, and when his eyes met yours, the world seemed to tilt for a moment.

It was like a punch to the gut, a shock that ran through both of you, though you couldn’t understand why. You had never met him before, but his eyes... those eyes. Dark, haunted, and yet filled with something familiar, something you couldn’t explain.

Logan stared at you, his mind racing. It couldn’t be. But it was. You were here, sitting right next to him, alive. Different, yet the same. His chest tightened, the memories flooding back—your face, your smile, your laugh. The way you had slipped away from him, twice now.

He hadn’t expected to see you again. Not after the last time. But here you were, as real as the glass in his hand.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rougher than he intended. “Just passing through.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious about the stranger beside you. “Passing through? Not many people come here unless they’re looking to stay a while.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to you again, lingering this time. It was you, all right. Same voice, same damn spark. He could feel his heart pounding, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he should just get up and walk away. He didn’t know if he could handle this—losing you again.

“I’m not lookin’ to stay,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink, hoping it would calm the storm inside him.

You smiled faintly, noticing how closed-off he seemed. “Seems like you’re fitting in already, though,” you joked, nodding toward the men in the back. “That’s my husband back there, George. One of the miners.”

Logan’s jaw tightened at the word ‘husband,’ though he didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Of course, you’d have a life. It was always like this. But that didn’t make it any easier.

“Is that right?” he replied, not really asking. He glanced toward the group of men, catching sight of George, loud and drunk, waving his glass around like he owned the place. A man like that didn’t deserve you. But Logan stayed silent.

“Yeah,” you said softly, looking down at your hands. “He’s… something.”

There was a heaviness in your voice, something that told Logan more than your words ever could. He recognized that tone—the one you used when you were trying to hide the truth, trying to make things seem better than they were.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Logan just stared at his drink, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. You were married. You had a life. He didn’t belong here. But he couldn’t just walk away. Not again.

“Y/N.” The sound of your name from his lips was barely a whisper, but it felt like it echoed through the bar. Your head snapped up, eyes wide.

“How… how do you know my name?” you asked, frowning in confusion. He hadn’t asked, and you hadn’t introduced yourself.

Logan cursed inwardly, realizing his slip. He hadn’t meant to say it, but your name had come so naturally, like it always did. “I, uh… heard someone call you that when I came in,” he lied, quickly looking away. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

You blinked, but before you could question him further, George’s booming voice interrupted.

“Y/N!” he shouted, stumbling toward you. “What’re you doin’ at the bar? Get over here!”

You flinched slightly, your body tensing at the sound of his voice. Logan noticed immediately, his eyes darkening as he glanced between you and the drunk man. He didn’t like the way George looked at you, the way he called for you like he owned you.

“I should go,” you muttered, standing up quickly, the warmth between you and Logan fading as you stepped away. “It was nice meeting you…?”

“Logan,” he said, his voice low. “Name’s Logan.”

You smiled faintly again, nodding. “Logan. Well, take care.”

He watched you walk away, his chest tight with a mix of emotions he couldn’t put into words. This wasn’t fair. Not to him, not to you. But life had never been fair, had it?

As George draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the group with a roughness that made Logan’s blood boil, he clenched his fists under the bar. He wanted to stand up, walk over there, and tear that man’s arm off. But he stayed where he was, the ring in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. The ring he never got to give you.

You were gone again, and Logan was left with the bitter taste of whiskey and the familiar ache of loss.

---

George never really allowed you to do much, he wanted you to be the ‘perfect wife’ and the ‘perfect mother’, but he always said that last part to you with such hatred.

Some nights, while you silently cried yourself to sleep, you wondered if you were broken, and that maybe you deserved it. Not ever getting pregnant, having an abusive husband- not that it was rare, most of the guys’ wives went through the same things too.

One day, you were out doing errands, getting some things to make George his favorite dinner in hopes you wouldn’t end up with another bruise on your wrist like yesterday, when you saw him. Logan, from a few nights ago.

He was smoking a cigar against a brick building; he should be at work with the rest of the men.

You paused, your breath catching for a moment as you saw him. Logan. He looked out of place, leaning against the wall like he didn’t belong in this time or this town. His eyes, sharp even from a distance, locked onto yours the second you stepped out of the store. It was like he knew you’d be there, as if he had been waiting.

You hesitated, then made your way toward him, the worn handle of the basket digging into your palm as you gripped it tightly.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” you asked softly, your voice carrying just enough over the sound of the bustling street.

Logan took a long drag from the cigar, his eyes narrowing slightly, and shrugged. “Took a break. Figured I needed some air.”

You shifted awkwardly, glancing around before lowering your voice. “If George finds out you’re not working…”

He scoffed, the sound rough, almost amused. “George ain’t my boss.”

His words hung in the air, and you knew he was right. George might run things at home, but out here, Logan didn’t answer to anyone. You, on the other hand… your life was different.

Logan’s eyes flicked down to your wrist, where the bruise from yesterday’s outburst was still visible, even though you’d tried to hide it with long sleeves. His expression darkened instantly, the casual air gone in an instant.

“He do that?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

You swallowed, tugging the sleeve down further. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “I just—George gets frustrated sometimes.”

Logan pushed off the wall, stepping closer, the smell of smoke and leather surrounding you. He was close now, too close, and you felt your heart quicken—not in fear, but in something else entirely.

“Frustrated?” Logan repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. “That what you call it?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. What were you supposed to say? That it was normal? That the other wives had it worse? The words died in your throat, and instead, you turned your head, focusing on the basket in your hand. “I should get going.”

But Logan didn’t move, didn’t let you slip away that easily. “You don’t have to put up with that, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice softer now. His hand brushed your arm, barely a touch, but you felt it. Felt it everywhere.

Your breath hitched, and you looked up at him, finding those dark, intense eyes watching you closely. “I… I should get home,” you said again, but the words lacked conviction this time.

Logan didn’t argue, but the look on his face told you that he wasn’t letting this go. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You didn’t protest as he fell into step beside you. The two of you walked in silence for a while, your steps in sync, even though neither of you said a word. It was like that night in the bar—the unspoken connection, the weight of something you couldn’t quite name hanging between you. But this time, there was no crowd, no drunken laughter. Just you and him, and the quiet tension that seemed to grow with every step.

When you reached the edge of your street, you stopped. “You don’t have to walk me the whole way,” you murmured, glancing toward your house, where George’s silhouette was already moving around inside.

Logan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he looked at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise again before his eyes met yours. “You ever need someone to talk to,” he said quietly, “you know where to find me.”

Your heart clenched at the offer, at the way he said it like he meant it. You nodded, unsure of what else to do, and turned to leave.

But as you stepped away, his hand brushed yours again, just for a second. It was fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder that there was something here—something neither of you fully understood but couldn’t deny.

You walked inside, feeling his presence behind you even after the door closed, knowing that things had just shifted, that something had begun. And it scared you. Not because of George, not because of what it might mean if you were caught—but because of how much you wanted it. How much you wanted him.

---

Over the next few days, Logan stayed close. You saw him more often—sometimes at the store, sometimes on the street—but always watching, always aware. He didn’t push, didn’t say much. But his presence was a constant, a quiet offer of protection that you hadn’t asked for but found yourself relying on.

It was late one evening when it finally happened. George had been out drinking again, and when he came home, it was worse than usual. You flinched as his hand caught your wrist, yanking you toward him as he slurred something about dinner not being ready on time.

You would’ve left the house if you could, but you couldn’t. Not when George was glaring at you like that, his drunken eyes wild with the sort of rage that had become all too familiar. You knew exactly what was going to happen tonight. It wasn’t new—this quiet dread that wrapped itself around your throat, choking off your breath. Running had never worked before, and by now, you had learned there was no use in trying.

George's grip on your wrist tightened painfully as he muttered something under his breath. The way he yanked you close made your heart race, not out of fear, but from the exhaustion of enduring it. He wasn’t done with his tirade—his words slurred together, complaining about dinner, the house, everything. It didn’t matter. Nothing you did ever seemed to be enough.

As his fist balled around the fabric of your dress, you stared blankly at the floor, your mind drifting elsewhere, anywhere but here. To the street outside, to the market, to Logan. The quiet man who’d appeared in your life without explanation. You didn’t know why, but when you thought of him, you felt something different—something dangerous but soothing all the same. A flicker of rebellion, of hope, that you hadn’t felt in so long.

George shoved you toward the kitchen table, grumbling about the cold food, about you being lazy, about anything he could think of. You stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of the table, but didn’t say a word. You never did, not when it got like this.

But Logan… he had noticed. He had noticed the bruises, the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, the way you avoided eye contact. He wasn’t like the other men in town. He wasn’t one to turn a blind eye. You remembered his intense gaze lingering on your wrist, the bruise that you couldn’t quite hide. You remembered the way he had spoken to you softly, almost like he cared.

That thought gave you strength now, as George barked another order, telling you to clean up the dishes. Your body moved mechanically, but your mind stayed somewhere else. You could almost feel Logan’s hand brushing against yours again, the briefest touch when he’d walked you home the other night. It had been so subtle, but it had sent a jolt through you—a reminder that there were still things you could feel, still things you could want.

The night dragged on, just as it always did, but when George finally passed out in his chair, snoring heavily, you slipped outside. The cool night air hit your skin, and for a moment, you just stood there, breathing it in. You weren’t going far. Just a few minutes of peace. Just enough to remind yourself that you were still alive.

You walked slowly down the empty street, your eyes scanning the shadows. You didn’t mean to, but your feet led you toward the alley where Logan had been smoking that day. It was a habit now, searching for him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

And then, there he was. Leaning against the same wall, his broad figure half-hidden by the dim light of the streetlamp. His cigar glowed faintly in the dark, and as soon as he saw you, he straightened, eyes narrowing with concern.

“Y/N,” Logan said softly, stepping toward you. His voice was rough but gentle in the stillness of the night. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Your throat felt tight, and your chest ached with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, you just walked closer, until you were standing right in front of him, your head tipped back slightly to meet his gaze.

Logan’s eyes flickered over your face, taking in every detail—the bruise that had started to fade but was still visible on your wrist, the exhaustion that weighed down your every movement. He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t need to. He knew.

Without a word, Logan reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck in a way that was more comforting than anything you’d felt in years. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him. Just for a moment.

“Y/N, you don’t have to stay there,” he murmured, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Not with him.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the truth of his words cutting deeper than anything else. You didn’t want to stay, you didn’t. But leaving wasn’t as easy as it sounded. George was… dangerous. You didn’t know what he would do if you tried to leave him. And besides, where would you even go? You had nothing. No money, no family. Just an empty house that felt more like a prison with every passing day.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your own admission.

Logan’s grip tightened slightly, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. He wanted to help, wanted to tear you away from that life, but he was fighting something inside himself too.

“You always got me,” Logan said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Always.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and full of meaning. You didn’t know what to say. The part of you that was practical screamed that you couldn’t rely on him, that you shouldn’t get attached. But the other part, the part that had been buried deep beneath years of heartache, wanted to believe him. Wanted to fall into him, to take whatever comfort he could offer.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached up, your hand trembling slightly as you rested it on his chest. You felt his heart beating under your palm, steady and strong. Logan’s breath hitched at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. He never did.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet street. “I don’t know what to do.”

He let out a slow breath, his forehead resting against yours now, his warm breath mingling with yours. His free hand came up, his thumb brushing your cheek softly, tracing the path of an unshed tear.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he said gently, his lips so close to yours that it took everything in you not to close the distance. “But whatever you decide… I’m not lettin’ you go through this alone. Not again.”

Your heart ached at his words—his promise. The unspoken connection between you felt stronger than ever, and before you knew it, you were closing that distance, your lips brushing against his in a hesitant, tender kiss.

Logan froze for half a second, but then his arms were around you, pulling you closer as if he’d been waiting for this moment for longer than he could remember. His lips were rough, but his kiss was gentle, full of restraint. You could feel the years of longing behind it, the pain of lifetimes lived and lost, but also the desire—the need that neither of you could ignore any longer.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Logan’s eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice ragged, his forehead still resting against yours. “This ain’t right. You’re… you’re married.”

“I know,” you said, your voice barely more than a breath. “But I… I don’t care anymore.”

Logan’s grip on you tightened for a moment, like he was trying to fight it, but then he cursed softly under his breath and kissed you again, this time with more desperation, more need. His hands tangled in your hair, his lips claiming yours in a way that made it clear this wasn’t something either of you could stop now.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to.

---

The next few days blurred together, a dangerous mix of stolen moments and whispered promises. Logan was always there, watching over you, his touch lingering on your skin long after you parted. You knew it was wrong, knew that it would only lead to more heartache, but you couldn’t stop. He had become your anchor, your escape from a life you couldn’t bear anymore.

It wasn’t long before you were meeting him after dark, slipping out of the house when George was too drunk to notice. The kisses became longer, the touches more urgent.

Soon, it wasn’t just nights you were seeing him. It was after George left for work, during Logan’s lunch breaks, or anytime he could sneak away from the mine. You’d meet in the same alley, or sometimes he’d find you waiting in a small park just outside town. The secrecy of it all—the sneaking around, the stolen moments—it was reckless, but neither of you could stop.

Logan wasn’t the kind of man who talked much, but the way he looked at you, the way he held you—like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—it said enough. His hands were always gentle, so different from George’s, even though you could feel the strength behind them. That raw, unyielding strength that was so uniquely his.

One afternoon, Logan met you in the small clearing just past the main street. It was a rare moment when George was working late, giving you a little more time than usual. You leaned against the large oak tree, your back pressed into the rough bark, and waited. It wasn’t long before Logan’s figure appeared in the distance, his broad shoulders tense, eyes scanning the area out of habit.

As soon as he spotted you, his shoulders seemed to relax, and he made his way over, his footsteps heavy but quiet in the dirt. When he got close enough, you smiled softly, your fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress, a nervous habit you’d picked up over the last few weeks.

“Thought I’d lost you for a minute there,” you teased, keeping your voice light, though there was a real fear under the surface. Every time you saw him, there was a tiny part of you that worried it might be the last.

Logan gave a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not that easy to lose me, Y/N.”

You looked up at him, trying to read what was going on in his head. He seemed… tense, more so than usual. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“You alright?” you asked, your voice softening as you stepped closer, close enough to touch him, but not quite daring to yet.

Logan’s gaze flickered down to you, and for a moment, you saw something in his eyes—something old, something heavy. But he shook his head, as if brushing it off, and reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though you could tell he wasn’t. He was never fine.

You reached out, resting your hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under your palm. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Logan.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the silence stretching between you, before he finally spoke. “It’s just… this,” he said, his voice low, almost pained. “I don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m already hurt,” you whispered, and for the first time, you felt the full weight of those words. The bruises, the fear, the nights spent lying awake, wondering if George would snap—it had become your normal, and you hated it.

Logan’s expression didn’t change much, but his jaw clenched, a flicker of something dark flashing behind his eyes. He stood still, his hands loose at his sides, and for a second you thought maybe you’d gone too far—that maybe admitting this would scare him away, make him walk off into the night and leave you standing there alone.

But he didn’t. He never did.

Logan exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound quiet but loaded with restrained anger, like a simmering fire just barely held in check. His hand—rough and warm—reached out to settle on your arm, fingers curling gently around your elbow. It was a simple touch, but it grounded you in a way that nothing else did.

“I’ll handle it,” Logan said, voice low, rough. His words were more than a statement—they were a promise, weighted with meaning you couldn’t quite untangle.

Your heart skipped at the way he said it, quiet but firm, like the solution was already decided, and there was no point in questioning it.

“You can’t,” you whispered, not because you didn’t believe him, but because you knew how dangerous George could be. And if Logan went to him—if George found out about the two of you…

Logan’s thumb brushed once along your forearm, slow and deliberate. “I’ve handled worse,” he muttered, gaze never leaving yours. There was a sharpness in his eyes now, something fierce. You didn’t know what he’d been through in his life—just that it was far more than you could imagine.

A part of you wanted to tell him not to get involved, but the other part—the part of you that had been breaking under George’s hand for years—wanted to let Logan do exactly what he was offering.

You bit your lip. “If he finds out…” You trailed off, but Logan understood. Of course he did.

He stepped in closer, so close that the rough wool of his shirt brushed against your dress. His hand shifted from your arm to the back of your neck, his fingers resting there firmly, possessively, but with the same strange tenderness he always showed you. “I won’t let him hurt you again,” Logan murmured, voice steady.

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly. And when you looked into his eyes—dark and steady and filled with something raw and unyielding—you thought maybe you could.

Your hand rested flat against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the worn fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat strong beneath your palm, steady and unrelenting.

“He won’t stop, Logan.” Your voice cracked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “He’ll just—he’ll come after me, after us.”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Let him try,” he said, the words edged with a quiet menace that sent a chill down your spine.

It should have scared you, the way he said it—like violence was something inevitable, something he didn’t shy away from. But instead, it made you feel… safe. Safer than you’d felt in years.

The night air around you was cool, but standing this close to Logan, you felt none of it. His hand slipped from your neck down to the small of your back, his touch warm and steady through the fabric of your dress.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but even as you said it, you didn’t move away.

Logan’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “I ain’t gonna pretend this is right,” he said, voice rough but quiet. “But I ain’t gonna pretend I don’t want you, either.”

His words hit you hard, sinking deep into your chest. You hadn’t realized how starved you were—how badly you needed someone to see you, to want you. And Logan… he saw everything. The bruises, the fear, the exhaustion. And still, he looked at you like you were worth something.

You swallowed thickly. “What happens if he finds out?”

Logan’s expression darkened. “He won’t.”

The finality in his tone left no room for doubt, and for a moment, all the fear that had been building inside you loosened, just enough to let you breathe.

Without thinking, you reached up, fingertips brushing along the edge of his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. Logan’s eyes closed briefly, like the small touch was something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. When his eyes opened again, they were darker, filled with a need that mirrored your own.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, like a man starved for something he couldn’t name. His hand cupped the back of your head, holding you to him as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You melted into him, the fear and exhaustion slipping away, at least for now. His kiss was everything—an escape, a promise, a lifeline.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Logan rested his forehead against yours. His hand lingered on your waist, as if letting go wasn’t an option.

“Just say the word, Y/N,” Logan whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Say the word, and we’ll leave. Tonight.”

Your heart ached at the offer—at the thought of running away with him, leaving everything behind. But it wasn’t that simple, and you both knew it.

“I can’t,” you whispered, hating yourself for the truth of it.

Logan’s grip on you tightened briefly, as if trying to hold onto something he couldn’t keep. But when he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“Then I’ll stay,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “Until you can.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you. For the first time in years, you felt like you weren’t alone.

And that—just that—was enough to keep you going. For now.

---

One of the local churches was having a retreat set up for the women in town. Clara had been talking your ear off about it at Sunday church, spouting how excited she was to get out of the house.

You listened half-heartedly, but really you were thinking about what a perfect excuse it was to flip this into a lie for George.

You told Logan you couldn’t run away with him, but that didn’t include spending these few days with him, maybe off somewhere in a nearby town.

Most of the women in town were very religious, and at times you felt like an outsider. You didn’t believe like they did, but you kept up a perfect front to make them believe you felt the same way.

“Maybe we’ll have another sewing circle this time. Whaddya think?” Clara asked, a wide grin splitting her face as she held her hat against the October breeze.

You gave a noncommittal hum, tugging the sleeves of your dress down to cover the faint bruises on your wrists. “Maybe,” you murmured, though your thoughts were far from sewing circles and prayer sessions.

The retreat was perfect. It would get you out of George’s reach—at least for a couple of days—and give you the time you so desperately craved. More than anything, it meant time with Logan.

Clara didn’t seem to notice your distraction. “It’s always good to get away, you know? Some of these girls say the Holy Spirit really speaks to ‘em up there.” She gave you a knowing look. “Sometimes, you just gotta leave it all behind for a bit.”

You forced a smile. "Maybe that's what I need."

Clara squeezed your arm, oblivious to how you tensed. “See? That’s the spirit! Now you just gotta convince your husband.”

You swallowed thickly. George wouldn’t care about a church retreat if it kept up appearances. He didn’t pay much mind to you unless you were standing in his way—or if dinner wasn’t on time. A couple of days without you underfoot? He’d probably welcome the peace.

Later that night, after George had his fill of supper and slumped into his chair with a bottle, you tested the waters.

“You remember Clara?” you asked, keeping your tone light. “She mentioned a church retreat this weekend. Thought I’d go.”

George barely glanced up. “What for?”

“Some of the other women are going too.” You folded your hands together tightly, hiding your nervous fidgeting. “It’s just a few days. They’ll be praying and sewing... nothing much.”

George grunted, shifting in his chair. “You ain’t skippin' out on Sunday dinner.”

You bit your lip, nodding quickly. “No. I’ll be back before then.”

He waved you off with a lazy flick of his hand. “Fine. Just be sure you ain’t runnin' off to waste money.”

Relief washed over you so fast your knees felt weak. You ducked your head, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” before slipping into the next room. It had been easier than you expected—maybe too easy. But you weren’t about to second-guess it.

---

The next day, you told Logan.

You found him where you always did—leaning against the brick wall near the alley, a cigar pinched between his teeth. He straightened the second he saw you, his sharp gaze sweeping over you like it always did, searching for signs of hurt.

“I told George I’m going to the church retreat,” you said quietly, stepping close enough that the warmth of him reached you. “It’s this weekend. I’ll have a couple of days...” You let the words hang between you, heart pounding as you waited for him to understand what you were really saying.

Logan’s jaw ticked, his expression hard to read. “You sure?” His voice was low, the sound of it like gravel underfoot.

You gave a small nod. “It’s the only way I can get away.”

He exhaled through his nose, looking past you for a second before his eyes settled back on yours. “Where’s the retreat supposed to be?”

“About an hour north,” you said. “But... I’m not going there.”

Logan’s lips twitched, something almost like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That right?”

“Yeah.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I wanna be with you, Logan. Just for a couple of days. Somewhere... away from here.”

The smirk faded, replaced by something heavier, something that settled deep in his eyes. “You know what you're askin’, darlin’?”

You nodded. “I know.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, just stood there watching you with those steady, knowing eyes. Then, with a slow exhale, he reached for you—his hand slipping under your chin, tilting your face up toward his. His thumb brushed along your jaw, and the touch made your breath catch.

“Where do you wanna go?” Logan asked, his voice rough but gentle.

“Anywhere.” The word slipped out before you could stop it, and you hated how desperate it sounded. “Just... not here.”

Logan gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Alright,” he muttered, the barest flicker of emotion crossing his face. “Meet me at the train station Friday night. I’ll take care of the rest.”

---

Friday came quicker than you expected.

The afternoon dragged, tension curling in your stomach as you packed a small bag. You kept everything simple—a couple of plain dresses, your brush, and the few coins you’d stashed away in a tin under the floorboards. You told yourself it wasn’t permanent. You’d be back in a few days, and everything would go back to how it was.

At least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

When the sun began to set, you told George you were leaving. He didn’t even look up from his whiskey. “Just don’t come back actin' all high and holy,” he muttered.

You gave a quick nod, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

---

The train station was quiet when you arrived, your breath fogging in the cold night air. You spotted Logan almost immediately, standing near the platform with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He wore the same tired expression he always did, but when his eyes found yours, something softened in his gaze.

“You made it,” he murmured, stepping closer. His hand found yours, rough fingers wrapping around yours like they belonged there.

“Yeah,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

Logan gave a small nod toward the waiting train. “C’mon. Let’s get outta here.”

You boarded without hesitation, the door clicking shut behind you as the train rumbled to life beneath your feet. Logan led you to a quiet corner of the car, his hand never leaving yours.

As the train pulled away from the station, you glanced out the window. The town grew smaller, the lights fading into the distance until there was nothing but the dark, open night stretching out ahead of you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself breathe.

Logan’s arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. His warmth bled into you, steady and unyielding, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

“You alright?” Logan asked quietly, his lips brushing against the top of your head.

You nodded, leaning into him. “Yeah. I am.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, but you could feel the tension in his body slowly ease as you settled against him. His arm was solid and steady around you, a quiet strength that made you feel secure. The train rocked beneath you, the rhythmic clattering on the tracks filling the silence. You closed your eyes, letting the sound and the warmth of Logan's presence wash over you.

For the first time in what felt like years, you could relax—if only for a little while.

"You got enough for a few days?" Logan asked, his voice gruff but soft, as if he was trying not to push too much too soon.

You nodded, pulling your small bag closer to you. "Yeah. Just the basics."

Logan gave a small grunt of approval. "We'll stop by a place I know, out of the way. You’ll be safe there."

"Safe..." The word hung in the air between you, heavier than you meant it to be. It felt like a luxury you hadn't been allowed for a long time, and the thought of it made your chest tighten.

Logan’s thumb stroked absently along your arm, a small gesture that grounded you. He didn’t press you for more, didn’t ask questions you weren’t ready to answer. That was the thing about Logan—he didn’t pry, didn’t demand anything from you. He just was. It was one of the reasons you felt drawn to him, why you kept finding yourself in his orbit.

But there was still so much you didn’t know about him. He’d never mentioned a family, never talked about where he’d come from or how he ended up here. There was a deep well of mystery around Logan, and sometimes you could feel it, the weight of something unspoken between the two of you. But you didn’t push him for answers either.

You shifted slightly, resting your head against his shoulder, the scent of cigar smoke and pine surrounding you. “Where are we going?”

"There's a place, up in the hills," Logan said quietly. "A cabin. No one's been there in a while. We'll be alone."

Alone. Just the two of you. The thought sent a ripple of excitement and fear through you, your heart skipping a beat. The idea of leaving everything behind—even if just for a few days—felt like a risk. But wasn’t that what you wanted? A break from George, from the town, from the suffocating weight of a life you never really chose.

“You sure about this?” Logan asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. “About… us?”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your decision settle in your chest. It wasn’t just about getting away anymore. It was about choosing him, even if it was only for a little while. A choice that could never be undone.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, lifting your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, dark and searching, like he was looking for any hint of doubt.

Logan’s expression softened, just a fraction, and he gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

The train continued its steady rhythm, carrying you further away from the life you knew and into something unknown. You couldn’t think about what would come after—about George, about the retreat, about the women who would notice your absence. All you could think about was Logan, and the way his hand held yours, like he didn’t want to let go.

---

The cabin was quiet, nestled deep in the woods where no one could find you. Logan hadn’t been lying when he said it was out of the way. You hadn’t passed another soul on the journey here, and the solitude felt like a blanket wrapping around you, warm and comforting.

Logan pushed the door open, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. The inside was simple—rough wooden furniture, a stone fireplace, and a bed in the corner, covered in a faded quilt. It wasn’t much, but it felt safe, isolated from the rest of the world.

“You can get some rest,” Logan said, setting your bag down near the bed. “Fireplace works, and there’s wood out back if it gets cold.”

You nodded, glancing around the room before your eyes settled on him. “Thank you.”

Logan’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing across his face before he nodded. “Don’t gotta thank me.”

There was a silence between you, not uncomfortable but full of things unsaid. You wanted to ask him more—about why he was helping you, about what he really wanted from all this—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you stepped closer, your hand brushing against his arm.

“Logan…” you started, unsure of where you were going with it.

He turned to face you fully, his eyes locked on yours. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, then closed the distance between you, your hands reaching up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palms, the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

“I just… I needed to be with you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “You got me,” he murmured, his voice rough but sincere. “For as long as you need.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. It wasn’t soft or tentative like you thought it might be—it was hungry, desperate, like you’d been holding back for too long.

Logan’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and the world outside the cabin seemed to disappear. There was no George, no town, no expectations. Just you and Logan, and the fire that burned between you.

---

Later, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the two of you lay tangled in each other’s arms, you stared up at the ceiling, your mind racing with everything that had happened.

Logan’s hand trailed idly along your arm, his fingers brushing over the faint bruises you’d tried so hard to hide. His touch was gentle, but you could feel the tension in him, the quiet anger simmering beneath the surface.

“I’ll kill him,” Logan muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “If he ever touches you again.”

You tensed, your breath catching in your throat. “Logan—”

“I mean it,” he growled, his grip on you tightening slightly. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

You turned to face him, your hand resting on his chest. “It’s not that simple…”

Logan’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something raw and painful in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite understand. But then he shook his head, exhaling slowly. “I just don’t wanna lose you. Not again.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but before you could ask what he meant, Logan leaned down and kissed you again, silencing your questions.

The kiss was rough, full of unspoken things—promises, regrets, desires that neither of you could fully articulate. His lips moved against yours like they were trying to drown out the past, to focus only on the here and now. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers digging into his skin, wanting to hold on to this moment for as long as possible.

For now, you didn’t want to think about George. You didn’t want to think about the bruises you were hiding, the lies you had to keep telling to survive. You wanted to focus on Logan—the way his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath, the way he made you feel alive.

When you finally broke apart, your breathing heavy, Logan stayed close, his forehead resting against yours. His hand brushed your cheek, and for a moment, the roughness of him softened, like he was letting his guard down.

"You should rest," he murmured, his voice low, but there was a strain in it, like he was trying to hold something back.

You shook your head slightly. "I don’t want to rest. I want to stay here with you."

Logan’s eyes searched yours, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He lifted his hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your skin for just a second longer than necessary.

“You know this can’t last,” he said quietly, the weight of the truth settling between you both.

You nodded, the ache in your chest growing. “I know.”

You had always known it couldn’t last. This was just a moment stolen from the real world—a fantasy that couldn’t survive the harshness of the life waiting for you back home. But that didn’t stop you from wanting it. It didn’t stop you from wanting him.

Logan’s hand found yours again, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that felt almost protective. He hadn’t let go since you’d arrived at the cabin, as if he feared you might slip away if he did.

“I wish it could be different,” you whispered, staring down at your intertwined hands.

Logan was silent for a long time before he spoke. “Me too.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth, but there was still a chill in the air, an unspoken tension lingering between the two of you. You could feel it in the way Logan’s thumb stroked absentmindedly across your knuckles, like he was trying to ground himself—trying to ground you.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice softer now. “Helping me, I mean.”

Logan’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, his jaw clenching slightly. When he looked back at you, his eyes were hard to read. “Because you deserve better than him.”

It wasn’t a full answer, but it was the closest he’d come to telling you why. You weren’t sure if he was holding something back or if he just didn’t know how to say it. Logan wasn’t the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and you’d never pushed him for more than he was willing to give.

You nodded, accepting his answer for now. “Thank you.”

Logan’s eyes softened at your words, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t gotta thank me, Y/N.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself lean into him. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to just be. No pretending, no worrying about what came next. Just this—just him.

---

The morning light filtered through the small windows of the cabin, casting a soft glow on the wooden floor. You woke to the sound of birds chirping outside and the comforting warmth of Logan’s body beside you. For a moment, you allowed yourself to stay like this, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this peaceful.

Logan stirred beneath you, his arm tightening around your waist as he woke. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

You smiled, the corners of your lips tugging up. “Morning.”

Logan gave a quiet grunt in response, shifting slightly beneath you. His hand was still draped over your waist, his fingers rough but warm against your skin. He looked at you through half-lidded eyes, his expression unreadable in the soft morning light, like he was trying to figure out if this moment was real.

“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

You nodded, brushing your fingers absently along his collarbone. “Better than I have in a long time.”

Logan gave a small hum, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that—your body curled into his, the outside world forgotten.

It felt fragile, like if you moved too quickly or said the wrong thing, it might all shatter.

“Gotta admit,” you murmured, “it feels strange waking up like this.”

“Yeah?” Logan's lips twitched, just barely. “Strange good, or strange bad?”

A soft laugh slipped out of you. “Good,” you whispered. “Strange in a good way.”

He held your gaze, something flickering in his eyes—something like relief. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same quiet intensity you’d come to expect from him. Logan wasn’t a man who wasted words, and that suited you just fine.

The clock on the mantle ticked steadily, marking the minutes passing in this stolen moment. You let out a soft breath and rested your chin on his chest, tracing invisible patterns on his skin with your fingertip.

“What time do you think it is?” you asked, though you didn’t really care about the answer.

Logan turned his head slightly toward the window, where the early morning sun was just beginning to peek through the trees. “Still early.”

“Good.” You nestled closer, unwilling to let the morning slip away just yet.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just ran his hand up and down your back in slow, lazy strokes. The motion was soothing—so different from anything you’d known in your marriage. With George, everything felt like an obligation, a duty. With Logan... it felt like choice.

Logan’s breath stirred your hair as he spoke again, his voice low. “You thinkin' about goin' back?”

The question hit you like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading out in every direction.

You hesitated, your fingers stilling against his chest. “I don’t know.”

Logan’s jaw flexed, and you could feel the tension creep back into him. “If you don’t want to... you don’t gotta.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Logan gave a quiet grunt, his hand still resting against your back, though his grip tightened slightly. “It could be.”

You shook your head. “He’s my husband, Logan.”

Logan exhaled hard through his nose, and you felt the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “That don’t mean you owe him anything.”

The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, and it tugged at something deep inside you—something that made you want to stay, to never go back to the life you’d left behind.

But it wasn’t that easy. It never was.

“I have to,” you whispered. “At least for now.”

Logan was silent for a long time, his hand resting heavily on your back. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, almost reluctant. “You know where to find me if things get bad.”

It wasn’t a promise, not exactly—but it felt like one.

“I know,” you murmured, brushing a soft kiss against his shoulder.

Logan’s hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your skin. “You got somethin’ to say, darlin’, just say it.”

You closed your eyes, trying to find the words. “I just... I don’t want this to end.”

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. Logan’s grip on you tightened, his expression darkening.

“It won’t,” he said quietly, and there was a fierceness in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you let yourself believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

You pressed your forehead against his, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Promise?”

Logan’s breath was warm against your skin. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Y/N. Not this time.”

Something about the way he said it—like there was more weight behind those words than you could fully understand—made your chest ache. But you didn’t push for more.

Instead, you kissed him.

It was slow this time, tender in a way that made your heart twist painfully in your chest. Logan kissed you back just as softly, his hands cradling you like you were something precious.

And for a little while longer, you let yourself believe in the possibility of happiness.

---

The days you spent at the cabin away from everything with Logan were the closest you think you’d ever get to heaven.

But of course, it had to come to an end. Logan walked you back to your house, keeping to the shadows where the trees thickened along the road. Luckily, George wasn’t home yet, but you knew he’d be back soon. On Sundays, the men from the mines always went to the bar after church, spending what little money they had on whiskey before heading home for dinner.

Logan stopped a few steps short of the porch, his expression unreadable. His heavy boots crunched against the dirt, and he tilted his head, listening for signs of anyone nearby. It was quiet—just the soft rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant caw of a crow.

“Looks clear,” he muttered, glancing toward the road. Then his eyes were back on you—sharp, like he was committing every detail of this moment to memory.

You stood there, one hand gripping the hem of your plain cotton dress, the other clutching the shawl draped over your shoulders. It was getting colder, October creeping in around the edges.

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. He shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest. “You sure you’re good?” His voice was low, rough as gravel.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, but the words felt thin, like paper stretched too tight.

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on the bruise near your jaw that hadn’t quite faded. You saw it—the way his knuckles twitched like he wanted to tear something apart, or maybe someone. But Logan knew better than to push this conversation again. You’d had it more times than either of you cared to count.

“I mean it, Y/N,” he said, quieter this time, but no less serious. “If things get—”

“I know.” You cut him off gently, giving a small nod. “I know where to find you.”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. The porch steps creaked under your weight as you climbed them slowly, heart heavy in your chest. You reached for the door, but before your fingers touched the worn wood, you felt his hand wrap gently around your wrist.

You turned, meeting his gaze.

“You ain’t alone in this,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist. It was the kind of touch that made your knees weak—steady, solid, full of unspoken promises.

“I know,” you whispered, holding his gaze a second longer than you should have. Then you pulled your hand free, feeling the cold settle in the space where his warmth had been.

The door clicked quietly behind you, sealing you inside.

---

It was well into the afternoon by the time George came home. You’d set the table with what little you had—a pot of boiled potatoes, bread that was more crust than loaf, and a pan of cold pork you’d managed to stretch out since Friday.

George slammed the door behind him, the stench of sweat and beer clinging to his clothes. He tossed his flat cap onto the chair and grunted as he sat down heavily at the table.

“Where’s the roast?” he asked, eyeing the measly spread with disapproval.

“There wasn’t any.” You kept your voice even, steady, though your hands trembled slightly as you placed the food in front of him.

George gave you a hard look, his lip curling in disgust. “Useless,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the sharp retort that burned on your tongue. Fighting him would only make it worse.

He ate in silence, the scrape of his knife against the plate the only sound in the small kitchen. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed his chair back with a loud scrape.

“Goin’ to bed,” he grumbled, already halfway out of the room before you could respond.

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you stayed still, standing in the middle of the kitchen long after the sound of his boots thudding down the hallway faded.

It was always like this. A dull, suffocating ache—day after day, night after night. And the worst part? You weren’t sure if you had the strength to keep pretending.

---

It was well past midnight when you slipped out the back door. The cold bit at your skin, and you pulled your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you made your way down the dirt path leading into the woods. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light across the clearing where Logan was waiting, his broad frame leaning against a tree trunk.

He looked up as you approached, his keen eyes catching the moonlight.

“Figured you’d come.” There was no smugness in his tone—just quiet understanding, like he’d known all along that you wouldn’t be able to stay away.

You stopped a few feet from him, your breath clouding in the crisp night air. “I couldn’t do it,” you admitted, your voice small.

Logan pushed off the tree and closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, firm and grounding. “You ain’t gotta explain.”

You looked up at him, heart aching with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his chest.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath, the quiet strength in the way he held you—like he’d fight the whole world just to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Logan’s grip tightened. “I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The night stretched on around you, silent and still, as Logan’s hands roamed up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he asked quietly, his breath warm against your hair.

You nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “Just tonight.”

Logan didn’t argue. He never did.

He took your hand, lacing his rough fingers through yours, and led you deeper into the woods—away from the house, away from the life you were supposed to live.

And for one stolen night, you let yourself believe it was enough.

---

When you got home later that night, around 3 in the morning, everything looked normal. The lights in the house were all off, and it was quiet.

You hung your shawl on the hook by the door when you heard the clink of a bottle. Your heart sank. George was awake.

The small kitchen was dim, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. George sat slouched at the table, a nearly empty whiskey bottle in his hand. His eyes were dark, glazed over with drunken fury. You could tell by the set of his jaw, by the way his knuckles gripped the bottle too tight, that this wasn’t going to end well.

“Where’ve you been?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, his steps heavy as he moved toward you.

“I went to clear my head,” you said softly, keeping your voice calm, steady, though your heart pounded in your chest. “The air helps me sleep.”

George narrowed his eyes. “That so? 'Cause Johnny’s wife told me somethin' different. Said she didn’t see you at the church retreat.”

You froze. You had been at the retreat—briefly—but it was a cover for your meeting with Logan, and Johnny’s wife must’ve been one of the few people you didn’t see. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words stuck in your throat.

“I was there,” you managed, though you knew it wouldn’t matter.

George took another step toward you, his voice rising. “Don’t lie to me!” His breath stank of alcohol as he spat the words at you, the anger radiating off him like heat. “What were you really doin’, Y/N? Who were you with?”

Your stomach twisted in fear as his hand shot out, grabbing your arm hard enough to make you wince. “George, please—” you started, but he cut you off.

“I know you weren’t there. Where the hell were you?” He shook you, his grip tightening painfully around your arm.

You winced, biting back a cry. “I told you, I was there.”

But George wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to you, and a dangerous look settled across his face. “You been sneakin’ around on me, haven’t you?” His voice was low, deadly now. He released your arm with a shove, sending you stumbling back a step. “You think I’m stupid?”

“George, I’m not sneaking around,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm even though your pulse was racing. “I just needed some air. I—”

His hand moved faster than you expected, backhanding you hard across the face. Pain exploded through your cheek, and you stumbled, clutching the side of your face as tears sprang to your eyes.

“You think I don’t know?” George hissed, his face twisted with fury. “You’ve been leavin’ me here, goin’ off, God knows where. You ain’t foolin’ me, Y/N.”

You took a shaky breath, tasting blood where your teeth had cut your lip. “George, please—”

But he was already moving, crossing the small kitchen in two heavy steps. You saw the glint of metal before he pulled the shotgun from the corner near the door. Panic seized you.

“George, no—” Your voice broke as you held up your hands, trying to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The small kitchen felt like a cage, the walls closing in around you.

George leveled the shotgun at you, his hands shaking slightly but his eyes wild with rage. “You think you can just leave? You think you can just run off whenever you please?”

You felt like you were drowning, your heart pounding so hard in your chest it hurt. “I wasn’t leaving,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t—George, please, put the gun down.”

“Shut up!” he snarled, taking a step toward you. “You’re lyin’! You’ve always been lyin’, and I’m done with it.”

You were shaking, trying to think of something, anything that would get through to him. “I’m your wife,” you said quietly, desperately. “I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I—”

But the words didn’t matter. Nothing you said would stop this. You could see it in his eyes—the cold, determined look of a man who had already made up his mind.

For a moment, everything felt frozen. The ticking of the old clock on the wall, the crackling of the dying fire—it all seemed too loud, too slow. George’s finger twitched on the trigger.

And then, in an instant, the world shattered.

The shotgun blast was deafening, the sound tearing through the small kitchen like thunder. You didn’t even feel the impact at first—just a sharp, searing pain that spread through your chest, knocking the air from your lungs.

You stumbled, your legs giving out beneath you as you hit the floor hard, the cold tiles pressing against your cheek. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps, blood pooling around you.

The room swam, your vision dimming as you tried to focus, but all you could see was the dark shape of George standing over you, the shotgun still smoking in his hands.

---

Logan heard the shot before he smelled the blood.

His body reacted instinctively, his enhanced senses kicking into overdrive. He’d been lying awake, his thoughts consumed by you, when the sound echoed through the still night. There was no mistaking it.

His heart lurched in his chest, and without thinking, Logan bolted to his feet, running toward your house, his mind racing with fear. He knew. He knew it was you.

The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air as he neared the house. Logan’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the door slightly ajar, the soft light spilling out into the dark.

He pushed the door open, his claws already unsheathed.

The sight that greeted him froze him in place.

You were lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out around you, your breaths coming in shallow, painful gasps. And standing over you, his face twisted with something like confusion, was George.

Logan’s vision blurred with red.

He didn’t think—he just moved. In a blur, he was on George, his claws slashing through the air. There was a sickening crunch as the bone tore through flesh and bone, and then George was on the ground, lifeless.

Logan didn’t care. His only focus was you.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over your body, desperate to stop the bleeding, but there was too much. The wound was too deep. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice rough, desperate. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, but it was hard to focus. Everything felt distant, like you were floating just out of reach of the world. You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Blood bubbled at your lips.

Logan’s face hovered above yours, his expression shattered. “Please, darlin’, hold on. Just hold on.”

You coughed, the pain in your chest unbearable, and for a brief moment, your eyes met his. The world was fading fast now, slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Logan...” you managed, your voice barely a whisper.

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. “I’m here,” he choked out. “I’m here.”

You smiled weakly, even as the darkness closed in around you. “I… I love you.”

Logan’s breath hitched, his grip on you tightening like he could somehow hold you to this world. But you knew, just as he did, that this was the end.

“I love you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Your chest ached, not just from the pain but from the weight of those words—the weight of knowing this was goodbye.

And then, everything went still.

You felt Logan’s hand in yours, the warmth of his touch lingering even as the world around you faded into darkness.

You weren’t afraid. Not anymore.

You were free.

Logan knelt there, holding you long after the last breath left your body, his heart breaking all over again.

in this chapter logan is 68 years old and reader is around 21-24 years old.

just a reminder that going forward there is going to be an age gap between the two since logan obviously keeps getting older.

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time

506 notes · View notes

yuujispinkhair · 4 months ago

Text

I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME – Chapter 03

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Word Count: 3.6k Warnings: 18+, smut. Fuckbuddies to lovers. Mentions of masturbation in this chapter and Reader has some dirty fantasies about our favorite hockey player. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 10 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

MASTERLIST

You are at the Tigers' next home game, too, watching and cheering from the stands, having fun just like the last time, but now you also understand the rules, thanks to your private lesson with Sukuna. You still grin anytime you look at the hockey rules written in his elegant handwriting and the little drawing with the tattooed stick figure.

The Tigers win, thanks to Sukuna scoring several goals. You congratulate him after the game, when he once again skates next to you as you walk past the plexiglass. And Sukuna smiles one of his rare dazzling smiles at you, which makes you feel giddy for the rest of the evening.

But Sukuna isn't just on your mind when you are at one of his hockey games. You catch yourself looking for pink hair anytime you walk over campus. And more often than not, when you eventually spot Sukuna, he is somehow already looking at you with his boyish grin and a raised eyebrow, as if he was looking for you, too.

You run into him in front of the dining hall several times, and he tells you to join him, leading you to his table again. You are surprised to realize that, apparently, it's a regular occurrence for Sukuna to sit on his own, or if someone is with him, it is only his brother or the team's kit manager, Uraume, who somehow seems to be on friendly terms with Sukuna, too.

It makes you wonder because you always assumed the star player would be surrounded by his teammates or admirers, basking in their attention.

It's one of those days when it's only Sukuna and you who have lunch together, when you blurt out,

"Why are you always sitting here alone or with your brother or Uraume? Why don't you sit with your teammates?"

Sukuna huffs at your question,

"Most of my teammates bore me to death or piss me off. They know better than to sit with me. In the beginning, they tried to tell me that the team always shares a table, but I told them to fuck off and not get on my dick. They got the message. They do as I say on the ice, and they also do what I say off the ice."

You don't doubt it. Anyone who seeks a fight with Sukuna must be crazy. This charming version of Sukuna you meet isn't the version he is for most people. He can be an asshole, and you don't doubt for a second that he doesn't hesitate to throw some punches off the ice too.

But the bad boy doesn't seem that bad when he has lunch with you. Sukuna is actually a charming lunch companion and full of surprises.

You put the novel you are currently reading on the table, and Sukuna jerks his chin toward the book, commenting on one of the characters in a way that tells you he knows what he is talking about. You look at him curiously,

"You read it, too?"

Sukuna leans back in his chair, one arm casually resting on the backrest of the chair next to him, his thighs spread under the table, his long legs brushing against yours, and a smug grin spreading over his handsome face.

"Yeah. Believe it or not, princess. I read a lot in my free time and for my classes, too."

And you suddenly realize that you have no idea what Sukuna's major is. You always assumed it was something obvious, like kinesiology or sports management. But his comment about reading makes you curious.

"What is your major, Sukuna?"

You didn't think it was possible, but Sukuna seems to look even more smug when he answers you,

"History."

Your hand that was bringing your spoon to your mouth stops mid-air, and you blink at Sukuna.

"History? Okay, wow, I didn't expect that."

Sukuna's grin is shit-eating by now, his eyes sparkling in amusement.

"Why not? You think I'm some dumb jock? I am offended, princess."

"No... I.. I don't know. I guess I pictured history majors differently. And isn't it kind of boring? All that old stuff?"

Sukuna raises an eyebrow at you,

"I analize past events to see what we can learn from them for modern times. It's about critical thinking and evaluating human actions. What is boring about that?"

"When you put it like that it doesn't sound so bad, I guess."

"Exactly. You are a creative writing major, right princess? You have all your fictional stories that you read or write yourself. They aren't boring to you, right? Now, I, on the other hand, have all those stories that actually happened. And many of them are first-class novel material. All that old stuff, as you call it, is very interesting. All the drama, the betrayal, the political intrigues."

You nod solemnly,

"Yeah, if I want to write a story set in the past I have to do research, too, to see how life worked at that time. How lucky that I have an expert to ask for help now!"

Sukuna grins at you,

"You're such a lucky girl indeed. But don't think I will just share my knowledge for free."

You give Sukuna a blank look,

"What? You gonna charge money for it?"

"Who said anything about money?"

He grins teasingly at you and you roll your eyes, throwing your hands up as you grin back at Sukuna,

"So, what kind of payment do you have in mind?"

"Maybe I am talking about this," Sukuna gestures to the table and your plate, "Keeping me company for lunch, coming to my games, being an enthusiastic enjoyer of my cigarette smoke. By the way, I need one after we are finished eating. You coming with me, princess? Consider it a payment in advance for gaining acess to all the amazing history knowledge in my mind."

Sukuna winks at you, and you can't help but laugh.

"Okay, I think that sounds fair."

You're on your way to your dorm after class when you hear your name getting called by a very familiar, smooth, low voice. You turn around, only to almost drop the stack of books you are carrying in your arms.

Sukuna is jogging toward you, apparently going for a run as part of his daily workout, and there is definitely too much of his tattooed skin and buff muscles on display.

You stare at him, probably looking like a complete fool, as your eyes trail over Sukuna's tall, muscular figure. He's only wearing a black tank top and red shorts with the Tigers logo. It's far too little clothing to cover up how gorgeous he is.

You gulp hard. Sukuna looks so sexy, with his muscles all buff, the veins on his arms standing out from his workout, and a thin layer of glistening sweat coating his tattooed skin and muscles.

He asks you how your day was, and you manage to give him an answer that sounds halfway sane while your gaze travels up and down his body.

You don't know where to look. There is just so much of him, and it makes you feel so flustered! Sukuna makes you feel things you aren't ready to admit, but the fluttery feeling in your stomach grows more intense by the second.

Your heart jumps to your throat when you glimpse a pair of black bands peeking out from under Sukuna's shorts.

Oh my god. Does he have upper thigh tattoos?

You stare at those tempting black lines on Sukuna's muscular thighs a moment too long before you catch yourself, and your head quickly snaps up again, eyes wide, looking at Sukuna's face with an expression that does nothing to hide how affected you are by him and his stupid gorgeous body.

A cocky smirk spreads over Sukuna's tattooed face. The face of someone who knows exactly how sexy he is.

"Do you like my tattoos, princess?"

"Yeah, um... they look very cool," you manage to say, and before you can stop yourself, you add, "How many do you have in total?"

You silently curse yourself the moment the words have left your mouth because you know you just presented Sukuna with an open goal. And, of course, he doesn't even let a second go by before he grins at you with a devilish glint in his eyes, his voice dropping to a seductive timbre,

"I'll let you count them if you want."

You make a sound of complaint, but Sukuna's words send your pulse racing, and you are sure he knows it. You are saved from further embarrassment though by the beeping sound Sukuna's heart rate monitor makes to inform him something is off. He laughs softly and jerks his chin toward you,

"I have to keep going. See you at my game!"

And with that said, Sukuna runs past you, but not without reaching out to ruffle your hair, making you yell after him to stop ruining your hairstyle.

It's a busy weekend for you, with several deadlines for assignments and a birthday party in your dorm that you help organize, so you decide not to go to the hockey game.

You don't even think about it until Monday morning when you get practically cornered by a scowling Sukuna.

You turn around after getting some books from your locker only to gasp because Sukuna is standing in front of you, tall and buff, effectively blocking your way.

He takes a step closer, his tall, broad body blocking out the light and the other people in the hallway, making it seem like it is only you and him. One of his large tattooed hands comes to rest on your locker, right next to your face, and Sukuna leans down so he is on eye-level with you, stopping only centimeters from your face.

"I didn't see you at my game."

You hug the books you just got out of your locker to your chest as you tilt your head to smile nervously up at Sukuna.

"Yeah, I was too busy and couldn't make it."

Sukuna curls his lips, and you feel the need to shrug apologetically and add a soft,

"Sorry."

Sukuna sighs and straightens up again, running his hand through his pink hair, slicking it back while fixing you with a sulky look out of his beautiful maroon eyes. It almost looks like he is pouting.

"You know that's a problem, right, princess? We lost the game."

You blink up at him in slight alarm before you see the mischievous sparkle in Sukuna's maroon eyes and see the corners of his lips twitch.

And so you play along and stare at him with comically big eyes, pressing a hand to your mouth that is opened in a fake shocked expression.

"Oh no! Forgive me, Your Majesty, King Sukuna The First! I wasn't aware that my absence would lead to your men's defeat on the icy battlefield."

Sukuna chuckles softly and leans closer again, both of his large hands placed on each side of your head now, his voice a low whisper, as if he is sharing a secret with you,

"I like it when you are there to watch me play. You are my personal lucky charm, princess. We haven't lost a single game since you started coming. But we lost this Saturday. Call me superstitious, but as a responsible player, I must demand your presence at all future home games."

You look at his beautiful face, so close to you that you can make out every little detail of the second pair of eyes tattooed into his skin. You feel your heart beat faster and a smile spreads over your face as you tilt your head, coming even closer to Sukuna,

"Well, I guess then it's my duty to come to every game. I promise I will take my job as your personal lucky charm seriously from now on."

Your voice has also dropped to a flirty whisper, and your pulse flutters wildly with Sukuna standing so close to you. You can feel the warmth radiating off his tall, muscular body. Can smell his sexy cologne again and a hint of cherry, maybe from his hair gel.

Your gaze meets Sukuna's maroon eyes. A lazy but contented smile spreads over his beautiful face. His voice is still barely a whisper, low and seductive, almost a purr,

"Good girl. That's what I wanted to hear."

You can feel his warm breath on your cheek, and you instinctively feel your lashes flutter and tilt your head back even more, your lips parting slightly as if preparing for a kiss.

For a moment, the two of you are locked in your own little universe, where it's only the star player and his lucky charm. Only Sukuna and you, so close to each other that you feel each other's body heat and your breaths brush over each other's lips.

So close.

You gaze deeply into each other's eyes, and Sukuna leans even closer. You think he is really going to kiss you. Your eyes close as your heart beats like crazy.

But a loud yell of "Sukuna! Coach is looking for you!" interrupts the moment, and both your and Sukuna's eyes fly wide open.

He pulls away, rolling his pretty eyes in annoyance as he yells over his broad shoulder at his teammate,

"And what the fuck is so important? I would have come to his office after class anyway! It's not my fucking fault that we lost!"

Sukuna's maroon eyes snap to yours again, and he huffs and grins, cupping your cheek with his large hand and brushing his thumb over your lower lip, adding in his typical velvety voice,

"Neither your fault, princess. Even though you should have really been in the arena. But you can double the good luck at the next game by cheering extra enthusiastically for me. Will you do that for me?"

You barely manage a nod and murmur a breathless "Okay," making your lips move against Sukuna's thumb, almost like a little kiss, before he pulls his hand away and grabs his backpack to sling it casually over his broad shoulder and wink at you one last time before he leaves to see his coach.

You let your head fall against the locker, hug your books tightly to your chest where your heart is beating like crazy, and stare dumbfounded after Sukuna's tall figure. Your knees feel weak, and there is heat pulsing between your thighs from all the sexual tension that was between you and Sukuna just seconds ago.

You let out a long breath and chuckle softly to yourself.

Sukuna's lucky charm, huh?

You like the sound of that.

You find yourself in the hockey arena sooner than expected. But not for a hockey game. One of the girls from your classic literature class is on the figure skater team, and she asked if you could meet her after her training to do the assignment you have together.

You thought you would leave again and go to the coffee shop to work there, but your assignment partner scrunches her face apologetically,

"I'm so sorry, but I can't leave yet. I have to stay here and wait for my teammate to give me the keys to the team room, but she is still in the back talking to our coach. But we can do the assignment here. We can just get comfy on the stands and work there. Is that okay with you?"

You tell her it's okay and follow her, letting her lead you to the otherwise completely empty stands. Just when you sit down, you hear several voices coming from the direction of the ice, and when you turn your head to look what's going on, you see the hockey team entering the rink now for their training. And, of course, there he is.

Sukuna.

He looks gorgeous as always, smiling broadly about something Yuuji said to him as he skates casually over the ice, his helmet still off and under his arm, unaware that you are here to watch him. He isn't yet wearing his usual hockey jersey but a tight, black, long-sleeved compression shirt and his shoulder pads. It looks sinful on him, accentuating every muscle on his gorgeous body. Even from this distance, you can count his abs.

He looks beautiful. Especially with that genuine smile lighting up his face as he laughs with his brother.

You stare at him, following his every move, while trying to listen to your assignment partner's ideas. But she stops mid-sentence, and when you take it as a clue to look at her, she is grinning at you like the Cheshire Cat.

"So, Sukuna, huh?"

She jerks her chin toward the hockey team down on the ice, and you shake your head quickly, making a dismissive hand gesture.

"No, it's not like that."

She raises a skeptical eyebrow but leaves it at that. For a few minutes, the two of you work on the assignment while you steal the occasional glance at the rink.

The problem with the hockey arena is that it is cold as the ninth circle of hell. You hug yourself and rub your arms, shuddering in the chilly air of the arena. You didn't think you would work on the assignment here, or you would have brought a jacket.

It's right then that you suddenly hear your name called in that familiar, sexy, low voice.

You turn your head, unable to stop the big grin from spreading over your face, as you see Sukuna leaning against the boards beneath your seats, touching the plexiglass that separates the rink from the stands, and looking up at you.

"Are you here to bring me luck during training, too? You really take your job seriously, princess. I approve of that eagerness."

You laugh, playing along and making a salute gesture,

"Of course. I am always on duty, sir!"

Your little salute gets messed up by how violently you tremble from the cold, though. Sukuna raises an eyebrow, and his eyes travel over your body, over the thin t-shirt you are wearing.

"You're not dressed for the job, though. What are you doing, freezing your pretty ass off?"

You laugh,

"I didn't know I would spend an hour in here."

Sukuna huffs, brushing a stray strand of pink hair out of his forehead,

"Wait a sec."

He pushes himself off the boards and casually skates to the other side of the ice. You see him grab something from the bench where his stuff is. And then he glides back over the ice toward you with his sexy smirk on his tattooed face and his white team hoodie in his hand.

The sight makes your stomach flutter. You grin from ear to ear as Sukuna skates over to you, stopping at the boards and grinning up at you.

"Come down here and put that on, princess! I don't want my good luck charm to get a cold!"

You chuckle as you hurry down the stairs to the boards. Sukuna throws his hoodie over the plexiglass, and you catch it and quickly slip into it.

A blissful sigh leaves your lips. Sukuna's hoodie is so soft and warm, and it smells just like him, making your stomach tingle when you smell his fresh, sexy, boyish scent mixed with cigarette smoke and cherries.

You smile gratefully at the star player, who can actually be pretty nice contrary to his bad boy reputaion.

"Thank you, Sukuna."

Sukuna stands there, resting his chin on the back of his hand on his hockey stick as his beautiful maroon eyes slowly wander over you. There is something in his eyes that you haven't seen in his gaze before, but you can't quite name it.

All you know is that Sukuna's gaze lingers a lot longer than necessary on your body, which is now clad in his hoodie. He looks happy somehow, pleased, but there is also something darker in his eyes, almost like some primal hunger.

It makes you lick your lips nervously, but then Sukuna seems to shake himself out of it, and he smirks at you again, just as cocky as always, flirty and sweet-talking like a champ,

"You're welcome, princess. Anything for my lucky charm."

He skates back to where his teammates are doing practice shots, joining them immediately in full hockey star mode.

You feel oddly light-headed from the encounter with Sukuna and the feeling of his warm, comfy hoodie on your body, and his sexy scent in your nose as you walk back to your classmate.

She looks at you with an amused expression on her face and a "see, I told you so" attitude written all over her face.

"Oh yeah, it's clearly not like that at all, huh?"

You leave the arena huddled comfortably into Sukuna's hoodie, your hands shoved deep into the soft front pocket, smiling at how the hoodie looks more like a dress on you because of the height difference between you and Sukuna. It's making your tummy flutter a bit to imagine him wearing it before he gave it to you. Almost like you get an indirect feel of his tall, strong body. You bite your lip and try to chase that thought away. This is dangerous territory.

But the thing is, even when you are back in your dorm, you can't bring yourself to take off Sukuna's hoodie.

It's far too comfy and warm, and so you just stay in it the rest of the evening while preparing dinner and working on your assignment. It also smells so good. You catch yourself bringing the soft fabric up to your nose several times to inhale the fresh and seductive scent that is Itadori Sukuna. Fresh cologne, cigarette smoke, and cherries.

You tell yourself you will take the hoodie off before bed. It will be too warm to sleep in it anyway. Yes, definitely, you will change into one of your usual T-shirts!

Just five more minutes.

In the end, you stay in Sukuna's hoodie. But it is a bad idea, as you soon realize when you lie in your bed, and your mind gets flooded with images of Sukuna's sexy grin and his gorgeous tattooed body. You feel a bit guilty when your hand slips into your panties while you are still wearing the hoodie that smells like Sukuna. You don't want to be into him like that!

But you can't stop yourself, even though it feels kind of wrong to give in to the sudden urge to push your panties down so you can feel Sukuna's hoodie brush over your wet pussy, soaking the soft fabric with your arousal as a needy moan falls from your lips.

You imagine Sukuna lying in his bed with a hand down his pants, too, while he thinks of you in his hoodie and nothing else. And that thought leads to an all too sexy fantasy of you riding Sukuna on his bed while you're wearing his hoodie, and his large hands slip under it and wrap around your waist. And he's smirking at you and calling you princess and his lucky charm while you bounce on his lap until you cum all over his gorgeous cock.

You curse yourself a little for whispering his name when you cum so hard that your vision goes black for a moment.

I would SQUEAL internally if Sukuna gave me his hoodie ❤️❤️ And being his personal lucky charm sounds like the best job ever to me! AAAHH he just drives me insane!

Thank you so much for all the love for this AU!! I hope you enjoyed Chapter 3, too. Comments and reblogs would be very sweet ❤️

In Chapter 4, Reader and Sukuna end up in the locker room together. Let's see what that leads to ;)

#sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna fluff #sukuna x you #sukuna #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #jjk fluff #sukuna x y/n #jjk x y/n #ryomen sukuna #{🏒❤️} hockey au

919 notes · View notes

vamptizm · 21 days ago

Text

iii. MISSION JEALOUSY — p. bueckers

pairing : paige bueckers x clover amar (oc)

synopsis : in which paige bueckers and clover amar, two uconn wbb stars, have an ongoing mission of making each other jealous and outdoing the other.

warnings : angst? explicitly language. cussing. both of them are toxic assholes. idk what else tbh.

word count : 2.9 k

note : i actually have nothing to say… but idk if i wanna make these chapters longer or keep them around 2-3k. its almost 4am so i got lazy with proof reading but lmk if y’all find major mistakes.

series masterlist

Clover sat on the edge of the weight bench, staring at the floor as the sounds of the gym echoed around her. She wasn't sure what to feel. She didn't expect anything from Paige—not really. There was no unspoken affection, no deep connection. It was just... competition. They were two intensely competitive teammates who thrived on teasing and getting under each other's skin. Tension? Yeah, there was definitely tension. They couldn’t deny that after what had happened in the weight room. But that wasn't the problem.

The problem, the one Clover couldn't quite shake, was the way Paige had left. After everything, after the heat of the moment had passed, Paige had barely spared her a second glance. A towel tossed her way, a quick muttered ‘See you tomorrow’ as she turned on her heel and walked out like Clover didn't matter, like their entire interaction had meant nothing at all.

It frustrated her, gnawed at her from the inside out. Clover hated feeling like she'd been discarded. It wasn't the first time Paige had been careless, but it was the first time she'd done it with Clover. And despite all of Clover's confidence and self-assurance, that? That had hit harder than she'd expected.

The next day at practice, Clover was deliberately off. She'd told herself that she wouldn't care. She wouldn't let it bother her. Paige was just another one of her many hookups—nothing special. That was all she needed to remember. When the scrimmage started, it was clear that her usual banter was nowhere to be found. No cocky smirks, no eyebrow waggles, no jabs aimed directly at Paige, just cold focus.

It didn't take long for Paige to catch on, though. At first, she thought Clover was just in the zone, just another practice where she was extra competitive. But as the game wore on, as they traded baskets against the men's practice squad, Paige couldn't ignore the shift. Clover was still playing fiercely, still trying to outdo her in every way—nothing new there—but she wasn't acknowledging Paige at all. Not once. No passing comments, no mocking grins. Nothing. It was like the blonde wasn't even there.

The thought struck her like a punch to the gut. Was Clover... ignoring her? Did she really care that little?

Paige found herself on edge, frustrated and confused. She hated not being able to read Clover, hated that she was the one left trying to figure it out. Clover, of course, was as unreadable as always.

A timeout was called, and Paige watched as one of the guys from the other team swaggered over to Clover, clearly trying to make his move. Clover didn't even glance up at him, her hand raised to stop him from getting any closer as she took a sip of water. Without any real effort, she mouthed the words: "No," and something else that resembled “I’m gay.”

"Not interested, buddy," Clover muttered, finally meeting his eyes.

But Paige couldn't let it go. She wasn't sure why it bothered her so much, but she couldn't stay on the sidelines. She stood up, walking over with a confident stride and an air of impatience that she couldn't quite suppress.

"Yo," she said, cutting into the guy's attempt at flirting with a tone that brooked no argument. "Move along."

The guy, clearly caught off guard but reluctant to fight, muttered a quick "Whatever" before retreating.

Paige turned back to Clover, her posture exuding irritation. "You good?" she asked, though the edge to her voice made it sound more like a challenge than concern.

Clover didn't even look up. She finished her water bottle with a quick tilt, then wiped her mouth, nonchalantly brushing off the entire interaction. "I'm fine," she said, voice flat, almost dismissive. "Didn’t need your help."

Paige's eyebrows furrowed. What was that supposed to mean?

Before she could retort, Geno's voice rang across the gym, cutting through the tension like a hot knife. "Alright, break's over, get your asses back on the court!"

Paige opened her mouth to say something—anything—but the moment was gone, swallowed by the clamor of the team getting back to their feet. She shot Clover one last, unreadable look before she turned to head back to her spot. But the question lingered in the air, as heavy as the silence between them.

Why was Clover acting like this? And why, deep down, did it bother Paige more than she wanted to admit?

The sound of water shutting off echoed through the locker room as Clover emerged from the showers, her damp hair falling around her shoulders. She was the last to leave, as usual, and as she grabbed her duffel bag, her eyes scanned the locker room, settling on Paige. The blonde was already dressed, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, one hand tugging at the strap of it as she was about to leave.

Clover turned toward the lockers, pretending to be absorbed in gathering her things, but the weight of the air shifted when she realized Paige hadn't moved. The blonde was still standing there, a faint, amused smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She wasn't leaving.

"Still here?" Clover asked, her tone flat but not entirely unamused. She didn't need to look up to know the confrontation was coming. It was in Paige's posture, the way she was leaning against the locker with one arm, her fingers tapping impatiently on the metal.

"Yeah," Paige said, her voice sharp but quiet, like a knife pulled from a sheath. "Figured I'd wait until you were done pretending like I don’t exist."

Clover turned her head slightly, not fully acknowledging her but enough to give her the barest glance. "I'm not pretending anything. You barely exist to me, anyway. No big deal."

Paige's eyebrow arched, the challenge clear. She hated the way her words felt like a quick punch to the gut for even just a second. "Is that so?" She tilted her head. "Because you're acting like something is a big deal, Clover. So tell me—what's the issue? You were all over me one yesterday, and the next? You're acting like we're strangers."

Clover's jaw clenched, but she didn't back down. "Maybe because I didn't expect you to bail so quick. I thought we were adults about these things. Didn't realize I was just a quick fix for you."

Paige scoffed, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. "What? Are you seriously mad that I didn't hang around? It wasn't anything, Clover. You knew that, so what's the problem?"

"The problem," Clover said, voice low but sharp, "Is you didn't even give me the decency of sticking around, even if it meant something."

Paige's lips twisted into a thin smile. "Am I supposed to feel bad? You've been playing this game just as much as I have, Ma."

Clover's hand tightened around the strap of her bag, the anger creeping up. "Right. Because leaving me half-undressed in the weight room was the mature way to handle it. Glad you're so comfortable with it." She threw a pointed look at Paige. "Maybe next time, we don't even bother pretending to be anything more than we are."

Paige didn't flinch. "I didn't realize you were so emotionally invested. You know the drill. What happened, happened. Why do you care so much now? You never have." Her tone was biting, and though she didn't show it, there was a flicker of something in her eyes—frustration, maybe, or guilt—but it was quickly hidden behind her cocky facade.

Clover's expression darkened, a smug smile curling on her lips. "Emotionally invested is crazy, considering you're the one whining over me not paying attention to you. I don't care, but unlike you, I have the decency to at least check on someone after I fuck them. I don't dip the second one of us finishes."

Paige's nostrils flared at the jab, but she didn't bite back immediately. Instead, she took a step forward, eyes narrowed. "You think you're better than me? Is that it?" she asked, voice dangerously quiet. "Because you're not. I know you're just as good at this as I am, Clover. You fuck 'em and you leave 'em. Plus, you're not some delicate flower thats needs coddling."

Clover wasn't sure why that comment stung, but it did. She clenched her fists, stepping closer to Paige, refusing to back down. "I never said I was. I just don't treat people that I've known for so long like disposable fuck toys. That's the shit you do with a quick hookup you'll never have to talk to again. I have to see your ass almost daily, unfortunately."

"So what, did you expect we cuddle afterwards?" The blonde scoffed, face contoured with feigned amusement.

Clover furrowed her brows, an expression that almost resembled disgust on sculpting her features. "Fuck no. I don't wanna do any of that cutesy, couple shit with you, trust me. This doesn't mean that it meant anything to me, I'm simply annoyed that you left me there half naked. That's it."

The silence that followed was thick with tension. They were so close now, the air crackling with frustration and unspoken words. Neither of them was backing down, and the longer they stood there, the more their anger simmered beneath the surface.

Paige, unable to hold back the last cutting remark, sneered. "See, that's the problem. You think I owe you something when I don't."

Clover's lip curled into a bitter smile, her eyes narrowed with disdain. "Right. You don't. I don't expect shit from you, dude. I didn't give you attention for a couple hours. Big. Fucking. Deal. Get over it.

"Right, okay, whatever." Paige scoffed once more, her voice suddenly colder, the fight leaving her as she turned toward the door. "See you around."

She hated how Clover could get under her skin more than anyone else. And even more she hated the nagging feeling in her chest—the one that told her maybe, just maybe, she'd messed up.

Clover stood there for a moment, chest heaving with a mix of annoyance and something else she couldn't quite identify. "Not like I have a choice." She muttered under her breath.

With that, Paige was gone, the door slamming shut behind her. Clover stood there a moment longer, her fingers running through her damp hair, trying to ignore the way her heart was beating wildly in her chest.

The following day off had felt strangely hollow without Clover's usual presence. Paige told herself it was a good thing. A break from her. A reprieve. But she couldn't shake the feeling that the silence Clover left behind was louder than it should've been. She'd replayed their biting words over and over, dissecting every tone and syllable as if it'd make a difference now.

Paige told herself she didn't care. Whatever game they were playing didn't matter. The argument didn't matter. But the quiet gnawed at her in a way she couldn't shake, and Clover's absence at their bi-weekly team dinner was the final straw.

Clover always made a scene about how good the grapevine leaves were, claiming they were as close to her late grandmother's cooking as she'd ever find. Tonight, though, there were no dramatic declarations, no over-the-top banter with the freshmen, no teasing at Paige's expense.

Paige tried to convince herself she didn't notice, but Nika did. She'd called Clover mid-meal, raising her eyebrows when it went straight to voicemail. "Weird," she muttered, but no one pressed further.

Still, Clover's absence lingered like an unspoken question, and Paige couldn't stop herself from turning it over in her mind as the night dragged on.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint creak of the front door as Nika and Paige stepped inside. Jana trudged in behind them, half-asleep and mumbling something about needing to crash. She barely made it to her room before the door shut behind her with a soft thud. Paige exhaled a sharp breath, tossing her car keys onto the coffee table. She told herself she’d go straight to her room and sleep. But then Nika glanced toward Clover’s closed door.

“She’s hasn’t replied to my texts,” Nika muttered, her brows knitting. “I should check on her.”

Paige’s shoulders stiffened, her gaze flickering to the faint light leaking from under Clover’s door. “She’s probably fine,” she said quickly, but her voice sounded forced, even to her own ears.

Nika ignored her and crossed the room. Paige hesitated for a fraction of a second before following, a bitter taste creeping into her mouth. She told herself it was just curiosity—no harm in seeing what Clover was up to. But the tight knot forming in her stomach said otherwise.

Nika knocked once, her fist light against the wood. “Clover? You in there?” She waited a beat, then, without hesitation, turned the knob and pushed the door open.

What they walked in on was a sight Paige couldn’t have prepared for. Clover was sitting on the lap of the waitress from the other night, her bare back to the door, tattoos fully visible under the dim light of her room. The waitress had her arms around Clover’s waist, the two locked in a kiss so heated it made Paige’s skin itch. Clothes were scattered across the bed and floor, the intimacy of the scene impossible to ignore.

The waitress squealed in surprise, clutching the edge of a blanket and pulling it around herself. Clover, however, didn’t flinch. If anything, she looked amused, a slow smirk spreading across her face as she turned toward the doorway.

“Well, this is awkward,” Clover said, her tone light and teasing. “You know, most people knock and wait for an answer.”

“Oh my god, sorry!” Nika squeaked, immediately turning around and covering her face with her hands. “I didn’t mean to—uh, sorry. It’s just I couldn’t reach you and got worried.” She stumbled over her own words, almost colliding with Paige, who was rooted to the spot.

“It’s fine, Niks,” Clover said, her voice smooth as ever. But her eyes weren’t on Nika; they were locked on Paige, who stood frozen in the doorway. A slow, knowing smirk crept across Clover’s face as she tilted her head, watching the blonde’s reaction with an air of triumph. “What about you?” Clover drawled, her voice teasing. “Staying for the show? Or…” Her eyes flicked to the waitress, a wicked gleam in her gaze. “If you wanna join, you might have to ask her first.”

The waitress rolled her eyes, giving Clover a playful shove. Paige, however, wasn’t nearly as amused. Heat flared in her chest, jealousy rising like a tidal wave she couldn’t suppress. She hated the way Clover’s words hit her, hated the way her jaw clenched so tightly it ached, hated the sharp stab of possessiveness that she had no right to feel. Most of all, she hated that Clover knew exactly what she was doing—and was enjoying every second of it. Her mind screamed at her to look away, to turn around, to do anything but stand there like a fool. But she couldn’t. The sight of Clover, all soft curves and cocky confidence, her tramp stamp peeking out from under her panties, the way she was so comfortable, so unaffected—it was infuriating. And it was making her stomach twist with something she refused to name.

“Lock your damn door next time,” Paige finally snapped, her voice low and sharp, but it didn’t carry the coldness she wanted it to. There was heat in her tone, an edge of something raw and unguarded that she couldn’t hide. But the heat in her cheeks, the way her stomach churned—it all screamed jealousy she wasn’t ready to face.

“Noted,” Clover replied easily, her smirk unwavering. “Anything else, Captain? Or are you just gonna stand there all night?”

Paige’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. She grabbed Nika by the arm and practically dragged her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Back in the living room, Nika muttered an awkward, “Well, that was…unexpected,” before heading to her own room. Paige, meanwhile, stood almost frozen, Her chest felt tight, her mind racing as she replayed the scene over and over.

The image of Clover straddling the waitress, her smooth skin catching the light, the smug look on her face as she stared Paige down—it was burned into her brain. And that smirk, that damn smirk, was the worst part. It was like Clover knew exactly what she was doing, knew exactly how much Paige hated it—and loved the power she held because of it.

Paige stormed to her room, semi-slamming the door behind her as if that would somehow erase the memory. But the heat in her chest wouldn’t go away, and she hated herself for it.

Clover on the other hand, turned back to the waitress with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that.”

The waitress laughed softly, leaning closer to Clover. “It’s fine,” she murmured, brushing her lips against the curve of Clover’s jaw.

Clover’s smirk returned, her hands settling on the waitress’s shoulders as she leaned back into the kiss. But even as she tried to focus on the girl whose lap she was still sat on top of, the look on Paige’s face lingered in the back of her mind—a look that was equal parts anger and something Clover knew all too well: jealousy.

#⇢ ˗ˏˋ vamptizm writes ࿐ྂ #mission jealousy #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #uconn women’s basketball #wnba #wbb #paige bueckers x reader

225 notes · View notes

joelsrose · 2 months ago

Text

Guns and Roses: Chapter 10

I KNOW I POSTED LAST NIGHT BUT I COULDN'T STOP MYSELF - HERE ENOYYY EEEEEEKKK

TW: VIOLENCE ANGST PUNCHING BRUISING

masterlist

“That guy’s a fucking asshole,” Caleb muttered as you walked in from dinner. You barely glanced his way, too emotionally drained to unpack the night’s events. The weight of it pressed down on you as you stood by the nightstand, brushing your hair in silent, rhythmic strokes, hoping the familiar motion might somehow clear the ache in your chest.

But even now, you could still feel the ghost of Joel’s hands on your face, his touch lingering as though he’d never really pulled away. He had been close—closer than you’d prepared for—and in that charged moment, you felt an undeniable pull, an ache that seemed to pulse through you, quietly urging him to close the distance. His lips, soft and pink, flashed in your mind like an oasis you hadn’t dared to reach, a forbidden place you’d denied yourself.

A wave of regret washed over you as you remembered the way he’d paused, held back, waiting for the smallest signal from you. You hadn’t given it, hadn’t let him know. And now, here in the quiet of this room, the memory of his nearness was all you had, and you couldn’t help but wish you’d crossed that line.

When you didn’t respond, Caleb lowered the book he’d been reading, placing it flat on his chest, his gaze heavy as he studied you through the mirror. The silence between you was thick, pressing down on you with an unspoken weight that made your hands falter as they brushed over your hair.

"Did you two ever…?" he asked finally, the question hanging in the air.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze for a moment before looking away. "No. We didn’t…never." The words were out quickly. You focused on your reflection, refusing to let your eyes drift back to his, hoping he wouldn’t see the flicker of hesitation that even you could feel deep down.

"Good." His reply was soft, almost a sigh, but it held a note of finality, a quiet relief he wanted to believe.

And it wasn’t a lie. You hadn’t crossed that line with Joel—not in the way Caleb feared. But there was something there, something you couldn’t name or give shape to, something that felt almost tangible in the way it filled every moment you shared with him. It was more than physical; it was a pull, a quiet force that you’d been holding back from fully understanding.

The memory of Joel’s expression tonight crept into your mind—how he’d looked at you with that pained intensity as you told him it was too late, that you were marrying Caleb. You’d said it with such conviction, surprising even yourself. The words had sounded so solid, so sure. But beneath that certainty was a war raging, a clash between the promise you’d made and the longing you still felt, a pull rooted so deeply in your gut it left an ache.

And now, in the stillness of this room, with Caleb’s expectant silence pressing against you, you wondered if that ache would ever truly fade—or if it was something you’d carry, a quiet, constant reminder of the path you hadn’t taken.

It wasn’t fair to Caleb. Every time he reached for your hand or pressed his lips to yours, you felt a pang of guilt, knowing he deserved someone who loved him without reservations, without ghosts lingering in her mind.

He deserved someone who wouldn’t drift away in thought at the feel of his hand, someone who didn’t close her eyes and wonder what it might be like if it were someone else.

You could feel the warmth of his affection, the weight of his love, and yet here you were, holding pieces of yourself back, leaving parts of your heart that he would never reach.

As you slipped into bed, Caleb broke the silence again, his voice hesitant but with a hint of determination. “I was thinking…maybe we could bring the wedding forward. Why wait?” His eyes searched yours, hopeful, trying to find some reflection of his own certainty. But you kept your gaze on the ceiling, your mind somewhere distant.

A part of you wanted to say yes—not out of some sweeping, undeniable love, but out of a quiet desperation for stability, a need to root yourself in something certain, someone who could finally drown out the constant hum of Joel in your mind.

You hoped that by making those vows, sealing your commitment in words as binding as they were final, you might stitch a clean line across the tangled feelings you held for him, quieting them to a faint, harmless echo.

But as the words hovered on the edge of your tongue, a knot of unease twisted deep in your gut, a silent protest rising within you, unyielding and impossible to ignore.

"…Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I’m tired." You rolled over onto your side, putting a small but needed distance between you.

“Alright. Goodnight,” he murmured softly, leaning over to press a kiss to your shoulder.

It should have felt comforting, grounding—something to pull you closer to the life you’d chosen.

But as he settled beside you, you lay there, eyes shut, wishing to feel something, anything at all.

•••

Days passed, and somehow it felt even worse knowing that Joel was somewhere in town, close but entirely out of reach. The weight of it settled in your chest—a hollow ache that you knew you had no right to feel. After all, you’d been the one to tell him it was too late, that you had chosen a different path.

But really, what choice had there been?

Life with Joel had always been a storm, unpredictable and wild, leaving you to gather the scattered pieces of yourself whenever he was gone.

As you moved through your days, running errands, keeping busy with mundane tasks—picking up supplies, stopping by the market, helping Maria with the garden—you found yourself glancing up each time you heard footsteps, your heart giving a hopeful leap before reason set in. Every time the doorbell chimed at the general store or someone rounded a corner on the main street, you’d scan their face, just in case it might be him. You told yourself it was foolish, that you shouldn’t expect him, but the habit was unbreakable.

Each disappointment left a quiet bruise. The truth was, you felt lost, untethered, like you were moving without a map. You were standing at a crossroads, one side offering you the safe, steady life you thought you wanted, and the other pulling you toward a need you barely understood, a pull so strong it scared the light right out of you.

Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped low, casting a warm, golden haze over everything it touched, the world seemed to glow in quiet reverence. Long shadows stretched across the ground, and the leaves caught the fading light, turning them into flickering embers of orange and red. It was a rare, perfect moment, as if the day itself was holding its breath.

“Hey, Ellie,” you called softly, spotting her standing at the edge of the porch. She stood with her gaze lowered, her shoulders tight, her usual spark dimmed and subdued. When she looked up, there was a heaviness in her eyes, a weight she carried with a quiet resilience that made your heart ache. You could see it—the struggle she didn’t want anyone else to notice, the weariness she’d tried so hard to hide.

"Did you want to come in?" you offered, gesturing toward the door.

She shook her head quickly. "No…out here’s fine."

You nodded, leaning against the railing, giving her space. She shifted on her feet, hands shoved deep in her pockets, a trace of hesitation flickering across her face.

"I wanted to…say sorry about dinner," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “That was really fucking stupid of me.”

You offered her a gentle smile. "Hey, don’t worry about it. Really."

But you could see the regret in her eyes, a silent apology lingering there. Without thinking, you opened your arms, and after a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward, letting you pull her into a hug. Her arms wrapped around you tightly, and as she leaned into you, you felt her release a small, shuddering sigh, like she’d been holding her breath under the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes met yours with an unusual intensity. "Has Joel…spoken to you?" she asked, her voice careful, like she was treading on fragile ground.

You nodded, averting your gaze, not quite sure where this was headed. "Yeah…we’ve spoken a little. Why?" Your tone came out a little guarded, betraying the unease stirring within you—you hadn’t expected her to bring him up.

Ellie hesitated, a look of vulnerability flickering in her eyes. "Did he…explain everything?"

You exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the admission settle over you. “Honestly? I was so angry, I didn’t really give him a chance to explain.” Running your fingers through your hair, you let out a weary sigh. “And…I’m not even sure it would change anything.”

She paused, her eyes searching your face, a flicker of disappointment shadowing her expression. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then hesitated, choosing her words carefully.

Finally, with a surprising gravity, she looked directly at you and asked, “Do you love him?”

"What?" you whispered, caught off guard.

“Do you love Joel?” she repeated, her gaze unwavering. “Because if you do, it matters.”

You were about to respond, ready to deflect, but Ellie didn’t give you the chance. In a quiet, deliberate motion, she rolled up her sleeve, revealing an unmistakable bite mark—jagged, the edges tinged with an unnatural red, yet somehow healed into a scar that seemed etched into her very soul. Your heart stopped, your breath caught as you stared at it, struggling to comprehend a reality you’d never imagined possible.

“I’m immune,” she said, her voice steady, though it carried an ache that had clearly weighed on her for a long time.

The world seemed to narrow to that bite, to the raw truth it held. Immune. The word echoed in your mind, almost too big to grasp, reshaping everything you thought you knew. That scar wasn’t just a mark—it was a revelation, a silent testament to survival against the impossible.

“I got bitten, years ago,” she began, her voice even and steady, each word carefully controlled, like she’d repeated this story to herself so many times that the shock of it had dulled, fading into a familiar ache. “And…I didn’t turn.” She paused, letting the weight of those words settle between you, their meaning unfathomable.

“Before we left, I was on patrol,” she continued, her gaze distant, focused somewhere beyond the room. “Those raiders—they knew about me. They were after me, after what I am. They want a cure, and to them, I’m the key. That’s why I had to leave Jackson, why I had to disappear.” She swallowed, a shadow flickering across her face. “They’d kill me to get what they wanted.”

She turned back to you, her eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity. “Joel left because he was protecting me,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering. The words seemed to carry a depth of gratitude, pain, and loyalty that went beyond anything she’d ever let show before.

Her words sank into you like stones, heavy and undeniable, pulling you into the depths of everything she’d endured. For a brief moment, she looked scared, as if expecting you to recoil, to look at her with fear in your eyes. But all you could see was this girl—this brave, burdened girl who had lost so much and carried this unimaginable weight alone.

“Oh, Ellie…” you whispered, pulling her into a hug, holding her tightly, hoping it might lessen the weight she carried, even if just for a moment.

She mumbled against your shoulder, her voice muffled but tinged with her usual dry humor, “Are we just gonna hug all day?”

“Yes,” you replied softly, your arms wrapped around her. “Yes, we are.”

With Ellie against your chest, you found yourself lost in thought. Joel hadn’t abandoned you out of indifference; he had shouldered the enormous weight of keeping Ellie safe, protecting a secret that was far bigger than either of you. You thought about all he’d lost, the sacrifices he’d made, and the toll it had taken on him—the way it had hollowed him out, leaving a shell of the man you once knew.

A pang of guilt twisted within you, regret pooling in your chest as you realized how quickly you’d dismissed him, how you hadn’t given him the chance to bare his soul, to explain the truth he’d been carrying alone for so long.

Last night, he had practically begged for that chance, and you had turned away.

You pulled back, subtly brushing a tear from your eye, but Ellie noticed. She looked at you, her voice soft, gentle, as if she understood just how deep this conversation was cutting. “So…it’s not his fault. If you love him…please, don’t let this be the reason you don’t.”

A pang of guilt twisted in your chest, sharpening the ache that had already settled there. “Ellie, I…I spent a year thinking you two were dead. He could’ve left a note…anything.” The hurt slipped out, raw and honest, surprising even you.

Ellie snorted, a wry smile breaking through the tension. “Yeah, well, Joel’s a fucking idiot sometimes. But he’s your idiot, y’know? And if you feel even a tiny bit of what he does for you, then you’ve gotta let that Caleb guy go.”

You blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “Ellie!”

“I’m serious!” she threw her hands up in exasperation, her voice taking on that familiar blunt edge. “Jesus, I feel like a damn couples counselor here, but come on. Think about it. Really think about it.”

Her words lingered in the air as she turned to leave, cutting straight to the heart of your indecision, leaving you with no easy escape. You could only give her a silent nod, your mind louder than it had been in a long time.

•••

It was your birthday.

Once, this day had been filled with meaning—sun-soaked afternoons at the beach, laughter stretching into late nights, bouquets of flowers from a boyfriend who felt like he knew you better than anyone. Back then, it was a day to celebrate, a marker of joy. But now, it felt different, a quiet reminder of time passing, of things that had faded and slipped away.

You groaned as the blinds opened, spilling bright, uninvited light across the room, tugging you from the last, lingering fragments of a dream. Caleb leaned over, pressing soft kisses across your face, each one gentle and warm.

But somehow, the touch felt…misplaced, like an ill-fitting piece in a puzzle. Your mind betrayed you, drifting to thoughts of Joel—to the imagined sensation of his rough beard brushing against your cheek, the warmth of his presence unmistakable, something that lingered even in his absence.

"Good morning, baby. Happy birthday," Caleb murmured, his voice warm, affectionate, grounding.

You forced a smile, whispering, “Morning,” while your thoughts drifted somewhere else.

Caleb clapped his hands together, the sound bright and eager. "Alright! Get up, get dressed. I’ve got a surprise for you," he announced, his excitement almost childlike, lighting up the room.

You groaned, rolling your eyes playfully. “You know I hate surprises.”

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? You remembered the time Joel had taken you to the farm, how he’d planned every detail with an unexpected tenderness. And that other time he’d led you out under the vast night sky, revealing that he’d named a star after you, his shoulders brushing against yours.

The man had literally gifted you a piece of the heavens, and that memory burned brighter than anything else.

•••

You got dressed, brushing off Caleb’s playful protests as he tried to convince you to let him blindfold you. “Come on, just this once!” he begged, grinning as the two of you strolled side by side down the street. But you could already guess where he was leading you.

Maria’s house.

Sure enough, as you reached her porch, he made one final attempt. “Okay, let me put it on now, just so they think we walked the whole way like this.”

“Fine,” you relented, laughing as you let him tie the scarf over your eyes. His laughter mixed with yours as he guided you up the steps and inside.

The warmth of Maria’s house wrapped around you instantly, filled with the familiar scents of home-cooked food and fresh coffee. You could hear rustling, hushed whispers, and the occasional stifled giggle—a poor attempt at hiding what was clearly waiting for you. But it brought a genuine smile to your face, their clumsy enthusiasm both endearing and comforting.

“Alright, take it off now,” Caleb whispered, barely containing his excitement.

As he slipped the scarf from your eyes, a chorus of voices filled the room. “Surprise!”

You blinked, taken aback even though you’d guessed it. Around you stood everyone who mattered—Maria, Ellie, Tommy, each face smiling with warmth and sincerity. You took it all in, grateful for each of them. But as your eyes swept across the room, you felt a small, inexplicable pang in your chest.

Joel wasn’t there.

Of course he wouldn’t be. You’d been the one to end things, to say it was too late. He had no reason to show up, no reason to pretend it didn’t still hurt. And yet, the emptiness of his absence gnawed at you, a hollow ache you hadn’t expected, a vacancy that cast a subtle shadow over the gathering.

For a moment, you almost laughed at yourself, at how foolish it was to feel his absence so sharply amidst people who loved you.

Maria’s hug grounded you, pulling you back into the moment. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice a gentle warmth that seeped into your heart.

“Happy birthday, sunshine!” Tommy chimed in, his baby balanced on one hip, his grin wide and teasing. “You’re getting old!”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Not as old as you, Tommy.”

Ellie was next, bounding over with her usual mischievous smirk. “Happy birthday! Don’t worry, I didn’t get you anything lame,” she added, with a wink that drew a laugh from you.

You glanced around, noticing the mismatched wrapping paper on a small pile of gifts, streamers drooping from the ceiling, looking like they’d survived a few birthdays already.

Somehow, the makeshift charm of it all was perfect. “Guys…you didn’t have to do all this,” you said, a hint of emotion tightening your voice.

Tommy grinned, nodding at Caleb. “All your man’s idea. He wanted to make this one special.”

You looked over at Caleb, his face beaming with pride and affection. “Thank you,” you murmured, giving him a soft kiss, hoping the gesture might quiet the conflicted feelings bubbling up beneath the surface.

“Alright, enough of that,” Caleb said, clapping his hands with a grin. “Let’s get to the presents!” He gently steered you toward the center of the living room, where the small pile of gifts awaited, each one carrying a personal touch from those who cared about you.

You settled onto the floor, surrounded by colorful packages, each one wrapped with care. Caleb handed you the first gift, and you carefully peeled back the paper to reveal a beautifully scented candle—a blend of lavender and cedar, one of Lydia’s creations from her little workshop on the edge of Jackson.

“Oh, I love this! Who’s it from?” you asked, holding up the candle and breathing in the familiar scent.

“Uh-uh,” Tommy chimed in, grinning from the couch as he crossed his arms. “You gotta guess—makes it more fun.”

You smiled, glancing around the room, already having an idea. “Maria. She knows I’m obsessed with this scent.”

“Guilty,” Maria laughed, raising her hand with a playful shrug. “Thought it’d be perfect for you.”

Next, you picked up a small, oddly shaped package wrapped in newspaper with tape clumsily slapped on every edge. Inside was a mug, boldly painted with “#1 Old Person” in bright letters, complete with a cartoon of a grumpy face and a cane.

You raised an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. “Let me guess…Ellie?”

Ellie groaned, crossing her arms. “What? I thought it was perfect!” she said, though her grin was unmistakable. “I mean, you’re getting up there, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, holding the mug up to show everyone. “This is…incredibly accurate. Thanks, Ellie,” you said, trying to look serious as you held back a smile.

Ellie shrugged, her smirk widening. “Just keeping you humble.”

Tommy’s gift came next, wrapped in an old flannel shirt and tied with a strip of leather. You unwrapped it to reveal a sturdy, worn pocketknife, the blade engraved with delicate etchings of mountains and pine trees, like the landscapes around Jackson. It had clearly seen its share of use but had been cleaned and polished until it gleamed.

“Thought you could use a reliable blade,” Tommy said with a grin, leaning back with that familiar glint of pride. “Got a lot of history in that one. Used to belong to one of the rangers around here, way back when.”

You turned it over in your hands, feeling the weight of it, the smoothness of the handle that felt perfectly worn to fit. It wasn’t just practical; it felt like a piece of the land, of all the paths you’d come to know.

“Thank you, Tommy,” you said, meeting his gaze. “It’s…perfect. Really.”

Soon, only two small packages remained beside you. You looked around, eyebrows raised, wondering who might’ve gone out of their way to get you two gifts. You picked up the first one, turning it over in your hands, curiosity prickling at you.

The package was wrapped with a care and precision that immediately drew your attention. It was covered in a soft, natural brown paper, the kind that felt textured under your fingertips, like it had been chosen intentionally. A delicate rope ribbon was tied around the top, carefully knotted and finished with a small, neat bow—a touch that made it feel personal, thoughtful, like someone had taken their time to make this moment feel special.

You slowly undid the ribbon, your fingers grazing over the rough twine as you pulled back the paper. Inside was a packet of rose seeds, their delicate promise of life and color held in each tiny seed. The simple, quiet beauty of it took you by surprise, and your heart swelled, a rush of unexpected joy flooding through you.

Seeds like this were rare, a near-impossible find. You’d managed to cultivate a few hardy plants in your garden, but roses—roses were a dream you’d given up on long ago. Caleb must have gone out of his way, venturing further on patrol, searching specifically for these, knowing how much they’d mean to you.

Without a second thought, you jumped up, wrapping your arms around him, the weight of the gesture sinking in.

In this moment, everything felt right—solid and certain, grounded in this small but powerful act of care. For the first time, you felt a sense of calm about your future with him, a glimmer of peace in the middle of all the chaos.

“Caleb, this is incredible—how did you even find these?” you asked, your voice filled with wonder.

But as you looked up at Caleb, a strange, pained expression crossed his face. His eyes flickered, a brief moment of something almost like discomfort, his smile fading as he seemed to brace himself.

He looked queasy, unsteady, as if something within him had just cracked. “Uh…that’s not from me,” he murmured, his voice sounding hollow, almost broken. He rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet your gaze.

The words sank in slowly, and you felt yourself pull back, the warmth of the moment slipping away as confusion took its place. The room fell into a tense, awkward silence, a stillness that felt like it stretched forever. You glanced around, searching for answers in the faces around you, but all you found was the same look of surprise and discomfort reflected back at you.

Then, with a crushing inevitability, it hit you.

Joel. It was Joel.

The truth settled over you like a weight, dragging you down as the air seemed to still around you. The seeds—the rare, impossible seeds, the effort someone would have gone to just to find them, to make them yours. It had Joel written in every detail, every small, unspoken gesture meant to convey what words never could. The realization clawed at you, turning what had been a moment of pure joy into something complicated, something unbearably tender and painful all at once.

Your fingers tightened around the packet, the tiny seeds now feeling impossibly heavy in your hands, as if they held all the things left unsaid between you.

You didn’t dare look up, didn’t want to see the pity or confusion on anyone’s face, least of all Caleb’s. The warmth of his love, the comfort you had just found, suddenly felt fragile, slipping through your fingers as your heart twisted with the undeniable truth that, despite everything, Joel had left his mark on you, deep and unshakeable.

•••

You sat with Maria on the couch, the gentle hum of conversation around you fading as Tommy, Ellie, and Caleb headed outside to set up a fire pit. Their voices blended into low laughter and the crackle of kindling, a comforting sound that drifted back to the house.

Caleb had gifted you a leather-bound journal, its pages blank and waiting, a thoughtful gesture, especially since yours had nearly run out of space. Yet, somehow, the gift felt strangely hollow, unable to fill the silence left behind by everything else you couldn’t voice.

Maria’s voice cut softly through your thoughts. “He’s on patrol,” she said, her tone quiet but knowing, as if she understood more than she let on.

You looked at her, catching her gaze, something flickering there that made you feel seen in a way you weren’t ready for.

She nodded gently. “He wanted to come,” she continued, “but he couldn’t miss his shift.”

“Oh.” You tried to keep your voice even, unaffected, but you felt an unbidden rush of relief mingling with a strange disappointment.

Why did knowing he wanted to be here, but couldn’t, make your chest tighten? Why did it bring that bittersweet feeling creeping in, like a sigh you couldn’t let go of?

He would have been here if he could.

“But he’ll be there tonight,” Maria added, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, her tone light but carrying a hint of something unspoken.

“Tonight?” You glanced at her, feeling a sudden stir of curiosity tangled with a wary edge. “What do you mean?”

Maria raised her eyebrows, her expression feigning innocence but laced with amusement. “Ah, Caleb and his damn surprises. Guess he didn’t tell you?”

You shook your head, an odd mix of dread and excitement swirling in your chest, tightening like a knot. The idea of seeing Joel—of being in the same room after the weight of today’s revelations—left your mind in a quiet spin.

“We’re all heading to the Tipsy Bison tonight,” she said, giving your knee a reassuring pat. “Figured we’d celebrate properly, give you a chance to unwind.”

“Sounds…nice,” you murmured, managing a small smile.

Maria leaned closer, a playful glint in her eyes. “Well, I have another gift for you…but I didn’t want to show Caleb up. Though, I think that ship might’ve already sailed.”

“Maria!” you protested, but you couldn’t help laughing with her.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” she said, her chuckles spilling over as she led you upstairs. “Sorry, that was mean.” She caught her breath, grinning. “But still—you’re gonna love this.”

“You’re such an ass,” you teased, nudging her as you followed her into her room.

“Here it is,” she said, reaching into her closet.

There it hung - a dress crafted by Maria, a vision of elegance and simplicity. Made from a soft, creamy fabric, it hugged the body in all the right places, flowing naturally down to a midi length that grazed just below the knees. The neckline was a gentle scoop, the capped sleeves curved gracefully over the shoulders, lending the dress a vintage charm.

Scattered across the dress were small, floral cutouts, almost like dainty stars punctuating the fabric, allowing subtle glimpses of skin beneath. The fabric managed to be both demure and alluring, with a timeless, almost ethereal quality, as if it belonged to another era yet felt perfectly suited for the present.

It was a dress that could turn heads in any room—simple, beautiful, and quietly captivating.

You stared, momentarily speechless. “Maria…this is stunning.”

She smiled, giving you a nudge. “I thought you might like it. Figured it was time you had something as beautiful as you are.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you ran a hand over the dress, feeling the luxurious fabric beneath your fingertips. “I’ll wear it tonight,” you said softly, a touch of excitement sparking within you.

•••

You felt a flutter of nerves, the unmistakable butterflies in your stomach—a feeling you hadn’t encountered in a while. It was both thrilling and unnerving, like something had shifted inside you, but you couldn’t quite name it.

As you walked toward the Tipsy Bison, your mind wandered to Joel. You pictured him leaning against the bar, his usual presence a quiet, magnetic force.

Would he say hello? Would he give you space, giving no more than a polite nod? Would he even bother to acknowledge you?

As you made your way through the crowd at the bar, the subtle signs of birthday decorations became apparent—scavenged balloons in soft pastel shades, a few whispers of “Happy birthday” as you passed familiar faces. Caleb’s hand rested lightly on your lower back, a small but constant touch that didn’t go unnoticed.

When Caleb saw you come down the stairs from Maria’s room, wearing that dress, his breath caught in his throat. You were a vision in cream, the soft fabric catching the dim light of the bar, and for a split second, he thought about you standing at the altar, ready to take his last name, ready to belong to him completely.

"Let’s get the birthday girl a fucking drink!" Tommy exclaimed, his voice already tinged with the warmth of a few drinks, clearly eager to get the night started.

"Cheers to another year older and wiser!" he added, lifting his glass high with a grin.

"Cheers," you echoed, raising your glass, the weight of the night settling on your shoulders as you took in the faces around you. The warmth of the room, the laughter, and the clinking of glasses felt almost surreal.

You found yourself scanning the room, searching for Joel, an unspoken urgency tightening in your chest. Where was he?

“Looking for someone?” Caleb’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you turned, feeling a flicker of disappointment you couldn’t quite hide.

“Oh, there you are,” you replied, forcing a smile, but the words felt hollow, empty. The brightness in his eyes didn’t reach you, and for a brief, guilty moment, you couldn’t ignore the ache in your heart that only one person seemed to fill.

“Let’s dance,” he said, taking your hand and pulling you onto the dance floor. His touch was warm, but there was something detached in the way he held you, something that didn’t settle right in your chest.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, as you began to sway to the soft thrum of music in the background.

“Thank you,” you replied, your words automatic as your gaze flickered toward the door of the Tipsy Bison, your heart still fluttering with anticipation.

You tried to focus on the rhythm of your movements, the way the soft music swirled around you, but your mind kept drifting, restless.

A voice summoned Caleb away, murmuring something about a cake you weren’t supposed to know about. He shook his head, clearly frustrated that the moment had to end. "I'll be right back," he promised, his gaze lingering.

You chuckled softly, not wanting to make it harder for him to leave. “It’s fine, really. Go on—I’ll find Maria in the meantime.”

You turned to find her and Tommy somewhere in the crowd, but then you felt it—the pull. A visceral, gut-wrenching tug that stole the breath from your lungs, like some magnetic force had wrapped itself around your very core.

It was something primal, something undeniable, surging through you like lightning, an irresistible draw toward the one person you hadn’t been able to shake from your heart, not even for a moment.

He was here.

You gasped quietly, the sound caught somewhere between a breath and a whisper as you turned. And there he was.

Joel.

Your heart thundered wildly, drowning out every other sound as you took him in. He looked achingly handsome, cleaned up in a way you’d never seen—his beard trimmed to perfection, each hair deliberate yet effortlessly rugged. He wore a dark button-up that fit him with an almost devastating precision, every line and curve of him highlighted, yet softened by the shirt’s deep hue. His hair was slicked back, adding a polish to his usual rough edges.

His gaze swept the room, searching, until it found you. And when his eyes landed on you, a subtle shift crossed his face—a flicker of uncertainty melting into something so tender, so open it felt like a gift.

A slow, guarded smile broke across his lips, the kind of smile that felt rare and carefully offered. And despite yourself, you mirrored it, warmth spreading through your chest, leaving you breathless, your heart catching as you looked back at him.

He started toward you, his steps almost tentative, as if each one took more courage than the last. There was something shy in the way he approached, and it was so painfully sweet that it left a hollow ache, a dizzying rush, a feeling you couldn’t name but felt in every fiber of your being.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured, pulling you into a hug that felt like it wrapped around every inch of you, enveloping you in a warmth that made the world fall away.

His arms were strong, steady, and as he held you, you felt your knees weaken, the weight of his presence overwhelming yet grounding. You clung to him, not daring to move, as if letting go would break whatever fragile spell had pulled him here, to you, in this moment.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the words barely making it past the thundering pulse in your ears. It felt like your heart had taken up residence in your throat, every beat a reminder of how real he was, how close.

“I, uh…” He trailed off, his voice catching, and for a heartbeat, you saw him—truly saw him—vulnerable, a hint of hesitation softening the hard lines of his face. “I wanted to come by earlier, but I got caught up on patrol.”

“Maria told me,” you replied, your words spilling out before you could even think, laced with a breathlessness you couldn’t hide.

He nodded, a flicker of something almost bashful passing over his face, his jaw tightening as if he was struggling to hold back. There was a gentleness in his expression, a quiet depth that made your chest ache, that left you wanting to memorize every line, every flicker of his gaze.

“Did you…did you get my gift?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. That roughness in his tone, usually so sure, now carried a raw, unguarded edge, and in that single question, you could feel the weight of every unspoken word between you—tender and vulnerable, lingering just beneath the surface.

You nodded, your smile deepening. “It was perfect,” you murmured, warmth flooding your chest as you thought of the rose seeds he’d chosen, each one a promise, a quiet gift just for you.

A genuine smile broke across his face, softening those guarded lines, and you realized how long it had been since you’d seen him like this—unguarded, open. “Good,” he said, almost tenderly. “For your garden.”

His gaze traveled over you, lingering in a way that made your heart pound. “That’s… a hell of a dress” he murmured, his voice low, eyes tracing every line and curve, his stare lingering on you as if he was seeing you for the first time, taking in every detail.

A blush crept up your cheeks under the weight of his attention, a rush of warmth that spread through you, leaving you both exposed and exhilarated. The intensity in his eyes was almost too much, a fire you couldn’t look away from, and yet…you didn’t want to.

“Thanks… Maria made it,” you replied, voice softer than you meant, struggling to find your footing under his gaze.

He nodded, his gaze flickering briefly around the room, watching the couples swaying together in soft rhythms on the dance floor. There was a pause—a flicker of something in his expression, something that felt like hesitation, vulnerability even. Then, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper, he asked, “May I?”

This was dangerous, reckless—you shouldn’t, you thought. Not with your fiancé just a few feet away, busy in the kitchen preparing your birthday cake.

But something in you betrayed that logic, and after a heartbeat, you nodded, surrendering. His hand slipped around yours, warm and steady, and he led you onto the dance floor. The moment felt surreal, as if the world had slipped into a different time and space where only the two of you existed.

Everything around you dissolved—the lights, the murmurs of other people, even the steady hum of music. All that was left was him, his hand at the small of your back, guiding you in gentle steps that felt too right, too natural, like you had always been meant to move this way together. The rhythm of the song was a soft thrum in the background, intimate and unhurried, but it was his presence that overpowered it, anchoring you, drawing you closer.

With each step, every subtle shift, you felt yourself spiraling deeper into his orbit, as if the universe had tilted just to place you here, in this fragile, fleeting moment. And for now, just this once, you let yourself be swept away, the rest of the world dissolving like a forgotten dream.

The soft fairy lights strung across the Tipsy Bison cast a warm, golden glow, illuminating his eyes until they looked like molten honey—rich, deep, filled with secrets and stories you’d give anything to know. Those eyes were the kind that made the air hitch in your lungs, made you feel as if you were the only person in his world.

And under his gaze, you almost believed it.

Your hands intertwined perfectly, his fingers wrapping around yours in a way that felt like a homecoming, as though they’d always been meant to find solace there. His other hand settled low on your hip, his thumb brushing gentle, rhythmic circles against you, a touch so grounding yet tender it sent a warmth spreading through you. His movements guided you in a slow, unhurried sway, the two of you falling effortlessly into a rhythm that matched the music’s soft, steady beat.

“Where… where’d you find the seeds?” you asked, your voice soft, almost hesitant, eyes searching his face, trying to catch every flicker of expression.

“When Ellie and I were… uh, gone,” he began, his voice steady yet laced with something raw, something fragile. He looked down, his gaze drifting to the floor before meeting yours again. “Found ’em and thought of you. Kept ’em, just in case I ever…” He trailed off, the unfinished words hanging heavily between you, laden with all the things he’d never said, all the things that had gone unspoken but never unfelt.

The space around you thickened, the weight of his thoughtfulness settling into every unspoken inch between you. He hadn’t merely thought of you in passing—he’d carried you with him, held onto this small piece of hope, even when it seemed like whatever you had was just a distant memory, too far gone to ever reach again.

“Oh.” The word slipped from your lips, barely above a whisper, your heart thundering in your chest as you absorbed everything his quiet confession held. You looked up at him, feeling the impact of everything you’d just learned, the depths he’d gone to, the things he’d kept close.

“Ellie told me.”

You felt him still, his hand pressing a little firmer against your hip, grounding himself in the moment. “She did?” His voice was barely audible, tinged with an emotion you couldn’t quite name—relief? Regret? A complicated blend of both.

“Yeah,” you replied, voice trembling. “She told me everything… about her bite, about why you left.”

When he finally looked back at you, there was a glimmer of something vulnerable in his eyes—a quiet, almost desperate hope that made your chest ache.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Joel?” The question slipped out, your voice barely above a whisper, yet heavy enough to linger in the air. “Why didn’t you wake me up? Or… at least leave a note?”

The sounds around you faded, the music dimming to nothing as his expression shifted, his gaze dropping. He seemed to struggle, the silence stretching out between you until it felt like it could crack under the weight of everything unsaid.

Finally, he spoke, his voice rough and raw. “I know,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, each word weighed down with regret. “I know it was…fucking stupid. Should’ve told you, should’ve explained. There’s no excuse—I should’ve just…should’ve told you, I think.” He paused, swallowing hard, his gaze dropping as though he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. “I was scared, and I know that sounds like a damn pathetic excuse, but… it’s the truth.”

He took a shaky breath, as if gathering the courage to continue. “I thought if I just… left quietly, it wouldn’t feel so real. But saying goodbye… I couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face you.” His voice wavered, a crack of vulnerability slipping through. “And now I’d do anything to go back, to change it all. Anything.”

There was a painful honesty in his tone, an ache that seemed to reach down to his very core. His shoulders tensed, his jaw set with the weight of guilt he’d been carrying, a guilt that had carved itself deep into him.

You could see it in the way his gaze wavered, as if he couldn’t quite meet your eyes, as if he was bracing himself for whatever judgment you might cast. In that moment, he was laid bare, stripped of his usual guarded strength, showing you the bruises he kept hidden—the hurt he’d caused himself by walking away.

You stayed silent, the words tangled up in your chest, knotted and aching, fighting to break free.

“I missed you,” you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could stop it, carrying a weight that felt almost too heavy to bear. The words hung in the air, soft yet resonant, filled with regret, with longing, with an ache you hadn’t realized was still so raw.

He looked at you, his eyes widening just slightly, a glimmer of something fragile lighting in his gaze. “You… did?” His voice was barely above a murmur, hesitant, like he didn’t dare believe it, yet there was a quiet desperation in his expression—a need to hear it, to let himself hope, even if it was dangerous. The look he gave you made the air feel heavier, thick with all the emotions you’d been holding back.

“Of course I did,” you replied, meeting his gaze and feeling your heart twist at the vulnerability in his face. “You took care of me in ways I didn’t even realize until you were gone.” Your voice dropped, and you looked down, feeling your chest tighten. “I—I couldn’t sleep for months without you there beside me. Didn’t want to admit it, but… it felt like I was drowning without you.”

He looked at you now like you were the answer to something he’d been searching for, as if those words had bridged a chasm he’d thought was too wide to ever cross.

The confession slipped out, raw and unguarded, before you could even think to hold it back. You had spent so long convincing yourself that you were better off without him, telling yourself that you’d moved on, that you didn’t need him.

But the truth was, you hadn’t been whole since he left. Each night, lying alone in the vast emptiness of your bed, it felt as though some vital piece of you was missing, like a wound that refused to heal.

“I thought about you every day,” he murmured, his voice thick, laced with a depth of emotion that made your chest ache. The words lingered between you, heavy with the weight of everything he’d kept buried.

In his eyes, you could see it—the regret, the longing, the silent, unyielding truth he’d been carrying alone. And in that moment, he wasn’t hiding anymore; he was letting himself be seen, stripped of all pretense, finally letting you see the vulnerability he’d kept locked away.

His hand slid down to your hip, then rose slowly, almost as if he were afraid you might pull away, before settling on your face, his fingers brushing your cheek with a touch so light it felt like it might disappear if you blinked.

It was intoxicating—not the whiskey, but the overwhelming gravity of him, the way his mere presence made you feel more alive, more vulnerable, than you’d ever thought possible.

Only he could do this—make you feel utterly exposed and entirely safe, with just the whisper of his fingers against your skin.

His thumb drifted down, grazing your bottom lip, parting it ever so slightly, his gaze following the movement with a fierce, aching intensity, as though he were memorizing every detail, committing the sensation to memory. “To think,” he murmured, his voice a rough blend of regret and yearning, “I never got to kiss these lips.”

“Joel…” The whisper slipped from your lips, trembling, as if your own voice could barely contain the weight of his name. The ground beneath you felt like it was crumbling, the world narrowing to this one breathless moment. Your knees weakened, a quiet surrender overtaking you, and for the first time, you felt helplessly, beautifully powerless, lost in the ache between his fingertips and his gaze.

You felt his hand slip to the back of your neck, steadying you as he drew you closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, the solid strength of him grounding you in a way that nothing else could. He gave you a sad smile, one that broke something inside you, because it was tinged with so much sorrow it never quite reached his eyes.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his voice soft, a little rough, almost like a plea. His hand slid up, guiding you until your head rested against his chest, your ear pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. “Just… let me hold you,” he whispered, his words thick with an ache he couldn’t hide. “Please… don’t say anything.”

You nodded, sensing the unspoken fear in his eyes—the fear that you might tell him to stop, to pull back, to shatter this fragile closeness he so desperately clung to.

In his arms, you felt something deeper than comfort; it was a sense of belonging, a promise wrapped in the warmth of his hold, a silent assurance that, for this brief moment, everything was as it should be. And yet, somewhere beneath that warmth, there was an ache—a quiet sadness that made it feel like both a beginning and an ending, like a promise and a goodbye, woven together in the quiet, unspoken understanding that neither of you dared to break.

What you didn’t see was Caleb, emerging from the kitchen with a smile that radiated warmth and excitement. His eyes sparkled with the joy of seeing you again, eager to sweep you back into the celebration, to lose himself in the laughter and dance that had defined the night. But as his gaze landed on you and Joel—your hand pressed against Joel’s chest, his arm wrapped around you, the two of you standing impossibly close—Caleb froze.

In an instant, the warmth in his chest turned cold, hardening into a knot of dread that twisted painfully, souring the joy he’d felt only moments before. He saw the way your hand lingered on Joel’s chest, how Joel looked at you with an intensity Caleb could never ignore—a look filled with longing, regret, a depth that seemed to cut straight through him.

Caleb’s chest tightened, his pulse pounding as he took in the scene before him. Here was the man who felt like a shadow over everything Caleb dreamed of—a silent barrier between you and the life he wanted to build, a man who symbolized not just an obstacle, but a threat to the future Caleb had envisioned with you.

•••

A cough broke the silence, slicing through the tension like a blade. Caleb stood in front of you, his expression tightly controlled, but the pain in his eyes spoke louder than words. He wasn’t the kind of man to yell or make a scene, but the quiet devastation in his gaze twisted something deep inside you.

“Mind if I steal my girl for a second?” he said, his voice tight, each word laced with barely contained frustration.

Joel’s shoulders slumped slightly, a flicker of resignation crossing his face as he gave a silent nod. He met your eyes one last time, an unspoken regret hanging there, before he backed away, disappearing into the crowd.

You turned to Caleb, forcing a small, uneasy smile, hoping he wouldn’t bring up what he’d just seen. But he didn’t return your smile. Instead, he swallowed, his jaw clenched, his eyes filled with a hurt that made it hard to meet his gaze.

“What the hell was that?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying a restrained intensity, the simmering anger unmistakable.

“Nothing,” you replied quickly, but even to your own ears, the words sounded hollow.

“Don’t.” His tone was sharper than you’d ever heard it, a warning edged with pain. “Don’t lie to me. Not now—not when we’re supposed to be getting married in a month.”

“We were just dancing, Caleb,” you insisted, but the words felt feeble, barely convincing even to yourself.

“Stop,” he said, his voice rising slightly, drawing a few glances from the people nearby. His face twisted with a mixture of hurt and frustration, his control slipping. “Don’t act like I didn’t see what was going on. You think I can’t see it? The way you looked at him?”

He took a shaky breath, his voice trembling as he continued, “I need you to be honest with me, because I can’t do this if there’s any part of you that’s still holding onto him.”

“Can we talk about this later?” you pleaded, feeling the weight of curious eyes around you, your voice a quiet entreaty.

“No.” Caleb’s response was immediate, his frustration evident. “We’re talking about this now.”

“Caleb,” you whispered, glancing around at the people watching, feeling exposed. “Please, not here. Not in front of everyone.”

“I don’t care who’s watching,” he said, his voice lower but unyielding. “I deserve to know what’s going on between you two—right now.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tommy and Maria edging closer, their faces etched with concern as they observed the tension building between you and Caleb. Their presence only added to the weight pressing down on you, the intensity of the moment nearly suffocating.

Caleb’s gaze shifted, his frustration boiling over. “Where the hell is he?” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tight.

As if summoned by the charged air, Joel appeared beside you, his expression calm but his gaze sharp as he looked at Caleb. “No reason to be raising your voice at the lady,” he said, his tone low, but the quiet warning was unmistakable.

Caleb’s face hardened, a bitter sneer twisting his mouth. “I need to talk to you, asshole,” he said, voice taut with anger as he took a step closer to Joel.

“Caleb,” you began, your voice pleading, but he didn’t look at you. His eyes were locked on Joel, the rage barely contained.

“Go ahead,” Joel said coolly, crossing his arms as he met Caleb’s glare head-on, unflinching.

Caleb’s shoulders tensed as he moved even closer, his voice low, but the intensity behind it was unmistakable. “You need to back off. I don’t know what the hell you two had going on, but she’s my fiancée. And I don’t want to see you anywhere near her again.”

Joel’s gaze narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Don’t think that’s your call to make.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Caleb shot back, his voice rising enough to draw more attention, the frustration and hurt evident in his tone.

“Caleb, please,” you whispered, voice cracking, tears welling in your eyes. But he didn’t look at you—his gaze was fixed on Joel, anger and frustration hardening his features. Joel’s eyes, however, were on you, searching, his silent question clear: Are you okay?

“Caleb,” Joel said, his tone even, unshaken, “this isn’t the time. It’s her birthday.”

Caleb let out a bitter laugh, his eyes flashing. “Now you’re acting like you know what’s best for her?” He shook his head, his voice a mixture of hurt and disbelief. “I can’t believe you. You waltz back into her life, and suddenly you’re the one who understands her?”

Joel held his ground, his expression steady. “I’m not pretending to know everything,” he replied quietly. “But I know that right now, she doesn’t need this.”

Caleb clenched his fists, glancing at you, then back at Joel, his voice rising. “And what she needs is you?”

“Caleb, stop,” you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper, but the urgency in it held him in place.

“This isn’t the right time to talk about this,” Joel said, his voice low as he began to turn away, but not before casting a lingering glance your way—a quiet, unspoken reassurance.

But Caleb wasn’t done. “Hey! You don’t get to walk away from me, asshole.” He reached out, his hand gripping Joel’s shoulder, pulling him back with enough force to turn him around to face him directly.

Before you even registered what was happening, Caleb’s fist flew forward, connecting with Joel’s jaw with a force that sent a shockwave through the crowd around you. The impact echoed, silencing the murmur of voices as people turned to stare, wide-eyed.

Joel staggered back, momentarily dazed, his hand rising instinctively to his jaw. But then he steadied himself, his gaze hardening as he looked back at Caleb, a dark determination in his eyes.

“Caleb!” you gasped, stepping forward, but the tension between them was thick, raw, and unyielding, as though neither could hear you. Caleb’s chest heaved with anger, his fists still clenched, and Joel stood his ground, his posture unshaken, his gaze steady, daring Caleb to make the next move.

The silence around you was deafening, everyone waiting to see what would happen next, and you felt a mix of fear and desperation, knowing that whatever came next could change everything.

Joel turned to leave again, clearly trying to defuse the situation, but Caleb wasn’t finished. He grabbed Joel’s arm, yanking him back once more. This time, Joel had reached his limit. In one swift movement, he gripped Caleb’s shoulders firmly, pulling him close enough to speak low, his voice a quiet storm.

“Enough,” Joel hissed, his words sharp and precise, barely contained as he struggled to keep control. His grip on Caleb was firm, a grounding hold that left no room for further argument. There was a finality in his tone, a command that dared Caleb to defy him.

“You got a problem with me, you come to me,” Joel said, his voice low and steady. “Like a man. You don’t ruin her night.”

For a moment, Caleb faltered, his breath coming in heavy, uneven waves as he stared back at Joel, the weight of his words settling over him. The two of them stood in a silent standoff, the tension between them almost palpable, crackling with unspoken resentment and restraint. But Joel’s control—his refusal to let this spiral—spoke louder than any fight could have. His priority was clear, and it wasn’t himself.

As he slowly released his grip, he cast a look back in your direction, his gaze softening for just a heartbeat, a fleeting vulnerability crossing his expression.

You thought it was over.

You thought the tension had finally dissolved, that the confrontation would end with Joel’s final, steady words. But just as Joel began to turn away, you saw a flash of movement—Caleb, his face twisted with embarrassment and anger, lunging forward, fists clenched.

Before you could think, you moved instinctively, stepping between them. “Caleb, stop!” you cried, reaching out, but in the flurry, Caleb’s fist, meant for Joel, swung wildly in the chaos—and in an instant, pain exploded across your eye as his knuckles connected with you instead. You staggered back, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, clutching your face as the room spun in shock.

Caleb’s fist connected with your eye in a swift, unintended blow, and a sharp, blinding pain surged through you, leaving your vision faltering as the shock of it set in. You stumbled back, your hand instinctively flying to your face as the world spun, your eye already throbbing, the pain deep and immediate.

“Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry,” Caleb stammered, his face pale as he stared at you, horror and guilt flashing across his features. He reached out, hands trembling as he tried to come closer. “It was an accident—I didn’t mean to—”

But the words hung there, hollow and helpless, unable to undo the pain or the impact. His eyes were wide, pleading, as though he wished he could take back the last few seconds, erase what had just happened. The shock in his expression, the way he hesitated, spoke to the gravity of the mistake he’d made—a line crossed, one that couldn’t be undone.

Before he could get any closer, Tommy stepped between you, his voice low and firm. “Step back. Right now.”

Caleb’s hands froze mid-air, his face twisted in a mixture of panic and regret. “I didn’t know—I wasn’t aiming for her. It was an accident, I swear!”

“Now,” Tommy repeated, his tone brooking no argument, his steady gaze pinning Caleb in place. The room had fallen into a tense silence, all eyes on the unfolding scene, the weight of what had just happened settling over everyone.

Joel was by your side in an instant, his hand gentle yet firm as it cradled your face, his thumb brushing tenderly just below your eye, which was already starting to swell and bruise. His gaze was frantic, worry etched into every line of his face as he took in the injury, his jaw tightening, eyes flicking with barely restrained anger.

“Hey, darling,” he murmured, his voice soft, steady. “You’re alright. I’m here—I’m right here.”

But the pain, both physical and emotional, overwhelmed you, a sob escaping before you could stop it. “I need to get out of here, Joel,” you managed, your voice breaking as tears slipped down your cheeks. “Please… I can’t be here.”

Without hesitation, Joel slipped his arm around you, his touch solid and reassuring as he led you away, his presence a shield against the stares and murmurs surrounding you. He held you close, his own voice low and steady as he whispered, “I’ve got you. Just breathe. We’re getting out of here, right now.”

Joel guided you home, the short walk feeling like miles with the throbbing pain in your eye. As soon as you reached the door, he had Ellie sprint to his place to grab some painkillers he kept stashed away for his back, the kind tucked into his drawer just for emergencies.

Now, he had you settled on your couch, his presence anchoring you as he sat as close as he could, his fingers brushing carefully beneath your swollen eye, his touch feather-light. His face was etched with worry, a raw, almost desperate guilt darkening his expression. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough with regret. He looked like he’d take the pain on himself if he could.

“It’s not your fault,” you managed, choking on the words as quiet sobs broke through, your breath catching with each one. “I don’t even know why I stepped forward—I just… I didn’t want him to hit you again.”

He stilled, his gaze softening as he reached up to gently wipe away a tear that had slipped down your cheek. “My darlin’ girl,” he whispered, the endearment filled with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. “I can’t stand seein’ you like this, hurtin’ like this.”

He looked around, his concern shifting to impatience. “Where the hell is Ellie?” he muttered, glancing toward the door as though he could summon her with sheer will, his urgency clear—he couldn’t bear to see you in pain one second longer than necessary.

And though the ache in your eye throbbed, his touch, his presence, and the warmth in his voice softened the edges, leaving you with the feeling that, as long as he was here, you’d be alright.

Just then, Ellie burst in, breathless and wide-eyed, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief as she took in the scene. “Holy shit,” she exclaimed, eyes darting between you and Joel. “That was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Ellie,” Joel cut her off, his tone firm but gentle as he motioned to the bottle in her hand. “Give me those, and grab some water from the kitchen, would ya?”

Without hesitation, Ellie handed over the painkillers, her gaze lingering on you with concern before she hurried into the kitchen. Joel opened the bottle, easing you upright with one hand, his touch warm and steady.

“Here, baby,” he murmured, his voice soft, filled with a quiet tenderness as he held the glass to you and placed a pill in your hand. “Take this—it’ll help.”

You took the pill, letting his words and touch ground you as you sipped the water he offered. The throbbing pain dulled just slightly in the warmth of his care, and as you met his gaze, you saw something there—an unspoken promise, a reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Ellie dropped onto the other couch, her brows knit in worry as she took in your bruised face. “That’s a nasty black eye,” she muttered, her voice caught between worry and a strange sort of awe.

“Ellie,” Joel’s voice held a gentle but unmistakable warning. “Go on home. It’s past your bedtime.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “It’s only ten!” she protested, but the look he gave her softened her defiance. With a huff, she stood up, glancing back at you with genuine concern.

“Hey… I hope you feel better soon,” she said, her voice quieter, sincere. She hesitated, her gaze flicking to Joel before she added, “And, uh—Joel’ll take care of you. You’re in good hands.”

You managed a small, grateful smile, the warmth of her concern and Joel’s steady presence easing some of the ache. Ellie nodded, satisfied, and slipped out the door, leaving you alone with Joel in the soft quiet, the sense of safety he radiated settling around you like a blanket.

The pain had started to dull, though your vision remained blurred, Joel’s figure splitting slightly into a hazy double image as he leaned in close, his hand resting steady and grounding on your shoulder.

“You alright? Warm enough?” he asked, his voice gentle but thick with concern, his eyes scanning your face as if he could will the pain away.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine, Joel,” you managed, offering a faint, wavering smile. “Thank you for getting me out of there. I… I’ve never seen him like that—so angry.”

Joel’s expression shifted, his jaw setting as something dark and fierce flickered in his gaze. He shook his head, his mouth tightening, frustration etched into every line of his face. “He had no right,” he muttered, his voice low, barely restrained. “Of all damn nights—on your birthday, no less. That asshole…” His words trailed off, the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior, as though he was holding back an urge to storm out and finish what had been started.

“You know you deserve better than that, right?” Joel’s voice was soft but firm, his gaze steady as he looked at you, waiting for the words to sink in. “I would never… I can’t imagine ever doing that to you.”

There was an honesty in his tone, a quiet conviction that made your chest tighten. His hand lingered on your shoulder, warm and grounding, and the way he looked at you—as if you were someone precious, someone worth protecting—stirred something deep within you, a feeling you’d buried for too long.

For a moment, the pain in your eye, the embarrassment of the night, all of it faded under the weight of his words, his presence.

“I know you wouldn’t,” you murmured, your voice barely holding steady as you let out a shaky breath. Slowly, you lifted your hand, your fingers grazing the angle of his jaw where Caleb’s punch had left a faint bruise, half-hidden beneath the roughness of his beard. Your touch was soft, tentative, tracing the bruise with a gentleness that seemed to make him wince, though he didn’t pull away. His gaze stayed locked on yours, unwavering, intense, as though he was absorbing every part of this moment.

“Bet I look awful,” you tried to joke, a faint laugh escaping, but the self-consciousness gnawed at you, awareness flooding in as you thought of the swelling around your eye, the bruises marking your skin. Embarrassment washed over you, and you began to pull your hand back, suddenly feeling vulnerable beneath his steady gaze.

But Joel’s hand moved swiftly, catching yours, his fingers curling around yours, holding your hand against his cheek. “Don’t,” he whispered, his voice low and warm, a quiet command wrapped in tenderness.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours, filled with a look so unguarded, so filled with admiration, it left you breathless. “You’re beautiful. Don’t ever doubt that. Even now… you’re still the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

His words settled around you, filling the space between you with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

“Joel,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady as you looked up at him, feeling every part of you drawn to him, helpless to resist. “Kiss me.”

Something flickered in his eyes—a mixture of longing and relief, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this moment. In an instant, the space between you disappeared. His hand slipped to the back of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer, his breath warm against your lips, hovering for a heartbeat, letting every ounce of tension swell until it felt like you might break from it.

Then he kissed you, his lips claimed yours with a fervor that took your breath away, the kiss deep and consuming, as if he were pouring years of waiting, of unspoken feelings, into this single, electric moment.

His hand slid up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his other arm tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel his heartbeat, wild and fierce, mirroring your own, a rhythm that seemed to fill every inch of you.

The kiss deepened, his lips moving over yours with an intensity that left you dizzy, the world blurring until nothing else existed but the heat of his mouth, the strength of his arms, the way he held you as if he’d finally found what he’d been searching for.

You clung to him, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him as he pulled you impossibly closer, the space between you vanishing entirely.

When he finally drew back, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathless, he didn’t let go. His hand lingered, fingers grazing your jaw, his eyes searching yours, a quiet intensity in them that made your pulse race all over again.

TAG LIST

@sweatpeakarolinaa

@wasitforrevenge

@ro-nahime-things

@pedritospunk

@aceaubrianna

@karolinape @wasitforrevenge @picketniffler @somedayheaven

@anoverwhelmingdin @ashleyfilm

@somedayheaven @anoverwhelmingdin @joeldjarin @yourgirlcin

@swimmingeggcloudkid @dlwrish @cathsteen @reneerocks3617

@denisanoemi @prnxcessfics @orcasoul @rosebuds-and-moonlight @rescuethewretched

@valkyreally @ccmoonshine @dlwrish @immyowndefender @babygals-world @zenrobbins0021 @malfoycassimalfoy @damneddamsy @atenceladusiaawfytbwb @frogjumps-world @dendulinka6 @orcasoul @whirlwindrider29 @lol-im-done

@somedayheaven @ohdearvalentine @keseqna @kulekehe

@darkheartgatita @ickearmn @spacegirl-3 @mystickittytaco

@sukunnayuuji @jasminedragoon @merm4id5lut @ickearmn

@dugiioh @ginsan-eyes @smoochispoof @off-dreaming-again @cynicalbunny @dendulinka6 @w-w-a-n-d-r-l-u-s-t-t @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @spacemamax @lizzie-cakes @off-dreaming-again @cumberpeggg @agnus04 @laliceee @bambisweetheartss @thoughtfulmoonchild911 @joelspeach @queen-since-97 @maried01

303 notes · View notes

dylsluvrs · 15 days ago

Text

ryomen sukuna x reader | college au [18+]

touchdown ch.2 boundary king!

ᡣ𐭩 pairing. football player! sukuna x journalism major! reader

ᡣ𐭩 summary. ryomen sukuna. your best friend’s frat brother. he’s tall, hot, suave, not to mention the best thing to happen to college football since…well, ever. he’s in a world completely different to your own. while he spends his nights partying and racking up his body count, you spend your nights reading and racking up your word count. but when the two of you decide to come to a mutually beneficial agreement, you realise you aren’t so different after all.

ᡣ𐭩 warnings/tags. 18+. fem!reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, fake dating, opposites attract, acquaintances to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, sukuna being an asshole, best friend gojo.

ᡣ𐭩 chapter. 2/?

ᡣ𐭩 word count. 1.5k

ᡣ𐭩 a/n. hi my babies!! official chapter 2 of touchdown is out now! i’ve had a lot of uni assignments to do so i haven’t been able to update, but i’m done for christmas as on the 17th so i’ll have more time to write! i hope you all enjoy this chapter and pls know all your reblogs mean so much to me!!

nav. masterlist

Your hands shook steadily from the cold of the November air, your mind having skipped over the mittens laying on your dresser ready to be worn, thus leading to your predicament. You struggled holding onto the files, notebooks and tape recorders you needed for the day’s interviews, and your brain was so scattered you didn’t register the sight before you. The football field. The exact place you were looking to avoid after last night’s run in with the king of assholes. “Hey! Princess!”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You began to move quicker, willing your legs to carry you as far away from the football field as humanly possible. But he was quicker. he caught up to you instantly, with a tap on your shoulder. You spun around, and there he stood, his signature cocky smirk gracing his lips as he stared down at you. “What do you want, Sukuna?” His smirk twisted into a scowl at your attitude. He huffed, taking a side glance towards the rest of the team packing up their gear to leave practice. “Come on, l/n. I told you I needed a favour.”

“And I told you i’m not interested. Get one of the sorority girls to do it.”

“You and I both know if I give one of those bitches a chance, they’re gonna think it’s real. I need someone who won’t get attached.” As much as you wanted to let out a snarky comment at that, there was logic in what he was saying. You wouldn’t be interested in Sukuna if he was the last man on Earth. So instead, you let out a resigned sigh, finally meeting his gaze. “What’s in it for me?”

“You wanna interview the team, right? I’ll make it happen.” Your breath hitched, and you hoped he didn’t notice. (He did.) You’d been wanting to interview the football team for your class for months, and the only person you could get to agree was Satoru, under the ‘best friend privilege’ category.

“Does that include you?” You needed the captain to be in on this or you may as well not bother with the rest of the team. “I’ll be first in line, princess.” You rolled your eyes at the pet name, but held your hand out anyway. “Okay. I’ll do it. But we need rules, Sukuna. I’m not doing this without them.” He kissed his teeth, but nodded nonetheless. And thus came about the rules of your game.

Princess and Sukuna’s Rules:

1. Attend all parties together

> attend most parties together

2. Minimal PDA - hugs, hand holding, ass grabbing, SOME GROPING

3. NO KISSING!!!!

“Are you fucking kidding? Have you ever been to a party? No one in this fucking place is gonna believe this shit if we don’t make out at parties.” The urge to punch him was getting stronger as your arguments about the rules went on, and you were close to losing your shit with him. “It’s non-negotiable, Sukuna. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine. No fucking kissing.” His hands fell across his face, eyes practically rolling into the back of his head. “Okay, I’ve got another one. You can’t flirt with other girls like Ronnie did in can’t buy me love. It’s gonna be too obvious this is fake if you do that.”

“What the fuck is can’t buy me love?” Your jaw dropped. This son of a bitch didn’t know one of the greatest love stories of all time. “Are you kidding? How have you never seen that movie? It’s pretty much the same thing as what we’re doing, but Ronnie, who’s the nerd version of you, gets too big for his boots and starts trying to fuck Cindy’s friends, and that’s how everyone finds out it was all bullshit.”

“So you’re getting possessive over me already?” His smirk only grew as he looked at your flushed cheeks, and you could feel the tips of your ears burning under his gaze. “You want everyone to know this is a load of shit? No fucking flirting. And no snitching.”

“First rule of fight club, princess.” Your brows furrowed as you looked at him. He could see the confusion in your eyes and it only served to anger him.

“You’ve never seen fight club? Right it down, woman. I’m so making you watch it.” He ripped the notebook from your hands, scribbling down ‘make princess watch fight club’. In turn, you snatched the notebook back from him, your neat handwriting a stark contrast to his. ‘make asshole watch can’t buy me love.’ You both nodded. A silent agreement that a movie night was in order for the two of you.

“You drive?” You shook your head without looking up from your notebook, beginning to draw small doodles hearts around the words to pass the time. “I’ll pick you up for my games. Got a practice jersey you can wear.” You nodded, a quiet agreement that this should be added to the list of rules. You begin to write it down, before stopping in your tracks. “Wait, when are your games?”

“Friday nights, why? Got something better to do?” He had a teasing grin on his face. He knew what the answer would be. He’d seen you creeping out of Gojo’s room in the early hours of friday mornings before. “I work till five, is that okay?” He nodded, stuffing some chips in his mouth that he’d stolen from your bag.

“Games don’t start till seven, girl. Thought you’d know all this, miss journalist.” You huffed, ripping the chips away from him and eating them yourself, a sly smirk on your lips. “They were on saturdays at five last year, asshole.”

“I’m impressed. I still think we gotta kiss though, princess. Make it real believable.”

“Choke.” You grinned at him. His eyes narrowed but you could see the slightly playful glint hiding behind his red irises.

“Fine. But you gotta let me at least grab your ass. I’m a physical guy.” You offered him the rest of the chips, slightly smiling at the way his laidback expression faltered into happiness at the sight of food. “You can grab my ass all you want, Sukuna. It’s probably the only time in your life you’ll touch one that isn’t made of silicone.”

“Ouch, babe. I don’t like fake girls. The fake girls like me. All girls like me.” You scoffed, placing your notebook in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. He followed suit, throwing his gear bag over his body and following you away from the football field. “There’s a party tonight, you gotta come. First step to making everyone think we’re fucking. I’ll take you with me, sit you all pretty on my lap, get everyone thinking you’re my girl.”

“Okay. My roommates going so i’ll get a ride with her and see you there, yeah?” He nodded along with what you were saying, constantly tugging the strap of his gear bag from under his armpit. “Sounds good, princess. Who’d you wanna interview from the team first? Me?”

“I’m gonna leave you until last, if that’s okay? I wanna go for Geto first, he’s probably got the most going on with the tattoo shop, the team and being an art major.”

“Make an order, send it to me, i’ll get it done. You won’t get no problems from the guys.” You smiled, before leaning over to grab his face, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, leaving a bright lipstick mark just under his cheekbone. His hand instinctively went around your waist, as his head tried to turn to capture your lips with his. “What the fuck?”

“Look to your right. No! Don’t make it obvious, asshole!” His eyes fell to his right, spotting Choso and Nanami not too far from the two of you, watching you with surprised eyes. “Gotta make it believable right? Speaking of…I need a nickname for you. No girl calls their boyfriend by their last name.”

His eyes narrowed. There was only two nicknames he ever went by, and one of those, you definitely weren’t allowed to use. The other, appointed to him by the rest of the team, and commentators watching the games. The king of curses.

“Just use my first name.” You groaned, wrapping your arm around his bicep as you walked when you realised the two team members were still watching the two of you. “Ryomen is such a mouthful.”

He smirked down at you. “Damn right I am.” You shoved his chest with a small laugh bubbling in your own. “What about Ryo?” He hated the way he enjoyed the sound of the nickname rolling off of your tongue. It made him think how he could get you to say it more often. And how desperately he wanted to hear you say it in a sickly sweet voice as you fell apart—NO!

“Okay, princess. You can call me Ryo. I’ll see you at the party, yeah?” You nodded, giving him one final kiss on the cheek, ignoring the tingle it sent down your spine.

“See you later, Ryo.”

taglist: @kyo-kyo1 @kenmacantakemeaway @coldluminarykoala @sukubusss @clp-84 @ieathairs @toratsue @mocha-the-muse @livinggxd3adgirl @gojoscumsluttt @sukuxna0 @gaychaosgremlin

#x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #m.list #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna x reader #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jjk ryomen #ryomen x reader #touchdown

201 notes · View notes

emmafrostdefender · 4 months ago

Text

a fine line between god and animal | logan howlett x fem reader

chapter 1 - biting the apple | masterlist | read the prologue first

two new mutants arrive at the mansion.

i am churning this thing out and i have a very specific direction that i'm going to take it. the story does not really follow the canon plot because that would be boringgg. trust me, i know where this bus is heading. i hope you stay along for the ride! figuratively and literally! wink wink

warnings: cursing, religion, religious trauma, fighting, canon typical violence, 5.5k words

━━━━━━━━━━☆━━━━━━━━━━━

“Before you all leave, I want to give you food for thought. One of the heaviest themes of Frankenstein revolves around the idea of nature versus nurture. Is the creature inherently evil, or was his treatment by society what turned him into a monster?” You pose the question to your students as class comes to a close.

The similarities to your own existence is not lost on you. You hope the metaphor clicks in their minds as it did yours when you first read the classic novel. Charles made it assigned reading when he taught comparative literature at the school. When you were old enough, you took the job. And you were inspired by some of his lessons, of course.

“We will be discussing this theme next week, so those of you that haven’t done your reading…” You don’t finish your sentence, but make a face that communicates all they need to know.

Your students leave the classroom and you slump against your desk. Despite your outside calm, inside your thoughts are racing.

Scott and Ororo aren’t back yet and you feel as if you could break something. Or a million somethings.

The reasonable part of you knows that if something bad happened, Charles would know and tell you immediately. But the unreasonable part of you wants to drain your energy source to find them. To sneak your mind around the globe until you pick up on their footsteps crunching the ground or their signature heartbeats sending pulses into the air.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are carrying you to the door that leads to the underground base of the X-Men. You’re going stir crazy.

Earlier in the day, before classes started, you assisted Jean in refining her powers. She wasn’t able to move a car with her mind, but she managed to start the engine without a key in the ignition. To you, that seemed more impressive. To the professor, it was exactly what he didn’t want. He wanted her to control her powers.

That word again. Control.

His reactions to Jean’s issues made you all the more wary to reveal your own struggles. With the recent revelation of Magneto’s scheme to abduct you, hesitancy bubbled up in your chest at adding anything more to Charles’ metaphorical plate. You would just be a burden.

Exiting the elevator, you enter the completely metal hallway, something of a labyrinth to newcomers. Your shoes echo against the metal and you look from left to right. No one else graces your path as you walk to the training room. There is another one upstairs that the students use when training with Scott, but you personally prefer this one. Far away from onlookers.

Your abilities don’t necessarily lend themselves to you having any physical prowess, but you managed to get trained up quite well in your years at the mansion. “The metaphysical is very much so connected to the physical. The health of your powers could very well depend on the health of your body,” Charles told you long ago.

With nothing to do but wait, you change into the clothes from your locker and wrap your knuckles with tape. The large room is empty and you approach a punching bag. You begin.

The rhythm you find is steady and fast. Hit after hit, blow after blow. The bag swings on its chain, bouncing back and forth between your hands. You punch and punch and punch, feeling anger build in your system. In your mind's eye, you see the bloody heart that was stolen from your chest. You see the chains holding you down. You see your mother’s face, staring at you in disgust. You see vines. Thousands of vines, each reaching to wrap themselves around your body, your arms, your legs, your neck. They rip the cross from your necklace, leaving a stinging brand there. You see your father’s lifeless form.

And you feel your skull starting to split open when a voice says your name.

You nearly scream at the intrusion and your head flies around. “Holy shit, Jean! I could’ve killed you!”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she says with hesitancy. She’s looking at you like you’re a wounded animal about to lash out. Her eyes flit to the punching bag over your shoulder.

You look at it and gape at your handiwork. The bag ripped at the seams and sand spilled from the tears onto the ground.

“Imagining Scott’s head?” She jokes, but it sounds strained. You hardly hear it.

You still stare at the punching bag, not quite sure what to make of this. You losing control was as infrequent as pigs flying, so…never.

A soft hand touches your shoulder. “Are you okay?” Jean asks so caringly.

You rip your gaze from the bag and look at her. You change your expression from one of near tears to one of slight amusement. “Must’ve gotten a little too enthusiastic.”

She analyzes you quickly, so quick you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know her so well. “I wanted to let you know that the jet is on its way back. They were able to locate the mutants.” You feel something in your chest relax. “Not in record time, though.”

You smirk. “Of course not. They didn’t have me.”

“Can you come help me prep the bay for when they get here?”

You nod. “Just let me change and I’ll meet you there.”

She turns to walk away and you watch her leave. Your gaze drops to your hands, where the tape did nothing to prevent the bruises forming around your knuckles. Looking at the clock hanging above the entrance, you realize two hours have passed. It’s nearly ten o’clock.

As you enter the locker room, you swear you can still feel burning skin where your cross lays.

You enter the loading dock of the jet in your regular attire and are greeted by Jean and the professor. They seem to be in deep discussion when you arrive, but snap their heads up the second they sense you coming. You can tell they were talking about you.

You plaster a smile on your face and say sarcastically, “Looks like they managed to find them without me, after all.”

“They would’ve been here an hour after they left if you were with them, I’m sure,” Jean says with a playful roll of her eyes.

“Obviously.”

You shift your attention to Charles, who has begun using a computer to track the jet’s movements. Jean starts working the switchboard. You ask, “How many mutants did they pick up?”

His gaze does not move from the computer. “Two. A young girl and an older man. They were on separate paths until they met and started traveling together.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What made you think to bring them here?”

Charles has always been slightly particular when choosing the people to bring to his school. And even more hesitant to bring fully grown adults. At your question, his eyes shift to yours. “Why did I bring you to this school?”

You blink.

“To offer you protection. To offer you safety from a world that hurt you repeatedly. And to help you understand your abilities and use them for good. Not just to teach you Latin and calculus,” he adds with a smile.

You nod, but still have a lingering question. “But why--”

He cuts you off, “Why am I bringing an adult man to our mansion as well?” He pauses. “Because he is extremely powerful. That kind of power can either be used toward the greater good, or harnessed for evil.”

By Erik.

“I see,” you say, hand mindlessly playing with your necklace.

Charles returns to the computer and says to you and Jean, “Get ready, they are nearly here.”

You are usually a part of the retrieval missions, making you less used to assisting with arrivals. However, you bring out two stretchers from the medical room and place them neatly by the door after getting a call from the jet. “They were in a rough fight with one of the members of the Brotherhood and the man is out cold. We think he has regenerative abilities so he isn’t badly injured, but the girl was with him when they got into a car accident. She’ll need attention. She’s jarred, but not unresponsive,” Ororo says.

Another of your jobs on the team is designated medic. You have innate knowledge of the human body and medical herbs because of your powers. It was never something you questioned when you were younger. If you scratched your arm or busted your lip open, you would skip into the woods and find something natural to heal yourself. Still, you begged Charles not to assign you to teaching biology. You despised the subject.

The ceiling of the hangar opens to reveal a velvety night sky. You feel the jet before you see it, the push it has on the trees around the mansion tingle your fingertips. The trees' movements stir your power source in your stomach, a warm, buttery feeling. The sleek aircraft lowers gently into the bay, your hair being pushed over your shoulders by the air movement. You feel relief at the sight of your friends returning from the mission; they exit the jet and you smile. Your grin droops at the sight of their expressions.

“We need you to look over these two, stat,” Scott says with urgency.

You hurriedly bring the stretchers to the jet’s ramp and enter the main compartment with Scott and Ororo. Inside, they point you to a young girl, maybe sixteen years old, with brown hair and a soft face sitting in one of the seats. The two of them work to remove the man who sits slouched over in one of the front seats. The way they grunt, you’d think he weighs a ton.

The girl’s hands are wrapped tightly around the straps keeping her to the chair. When you approach, she jumps and stares at you with terrified eyes. “Hi, honey,” you say calmly. You introduce yourself. “I’m going to be taking care of you, okay? I just need you to undo these straps.”

She shakes her head tightly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” You ask.

She thinks between the two options and asks, “Am I safe?”

Your heart breaks. Upset coils in your stomach at the thought of all the people who have hurt this little girl. “Yes. You’re safe here.”

She seems to think this over and makes her decision. Her hands shakily unlatch themselves from the straps and move to unbuckle herself. You reach to help her, but she flinches. “Don’t touch me, please,” she says with desperation.

Your hands retract immediately.

“I just, it’s my…” she struggles with the words. “I hurt people when they touch me.”

You nod in understanding. That must have been a terrifying revelation for her. “That’s okay. We’ll get you all sorted out here. You are okay.”

She seems to relax a bit. You look over your shoulder and see your two friends lugging the man down the ramp and rolling him onto the stretcher. If this were any other scenario, you would laugh at Scott for struggling so much.

You turn back to the girl and say, “And what’s your name?”

“Marie-- I mean, Rogue.” The way she says it makes you think she is still trying out the name for size.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Rogue.” You look her over and ask, “Are you able to walk or do you need help?”

She has undone the straps and sits a bit more forward in her chair. “I think I can stand.”

Rogue puts weight on her leg as she moves to stand up, but winces at the feeling and immediately sits back down.

“Can I touch your clothes or is that also a problem?”

“You can. It’s just my skin.”

You sling her arm over your shoulder, careful not to touch any exposed skin, and help her out of the chair. “Just put your weight on me, hon’.”

She does as you say and leans against you completely. When you have exited the jet, you help her sit on the stretcher. The others have left, presumably to attend to the man. Charles is the only one left and he moves his wheelchair over to greet the young girl. “What is this place?” she asks after his introduction.

“It’s a place for people like you. And me. And her.” He points to you and you feel yourself smile. “It’s somewhere safe.”

Your gloved hand moves carefully over Rogue’s legs, feeling for any fractured bones or torn skin invisible to the eye.

She’s been relatively quiet for the duration of her examination, but she asks, “So, what can you do?”

You look up at her and grin. “I can do a lot of things.” You stand and walk to the shelves of potted plants on the wall to your right. You hold up one of the more pathetic looking plants and say, “See how this one is all wilted?”

Rogue nods.

You pull your glove off with your teeth. “Watch this.”

Once your hand rests delicately against the plant’s stem, its wilting flowers perk up. A lush green color returns to its body, becoming perfectly healthy again. You look over at her and her mouth is gaping at the sight. “But why do you keep all the plants here if they’ll die without you?”

You put the plant back in its place and slip your glove back on. As you make your way back to the examination table, you say, “That’s exactly why. The professor used it as a tool to help me understand my importance here. To help me distinguish between the big parts of my powers and the smaller, more delicate parts.” You shrug as you grab some medical tape meant to alleviate and correct sprains. “I also like having company when I’m down here.”

“Company?” she asks when you kneel before her again to start wrapping her ankle.

“They talk to me,” you say, slightly mischievously.

Her mouth gapes again. “So, that’s your mutation? Talking to plants?”

“It’s a lot deeper than that. The Earth and I are like two sides of the same coin. Through our connection, I can track people if they are grounded. I can grow and heal things, but also kill them. I can create beauty, but also take it away. And I’m recently starting to realize I’m much more connected to humans than I thought.”

She considers this as you finish wrapping her ankle.

You laugh a little. “Most of those are Professor X’s words, not mine.”

Charles arrives after a few minutes of comfortable silence, asking Rogue to come with him. You give her a small smile and tell her, “Make sure to drink those herbs with water once every day. It’ll help the pain.”

She gives you a tentative smile back.

Before she leaves, you squeeze her gloved hand. “You’re gonna do great.”

Once the two of them are gone, you decide it's time to check on Jean and the man. She took him to the laboratory where digital scans of mutants’ brains and bodies could be completed. You walk down the hall and enter the door to the left, seeing Jean in her white lab coat. She is analyzing what looks to be brain waves on the monitor in front of her. “Oh, good,” she says when she turns to see you. “I wanted you to take a look at him. See if there’s anything I’m missing.”

You approach the table where he lays and take your first real look at him.

He is shirtless to allow the nodes and wires access to his chest. You scan over his body, seeing no obvious outer injuries. His face is calm in his induced state of comatose, but etched with what seems like a permanent line between his eyebrows. You have the urge to smooth it with your thumb.

“His name is Logan Howlett. He has extremely impressive regenerative abilities.”

Your eyes continue to study the ridges of his face. “Is that his mutation?” The thought of Charles saying he is a very powerful mutant crosses your mind.

“That’s part of it. Once he wakes up, we'll give him a chance to tell us more. And then we’ll do a full body scan; Charles thinks there’s something else to him. He’s not wrong. Logan’s brain activity is far different from anyone I’ve ever seen,” she says in slight awe.

You continue to gaze at him. There is something else to him. Something you can’t quite place.

“Could you check his vitals for me? I didn’t notice anything strange, but I want to be sure,” Jean asks.

Hesitancy fills your body. For some reason, you don’t want to touch him. Some sort of dread pits in your stomach. Something will happen.

Despite your body’s strange resistance, you nod curtly. You approach the table and lean over him. His scent fills your nose. It’s woodsy and smokey, all mixed with something metal that twinges your nostrils. You close your eyes and inhale, pressing your hand to his chest. In a second, you’ve been pulled to him, a vice grip around your wrist. Jean yells and starts pulling at your shoulders. Your body goes alive and you twist your arm around and headbutt him, causing him to loosen his grip on you. However, the moment your skull collides with his, you nearly pass out from the impact. It feels like he’s made of metal.

“Oh, my God,” you groan, collapsing to the floor. Your head is throbbing.

Before you or Jean can react, he’s jumped off the table. It looks like he’s grabbed six knives and placed them between his fingers. “Where the hell am I?” he shouts.

Jean holds up her hands, but you’re still recovering on the floor, holding your forehead in your hands. Jesus, fuck. You hope He will excuse your language.

“You’re at Xavier’s School for Mutants in New York. We aren’t going to hurt you,” Jean says calmly. “Well, not anymore.” Her eyes flick down to you and you make a face.

“It wasn’t my fault he fucking attacked me,” you say with narrowed eyes. You glance at him, annoyance replacing the pain that had swept across your forehead. “What’s with the claws?” you ask, now realizing that what you thought were knives were actually thin metal spikes protruding from between his knuckles.

He stares at you, chest heaving. Then back at Jean. Fury clouds his eyesight, but you know there’s fear in there, too.

“Look, we’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe here,” Jean says again. “I just need you to calm down and we can talk.”

The throbbing has eased and you make your way to stand.

Something like a sarcastic grin falls on his lips. “Oh, sure, we can talk.”

You position yourself, readying for a fight. “Get Scott,” you say to Jean quietly.

“You sure?” she whispers back.

“Yeah, I’ve got this.”

She looks between the two of you for a moment, then runs out of the room. You hear her shoes echo in the hallway.

“You really want to do this, bub?” he asks in a voice so quiet, you nearly miss it.

You watch him carefully. You know that you’ll never beat him, but you can keep him occupied until reinforcements arrive. “Do you really want to do this?” you respond with a grin.

Something lights in his eyes, something thrilling that makes your heart pound. He pounces, jumping over the table, his claws aiming for your throat. You dodge the attack, rolling to the side. You are back on your feet in an instant, crouching low to the ground. “Got anything else in you, big boy?” you tease, grin spreading wider at his fuming expression.

He yells, running at you with a speed you wouldn’t think him capable of. He shoves you to the ground with retracted claws and you grunt at the impact, but kick his legs out from under him, causing him to fall to the floor as you crawl away. He yanks your leg, making you stumble once more. You kick with all your might, but he won’t let go. Thinking you might be the stupidest person alive, you let him drag you so you’re pinned beneath him. “Sexy,” you say with a wink.

You can feel his steady heartbeat this close. "You're annoying," he hisses. You see his eyes drop to the cross around your neck and take that as your opportunity to kick him in the groin. He grunts and his hold around you weakens. You shove him off of you and stand to make a move for the door. You don’t think he’ll kill you, but you don’t want to take that chance.

Before you reach the door, an arm wraps around your waist and pulls you harshly against a solid body. You hadn’t noticed before, but he’s tall. Very tall. “Where do you think you’re going?” he whispers in your ear.

It sends a thrill down your spine.

“Are you always this friendly?” you whisper back, hand coming up to touch his arm. Your fingers hardly wrap around his forearm.

In the blink of an eye, he has detached himself from you, falling to the floor. Your fingers tingle from the use of your power, slowing his heart rate enough that he would go unconscious, but not enough to kill him. With his regenerative abilities, though, you assume he’ll be back on his feet in about five minutes. You hardly ever use that ability, finding it invasive. With this man, however, you think your actions are justified.

You nudge his leg with your foot when Jean and Scott come running in. “Holy shit, you took him out yourself?” Scott asks incredulously.

“I just slowed his heart rate so that he wouldn’t break all the bones in my body. I appreciate your faith in me, though, Scott,” you say, wiping your brow.

He approaches the man on the floor, coming to stand beside you. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. He nearly broke my skull, though.”

Scott raises a brow.

“How are we going to get him adjusted if he won’t speak to us without starting a fight?” Jean asks as she starts to fix the state of the room.

“I think our best bet is to leave him alone,” you say.

Scott looks at you. His visor blocks his eyes, but you can tell they are looking at you as if you are crazy. “Leave him alone? He’ll wreak havoc trying to find a way out.”

You shrug. “I think there’s someone who might be able to convince him to stay.”

“Better than getting a face full of claws,” Jean says, glancing at his limp body.

Exhaustion washes over you when you take the elevator back upstairs. It’s three in the morning and the events of the day are finally hitting you square in the chest.

You slump against the metal railing of the elevator, relishing in the silence. Jean and Scott stayed with Logan to put him in a state of deep sleep so that he wouldn’t go stalking around the mansion at night. You could imagine how some poor child would react to running into such a large and imposing man in the middle of the night. It would be terrifying.

You run your fingers through your hair and pinch the bridge of your nose. His smell lingers around you, crowding your space.

What a prick.

Fighting you like that when all you wanted to do was help him? What was he going to do? Kill you?

A part of you wants to believe that he wouldn’t do that, but another part of you understands that he would’ve done anything to get out of here.

Logan.

You test the name out on your tongue. You wonder if he has another name, too. Something all of his enemies know by heart.

Deciding that that was enough thinking for the night, you shut your brain off and exit the elevator. You make your way to your bedroom and collapse on your bed, sleep hitting you like a bus.

You wake, body aching and head throbbing. Although you managed to escape the fight with no outer wounds, your body protests as you remove yourself from your bed. Thank God it’s Saturday.

Thankfully, your mind allowed you a break from the night terrors that plagued you so frequently, instead replacing them with dreams of walking through a forest. As you walked farther into the dank, the trees began to die, but you woke before anything else could happen.

You get ready for the day and make your way downstairs. In the kitchen, you see Ororo sitting at the counter with a mug of coffee in her hands. Before you can voice your question, she says, “There’s some in the pot.”

You grin and pour the coffee into your bright pink mug along with the creamer that sits by the pot. Scott calls the shade an affront to the color pink. “So…” you start.

“He isn’t awake yet. Charles thinks he’ll be up in an hour or so.”

Relief slumps your shoulders and you take a seat across from her, moving the coffee around in your mug before you take a sip. “He is crazy strong, Ororo,” you scoff. “It felt like his skeleton was made of metal. And his claws…” You shake your head.

“Charles thinks he’ll be useful to us.”

“I know. I just hope he calms down a bit.”

Ororo gives you a sheepish smile. “You have to admit, he is handsome, though.”

You laugh. “That’s the impression he gave you?”

She shrugs. “I might have a different one if I had to fight him.”

You contemplate her statement. You suppose he was handsome, but it didn’t startle you when you first saw him. It was the kind of beauty that creeps up and you don’t realize it until you’ve been staring at them for too long. He was rugged, yes, but there was something enticing about his looks. A boyish quality. You remember the smirk that donned his face when he challenged you to a fight.

You shake your head. “Yeah, he definitely made an interesting impression.”

The two of you leave the kitchen once some of the older students begin filing in, many making their own breakfasts instead of eating the provided meal with the other students in the dining room. “Are we training today?” you ask as the two of you walk down the main hall.

“I think Charles wants us to wait until he’s spoken with Logan. Wants us to meet him properly.”

You roll your eyes. ‘Meet him properly.’ Tackling someone to the ground isn’t a proper greeting?

“Be nice,” you hear someone say behind you. Jean falls into stride with the two of you.

“Jean! Don’t read my thoughts,” you say, pushing her lightly.

“But you think so loudly,” she complains.

The three of you make your way outside, deciding to steer clear of the mansion until Logan has had his conversation with Charles. “I really don’t want to run into him again. It would not be conducive to a healthy future relationship,” you mutter.

“He is kind of volatile, isn’t he?” Jean asks rhetorically. “I mean, he attacked with no real provocation.”

“Waking up in a room you’ve never been in with two strangers isn’t provoking enough?” Ororo asks, taking a seat at one of the lawn tables. You join her, leaning back in your chair.

Being in nature calms your nerves, but also sets them alight. Your senses come to life again and you hear the running water of the fountain, the wind whistling through the trees, and the small animals stepping in the grass. As Jean and Ororo continue their conversation, you close your eyes and lean your head back and allow yourself to connect. It is only the second day after the full moon, which means your sensitivity to everything around you is still high. You pull at the energy from the ground, letting it throb through your body. You feel the aching in your body disappear, feel your muscles rejuvenated, feel the blood pumping through your veins.

You hear the humming of a man’s voice, scratchy and slightly off-key. It’s a voice you haven’t heard in years. He’s humming something that only graces your ears in dreams. It scratches your scalp and kisses your forehead. Dad.

You steady your breathing, trying to latch onto his voice. You’ve never experienced this in the daytime; it usually only happens when you’re asleep or in a deep meditative state. The words of your friends fade away.

In your mind’s eye, you stand from the table and follow the humming into the woods. You stumble over fallen branches, but your unusual miscoordination doesn’t prick the logical part of your brain. All you can think of is your father. His voice roaming through the trees, taking you deeper into the woods. And suddenly, you are somewhere else.

The church.

His voice is gone.

“No,” you whimper, turning into a young girl again.

You feel the shackles of the past lock around your wrists, forcing you to your knees. A screech escapes your throat at a forcible yank of your hair backwards. You look up to see your mother staring down at you. Her eyes are pitch black. “Your father rejects you. Even in death, he will not visit your wretched soul,” she says with a sneer, pulling your hair farther back. It feels as if she is trying to rip it from your skull.

“He never rejected me,” you spit.

“Are you so sure?”

You open your eyes with a deep inhale. It wasn’t real. You remind yourself.

Jean and Ororo stare at you, waiting for your response to something. You subtly shake your head of the images conjured by your mind and ask, “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

You hope they assume your exhaustion from last night got the better of you and you simply dozed off for a moment. “Logan is ready to meet us,” Jean says, her eyes a reflection of worry. Not toward meeting Logan, to your dismay.

“Oh, great.”

Despite a desire to remain calm, your heart thunders in your chest. You worry your cross between your fingers. You have no idea what to expect from him; you fully believe he will pounce at you again.

Ororo holds your hand as the three of you enter Charles’ study. Scott sits on the armrest of one of the chairs in the room, arms folded over his chest. Charles is behind his desk and sitting ever so casually on the edge of the desk, is Logan.

He wears a gray X-Men sweatshirt and the jeans he had on when he arrived at the mansion. His eyes fall to yours immediately, recognition filling his gaze. You break eye contact dismissively, going to sit on the other armrest of the chair Scott sits on. You keep your eyes strictly on Charles, but you feel Logan’s on you. Your heart doesn’t steady.

“Everyone, this is Logan Howlett. The Wolverine,” Charles says, gesturing to the man sitting on his desk.

Scott huffs a laugh. “Wolverine? Like the animal?”

You nudge him in the side. “As if Cyclops is any better.”

Charles clears his throat. “Please.”

“We are the X-Men, some of which you have already met.” Charles gives you a pointed look. You throw your hands up in defense. “I promise you not all of your introductions will be so…violent.”

Scott snickers.

“Shut the hell up,” you hiss. Your eyes flick to Logan’s. He watches the interaction between you two carefully.

Charles goes around the room, introducing each of your friends to the stranger. When he gets to you, Logan’s stare bears into you heavier than it had before. It intimidates you, but doesn’t scare you. Charles tells him your name, following with, “Others know her as Proserpina, the Roman goddess of spring.”

You don’t expect him to say anything, but his voice fills your ears for the first time since last night. “The goddess of spring is who knocked me out cold last night?”

“It’s not just nature I can manipulate,” you say tersely. “Bub.”

His eyes narrow as his lips turn up in a smirk.

Charles finishes the introductions and tells the team that training will commence in thirty minutes. The second his spiel is over, you stand. Deciding to jump into the fire, you approach Logan. “Sorry about last night,” he says.

It takes you by surprise. You expected more of a fight from him.

“Uh, it’s okay,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “You gave me some much needed practice.”

You sense your friends watching your interaction from afar. Although they are conversing casually, you feel their eyes on you.

“Yeah, you seemed a little rusty, Pro.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you seemed a little overzealous, Wolverine.”

He grunts. “If that’s overzealous, then I worry for your boyfriend.” He points to Scott on the word boyfriend.

“Scott?” You laugh. “Now, that’s a good joke. You’re funny.”

A look of confusion crosses his face and you leave him like that, feeling content with how the conversation ended. Screw a healthy relationship.

━━━━━━━━━━☆━━━━━━━━━━━

i had to get this out of my brain or i was going to go crazy. i hope you enjoyed! im excited to keep writing them :)

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #wolverine #xmen #scott summers #jean grey #ororo munroe #cyclops #storm #professor x #dark phoenix #i had to get this out of my brain

311 notes · View notes

cakesunflower · 3 months ago

Text

lovelorn (and nobody knows) [rafe cameron au fic] chapter 9

Summary: Isla Carrera had planned for the summer before college to be focused on three things: helping out at her family’s restaurant (the helpful daughter), preparing for college (the good student), and having fun with the Pogues (the loyal friend). But one fateful night, where her car breaks down and her rescuer is none other than Rafe Cameron, seems to send her summer down a path she didn’t see coming–one teeming with a secret, illicit romance with the last person she expected. And if her friends and sister found out, Isla isn’t sure they’ll be so understanding, no matter what her feelings are.

A/N: Happy reading!!!!!

Isla touches up her lipstick under the bright lights of the bathroom, which smells like apples thanks to whatever air freshener is plugged in here. When she drops the lipstick in her purse, Isla sighs at her reflection, the frustration evident in her green eyes. She knows it’s only been a little over an hour since she and her family arrived at Midsummers, but it was an hour spent unable to get to Rafe, and the thought has her blowing a slow breath out of her nose.

Relax. You’re becoming desperate. When has she ever chased after a guy? It’s not in her nature, really, and she’s not sure why it’s becoming so prominent about Rafe Cameron, of all people. She tells herself that it’s guilt that’s driving her, feeling badly for assuming he was the one who had punched JJ because of how offended and hurt he had looked when it came up. Truthfully, Isla hadn’t expected Rafe to be hurt by it, not the way she had seen it reflected in his eyes, and she guesses maybe that’s why she’s so adamant on talking to him and properly apologizing to him.

And especially after that date. . . The way he set it up for them, cooking their meal—it was the sweetest thing any guy has ever done for her to show her their interest. Anyone she has been with before, whether it was a relationship or whatever, never put that kind of effort for her. And that. . . It meant a lot to her. Not to mention the fact that she really did have a good fucking time and, frankly, wished that he had kissed her. Or she should have kissed him.

They should have fucking kissed.

Isla blows out a breath, knowing she can’t change the past as she gives herself one last look over before walking to the door. She begins her walk down the hallway back to where the party is, hearing chatter and music in the distance, only to come to a sudden halt to avoid running into someone who turns the corner from a connecting hallway.

“Isla?” She freezes upon hearing her name from the familiar voice, taking in a deep, quiet breath when her gaze lifts and her eyes lock with her ex-boyfriend.

Of all the people to run into. . .

She hadn’t once thought of running into Carlo at Midsummers, but that was also because she forgot that a few months ago, his mom got remarried and his step-dad is from the Kook side of Outer Banks, and while Carlo hadn’t changed schools and still went to the public school Isla and her friends go to instead of switching over to the Kook academy, it shouldn’t be a surprise that he and his family would come tonight. She had been lucky enough not to spot him—until now, as he stares at her in mild surprise, like he hadn’t expected to run into her, either.

“I was just heading back,” she says, moving to brush past him.

“Wait—” She is forced to stop when he suddenly appears in front of her. “We never got a chance to talk at Sarah’s party.”

Her patience is already wearing thin. “That’s because I made it clear I don’t want to talk to you,” she tells him, trying to keep her voice steady. Goddammit, why can’t he take the hint? What is there for him to say? To apologize for cheating on her? Beg for her forgiveness? She doesn’t care—not anymore, at least. Her annoyance builds, and Isla narrows her eyes and says, “Let’s get one thing clear, Carlo. I don’t owe you shit, alright? You fucked up. You threw our relationship out the window. So I’m well within my rights to tell you to go to hell and never have to speak to you again, because you don’t deserve it.”

Carlo’s jaw tightens, the vein in his temple beginning to protrude with every word Isla hits him with. But she simply keeps glaring at him, undeterred and sick of him trying to have a conversation with her that he thinks will change her opinion of him. “You never even gave me a chance to explain myself—”

“Explain yourself?” Isla repeats, eyebrows rising in disbelief at his audacity. “I’m sorry, I don’t need a step by step walk-through of how your dick ended up in some Jersey girl. It’s been a year since we broke up, Carlo. Move on. I sure as hell have.”

She sees the muscle in his jaw work, indignation firing up in his eyes. But right when Isla thinks he’s going to argue back, spew some bullshit, he surprises her by dipping his chin briefly in a nod. “Fine,” he says tightly. “You win. Won’t bother you again.”

Isla arches an eyebrow as she watches him turn and go, mildly surprised at how easily he gave in. But she doesn’t have a chance to dwell on it, because a new voice from behind her speaks up. “Are you always this brutal to guys who have a thing for you?”

Heart jumping, Isla spins around to see Rafe leaning against the wall on his side, watching her with an almost blank expression. Unable to help herself, Isla’s gaze dips, taking in the sight of him now that he’s this close after days of not seeing him, admiring the pristine press of his suit, his bangs framing his temples, and the family ring he wears on his pinky that gleams under the hallway lights.

When her gaze lifts to meet his, he arches an eyebrow, and instead of being embarrassed that he noticed her blatantly checking him out, she’s just relieved to see him—to have him talk to her. “Only the ones who deserve it,” she replies, her voice growing soft on its own. There’s about five feet of space between them, and she’s desperate to diminish it. “Rafe, I—can we talk?”

“About what?” he asks, but there’s a shift in his gaze that tells Isla he knows exactly what she wants to talk about.

She takes a couple of steps towards him, all too aware of the party going on behind her and that any one of her friends or her sister could walk by at any point and spot them. But she doesn’t want to add fuel to this already sensitive situation as she tells him, “I want to apologize—”

“Not here,” he cuts her off.

Isla blinks and before she knows it, his hand is holding hers and Isla’s gaze instantly drops down to the way his larger hand engulfs hers, his touch warm as their palms press together, and the air hitches in her throat as he tugs her forward. She has enough sense to use her free hand to lift the skirt of her dress so she doesn’t trip as Rafe pulls her around her corner, her heart thundering and too quickly for her to comprehend, they’re suddenly in a small, dark room.

Isla’s gaze darts, just barely making out the shelves next to her and along the wall opposite of the door as she turns around when the sound of the door clicking shut breaks the silence. She squints when a light is switched on, bathing her and Rafe in dim yellow lighting. Her throat tightens when she notices how small the room is—feeling smaller still with Rafe towering over her. Even in the shitty lighting of the supply closet, he’s unfairly gorgeous, the kind that makes her heart skip a beat in one second and pick up its pace in the next. And in the small space, the scent of his cologne is more prominent; fresh and woodsy and delicious.

When her gaze meets his, he arches an eyebrow and tells her, “Wouldn’t want your friends to spot us.”

He says it dryly, and it tightens something in her chest—even as she notes the way his gaze seems to trace the length of her, her skin prickling with awareness. His words have her blurting, “Rafe, I’m so—”

“I overreacted,” he cuts in, effectively surprising her as she gapes up at him. She most definitely hadn’t expected that. When he takes note of her surprised expression, one corner of his lips tilts up in a small, knowing smile. “I was thinking about it and I can’t exactly blame you for thinking I gave Maybank the black eye.”

“I was unfair,” she says with a frown, unsure how this conversation turned around. “I shouldn’t have just assumed that it was you.”

“I can’t exactly blame you for it,” he says, that half smile still visible as he rubs his bottom lip with a thumb. “Not with the history I have with your friends. I can’t expect you to forget all of that after just one date. It was unfair of me, too, to just shut you out these last couple of days.” His gaze meets hers and Isla’s throat locks at the genuine apology in his eyes, the kind that you can’t fake. “I’m sorry for not responding to your messages.”

Isla’s lips part, though no words come out as she stares at him in surprise. Part of her wonders if she’s imagining things, but she still can’t help the way her lips curve up into an incredulous, fond smile. Rafe’s gaze tracks the movement as he asks through a short chuckle, “What?”

She shakes her head, biting down on her smiling bottom lip. “I came here today fully intent on apologizing to you for not giving you the benefit of the doubt. And you just completely turn it around and apologize to me instead.”

His smile widens a bit, looking down at her with a lift of his chin. “Did I steal your thunder?”

Isla lets out a laugh. “A little bit,” she says with a nod. The air between them grows tense, in a way that makes her skin heat up as she realizes their proximity. But even so, her smile falters and she tells him, “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Rafe’s smile fades a bit and for a second, Isla thinks he’s going to deny being hurt. But then again, Rafe is full of surprises, because he nods, gaze dropping to their feet as his lips twist to the side briefly. “I appreciate your apology.” His gaze lifts, blue eyes locking with her deep green, and the air seems to crackle. “You’re forgiven.”

Her shoulders sink in relief, not realizing how badly she wanted to hear those words until Rafe says them. The guy had given her one of the best dates she had ever been on, and she had turned around and insulted him, hurt his feelings, and Isla hated that she did that. If you asked her months ago if she would be up at night, tossing and turning over hurting Rafe Cameron’s feelings, she would have laughed in your face. But now, Isla feels an immense amount of relief knowing that he has forgiven her, and it’s a crazy development, but it’s not one she minds.

“Good,” she says quietly through a smile.

Her heart jumps when Rafe takes a step towards her, the already small space between them diminishing more as he does. “What about me?” he asks, voice low and enough to threaten goosebumps breaking across her skin. “Am I forgiven, too?”

She has to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact as he gets closer, her pulse skittering in anticipation as the distance between them diminishes. The world beyond the door of the supply closet ceases to exist and all Isla can think of, can focus on, is the man before her, towering over her in his staggering height that she never before admired. She sees the way Rafe’s gaze dips from her eyes, lingering on her lips, and her stomach flips at the hungry look that darkens his eyes. She desperately wants him to act on that hunger.

“Yes,” she answers, her voice a whisper as if she’s divulging a secret only for him to know. Her own gaze flickers to his mouth, at lips that look so soft and make her wonder if they feel the same. Desire makes heat pool in her belly, her heart thudding faster and faster with every passing second. Through her dried throat, she speaks up, “If I tell you something, you promise not to hold it against me?”

Maybe he hears the vulnerability that slips into her tone, because Rafe’s gaze snaps up to meet her eyes once more. His chin dips into a single nod. “I promise.”

Her pulse quickens even more. For a split second, she hesitates in spilling her truth, knowing it’s going to leave her open and vulnerable in front of a person she never before wanted to be in such a state. But somewhere along the way, things changed so fast that Isla is left dizzy from it, but it’s a slow turning change she finds herself wanting to explore more of. It’s scary and new, but Isla wouldn’t be a Pogue if she shied away from trying scary and new things.

So conjuring up every ounce of her confidence, she looks him in the eye and confesses, “I missed you.”

Rafe’s eyes flare and she swears she hears him suck in a sharp breath, like her words were a punch in the gut. Her own cheeks warm as her statement hangs between them, feeling her heart pounding in her ears as she waits for him to say something. Anything. The tension in the small space is taut, ready to snap at any second, and she wonders if he can feel it so intently, too. Is she just imagining it? Can he, too, feel the sizzle of energy that exists between them?

“Isla.” His voice is rough, eyes darkening with a need that she feels deep in her bones. “Tell me I can kiss you.”

She nearly wants to cry in relief. “Please.”

It’s all the permission he needs, thankfully, and their collision is earth shattering.

Rafe’s arm winds around her waist and he tugs her close, erasing any remaining space between them as he leans down and captures her lips in a searing, breath-stealing kiss. Isla can’t stop the instant, gratifying moan that sounds from her throat at the first contact of his lips against hers, her hands coming up to grip the lapels of his suit jacket as she practically melts into him and the head spinning kiss.

Their fronts are pressed together and she swears she can feel every hard line of his torso against her as Rafe’s other hand grips her jaw, thumb on one side and his fingers on the other as he tilts her head just the way he likes it. Isla’s knees threaten to give out when his tongue teases her lips and she parts them for him immediately, wetness pooling in her underwear when he groans as his tongue languidly, teasingly slides along hers, tasting her as if he’s savoring every moment. Liquid heat pours through her blood as Rafe takes a few steps forward until Isla is being pressed against a shelf, the contents of it rattling yet neither of them paying any attention as he continues to rob her of her breath with his kiss.

One of her hands slides up to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and the pace of the kiss doesn’t slow for a second as Rafe’s arm moves from around her waist—only for his hand to grip her thigh from the parting of the slit of her dress, his skin warm against her already heated one, and she gasps against him as he lifts her leg to hook it around his hip. It brings them even closer, if possible, and Isla whimpers when she feels his hardness press against her panty covered core, the fiery need for him intensifying even more.

Yes, yes, yes. This is better than she could have ever imagined, going beyond her wildest fantasies. Every movement of his lips against hers sparks electricity in her veins, bringing her closer and closer to the point of cataclysmic explosion. She has kissed plenty of people before but, God, never like this. This, she can feel deep in her soul, bringing every cell in her body to life. She thinks she can easily get addicted to this—to Rafe’s kisses. How can someone be so damn good at kissing?

Isla doesn’t want to stop, she never wants this to stop, but air becomes an annoying necessity. Their kiss slows down, but it seems that Rafe doesn’t want to end it, either, dragging it out as long as he can, tasting her lips with sweet, soft kisses that make her heart ache in the best way. They don’t pull apart, foreheads pressing together as they catch their breaths, the supply closet filled with the sounds of their labored breathing as they share the air between them.

Isla’s eyes slowly open, heavy with dizzying lust, eyelashes fluttering as she finally opens them—only to see that Rafe is already watching her with a hooded gaze of his own. Her heart leaps, noting his kiss swollen lips, which have pinkened also because of her lipstick. The sight of her lipstick smeared on his mouth intensifies the heat pooled low in her belly, watching him with a hunger no doubt he can see.

Fuck. He kissed her in a way that ruined anyone else for her. There’s no going back from this.

“That was. . .” She trails off, still trying to catch her breath, their noses brushing together.

His mouth curves up. “Better than I could’ve imagined,” he finishes, making her already flushed cheeks blush more as she lifts her gaze to meet his, a shy yet thrilled smile dancing on her own lips. Especially when she feels his fingers brushing along her thigh, her leg still wrapped around him, and the blush deepens as she slowly puts her foot back onto the ground.

A breathless laugh escapes her as says, “You’ve got lipstick on your face.”

Rafe grins. An honest, panty-dropping smile that makes her want to kiss him again. His hand on her jaw shifts and she feels his thumb swipe along her bottom lip. “So do you, baby.”

Oh, God. The term of endearment does more to her than she cares to admit, breath stilling in her lungs as her lips tingle not only from his kiss, but the gentle caress of his thumb. His voice is low, a dizzying rasp, and if he ever finds out the kind of effect he has on her, then Isla is in trouble.

Dropping her gaze, she opens her purse and pulls out a small tissue packet. When she takes out a tissue and holds it up to him, Rafe glances at it before meeting her gaze, smirking as he says, “Your mess. Only right for you to clean it up.”

She finds herself grinning at the teasing glint in his eyes, biting her bottom lip as she moves her hand further up and, gently, wipes at Rafe’s lips. His gaze is heavy on her as she does so, heart thudding wildly as she gets rid of her lipstick smeared on his smiling mouth. “Done,” she says once she’s finished, crushing the tissue in a ball in her hand.

“Thank you,” he hums before taking the tissue pack from her hand. “My turn.”

Her pulse stutters once more when he places a knuckle under chin to lift her face up, gazes locking as he, oh so gently, wipes at the skin right around her lips, as if he’s being careful not to displace the rest of her makeup. It’s the most tender anyone has ever been with her, even if it’s something as mundane as him fixing her smeared lipstick, and Isla is a hundred percent sure she falls for him a little bit more, right at this moment. Who knew Rafe Cameron could be so soft, so gentle? After kissing her senseless, nonetheless.

“What do you say to a second date?” he asks, head tilting slightly as he dabs at the corner of her mouth.

Isla finds herself smiling, stomach fluttering. “I’ll say yes if you promise to kiss me again.”

Rafe grins, lowering his hand. Her body craves to be wrapped up in him again as he lifts his chin and says, “That’s a promise I’ll always keep.”

He proves himself when he presses a slow kiss to her lips once more, and Isla melts into him once more, wishing that they could stay in here, just the two of them, instead of returning to the Midsummers party. Her heart flutters wildly, happily, as she returns the kiss before they break apart slowly. “Just let me know when,” she tells him.

“Hmm?” Rafe hums, his gaze on her lips, like he wants to kiss her again. She’d totally let him.

Isla laughs. “For the date.”

His eyes flicker up to meet hers. “Yes, ma’am.” He glances over his shoulder. “Let me make sure the coast is clear.”

“One sec,” she says, taking out her phone and lipstick. Using the camera, she checks her reflection for a moment and grins at Rafe. “Nice clean up job,” she says, making him chuckle as he watches her quickly reapply her lipstick. He really did wipe away any remnants from her skin, and with the lipstick newly applied, no one would ever know. “Okay, I’m ready.”

She watches as Rafe steps to the door, switching off the light and plunging them into darkness, only for some light to slip through the crack that appears when Rafe opens the door just an inch or so. He peeks out, his hand gesturing her forward, and she steps up. “Okay, you’re good to go.”

He opens the door wider and Isla’s heart thuds as she steps out into the empty, bright hallway. She can hear the music and the party continue on outside, glancing down at the last second to make sure her dress is straightened, which it is. Right when she’s about to make her way down the hallway, not wanting to linger in case someone comes by, Rafe’s voice stops her.

“Isla.” She glances at him where he remains inside, standing in the space between the door and the door frame. He grins that panty-dropping smile once more, his gaze dipping to take in the length of her and igniting a fire in her skin as it trails back up to meet her eyes. “You look beautiful.”

Her cheeks flush, glancing away momentarily to give herself a second to get her wits about her, before musing, “You’re only saying that ’cause you just made out with me.”

He chuckles. “Doesn’t make it any less true.” He winks and somehow makes even that seem hot, when Isla would otherwise find it cringey if it was anyone else. Rafe nods in the direction of the party. “Get back out there.”

Isla’s not quite ready to leave him, but she knows she has to because her friends and sister will start looking for her if she’s gone for too long. When she rejoins Kie and Sarah, her sister asks, “Where have you been?”

“Bathroom,” Isla answers. “Why, did I miss something?”

“No,” Sarah hums, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Other than watching people ask Mom and Dad about their anniversary party. I think Mom’s gonna break out in hives,” Kie adds in. Their parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary is coming up quick, and they’re planning a party which Kie and Isla will be helping out with, and while their mom loves to throw a good party, the whole planning part stresses her out. “But we saw Carlo and were worried if you ran into him.”

Isla scoffs, trying to ignore the way her lips are still tingling from Rafe’s kisses. “I did,” she says, making both of their gazes whip to her. Isla rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. I told him to fuck off, and that was the end of that.”

Sarah shakes her head, expression scrunching up in annoyance. “If men are gonna have one thing, it’s the fucking audacity.”

Kie nods as Isla chuckles. “Tell me about it,” she says, just as her skin prickles with awareness. Her gaze wanders until it lands on Rafe, back on the porch with his friends, and Isla bites the inside of her cheek as his gaze seems to find hers in that moment, too. They lock eyes on opposite sides of the party, and her belly flips as that dizzying kiss replays in her mind on a loop.

She has to look away before anyone notices, tuning back into the conversation with Kie and Sarah while trying not to think of Rafe. But it doesn’t help that he watches her from wherever he is throughout the party, a secret just between them in a crowd full of people, but theirs to keep. For now, at least.

194 notes · View notes

lefteagleblizzard · 11 days ago

Text

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔢 Until Dawn males x male reader

Summary: Four standalone scenarios featuring each of the men from Until Dawn showing their protective side when you find yourself in danger. Each scenario exists in its own self-contained world, unconnected to the others.

Tags: He/Him pronouns used for the reader. Fluff and angst. Mike Munroe x male reader; Matt Taylor x male reader; Josh Washington x male reader; Chris Hartley x male reader. Set during the events of the game between chapter 5 and 6. All of these are separated and not connected. Established relationships. Kidnapping in Josh's scenario. Matt and Emily broke-up before the events of the game. Mike and Jess are not together in this.

This is a continuation of 𝒫𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔯𝔢𝔧𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔡 but you can also read this as a standalone without problems. There are 4 totems in each scenario. Just like how it happens in game, the characters don’t have reactions to the totems. The visions are something that could happen in an unknown future and something that I maybe could do as another fic, let me know <3.

Words counts: 9000 words (around 2000 for each character)

Can also be found on wattpad and ao3

ℳ𝒾𝓀ℯ ℳ𝓊𝓃𝓇ℴℯ

The sanatorium was deathly silent, save for the faint whistle of the wind sneaking through the cracks in the old, decrepit building. You huddled against the cold, your arms tightly wrapped around your torso as you tried, and failed, to stave off the biting chill that seemed to seep into your very bones. The room you were trapped in was small, suffocating even, with bars that reeked of rust and neglect enclosing you. The scent of mildew and decay filled the air, thick and oppressive.

This stranger brought you here with no explanation other than pointing the flamethrower he had at you and, when he shoved you inside this godforsaken room, he muttered only one thing.

"Wait here for dawn. Don't move."

And then he was gone, the gray and white wolf slipping through the shadows after him. No explanation. No reason. Just the sound of his boots echoing down the massive, empty hall until you were alone.

Completely alone.

Your eyes scanned the room for the hundredth time, looking for anything that could help. The cracked wall in the ceiling caught your attention again, but it was far too high to reach. The room was barren, offering no tools or furniture to elevate yourself.

Steeling yourself, you backed up a few steps as you prepared for what you were about to do. The cold had made your muscles stiff and every movement felt labored, but you ignored the discomfort. With a deep breath, you lunged forward, raising your foot and slamming it into the door with all the strength you could muster.

Pain shot up your leg, sharp and immediate, but you grit your teeth and pushed through it, slamming your foot against the door again. And again. And again.

You clenched your teeth, the desperation growing with every strike as the door barely budged, the rusty metal mocking your efforts as it groaned but held firm.

The pain in your foot was unbearable now, a throbbing ache that made it hard to stand. You stumbled back, gasping for breath as you pressed your back against the wall and slid to the ground.

"Fuck," you muttered, your head falling into your hands. The frustration and helplessness threatened to overwhelm you, a heavy weight settling in your chest. You felt like screaming, like punching the walls until your knuckles bled, but what good would it do?

Your breath came out in shaky puffs, visible in the icy air as you tried to calm yourself. You hugged your knees to your chest, trying to conserve what little warmth you had left, but it felt futile.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against the wall as a shiver wracked your body.

Then, suddenly, the silence shattered.

A door somewhere in the hall creaked loudly before slamming open. Your head snapping up just in time to see a familiar figure illuminated faintly by the flickering glow of a lighter.

"Mike…" you breathed, your voice a soft whisper of disbelief.

It was him, no doubt about it. Even through the haze of dim light and your own tired mind. He was wearing the same white tank top he had been wearing earlier when the two of you had been curled up by the fire inside that small chalet, his warmth pressed against you. The fabric was dirty now, smeared with streaks of grime and small tears.

His arms were streaked with faint cuts, some fresh and red, others just beginning to clot. His face looked just as battered with dirt smeared across his jaw and forehead, tiny scratches marking his skin like a map.

You pushed yourself off the floor quickly, stumbling slightly as you moved toward the bars, your hands gripping the cold iron as you pressed yourself against them. The rusted smell overwhelmed you, but it didn't matter.

"Mike!" you called out louder now, your voice breaking with a mix of relief and desperation. "Mike, I'm here!"

His head snapped toward the sound of your voice, his lighter flickering wildly in the motion before he stuffed it into his pocket. His eyes widened when they landed on you, his whole body seeming to tense for a moment before he ran and crashed against the bars, pressing himself as close to you as they would allow, his body warm and solid as he hugged you tightly through the narrow gaps.

Both of his arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you as close as he could. He buried his face against the curve of your neck, his breaths ragged and warm against your skin as his grip tightened.

"God, you're okay," he muttered, voice low and raw.

Your chest ached at the sound of it, the vulnerability in his tone breaking through that cocky bravado he so often wore.

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you firmly against him as his breath ghosted over your lips until he closed the distance, his lips crashing into yours with fervor.

You could taste the faint tang of salt and copper, his hand slid up your back, fingers pressing firmly against the curve of your spine as he held you close.

You kissed him back with equal intensity, your hands slipping up to his shoulders before one tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer. A low sound rumbled from his chest, almost a growl, as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, sending a shiver down your spine. His other hand moved from your waist, his fingers brushing against your jaw to tilt your face upward, deepening the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving and his eyes were heavy with unspoken emotion.

You lifted your arms shakily, reaching through the bars to pull him closer—only to freeze when your eyes caught sight of his left hand.

“Mike,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you stared at the poorly wrapped bandage that covered his fingers—or rather, where his fingers should have been. The fabric was soaked through with blood, painted a deep crimson. “What happened to your hand?”

He pulled back slightly, following your gaze to his injured hand. For a moment, his expression faltered, the pain flickering briefly across his face before he shook it off with a forced crooked grin.

“Ah, this?” he said, holding up his mangled hand like it was no big deal. “I got into a little argument with a bear trap. You can see how it ended.”

Your eyes widened in horror, but before you could speak, he leaned in closer, his tone softening as he continued talking. “Relax, though. The important stuff’s still intact.” He wiggled his remaining fingers with a mock flourish, then added with a wink, “Still got enough left to hold you, so we’re good, right?”

You let out a shaky breath, your concern still sharp but momentarily softened by his attempt to lighten the mood.

His hands left your waist only to grip the door tightly, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal as he yanked at it with all his strength.

"Come on, you piece of shit—“ Mike grunted, his teeth gritted as he pulled harder. The door groaned under his effort but barely budged.

"Mike—Mike, stop," you interrupted, stepping back slightly. He paused to look at you, panting, his face red and streaked with sweat.

"It opens from this side," you explained quickly. "I already tried everything." Your foot throbbing faintly as you remembered your earlier attempts.

Mike swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair as his gaze flicked upward, scanning the room until they focused on the big crack in the ceiling above you.

"Stay put, babe. Don't go anywhere," he said suddenly, his voice taking on a teasing tone as he stepped back.

You scoffed lightly despite yourself, your lips twitching into a faint smile.

He grinned, that familiar cocky smirk lighting up his face even through the dirt and exhaustion as he turned and jogged toward the far side of the hall, where a set of stairs led to an upper level of the sanatorium.

Seconds later, there was a loud grunt, followed by the sound of something hitting the ground. You looked up just in time to see him drop through the crack in the ceiling, landing with a thud a few feet away. He winced slightly but straightened almost immediately, his gaze locking onto yours as he crossed the room in just a few strides.

Bug and warm arms were around you again, pulling you tightly against him. His face pressed against your shoulder for a moment before he leaned back, just enough to look at you properly.

"I saw you," he murmured softly, his voice rough and low near your ear. "I saw that guy dragging you up here, and I just—" His hands tighten slightly on your waist as if grounding himself. "I ran through the woods like a goddamn lunatic trying to find you…" He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

"If I see that man again, he's dead. I mean it."

Your heart squeezed painfully at his words. You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against his cheek. The dirt on his skin smeared slightly under your touch and you gave him a small, teasing smile. "You really ran all the way here? In the snow? With barely anything on?"

Mike’s lips curved into a faint smirk, his eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. “What, you think I was gonna just chill out? Cardio’s not optional when you’re trying to save someone’s ass.” His voice was light, but there was a raw intensity in his gaze, betraying just how far he’d go for you.

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his cheek to wipe away some of the dirt smudged there.

"Let’s get out of here," you said quietly, your voice laced with affection and determination.

Mike huffed out a laugh, his breath warm against your face as he leaned in closer.

"Absolutely." He muttered, his tone softer now.

The sound of boots against rusted metal reverberated in the room as you and Mike took turns slamming your feet into the stubborn door. Each kick sent vibrations up your leg, the pain from earlier attempts flaring with every impact.

Finally, the door gave way with a metallic shriek. The rusted frame buckled and the door collapsed onto the ground with a loud clang.

Mike was on you immediately, one arm looping around your waist as he pulled you close. "Stay with me," he murmured, his voice low but firm. He pressed a kiss to your temple, quick and reassuring, before taking your hand in his and guiding you forward.

The air outside the room was colder due to the numerous cracks on the walls. The oppressive silence was punctuated only by the faint drip of water leaking from unseen cracks and the groaning protests of the building's ancient infrastructure.

"I’ll take you from where I entered," Mike said over his shoulder, his voice tight as his eyes darted around.

You nodded, following him closely, though every creak of the floor beneath your steps and every distant rustle made your pulse quicken. Peeling paint flaked off the walls like dead skin, revealing rotted wood and rusting steel beneath. The windows were long shattered and the air smelled damp, heavy with mold.

As you made your way through the main hall, a screech pierced the silence. It was distant, echoing from somewhere deeper in the building, but its inhuman quality made your blood run cold.

Mike stopped immediately, his body stiffening. "You heard that too, right?" he whispered, turning his head slightly. He didn't wait for your answer. His grip on your hand tightened briefly before he let go and stepped forward, scanning the room ahead. "Stay here," he said firmly. "I'll check it out."

You were about to protest but he was already pushing open the door to an adjoining room. The door groaned on its hinges before it closed behind him, leaving you alone in the hallway.

Your heart pounded as you strained to hear over the faint whistle of the wind. Something on the floor caught your eye.

Half-buried beneath a pile of debris lay a carved object, its strange shape just visible through the dust and rubble.

You crouched down, hesitating for only a moment before brushing aside the grime and pulling the object free. It was heavier than it looked, the weight solid and cold in your hand. Smooth in some places, splintered in others, as though time itself had tried to erase its details.

The moment you turned it over, the air thickened, the walls around you darkening until they melted away.

You and Mike were running through the hallway. Your breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps as you limped, struggling to keep pace with him.

Mike reached a heavy metallic door, yanking it open with all his strength. his free hand reaching for you as he shouted, waving you forward urgently.

You stumbled inside, your entire body burning with exhaustion. Mike instantly slammed the door shut behind you with a loud, reverberating clang.

And then a grotesque hand, twisted and unnaturally sharp, shot through the broken window of the door before it could fully seal. You barely registered the flash of movement before it swiped across your throat in a sickening arc.

A warm, wet sensation spread down your neck and Mike's face twisted from relief to raw, primal horror.

Your body buckled, falling forward and getting caught in his arms.

"No, no, no, no—“ His voice cracked, the desperation was painful to hear. Blood poured over his hands as he pressed one against your neck, his fingers trembling as he tried to stop it. Tears streaked through the dirt and grime on his face as he shook you gently, his breaths ragged and breaking.

𝒟ℯ𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

The sanatorium was like a maze of nightmares. You and Mike moved quickly but cautiously, your footsteps echoing faintly as you descended the stairs to reach the back of the place from where Mike had entered. The lighter flickered in his hand, casting faint, jumping shadows across the walls.

"Almost there," Mike whispered, glancing back at you. His free hand hovered near yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his fingertips. "Just keep close to me, alright?"

You nodded, your lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes darted warily around the darkened corners. Something about it felt wrong, as if you were being watched.

Mike was ahead of you, lighter held high, his head snapping from side to side as he checked the place carefully. His entire body was tense, every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the first sign of trouble.

You gripped the railing tightly as you took another step, the cold seeping into your fingertips.

A low growl echoed from somewhere close, so sudden and guttural that it made your heart slam into your ribs.

A flash of gray shot out of a hidden passage beside the staircase. The gray wolf that had been with the flamethrower man snarled as it lunged, teeth sinking into your leg, forcing a strangled gasp from your throat as you stumbled backward. The wolf growled, its grip unyielding as it threatened to pull you to the ground.

The bite burned, sharp and immediate as blood quickly began soaking into the fabric of your pants. You tried to shake the wolf off, its teeth locked in like a vice.

"Hey!” Mike's voice roared through the space, cutting through your pain. His footsteps thundered as he ran back toward you.

"Get off him!"

Mike kicked at the wolf's side with all his strength, the impact making the creature stumble back with a growl. The wolf snarled, baring its teeth at Mike. He positioned himself between you and the animal, holding out an arm to keep you behind him as he shouted again and raised his arms to look threatening to the wolf.

"Go on! Get outta here!"

The wolf hesitated, growling lowly, its ears pinned flat against its head. But it soon turned and bolted back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

Mike immediately turned to you, his face pale with worry. "You okay?"

You groaned, trying to stand upright as you grabbed at the stair railing for balance. "It's not that bad."

Mike crouched down slightly, his hands gripping your arms tightly as his gaze dropped to your leg. His lips thinned when he saw the blood seeping through your pant leg. He glared up at you, his face taut with frustration. “Not that bad? Jesus, you're bleeding."

He grabbed your hand to haul you up. "Come on, we've gotta move.”

You struggled to stand, your leg barely able to bear your weight. Mike tightened his grip on you instantly, keeping you upright. "Lean on me," he said, his voice softer now but no less firm.

Each step was agony, but Mike was relentless, his arm never wavering as he practically dragged you down the hall.

The distant growls echoed behind you, they were becoming closer the longer time went by. Was it still the wolf? How could it move so fast and loudly at the same time? You wanted to take a look behind you but it was impossible to do without slowing down Mike in the process.

"Screw this," he muttered under his breath. Before you could protest, he turned and scooped you up into his arms, holding you bridal style like it was nothing.

"Mike—"

"Don't even start," he interrupted, his tone clipped as he was now free to run. "I'm not letting you hobble around while Cujo's out for blood."

You opened your mouth to argue but shut it again when you heard a screech from behind you and him.

Whatever was behind, it was definitely not a wolf.

His heart was hammering beneath your hand, but his grip on you never faltered. You curled your arms around his neck, letting yourself lean into his warmth as he ran.

Mike didn't stop until he reached the door he'd entered through. With a grunt, he kicked it open, the metal slamming against the wall as he set you down as gently as time allowed, his hands steadying you as you leaned against the wall, your chest heaving from exertion and fear.

The heavy door swung shut behind you. Mike leaned against it for a moment, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Your hands instinctively went to the bite, pressing against the torn fabric of your pants. Blood seeped through your fingers, warm and sticky, but as you inspected the wound, you realized it wasn't as deep as it had felt. Painful, yes, but not life-threatening.

"You okay?" Mike's voice was soft but urgent as he crouched in front of you, his hands hovering near your leg. His eyes were dark with worry, his earlier bravado replaced by something more vulnerable. "Let me see."

"Just hurts like hell," you reassured him, though your voice was shaky.

Mike exhaled sharply, his relief visible as he glanced back toward the door. "Stupid fucking dog," he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening. Turning away for a moment, he rifled through the room as something caught his eyes while you let your muscles relax.

A moment later, he returned with an old, green jacket in his hands. The fabric was worn and frayed in places, but it looked decently warm. He held it out to you, his expression softening slightly.

"Here," he said, his voice quiet. "Put this on. You're freezing."

You shook your head immediately, pushing the jacket back toward him. "You need it more than I do."

"Don’t start," he said, his tone firm but not unkind while shoving the jacket toward you again. "Just put it on."

You crossed your arms stubbornly. "I said no. I'm fine. You're the one who's been running around in the cold."

Mike stared at you for a long moment before cursing under his breath as he slipped the jacket on himself. "Fine. Fine. Are you happy now?" he grumbled, his tone dripping with offense.

You hummed softly, fighting the grin tugging at your lips as you reached forward and straightened the collar of the jacket. "It looks good on you," you whispered, your voice teasing but warm.

Mike's glare faltered slightly. His lips parted and you could see the way his chest rose as he inhaled sharply, the tension bleeding from his body. You brushed a hand against his cheek, your thumb grazing over the faint stubble there.

Mike leaned into your touch without thinking, his eyes softening as they locked onto yours. The corners of his mouth quivered into a faint smile, his warm breath brushing against your face as he pulled you closer by the waist.

"If that wolf comes after you again, I'm turning it into a nice, warm fur coat for you to wear. Deal?" He whispered, his voice low and playful.

You laughed, the sound light and genuine for the first time in hours. Mike's grin widened at the sound, his fingers tightening against your hips.

"My boyfriend deserves only the best, after all," he murmured softly, his eyes fixed on you as your body leaned into his.

ℳ𝒶𝓉𝓉 𝒯𝒶𝓎𝓁ℴ𝓇

The wind howled like a wounded animal as you and Matt trudged through the heavy snow, the outline of the radio tower barely visible against the foggy backdrop. Matt’s arm was wrapped snugly around your waist as you both moved in a quiet rhythm.

All of that road for your bag only to being left on the snow the second you heard about what happened to Josh and who did it. You couldn’t believe Josh was dead, you felt so bad for Chris when he told you everything and the sight of Ash covered in Josh’s blood made your your own run cold.

The only thing you could do now was to call for help.

Each step closer to the tower seems heavier, the sight of it towering into the foggy sky sends a ripple of unease through your chest. The closer you got, the harder it became to steady your breathing. Your stomach churned, an uncomfortable knot of fear tightening with every screech of the metal.

Emily marched ahead, her sharp voice cutting through the wind as she barked something about getting to the top quickly and calling for help.

But you weren't listening.

Your gaze was fixed upward. The thought of climbing those stairs made your legs feel weak.

You stopped abruptly, the hand you had around Matt's arm tightened to steady yourself. His warm brown eyes immediately shifted to you, concern flashing across his face as he stopped too.

“What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, his brows knitted together as he studied your expression.

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. "I can't— I don't think I can do this.” Your voice was soft, cracking at the edges, a stark contrast to the person he was used to.

Your breathing was uneven, your lips slightly parted as if you were struggling to get enough air. There was a sheen of moisture in your eyes, not quite tears, but close enough to make his chest ache. Your brows were drawn together tightly and your jaw trembled ever so slightly. The fear in your expression was unfiltered and seeing it struck something deep within him.

"Hey, hey," Matt said softly, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face. His thumb brushed gently against your cheek. "Talk to me. What's going on?"

Your hands tightened their grip on his purple jacket, seeking something solid to hold onto. "I don't do heights, Matt. I can't climb that thing." You admitted finally, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Matt was quiet for a moment, his lips pressing into a thin line as he processed your words. He could feel the tremble in your hands, the way your body leaned slightly against his. It wasn't like you to be so afraid and it made him want to protect you even more.

"I can wait down here," you said quickly, as if trying to convince yourself as much as him. "You and Emily can go up and—"

"No," Matt interrupted, shaking his head firmly. His hands slid to your waist, holding you steady as his gaze locked onto yours. "I'm not leaving you down here alone. That psycho's still out there. I'm not about to let anything happen to you."

You bit your lip, the familiar warmth of his touch helping to calm the storm inside you, even if only slightly.

You were unsure of how to argue. The idea of being left alone felt awful, especially now, but the thought of climbing that tower was almost worse.

Matt sighed, his expression softening. "Look," he said, his voice low and soothing, "I get it. I do. But I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'll be right behind you the whole way. Okay? Every step. We'll get through it together."

You looked up at him, the sincerity in his eyes cutting through some of the haze of your fear. His hands tightened slightly on your waist. His unwavering kindness was the only thing keeping you from breaking apart completely.

You nodded slowly, the movement hesitant but enough to show that you were willing to try. Matt's face lit up with relief, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips.

"That's my guy," he said softly, pressing a kiss to your lips quickly, his hand holding your cheek softly in the process until he pulled away. "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

Emily's sharp voice cut through the moment, impatient as ever. "Are you two lovebirds done yet? We don't exactly have all night."

Matt turned to glare at her, but there was no real heat behind it. "Give us a second, Em," he shot back before returning his focus to you. "Ignore her. She's just cranky. Probably cold."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips and Matt's heart swelled at the sight of it. His hand lingered on your waist for a second longer before he reached Emily to explain to her the situation.

Emily tone was sharp as she spoke with Matt. His voice was soft, though there was a hint of an edge in it.

While they spoke, you took a small step back, trying to regain your composure. Something caught your gaze on the snow-covered ground. A faint shape sticking out of the frost, partially hidden under a layer of ice and dirt. You crouched, curiosity sparking despite your lingering fear.

A faint pattern like a jagged spiral ran along one side and despite the biting cold, it felt almost warm in your hand. You inspected the artifact, turning it over.

The dark, cramped space pressed in on you as you hid together with Matt. His arm was tight around your shoulders, holding you so close to his chest that you could feel his heart pounding against your back.

Your gaze dropped to your hands where blood was pooling at your fingertips, dripping steadily onto the ground. You clenched your fists, trying to stop the flow, but the crimson drops continued to fall.

A gaunt, twisted figure crawled into view from behind, its movements jerky and unnatural. Its sunken eyes glinted in the dim light as it sniffed the air, its head snapping toward your hiding spot.

𝒟𝒶𝓃ℊℯ𝓇 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

"Okay, fine," Emily said, throwing up her hands. "But if he slows us down, Matt—“

"He won’t," Matt interrupted, his voice firm but calm. He turned back to you, his expression softening the instant his eyes met yours. "You ready?" he murmured, his voice filled with affection.

You forced yourself to nod. "Yeah. Let’s do this."

The climb to the first level of the tower had been slow but manageable, largely thanks to Matt. But as the three of you approached the second and final part of the climb, the reality of the height struck you again.

Your hands gripping the railing so tightly that your knuckles ached. The world seemed to tilt around you, a dizzying reminder of just how far you'd come… and how much farther you could fall.

"Almost there," Matt called gently from below, his voice cutting through the roar of the wind. "You're doing amazing, babe. Just a little further."

His words were meant to encourage, but you could barely hear them over the pounding of your own heartbeat.

You reached for the trapdoor, your fingers brushing against its icy surface. A sudden gust of wind slammed into you, throwing you off balance and your foot slipped on the icy stare. Your stomach lurching as gravity pulls you backward, barely managing to catch yourself and clutching the metal stairs with both arms in a desperate embrace.

Matt's heart felt like it stopped at the sight of you losing your balance. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" The words tumbled out of him in a rush as he scrambled up a few steps.

You couldn't answer immediately. Your chest heaved as you clung to the cold metal, every fiber of your being focused on not looking down.

A shriller, far less comforting voice spoke from below. "I'm freezing my ass off down here! Just stop looking down! Close your goddamn eyes and open the damn trapdoor already!" Emily's unmistakable tone rang out from the base of the stairs. Her words hit like a slap and you flinched instinctively.

Matt’s usual calm demeanor cracked as he whipped around, his voice firm and louder than you'd ever heard it before. "Yelling isn't going to help, Emily! Just let him calm down, alright?"

Emily's jaw dropped, caught off guard by the sudden bite in Matt's tone. Her shock lasted only a second before wrath flashed in her eyes. "Excuse me?" she snapped, her hands gripping tightly the bars. "At least I'm trying to get him to move! What are you doing besides staring at his ass the whole time?"

Matt reeled back, his cheeks immediately flushing with embarrassment. "I—what?! I wasn't—what are you even talking about?!" he stammered, his words fumbling over each other in a rush to defend himself, unsure of how to even begin addressing her ridiculous accusation.

Despite your shaky state, a small, unexpected laugh bubbled out of you at the absurdity of their argument and it gave you the last bit of strength to open the trapdoor and crawl on the floor of the tower. "I got it," you called down, your voice still trembling but steadier than before.

When Matt reached the top of the stairs, you were still crouched near the trapdoor. Your legs shook slightly as you forced yourself to breathe, to focus on anything but the dizzying height below. You felt Matt kneel beside you, his presence warm and grounding despite the cold wind cutting through the tower.

“Hey,” he said softly, placing his hands gently on your shoulders. His touch was firm but reassuring, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of your jacket.

His face was closer now, and you could see the worry etched into his features. The way his eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the right words to say, made your heart ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

Matt hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. There was a beat of silence, before he leaned forward, his hands sliding to your waist as he pulled you closer.

His lips pressed against yours, soft and warm, the kiss tender but filled with a quiet intensity. When he pulled back, his face lingered close to yours, his forehead almost resting against yours as he exhaled shakily with a small, nervous smile tugged at his lips.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck as he avoided your gaze. “I, uh… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he murmured, his voice quiet but filled with sincerity.

"And for the record," he added quickly, his voice low, "I wasn't staring at your ass. I mean, not on purpose! I mean—" He stumbled over his words, clearly flustered. "I was just… making sure you were safe. Like, in case something happened. Which it didn't! It kind of did, but you know what I mean."

The corners of your lips twitched upward and before you knew it, you were laughing. It was shaky and soft, but it was genuine. The sound seemed to disarm Matt completely and he let out a nervous chuckle of his own, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders.

"See?" he said, his tone lighter now as his own smile grew. "That's better. You've got a great smile, you know? Way too good to waste on freaking out about some stupid tower."

You shook your head, your laughter fading into a warm smile as you looked up at him. He stood, offering you his hand, letting him help you to your feet.

Your legs felt weak as you stood, gripping onto the nearest surface to keep yourself steady, refusing to glance at the windows and the dizzying drop below. Matt stayed close by your side, his arm brushing against yours, while Emily knelt by the radio, frantically fiddling with its dials as she successfully called for help.

Beneath the roar of the storm, you heard a sharp, metallic thud. Your heart leapt into your throat as the noise echoed through the tower.

Another sound. A loud, deliberate slam against the trapdoor you'd climbed through. Emily screamed as she backed away and hugged herself. The metal vibrated under each blow, the trapdoor shaking violently as someone—or something—tried to force its way inside.

Matt stepped in front of you, his arm shooting out to shield you. He was just as terrified as you were, but he wasn't going to let it stop him.

The banging stopped, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. Before a sudden, violent lurch threw you off balance as the entire tower shifted, the floor tilting beneath your feet.

Sparks erupted from the radio equipment as the cables outside snapped one by one, the groaning of metal deafening. Wires shorted out, sending a burst of flames crawling up the walls. The air filled with smoke and the acrid stench of burning electronics.

"Hold on!" Matt yelled, his voice barely audible over the chaos. He reached for you, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist as he pulled you against him. His grip was strong as he anchored you to him. His other hand shot out, grabbing onto the handle of a desk bolted to the wall, giving you enough time to grab the desk too.

The tower tilted further and Emily screamed as she fell into the window facing the black ravine. She hit it hard, the glass spider webbing with cracks under the force.

"Emily!" you and Matt cried out, but your voice was lost in the chaos as the tower fell violently on the ravine and got stuck temporarily. The desk Matt was holding onto creaked under the strain, its metal legs groaning before the one holding you snapped with a sickening crack.

The sudden loss of stability sent you sliding backward, the window on your left catching your weight just before the glass shattered, slicing into your skin as half of your body hung out into the void.

Panic exploded in your chest as the freezing wind roared around you. Your hands scrabbled desperately against the broken glass and jagged metal, trying to find anything to hold onto. Blood smeared the glass where your palms dragged across it and a strangled cry tore from your throat as you felt your strength fading.

You were seconds away from falling to your own death before Matt's strong hand gripped your shoulder tightly. You looked up, tears blurring your vision and saw his face.

"I've got you," he said, his voice shaking but steady and eyes wide with fear. "Don't let go."

You choked out his name, your voice trembling with both terror and relief. The sheer force of your panic made your words nearly incoherent, but he understood.

His grip on your shoulder tightened as he braced himself against the crumbling wall. With a grunt of effort, he began to pull you up, his muscles straining as he fought against gravity. You felt the jagged glass dig deeper into your skin as he dragged you back to the top of the tower.

Finally, you were close enough for him to wrap both arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. He buried his face in your neck, his breath warm against your freezing skin. "You're okay," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Your body trembled against his, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins but you clung to him tightly.

The sharp, panicked sound of Emily's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "Oh, god, Matt, help me!" she screamed, her voice rising above the wind and the groaning of the collapsing tower. The structure swayed dangerously again, causing you to flinch violently as your hands gripped the splintered metallic floor beneath you, too paralyzed by fear to move. The glass shards dug painfully into your palms and your chest heaved with shallow, frantic breaths.

Matt was crouched beside you, his hand brushing over your shoulder in a silent reassurance, though his focus was pulled toward Emily. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together as his head darted between her dangling form and you, trembling on all fours right next to him. "Emily! Just—just hang on!" he shouted back, his voice strained with panic and uncertainty.

"Matt you’ve got to do something right NOW what are you waiting for?!?!" Emily screeched, her hands gripping desperately at the metal beam she was clinging to. Her face was pale, twisted in anger and terror as she tried to haul herself upward.

"I’m thinking! Let me think—" Matt shot back, frustration and desperation bleeding into his tone as he glanced at her precarious position. Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to do something, but the chaos made it impossible to think.

"Don’t think, you idiot, just get me out of here!" Emily yelled, her words sharp and cutting.

"Emily, you’re upset, you need to calm down. You’re gonna be fine—"

“Ugh, stop talking, I can’t take it!”

“Stop yelling at me and let me work this out, okay?” Matt’s voice was starting to crack under the pressure. The rare harshness in his tone shocked her into momentary silence, though her glare remained fixed on him.

“No, you stop it! Why do you keep questioning everything I say?! I’m goddamned sick of it!”

As they argued, you trembled next to Matt, your body betraying you under the crushing weight of fear. The dizzying height and the groaning metal beneath you all pressed down like a suffocating hand. Your arms were weak, hands and arms bloody from the shattered glass and your mind was spiraling into dark places you couldn't control. You wanted to move, to help, to say something, but the words wouldn't come as you kept staring down at the metal that kept moving and falling apart beneath you.

Matt extended his hand down to reach for her but the tower moved again, sliding further down and causing Emily to fall further down, her hands gripping tightly the metal were now the only thing keeping her from falling down.

Matt's head whipped toward you as the tower lurched again, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the look on your face. Your eyes were wide, glassy with terror, your lips trembling as shallow gasps escaped you. You looked completely frozen, your normally bright expression replaced with sheer, raw fear. The sight made Matt's chest ache in a way he couldn't describe.

His mind was racing, torn between what to do. He hated seeing you like this, so vulnerable, so scared.

"Matt!" Emily screamed again, her voice grating. He turned back to her briefly, his expression torn. She was hanging precariously, her fingers slipping further with every passing second.

Matt's breath caught in his throat as he realized he couldn't save both of you. The tower was seconds from collapsing entirely.

He had to make a choice.

He couldn't lose you.

Not you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos occurring.

Emily's head snapped up, her brows furrowed in confusion as she tried to figure out what he meant

Matt moved, his hand gripping tightly your arm as he hauled you to your feet with a surprising strength born of pure adrenaline. "Hold onto me!" he shouted, his voice breaking through your haze of fear.

You barely had time to process his words before he pulled you forcefully against him, his arms locking around you before jumping away from the tower.

The two of you leapt clear of the collapsing tower just as it let out an earth-shattering groan. The entire structure gave way, crashing into the ravine in a deafening roar of twisted metal, shattered glass, and flames.

You and Matt hit the ground hard, the cold bit into your skin, but the sheer force of the adrenaline coursing through your veins dulled everything else. For a moment, you lay there, your body trembling uncontrollably as you tried to catch your breath.

Matt's arms were still around you, holding you tightly as if he couldn't bear to let go. His chest rose and fell against yours, his breaths coming fast and uneven. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes wide and frantic as he scanned your face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You nodded shakily, your words caught in your throat. Your hands gripped his torn jacket tightly. "I'm okay," you managed to whisper, though your voice trembled.

Matt exhaled a shaky breath, relief flooding his features. But as he looked back toward the ravine, the guilt hit him like a physical blow, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it.

"She's gone," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I didn't—" His words broke off, his face twisting with anguish.

You reached up, your hands still trembling, and cupped his face gently. "Matt," you said softly, your voice steady despite the fear still lingering in your chest. "You didn't have a choice. "

His eyes searched yours, desperate for reassurance.

"Thank you for saving me," your voice firm this time as you cradle his head between your hands.

Matt's lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing as tears threatened to spill. "I couldn't lose you," he whispered finally, his voice breaking.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, trembling kiss. His hands cupped your face gently, his touch tender despite the strength that had just saved your life.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and for the first time all night, the tension in his shoulders eased. "I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible but heavy with meaning.

You smiled faintly, your own fear finally starting to ebb away. "I love you too."

For now, at least, you were safe and together.

𝒥ℴ𝓈𝒽 𝒲𝒶𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃ℊ𝓉ℴ𝓃

The lodge felt emptier than ever.

The silence pressed against you from all sides, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the faint howling of the wind outside. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, flickering faintly with the light of the fire. The crackling flames did little to warm the place.

You sat on the edge of one of the couches, your elbows resting against your knees as you stared at the floor, your vision blurring with tears. One hand gripped the fabric of your jeans tightly, knuckles pale, while the other shakily wiped at your face. Your chest aches and your throat felt tight, like you couldn't quite catch your breath.

Josh was gone.

The image of it was still burned into your mind. It replayed on an endless loop: the look of horror on his face, the blood, the sickening sound of the chainsaw sliding him in half. You couldn't stop hearing it, couldn't stop seeing it, even when you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to force it away.

And worst of all, you hadn't been able to do anything.

The tears started again, hot and unstoppable as they streaked down your face. You drew in a shaky breath, trying to hold it in, trying to keep it together, but the grief was relentless, clawing at your chest like something alive. You dropped your head into your hands, shoulders trembling as you let it out, the quiet sobs muffled by your palms.

You didn't even hear Chris and Ashley enter the room.

Chris's voice broke through the silence, soft but uncertain as he called your name. You stiffened instinctively, brushing at your face quickly as you turned your head, though there was no hiding the tears in your eyes. Chris stood near the doorway, his expression filled with uncertainty and guilt. Ashley hovered beside him, her eyes wide with sympathy, her hands twisting nervously around each other.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat as you tried to speak. "Hey," you croaked, though your voice cracked on the word.

Chris shifted awkwardly on his feet, glancing toward Ashley for a moment before stepping closer to you. His face was pale and tired, the usual spark of humor in his eyes replaced with something dull and haunted.

"Listen, man…" Chris started, his voice trailing off as if he didn't know how to finish. He ran a hand through his hair, his movements restless. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry. About Josh. I can't even imagine…"

He trailed off again, his face contorting slightly as he struggled to find the right words. You could see the guilt written all over him. He'd watched it happen. He'd seen you break down in that moment, screaming and reaching for Josh, even when there was nothing you could do.

The words came softly, but they still cut deep. You didn't want his sympathy. You didn't want anyone's sympathy, because it didn't change anything. Josh was still gone.

But as you opened your mouth to say something, you paused. Chris's face was crumbling, his voice shaking slightly as he spoke again.

"I know how much he meant to you. And… God, I just can't believe it." His voice broke on the last words, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of his grief was too much to bear.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him. Chris was hurting too. Josh wasn't just your boyfriend; he'd been Chris's brother in all but blood.

You sniffed, wiping at your face with the back of your hand before looking up at him.

"I'm sorry for you too," you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. "He was your best friend."

Chris's expression twisted painfully and he looked away quickly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Yeah," he said softly, his voice tight. "Yeah, he was,” his eyes were glassy as he looked away.

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, thick and heavy with grief. For a moment, none of you spoke. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire.

Ashley, who had been silent up until now, moved slightly closer to Chris. She placed a hand gently on his arm, her touch soft but deliberate. Chris flinched faintly at first, but he looked down at her and seemed to understand what she meant

"Right," Chris murmured after a moment, his voice hushed. He looked back at you, his face softening with understanding. "We're, uh—we're gonna head upstairs. Sam should be there.”

You nodded faintly, still not trusting your voice to speak.

Chris hesitated, clearly torn, his eyes flickering toward Ashley and back to you. He looked like he wanted to say more, to stay, but Ashley gave his arm a small tug, silently urging him to leave you alone for now.

"Take your time," Ashley said softly, her voice kind but sad.

Chris let out a breath, nodding at you one last time before turning to follow Ashley out of the room. Their footsteps faded into the distance, and the silence returned, heavier than before.

You sat back against the chair, staring at the fire as tears started to burn your eyes again. It wasn't fair. Josh had been here just hours ago laughing, joking, grinning at you in that mischievous way that only he could. You could still hear his voice teasing you, the way he'd lean close to whisper some ridiculous comment that would leave you rolling your eyes but smiling anyway. He'd kiss you like it was the only thing that mattered, his lips soft and slow and full of affection. Josh had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the world.

And now he is gone.

A sob escaped your throat, unexpected and raw and you curled in on yourself, your face pressing into your hands. The ache in your chest deepened, spreading like a crack in glass. It hurts to breathe, to think, to feel.

Josh lingered in the shadows of the lodge, his breathing controlled, almost imperceptible, as he watched you from a distance. The flickering firelight cast faint orange hues across your form, highlighting every shudder of your shoulders, every tremble in your body as you cried alone on the couch.

It had been hard enough to keep his composure when Chris and Ashley had been there with you. But now that you were alone, crumpling under the weight of grief he'd inflicted on you, it was nearly unbearable.

Josh's chest tightened as he watched you wipe your face with trembling hands. The sight alone carried enough pain to gut him. He hadn't anticipated this part of his plan, hadn't thought about how deeply his "death" would cut you, hadn't truly imagined the look of agony on your face as you mourned him.

Josh gritted his teeth, his jaw locking as he turned his head slightly, as though looking away might ease the ache spreading through him.

It didn't.

You were right there and every sound you made carved deeper into him, peeling back layers of guilt he'd tried so hard to bury.

He had envisioned this night countless times in his head, every piece of the plan falling into place. He would take the others to the brink of terror, make them feel the helplessness and fear his sisters must have felt, and then pull back the curtain. Show them that it was all a game, a carefully crafted performance.

They'd be mad, sure, but they'd understand. He wanted them to understand what it felt like to be alone, to lose someone you loved. To hurt the way he had hurt after his sisters disappeared.

But Josh hadn't anticipated how much it would shatter him to see you the way your body curled into itself like you were trying to disappear, to hear the way you whispered his name under your breath soft and broken, like a prayer that would never be answered.

Josh's fingers dug into the wood of the doorframe until his knuckles went white. He felt his chest tighten, his throat working around a lump he couldn't quite swallow.

You'd see. They'd all see. Once everything was finished, they'd finally understand what it felt like.

Josh inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze back to you. You would forgive him, he was sure of it. By the end of the night, you'd see what he was trying to do. That this whole thing was for you as much as it was for him.

Josh took a step forward, silent as a shadow as he took another. His movements were slow, calculated, as he stalked toward you. His figure wrapped in darkness save for parts of his mask and the edges of the gas mask slung over his shoulder. He kept his breathing steady, his footsteps light, his gaze locked on you.

You were his to protect, his to keep safe. You didn't belong out here with the others. You weren't supposed to suffer because of their sins.

You'd forgive him for this. You had to.

His grip tightened on the gas mask, the rubber creaking faintly under the pressure of his fingers.

His heart hammered in his chest as he hovered just behind you now, close enough that he could see the faint tremors running through your frame. His eyes softened for a brief moment as he crouched slightly, one hand tightening around the strap of the gas mask.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words slipping out so quietly he wasn't sure he'd said them at all.

You tensed at the sound, your head snapping up as you turned sharply to look over your shoulder. But before you could see him fully, Josh surged forward.

A sharp gasp escaped you, your body jerking back instinctively, but Josh was faster. He clamped the gas mask against your face, his other hand locking around the back of your head to hold it in place.

Your muffled shout rang through the room, your hands flying up to grab at his arms, your fingers digging into his sleeves as you fought.

Your struggles weakened as the drug took effect, your limbs growing heavy. Josh caught you as you slumped forward, your head resting against his chest. He cradled you in his arms, adjusted your weight carefully before lifting you into a bridal carry with ease.

Your head lolled against his shoulder, breath shallow but steady. He held you tightly, his arms wrapped protectively around you as he began moving through the lodge.

Josh’s grip on you tightened, his mind racing as he carried you through the lodge. He glanced down at your face, vulnerable and peaceful, a pang of guilt striking him even as he pressed you closer to his chest, his body tense with emotion as he moved through the hallways.

Josh's thoughts halted abruptly when his foot struck something hard on the floor. The object skidded across the hall with a faint scraping sound, breaking the stillness. He froze, his grip tightening on you instinctively as his sharp eyes darted downward.

A small wooden carving, unmistakable even in the low light.

Josh shifted your weight in his arms to free one hand. Almost hesitantly, he reached down and picked up the artifact, its rough surface felt rough, even edged under his fingertips. He turned it over in his hand.

You were standing in the middle of a dark place somewhere. Half of your body is submerged in water. You were frozen, eyes wide and glassy with terror. Your body was completely rigid, as though you couldn't move even if you wanted to.

Then a grotesque, elongated hand reached into view, its skin pale and stretched unnaturally tight over jagged bones. Its fingers twitched as they clamped down with horrifying force. The hand gripped your face tightly, its long, claw-like fingers pressing into your skin as if it meant to crush your skull.

ℒℴ𝓈𝓈 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

Finally, Josh reached the room he'd prepared. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing a small, dimly lit space with a sturdy lock. He stepped inside, carefully setting you down on the couch in the corner. Your head lolled slightly as he adjusted your position, ensuring you were comfortable.

He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he cupped your face. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, his voice barely audible. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks, tracing the lines of your face as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

Josh pulled back reluctantly, his hands lingering on your face for just a moment longer.

"You'll understand soon. I promise." He murmured, his voice soft but firm.

With one last glance, he stood and stepped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him. As the lock turned, he felt a pang of guilt so sharp it nearly brought him to his knees. But he pushed it aside, forcing himself to focus.

You are safe now. That was all that mattered to him.

𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈 ℋ𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓁ℯ𝓎

The basement was cold, darker than you'd expected, with a damp, heavy air that clung to your skin. The dim overhead light buzzed faintly, casting flickering shadows along the cracked stone walls.

You were in the lead, your pace quick and determined despite the growing fear gnawing at your chest. Your older sister, Sam, was down here somewhere, you knew it. She had to be. Every instinct told you to find her before it was too late.

"Sam's smart," Chris said from behind you, his voice low but steady as he tried to keep up with you, though you could hear the slight tremor of uncertainty beneath his words. "If she's down here, she's probably already figured out a way to hide or something. Right, Ash?"

Ashley nodded, her steps careful as she moved beside Chris, her flashlight cutting weakly through the shadows.

You didn't turn to look at them, focus locked on the narrow hallway ahead. The stone walls felt too close, the air heavy with dust and decay, your hands curling into fists as you marched forward.

"Hey, slow down!" Chris called after you, his voice laced with concern. "We don't know what's down here."

You ignored him, your flashlight sweeping frantically across the walls and floor for any sign of her. The further you moved, the more the basement seemed to twist and turn, like a labyrinth.

The three of you continued deeper into the basement, the narrow hallway opening into a larger, more cavernous space. The walls here were rougher, the stone uneven and jagged in places and the faint smell of mildew lingered in the air.

"This place is insane," Chris muttered under his breath, his flashlight sweeping over the walls as he took in the eerie space. "Why does a lodge even have something like this? It's like a whole new place down there."

There was now a narrow corridor where the walls seemed to close in, the ceiling lower now, the air damp and stale. You paused for a moment to catch your breath, your flashlight flickering briefly as you swept it across the space.

Your eyes fell on something in the corner of the corridor-a faint shimmer, like something metallic. You moved toward it quickly, ignoring the chill that ran up your spine.

It was a small, cracked mirror, its surface marred with streaks of grime and dust. Beside it sat an old, rusted lantern, long extinguished. No sign of Sam. Just more emptiness.

Your chest tightened, disappointment and frustration flaring hot and sharp. You slammed a fist against the wall, the sound echoing in the narrow space. "Dammit!"

"Hey," Chris said gently, stepping closer. "We'll find her, okay? You don't have to-"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" you snapped, turning on him suddenly. "She could be down here hurt, scared, alone and we're just…" You trailed off, your voice shaking as the words caught in your throat.

Chris froze, his expression softening. He didn't argue. He just stood there, his face pale in the faint glow of his flashlight, like he wasn't sure what to say.

Ashley shifted uncomfortably beside him, her brow furrowed with worry. "We're all scared but you're not alone in this, okay? We'll find her." She said quietly, her voice soft but steady.

You didn't reply. You couldn't. Your hands were shaking and you couldn't tell if it was from anger, fear, or something worse. Instead, you turned away from them and pressed forward again, following the set of narrow stairs descended further into the earth, the edges of the stone steps worn smooth from years of use.

"Hey, wait up!" Chris called, his footsteps hurrying to catch up with you. "We should stick together, man."

You ignored him, your mind too preoccupied with thoughts of Sam. The flashlight's beam swept across the walls, illuminating strange markings and stains that made your imagination run wild.

Their words barely registered as you moved further into the room, your heart pounding heavily in your chest. You scanned the floor and walls carefully, your eyes darting between every crack and crevice for any sign of your sister.

Then, something caught your eye.

Near the base of an old wooden crate, partially hidden beneath a pile of dust and debris, was a strange object. You crouched down slowly, brushing the dirt away. Its weathered surface felt cool and rough beneath your fingertips as you picked it up, the intricate patterns on its surface oddly mesmerizing.

Your fingers wrapped around it and you shifted it to analyze the foreign object.

You were inside a dark, broken-down shelter, your back pressed against the rough wood of the wall.

You were frozen, your body stiff with fear as your wide eyes stared forward. Across the room, something tall with unnatural limbs moved slowly. Its hollow eyes scanned the room, letting out a high-pitched screech that echoed, clawing at your nerves.

Chris stood at the doorway of the shelter. His face was pale, frozen in terror as he raised the rifle in trembling hands as his finger squeezed the trigger.

𝒢𝓊𝒾𝒹ℯ 𝓉ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓂

Ashley placed a gentle hand on Chris’s arm, drawing his attention away from you. "You think she is hiding somewhere?" She suggested softly, though her voice trembled slightly.

Chris hesitated, glancing between her and the darkened stairs leading further down. "Yeah it could be," he said. He shifted his flashlight, his shoulders tense. "You should go back upstairs. Check the second floor again. Sam could've found somewhere to hide up there that we missed."

Ashley nodded slowly, her expression troubled. "You really think so?"

"It's worth a shot," Chris said, his voice quieter now.

Ashley bit her lip, glancing toward you with a look of worry etched across her face, her flashlight beam catching your face as she gave you a small, hesitant smile. "Ве careful down here, okay?"

"I will," you replied, your voice steadier now.

Ashley lingered for a moment longer, her gaze filled with concern, before nodding and heading back toward the staircase. The sound of her footsteps echoed faintly as she climbed, growing softer and softer until they disappeared entirely.

Chris turned to you, his expression serious as he adjusted the flashlight in his hand. "Alright," he said, his tone quieter now. "Let's figure this out. If Sam's down here, we're going to find her."

The dim, flickering light in the psycho's basement painted the horrifying scene in muted, sickly hues. The walls were cold, damp concrete, but they were far from empty. Photos of you and your friends on a wall, each one marked with red slashes, circles, and Xs. Some were crossed out completely, others circled with jagged edges, and the sight sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

In one corner, a row of gutted pigs hung from rusted hooks, their carcasses swaying faintly with every breath of stale air in the room. The metallic stench of blood was suffocating, mixing with the damp and decay to create an unbearable cocktail of rot. You gagged, your hand instinctively covering your nose and mouth as you tried to focus on anything else.

Chris's hand found your arm, his grip firm but trembling slightly. He pulled you closer to him, his flashlight beam sweeping nervously over the gruesome display. "Stay close to me," he murmured, his voice low but filled with tension.

You nodded silently, your heart pounding in your chest as you moved together through the darkened space.

She was out there, somewhere in this hellhole. You had to find her. You had to.

Your breaths came faster, shallower, the edges of your vision tingling as your chest began to ache. The panic set in, sharp and consuming.

"Sam…" you whispered shakily, your hand pressing against the center of your chest as it started to burn.

"Hey, hey, whoa." Chris turned to you quickly, his flashlight swinging wildly as he grabbed your shoulders. "You okay?"

Chris pulled you closer, his hands firm and steady against you. "Hey. Look at me, alright? Look at me."

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. Chris's face was pale and tense, but his eyes were focused, his voice steady as he spoke. "You need to calm down. Just breathe, okay? Slow and deep. In and out. Like this."

He exaggerated his breathing, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly as he held you against him. "Come on, you can do this."

You tried to follow his example, your breaths coming out shaky and broken at first. But Chris didn't let go. He held you there, his arms wrapping protectively around you as he pulled you against his chest.

The steady rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hold grounded you, pulling you back from the sharp edge of panic. Slowly, the burning in your chest began to fade, replaced by the sound of Chris's heartbeat against your ear.

"Better?" he asked quietly, looking down at you.

You nodded weakly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as you exhaled shakily.

Without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing his in a soft, fleeting kiss. It was barely a whisper of contact. A wordless thank you, a quiet plea for comfort, and something deeper you couldn’t yet put into words. Your breath mingled with his, the closeness leaving a faint heat between you even as you pulled back.

"Thanks, Chris."

Chris’s face flushed instantly, his eyes wide and startled. His hand hesitated for a moment before coming up to cup your cheek, his touch gentle and careful, as though you might shatter under his fingertips.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking slightly with emotion. His thumb brushed over your skin, his lips curving into the faintest, most heartfelt smile.

Then you heard it.

A scream ripped through the basement, sharp and desperate and your stomach twisted violently as you recognized the voice. "Sam!" you shouted, your voice cracking as you broke away from Chris, running toward the source of the sound.

"Wait!" Chris called after you, but his voice was distant, drowned out by the adrenaline roaring in your ears.

You sprinted toward a room at the far end of the basement. Your hands were shaking as you pushed the two doors open, gripping the handle tightly before throwing it open.

Inside, a single chair sat in the right corner of the room, its frame worn and splintered. Someone was sitting there, slumped forward, their body motionless.

"Sam," you whispered, your throat tight with fear.

You approached slowly, your steps hesitant as the world seemed to narrow around you. The air felt thick and suffocating as your hand reached out, trembling as you gripped the back of the chair and turned it around.

A mannequin stared back at you, a mask of a clown on it’s face. It was dressed in Sam's clothes. Your breath caught in your throat, a sickening wave of confusion and dread crashing over you as you stumbled back.

A sound came from behind. You turned sharply, just in time to see Chris stumbling backward, his flashlight clattering to the floor.

"Chris!"

The psycho loomed behind him. In one hand, he held a gas canister attached to a mask that he pressed to Chris’s face. Chris choked as he thrashed against the grip until he succumbed to the gas.

The psycho turned sharply, his movements swift as he lunged for you. You tried to backpedal, but his gloved hand shot out, closing around your neck with brutal strength.

Your body hit the wall hard, flashlight falling from your grasp. You gasped for air, clawing at his hand as he squeezed, his mask reflecting the faint light in distorted angles.

Your fists pounding against his chest in desperate, useless strikes. The edges of your vision darkened, your chest burning as your lungs fought for air.

Then you felt the cold metal of the gas mask press against your face. The faint hiss of the anesthetic filled your ears, and your struggles grew weaker. Your arms dropped to your sides, your legs giving out as darkness swallowed you whole.

You woke up to the sound of heavy breathing and the faint clink of metal. Your head throbbed painfully, your vision swimming as you tried to focus. Slowly, the room came into view. A cold, gray space lit by a single flickering bulb

Your wrists were tied tightly to the arms of a chair, the rough rope biting into your skin. Across from you, Chris sat in a similar chair, his face pale and streaked with sweat. One of his hands was free, but the other remained bound, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the chair.

There was a gun on the table between you and him.

You groaned, blinking against the faint light.

Chris stirred, his head jerking up as he blinked rapidly. When his gaze landed on you, his face twisted with panic.

"Shit," he muttered, trying to pull at the ropes around his wrist. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

You winced, your throat aching with every breath. "I… I'm fine."

Chris's eyes darted to your neck. The purple bruises from the psycho's grip were already forming, faint lines marring your skin. His free hand clenched into a fist.

"I'm gonna murder his fucking face off," Chris growled, his voice low and sharp with barely restrained rage.

Before you could respond, the steady whir of machinery made your blood run cold. You looked up to see a series of big chainsaws mounted to the ceiling, its blade spinning as it began to descend slowly toward the two of you.

A distorted voice echoed through the room.

"Hello, there, my special little subjects. Here’s the twist: Chris has made one fatal choice already today, and now he must make another one. Chris, you can take the gun in front of you and shoot him, or you can shoot yourself. Whoever is left: lives”

Chris raised the gun up on the ceiling, pointing it at the chandelier and pulling the trigger over and over. You flinched at hearing the sound of gunshots so up close.

Chris paled instantly, his face twisting in disbelief as the chainsaw remained unscathed and kept moving down towards your heads.

His breathing grew ragged as his gaze darted between the gun and you. Your heart clenched painfully as Chris pointed the gun at the base of his neck, hands trembling and teeth clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his jaw, his breaths fast and uneven, hissing through his teeth as if the air was being forced out.

The barrel of the gun wavered slightly, his finger hovering over the trigger. For a moment, his lips parted, a faint whisper escaping that was too quiet to hear. His body shook with the effort of holding the weapon steady, the weight of his decision pressing down on him.

"Chris!" you shouted, struggling against the ropes. "Don't you dare!"

His lips trembling as he tried to steady his hand. "I love you," he whispered, his voice breaking.

Tears were now blurring your vision as you fought with everything you had to break free.

Chris closed his eyes, took a final, shaking breath and pulled the trigger.

Note: let me know if you had a favorite among the four. I’d love to hear your thoughts! <3 I’m also open to any feedback or constructive criticism you might have.

115 notes · View notes

koocycle · 1 year ago

Text

screw up; over wine | drabble i.

synopsis; jungkook wants to make your first date special and unlike any other night you’ve had before. while determined to win your heart over with a fancy, romantic dinner that includes sweet, tasty chardonnay and medium rare steaks, not everything goes according to his plan.

pairing; boyfriend! jungkook x model! female reader

word count; 4.1k

genre; fluff, baby angst probably

warnings; none

timeline; this drabble is set 7 years ago, at the very start of the over wine couple’s relationship where jungkook is a finance major and oc is still active in the modelling industry. they’re both in their early 20s here!

author’s note; a thank you drabble for all the support and encouragement i’ve been receiving the past two weeks!! also a lil drabble for the people who aren’t a fan of angst and still punched through that 38k last chapter :) enjoy this little tidbit of the start their relationship before it all became messy and went downhill

series masterlist | over wine universe

The sound of the lively chatter at the tables surrounding you had gone over your head before. The clinking of cutlery amplifies and bubbles of laughter fill the air the moment Jungkook excuses himself to the bathroom and all of a sudden, you watch yourself become a nerve-wrecking mess, unsure what to do the minute you’re left alone and forced to listen to the couples at the tables on your sides. You can feel their eyes on you, noticing the way they keep glancing at you with some sort of pity in their eyes. The bustling restaurant suddenly feels much more crowded and you can’t help but feel exposed with him now gone, the bill at your table staring back at you like it tells you everything Jungkook didn’t have the balls to say.

It’s only when the waitress comes back a second time around when you finally search your handbag for your card and hand it to her, plastering a smile on your face that is supposed to copy the one you were previously wearing. You could tell she was getting impatient before, her hair tied into a bun so slick, you were sure she was unable to move the brows at her forehead.

She’s been eyeing you and Jungkook ever since you came in and sat down, it was hard not to notice, seeing the way her lips pursed as she tongued the front of her teeth when Jungkook ordered you the most expensive Chardonnay on the menu. And at the end, when he left for the bathroom about five seconds after he read the price at the bottom of the receipt, you could swear you saw a vein pop at her forehead. It was funny back then. Though now that he’s been gone for nearly ten minutes, each and every bit of humor has left your body just like you watched it happen to that woman before. The inkling feeling at your chest enlarges each time somebody locks eyes with you and shares that sorrowful, pitiful smile, and you lose it.

You had a good time tonight, that much you can’t deny, and you refuse to be pitied. Especg not by a bunch of strangers. You know everyone at the restaurant had seen it at this point. Seen the way Jungkook had leaned over the table with crossed arms supporting him while that charming, boyish smile painted his face, resulting in a flush to your cheeks as you tried to hide it and blame it on the wine that must have gotten to your head. You felt luckier than anyone else in the room only half an hour ago, where you thought the dates around you couldn’t compare. Like they couldn’t have gotten better than yours by the end of the night.

Yes, embarrassment fills your chest when the waitress hands you back your card and flashes you a knowing smile. However, you refuse to let it bring you down. Humiliation draws over you as you stand up from your seat and make your way over to the corner Jungkook disappeared behind, each step of your stiletto heels to the restaurant’s floor tiles accentuating the flow of your mini dress against your ass. You know eyes are on you, but you ignore it and keep your head high. If you had driven here yourself, you probably would have let the guy rot in the men’s restroom until they had found him, though for now, you still need him for that twenty-minute ride back home.

And it’s not like you mind paying for tonight’s dinner. As a matter of fact, if Jungkook had simply asked you to cover the bill, you know you would’ve reached out for your wallet without a second thought. He made you feel at ease from the start on; ensuring your beef was cooked to perfection, sitting you down on the booth while he did so on the chair. Even double checking whether or not your glass of Chardonnay was sweet enough to your liking, if you needed another napkin at your neck so you wouldn’t stain that pretty little dress, and if you weren’t getting cold right beneath that airconditioning screwed to the ceiling–ready to run back to the car to get your jack from the backseat.

That’s right, you wouldn’t have minded, because Jungkook has been perfect all night. And no matter how many times you thought to yourself “God damn, you’re having a blast and so is he,” you wouldn’t have minded if at the end of the night he’d be like, “hey, this probably isn’t working out and we should never do this again.” Because, sure, then it is what it is. But at least you’ve got more class than him if you think it’s a shitty thing to hide in the men’s restroom the moment the bill is served instead of growing a pair and telling you exactly that in your face.

‘‘Hyung, please, I need you right now.’’ It is the first thing you hear once you round the corner and you come face to face with his back, his phone is held to his ear and it appears his fingers are pinching the bridge at his nose. ‘‘It’s just that I’m really into this girl, and I can swear she feels the same way. I can’t afford fucking it up now. I promise I’ll pay you back by the end of the month, okay?’’

It stings more than you’d like to admit. You lean against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest as you try to process the situation. Part of you wants to confront him right there, tell him the bill has been taken care of and ask him why he brought you here if he knew he couldn’t even pay for it. He could at least tell you to stay within a reasonable budget, where the wine bottle didn’t have to cost 400 bucks and each additional sauce wouldn’t have to cost another 15 on top.

Would he be scared you’d judge him if he brought you some place else?

‘‘I know, I know,’’ he mumbles into his phone, throwing his head back. ‘‘I didn’t want to bring her somewhere downtown and disappoint her, that’s all. How was I supposed to know the prices were that high if they don’t write it down the menu?’’

You have to bite your lip to hold the laughter from escaping. It’s cute, the way he thinks, because the moment you’d see a menu without its prices mentioned, one thing most people would do is run out the building before they charge you for the lukewarm water that’s already served on the table. You can’t help but find his reasoning cute and endearing, his sincerity shining through and you can tell he truly wanted to make tonight special for you. The fact that he was worried about disappointing you speaks volumes about how much he cares. Although, next time around, you’d find him a little cuter if he were honest with you. You really wouldn’t think much less of him if he asked you to pay the bill.

‘‘Thanks, hyung. So much.’’ He breathes out, and you can only figure the person on the other end of the line is transferring the money to his bank account as you stand there. ‘‘I’m dodging a bullet here.’’

It is only when he hangs up the phone that he turns around, halting in his tracks at the sight of you standing there. With his phone still in hand, Min Yoongi’s contact number still displayed on the screen, his expression changes from shock to worry as he sees you standing there, arms folded over another as you’re leaned up against the wall.

‘‘Hi.’’ You smile.

And you have the prettiest smile. Even though it’s closed lipped and seems a little ironic, he thinks you own the most beautiful smile in the room. ‘‘Hey,’’ he says, his eyes faltering even though he’s quick to cover up. Sauntering over, he places a hand at your hip to guide you the other way, over to the cashier. ‘‘I’m sorry that took so long, you know how moms can be.’’ He snickers quietly, ‘‘you’re already two years into college and she still calls every night to ask if you’ve eaten.’’

You stand there, amused by his poor attempt to brush off the situation, His hand on your hip feels warm, and you find yourself swayed by his touch. ‘‘Oh, I see,’’ You play along, unable to suppress the playful glint in your eyes. ‘‘So it was your mom who kept you on the phone for so long? For a hot minute I thought you were bailing on me back here.’’

Jungkook laughs softly, shaking his head. ‘‘With the way you look tonight? I’d be crazy to.’’ His eyes linger on you, shamelessly sneaking down your figure in a long, exposed glance, appreciating the white mini dress that cuts right beneath your ass, accentuating your every curve. He doesn’t even try to hide the boyish grin that works its way up his lips, the hand at your hip instead traveling to the small of your back.

Your cheeks flush a little at the compliment, and you turn to face him completely, a flat hand to his chest. ‘‘Smooth talker,’’ you tease, head tilting sweetly as a rush of warmth flows through you.

He grins, his eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘‘Just speaking the truth,’’ he replies, loving the way your eyes grow so big the moment he holds you close and you start looking up at him. He is still running his hand at your back in small circles as he subtly pulls you closer to him, loving the way you just let him. ‘‘Let’s take care of the bill and get you home safely. Are we all set?’’

You nod cutely, ‘‘I am,’’ you say, and Jungkook guides you around by the waist, his free hand digging into the back pocket of his dress pants before you interrupt him, intertwining your arm with his as you lead the both of you out the door instead. ‘‘And I already took care of it.’’ You teasingly whisper in his ear, the smile that you wear on your face undeniable.

Jungkook’s grin falters, halting in his tracks once you’re outside. His brows furrowed together, clearly taken aback. ‘‘Wait, you paid?’’ He asks softly, seeming a little deflated even as you stand before him with that pretty smile on your face. He usually can’t resist to bring one out himself when your lips break into one, though it comes a little more difficult this time. ‘‘You know you didn’t have to do that, right? I had everything planned out,’’ his hands come to cup your cheeks. ‘‘It was me who asked you out. That means that I’m supposed to treat you tonight.’’

You can see the sincerity in his eyes, and your heart softens at the genuine concern. It is only for a moment that you consider telling him you overheard his phone call with his roommate, and no matter how comfortable Jungkook made you feel tonight alone, you remember it’s only your first date, and you’d hate for things to get sappy so quickly. ‘‘Well, you basically left me all alone with that piece of paper. How could I control myself?’’ It’s supposed to be a lighthearted joke, he can see it in the way you smile at him, but he can’t help but think there’s some truth to it. ‘‘Come on, bring me home,’’ even with the heels you’re wearing, you have to stand on your tippy toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘‘These heels aren’t doing me justice anymore.’’

Jungkook chuckles softly, the tension not yet easing between you even as you drag him to the car by intertwining your hands together. As he opens the door for you to get in, he can’t help but feel like he’s somehow failed today’s date. Looking back at how it must’ve looked like when he ran off to call Min Yoongi for help like he’s still in highschool with a silly little school crush, he feels a pang of embarrassment at the thought of appearing so immature and unprepared in front of you. He wanted everything to be perfect, bring you someplace nice to impress you and show you he could treat you well. Instead, he just looks like a little boy who tried to trick you into paying for the first date.

Even as Jungkook is seated in the drivers’ seat and takes the route back to your home, he turns up the volume of the radio, hoping to drown out the disappointment in himself. He definitely screwed up tonight. He doesn’t even know if he wants you to say something to him; he just knows that you don’t, but the glances you keep sneaking his way for the entire ride back home are enough to make him feel even worse. You can see that something is bothering him, that his playful, flirtatious vibe from before has shifted and is now replaced with something you can’t decipher.

You start to wonder if it’s something you said. Wonder if he’s now getting cold feet and suddenly realizes maybe he didn’t enjoy himself as much as you thought. He hadn’t given you any reason to think like that, though. Not after how sweet he was tonight, not after the way you heard him talk about you over the phone with his friend.

As the car pulls up in front of your place, Jungkook turns off the engine, the radio cutting off as the silence envelopes both of you again. The clicking sound of your seatbelt comes fast and you glance over at him again, finding him already looking at you with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

He gets out and walks you to the door after that, his hands hidden in the pockets of his pants as he doesn’t care to spare you another glance. The shift in energy is obvious between the both of you, not a single soul out on the street at this hour of the day to distract you from the uneasy silence. Your stiletto heels click against the pavement and you have to bite your bottom lip to make the short but uncomfortable way back a little more bearable.

At the end of a date comes a kiss. It’s how it happens in all the romcoms you watch–it happens in all the chick flicks and all the Disney short movies. But this is no Stephanie Perkins love story, not with the way you’re standing there, hugging your arms as the chilly breeze crosses your skin.

‘‘I guess this is where we split ways, right?’’ You finally break the silence, your voice tinged with uncertainty. You don’t want the night to end on such an awkward note, but the tension between you is undeniable.

Jungkook’s gaze softens, and he takes a step closer to you, the distance between your bodies diminishing. ‘‘I had a great time tonight,’’ he admits, his voice gentle as he reaches to unfold your arms, fingertips grazing over them before they get to your soft hands and intertwines them with his own. ‘‘And I really want to see you again,’’ he says quietly, thumbs rubbing over your knuckles. ‘‘You know, if that’s okay with you.’’

You have to tongue the front of your teeth in an attempt to hide that broad smile that’s tugging at the edges of your lips. ‘‘Yeah, I’d like that.’’ You say, and you can feel your heart race against your chest only with the way he’s looking down at you.

‘‘And I’ll be transferring the money right back to your account first thing back home, alright?’’

‘‘Oh,’’ you raise an eyebrow in surprise, not expecting him to bring up the topic of money again. ‘‘Really, that’s okay. I don’t mind having to spend a little. And it doesn’t really matter in the end, does it? We enjoyed ourselves tonight, and that’s probably what’s most important.’’

‘‘It is what’s most important,’’ he agrees with a boyish smile, heavy lidded eyes staring back at you. ‘‘But it was me who asked you to join me for dinner. Therefore it was my responsibility to treat you, you know? To make sure you had a good time, and to guarantee the bill was taken care of and nowhere within your reach.’’ Jungkook says, one hand held against his chest as he tilts his head in the most charming way you can think of. ‘‘That was my mistake. But I won’t be able to go to bed with a good feeling knowing you paid for all that. We didn’t dine at McDonald’s, you know?’’

You can’t help but let out a soft chuckle at his playful reference, because he’s right. There was a lot more on that receipt than two cheeseburgers and fries on the side. Jungkook took you out to wine and dine; told you beforehand to wear the prettiest dress you own and he spared no expense to make sure the evening was special. It was clear he wanted to impress you, even if you hadn’t overheard his phone call.

Your hands caress his chest until they reach to play with the collar of his blouse, as if to fix it. ‘‘Then maybe it’s time we pick out some place that’s a little more affordable, don’t you think?’’ You’re not nagging at him, your voice is gentle, indirectly telling him he doesn’t need to spend money on you that he doesn’t have. ‘‘You know I’d be fine with a pizza and a soda, right?’’

The feeling of your fingertips tickling at his neck makes him bite his lip, your arms leaning on his broad shoulders for support. ‘‘You know I can’t take you out for pizza.’’

You smile, enjoying the closeness between you when his own hands fall to your hips. Tugging you closer, just slightly. ‘‘Why not?’’ You tease, unable to keep that toothy smile off your face. ‘‘I bet we could have just as much fun sharing a pizza as we did tonight.’’

‘‘We would,’’ Jungkook’s eyes meet yours, and he looks a little torn. ‘‘But you’re special,’’ his lips curl into a small smile when the words leave him, watching as you throw your head back a little in surprise, the warmth rising to your cheeks not gone unnoticed. ‘‘And I don’t know… it’s probably just something you do, but you make me want to give you all the things you’ve never been given before, all right?’’

He’s speaking from the heart, and the longer he looks into those eyes of yours, the more this lovestruck feeling intensifies in the deepest pits of his chest. Because it’s true; Jeon Jungkook is smitten. You pick up his FaceTime calls in the middle of the night wearing silken, champagne pink Chanel pajamas, you carry your Miss Dior perfumes in the side pockets of your Armani handbags and your agent takes you out to fine dinings at least once a month–you’re handed all those luxury items by all sorts of brands trying to get a sponsor out of you because, they as well, know you’re something else. Something big.

You stand before him in a dress he doesn’t even want to know the price of, and instead just wants to admire you. How was he ever going to step up his game and give you things you haven’t seen before? Sure, perhaps Jungkook was a little starstruck the moment the price at the end of the bill caught his eye, but when it came to you, it was worth it. He doesn’t make that kind of money yet, but he will, and when he receives his degree and finally does that, then yes, he wants to spoil you rotten. You deserve it all.

Your heart skips a beat at his words, touched by his genuine sentiment. ‘‘Jungkook,’’ you begin softly, your voice tinged with emotion. ‘‘I had a blast tonight, I really did, and I appreciate you so much for the effort you put in the entire evening. But I really hope you didn’t do all of this with the idea I would like you any less if it indeed was just a burger and some fries from McDonald’s.’’

Jungkook’s eyes soften. ‘‘No, that’s not it at all,’’ he assures you, his voice gentle and sincere. ‘‘I wanted to show you a good time, to make you smile.’’

‘‘I smiled all the way to the end of the night,’’ you sing-song, leaning into his touch when you cup his cheeks. ‘‘So no S.O.S phone calls with Min Yoongi at the end of our next date night?’’

He blinks slowly, shifting his gaze downward as a nervous chuckle escapes his lips. ‘‘You overheard my phone call,’’ you watch as the embarrassment overtakes him and you think it’s rather cute how he tries to hide his face from you, the sight of your feet suddenly so much more interesting. ‘‘Isn’t that great.’’ He mumbles, wincing on the inside.

‘‘I did. And there’s nothing to be embarrassed of.’’ You tilt his head back up, forcing him to lock eyes. ‘‘I actually think it’s kind of cute you wanted to impress me. Am I really that intimidating?’’

Jungkook’s cheeks warm, and he can’t help but let out a laugh at your teasing. His thumbs start caressing the material at the small of your back, leaving you a little weak in the knees. ‘‘Intimidating isn’t the right word,’’ he admits, pursing his lips like he’s thinking hard. ‘‘I’d say you’re frightening. And not in a good way, either. Rather like one of those Disney villains that would keep you awake as a kid, you know?’’ He smirks cutely, playfully nudging at your side and causing you to squirm at his arms. ‘‘Ursula or something. You look just like her, the big eyes and the crazy hair and all.’’

‘‘Do I now?’’ You arch a single brow, amusement crippling at your lips.

He hums, tugging you close to him until your bodies are pressed together and you can feel his warmth radiating through his clothes. ‘‘Like two beads of water.’’ He says a little softer now, his breath fanning against your lips as he reaches out to gently brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.

The space between you seems to shrink, the world around you fading into oblivion the more you’re drawn into him. ‘‘You wouldn’t look at me as if you want to kiss me if that were true.’’

Jungkook’s breath catches at your words, and he can’t deny the truth in them. The teasing glint in your eyes sends a jolt of excitement through him, making him want to prove you wrong. His fingers gently trail along your jawline, a feather-light touch that sends shivers down your spine.

‘‘Oh, really?’’ He retorts playfully, his voice low and husky. ‘‘And what if I do want to kiss you?’’ His gaze intensifies, holding you captive as he leans closer, his lips almost brushing against yours. The air cackles with anticipation, and time seems to slow down as the world around you fades away.

Your heart pounds in your chest, matching the rhythm of his as he hovers so close. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and it sends a rush of desire through you. Your fingers instinctively find their way to his chest, the anticipation building between you both.

‘‘Do it and find out.’’

He doesn’t hesitate. You’ve given him the green light and with a surge of boldness running through him, he closes the distance between you, and his lips capture yours in a tender, passionate kiss. It’s a perfect collision of desire, a moment that feels like it was meant to be.

You place a hand to his chest, able to feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. With your fingers slightly curling at the nape of his neck, arm leaning on his shoulder, you dare to pull him closer to you as he copies your body language not much longer after. He pulls you by the small of your back to make sure it curves and you’re pressed chest to chest. Your breaths mingle, lips eagerly brushing against each other as the kiss deepens and you feel a tingling warmth spreading through your body. His touch is tender and possessive, as if he doesn’t want to let you go. Your other hand finds its way to his cheek, caressing it with a soft, adoring touch. It’s a silent reassurance that this is right, that you want this as much as he does.

Time seems to lose all meaning when his lips lingers on yours, it seems like. You’re lost in him, just like how he is lost in you. And when you eventually pull away, your foreheads rest against each other, you both share a soft, contented sigh. Your eyes meet, and a knowing smile passes between you.

‘‘Let’s save the rest for our second date, yeah?’’

Your heart is still racing, and his touch leaves your body feeling electric. You can see the desire in his eyes as gazes down at you, and with a gentle caress at his cheek, you nod in agreement, a playful glint in your eyes.

‘‘Definitely,’’ you whisper, your voice breathless.

As you part ways, you fumble with your keys at the door as Jungkook makes his way back to his car. A sense of contentment washes over you, knowing you’ve found someone who makes your heart race and your soul soar.

And as you steal a glance from over your shoulder only one last time for tonight, you find him doing the same thing at the exact same moment. Your eyes meet, and you cutely avert your eyes back forward the moment it happens, missing the way he bites his bottom lip to hold back a cheeky grin, shaking his head in amusement.

You’re truly one of a kind.

#jungkook drabble #jungkook au #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook #jeon jungkook #BTS jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #bts #bts fic

1K notes · View notes

hummingbird-games · 5 days ago

Text

2024 in Review (Indie Games)

2023 | 2022 | 2021

Helloooo gamer friends!!!

I'm so tired.

Lol.

Anyhoo, y'all don't care about that!!! Y'all are here to see what games I played and what the heck I have to say about them! Reminders: I don't bash games I didn't like, and I try to post more in-depth thoughts and reviews and general yapping to Gem's Game Gems.

DEMOS

When Stars Collide - I am by no means a sci-fi girlie. I need a HEAPING dose of fantasy or fantasy elements to help me out. That said, y'all might remember how I went feral for Gilded Shadows, so I am locked in for this journey with WSC. It's just as mysterious and lore intense as GS, but also just as intriguing and engaging!

Love Me, Love Me Not - I looooove when a game charms me to pieces??? Our MC Addie, the introduced LIs, the story, the art??? Where do I begin?? Anyway, please check this one out y'all! I'm impatient for the full game (shocker, I know).

Threads of You: Beyond the Bay - So my thoughts and reactions for this one are on the side blog, but I really enjoyed the demo and I have eyes for Chris, Vince, and Alex hehehe.

Lost in Limbo - While I'd been keeping tabs on this game for what seems forever because of the character art that originally caught my attention, I almost didn't finish the demo because it was lowkey disturbing (I'm a wimp and not all horror is made equal). But!!! BUT!!!! I push through to the end, had a good time, noted that I need to play the full game in the daylight with the music turned down low. And I absolutely adore Ara and Xal so, so much.

A Simple Twist of Fae - Absolutely no one cares, but I read a lot of manga this year. Like, a lot-a lot. Like, ~180 books and 1/3 of that was manga. Anyhoo, When JMB announced she was cooking up this game, I was impatient to get my grubby hands on it. AND THEN I PLAYED IT AND IT WAS THE SHOJO INSPIRED GAME OF MY DREAMS?!?! Like.....I wish I could both have it on my computer and also on my bookshelf. Final build dropping when??? (Also the UI design is utterly delightful, I cry.)

The Summit Library (FULL DEMO) - The last time I reviewed this game, we got chapter 1 as a taste, and I was. Locked! In!! The full demo gives us the first 2 chapters as well as the previews for all the romance routes and while giving everyone a whirl I'm *still* undecided on who to go for in the future, I must mention this: TSL is so aspec friendly???? I do love a game with smut, don't get me wrong looks at College Craze but sometimes I have my moments of being overwhelmed/sliiiiiiightly repulsed and the variety of options you have to choose how you react and interact with the various LIs in this game is amazing. (I have more thoughts on this, so I'll try to remember to post to the sideblog, but please understand that this game is totally worth your attention and time imo!!!)

Fully Released & Played (at least 1 playthrough)

Rabbit Trail - This. Game. Is. SO. Cute. *punches the air* 😭🥹(Copy + paste of my review on the itch.io page -> This was so charming, so fluffy, so cozy, just delightful all around??? I've only reached one ending so far, but René is just the cutest protag to play as, and his interactions as he delivers his mail made me cheese so dang hard! (Also, I wanted to fight his parents for not properly appreciating their kid LOL))

Stuck by Design - I checked this game out because I was looking into games that fellow programmers had worked on, and this cozy game stumbled onto my lap. The music was perfect, the UI is beautiful and clean, and I thoroughly enjoyed the performance of the VA for the LI, Yuki.

Wake Me Up If You Need Me - I called this game older!HSDJY MC x Ryan coded and I'm still right. The voice actor MAKES this game, and the interactions the player has with Reed is so flippin' delightful?? All my love and adoration to the game developer. May they make more beautiful games.

CTRL FREAK - The developer team brought us The Faithfulness of the Universe which is a banger in its own right, and CTRL FREAK is the team's commercial, finished project that I also found delightful. The soundtrack and the animations are chef's kiss 💛

Breathless Winds - Ooo, baby, ooo. So. If there is only one game you play from this list and you have some spare cash to spend (at the time of writing, the game is on sale!!!) please, please, check this one out. It left me absolutely spellbound, both the orginal demo, and then the full game. While I didn't get to blog fully about this one, and I only tackled 2 of the 4 routes, this game is absolutely everything. This is my indie game of the year. Poppy and her journey resonated with me, and between the music and the art, everything just came together so perfectly.

Wake Up Magical Girl - Listen TF up, if miseri creates it, I'm gonna play it, idc, idc. That being said...this game had a kick to it that when I finished my first playthrough, I had to stare off into space and gather myself. It takes the concept of magical girls and heroism and gave me a teeny tiny existential crisis, but other than that, I'm fine, it's fine, play this game, thank you.

Sleeping Under Spells - God, I love me a game where I get to argue with a LI. I love it. Bonus points if it's lowkey stupid stuff we're bickering over LOL!!

Our Wonderland - Yeah, uh huh, you thought you'd escape me talking about this game this year, didn't yah???? Too bad. The fifth and final arc dropped this year and I played it and I cried and felt for the briefest moments that life was okay. To say something different than my review of last year, I love that this seems to be the game that helps fellow ace devs find and flock to each other, I'm not kidding 🤣 so thank you Carrot for helping us fellow aspec peeps feel seen and validated and understood!

I Watched a Full Game Playthrough and Highly Recommend

Replay Boys - Okay so technically at the time of posting, there's still one more video I'm waiting to watch (Naja of BlerdyOtome uploaded her stream to YouTube) but my Godddddd. I've had my eye on this game for FOREVER but I was lowkey waiting for it to move to itch.io (I'm still a lowkey Steam hater 🥹) anyhoo, watching this absolutely wild game made me go ahead and buy a copy for myself to replay at a later time, but it's just great. The summary only scratches this surface of what the game entails 🤣

Gemi’s Gushies

(a list within a list of games that have devs trucking along in the background and I want to spotlight for y’all)

Save the Villainess - Life got away with me and unfortunately I never finished my play of the demo BUT what I have played was fun and I hope to return to this in the new year!

Woman of Xal 2 - Plot Twist Studios is on that Sequel Train with the next installment of WoX!!! Which I'm VERY excited for!!! I've unfortunately only completed one playthrough of this game, but the first game is definitely a masterclass in replayability, and I hope next year I'll be able to do a second playthough as I wait for game 2's Kickstarter!

...

And that's 2024! Any shared favorites?

- Gemini 🫶🏾

#happy holidays!!#gaming year in review #yay!! shorter list!!!#(also because...I didn't game that much this year 🥸)#here's to whatever goodies 2025 brings!

100 notes · View notes

lortsyall · 4 days ago

Text

Echoes of Eywa's Child.

chapter 3.

(Neteyam x Human!Reader series)

authors's note: Merry belated Christmas to those celebrating! 🎄 I’m back with another chapter and just want to say how much I appreciate all of you for reading my story. Your support means so much to me! Hope you enjoy this chapter! 💖

Pending…Pending…

Date: August 16th,2174.

Location: Sully Marui,High Camp,Mons Veritatis,Hallelujah Mountains,Pandora.

Time: 2:13 PM.

Imagine this: I was caught in a tug-of-war between two lives—the one I’d known, built on logic and expectations and the one I’d stumbled into, raw and untamed, a pulse that didn’t just beat but throbbed deep into my bones.

The fluorescent-lit labs of Earth felt like suffocating cages now, a reminder of everything I’d left behind: the pressure to be perfect, to be a cog in a machine. And here, amidst the alien beauty of Pandora, I felt both out of place and strangely alive. I wasn’t just another human anymore—I was a scientist surrounded by warriors, an outsider in a world that was anything but human.

It was disorienting. Every decision felt like a battle. I was forced to fight not just for survival, but for a place in this alien landscape.

Then, there were his eyes. Golden, piercing, like they saw right through me. At first, I tried to ignore him—the way he watched me, as if he understood something I couldn’t even put into words. But it was hard to ignore the pull, the weight of his gaze, the flicker of something deeper in those eyes. The quiet confidence in the way he stood, the power in the way he moved—it stirred something in me.

I couldn’t deny it. No matter how much I tried to push it away, the attraction was there, undeniable. And in that moment, it wasn’t just the pull of Pandora that had me trapped. It was him.

Welcome to my mind. It’s a chaotic,yet beautiful and conflicted place. I suggest you hold on tight.

“Follow me,” the Na’vi said, his voice firm.

I stumbled a little, catching myself on the rocky terrain. The high base of the Hallelujah Mountains loomed around us, the bioluminescent glow of the plants and moss lighting our path. He cast a glance back at me, his sharp gaze softening when he noticed my unease.

“I’m not going to run,” I muttered, crossing my arms. I’m starting to regret this.

“Good,” he replied simply, though a ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. “You wouldn’t get far.”

I wanted to argue, but I bit my tongue, focusing instead on my surroundings. He’s cocky,it seems. The base was alive with activity—Na’vi moved between the makeshift structures, their voices mixing with the hum of the forest. Humans were here too, walking among them, though they stuck out like sore thumbs.

The sight unsettled me. The RDA had drilled into us the belief that humans and Na’vi were sworn enemies, that coexistence was a naïve fantasy. And yet, here they were—working together, living side by side, proving everything I had been taught wrong. It made me sick to think about how blind and helpless humanity back on Earth really was, trapped in RDA’s own fairytale.

He stopped in front of a large hut, motioning for me to enter. “Inside,” he said.

I hesitated, glancing at the entrance. “And what exactly is waiting for me in there?”

“Answers,” he said simply, his tone giving no room for argument. I hate these half-assed answers. Is he trying to seem mysterious?I mutter under my breath -

“Ugh,dick.”

-visibly annoyed,though the flicker of his left ear tells me he caught that,and I can’t help but grin a little at the dumb situation I got myself in.

With a deep breath, I stepped inside.

The air inside the hut was heavy, a mix of earthy smells and an undercurrent of tension that prickled at my nerves. Sitting at the center was Jake Sully, his elbows resting on his knees, his sharp gaze locking onto me the moment I entered. Neytiri,his mate, stood behind him, her posture stiff, her golden eyes filled with suspicion.

It all slams into place like a punch to the gut. Wait—what? No way. This guy... the one who brought me here... oh my God, he’s his son. Jake Sully’s eldest. Neteyam Sully.

“Sit,” Jake said, nodding toward an open space on the floor.

I sat cross-legged, a sense of vulnerability crawling under my skin like never before. My eyes darted to Neteyam, still standing by the doorway, his face as unreadable as ever. Is he... more attractive now that I know who he is? No, I immediately scolded myself. That’s not the issue here.

“What’s your name?” Jake asked, breaking the silence.

I introduce myself as I try to steady my already-trembling voice.

Jake nodded slowly. “Alright, You’re a scientist, right? That’s what Neteyam told me.”

“Yes,” I said. “I work in the Avatar Recom project. I’m not a soldier, and I’m not a spy.”

“You work with the Recoms,” Neytiri said, her voice sharp. She really is as scary as they say. Sheesh. “You help create them.”

Her words felt like a slap, but I forced myself to stay calm. “I study Avatars. The Recoms are just one part of the project. My job is research, not combat.”

Jake leaned forward, his gaze narrowing. “Then tell us. What is the RDA doing with the Recoms now? We’ve fought them before, but every time, they’re tougher, faster. What’s changed?”

I hesitated, glancing at Max Patel and Norm Spellman, who sat silently to the side, their expressions unreadable. I recognized their faces back from Earth’s most wanted screen that would glow in Times Square every night at 8 PM sharp. Funny how most people here,especially Jake Sully,have their faces there. What’s funnier is,I actually saw them as criminals back then. Finally, I took a deep breath and began.

“The Recoms have been refined since the last time you encountered them back in 2170.” I said. “The RDA has addressed issues like genetic instability and neural lag. But the biggest advancement isn’t physical. It’s uh…psychological.”

Jake frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve started integrating emotional responses into their programming,” I explained. “Specifically, feelings of anger and loyalty. They’ve found a way to amplify those emotions during combat, making the Recoms more aggressive, more determined to complete their missions.”

Neytiri’s tail flicked sharply, her expression darkening. Why do I feel so guilty? “And what happens when they fail?”

“They don’t fail often,” I admitted. “But when they do... they’re designed to self-destruct rather than be captured.”

The room fell silent, the weight of my words settling heavily on everyone present.

I never wanted this. All I ever wanted was to make art and have a nice,peaceful life,away from anything related to science. . How the hell did I even get here? I feel awful. For being part of this horrible organization that destroys everything that is beautiful,and now...I can see it in their eyes.

The way their troubled eyes betray their stoic expressions as they listen to my words.

“Self-destruct?” Norm echoed, his voice filled with disbelief.

I nodded. “The RDA can’t risk their tech falling into the wrong hands. To them,the Recoms are disposable."

Jake leaned back, his jaw tightening. “This is worse than I thought.”

Neteyam, who had been silent until now, stepped forward slightly. “And you? How do you fit into all this?”

“I-I don’t,” I said quickly,a stutter coming out. “I was recruited in my first year of college because of my knowledge,then I got trained for 6 months before being sent here. That’s it. I didn’t sign up for this war. I swear.”

Neytiri scoffed, crossing her arms. “Convenient excuse,vrrtep.”

“Ma yawntu.” Jake warned, though his voice was tired.

“I’m not lying,” I said, meeting her gaze. “I didn’t choose to be here. Your son brought me.”

At that, Neytiri’s gaze flicked to Neteyam, her lips pressing into a thin line.

Mo’at, who had been silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke. “Eywa brought her to us,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “The atokirina does not choose lightly.”

I look at her a bit confused. What atokirina? I see her and Neteyam steal a glance,nodding before they look at me. This is unnerving.

Mo’at’s gaze was steady. “Eywa decides where you belong. Not you.”

I stumbled out of the hut, my mind racing. The cool night air was a welcome relief after the suffocating tension of the meeting. Plus,I just hope there’s a place where I can finally take my exopack off.

Neteyam was waiting outside for me, a thoughtful look on his face as he looked at the ground. Probably zoning out. He straightened when he saw me, his expression unreadable.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said shortly, brushing past him. I can't believe he got me into this mess.

He fell into step beside me. “You didn’t exactly make any friends in there.”

I scoff. “Not my priority,” I snapped. “And thanks for the heads-up, by the way. Really appreciated being thrown into the deep end,Mr. Blue Prince.”

Neteyam smirked faintly. “You handled yourself fine.”

I shot him a glare, but he didn’t seem fazed. Instead, his gaze softened slightly, and he continued, “You were honest. That’s all that matters.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I kept walking. I don't know where to exactly. I’m sure he laughed inside as he saw me stomping off,considering I have no actual idea where I’m headed. But the unspoken tension between us lingered, a thread pulling tighter with every step.

The human quarters were...modest, to say the least. A simple cluster of prefabricated modules, they were a far cry from the sprawling labs and luxurious accommodations back at the RDA base. But they were functional, blending into the caves in a way that felt intentional rather than invasive.

A woman met me at the threshold of one of the modules, her face lighting up with a warm smile. She was older, with streaks of gray in her short hair and kind eyes behind round glasses.

“You must be the new scientist,I assume?,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Dr. Marie Holden. I heard you used to work with…Dr. Ellison?Max and Norm told me you’d be staying with us.”

I shook her hand, appreciating the brief moment of normalcy. “Yeah,that’s uhh…That’s me. Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, waving me inside. “We’re used to taking in strays. Though I think you’re the first one brought here by a Sully.”

I flushed, glancing at Neteyam, who had followed me to the door but lingered outside,like a shadow, leaning against the frame.

It's kinda creepy,if I might add.

Marie gave him a knowing look, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “You sticking around, Neteyam?”

“No,” he said quickly, his voice sharp but steady as he pushed off the doorframe. His movements were fluid, deliberate, as if every step he took was measured and precise. “I need to report back to my father.”

But then his gaze flicked to me, and the air in the room seemed to shift. Those golden eyes, burning with the same intensity they held during the ambush, locked onto mine. It was the look of a warrior—fierce, unyielding—but underneath it, I caught something else. A quiet, restrained anger. A hint of exhaustion. The weight of a fight he hadn’t chosen but couldn’t walk away from.

And damn him, it made my heart stumble in its rhythm, just like it had that day.

“Try not to cause any trouble.”

I scowled playfully. “That’s rich, coming from the person who dragged me here.”

Neteyam chuckled softly, the sound low and almost teasing. “What can I say?Welcome to the rebellion, syulang.” And with that, he disappeared into the night.

Gosh,did he really just call me that?I’m pretty sure he wants to mess with me,knowing I understand his alien language. I just hope my ears aren't burning.

Marie watched him go, shaking her head with a bemused smile. “He’s a good kid. A bit of a hothead, but his heart’s in the right place.”

“Is he?” I ask,a genuine chuckle coming out of me.

I wasn’t so sure about that, but I kept any more thoughts to myself.

Marie led me to a small room with a single bed, a desk, and a storage locker. The walls were adorned with faded maps, sketches of Pandora’s wildlife, and handwritten notes. I wonder who used to live here before me,yet the thought makes my stomach turn.

“This will be your space,” Marie said, gesturing around. “It’s not much, but it’s private.”

“It’s perfect,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

Marie studied me for a moment, her expression softening. “I know this must be overwhelming. You’ve probably heard a lot of... propaganda about us. But we’re not your enemy.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. I sigh,letting the tension melt off my shoulders. “What’s expected of me here?”

“For now, just settle in,” she said reassuringly. “Tomorrow, Max and Norm will wait for you in Unit 2 of the Avatar department. They want to debrief you more thoroughly. And the Sullys... well, they’ll decide where you fit into all this. Don't overthink it too much.”

The idea of being judged by Jake and Neytiri again made my stomach churn. “What if I don’t fit?”

Marie’s smile was kind but firm. “Everyone here has a purpose. You’ll find yours.”

Sleep didn’t come easily. Every creak of the metal walls and rustle of the flowing mountains outside kept me on edge. When morning finally arrived, I felt more exhausted than rested.

Marie was already up, bustling around the small common area with surprising energy. She handed me a mug of something that smelled faintly of coffee and motioned for me to sit. I’m pretty sure this coffee was smuggled,but I’m not complaining.

“First day,” she said cheerfully. I’m glad she’s friendly, honestly. “You’ll be fine.”

“I swear I feel like Katniss on the day of The Reaping.” I say in a dramatic whine,which seems to get a giggle out of her. I sip the drink, wincing at its bitterness. I wonder if they smuggled sugar too?

“What exactly is on the agenda?” I ask.

“Max and Norm will walk you through our operations here,” she said. “And then there’s another meeting with the Sullys.”

Of course there was.

Turns out, after Dr. Augustine’s death, Norm became the leader of the Avatar department, which divides into 4 units.

Unit 1 is meant for special engineers working on the Avatar link machines, ensuring they work smoothly and fixing any kind of error. These engineers are the silent backbone of the entire operation, constantly tweaking the machines to keep the delicate balance between human minds and their Avatar bodies intact.

Unit 2 is where doctors make sure that every Avatar driver, as well as their own Avatar, are in great health. Physical and mental. That means everyone must get blood samples once a month on different dates,and a psychological exam once every three months. Turns out, that includes the Sully kids too, since they’re Avatar offspring, and that’s where I’ll be working for now.

Unit 3 is designed for research and development, where they study the intricacies of Na'vi physiology, the integration of human and Na'vi traits, and the environmental effects on both species. This unit is where new advancements are made—whether it's understanding how Avatar bodies react to Pandora's atmosphere over time or testing new methods to enhance the connection between the human consciousness and their Avatar. It’s here that the majority of the data from the Avatar link experiments is processed and analyzed.

Unit 4, however, is where the real magic happens. This is the heart of the Avatar program, where the Avatar link machines are housed. The research here is strictly classified, and I’m not allowed anywhere near it just yet. I was supposed to drive an Avatar too,actually back at the RDA base. I trained for it in the small period of time between getting invited into the next RDA mission to Pandora and the day I actually left,but once I got here, I had to wait around a month since my Avatar wasn’t fully developed yet.

…Guess I won’t be doing that now, and for the first time, I think I’m starting to realize that maybe I never will. It’s a strange feeling, but somehow, it’s becoming easier to let go.

Max and Norm were surprisingly welcoming, though their curiosity about my work with the Recoms was…palpable,to say the least. We spent hours checking over diagrams and notes, discussing everything from Avatar neural interfaces to the psychological conditioning of the Recoms.

When I mentioned the integration of emotional triggers—specifically anger and loyalty—both men looked genuinely horrified,their faces matching the ones from yesterday,during the meeting.

“That explains a lot,” Norm said grimly. “We’ve noticed the Recoms are more... ferocious than before. It’s like they’re out for blood.”

“That’s the point,” I said, feeling a pang of guilt again. “The RDA wants soldiers who are ruthless and obedient. Emotions are just another tool to control them,sadly.”

Max shook his head, his expression dark. “This is beyond unethical.”

I didn’t disagree, but the conversation left me feeling more conflicted than ever.

The meeting with the Sullys was no less tense than the first, though this time, I felt slightly more prepared. Jake sat at the head of the group, his expression hard but thoughtful. Neytiri was as fierce as ever, her sharp gaze cutting through me like a knife,and I could now see more unfamiliar faces, Na'vi and humans alike.

Neteyam stood to the side, watching me with an unreadable expression.

“Ralngeyä’a ‘upe, ma sempul?” Neteyam asked, breaking the silence. His voice, low and steady, carried the weight of his ancestors’ language, each syllable dripping with a subtle rasp that seemed to echo through the air. His eyes, sharp and intent, were locked on his father as he sought to understand what he had learned about me.

Jake sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Enough to know she’s valuable. The knowledge she has about the Recoms... it could give us an edge.”

“Fu kxawm alu säsyep srak?” Neytiri said coldly.

I bristled at her tone but forced myself to stay calm. I can’t believe she just asked if this is a trap. As if being stolen by an 8-feet-tall Na’vi alien prince is convenient in any way. “What benefit would I get in doing that?I just want to survive.”

Mo’at spoke then, her voice calm but commanding. “Survival is not enough. If Eywa has brought you here, it is for a reason.”

Again with that. The mention of Eywa made me shift uncomfortably. “I don’t know anything about your goddess other than what I read in Dr. Augustine’s book. I’m just a scientist. I don’t…I don’t know how to see this world through your eyes.”

Mo’at’s piercing gaze seemed to see right through me. “You will learn.”

Jake leaned forward, his expression softening slightly. “Look, kid, I don’t trust the RDA as far as I can throw them. But if you’re willing to help us, we’ll give you a chance.”

Neteyam’s gaze lingered on me, and for a brief moment, his expression softened, almost imperceptibly.

“I’ll help,” I said finally,my stubborn nature present in my tone. “But only because I want to.”

The unspoken tension in the room eased slightly, though I could feel Neytiri’s lingering distrust like a weight on my shoulders.

Marie showed me to my room again after the meeting, giving me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You did well,” she said. “Better than most would in your shoes.”

“Thanks,Marie.” I muttered, though her words did little to ease my anxiety. With that,she closed the door.

As I settled onto the bed, staring up at the metal ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life had just taken a turn I wasn’t prepared for.

And yet, as my thoughts drifted to Neteyam’s sharp gaze and the quiet way he had observed me during the meeting,I couldn't help but wonder what his deal was. The feeling’s odd to me,I haven't felt that in years. And…

It’s making me a bit hungry,honestly.

The hum of the station was the only sound that accompanied me as I wandered the dimly lit corridors of the human base. My mind was racing, too many thoughts colliding at once,still wrapped around the weight of the day’s meetings, the endless questions hanging in the air, and the awkward tension I couldn’t seem to shake when around the Sullys—particularly, him.

I passed through the narrow hallway, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as the faint noise of distant conversations and equipment hummed from behind the closed doors. This place felt strange—like a temporary home that would never truly settle. Everything was different from Earth, but in a way, it felt like I was just an observer, caught in the web of something far bigger than myself.

The door to the common area creaked open in front of me, and I froze, half-expecting to see some of the other humans still up, working through their endless piles of research. But it wasn’t anyone of that nature.

It was him.

Neteyam.

The dim glow from the overhead fixtures cast soft shadows across Neteyam’s features. His skin, a rich azure blue, shimmered faintly with sweat from the humid air, giving him an almost ethereal quality. It was the kind of glow that made him seem perfectly at home in this vibrant, untamed world, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of awe.

His eyes, framed by dark lashes, gleamed in the low light—deep golden irises that seemed to catch every speck of light, as if holding the fire of the sun within them. When he turned to face me, the air between us thickened. It wasn’t just the sharpness of his gaze, but the weight behind it—a depth that spoke of untold stories and burdens carried for far too long.

His glowing markings,tanhì, like ancient symbols of power, danced subtly across his chest and arms, pulsing with life. They made him look otherworldly, as if he were an extension of the forest itself. The light caught the edges of his sharp jaw and high cheekbones, leaving me breathless.

I couldn’t help but admire the strength in his build—broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist, his body honed and defined by years of living in the wild, of being shaped by this planet’s untamed forces. He moved with an effortless grace, the way he carried himself so confidently, yet with a quiet calm that contrasted with the power his frame promised. Even in the softest light, there was no mistaking the intensity of his presence. He was made to lead, to protect, to command. And somehow, in that moment, it felt as if he was commanding my attention without even trying.

The way his braids fell loosely around his shoulders only enhanced his wild, untamed aura. His posture was that of someone who was always alert, poised for action, but also mindful of his surroundings. It was a magnetic blend of strength and restraint that made him seem almost too perfect—too much like some unearthly figure carved from the very land he walked on.

For a moment, I couldn’t help but let my gaze linger on the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin as he moved, the tautness in his arms and chest giving away the sheer power he possessed. His lips, full and slightly parted, were set in a determined line, but I could see the curve of a smile beginning to tug at the edges, as though he had an idea of the effect he was having on me.

I inhaled sharply, suddenly aware of how close he was. I told myself it was just the quiet atmosphere playing tricks on my mind, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something far more dangerous—and intoxicating—about him than I was willing to admit.

He noticed me staring, of course—how could he not? And for just a split second, I saw something flicker in his gaze. A knowing look. A moment of awareness, as if he understood the effect he had on me. It was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, but it left me feeling exposed, like he had seen through all the walls I had built up.

I wanted to be closer to him, to understand him better, but at the same time, I feared what that connection could mean, what it could cost.

Neteyam seemed to sense the shift in the air, his posture softening ever so slightly, as though recognizing the vulnerability in me that I hadn’t yet fully acknowledged. But even then, that guarded, untouchable strength remained in his eyes, a reminder that he was still a warrior, still a son of the Na'vi, and that nothing—no matter how much I longed for it—could change that.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low, almost as if he was cautious about waking the others.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I muttered, crossing my arms, surprised at how defensively I’d sounded. My heart was still too heavy, still too confused from everything that had happened today, and now here he was—looking at me with that same intensity. The weight of his gaze made my skin prickle.

“I don’t sleep much,” he said, stepping closer, though not too close. “I have a lot to think about. You?”

“Ha,same.” I paused, unsure of how much I wanted to admit. “Just... getting used to everything here.”

He nodded slowly, studying me with an intensity that seemed almost... protective? I didn’t know what to make of it, or why he was still watching me so closely.

“Didn’t think you’d be the type to wander around at night,” I added, trying to mask the strange discomfort that was beginning to curl in my stomach. Fuck,I’m hungry.

“I’m not usually,” Neteyam replied, a slight smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes didn’t soften. “But there’s a lot going on, and... sometimes it’s easier to think when everyone else is asleep.”

There was a pause. I stared at the floor, letting the weight of the silence settle around me. It felt strangely familiar, like a habit from back on Earth. The stillness, the quiet—the world always seemed more… raw in the late hours of the night. Back then, I’d sit by the window of my apartment, gazing out into the dark city, and I could almost feel the weight of everyone’s existence, each one of us caught in the ebb and flow of life.

“You’ve been thinking a lot, huh?” I asked, breaking the silence.

He met my gaze, his eyes flickering with something soft, almost uncertain. “Yeah. About you.”

I blinked, confusion flooding through me, my heart suddenly racing. “About me?”

“About why you’re here. What you’re really doing here.” His voice had dropped to a quieter tone, less certain now, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was searching for the truth or if he was testing me, probing for something deeper.

“I mean…You and your grandmother did mention something about Eywa so,clearly,you know more than me.” I said with a soft chuckle,though my laughter died softly. “I didn’t think I’d be... dragged into any of this.”

Neteyam’s gaze softened, and for the first time, there was a small flicker of understanding in his eyes. “You didn’t want to be a part of the RDA when you came here, but you were stuck with them,” he said, as if he understood the weight of it all in a way that nobody else did. “You’re here because you are lost. Inside.”

I looked up at him, surprised. “How did you—”

“I’ve seen it before,” he said quietly. “People like you... forced into a situation they didn’t choose, trying to make something of themselves. Trying to belong.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. His words resonated in me, but the idea of belonging here—among them—was too overwhelming to comprehend. The thought made my heart ache.

A silence fell between us again, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before. There was something in the air, something unspoken, tangible, like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Neteyam took a step forward, close enough now that I could see the faint glow of the tanhì on his face. “I don’t think you’re meant to fit in. Some people aren’t meant to,but…You’ll find your place here. Just... take your time.”

I nodded. I wanted to trust him,I swear, but inside, I could feel a storm brewing. He had no idea what it would take for me to fit in, how hard it’s always been for me,let alone what I was still carrying—what was still hanging over me like a cloud.

“I don’t belong here,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not one of you.”

“You’re more than just a human,you know.” Neteyam said, almost as if to himself. “You’ve got something in you. Something... different.”

I blinked, taken aback. Before I could answer, he raised his hand, pointing toward the exit. “I should um…I should go. I have some errands to run early in the morning.” he said. “But if you need to talk...” He hesitated, then added,a warm smile making its way on his face. “I’m here.”

I didn’t know what to make of that. “Thanks. I’ll uh…think about it,yeah.” I said, feeling a pang of uncertainty claw at me.

He gave me a short nod, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer before he turned and walked off into the shadows of the hallway.

I stood there, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I wasn’t sure what was happening between us—if anything at all. But as I watched Neteyam disappear into the night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were changing. And whether I liked it or not, I was right in the middle of it.

96 notes · View notes