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[classicmemorialbenches]

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Classic Memorial Benches is a family-owned carpentry company that has been crafting high-quality hardwood memorial benches since 1989. Our workshop is located in the charming village of Lathom, Lancashire UK. We take pride in creating heavyweight benches that can withstand the harsh outdoor environment. Our preferred wood is prime grade oak, which not only has a beautiful grain but also has proven outdoor durability.

[mggslover]

How the Unsub Stole Christmas ❆

A Holiday to Remember: part 2

In which the BAU's holiday getaway takes a dark turn when a family is found murdered on Christmas, forcing the team to investigate while reader struggles with painful memories of her past and her growing, unspoken feelings for Spencer Reid.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!bau!reader Genre: crime, angst, smut (18+), fluff, found family Content warnings: graphic cm case descriptions!!, mentions of shitty childhood, reader getting in some unsub trouble, oral (f receiving), p in v sex. Word count: 9k 🫣 i swear it reads really fast A/n: read part 1 first! writing this story genuinely brought me so much joy, and i hope you will experience the same while reading this. this will be my last fic for the year 2024, so thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the support, i can't wait to see what the new year will bring for this blog. don't forget to interact with this post if you've enjoyed! 🎄🤍 dividers by @issysh3ll

It shouldn’t have surprised you that you’d be called out for another case. Still, the disappointment lingered thick in the air.

“It was fun while it lasted,” Garcia murmured softly, her tone sad. JJ wrapped an arm around her, bringing her in for a side hug. “Don’t worry,” she reassured gently. “The trip isn’t over yet.”

Penelope seemed satisfied enough with that answer, but then spoke up again. “I don’t want to stay here on my own. It’s spooky knowing someone got murdered just miles away.”

“You can come with us to the station. Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss and Y/L/N, you’ll head to the crime scene. A deputy will be waiting for you there.” Hotch instructed. 

You exhaled softly and gave a brief nod. Spencer glanced over at you, his eyes filled with that quiet empathy you’d come to recognize over the years.

“Good luck,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

“Thanks,” you replied, your words equally soft. “You too.”

Half an hour later, you arrived at the crime scene. The neighborhood was so small it hardly felt like one—just a handful of houses scattered across large, snow-dusted plots of land. It looked peaceful, almost idyllic, as if nothing could ever disturb the calm. The street was adorned with Christmas lights and festive decorations. The only thing slightly out of place was a crack in the bench beside one of the houses. Otherwise, the neighborhood looked like it had stepped right out of a holiday card.

As you stepped out of the car, you noticed the few neighbors who hadn’t yet been driven inside by the cold. They stood in clusters in front of their homes, bundled up in scarves and coats, watching the scene unfold with cautious curiosity.

You looked over at Prentiss. “We should start doing some interviews—maybe send a few of them over to the station.”

She nodded, her expression focused. “Got it.” Without another word, she made her way toward them.

You followed Rossi and Derek toward the red wooden house, where the Deputy awaited by the front door. He looked young—probably around your age. 

Rossi introduced you to Deputy Wilson. Wilson gave a sheepish smile, “Sorry it’s just me. Almost the whole department is unavailable because of the holidays.”

“Convenient timing for a murder,” you mused.

“The scene’s been left as it was when we found it,” Wilson continued. “The back door’s been forced open, and you can see boot prints in the snow leading to the backyard.”

Morgan immediately stepped forward. “I’ll get a shot of those prints for Garcia,” he said, already heading toward the backyard.

Wilson looked at you and Rossi. “You want to take a look inside?”

You paused before heading in, shaking the snow from your boots and making sure not to use the doormat—the one engraved with the names of the family members. It felt wrong, almost disrespectful, to dirty the only thing that might be left of them. 

You took in a sharp breath as you entered the house. Your gaze was first taken by the large Christmas tree standing in the corner of the living room, decorated in red and gold. But then you noticed the bloody mess underneath it. Four bodies—two adults and two children—lay scattered on the floor, broken Christmas ornaments surrounding them, as though the killer had dropped them carelessly after his violent act. The mother and father were draped over each other, their throats slit cleanly. The teenage daughter, too, had her throat cut, but her body was twisted in a way that didn’t seem accidental. The small boy—no older than ten—was slumped between them, his face frozen in an expression of terror, a look that would haunt you for days.

The scene before you was a sickening parody of a perfect Christmas. But the most disturbing part wasn’t the carnage—it was their faces. Each of them wore a grotesque, unnerving smile, painted onto their lips in blood. It was a mockery of joy, an image of happiness forced onto the dead.

You felt a wave of nausea rise in your throat and turned away, needing a moment to breathe. It was then that you noticed the walls, once filled with smiling family photos were now smeared with blood. Shattered frames lay scattered on the floor, as if the killer had intentionally destroyed the family’s history, piece by piece. 

Rossi spoke first. “The unsub who stole Christmas,” he mused, his tone almost playful despite the grim reality.

You gave a sharp exhale, a brief scoff escaping your lips. “Yeah, you could say that.”

You put on your gloves and picked up a shattered picture frame from the floor. You handed it to Rossi without a word. He took it, studying it for a moment before speaking again. “One thing’s for sure—this wasn’t just a murder. This is deeply personal.”

You nodded, scanning the room. The starkness of the crime scene was still sinking in, but your mind was already running through the facts. “The execution was meticulous,” you murmured, your gaze flickering over the room, “but the aftermath... messy. The unsub rushed out of here—didn’t even bother closing the back door behind him, and those footprints? Almost like he didn’t care at all about leaving evidence. We might even get lucky and find DNA on the bodies.”

Rossi considered it. “It could be that he was in a hurry. In a small neighborhood like this, people will notice anything out of the ordinary. He probably knew he had to move fast.”

You hummed in return. “It still doesn’t add up. You can’t plan a murder with this much detail and then completely overlook how to cover your tracks afterward.”

You took another slow turn around the room, examining the details. Every piece seemed to add to the strange puzzle, but none of it fit together. As you passed the fireplace, something caught your eye: a piece of paper tucked into one of the stockings. You reached for it carefully, your fingers brushing the corner stained with blood.

You unfolded it with precision, revealing the scrawled words in black ink. The sentence was short and written in Latin, a language you hadn’t encountered in years. You stared at it, furrowing your brow as you tried to make sense of it.

“You wouldn’t happen to know Latin, would you?” You asked Rossi, half-joking, though the seriousness in your voice remained.

Rossi looked up, his expression a mix of confusion and dry humor. “Does it look like I know Latin?”

You smiled, already pulling your phone out of your pocket and speed dialing Spencer. As the phone rang, you turned your attention back to the paper, the blood spatter still making your stomach turn.

“Hey,” you breathed out as he picked up the phone after the second ring.

“Hey,” Spencer replied. “Are you okay?” His voice was soft with concern, your single syllable being enough for him to decipher how you feel.

You glanced over your shoulder at the murdered family, swallowing hard before turning away. “I will be,” you responded. Once that fucker is behind bars.

You straightened, pushing the thoughts away, and focused on the task at hand. “I’ve just found a piece of paper at the crime scene. It’s a text written in Latin. I figured it’d be quicker to ask you than wait for Garcia to look it up.”

Spencer hummed in acknowledgment. “Good call. What does it say?”

You glanced at the paper again, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar words. “Nunc sciunt te perfectum non esse.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line before Spencer spoke, his voice calm but precise. “Nunc sciunt te perfectum non esse. ‘Now they know you’re not perfect.’” His perfect Latin pronunciation made you wince at how poorly you’d read it.

“What’s that supposed to mean? A taunt?”

Spencer’s voice was thoughtful. “Sounds like he’s trying to prove something. It’s definitely personal.”

You exchanged a look with Rossi, who was standing nearby, holding the broken picture frame. “Yeah, that’s what we’ve been thinking. Whoever this unsub is, he knows the Reynolds family intimately.”

“Garcia’s already digging into the family’s background,” Spencer replied without missing a beat, already a step ahead.

“Good,” you muttered, relief washing over you for a moment. “How are things going over there?”

“JJ’s been trying to reach family, but they don’t live nearby,” Spencer answered. “A snowstorm hit. I’ve been tracking the meteorological data, and the chances of them making it are close to zero.” 

You nodded, a dull ache settling in your chest. “Well, I’m going to keep looking around here. The bodies will be picked up soon to go to the lab, and then I’ll be heading over to the station.”

“Alright,” Spencer replied, his tone warmer now. “I’ll see you there. Be careful.”

“Always am,” you said, offering a small smile even though he couldn’t see it.

The words on the note kept drifting through your mind. Maybe it was the sentiment that came with Christmas—or maybe it was the fact that, up until now, you were having a perfect holiday, something you never thought you’d get to experience—that made the scene remind you of your childhood. How everything looked so joyous from the outside, especially during the holidays. But if you looked closely, you’d see the cracks. The ornaments on the tree, hastily glued together, their edges jagged and uneven. The hole in the wall, cleverly concealed behind your stocking. 

You were probably overthinking it. After all, it wasn’t the family that was broken like yours was—it was the unsub who had shattered their picture-perfect life.

Rossi’s voice broke through your thoughts. “You okay, kid?”

You blinked, pulling yourself out of the past and into the present. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.”

You and Rossi walked into the secluded room the Sheriff had arranged for the team, exchanging your findings with Morgan and Prentiss along the way. You’d made a quick stop at a Chinese takeaway to grab food for everyone, knowing the team needed fuel for the long hours ahead.

The rest of the team was already seated around the table, and Reid was in the middle of showing Hotch something on the map of the neighborhood.

“Oh, you guys are the best!” Penelope sighed, her voice full of appreciation as she caught sight of the plastic bags you were carrying.

“We couldn’t leave you to go hungry,” Emily responded with a grin.

You took a seat closest to where Spencer was standing, and he naturally slid into the chair beside you. You reached into the bag and pulled out the only plastic fork, knowing he’d struggle with chopsticks. He flashed you a grateful, closed-lip smile as he took it from you.

Once everyone had filled their plates, the conversation turned back to the case.

“Garcia dug up some useful info,” JJ began. “Stephen Reynolds owned a construction company that’s on the verge of going bankrupt. It’s possible the unsub was an employee who got fired—or was cut loose because the company couldn’t afford him anymore.”

“It seems like the whole family was targeted,” you added, leaning forward. “The note was left in one of the children’s stockings. It doesn’t feel like the murder was just directed at Stephen.”

“That’s why we need to find out more about the Reynolds family outside of their neighborhood,” Hotch said. “The employees at the construction company could have insight. It’s clear the neighbors aren’t going to give us much.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed, a skeptical look on his face. “Did they really not give you anything? The neighbors, I mean.”

Prentiss shook her head. “Nothing useful. They kept insisting that the Reynolds’s were a perfect family. They even seemed offended when I pressed for more.”

“That doesn’t sit right. The note specifically mentioned how the Reynolds’s are not perfect.” Rossi replied. 

“I gotta give it to them, though,” Garcia chimed in. “The Reynolds’s are model citizens. The parents were both heavily involved in charity, and the kids have won multiple prizes in spelling bees and other competitions.”

“Has anything bad ever happened in that neighborhood?” Morgan asked, clearly skeptical about the idea of perfection.

Penelope clicked away on her laptop. “Well, there was a fire in one of the houses about ten years ago, because of damaged Christmas lights.” She made a sad face as she continued searching. “Oh, and a cat got stuck in a tree once… didn’t make it.”

“What happened to the family in the house?” Spencer asked.

Penelope’s fingers paused over the keys. “Uh, let me see… The Eriksens died from smoke inhalation. Oh… this is sad. They left a child, Christopher Eriksen. He was put into foster care when he was just eight.”

“Did the Reynolds’s live there when that happened?” JJ asked.

“Yeah, they did. Actually, they organized a fundraiser to build a bench with the parents’ names engraved on it, in their memory.”

You felt your pulse quicken at the mention of the bench. Something about it seemed strangely familiar, but you couldn’t trust your mind right now—not with everything still scattered from the case, and the ghosts of your past tugging at the edges of your thoughts.

You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you, but you decided to ignore it, keeping your focus on Hotch as he spoke up. 

“It’s best if we head back to the cabin to rest up,” he said. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and the station’s closing tonight so everyone can spend time with their families.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, the relief of getting some rest evident on their faces. But as the team began gathering their things, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in your chest. You hated the idea of putting the case on hold, even if it was just for the night. The face of that little boy kept haunting your thoughts, his wide eyes silently pleading for answers, for peace. You couldn’t help but feel like you were letting him down.

Spencer’s hand snakes up on your shoulder, his warm hold holding you in place. His lips barely moved as he mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, shaking your head.

The entire car ride had been silent. Spencer’s gaze would occasionally flicker over to you in the backseat, but you kept your eyes fixated on the road, watching the scenery blur past.

The silence stretched on as you said your goodnights to the rest of the team and walked toward your shared room with Spencer. As you both got ready for bed, there was an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Now, lying in the king-sized bed, you both stared up at the ceiling, the quiet stillness between you thick with unspoken words.

“When are we finally going to talk about what’s wrong?” Spencer’s voice broke the silence, careful but insistent.

You stayed quiet for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts. “Nothing’s wrong,” you replied, your words coming out a little too quickly.

“There’s obviously something wrong,” he pressed gently. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know,” you answered, your voice softer now, more honest. Usually, Spencer never had to press. There was something about him—something warm and patient—that made it easy to open up, to share your thoughts without fear of judgment. But this time, it felt different. It wasn’t just the case. It felt personal, something you couldn’t fully explain.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” you said, thinking aloud. “It’s just… something’s off. And I don’t know if it’s just me.”

“What do you feel?” His question was quiet, but his concern was clear.

You hesitated. “It sounds stupid,” you muttered, brushing it off.

“Nothing you could say would sound stupid to me.” His words, soft and sincere, made your chest tighten with warmth. You turned your head to look at him, noticing the closeness between you, the way his gaze lingered on you.

“You thought it was stupid that I shower at 115 degrees,” you said with a playful smile.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the tension easing just a little. “I don’t think it’s stupid that you like it,” he said, his voice gentle. “I just think it’s stupid that you’d risk hurting yourself over it.”

His eyes warmly looked at you. One hand rested underneath his pillow as he lay on his side. You turned toward him, mirroring his position.

"I’m really struggling with this case," you softly admitted, trying to keep eye contact, though your gaze flickered down, betraying the weight of your words.

“Was it hard seeing the crime scene?”

"Yeah," you choked out, your throat tight. You blinked quickly to try to stop the tears that threatened to spill. “It was... it was horrible.”

His hand reached out to gently rub your bare arm under the blanket. "It’s completely normal to feel affected by what you saw," he began, his voice steady but laced with the kind of empathy that only someone like him could offer. "Witnessing something as violent and horrific as the bodies of two children—it’s traumatic. The brain processes trauma in complex ways, especially when it involves young victims. According to studies in neuropsychology, traumatic experiences, particularly those involving children, can cause the brain to release a surge of stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. This flood of chemicals can lead to acute emotional responses, such as anxiety and flashbacks.”

“I’ve been experiencing flashbacks,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. You met his gaze, looking for reassurance, and he gave you the space to speak, waiting patiently. “It actually started earlier today, when we arrived at the cabin. I’ve never experienced a Christmas like this, you know, the kind that feels warm and joyful. I- I don’t know if I’m making connections that aren’t there, but the feeling I had in that house was the same feeling I used to get when I was growing up.”

He tilted his head. "What feeling?"

“...Jealousy.”

His eyebrows knitted. “Jealousy?”

You nodded, swallowing hard, gathering your thoughts. “You could feel so much rage in there. Everything that made the home feel homey—that warmth, that love—was completely shattered. The way the unsub positioned the family members under the Christmas tree, the way the note was tucked into the stocking… There’s a reason for it. Christmas represents this idealized view of perfection. I don’t think the message was to prove that the company going bankrupt is some sort of imperfection in the family’s picture-perfect life. No, it feels like the unsub was jealous of their happiness. Of the fact that they had a family who seemed perfect—something he never had. He wanted to destroy it. To ruin their happiness. He could never have it, so he shattered the illusion of perfection entirely.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, processing your words. “So you think the Reynolds’s were targeted as surrogates?”

“I guess so. But you don’t just stumble across a neighborhood as desolate as theirs.” you responded.

“It could still be one of the employees of the construction company. If Stephen bragged about his perfect family to the wrong person, it could have triggered something.”

You hummed in agreement, but Spencer could see there was more on your mind. He raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

“As I got older, I learned that blaming others wasn’t going to make me feel any better about my situation. It’s like the unsub hasn’t realized that yet. The way he executed this crime—it’s almost like a child throwing a tantrum. He was so meticulous in setting everything up, and then once he got what he wanted, he just… walked away. There was no care for the aftermath, no consideration of what would happen afterward.”

“Do you think the unsub could still be a child?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Your mind clicked, and for the first time, the puzzle pieces seemed to fit together. “How old was the kid when he was put into foster care?" You asked, already knowing the answer.

“Eight. Why?” Spencer's confusion was evident.

“It’s been ten years since that house caught fire. That would make him eighteen now, and—"

Spencer’s eyes widened as realization struck. “And that he just got out of foster care.”

"Exactly," you said, rolling out of bed and storming downstairs.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Spencer called after you, quickly grabbing his cardigan from the chair in the corner of the room before hurrying to catch up.

“Be quiet, I don’t want to wake anyone.” You instructed, feeling Spencer’s presence behind you as you moved toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he hissed in a whisper as you opened Garcia’s laptop on the table. You didn’t respond, your fingers already flying over the keys as you settled into a chair.

Spencer huffed, knowing full well there was no stopping you once your mind was set. He hovered behind you, draping the cardigan over your shoulders. “I’m not covering for you if Garcia finds out,” he warned, glancing over your shoulder at the screen.

“That’s fine. I know exactly what to say to win her over,” you said nonchalantly, clicking away. In your mind, the image of Spencer in the shower was still vivid—a story you could easily use to distract Penelope if it came to that.

You paused, your heart skipping a beat as you found the file. “Here it is,” you muttered, eyes scanning the information on Christopher Eriksen. You clicked to open it fully, Spencer already reading ahead of you.

“They found bruises all over his body when he was put into foster care,” he read aloud, his voice tense as the words sank in.

You leaned forward, your breath catching. “This is it,” you murmured. “His parents— they must’ve bought into that ‘perfect family’ image of the neighborhood, but behind closed doors, they were hiding this. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like for him? Everyone thinking his parents were saints, while they were hurting him? All the while, they’re the ones who get a memorial bench, their lives celebrated while they tortured him.”

“It was on Christmas that he was put into foster care. Now, it’s the first Christmas since he’s been out. It makes sense to go back to the place where it all started,” Spencer concluded.

“I need to go there,” you said urgently, slamming the laptop shut.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Spencer asked, bewildered. He immediately followed you as you rushed to the door, still in your pajamas. “You’re not seriously planning on going out like that?”

“It’s just a quick peek. I need to see if I was right about the bench,” you said, almost to yourself, already focused on the task ahead. You didn’t even glance behind you as you pulled on your shoes and yanked open the front door, wrapping Spencer’s cardigan tighter around yourself to ward off the cold.

In moments like these, Spencer knew exactly who had trained you. You were unmistakably like Gideon—determined, single-minded, and often impulsive once your mind was set. And that, in turn, always left Spencer in a state of mild panic.

“You can’t drive at night,” he said, his voice rising with concern as he followed you into the snow-covered yard. “You have nyctalopia!”

You didn’t stop, your focus unwavering. “You should take night-blindness seriously, it takes forever for your pupils to dilate, and by that time, you’ve already missed the stop sign or, I don’t know, hit a pothole or something. Your contrast sensitivity goes down, so objects blend into the background, and—did I mention the glare from headlights? Because that’s a huge problem, and it makes it worse! You’re already having trouble seeing, and now the glare from every car that passes is just blinding you. It's like trying to navigate in a fog, but it’s just light fog, which—okay, that’s a really bad analogy, but you get the point!”

His words fell into the background as you continued walking, your mind fully occupied with proving your theory. The case had been driving you mad. If you could just confirm that the bench was broken—that Christopher was the one who’d done it in a moment of anger—everything would click. The case would be solved. You’d give the Reynolds family peace. And, selfishly, you’d give yourself peace.

“Please,” Spencer begged, now standing in front of the car door, blocking your path. “If you’re going, at least let me drive.”

His comment made you halt in front of the car. “You hate driving,” you pointed out.

“I’d rather be uncomfortable for a few minutes than risk something happening to you,” he admitted.

You stared at him, feeling a surge of gratitude for how much he cared, how he believed your theory and was willing to go along with you. 

You reached out and took his hands. It was a gesture he rarely tolerated from anyone, but you’d learned over the years that Spencer appreciated it when it came from you. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Thanks, Spence,” you said softly, the words simple but your voice full of appreciation.

He swallowed, his eyes softening as he nodded. “We’ll just take a quick look, right?”

“I swear,” you promised, a reassuring smile tugging at your lips. “Just a quick look.”

He sighed, still clearly uneasy but unwilling to argue. You handed him the car keys and moved to the passenger side, sliding into the seat. 

—————

Spencer slowed the car as you neared the familiar area, the headlights casting long shadows over the snowy driveway.

"Let’s stop the car here," you suggested. The thought crossed your mind just in time—it would be very inappropriate to drive into a quiet neighborhood with an unknown car at this hour, especially after a murder had taken place.

You and Spencer stepped out of the car, the cold biting at your skin as you walked side by side. You stayed close to him, partly to keep warm, partly to follow his tracks through the snow, the dark pressing in around you. The Christmas lights that had lit up the neighborhood earlier were now off, leaving everything shrouded in an eerie quiet.

You made your way to the bench. Your hand skimmed over the smooth wood, lingering on the top right corner where you felt a distinct break—something sharp and jagged where a piece had clearly been broken off. You exhaled in relief. You were right.

Spencer’s hand shot out to gently grab your wrist, his fingers warm against the cold night air. "Careful," he said, his voice low but insistent. "You don’t want splinters. Stay here, I’ll grab a flashlight from the car."

You nodded, watching as his footsteps faded into the distance, swallowed by the thick darkness around you.

Alone now, you scanned the area. Everything was still and silent, save for the occasional crunch of snow beneath your feet. Your eyes were drawn to a dim light flickering from inside the rebuilt house where the Eriksens used to live, just past the bench. Curiosity nudged you forward, and before you could second-guess yourself, your feet were already moving toward the light.

You crept closer to the window, standing on your toes to peer inside. The house was barely furnished, still very much in the process of being worked on before it could be sold. You pressed your hands against the cold glass, forming makeshift goggles with your fingers, your face just inches away from the window as you tried to get a better look.

A sudden pressure on your stomach snapped you out of your thoughts. Before you could react, an arm tightened around your waist, yanking you away from the glass. For a brief moment you thought Spencer was playing some kind of prank, trying to startle you—but the movement was so fast and forceful, you knew Spencer would never grab you that aggressively.

Your gasp caught in your throat, immediately silenced as a cold, rough hand clamped over your mouth. Panic surged, but your body went stiff when the sharp edge of a knife pressed to your throat. You didn’t need any further confirmation that this was the unsub.

"I don’t know who you are," the voice rasped, low and dangerous, his breath hot and heavy in your ear. "But you shouldn’t have shown up here."

The tension in his voice was unmistakable. You could feel his rage, his plan disrupted by your unexpected presence. Every instinct screamed at you to fight back, but you remained frozen, knowing that one wrong move could end it all.

“I didn’t plan on killing anyone innocent, but you’ve put yourself in this situation,” he spat, his grip tightening on the knife.

In that fleeting moment, you made a decision. Taking a leap of faith, you sank your teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. The sudden bite startled him, and by sheer luck, he loosened his grip on the weapon.

“Christopher!” You shouted, the name ringing out with urgency.

It was enough to catch him off guard. In that instant, you turned, quickly positioning yourself with a better angle. He was taller than you—still, just a boy, consumed by something far beyond his control. His pain was evident, lurking beneath the fury in his eyes. You knew this wasn’t what he wanted. 

“Who are you?” His voice was strained, the words gripping with suspicion and confusion.

“I’m here to help you,” you said sincerely, keeping your voice steady.

“No, you’re not,” he denied.

“I swear I am. I know what happened to you. I know what your parents did to you.”

Without warning, he shoved you hard against the house. Your head slammed into the window, a sharp pain exploding in your skull. “You don’t know anything!” he screamed.

“I do, Christopher. I do!” The words came from a place of desperation, your breath ragged. “I understand. I know how much this eats at you, how alone you feel because you’re the only one who knows the truth. But it doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to hurt anyone else. The truth will come out. People will know what your parents did, what really happened here. You’ll get what you want, the world will see that they’re not perfect.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—something soft, vulnerable. 

“They all knew what happened!” He said in anger, pointing at the houses surrounding you. “They all knew and no one said anything!” He shook his head, “I’ll never get what I want. It’s too late for that.” he muttered bitterly.

Despite his words, you felt a flicker of hope. He was talking. He was listening. That had to count for something.

“It’s not too late, Christopher,” you said, your voice gentle but firm. “I thought the same thing once. But family… family isn’t just the people you’re born to. You can build your own, one that will love you despite everything. I’ve got that family now.”

He swallowed hard, his face momentarily flickering with doubt. “I wish I could believe you,” he said, his voice quiet, tinged with regret.

And then, in a flash, his arm shot out. Instinctively, you braced yourself, squeezing your eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable strike.

As the seconds stretched on, memories—both regrets and cherished moments—flashed before your eyes, a cruel reminder of everything you had to lose.

But then, a loud thud echoed in the night. Christopher crumpled to the ground, his body going limp. You whipped your head up, heart in throat, and saw Spencer standing behind him, the butt of his gun covered in blood, the impact of the blow knocking Christopher out cold. 

A shaky breath escaped you, half a sob, half a gasp of relief. You stumbled toward Spencer, your legs nearly giving out as you threw yourself into his arms. 

“I’m so sorry,” you cried into his chest, voice cracking. “I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

He shushed you softly, brushing a hand through your hair as he held you close. “It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice soft and soothing. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Twenty minutes later, the team and the police arrived. Spencer had called Hotch the second you’d calmed down enough, and by the time they got there, Christopher was still passed out. The officers dragged him into the back of their car, while JJ and Prentiss took it upon themselves to reassure the neighbors that they had someone in custody.

You knew exactly what was coming when Hotch finally made his way over to you and Spencer, but your head was pounding too much to care.

Hotch scanned the two of you with a sharp, disapproving look. “Really? You went to catch an unsub in your pajamas?”

“The whole ‘catching the unsub’ thing wasn’t exactly part of the plan,” you muttered, wincing slightly as the headache flared.

Hotch exhaled sharply, then turned to Spencer, his gaze a little more pointed. “I could’ve expected this from her, but I expected better from you, Reid.”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, knowing there was no defense. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Hotch gave a sigh in response, his expression softening just a fraction. “I’m too tired to deal with the two of you right now. I expect to see both of you in my office in the morning.”

“Actually, I checked all the rooms in the cabin, and there’s no office. Which is surprising, considering—”

“Spence,” you interrupted him with a nudge of your elbow.

He shot you a tight-lipped look, turning back to Hotch. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

—————

The second you closed the car door behind you and buckled your seatbelt, you passed out. You’d always slept best during car rides, and especially now, with your mind much quieter now that Christopher Eriksen wasn’t your problem anymore.

When you finally arrived back at the cabin, you were still sound asleep. Derek told Spencer to wake you, but he didn’t have it in him. Instead, he carefully made his way to your side of the car, unbuckling your seatbelt. He lifted you into his arms, trying not to huff too loudly as he carried you through the thick snow. He made his way up the stairs quickly, hoping Penelope wouldn’t notice the wet tracks from his boots inside the house—he couldn’t take them off while holding you.

He was glad you were in your pajamas as he gently laid you on the bed. He walked over to the closet, grabbing some extra blankets and draping them over you, hoping it would help you regain some warmth.

Then, he crawled into bed beside you. Closer than he would’ve dared if you were awake, not quite touching, but close enough to share body heat. His gaze lingered on you, watching how peaceful you looked. The night had been a lot to handle, but he knew he’d do it all again if it meant keeping you safe.

The bright light reflected off the snow outside, filtering into the room. Groaning, you rubbed your eyes, the movement only making your headache worse. You huffed and carefully opened your eyes, being met with the sight of Spencer. His hair was a curly mess, and a small, warm smile painted his face.

“Hey, how’s your head?” he asked softly.

The events of last night rushed back to you, and you groaned again. “So, all of that really happened?”

“It did,” Spencer confirmed.

“I really hoped I just got drunk on too much Glühwein,” you sighed, wincing at the thought.

“You can still do that tonight,” he teased.

“No,” you muttered in disgust. “I need to recover from this first.”

You glanced over at him again, seeing the concern still shining in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for putting you in that situation last night,” you said quietly. “Everything about it was just... stupid.”

“If you hadn’t insisted on going, who knows who else he could’ve hurt,” Spencer pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.” You thought about it for a second, the weight lifting slightly. “Still, I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

“I’m glad I went with you,” Spencer said, his voice softening. “If I hadn’t... I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened to you. I would never forgive myself if I wouldn’t have been there in time.”

You gave a heavy sigh, turning your gaze to the ceiling. “That’s why it’s probably best we stay friends,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. Despite Emily’s pep talk, this was proof that it wouldn’t be wise to start something serious with Spencer.

“Friends instead of what?” Spencer asked, his voice higher, as if eager to hear the answer.

“Instead of us dating,” you said, almost offhandedly, not realizing you were speaking aloud about something you’d never discussed before, even though the topic would come up eventually.

Spencer froze, his eyes wide, hope flickering in them as he looked at you. “You would date me?”

Your heart skipped a beat. You froze too, catching up with the fact that you had said that out loud. Your cheeks warmed, and you immediately turned your gaze to the ceiling, not daring to look at his expression.

“Uh—hypothetically,” you stammered, scrambling to cover your tracks.

“You would hypothetically date me?”

You swallowed, still too flustered to look at him. “Yes. If... you would, I mean. If you wanted that, too...?”

Spencer was silent for a beat, his gaze never leaving you. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” you answered, your voice steady despite the racing thoughts in your head.

He slowly moved closer to you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. You flinched back instinctively, and he immediately withdrew his hand, his expression apologetic.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your heart beating faster.

“You said you’d want to date me,” he murmured, his voice unsure.

“Yes, but—” you stopped yourself as the realization hit that he was planning to kiss you. “Oh.”

Tentatively, you reached out and placed your hand on his cheek. You leaned in a little, but this time it was him who pulled back.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice breathless.

“Kissing you.”

“Oh,” he breathed out, his tongue darting over his lips. “Okay.”

You smiled softly, then closed the distance, your lips gently pressing to his.

Spencer hummed in satisfaction, both of you staying like that for a moment, neither of you wanting to pull away. You were the first to break the kiss, catching your breath. If it were up to Spencer, he’d keep his lips on yours forever.

Your eyes fluttered open, faces still inches apart. Spencer cupped your face and pulled you back in, placing several soft pecks on your lips before he leaned on his arm, slightly hovering over you as he deepened the kiss.

You tried to mirror his movements, but a sharp pain shot through your skull. “Ouch,” you hissed, pulling back.

“Just lay down, let me take care of you,” Spencer assured, the warmth of his words making your heart flutter. You slowly lower yourself onto your back, the soft sheets crinkling beneath you, and Spencer moves above you, the blankets still covering both of you.

His lips found yours again. He kept them slightly parted, giving you the chance to slide your tongue against his. The world outside seemed to disappear as you melted into each other, lips moving in sync.

The kisses become more heated, each one a little deeper than the last. His hand moved to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, the other hand resting on your side, his touch sending little sparks of warmth wherever it brushed.

You could feel the heat between you growing. “I’m so warm…” you mumbled against his lips. 

His eyes darkened slightly. “Yeah?” His voice was rough as his fingers lightly trailed over the buttons of your pyjama shirt. “Do you want me to take this off?”

You nodded, and he slowly started undoing each button with purposeful care. His gaze flickering between your eyes and the exposed skin. He let out a moan when your shirt finally fell open, his eyes taking you in. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed out in awe, before pressing his lips to yours again. 

You responded eagerly, your hands fumbling between your bodies to undo his shirt in the same way. You slid the fabric off his shoulders, letting your hands run over the muscles of his back, feeling the heat of his skin. 

He gently pressed his body weight down on you, and you shuddered at the feeling of your nipples pressing against his bare chest.

His lips delicately kissed your face, until he reached your ear. He nipped at your lobe, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Do you like that?” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You answered in a soft moan, your body arching into him. He didn’t need to ask again; he could tell you were enjoying this as much as he was.

His lips slid lower, kissing and sucking on your neck, while his hand slid down to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, teasing circles.

His mouth moved to your collarbone, and then he teasingly dipped lower.

“God, Spence,” you softly moaned as he placed a wet kiss on your lower stomach. “That feels so good.”

His hand, which has been resting on your breast, trails down until it reaches the waistband of your pyjama pants.

“More, please,” you whimpered, lifting your hips instinctively. His fingers slide around the band as he slowly pulls them down, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

He lowers himself onto his stomach on the mattress. With a tender touch, he lifts your legs over his shoulders.

“Is this okay?”

For a moment, you’ve lost yourself in his gaze—those warm brown eyes looking up at you, his pink lips swollen from his kisses…

“Y-yeah,” you manage to respond, nodding.

You moaned as his mouth made contact with your inner thighs, his tongue warm and wet against your skin. He took his time, kissing his way to the sensitive spot where you needed him most.

“Spencer…” you breathed, your voice shaky with need.

The anticipation was unbearable as his hot breath tickled you, but you didn’t have to wait much longer. Slowly, his tongue flicked over your pussy, and you gasped, your body trembling at the touch.

He moaned in response, as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste of you, his tongue swirling in soft, teasing motions that had your hips lifting off the bed in search of more. 

“So fucking sweet,” he muttered against you, before repeating the motion, licking you again and again, while he grinded himself against the matress.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him closer, deeper, your body quivering as he continued. He alternated between sucking and licking your clit, his finger moving up and down your pussy until it entered you gently, then slowly adding another, the stretch an overwhelming pleasure. 

You gasped his name, your body writhing beneath him as the pressure built with every move. “Spencer… please, don’t stop…” you begged, voice thick with need.

His fingers curled inside you, pressing just the right spot as his tongue continued swirling around you. Your legs started trembling as you reached the edge.

“I’m—“ you gasped, but the words dissolved into a string of moans as the wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your legs were shaking as you came undone, clenching around his fingers, your hips bucking against his mouth. 

Spencer didn’t stop, though. He kept going at a gentle pace, letting you ride out the intensity of your orgasm. Then, he slowly pulled away, his lips glistening as he looked up at you, eyes wide and full of wonder. 

“Was that good?” he asked softly, licking his lips. 

You laughed breathlessly as you nodded, your chest still rising and falling rapidly. “Come here,” you whispered seductively, pulling him in by the back of his neck to kiss him. You could taste yourself on his lips, which only added to your arousal.

Spencer’s eyes darkened with desire, his forehead pressed to yours. “I need you. I need to be inside of you.”

You nodded, moving your hand down his body, feeling the hardness of him against your palm. He helped you pull his pants down, and you stroked him gently, feeling him twitch in your hand before guiding him toward your entrance. He let out a low groan, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pushed into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moaned, his hips stuttering as he filled you completely. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as his thrusts grew deeper, more urgent.

You could feel every inch of him, every movement as his cock repeatedly hit those places inside that made your head spin. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, your moans mixing with his ragged breaths.

“You’re so warm,” Spencer whimpered. “So perfect for me.” 

Your hands gripped his back, nails digging into his skin as you urged him on, your body moving with his. His pace quickened, and you couldn’t hold back the desperate cries that escaped you. 

“Spencer… I’m so close,” you gasped.

“Me too,” he moaned, his hips slamming into yours. “Let me come with you. Please, let me come with you.”

You nodded, your body trembling. “Now, Spencer…” you begged in a breathless plea.

His breath hitched, his body tensing as he gave one last deep thrust, and then, with a loud, guttural moan, he came inside you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him as you fell apart. 

The room was filled with nothing but your ragged breaths, the sound of two bodies, tangled in a quiet, shared moment of bliss. Spencer collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling as he took your hand in his, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

“That was… perfect,” he whispered, his voice full of awe.

You smiled softly as you placed your head on his chest, fingers lazily tracing his stomach. “Yeah,” you said in a breath, your heart full of him. “It really was.”

You let out a soft groan as Spencer stood up, and you instinctively reached for his hand, pulling him back toward you. “Don’t go yet,” you pouted.

Spencer smiled, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and affection. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, wrapping a blanket around his waist before walking to the corner of the room. He rummaged through his bag, his back turned to you for a moment as you blatantly checked him out.

“I miss you,” you murmured, leaning back into the pillows.

He chuckled softly, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not even five feet away from you.”

You shrugged, your voice a little teasing. “Still feels like you're miles away.”

With a smile, he walked back toward you, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hands behind his back. “Which hand?” he playfully asked.

“Left,” you replied without hesitation.

He swiftly shifted the small box he’d been holding from his right hand to his left, then grinned, revealing the gift. “Here you go.”

You blinked in surprise. “That was your present?” you asked, your voice filled with wonder as you recognized the familiar wrapping Garcia had handed you the day before.

Spencer nodded, watching you closely. “Yeah. Open it.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you unwrapped the gift, your heart racing with excitement. Beneath the paper was a velvet black jewelry box. You glanced up at Spencer, your eyes searching his for reassurance. He gave a soft nod, his smile encouraging.

With a gentle flick of your fingers, you opened the box—and there, nestled inside, was the most stunning heart-shaped locket you’d ever seen.

“Oh my God, Spencer,” you breathed, your voice a mixture of awe and disbelief. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

A shy smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it behind his ear. “It used to be my mom’s,” he said. “She doesn’t wear jewelry much anymore, but she wanted me to keep it... to give it to someone special one day.”

Your heart melted at the thought, and you looked at him with newfound tenderness, the weight of his gesture sinking in. 

“She was happy when I told her I wanted to give it to you,” he added, his eyes soft with sincerity.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Your mom knows about me?”

Spencer nodded, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “I tell her pretty much everything. She likes hearing about you most.”

“Why?” You curiously asked.

Spencer's smile deepened, and he looked down at his lap for a moment, as though gathering courage. When he looked up at you again, his eyes were soft, full of love.

“Because you make me happy.”

After your intimate moment with Spencer, the inevitable conversation with Hotch had to happen. Just before the talk, Hotch received a call from the lab confirming the DNA found on the Reynolds matched Christopher Eriksen’s—meaning the bittersweet news of Christopher going to prison.

“I still don’t get how the two smartest people on the team act like half a brain when they’re together,” Hotch had said with a half-smile, glancing at you and Spencer. “But… you did good work.”

—————

Later that morning, Emily spotted you, her eyes immediately drawn to the locket around your neck. “Fancy,” she commented, her smirk growing as she cocked an eyebrow. “Where did that come from?”

You felt your cheeks heat up as you absently played with the necklace, a soft smile on your lips. “It’s Spencer’s. He gave it to me.”

Emily’s smirk turned into a knowing smile, and you could see the proud glint in her eyes. “You two are something else.”

—————

Throughout the day you and Spencer did your own thing, trying to act casual in front of the team—yet every time his hand brushed your back or he leaned in for a quick kiss in the empty hallway, your heart fluttered. You couldn’t help but sneak glances at him as he played chess with Rossi, your eyes catching his in those fleeting moments.

You felt Spencer’s presence behind you like a familiar warmth as you stood in the kitchen. He slipped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck, placing soft kisses.

“Who would’ve thought you’d be such a romantic?” you mused, running your fingers through his hair, the feeling of him against you enough to make your heart race.

His lips hummed against your skin. “It’s your fault,” he stated, his voice thick with affection. “You drive me crazy.”

You tugged him up the stairs to your shared room, pushing him playfully onto the bed. You stood between his legs as you began to slowly peel away your clothes, revealing the red laced lingerie set Derek had gifted you during Secret Santa.

“Never thought I’d be thanking Derek for gifting you this,” Spencer mused, his hands sliding up and down your legs, a smirk displayed on his lips.

You smiled, tracing his jaw with your thumb, the heat between you growing. “What do you think of checking out the hot tub?” you purred.

He swallowed nervously, his eyes flicking down to his lap. You rolled your eyes as you responded in a sigh, “You can choose the temperature.”

Before you could say another word, he scooped you up, lifting you over his shoulder with a playful slap to your ass. You yelped, giggling as he carried you off toward the bathroom.

—————

The cabin was large, but unfortunately not big enough to avoid Garcia, so you knew what was coming when you heard the familiar sound of her heels clicking against the hallway floor. She was heading straight toward you, her finger pointing accusingly at you.

“I slept with Spencer.” you hurriedly spilled out before she could say something.

She stopped in her tracks. Her face went through a thousand different expressions in the blink of an eye—confusion, disbelief, excitement—before she finally let out a high-pitched squeal. “You... you slept with Spencer?”

“Twice,” you giddily answered, the smile creeping across your face before you could stop it.

Garcia’s expression finally broke into a huge grin, and without missing a beat, she grabbed your hands and started bouncing on the spot. “Derek is gonna lose his mind!”

You barely had time to protest before she was already up the stairs.

As the end of the day drew near, the group gathered around the fire pit in the backyard, cocoa mugs in hand, the warmth of the flames casting flickering shadows on everyone’s faces. 

“Are you sure your phone is on silent?” Garcia asked Hotch, eyeing him with suspicion.

“I’m sure, Garcia,” Hotch replied with a small smile.

She was satisfied, her focus shifting to Rossi. “The honor is yours. You may present the last Secret Santa gift.”

Rossi cleared his throat, glancing around awkwardly. “Now, this might sound like a cheap excuse for forgetting to buy a present…” Laughter rippled through the group, and Garcia shot him an offended look. “But... I think I can speak for all of us when I say the best gift is us being together in this beautiful location.”

He turned to Hotch, his voice genuine. “Aaron, you’ve built a good team here. A good family. You should be proud.”

Hotch’s smile softened, his eyes briefly glancing over the group, the weight of the moment settling on him. “I am. Thank you, David.”

And for the first time, you didn’t question whether you deserved a place in this loving, dysfunctional family—you knew you belonged.

[guksvault]

THE TIDES OF US | JJK

Oneshot

pairing: firstlove!jungkook x firstlove!(f.)reader

synopsis: returning to Busan was never meant to be anything more than temporary. but when you’re faced with the boy who shaped your heart and engraved his initials upon it, are you able to pick up where you left off or will the tides of Busan wash away everything you once knew?

w/c: 8.6k

warnings: first love reunited, angst, angst snd some more angst, coffeeshopowner!jk, two dummies who apparently can’t communicate!, eventual smut (just one scene!), titty appreciation, unprotected sex (dont be silly!!), yummy make outs, crying :(, actually no! sobbing!, so many questions, matchalover!reader, both 22!!!, um um um, jjk has a shaggy mullet bc i cant help myself!!!, too many emotions that both characters r overwhelmed by! i think thats it lol idk, enjoy pls <3 mwah

!minorsdni!

It had been a total of 1614 days since you last walked through the city of Busan. Four years and six long months since your parents had uprooted your lives and moved to London after an opportunity to expand your father’s company at the age of 18.

The sun warms your skin, the scent of sea salt lingers in the air. It's all familiar, yet somehow all so foreign.

Passing by street food stalls where you once spent your last bits of change, benches where you watched sunsets over the sea with your first love, and photobooth stands you’d drag them into at every chance. It was all so familiar, yet distant, flooding you with a wave of emotions—nostalgia, longing, and a twinge of sadness for how those days had slipped through your fingers, leaving only memories behind.

You find yourself frozen inside a beachfront café, convinced the sun has given you heatstroke and that this is just a hallucination. It couldn’t be him. There’s no way.

A tall, doe-eyed boy stands across from you, one arm adorned with intricate tattoos, a shaggy mullet framing his chiseled face. He’s frozen too, staring right back at you.

“Jungkook?”

Jungkook watches as you approach the counter hesitantly, his gaze fixed on you. He wants to reach out, to touch you, to see if you’re really here—or if you’re just an illusion his brain conjured up after that extra cup of coffee today.

“Shit- No fuckin’ way? What the fuck?” Is all his pretty little lips that were now adorned with a silver ring could say. His brain was racing, eyes darting back and forth between yours.

“You speak to all your customers like that?” you say playfully, a small laugh escaping your lips.

The smile that forms on Jungkook’s lips is almost painful to see—his old bunny-like teeth on display, the way his nose scrunches and forms those little wrinkles just like it used to, and that little dimple that peeks out, the one he used to say was from all the kisses you pressed to his cheek.

“Still a smartass, huh?” Jungkook teases, biting the corner of his lip and toying with the metal ring.

You hum in response, words getting lost. You’d forgotten you were standing in line, the sight of Jungkook in front of you after so long making you forget the patrons waiting behind you.

“I’ll just take a—”

“Iced Matcha, hm?” Jungkook finishes your sentence, not meaning to, just an instinct. Back when the two of you were inseparable, you’d always push him to try it, but it never worked. He still didn’t like it—at least, not until you left. Now, he ordered it on the days when loneliness got the best of him, or when anniversaries would roll around, the ones that you used to spend hand in hand.

You take a seat at a nearby table, staring out the glass windows that frame the view of the beach. Your thoughts are scrambled, knots forming in your stomach from the situation at hand. It had only been 15 hours since you’d returned to Busan, and already the world felt like it was playing some sick joke on you. Torn between wondering if this was fate or if the universe was rubbing everything you had lost in your face.

A takeaway cup, adorned with a sleeve that reads ‘Golden Hour,’ is placed in front of you.

Your eyes meet Jungkook’s as he stands there, a tight, closed-lip smile on his face. He looks down at you, half-thinking he might actually pass out if you keep looking at him like that—eyes round and innocent, like nothing has changed. When you stand up, only inches away from him now, there’s no counter between you. He could reach out, touch you, and see if this is real—or just another one of his recurring dreams. He decides not to, not wanting to risk it and find out this is all just his subconscious fantasies playing out.

Your lips wrap around the straw, the sweet liquid filling your taste buds—just how you always liked it. Sweet, not too bitter, with extra whipped cream.

“Pretty fucking good,” you say.

It’s silent for a moment, neither of you sure what to say or do next.

“When did you get ba—”

“I should get goi—”

An awkward laugh escapes from both of you, hands fiddling with the straw in an attempt to keep busy, while Jungkook rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah, of course, I should get back to it. Coffee won’t make itself,” Jungkook rambles. You nod, he nods. You give an awkward smile, and he mirrors it back to you. It’s all a little juvenile, reminding you of when you were both in high school—too awkward to communicate, too caught up in the butterflies that fluttered in both of your stomachs.

You thank him again, turning to leave and heading back out into the heat of Busan’s air. Half of you thinks you should ditch the drink and dive headfirst into the ocean, trying to rid yourself of the emotions bubbling inside you.

“Hey—” Jungkook catches up with you just before your hand touches the door to leave. “Can we—like, catch up? I finish at 8:30? If you want… I know you’re probably busy. Could do it another time. If you want—”

Jungkook had always been a rambler—he’d ramble on and on whenever he was nervous, excited, or hiding something. It was a habit you picked up on early in your relationship, a tell that always gave him away. His words would get all jumbled and his speed of speech would increase, right before he’d admit something weighing on his mind.

“Did you change your hair? Did you curl it? Or is that more of a wave? Is your hair naturally like that? Did you have to wake up early to do that? Sorry—I mean, you look pretty.”

“The waves are big today, right? Wonder why. Probably something to do with the moon or something. Hey—did you know that sometimes female crabs eat their own babies if they get too stressed? Shit, sorry. I’m in love you.”

“You’re leaving? Okay, well, London is nice, apparently. Did you know Big Ben isn’t the name of the tower, just the bell inside? Weird, right? Fuck, please, stay.”

“8:30? By the benches?”

Jungkook lets out a small breath of relief. He doesn’t need to ask you to specify which benches—there were plenty along the beachfront, but he knows exactly which one you mean. The same one where he first told you he loved you.

“8:30. Benches. Perfect.”

Your fingers scrolled mindlessly over your phone as you sit on the bench, your foot tapping lightly against your other foot out of nervousness as you wait for Jungkook.

Two hands come to cover your eyes from behind you, skin cool against your warm cheeks, “Boo!”

Your own hand attempts to reach behind you, blindly trying to swat Jungkook, “Little shit.” You giggle.

Jungkook laughs, and the sound fills the air like a familiar melody you didn’t know you missed so much. He lets his hands fall away, stepping in front of you with that trademark half smirk.

“Wanna go sit on the beach?” Jungkook smiled, he was dressed in an oversized black tee, matching baggy jeans to match, his apron that was tied around his waist a few hours prior long gone now, dressed so casually yet, eyes from anyone passing by would automatically be drawn to him.

He’d always been that way—the main attraction in any room he entered. Girls would swoon over his doe eyes and pretty smile, boys would try to replicate his style and confidence, and grandmas would pinch his cheeks and slip in a good word for their granddaughters. You’re sure the attention’s only grown since then. He’d shed that baby face, swapped it for a bad-boy look with tattoos and piercings, and it only seemed to suit him more. You’d bet the creator of Jeon Jungkook had spent extra time perfecting him, as if to apologise for all the other men they had created. There was only one Jeon Jungkook, and he stood before you now, cocking his head towards the beach, waiting for you.

You find a spot on the sand to sit, the small waves washing onto the shore not too far from the two of you. Your hands dig into the sand beside you, letting the soft sand pour from between your fingers.

“Didn’t know you were back. Are you?,” Jungkook asks softly, his own fingers dragging back and forth through the sand in front of him, “Are you back?”

You let out a small laugh, “For a little I guess. Dad’s got a project in Seoul, so I decided to join him. Staying in a hotel just over there.” Your forefinger points to the side a little lazily.

“So, not back?”

“Back for a little.” You counter.

Jungkook lets out a small laugh, “Does anyone know? Surely Jimin or Hobes would have told me.”

“Nah, it was a last minute thing, just got here last night.”

Jungkook hums in response, was a little bummed that you weren’t here for good. He had secretly hoped that you had moved back, found his café, and came to find him.

“Can’t believe you own a fucking Cafè Kook.” You spoke with pride, he had always said he would open his own one day, and you knew he would, just didn’t expect it to be at the age of 22.

Kook. The nickname rolls off your tongue so easily. It fucking punches him in the gut. He could barely handle making eye contact with you, or how your hands brushed against his when you took the cup of Matcha from him. But that? No that was too much, he loved when you would call him that. It always sounded so delicate, so sweet. Memories of you calling out to him when you would spot him at the exit of the subway, how when the two of you would argue you would still say it with a tone so gentle, or when you used to whisper it into his ear late at night when he wasn’t being as gentle with you.

“You look good,” Jungkook almost whispers, his eyes moving towards you. When your eyes meet his, he physically cannot look away, locked in, whether he likes it or not.

“Yeah?” You smirk, a light warmth rushing to your cheeks. “You look like absolute shite.” You bite your lower lip, fighting the laugh threatening to escape.

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “Was tryna have a moment, you fuckin’ idiot.” He laughs, tossing some sand onto your lap as he shakes his head.

An hour passes, then two, then three. The two of you sit on the beach, a place that once defined the bond between you—where you spent the majority of your free time together. Holding hands as you walked the shoreline, chasing each other down the beach after one of you kicked cold water at the other unexpectedly.

Three hours lost in conversation, answering questions about London, Jungkook filling you in on the latest drama with your old friend group, reminiscing about the times you both shared.

“Did you get to meet the queen?”

“Remember when you got dunked by that wave and your fuckin’ swim shorts fell off?”

“Jimin is still a slut. Hoseok is still dancing. Joon owns a fuckin’ reading café with Jin—pricks are heavy competition.”

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way here” you giggle, fidgeting with the swipe card for your hotel room.

Jungkook scoffs, playfully. “Always have walked you home.” The glow from the lobby lights highlights his face, and you can’t help but notice the way his tongue toys with his lip ring. You know you should turn around, but that small action stirs something, turning the butterflies in your stomach into something more chaotic.

You hum, a soft laugh escaping. “Night, Kook.” You walk backward toward the door.

“Tomorrow. Don’t forget. Benches. Lunch.” He smirks, raising a brow.

You stop in the doorway, hesitating. “Goodnight” doesn’t feel like enough. Turning back, you catch him watching you, hands buried in his pockets, looking as if he’s watching you leave again, back to a place where he can’t follow you.

You walk toward him without thinking, wrapping your arms around his neck in an embrace that feels like slipping back into a dream. His hands find your waist instantly, like they’ve been searching for this moment just as long as you have. He holds you tight—too tight—but you don’t mind. Isn’t letting you slip away again.

His head tucks into the crook of your neck, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. The scent of his shampoo, the same one you used to lather into his hair during lazy mornings together, fills your senses. Your fingers tangle into the soft strands, and for a second, it’s like no time has passed at all.

It’s dangerous, how familiar this feels. How easily you could sink back into this, into him. The weight of four years, the ache of everything unsaid, presses against your chest. You’re not sure if this hug is healing you—or breaking you all over again. But right now, you don’t care. All that matters is him, here, holding you like he’s trying to rewrite the past.

Neither of you move. Neither of you speak. The silence feels fragile, like if one of you breathes too loudly, the moment will shatter. You close your eyes, trying to memorise the way this feels. The warmth. The safety.

“Fuck—I’ve missed you.” His voice is muffled, but you feel the words more than hear them. They vibrate against your skin, settling deep in your chest.

Your throat tightens. “Me too, Kook.” Your arms tighten around him, just for a moment. “So much.”

For a fleeting second, you allow yourself to believe that this could be enough—that holding him like this could somehow fix everything. But then his phone buzzes in his pocket, a sharp reminder that the world outside still exists. You feel him tense, the hesitation in his hold. And when you pull back, his hands linger for just a second too long, like he’s reluctant to let you go.

You meet his eyes, and for a moment, neither of you says anything. Just watch each other, silently wishing for the other to not leave.

“Goodnight,” you whisper.

It’s been 9 days of feeling the warmth of Busan’s sun kiss your skin. 9 days of savoring authentic food that you missed in London. 9 days of hearing the sound of Jungkook’s laughter fill your ears.

The last week has been nothing short of a dream you once wished for. Most of your days are spent beside Jungkook—revisiting your old hangout spots, splashing in the cool water of the beach, or even letting him try to teach you how to use his extremely overpriced coffee machine at his café.

Today was no different. You both left the café side by side, iced lattes in hand, no real destination in mind—just happy to be beside each other.

“Ah! Kook! Look! We have to go, we have to!” You beamed, your finger shaking toward a photobooth stand just a few meters away.

Jungkook doesn’t need to look to know exactly what you’re pointing at. He already knows—your excitement was always a dead giveaway whenever a photobooth was in sight. He’d let you drag him in, spend too much time taking way too many photos. Would never say no, he loved it too, capturing moments between the two of you, sometimes he would purposefully plan dates in locations he knew would have a photo booth close by.

He laughs softly, shaking his head, “You haven’t changed a single bit. You know that, right?”

“That’s not true,” you tease, “My tits have at least doubled in size.”

Jungkook’s face freezes for a moment, a slight heat creeping up his neck. He’d noticed. Hell, he’d caught himself staring more than once, but he always tried to focus on your eyes instead, failing most times, told himself you hadn’t noticed. You had.

You slap the brim of his black cap gently, snapping him out of his daze. “Hello? Stop thinking about my tits. Can we please?”

“Wasn’t thinking about your tits, freak,” he laughs, his cheeks flushed. “Go.”

You slide into the cramped photobooth after Jungkook, closing the curtain behind you. It was an older booth, no fancy filters or props for you to use. Two options; Colour or Black&White.

Jungkooks fingers pressed against the screen, knowing you preferred black and white.

The first few shots are a little awkward. A small space forcing you and Jungkook to enter one another’s space, you had one of your legs hooked over his thigh, one of his arms around your back to stop you from sliding off the metal seat of the booth.

“These are all ridiculous, my fuckin’ eyes are closed in half of them” Jungkook whines, flipping through the strips of photos. He wasn’t wrong, they mostly were of you both laughing or pulling some very unattractive face.

“Fine, one more. Proper one.” You smile, sitting a little straighter in the booth.

Jungkook presses the settings again. The countdown begins. Your head leans against his softly, both of you smiling.

Snap.

Jungkook looks at you, takes in your side profile, the way your hair falls so effortlessly around your face, the small lines that form around your eyes as you smile and laugh.

Your eyes turn to meet him, he almost looks pouty. Taking all of you in.

“What?”

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty. Still so fuckin’ gorgeous.” He whispers.

Your eyes widen slightly, lips resting ajar slightly ready to say something but no words form to escape. His teeth tug on his lower lip ever so slightly as his eyes search yours.

Snap.

It's silent, both of you searching in eachothers eyes for something, anything. You swallow lightly, your eyes dropping to his lips where his teeth tug slightly, his lip ring flipping and causing your stomach to flip in unison.

His hand around your back moves to the side of your jaw, his thumb caressing over your cheek so softly you can only just feel it. You move in closer, your lips inches from his. Need this. Need you. Kiss me please.

Jungkook’s eyes shift to your lips, and his breath hitches for just a second. The usual confidence he carries falters, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. His hand, resting near your cheek, twitches, as if torn between pulling you closer or pulling himself away. The silence between you stretches, heavy with unspoken words, but his eyes lock with yours again, and before either of you can think, his lips are on yours.

Snap.

Whatever thoughts had been running through his mind were quickly discarded. His lips crash against yours, you freeze for a moment, before your lips begin to work in partnership with his.

It doesn’t take long for Jungkook’s tongue to softly run against your lower lip, seeking entrance. When he’s met with your lips parting as an invitation he wastes no time. His tongue slides against yours, the way they work together makes it feel like no time has passed at all. So in tune with one another, knowing exactly what each other needs, exactly how one another like it.

The kiss grows heavier, soft grunts, light tugs of teeth against lips, pulling each other closer. No care for anyone passing by or if the curtain had moved. All either of you cared about was savouring this moment. Becoming one. Fuling eachothers fires.

Snap.

The faint sound of the photostrip being printed faded into the background, a distant reminder of the world outside. Neither of you moved, lips still entwined, reliving the taste of what once was. Touches so frantic yet familiar, hands grasping like they were afraid to let go, like holding tighter could stop time.

This was home.

Not a place, not a city—but this feeling. Safe, consuming, and so full of passion. London never offered that to you. And Jungkook lost the feeling of Busan being home as soon as you boarded that plane four years ago. But right here, in each other’s arms, it all made sense again. Like coming back to something that was always yours.

It isn’t until Jungkook’s phone starts to ring, the vibration rattling loudly in his pocket, that the moment shatters. His forehead rests against yours, as he lets out a quiet hiss of frustration.

“Fuck—sorry,” he mutters, eyes still half-lidded, voice low. “It’s probably work. I should take it.”

It’s not the first time his phone has stolen him away. You’d noticed it all week—calls that made him step aside, texts that pulled his attention mid-conversation. You told yourself it was just work, the demands of running a business.

Jungkook lingers a second longer, his hand brushing your knee as if reluctant to leave, before he finally slips out of the booth, leaving you alone with the aftertaste of a kiss that had ignited a fire that had been yearning for a flame for years.

You take the photos, pausing for a moment to flick through the dozen strips of memories captured on film.

Stepping outside, your eyes squint as they adjust to the bright sunlight above the beachfront. You scan the area, looking for any sign of Jungkook. It doesn’t take long before you spot him by a small gift shop, his fingers absentmindedly tracing over little beach-themed trinkets and keychains—miniature waves, seashells, and beach umbrellas.

“Everything okay?” you ask, stepping up beside him. Your fingers instinctively start to trace over the small ornaments, though your mind is still replaying the moments his lips were pressed against yours.

He slides his phone back into his pocket, offering you a soft glance before letting out a small sigh, which he quickly masks with a chuckle.

“Yeah, all good. Work,” he mutters, his lips tugging into a half smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sorry, again.”

You smile lightly, dismissing it with a wave of your hand. “It’s fine, Kook. Really.”

Then, with a small tilt of your head, you give him a silent cue to follow you. You turn and start making your way back along the strip.

He follows beside you, his usual confident, bubbly persona dulled slightly. His hands don’t reciprocate the small touches yours give him, and his laugh comes out flatter than usual.

It ties your stomach in knots. Maybe the kiss was a bad idea. Maybe he’d already come to regret it—scared of being left by you again, or maybe he’d come to the conclusion that you just weren’t his cup of coffee anymore.

His feet follow for a few steps, but then he falls behind again. “Shit, I’m sorry.” His eyes meet yours as you turn to face him, tilting your head slightly in confusion. “I gotta go take care of some stuff back at the café.”

“Oh. Yeah, no, of course,” you smile, though it feels strained. When Jungkook sees the corner of your lips upturn, he thinks he can physically feel his heart twist. “I get it, go.”

Jungkook goes to speak but bites down on his lower lip to stop himself. He lets out a quiet huff of breath through his nose before making his way toward you.

His long, muscular arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head. “Tomorrow? We’ll go to that hotpot place you used to froth over.”

His lips are gentle as they press a kiss to your forehead, and his hand holds your cheek as he gives you one last look before turning to head back to the cafè.

You wandered through the city, your feet tracing the familiar paths, but nothing felt quite the same. Every turn you took, every glance you stole at the places you had once visited with Jungkook, only deepened the ache in your chest. The weight of the kiss—the heaviness of the aftermath.

Jungkook’s absence was noticeable. The way he’d distanced himself after the kiss, the way he’d pulled back, had left you questioning everything. Was it something you imagined? Maybe he didn’t feel the same. Maybe for him, it was just a fleeting moment, a mistake.

You’re overthinking this, you told yourself. Maybe he just needs time. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it. But deep down, you knew you couldn’t leave it like this.

The thought of leaving things unanswered felt wrong. You couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine when you felt like something wasn’t. You needed to know if he had regretted it, or if he had changed his mind. The idea of him slipping away without ever acknowledging what had passed between you was something you couldn’t stomach.

With a deep breath, you turned towards the café. You didn’t know what to expect, but you knew you had to go. For closure, for peace, or maybe just to hear his side. You told yourself it wasn’t about getting back what you once had, but about understanding what this all meant now.

The small bell above the door chimes as you step into the café. It’s lively, filled with groups of friends and couples, some snapping photos of their colorful drinks and beach themed pastries, others simply enjoying the ocean view that stretches out in front of them.

“Hi, welcome to Golden Hour! What can I get you started with?” A perky brunette greets you from behind the counter.

“Is Jungkook in?” you ask, trying to keep your voice casual, but there’s a slight tightness in your chest that you can’t shake.

The brunette tilts her head, brows furrowing. “Jungkook? He hasn’t been in since this morning. Can I leave a message for you or something?”

A sudden weight settles in your stomach.

“Oh, no. That’s alright. I’ll just… come back later. Thanks anyway.” You force a smile, but it feels off—like you’re holding your breath, not quite sure what to do with the information.

Your mind races as you leave the café, your brows furrowed in confusion. He said he was going back to the café… So why hasn’t he been here? The questions circle in your mind: Is he okay? Why would he lie? Was it just an excuse to create some space between you two? Maybe he has an office away from the café? The doubt gnaws at you, leaving an uncomfortable feeling as you head back to the hotel, your mind nowhere near settled.

You chose to spend the rest of your evening wrapped in blankets, munching on some takeaway watching terrible reality TV, desperate to escape your own.

It had been working, your eyes and ears were glued to the catfight playing on the flatscreen on the wall opposite your bed, until your phone had chimed beside you.

| 8:40pm

kook: u free? need to see u.

A simple straightforward message, one that you didn’t need to read into, but you did. Perhaps he had come to the conclusion that he needed his lips on yours again, or was ready to tell you that it was something he didn't want to partake in again.

| 8:42pm

You: level 7, room 613 :)

A simple straightforward reply. You wonder if Jungkook was reading into all your words and actions. Questioning them and romanticising them too.

A soft knock echoes from the opposite side of your door 20 minutes later. You’re quick to make your way towards the door, opening the door to see Jungkook, his hair messily falling around his face, dressed in sweats and a tee that was complimenting his figure a little too well.

“Hi stranger.” You tease, pushing the door to open wider to let him in, “Long time no see.”

He enters, his eyes darting around the room. It’s a decent-sized hotel suite, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a warm glow over the cozy seating area. The hum of the TV buzzes through the room as it flickers softly in the dim room. His eyes flicker between the bed and the small chair in the corner, unsure where to take his seat.

“I’m currently way too invested in Khloe Kardashian going to jail, so bed it is.” You laugh as you make your way into the room, sitting back into your side of the bed.

He rolls his eyes playfully, letting out a soft chuckle as he makes his way to the opposite side of the bed.

You both let silence fall upon you, eyes glued to the TV but neither of you are really listening.

“You still watch this shit?”

“If ‘this shit’ means ‘incredibly addictive and entertaining cinema’, then yes. Absolutely.”

This was probably the 9th time you’d watched this season. You could probably (no, definitely) recite the dialogue of the scenes yourself.

It was a quirk of yours to rewatch the same shows, the same movies, over and over again. You liked knowing how things ended, hated the suspense of being in the dark about the things you enjoyed—just like now, not knowing where things stood with Jungkook. It was easier to replay the past than to deal with the uncertainty of the present.

“Was everything okay at work?” You muse softly, eyes still on the TV, your eyes avoid Jungkooks, don’t want to see him lie to you.

He hesitates for a moment, adverting his gaze back to the TV, “Yeah, yeah. Was a bit of a shitshow, but it's fine.” He mumbles, shifting against the bed.

You hum softly in response, silence falling upon the both of you again. Jungkook is the one to break it this time.

“I’m sorry,” He turns to face you, “For having to dip, know we had plans and all.”

Your eyes meet his, they take in the look that’s rested on his face. His hair falling around his face, his hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt, his eyes are locked on yours. All big and doe-eyed that you get lost in them, forget that he left, forget that he lied about going back to the cafè, forget that he had been standoffish after his lips crashed against yours.

“Do you regret it?” The words leave your lips before you can stop them, “The kiss, I mean.” You almost wince, your head inches back slightly as if you’re bracing yourself for the answer Jungkook could give you.

Jungkook’s brows furrow, his chest tightening slightly at the thought that you had been thinking that he had been avoiding you because of regret.

“Oh fuck— No! Fuck, no of course I don’t regret it,” He sits upright, turning his body towards you and runs his hand through his hair, he can see your eyes searching his own for any reason to not believe him, “Are you kidding? Do you know how long I’ve been wanting that? I fuckin’ dream about it, have since you left. No, fuck, I promise, I would never regret it.”

You let out a shaky breath, not sure what to say or do. The answer he gives you puts to rest any anxiety you had been harboring about him regretting the kiss, but a feeling of uncertainty still lingers in your chest. Why then?

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

When Jungkook’s gaze falls over your face, a sick feeling coils in his stomach. Sick to his stomach? Maybe love-sick too? You look so conflicted—your eyes darting back and forth between his. A small smile graces your lips, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and that sends a sharp jolt of self-hatred down his spine.

His hand reaches out, takes yours into his, “I promise you. I fuckin’ swear, I have never and will never regret you. Never.”

“That makes one of us.” You joke, a playful tone in your whisper, your own fingers intertwining with his, a perfect fit.

Jungkook laughs, shakes his head and squeezes your fingers between yours, “Fuckin’ idiot.”

The air between you feels lighter, hands staying locked together. There isn’t much conversation, not enough words that feel significant enough to truly convey how you both feel.

As the mood shifts, the air grows hotter. Tension rises between you, one that could rival the heat of Busan’s sun. You inch closer, your eyes flickering between his eyes and his lips, both of you subconsciously leaning in. Your hands grow bolder, silently roaming over each other.

"Kiss me," Jungkook whispers, his lips barely grazing yours. "Fuck-please."

No need to be told twice. You've heard him loud and clear. Your lips meet his, softly at first, applying just enough pressure to let him know you're all in. His hand quickly finds the back of your head, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

Your tongue slides gently into his mouth, tangling with his in a rhythm that feels like it's been building for ages. His hands move to your waist, tugging you closer, pulling you into him. Without hesitation, you straddle his lap, your lips never disconnecting. The feeling of your body pressed against his, the heat intensifying, sends him into overdrive. A soft grunt escapes his lips, muffled against yours, as his grip tightens.

Your hands move to the hem of his shirt, bundling the fabric into your palms and pulling it up and over his head. As your lips pull apart to help remove his shirt, your eyes connect, his normal doe eyed look replaced with his eyes narrowing, desperation and need shining from them.

Jungkook's lips leave a trail down your neck, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer as you straddle him. You can feel his breath against your skin, shallow and quick, as if he's trying to steady himself.

"Wait, I-" He pulls back for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. There's something in them. Something he wants to say. But before he can, you pull him back to you, your lips crashing against his again, desperate for the taste of his lips.

He groans against your mouth, his hands pulling you in closer . The words from before, the hesitation in his eyes, are forgotten as the moment swallows both of you whole.

You can feel the firmness in Jungkook's pants pressing up against you, your hips begin to slowly grind back and forth against him, desperate for friction, desperate for some kind of release.

"Fuck, Kook," you whisper breathlessly between kisses, "Want you. Need you." Your words stir something in him, a tension so thick it makes his chest tighten with need. He groans low in his throat, hands moving to your waist to pull you closer.

His hands move from your hips up to your back, roaming chaotically, they come forward, they press against your chest and squeeze lightly. He pulls his head back, watches as his hands slightly dig into your breasts.

“Shit- Look at you,” He hisses between his teeth, his hands coming to squeeze again. His eyes lift up to you, your cheeks flushed with a soft blush from the heat of it all, lips slightly ajar, thinks you look so perfect. Too perfect. It makes his stomach flip, “Fuck, I need to te-”

His words are cut off as you lift your own shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest to him, his hands immediately coming to cup them again. A low, raspy groan leaves his lips, squeezes them again, harder this time.

Any words that were threatening to leave his lips are long gone, washed away in the tsunami of desire and adoration he has for you. Forgotten, swept away by the tide. The only words he’s able to muster up now are whispered curses through his teeth as you pull his head softly towards your chest.

His lips press against your skin, hungrily. He simply can’t get enough. You, you, you. It’s all he hears. All he wants. His eyes peek up to look at you as his lips wrap around your nipple, softly sucking.

The feeling of his soft lips wrapped around you makes you whine softly, your fingers tugging slightly on the ends of his hair. When you look down to see his round eyes looking right back at you, you’re sure you’re going to melt. Happy to let the tide consume you, will become one with the waves if it means having Jungkook like this.

He sucks, kisses, tugs slightly over your sensitive nipple, going back and forth between each one. Can't get enough. Is all in, all for you.

Your hips lift slightly, a silent plea for him to rid himself of his sweatpants. He notices-of course, he notices-but for a split second, his hands falter at the waistband, a thought flickering in his mind. It vanishes almost as quickly as it comes, overpowered by the pull of you. His hands move quickly now, tugging his sweatpants down and kicking them off in one fluid motion.

Grabbing your hips, he pulls you back toward him, his grip firm yet tender, presses a soft kiss against your lips. With a soft grunt, he flips you onto your back. There’s urgency in the way Jungkook moves, showing you just how badly he needs you right now.

He watches as your hips lift slightly, your thumbs hooking under your waistband, sliding off the last barrier between you and him.

He swallows, hard. Is in awe of everything that is you. His eyes trace every curve, every detail he had once memorised. He almost marvels at how well he remembers your body-every point that makes you tremble, every spot that leaves you breathless. But is he really surprised?

How could he be? He has carried you with him in every way possible, mimicking how he used to love you with everyone after you, always chasing the high you had once given him. It's always been you, all he's known.

As your hand comes to rest against his cheek, your thumb gently ghosting over his lower lip, you send him a small nod. Please. Let’s do this. Need you now. You, you, you.

His eyes search yours for a brief moment, as if to confirm this is real, that this is really happening. Then, with a softness that contrasts the heat between you, he tilts his head, pressing a delicate kiss onto the pad of your thumb.

The warmth of his lips lingers there before he lowers his head into the crook of your neck, where he pauses. He inhales deeply, letting your scent ground him. His lips press against your skin.

Your legs part, as he slowly lets himself fall into you. A low, desperate moan leaving his lips. “Ah—Fuck.”

The whine that leaves your lips is made up of a thousand different reasons— The slight burn of Jungkook sliding inside you, the release of built up tension of waiting for this moment, and above all, the most powerful: Love. All the feelings you had sworn you had moved past during the distance are back, as if they had never left.

His hips slowly begin to rock back and forth, finding a steady rhythm as the familiarity of your walls tightens around him. Heavy breaths fill the room, and he feels your nails dig into his biceps, a soft yet desperate plea. He wants you to leave your mark, to scar him, so that he carries a permanent tattoo made from you.

His hand moves from beside you, to your chest, cupping onto your pillowed tit. Is brave enough to look at your face now, and when he does and see’s your lips parted, brows furrowed— He’s done for.

His hips slam into you, the pace quickening, desperate now. Your legs part wider, your back arching against the mattress as the rhythm shifts.

"Fuck, Kook. So good," you whimper, almost pathetically, your hands gripping his arms. “So, so good, Kook."

He curses through his teeth, lifting his upper body between your legs as he keeps thrusting into you. His hand moves down your stomach, his nails grazing lightly, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

He watches himself sink in and out of you, the new angle making his heartbeat race. His finger continues its journey down your torso, finally finding your clit.

Soft, delicate circles are drawn over your sensitive bud. He wants to push you to the edge, overstimulate you, but he's not sure how much longer he can last like this. He's overstimulated himself, finally feeling you wrapped around him again-and it hurts. It hurts because it's been so long, hurts because he knows nothing will ever compare to this, and it hurts knowing he might never have this again.

"So fuckin' pretty like this, my baby," he grunts, the pet name slipping from his lips so naturally, it only pushes you closer to the edge. "So, fuckin' perfect for me, aren't you?"

Baby. It shouldn't sting, but it does. It reminds you of the tattoo needle that had pierced your skin five years ago, a thin line replicating a wave on your ribcage. The kind of sting that leaves you sore, but somehow addicted to the pain.

"Fuck, Kook, you're gonna-Ah, shit. You're gonna make me cum." You moan, your elbows digging into the bed as you struggle to hold your weakening body up.

His free hand presses against your inner thigh, pulling it forward as his other continues to rub tight, precise circles over your clit. "Cum," he groans, his brows furrowing so deeply you swear they'll leave a mark. "Cum for me, baby. Show me. Let me feel you, hm?"

Your stomach tightens, your elbows giving out, sending your head crashing back against the mattress. You try to push his hand away from your overstimulated clit, want to stay like this forever but it's no use-he's never been one to lose.

Your moans grow louder, more desperate, mixing with the wet sound of his skin slapping against yours, each thrust desperate and bold.

He feels you tighten around him, your walls pulsing in small, desperate spasms. Soft whines of his name leaving your lips that send him into overdrive. The sensation drives him wild, completely lost in the sin that is you.

It doesn't take long before Jungkook follows suit, his teeth digging into his lower lip as his eyes squeeze shut, his orgasm washing over him, emptying deep inside you.

His hips rock slowly, still moving against you as he rides out the waves of pleasure, his lips pressing desperate kisses against yours, drinking in your whines.

Your hands wrap around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, his face finding comfort in the crook of your neck once more. The room falls silent, filled only with the sound of both your heavy breaths, struggling to regain normalcy.

"Shower?" You whisper into his ear, pressing a soft kiss against his lobe. He doesn't answer, only nodding against your skin.

You start the shower, letting the warm water cascade over your body. It tries to wash away any trace of his lips on your skin, but it's no use-his marks are invisible now, etched into your memory, and ones that only you two will ever know are there.

You’ve washed your body, your hair, your face, but Jungkook still hasn’t joined you in the shower. You dry off, throwing on the oversized tee that was hanging in the bathroom, and make your way back to the bedroom.

Jungkook is sitting on the bed, his figure dimly lit by the changing flashes from the TV screen. His back is to you, but his head hangs slightly between his shoulders.

“Kook?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t reply. You walk towards him, kneeling down in front of him, positioning yourself between his legs. Gently, your hands reach for his wrists, pulling them away from his hanging head.

“Kook? Hey—what’s going on?” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper, the reassurance in it only making Jungkook feel worse.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “So, so fucking sorry, my baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your brows pinch together in confusion, your face full of concern. “Hey, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. Kook—talk to me.”

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, letting his hands fall limply against his lap. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot, and his lower lip trembles as he tries to speak. “I fucked up,” he breathes out, almost choking on the words. “I’m so fucking sorry. You have to believe me, I’m so sorry.”

Your hand gently cradles his face, your thumb wiping away the stray tears as they fall. His face leans into your touch, a small kiss pressed into your palm, and that simple gesture sends him into a sob.

“What are you talking about, Jungkook? Talk to me— I can’t help you if I don’t understand.” Your voice is soft, trying to soothe his panic, but there’s a hint of fear to it.

“Kiss me. Please,” his voice cracks, eyes locked onto yours with a desperate plea. “Please, kiss me.” His words are broken by sobs.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure how to navigate this. He’s never been this vulnerable, and you’ve only seen him cry a handful of times—never like this. Gently, you kneel, brushing stray hairs from his forehead.

Your hand lifts his chin slightly, and you press your lips to his. It’s slow, painfully slow. Jungkook’s hands find their way to your face, gripping it with force, as though grounding himself. He tries to deepen the kiss, but all that escapes him is another sob.

You pull back slightly, sitting back on your knees, but just as you start to pull away, his hands catch yours, holding them gently before they can drop to your sides.

“Please, Kook.” You beg softly, your voice a mix of confusion and desperation.

“I didn’t mean to fuck this up. I really didn’t, my baby. I—fuck, everything just happened so fast. Everything’s been a mess, and then you showed up, and it just got even more fucked. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You’re still trying to make sense of what he’s so sorry for—kissing you? Sleeping with you? Regretting it? Not wanting this anymore? You have no fucking idea.

“Kook…I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to say.”

His eyes meet yours briefly before they dart away, unable to hold your gaze. His lips part to speak, but another sob escapes him, followed by a curse that cuts through the air.

“I— I have,” his voice cracks, “Fuck, I have a girlfriend.”

Your body freezes, stone cold. Your hands go limp in his, your chest tightening as your breath quickens.

His eyes meet yours, tears falling down his face, lips trembling as he tries to find anything to say. “Please— I can explain, I swear. I— Fuck, you know that’s not who I am.”

Your hands rip away from his, standing up and stepping back, your brain completely void of thought, overwhelmed by a gut-wrenching scream that echoes through your mind.

“What?”

He stands up, his hands reaching for you again, but you take another step back. The small distance between you feels painfully familiar.

“Please— me and her, we were already on our last breath before you showed up. I just didn’t have the balls to do anything about it. But then you, you came, and I—”

“You’re fucking joking, right?” You almost laugh, tears brimming in your eyes. “Tell me you’re fucking joking.”

His head shakes as he searches for the right words, hating the sight of your tears, but feeling utterly helpless. Seeing you cry because of him makes him want to dig his own fucking grave.

“Is that why your phone’s been blowing up? Is that why you didn’t go back to the café today? Because she was waiting for you?”

“Stop— Please, baby, I promise. I was going to end it tonight, but I needed to see you first, and then— Fuck, I got lost in you again, in feeling you. I— Please, baby.”

“Oh, it’s my fault?” Your voice cracks, bitterness cutting through the air. “I’m the reason you cheated? I’m the reason you lied?”

“Baby, no. It’s all fucking mine. I fucked it up. I wanted to tell you, was going to when we first hung out. Fuck—I just got so caught up, seeing you again, then I kept pushing it back, avoiding it. Didn’t want to ruin us.”

“Get out.”

He sobs, his voice breaking, “Please—fuck, please. We can figure it out. Please, baby.”

“Stop fucking calling me that, Kook!” You push at his chest, feeling like you’re being suffocated by the weight of his presence. London doesn’t sound so bad now. In fact, maybe it’s even too close.

He lets you push him, knowing he deserves it. Knows this is probably the last time your hands will ever press against his body. He stumbles back, letting you shove him toward the door as his sobs echo, watching helplessly as your tears fall.

“Please, get the fuck out. Fuck off, go. Leave.” You spit between the shoves. His back presses against the door, your pushes no longer having the same effect. Instead, you let your head drop against his chest, your shoulders shaking as you cry.

Your hands grip the shirt that clings to his frame, your voice quiet but cracked, laced with sobs, “Why the fuck did you do this?” You’re barely holding it together. “Why fuck me over? Why did you fucking do this?”

Jungkook’s hands wrap around your wrists, his thumbs rubbing over them softly, but nothing can ease the hurt between you. He can’t say anything to make this right, can’t justify why he kept this secret, why he didn’t tell you sooner.

He wants to—God, how he wants to sit you down and explain everything. He wants to tell you that his relationship with her had been hanging by a thread long before you even walked into his life. That it was a ghost of what it had once been, both of them too scared to be the one to end it. They hardly spoke anymore, both just avoiding the inevitable end.

But he knows there’s no point now. He fucked up. He’s still in a relationship, even if it’s nothing but a shell, and that’s a reality he can’t escape. He knows what he did was wrong. And even though the feelings for you that had resurfaced swallowed him whole when you walked into his coffee shop, he was greedy. He let himself want you, even though he knew this situation cursed any chance of a future between you two.

“I love you.” He whispers, broken.

And you know he does. You’ve felt it, felt what it’s like to be loved by Jeon Jungkook.

His hand reaches for the door, twisting the handle. Your hands fall from his shirt, your arms hanging at your sides as your breath shakes in your chest. You take a step back.

His hand gently cups your face, brushing away the tears that keep falling. When you look up at him, his sob is painful, raw. It only grows louder when your own hand rests over his.

He presses his lips to yours one last time, desperate, consuming. He breathes you in, as if trying to make this moment last forever, but the kiss ends too soon.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

The only response is the sound of the door locking behind him, his departure sealing the silence of your suite.

[pitchsidestories]

birds of a feather II Arsenal Women x Teen!Reader

masterlist I word count: 1647

a/n: dear readers, the inspiration for the oneshot was this request here, we hope that we did the great idea justice.

warnings: contains coach abuse through a parental figure

“Come on move over, Viv!”, Jonas yelled before pushing Vivianne stronger than it would have been necessary.

Watching this scene unfold from the bench brought back memories which were engraved into your brain. But none of your teammates noticed your skin turn pale or the slight wobble of your underlip.

The harshness in your coaches’ voices and the physical aggressivity reminded you of your days in the youth team your stepfather had coached. Back in the day all you did was helplessly staying silent, eager to please, whatever he wanted from you to become what you wanted to be a professional footballer.

Unlike your child self the Dutch midfielder’s reaction wasn’t silence.

“What are you doing? You just said I should get ready!”, she shot back, visibly frustrated by his behaviour.

“You were too slow!”, the Swedish man replied angrily.

“You should have told me in time then! God!”, Vivianne shouted

Listening to their fight made you shrink a little bit more, every word they exchanged felt like a whiplash to you. Their sentences opened cuts you thought have long healed, but they turned out to be still open and you had a hard time to stay focused on the game in front of your eyes.

Flashes of the past returned to the forefront of your mind; you tried your best to ignore those, knowing fully well they would haunt you in your dreams tonight.

“Come on, guys, stop that nonsense.”, much to your relief the co-coach separated the two fighting parties.

“Can you believe that?!”, the forward asked you, sounding exasperated.

“Viv are you okay?!”, you whispered.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”, she assured you.

“Okay, good.”, you nodded. Although nothing was good. Not really, but you weren’t sure you could confide into her. You were still new to the team, and you didn’t want to bother her with things which laid in the past but had a way to resurface in the present.

After the game which resulted in a draw you were the last to be in the shower. Under the harsh waterjet you tried to scrub off what happened today, the skin turned already red, because of your strong rubbing against it.

“Hey, are you coming? You don’t want to miss the bus.”, Kim cleared her throat impatiently to get your attention.

“Yes, everyone is waiting for you.”, Leah added, standing right next to your team’s captain, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“I’m coming.”, you promised.

“Do you need help with anything?”, Lia asked concerned.

“No, I’m good, we can go.”, you waved her off while getting dressed, the clothes clinging to your skin and your hair was still wet when you left the changing room with your teammates.

You were quiet on your way back. You did not want to be that quiet. Everyone around you was talking and joking. But you just sat there, your thoughts spinning.

You barely even managed to say good bye to your teammates before going home.

Standing in front of the door of the small apartment, you could already hear your stepfathers voice.

He was yelling again.

For a moment you considered just leaving but then you thought better of it.

Carefully, you opened the door.

“Hi, I’m home.“, you announced yourself quietly.

Your stepdad immediately turned to you: “You played like shit today.“

You flinched as he stomped towards you: “But I…“

His hands wrapped around your upper arm. The sport bag dropped from your shoulder as he pushed you around in anger: “Whatever your coach said, he’s wrong! Remember who got you to where you are now?! Who coached you first and saw your potential!“

His face was so close to yours that you could smell the alcohol on his breath.

You could not get yourself to meet his eyes.

“I’m tired… I just want to go to bed.“, you said calmly, to not risk upsetting him even more.

He continued, pushing you backwards repeatedly until your back hit the wall with full force: “You better remember that! And you better work your ass off at the next game. I refuse to let you embarrass me again!“

There was so much you wanted to say. You wanted to shout how glad you were that he would never coach you again and how sorry you felt for the other kids. You wanted to scream that you owed him nothing, that you were the one who had built this career for yourself.

But you felt too drained to fight, so you just nodded and disappeared into your room without another word.

At training the next day, your stepfathers words reverberated in your head and you found yourself subconsciously pushing your body to its limit at every exercises.

This did not go unnoticed by your teammates.

“Woah, hey. Slow down, little one.“, Beth stopped you. She was smiling but there her eyebrows were knotted together in worry.

Steph appeared on your side as you caught your breath: “Yes, you don’t want to hurt yourself in training.“

“I won’t.“, you said plainly, hoping they would back off and would let you continue.

“Y/n…“, Beth started, the smile suddenly gone.

“Yes?“

“Relax a bit. This is almost as obsessive as Leah is with her training.“, she chuckled but you knew she was serious.

The blonde defender grimaced at her: “Excuse me?!“

Her voice went soft as she added: “But yes, something is off… Y/n, if you want to talk about it, you should know that we’re here for you.“

You could feel the tears well up in your eyes so you just shook your head.

“And if not to us, there’s also a psychologist here.“, Lia continued empathetically.

“It’s fine. Really. Just need to be better at the next game.”, you tried.to wave their worries off.

“You played like ten minutes. Not many players can make a difference in ten minutes.”, Katie argued.

“Yes, but it’s not good enough!”, you shouted, pushing the arm of the Irish woman which stretched out for a hug away.  

“Alright, calm down. Katie rolled her eyes annoyed at you, before turning her head to your other teammates who stood there equally clueless about your sudden emotional outbreak, sounds like she really does need to see our psychologist.”

You were close to shout at her, telling the older woman that she had no idea what was going on inside your brain, how unloving and dangerous your home felt. That family wasn’t always as perfect as the club painted it to be. But you decided to be quiet and continued to do your training.

It was after the next match day at home when Kim noticed that your stepdad was pushing you around.

” Girls, look.”, the captain nodded worried into your direction.

“We can’t just-“, Katie begun, already rolling up her sleeves, ready to fight against the taller man.

“Katie. He’s gone.”, Caitlin interrupted her girlfriend.

“Y/n?”, Kim was the first who was at your side, the rest of the team swiftly followed her.

“Kim? Katie?”, you blinked at them in surprise.

“Are you good? Is he bothering you.”, the Irish player wanted to know from you with deep concern in her voice.

“He’s my stepdad, he always acts like that.”, you looked down, ashamed that your home wasn’t as beautiful and wholesome as theirs.

“You know, I don’t think I like him an awful lot.”, Beth admitted.

“The next time he pushes you, I’ll push him back. Such an asshole!”, Katie cursed.

“No one’s pushing anyone here!”, Kim demanded in full captain mode. All she cared about was your well-being. The rest could be solved at a later stage.

“Right, and we need to get y/n out of this unhealthy situation at first.”, Lia added earnestly while brushing softly through your open hair with one hand to calm down her and your nerves.

“You really are the personification of Switzerland, Wally.”, Katie teased her, attempting to lighten up the depressive atmosphere.

“Someone has to find a reasonable solution.”, Lia defended herself.

“Maybe she could sleep at one of our places tonight until we have a plan?”, Kim suggested.

“Sounds good.”, Leah agreed seriously.

“She can stay with me and Viv.”, Beth announced, giving you a warm smile.

“Yes, she can stay as long as she wants. Plus, Myles will be so excited to see her again.”, the Dutch footballer grinned at the memory of their little puppy who loved you a lot.

“Thanks, girls.”, you mumbled gratefully.

Gently, Beth put her arm around your shoulders: “That’s what we’re here for.“

“Yes but all your families are so cute and then there’s mine… so I thought I never belonged.“, you admitted, not sure if you were making any sense.

Alessia shrugged, her gaze fixed on you: “Not everyone has a perfect family.“

“And family is not always blood-related.“, Beth added softly.

For a moment you were sure that you saw tears glistening in her blue eyes but you could not blame her. She had been through a lot.

“What do you mean?“, you asked.

“What Beth is trying to say is that we can be your family, y/n.“, Leah explained.

You looked up at her in surprise: “Really?“

“This is what this team is and always was.“, Kim nodded solemnly.

“A family…“, you said conclusively.

You looked at your teammates and were left speechless by the determination and empathy in their faces.

After years of suffering through the abuse in youth teams, your heart felt full with gratefulness and adoration for your teammates. But it simultaneously was also breaking for the children still having horrible coaches and being dismissed.

In that moment, you made a promise to yourself to make whatever team you would join a safe space and a family as well.

But for now, you were ready to let your guard down and let your Arsenal family take care of you.

[teddybeartoji]

彡 HE'S ANNOYING AND BEAUTIFUL AND HE'S GOING TO RUIN YOUR FUCKING DAY

☆. contains: satoru gojo x gn!reader; con-artists au, crack, he's stupid, he also has a massive fucking crush on you (and you're no better btw), reader smokes a cigarette gasp!! oh and reader is wearing a suit wc: 2.2k

+ a few hours later...

the spring sun warms your skin as sit on a little bench on top of the hill that overlooks your destination. a castle – it's fancy, fanciest you've ever seen. it's fucking massive and you can't help but wonder, how it would feel to sprint through the long beautiful hallways of the place...

way too many super cars are lined up in front of it and their various colors are making your eyes hurt. people in stunning dresses and equally stunning suits spill out of the machines and they laugh and roar, smoke blowing from their noses and lips as they flex their expensive pipes and cigarette holders. bald men with terrible mustaches flood your vision and you decide that you've had enough for the moment and let your head fall back. this is your last chance to recharge before the work begins.

digging in your inner suit pocket, you pull out a silver cigarette case with a beautiful engraving on it. memories reside in the little crevices of the art and the thoughts make a sentimental (albeit an annoying one. you'd never do this in front of him.) smile tug at the corners of your lips. the tiny machine was part of a set, a gift for you.

you try not to think about that for too long.

patting the side of your upper thigh, you dig out a lighter. it's just a plastic one; it's old as hell and it has definitely seen better days. but despite its tired look, you still consider it a friend, a partner, a helping hand.

you grab a cig from the box and place it between your lips before pocket the case again. the lighter is warm in your hands as you stare at the design on it. swirls and lines run all across the silver, dancing and merging together. a lot of memories are buried in the cracks of them and a sentimental smile tugs on the corners of your lips.

click! click! click!

perhaps today is the day you'll lay it to rest. there's no fire, no heat, but you're not mad. the cigarette hangs from your lips and you let out a sigh. you lean back onto your hand and close your eyes; if you won't get your final energy boost from nicotine, the sun will have to do it.

a gust of wind brushes over your skin, it cards through your hair and you feel alive. the laughter from down below finds it way up to you and it makes you crack a grin yourself – these rich pricks won't know what hit them. this'll be an easy job, no sweat. in and out, it'll only take a few hours tops if everything goes without a hitc—

click!

time slows.

cracking open an eye, you watch the stick catch fire.

engravings in silver – a perfect match to the ones on the case that's hiding comfortably in your chest pocket. right beside your heart. pale, slender fingers and manicured nails, a perfectly fitted sleeve – it's him. trailing up his arm with your eye, his cologne fills your nostrils and you realize that he's standing way closer than you thought.

it takes a mere two seconds and you craning your neck to meet his eyes. they match the clear sky, the only difference being that while birds twirl and dance in the blue ocean up above your heads, little stars twinkle in his.

satoru gojo.

and his stupid fucking smile.

you hate him.

he snaps the little silver machine shut before placing it back into his pocket with one swift move. his pearly white teeth shine under the blinding sun and the sight of his dimples makes your stomach churn. silly butterflies.

staring up at him, you hollow your cheeks and breathe in the smoke. it travels through your mouth and makes its way deep into your lungs. he's patient. the grey fog fills your organs and you let it simmer before letting out out again. you blow it at him but he doesn't budge; your eyes look so pretty in this light. he watches your lips curl into a pretty little smirk and then he's already being blessed with your saccharine voice. "gojo."

he does a dramatic bow as he stands before you – his one hand behind his back and the other on his heart. "my beloved."

the hum and the eye roll you award him with warm his insides. he straightens his spine and locks both his hands behind him, almost making him look like an innocent, virtuous person. it's that charming smile of his that's able to save him from just about everything. his ability to bare his teeth in the most endearing way pisses you off.

it really fucking does.

he twirls on his heel and the gentle gust of wind ruffles his snowy hair. he eyes the castle below and the little ant-people that buzz in front of it.

"you got an invite?" he asks in a sing-song voice. he seems excited. that's a bad thing for you. he will ruin your plans, you already know it.

"i did not."

you don't need to see his face to know that his smile has stretched even wider. you hate it. he quirps a little "hm" before spinning back around. his hand dips into his inner suit pocket and returns with an ivory envelope. his eyelashes flutter shut as he dramatically fans his face with it.

you hate him.

"that's too bad. they have this cool new system – they give you a keycard. they check it at the door, of course, but after that you can just go wild with it." he paces around in front of you while you just inhale the smoke back into your lungs as a way to alleviate the fact that he's going to ramble about a fucking key card. "there are tiers, you see. the smaller guys just get to use it as the invite while others..."

he turns to you with a big grin. "can actually open some super secret doors."

he flicks the envelope just to show it off some more and you wish you could suffocate him with the cigarette smoke. or maybe you should just push him off this damn hill instead.

"not that you would know anything about it though..." his words trail off as his eyes snake their way up from the ground and to your pretty face.

"and you're one of the big guys then, i presume?"

your remark is like water off a duck's back. it's the exact opposite actually – it only eggs him on. he watches the smoke slip from between your lips as you try to bite him back, he watches your chest fall; you look handsome in your suit. he's never seen you in an outfit like this - sure, he's seen you in some fancy fits before but this... takes the crown for sure.

you almost look like you belong here, though he skeptical on whether you'd think of that as a compliment or not. he doesn't say it, opting for something else.

"you look good– "

"you look good."

damn.

you blink up at him, he blinks down on you. he fiddles with his fingers behind his back and he bites back the comment he wants to make about you complimenting him, about you two speaking at the same time. something about being partners, something-something.

he does look good.

he's also wearing a gorgeous black suit on top of a pearly white shirt and a matching black bowtie adorns his neck, and it looks like he did try to style his hair just a little, but you know him – you know he likes it when the wind messes it up. he always says it makes him look more rugged.

you assume he doesn't know what the word means.

silence falls upon the two of you, engulfing you in this comfortable little bubble. your lips wrap around the cigarette again and he pockets the envelope in his hand.

"y'think so?"

he asks for praise so nonchalantly that you almost give in. "...maybe."

satoru's chest puff up and his eyes light up even more than ever – you regret your decision to tell him that. his lips part but you don't give him a chance to tease you any further.

you shake the cigarette butt before pushing yourself off the bench. satoru observes you, always so excited about everything you do. he can't tear his eyes from you. placing the cig back between your lips, you approach the man in front of you in a confident stride.

without locking eyes with him, you take your place a little bit too close in front of him and casually reach for his tie. satoru's breath hitches at the sudden proximity but he doesn't back away. you tug at the edges of it, your eyebrows furrowing in the process. you look cute, all concentrated and everything. his smile makes its way back onto his lips as he stares at you and his hands twitch at his sides.

smoke dances in the air as you take your time to fix his tie; the sun melts the two of you together as the silence settles around you again. the breeze plays with his hair some more, it grazes the apples of your cheeks and it's refreshing. this feels like the old times.

"smoking kills, you know."

his voice is barely above a whisper and you snort at him. "so do cars, dipshit."

"hm, douche."

you send a sharp glare at him and he doesn't even try to hold his ever-growing grin. the stupid fucking butterflies in your stomach are making you sick. he's about to say something ridiculous again, so you rush to give his earlobe a gentle-not-so-gentle tug. you laugh at the way he winces and the way his skin turns a dark shade of pink in a matter of seconds; it manages to bloom all over his ears and the apples of his cheeks before he decides to swat your hand away.

your eyes and the tingling pain in his ear are enough to distract him from your wandering hands. skilled fingers dip under the front of his suit jacket as you lean forward to whisper to him. "it's touché."

his eyes glue themselves onto the cigarette in your mouth, between your pretty lips, giving you more than enough time to swipe the envelope from his chest pocket with ease.

"right..."

dusting off some imaginary dust from his shoulder, you cock your head to the side and take the cigarette from your lips while giving him another good look. how could you not? despite his god-awful personality and his tendency to screw up every single one of your plans in one way or another – he's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. from this angle you could count the freckles that are scattered across his nose and cheeks, hell – you could count his damn eyelashes if you really wanted to.

(you kind of do.)

while he's being bewitched by you and your eyes and your perfume and the damn smoking stick in your hand, you hide the envelope behind your back. you make use of the promiximity between you two, your own body concealing the movement of you tucking the thing under your own suit jacket and into the waistband of your pants. you're here to steal afterall.

satoru rubs his ear and feigns a pout. it's the fakest one you've seen yet, but then a dopey smile makes it's way onto his lips and for a second you think that your plan didn't work, that he felt it, that he saw it—

"you know... if you wanted satoru to just get you an invite, you should've just said so, sweetheart."

...

you stare at him with a blank face and he shines right back at you. he plucks the cigarette from your hand and throws it to the ground, stomping on the thing, he puts out the light with the heel of his foot.

"but... since you didn't ask for it, since you didn't ask for satoru's help... you'll have to find your own way in, yeah?" he's way too smug, too arrongant and the only thing that's making you feel better is the thought of him being shut out from the party because he doesn't have the invite. anymore.

"stop referring to yourself in third person, it makes you look stupid."

"you don't think i look stupid in the first place then?"

.............

you can't wait for this day to be over.

"alright. go now. run along, little prince." you give his shoulder a shove but he refuses to back away, leaning closer a little instead.

"are you gonna be okay out here, hm? all alone? no keycard or nothing?"

even his breath smells good. you want to punch him.

"don't worry about me, gojo. i'm sure i'll figure something out."

"ahh! you always do! and that's why you're the greatest, baby!" wincing at the volume of his tone, you clench your jaw and press your teeth together. satoru loves it when you do that. "don't take too long, okay? i'll miss you."

he offers you another fake pout and turns around on his heel, but not before giving you a wink. he looks over his shoulder for the last time and...

"don't forget to throw away the cig! littering isn't sexy!"

he's so overbearingly annoying and he will so ruin your fucking plans.

[rorja]

tw. mention of blood and scars, change of pov. not proofread.

gladiator!suguru geto is a sight to behold in the arena. he wielded his weapons with hunger and a controlled fury that he cultivated each day. as long as a life was lost in the magnificent, arched walls of the colosseum, he would never stop. because gladiator!suguru didn't fight for the freedom the emperor could grant him— no, he did so to avenge all the people he called family between the shared dirty corners of that imprisonment.

gladiator!suguru doesn't belong in the arena, and it's a thought that has been plaguing your mind ever since you attended his first game. you can clearly picture it, with the finest silks and gold ornaments on his arms; where a spatha would lose all the meanings men would sang about, belonging less and less to his hands than any scroll would, even in such moments where human emotions prevailed over his reason.

and yet, gladiator!suguru seems to lead a dance only he can hear the sweet sound of. his opponents are quick, strong, muscles all flexed but it's noticeable how they lack in wits. and so, his weapon becomes a melodious lyre telling the gut wrenching tales of all those who got lost in front of his eyes. tales of far away lands he fervently wishes to return to. not under the scorching sun that favors the capital, not the endlessly thundering of his name every time his feet blessed the sand of the colosseum— but the home he was forced to leave behind.

but a starved one could not quell its ceaseless hunger for revenge, for he was no god. and so, how much longer could he last before meeting his ultimate defeat? the silent worry clinging to your question found its answer in the gladius of his enemy. the cheering abruptly ended when gladiator!suguru got brought down to his knees, the blade of his opponent sinking deeper in his thigh. you were quick to react, standing up like the many men and women gasping and praying on the benches made out stone. and your heart sunk perhaps lower than that blade as your eyes eventually caught only a glimpse of that fury residing deep in the gladiator's chest.

it was a blur. you really had no memories of how you happened to be walking the deserted hallways where the gladiators jails were dig in hard stone, with water leaking through the cracks after the twentieth spectacle still going that week. but as hilarious as it could get, you knew each turn of that nearest hell like it was engraved in the palm of your hand. gladiator!suguru's jail came into view soon after and you felt your heart leap in your ribcage. of the wound suffered a week ago, only a scar was what remained. adorning his thigh with yet another triumph.

his muscles stiffened, sweat and dried blood carefully washed away by the cloth held tightly in your hand. a shiver found path from his exposed neckline to the bare signs of survival on his back and beyond. gladiator!suguru knew the effect he had on you, he could sense it amidst the religious silence that accompanied your gentle actions: how your fingers occasionally trembled when touching his skin by mistake, how your eyes lingered on him when you thought he was not looking, how your cheeks would grow red when damping the cloth on the provided basin. he wondered.

how long until your absence got noticed? you were a noble man's precious daughter after all, yet to be married and with a future as one of rome's well-known domina. often gladiator!suguru had wondered why. why would you get down the prisons he was held in like a rabid dog and waste your time on him? and at the very beginning he was tense and wary, wondering if you sought nothing else than a sick, twisted sense of entertainment in treating him this way. but your emotions were sincere, he quickly discovered, and your care honest unlike the men that mended his broken skin just to throw him to that hell once again.

gladiator!suguru was a sight to behold in the arena. he wielded his weapons with hunger and a controlled fury that he cultivated each day. and yet there were moments where his fury would subdue, the screams in his head becoming whispers easier to silence. your hands were a balm over the many burning scars adorning his vulnerable skin, and for a second he felt something akin to relief in seeing his hands clean from the blood he had to spill. you kneeled in front of him once again, his eyes now following closely every movement, unmoving, even when you wasted your kisses on his brightly reddened knuckles.

"you did good" another kiss, "you made me proud once again".

[skittles-secrets]

his (adoptive) brother's best friend - jason todd x afab reader (he's ur roomate/frenemy)

what to do when you get cut off from your bestie and your roommate is your opp

your fingers were so cold in the winter air that they could barely even comprehend the fact that you were holding your phone to your ear, red with the chill. as soon as (your biggest opp you roommate who actually tolerates you) answered the phone, you spoke enthusiastically. "jasonnnn, hiiiiii!!"

he was.. not the most impressed to say the least in response to this. "what do you need this time?" it's so like jason to be like this. you're.. well.. you. he could never bring himself to stand you, no matter what team you were on together (you'd been through multiple.) does that mean anything? to jason, not really.

"got drinks with this dude for free drinks but he was kinda standdoffy and making fun of people who live in crime alley and it hurt my feelings because you live in crime alley so i thought of you and told him i had to go to the bathroom and left out the back door," you explained, the frown almost visible in your voice, "needa ride."

you sat down on a bench, 'in memorial of jim gordon' permanently engraved into the piece of metal nailed to the center of the bench. you huffed out a breath at the words on the bench, your warm breath mingling with the cold wind in a soft fog.

jason cleared his throat. oh no, was he sleeping? "why couldn't dick?" he inquired exasperatedly, seemingly fed up with your antics. you heard shuffling from his end. he must be in bed. you didn't even think to check the time when you called him. you felt bad, suddenly, but your cold free hand gripping against itself in your coat pocket screamed otherwise, so you stayed on the phone.

y/n sighed at that and answered with attitude, "i was cut off?? i swear you were there when bruce told me i wasn't allowed to bother dick while he's on patrol anymore." there was a slight slur in your tone. it wasn't bad, because you weren't drunk drunk, you were just drunk.

"must not have been, don't recall," jason retorted. "rude," y/n uttered, but she got where he was coming from having just been woken up by his annoying lady friend. but the cold was getting to her face now, and she couldn't even move her lips to talk.

she did this every month or so to at least one (adopted or biological) wayne child. she shared an apartment with jason, but always felt more comfortable being with someone like dick because he was never rude and always understood her.

" 'm on my way, taking your car, don't call again." he finished off with a beep to signal the end of the call. you let your phone, which was hot from the overheating because you used it for a call, drop to your lap, while your hand joined the other in your coat pockets. they were clenched in fists, trying to make up some lost warmth, but it wasn't doing too much to help seeing as the clouds looked like snow clouds.

you realized that you never really gave jason your location before he ended the call. your snap location was on, but you didn't even know if jason had snap or was even friends with you. you had a tendency to accept whoever requested to be your friend and not really checking the name or username. you guessed he'd figure it out since he was so confident that he wouldn't need another call from you.

you realized that he must have like a tracker on you when you caught a glimpse of your truck and license plate pull up to the curb close to your bench. you smiled at the sight, he didn't even take his motorcycle because he knew you weren't a fan, and especially so not when drunk.

you stood up and grabbed your little purse, triple checking for all your belongings, a measly $15 dollars in your wallet, a lip gloss, and pepper spray (you could never be too careful in a place like crime alley, everyone knew that.) that was all you brought, so you were free to stand up. that's what you did.

you walked up to your car and climbed in. jason didn't bother helping you up, he knew you were a big girl, and he wouldn't even do that for a girlfriend if he had one or even if they begged him to.

"thank you," you mumbled to him. he seemed tired, but he still got up for you. he only really nodded. the two of you drove back off to your quiet and humble apartment in silence.

m.list | next part

[write-here-n-now]

What to do when you've crossed a line?

C.(S). Jeonghan x Reader | WC. 1240 | G. Angst| Pt. 6/? | *Jeonghan's POV*

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

He arrives at the parking lot of a riverside park that the two of you often frequent. In a little spot tucked away from the children's play area and picnic areas lies a bench covered by the draping branches of a large old tree. With the water flowing in front, it made for a perfect place to just sit without a thought. None of your other friends knew of it and it was nicer that way, a secret little hideout away from everyone for just the two of you.

He runs to the hidden spot hoping to see the familiar sight of you already sitting on the bench but, it's empty.

Sitting down, his hand hovers over the small engravement you made on the bench seat during a particular stressful vent session. The car key you had used to carve out “onwards” wasn’t that successful as the finished product looked like a very poorly looking carving of “awards”. He runs his fingers over the carving, remembering how you two made eye contact and then just simply burst out laughing at your “penmanship”.

All the memories you two created at this spot flood his mind one after the other, times where you talked each other’s ear off and ones where you found contentment just coexisting and admiring the flowing water.

He sat waiting for you to come, letting the sun’s bright yellow rays dim into soft orange and pink hues around him.

How long had he just simply been sitting there waiting? As the sky is a sliver away from completely turning pitch black, he pulls out his phone that he luckily remembered to grab in the rush out of his apartment.

When he switches it on, the screen flashes him “5:37” in big white numbers but below those, he’s greeted by you.

The lock screen is one of the many pictures he snuck of you sitting on the floor, Lego pieces splayed on the floor as your head is tilted downwards grinning at a completed section of your Lego model.

------

Your hair tied back, out of your face, brows furrowed, and lips pursed in concentration, unaware of Jeonghan’s eyes admiring your side profile.

You two had been sitting in his living room making new Lego sets all afternoon and now the evening, bringing snacks and meals to eat on the floor just to finish that last part of the model.

Sitting cross-legged for such a long period of time had Jeonghan’s legs aching, so to stretch them a bit he stood up and decided to head into the kitchen to also refill on some snacks, passing a quick glance to his side where you sat, focused and silent. When he returns, you’re still hunched over attaching piece by piece of the Lego.

He catches himself staring, eyes tracing the features of your face. Each crinkle, each mark moving alongside your changing expressions of focus.

Smiling to himself; how he wished he could just simply watch you forever, his heart fluttering at the very idea.

He reaches into his pocket to fish out his phone, angling it to capture you still unaware of his presence.

If the world ended right then and there, his last moments would be spent with his eyes full of you and he wouldn’t have it any other way. His hesitations over admitting his feelings for you, even to himself, were slowly but surely convincing him—especially when he felt the need to always have you in front of him, never out of sight.

Right as he’s about to click some more photos, you smile triumphantly over completing a section of your Wall-E model; the candid moment of your success becomes the permanent lock screen on his phone.

------

He stares longingly at the photo, how he missed seeing you in person.

He had been seated on the bench for some hours and now that the sun was going down, he realized you probably weren’t going to come.

He begrudgingly stands up and begins to walk back to the car, unsure of where to look next.  

Driving around, he stares aimlessly at the bustling of the city. People getting off work, couples walking hand in hand for date night, stall sellers cooking their dishes. He racked his head for any memorable spots that you might have opted to go to, but nothing was coming to mind.

Driving around, his brain recounted all your memories together at whatever he laid eyes on.

A bus stop? That time you ran after the bus when you bent down to tie your shoelace. A random gas station? That time you both got sick from eating too much candy during a road trip.

Following a familiar route near your university, he spots your favourite chicken restaurant.

The familiar sight transports him back to the moment of heartache reliving the memory of realizing how deep his feelings ran whilst eating chicken with you on a random and relatively mundane Tuesday. 

------

Some people could only truly let loose when they had some liquid courage in their system but for you, it was when you knew you had nowhere to be in moments of pure happiness, and also when you were fighting off sleep.

You, Jeonghan and your group of friends had been at the chicken restaurant for the past four hours, revelling in the freedom of finishing another year at university and not having to worry about completing another module or a cursed discussion post.

You sat across from him, he could see you progressing into a sleepier state by the minute and leaning onto the people beside you but then startling yourself out of sleep every so often to join in the conversation.

He pretends to focus on his own food and conversations, but his eyes stray towards you, not a single worry of someone catching him—not that any of your tipsy friends were paying attention.

Maybe it was the dim lighting of the restaurant, maybe it was the way you were chuckling at any small quip. Maybe it was the way you kept blinking, trying to push out any drowsiness or perhaps it was the way your responses started to jumble into one another, turning into a cute incoherent mess of phrases littered with poor attempts of suppressing yawns. At one point, he simply ignores whatever the conversation beside him is happening, his sole focus on you.

The final nail in the coffin, he realizes that he is utterly and completely head over heels for you. More than just a tug at his heart, more than butterflies in the pit of his stomach and more the happiness of your adorably sleepy state was his longing. The world around him was a blur of fuzzy faces and twinkling lights but you, you’re clear as crystal to him.

Still battling out sleep, you turn your head to meet Jeonghan’s eyes already placed on you. The two of you lock eyes, allowing yourselves to hold each other’s gaze, unwavering.

It’s as if the world is a little brighter around one another, the outside world a mere background. The two of were frozen in time trying to convey the uncertainties hidden deep past the surface of your hearts in your gaze.

A loud BANG and CLUTTER of cutlery and glass startles you out of the silent game of yearning. The moment dissipated, the wave of reality washes over you both—unsure of what exactly to do past it.

TAG LIST: @jjeongddol | @i-luv-stuff

[prythianpages]

ACOSM | The Night they went to Rita's

azriel x rhysand's sister (oc)

warnings: alcohol/drinking, this was meant to be just fluff and a drunk Az but smut somehow made its way in so did both possessive and pouty Az

summary: Mor shares bad news with Valeria and the two decide they are in need of a fun night out. Rhysand invites himself and brings Az and Cas along. The finally go to Rita's and they all get a little carried away with shots.

A/N: this is an imagine among my collection that follow Rhysand's sister, Valeria. while I'm still working on them, you can find the masterlist for it here. this turned out to be waaay longer than I originally planned and I also wasn't happy with some scenes so I rewrote them a lot, which is why it took forever to update.

**

As the sun dipped, painting the sky with shades of pink and orange, Valeria found herself seated before her piano in her room. The open balcony doors welcomed in the cool, refreshing breeze. A week had passed since her haunting violin performance. She hadn’t seen her father since that night, avoiding him like a plague.

But this moment was different. She wasn’t performing for her father. Instead, she played solely for the love of the instrument she cherished the most–the piano.

Noctis, her devoted bird, perched on the music stand let out a chirp and shook his wings in encouragement. She took a deep breath, her fingers hesitating over the keys before they found their place. They tentatively pressed against the piano’s keys until a slow melody emerged from her fingertips.

As the last note dissolved into the air, she felt a cool caress dash across her cheeks and swept her hair aside, curling against her ear to whisper to her. Beautiful.

She turned in time to see Azriel sit beside her, his wing extending and curling around her to accommodate the both of them on the piano bench. Her wings were glamored–something Azriel noticed she did more of since Mallory’s death.

His hazel eyes glimmered with admiration as he looked down at her. She returned his gaze with a warm smile. “Would you like to play?”

“I’d rather listen to you.” He replied smoothly.

She spared a glance to Noctis who observed the Shadowsinger curiously. “I think Noctis wants to hear you play,” she teased and Noctis chirped in agreement.

Azriel rolled his eyes in mock frustration. He knew he was not going to win this one so he bowed his head at her, silently conceding her request. Velaria beamed, resuming the melody she had been playing moments ago.

Azriel’s own fingers glided effortlessly across the keys, his own crafted melody harmonizing seamlessly with hers.

He knew how to play the piano thanks to her. After learning that Shadowsingers do not sing, despite their name, she had offered to teach him. She insisted that if he wouldn’t sing aloud, he would have to sing with his heart. Their lessons began shortly after he moved in with her family.

Cassian and Rhysand weren’t as welcoming of him initially so he was grateful for her. They spent their evenings after dinner practicing and despite their youth, she was always patient with him. Their sessions gradually tapered off as Rhysand and Cassian grew warmer towards him. He only played the piano occasionally, usually at Valeria’s request.

Azriel never forgot the night he met Valeria, the memory forever engraved into his mind. She had met his shadows, looked into their darkness and smiled. She embraced the very thing many feared. He watched as his shadows danced around them as they played the piano, warmth pooling into his heart as she welcomed their cool touch, a fond smile gracing her lips. 

“Perhaps you’ll sing for me next?” Valeria mused as their song came to a delicate end.

His shadows twirled in excitement, almost eager at the thought of hearing their master sing. He couldn’t help but let out an amused huff. Even his shadows were in her favor today. 

Valeria’s laughter filled the air and his heart fluttered at the delightful sound. He loved seeing her happy and cherished every moment that made her smile. It had taken all his willpower to contain his rage toward the High Lord the night he broke Valeria’s heart. He hated the way she’d pale at the sight of her father after and he hated having to show loyalty to the cruel man as his spymaster. It was unfortunately the only way he could remain close to her.

“What?”

Azriel blinked. He hadn’t realized he had been staring at her in a daze, his thoughts lost in the moment. “Nothing,” he mumbled, trying to sound casual, though a gentle flush warmed his cheeks.

“You’re adorable.” Valeria said softly, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. An affectionate gesture that brought a rush of warmth to his heart. 

“Adorable?” His response carried a hint of surprise. He had never been described that way. His fingers reached out to her face, coaxing her to meet his gaze that had darkened slightly. “I don’t aim to be ‘adorable’.”

“Tell me, then. What do you aim for?”

Your heart, he wanted to answer. Although, he could not bring himself to say those words aloud. A part of him feared that she did not want him the way he did. That perhaps she only desired him physically but he could not go back to how things were before. Not when he already had a taste of her perfect lips. Her soft skin and breasts, her pretty cunt as she came on his tongue...

If all she wanted was his body, he would gladly keep giving it to her. He would rather have her the way he did now than not at all. He leaned in further, his breath fanning her face and lips ghosting over hers. 

“Your pleasure.”

He was then claiming her lips, his grip still firm on her chin, as his words ignited a heated desire in her stomach. He kissed her softly and slowly, taking delight in the way she melted into him, wanting to press against him.

By the Mother, he would never have his fill of her. He craved her. Desperately. And all the time. The inexplicable pull toward her had not dwindled one bit since he first felt it and a part of him wondered if she could feel it too.

He released his hold on her chin and placed his hands at her hips instead, shifting her onto his lap. His lips parted from hers as he pulled her back flush against his chest, one arm wrapping itself around her waist. The movement caused his wings to brush against the piano, making it sing clumsily and scaring Noctis at the abrupt sound. The bird flew away, accompanied by some of Azriel’s shadows, toward the open balcony.

Azriel brushed her long hair to the side, deciding to claim another of his favorite spots–her neck. His cock strained against his pants and he was sure she could feel it pressing into her. She tipped her head towards his shoulder to allow him easier access as he kissed her neck, easing his way down.

He already knew the spot she was most sensitive to. His teeth grazed her soft skin before sucking, smirking against the curve of her neck when he heard her let out a quiet moan. The sound had his cock throbbing and aching. He was filled with the urge to elicit more moans from her, louder ones.

His mouth did not leave her neck nor his arm from her waist as he used his knee to spread her legs further apart. His free hand lightly traced his way up her leg, then her thigh, his shadows bringing the skirts of her dress up with him. He could smell the sweet scent of her arousal and when his fingers ghosted over her core, he could feel just how wet she was for him.

“Do you still find me adorable now?” He whispered against her skin.

“Yes.” Her reply was quick and breathless and his shadows reported that she was smiling.

“Wrong answer.” He told her, his fingers leaving the spot she needed him most and resting at her thigh instead.

She whimpered at the loss and grinded against his thigh, coating his pants with her arousal. He responded by tightening his hold on her waist, large hands splaying across her abdomen to keep her from moving.

“Azriel?"

He nearly shivered at the way she said his name. “Yes?” He murmured, grazing his nose against the curve of her neck and inhaling her scent.

“I don’t just find you adorable. I find you enchanting. Beautiful..."

Valeria grasped the arm wrapped around her and he reluctantly let her pull it away, keeping his other at her thigh. She wrapped both of her hands around his larger one. She pressed tender kisses along the back of his hand, drawing stars along his scars with her lips.

"Every part of you is beautiful.”

Azriel was glad she could not see him as her words had brought a deep blush to his face. His hands had always been a haunting insecurity of his. Yet, she loved them, reminding him every chance she could. His wings fluttered around her.

He decides her words were good enough, fearing that if he let her continue he’d melt into her completely. The fingers that rested at her thigh continued their trail to her dripping core and her breath hitched as he rubbed against her sensitive clit. He teased her entrance before eagerly sliding two fingers in.

“Do you know how pretty you are?” He praised her as he thrusted his fingers into her, his thumb grazing against her clit. “Spread for me and dripping for me like this.”

“Not as pretty as you.” She gasped as he abruptly slid another finger in.

“Fuck,” he breathed into her neck, curling his fingers and eliciting a moan from her. “Do you know what you do to me? The things you make me feel, the things you make me want to do to you..."

"Show me. Please."

Azriel was then carrying her to her bed. He hovered over her, wanting to be able to see her beautiful face as he buried himself into her. His shadows brought her skirts up again, pooling the thin fabric at her waist. He wasted no time in ripping her underwear off of her in one smooth motion before pulling his aching and throbbing cock free. Its tip was angry and seeping with precum as he fisted his generous length.

“Are you sure, princess?”

“Yes, I’m ready. I can take it.”

Valeria licked her bottom lip, remembering the first time she had taken him into her mouth and the delicious sounds she had drawn out from him as he came down her throat. That mouth of hers would be his downfall, Azriel thought with a curse as he recognized the look on her face. He spread her legs wider, pressing his tip in slowly and torturously until he was filling her up completely.

They both let out a moan as her walls fluttered around him. 

“That’s it, my pretty girl.” Azriel leaned down, tugging the top of her dress down to expose her breasts. He took one into his mouth, kneading the other with his hand as he began to move with slow but deep strokes.

His wings unfurled behind him, casting shadows across her body as they fluttered in pleasure, his thrusts picking up in pace. She was already a mess for him, her soft moans and the sinful sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Her final breaking point was when his thumb reached down to rub against her clit again. He pulled away from her breasts to watch her. Her beautiful face was contorted in pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as he made her see stars.

Azriel’s breaths started to grow heavy, sweat glistening on his forehead as he felt his release surface. He let out a deep guttural sound as he spilled into her, his abdomen clenching and hips stuttering.

Valeria’s eyes opened at the beautiful dark sound that escaped from him to find him gazing down at her. The way he was looking down at her had her coming undone again, her walls pulsing around him and eliciting more whimpers from him as she milked his cock for every drop. 

Her teary eyes, wide and wild, locked with his, her breath hitching as pure shock flashed across her features briefly. In that moment, it was just the two of them, filled with unyielding desire for one another. That intangible silver and gold thread radiated from the very depths of their intertwined hearts. 

“Valeria,” Azriel couldn’t hold himself back any longer, three simple but powerful words hovering over the edge of his lips. “I—fuck.”

“Az?” She called out softly, watching as a shadow curled against his ear. 

He kissed her lips softly, an apologetic look on his face when he met her gaze again. He pulled out of her, nearly groaning at the sight of his cum seeping out of her. The desire to lap it up with his tongue, to have her coming undone for him for the third time was strong. But his shadows notified him that there were footsteps approaching. 

“I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, his eyes swirling with an emotion Valeria couldn’t quite place.

“It’s okay.” Valeria was reassuring and full of understanding. 

Yet she couldn’t help the ache in her heart as he disappeared into his shadows.

With a slight wince, she hastily got up and ran to her restroom to clean herself up. She adjusted her dress to cover herself back up again, discarding her torn underwear. She placed a glamor–a skill she had perfected– over herself to cover the scent of cedar and sex. She barely had enough time to compose herself before she heard the doors to her room burst open without a knock in warning.

She slapped her warm cheeks and took a deep breath, feigning nonchalance as she walked out of her restroom. But there was an inner turmoil within, her heart still heavy with the words Azriel had wanted to say.

“Oh Val! I’m so sorry for missing your performance! My father locked me away for a week!” Mor exclaimed, rushing toward her cousin and dramatically throwing her arms around her. She then pulled away, choosing to sit on Valeria’s bed with guilt in her deep brown eyes.

“It’s alright.” Valeria brushed off, her heart still racing from Azriel.

Mor frowned. It was evident by the look in Mor’s eyes that she knew all that transpired last week and she wasn’t surprised, considering Keir had been present when she confronted her father. 

Valeria shifted uncomfortably, not wanting the memories of that night to resurface. Her eyebrow furrowed as she pushed thoughts of Azriel away and processed Mor’s initial words. “You said your father locked you away?”

It was now Mor who shifted uncomfortably. Her gaze fell, landing on all the jewelry that adorned her hand. She absentmindedly twisted one of the rings on her finger—a simple gold band with a small engravement of illyrian wings. Valeria recognized it as Mallory’s. 

“He punished me for talking back to him.”

Valeria walked toward Mor, cursing the world for bestowing cold fathers upon them. She could sense there was more to it. While she would not be surprised that Keir would punish her for merely breathing, Mor’s eyes were telling that there was more to the story.

When Mor finally looked up, there were tears brimming her eyes. “I’m engaged, Val.”

Valeria’s eyebrows rose in concern. “What? To who?”

“Beron’s prick of a son. Eris.”

Valeria’s eyes widened. The heir to the Autumn Court had found his bride after all, and an immediate rush of anger coursed through her. She knew Mor had no desire to be married, dreading the day her father would force an engagement upon her. It was a day Valeria dreaded for herself too. Being a female in Prythian unfortunately meant being sidelined, deigned to breeding and parties and child-bearing. 

 “Engagements can be broken off as quickly as they are made,” Valeria told her, gently brushing a loose blonde curl behind her hair in a comforting motion. “We’ll find a way to get you out of this.”

“Thank you.” Mor’s eyes met Valeria’s warm violet ones.

She knew she could count on her cousin for anything, whether it was something as fun as learning how to pierce each other’s ears, having a shoulder to lean on when needed, or sharing their deepest secrets–secrets that not even Rhysand knew. Valeria would gladly be her partner in crime. Whenever, wherever.

 Mor’s gaze then fell upon Valeria’s neck and let out a gasp. “Val…what is that?”

Valeria’s hand shot up to cover her neck, the exact spot Azriel had been fixated on earlier. The marks Azriel would leave on her body were usually covered by her clothes. This was the first time he had marked her neck and in her haste to cover the evidence of her scent, she had forgotten all about the physical evidence. She felt the heat rise to her neck before she could control it, mentally cursing herself. 

Still, she desperately attempted to feign nonchalance.

 “Nothing.”

“That is not nothing!” Mor insisted with a teasing smile. It was as if a flip switched inside her, her earlier sadness and grief replaced by curiosity and amusement. “That’s a hickey, isn’t it?”

Sensing the lie about to unfold on her tongue, Mor gave her a look.

“Why ask if you know the truth anyway?”

Mor squealed in excitement, urging Valeria to join her on the bed. She hadn’t heard any good gossip in weeks and she wanted to know more. “Who?”

“I can’t say.”

Mor’s jaw dropped and she let out another gasp as realization dawned on her. Valeria hated how intuitive her cousin could be, how quickly she could read her. She was glad Rhysand was not the same when it came to things like this, despite his daemati abilities.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

Valeria’s silence was enough of an answer and Mor, with an amused laugh, dramatically threw herself onto the bed. “Val, you naughty girl!”

When Mor turned to look at Valeria, she found her cousin with her hands clasped over her face in sheer embarrassment, attempting to conceal the blush that colored her cheeks. “Tell me everything! Now!”

Valeria dragged her hands across her face, sending Mor a deadpanned look. “Aren’t we supposed to be discussing how to get you out of your current predicament?”

“You two fucked didn’t you?”

“Mor!” Valeria exclaimed sheepishly.

Mor’s eyes were glittering with delight. She propped her head on her hand as she looked at her mortified cousin. “Is it true what they say about Illyrian wingspans?”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Yes.”

And then Valeria was collapsing onto the bed as Mor had done, the two girls laying side by side as they burst into laughter. 

“How?” Mor was then asking.

“I don’t know. It just happened.” Valeria replied with a shrug, staring up at the stars and fairy lights hung over her bed. “He wanted me and I wanted him and I know it’s wrong. I should’ve saved myself but I didn’t want my first time to be with whoever my father–” She winced at the mention of him “--deems worthy. There is very little I have a choice in but this, this is something I wanted to have control over. It may be silly but I wanted my first time to be special.”

“I have always felt something for Azriel. I never saw him like a brother the way I do with Cassian.” Valeria continued, feeling her heart pounding at her throat. She had never voiced her feelings aloud and it was terrifying but there was a weight being lifted off her shoulders–one she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for a while.  “I thought that maybe it was just a crush but after the first time we slept together, I wanted more. I still do. I want him. All of him and all the time and I’m scared…”

Mor frowned. “Scared?”

“Of what this could mean, of where this will lead us.” Valeria said, her eyes glistening and heart aching. “There’s also a lingering thought…that while he does care for me, it is all driven by attraction and other...” Valeria struggled to find the words. She didn’t want to say it out loud, voice her suspicions.

It wasn’t a lack of trust towards Mor. She trusted her with all her heart. But because saying them aloud would make them more real and she wasn’t sure she was ready to face it all yet.

"Other forces.”

The words that had almost slipped from Azriel’s mouth…she had an inkling of what they could be. They were words she was yearning to hear, she was sure of. Words that would mirror what she feels for him but something snapped in her earlier when their gazes locked. She wondered if he had felt it too, if that’s what had spurred him to dare to say those words and if it did, it brought a terrifying sense of uncertainty to her…

“Stop that.” Mor’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “What you and he have is not merely attraction or inspired by forces beyond our control. It can’t be. I’ve seen the way he looks at you since our first solstice together.”

Valeria allowed Mor’s words to comfort her, desperately clinging to them. She knew she should talk to Azriel but she didn’t want to let her insecurities and unease destroy what they have. Perhaps, it was selfish of her. But she would rather have him the way she does now than not at all.

Mor sat up with a sigh. She was happy for Valeria but also worried, knowing that the High Lord would not be accepting of the relationship between her and Azriel. There was also still the pressing matter of her engagement to Eris and all the implications that would follow. Her having to move to the Autumn court–away from the two people she loved most, Valeria and Rhysand. Not to mention having to give herself to the cruel prick and bear his children to secure him an heir.

No, she grimaced at the thought. She refused to allow that to be her future, a thought lingering in the back of her mind already. She turned back to look at Valeria, who remained laying in the bed. “Well, we’re fucked aren’t we?”

Valeria chuckled humorlessly in agreement. “Should we raid my father’s wine stash?”

“Are you sure you want to piss him off even more right now?”

“Fuck him.”

Mor then grinned as an idea sparked within her mind. “Let’s go to Rita’s!”

“Yes!”

“Absolutely not.” 

Mor and Valeria whipped their heads at the intruding voice. They found Rhysand, who had appeared just in time to hear Valeria’s offer at raiding their father’s wine stash. He was leaning against the doorway with a smirk on his face and arms crossed. He hadn’t meant to sneak up on them, the door to her room was left slightly open. Anyone could’ve easily walked in.

His violet eyes were sparkling when he added:  “Not without me.”

Mor’s grin widened. “Invite Az and Cass.”

It was decided then–that they would all go out to Rita’s for fun and a very much needed night out.

Mor winnowed back into Valeria’s room after being gone for a couple of minutes. In her arms, she carried a towering assortment of dresses. When Valeria had complained of having nothing to wear–despite her actually having plenty to wear, something Rhysand had annoyingly reminded her of–, she hadn’t expected Mor’s enthusiasm to let her borrow something of hers. 

Valeria could barely see her cousin’s face and couldn’t help but laugh. With a huff, Mor threw the pile onto the floor and began to go through it, picking out the dresses one by one. She showed them to Valeria, who seemed to shake her head no to every one of them, until finally, something caught her eye.

Mor squealed in excitement and then insisted on allowing her to do Valeria’s makeup, reminding her that she had to cover up the hickey before anyone else noticed it.

**

The night was sparkling when Azriel spotted Valeria. When Rhysand had invited him and Cassian to go out tonight, his initial answer was no. That is, until he found out that Valeria was going. Always the gentleman, he had been waiting for Valeria and Mor to arrive to walk them inside while Rhysand and Cassian found them a table inside RIta’s.

His gaze darkened as his eyes swept over Valeria. The dress she wore was sinful, short and tight, exposing the luscious skin of her legs. The legs he was in between earlier, drawing wave after wave of pleasure from her...

“Hey, Az.” Mor called, pulling his gaze away from Valeria. The blonde motioned to her mouth. “You got a bit of drool there.”

His heart skipped a beat, body tensing as he was reminded he had to be more careful.

Valeria smiled at him, brushing her fingers against his hand as he guided them through the entrance. “Don’t mind Mor,” she whispered to him. He would have to ask her later but for the moment, Valeria’s calm demeanor was reassuring to his worries.

Azriel would’ve allowed his body to relax had it not been for the ravenous eyes that fell upon Valeria and Mor when they entered. His wings curled around the two females on either side of him with a glare, making Mor roll her eyes.

If he thought the dinner party with the High Lords was torture, boy did The Mother have something even more tortuous in store for the night.

**

The vibrant colorful fae lights cast playful shadows as Valeria and Mor moved effortlessly on the dance floor. The upbeat rhythm swirled around them, pulling them into the heart of the pulsating music. Laughing and swaying, they were engulfed in the euphoria of the club.

Mor, with her carefree spirit, spun around, her laughter filling the ear. “We should take more shots!”

“Yes!” Valeria was quick to agree, finding Mor’s energy infectious.

Grasping her hand, Mor led Valeria to the bar. Valeria let out a curse once they reached the counter. “I left my bag with Rhys.”

Mor’s lips curled into a smirk. “Oh my sweet Val, we’re not paying for our shots.”

She then placed her shoulder on Valeria’s, prompting her to turn slightly to her right. She found a handsome young male watching her with an appreciative gaze. He smirked at Valeria when he realized he finally got her attention. Mor leaned in to whisper in Valeria’s ears. “He’s been staring at you all night.”

“I’m not interested,” Valeria whispered back, offering the male a timid smile.

Mor giggled. “It doesn’t matter. Just act like it so he can buy us drinks! Quick, he’s coming!”

Valeria barely had enough time to act nonchalantly as the male approached them.

“Hello, beautiful.” He greeted her.

Valeria looked up. When she took too long to respond, she felt a slight shove from Mor. “Hi,” she managed to breathe.

“Allow me to buy you and your friend a drink.”

Valeria’s lips curled into a smirk that mirrored Mor’s. Was it really this easy? She found herself nodding at the interested male, teasing him as she leaned in to tell him what Mor and her wanted. The bartender was quick to prepare the shots, handing them out to the three of them.

The male licked his bottom lip, his gaze not leaving Valeria as the three of them raised their glasses. “To–”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey!”

Valeria glared as Azriel appeared out of nowhere and snatched the shot glass from her hand, downing it himself in one big gulp. Unlike the fae male, he didn’t wince as the amber liquid burned his throat. He glared daggers at the male, who was too close to Valeria for his liking. 

Mor’s eyes darted between the two males and she downed her shot before Azriel could take hers too.

The male chuckled. “It’s alright, I can just buy you another one.”

Azriel’s lips curled up in a snarl. He stood tall in front of the male, towering over him and blocking his view of Valeria. His eyes were dark and full of rage. “I believe I told you to fuck off.”

“Azriel!” Valeria called to him sharply but he did not falter.

“You should’ve told me you had a boyfriend, gorgeous.”

“He’s not her boyfriend.”

It was Mor who had replied with a mischievous glint in her eye. 

Azriel let out a growl, his fists clenching at his sides and a flash of hurt crossed his eyes. His shadows coiled and slivered up his shoulders, ready to strike like a venomous snake. The male was smart to take that as his sign to leave, recognizing that the glaring male in front of him was both an Illyrian and Shadowsinger. Someone not to be messed with.

But the male couldn’t help but glance at Valeria once more. “I’ll see you around, gorgeous.”

Azriel turned to the two females. A glare was still etched onto his face. Valeria felt his wing against her shoulders, shielding her from the male’s lingering gaze. She noticed the way it twitched, sensing he was irritated. She bit her lip, finding a sliver of delight in Azriel’s jealousy and a heat daring to pool in her stomach.

“What the fuck, Az?” Mor whined. “We were just trying to get free drinks!”

Azriel directed his gaze towards her, glare still on his face but now waning.  Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of golden coins, brashly throwing them onto the counter. Mor’s eyes lit up at the sight.

His eyes were locked on Valeria’s when he spoke. “If you want a drink, you ask me.”

“Alright, then.” Valeria replied, holding his gaze in challenge. “Then take a shot with me.”

So Azriel did and then they were taking another.

After two more shots, the three decided to head back to the table they had picked out, surprised that no one else had taken it as Rhysand and Cassian were no longer seated there. Valeria shuffled into the booth beside Mor and Azriel seated himself across from them.

Valeria’s eyes darted around the hall. She couldn’t find her brother at the bar nor the dance floor. “Where’s Rhys?”

“Fucking some girl in the alley.” Azriel answered with a nonchalant shrug.

Valeria choked on her drink at his bold words. She had only heard him speak that way when it was just the two of them in the intimacy of her room.  “And Cas?”

“Also fucking that same girl.”

Mor’s eyebrows knitted together while Valeria’s eyes widened. It was Mor who spoke next. “What about Tanwyn?”

“He says she doesn’t mind sharing.” Azriel shrugged again, uninterested in continuing the conversation. He was already accustomed to Rhysand’s and Cassian’s sexual endeavors. There was a short time, back when they had just discovered the pleasures of being with a female, that the three of them would bring a female back to the training tents to share. 

Azriel had stopped joining them. He had stopped seeking pleasure with other females shortly after as he could no longer find the release he desired with them. He brought his drink to his lips as he looked at the reason why, who was sitting right across from him and avoiding his gaze.

“What about you?” Mor dared to ask, although she had an inkling as to where his desires were.

His gaze was still locked on Valeria as he spoke, his shadows dancing around him.  “I realized I don’t like sharing.”

**

Valeria and Mor had returned to the dance floor. They had tried to convince Azriel but he did not give in, not even when Valeria had given him an adorable begging look. The music throbbed in their veins and they twirled to the rhythm. Their care and worries dissipated as they enjoyed the sheer fun of the moment. 

A sentiment that Azriel, who had decided to watch them, did not share. He didn’t know what drink he was on but he could feel his heart pounding in his ears and the world begin to spin. He was still mulling over the male from earlier. He couldn’t blame him for being interested in Valeria. She was beautiful, after all.

What stung had been Mor’s words. He's not her boyfriend. While him and Valeria shared many intimate moments together, she was not truly his and he knew he was selfish to believe she could ever be.

 Rhysand joined him at the booth moments later, reeking of sex and alcohol. He wore a smug grin on his face.

“What a shame you didn’t join us, Az.” He said, wiping away the glistening remnants of his endeavor on his mouth with his thumb. “What a tasteful little thing she was.”

Azriel only hummed in response. His eyes returned to the dance floor to the exact spot Valeria and Mor had been dancing in. His gaze softened, amusement flickering in his hazel eyes as they caught Cassian, who rushed toward the girls enthusiastically. He watched as Cassian swayed his hips to the music, almost grinding against Mor in a playful manner while Valeria, who danced in front of Cassian, cheered them on.

Azriel didn’t know when it happened but after engaging in light conversation with Rhysand and returning his attention to the dance floor, he found a shirtless Cassian. It wasn’t long before the dancing male had found a table to climb on. He waved his shirt around with one hand, a drink in his other. He chugged the drink in his hand as he moved his hips sensually, eliciting cheers from the dancing crowd. Mor and Valeria were among the crowd, throwing coins–the ones Azriel had left with them–at the dancing Illyrian.

“We should stop him.” Rhysand mused.

“Yes, we should.” Azriel quipped.

But neither of them made a move to do so. 

They continued to watch their best friend make a fool of himself, bursting into laughter when Cassian lost his footing and fell off the table. Cassian had made his way back to their table, wings hanging low, clearly distraught over the way his performance had ended. His words were slurred as he complained to Rhysand and Azriel.

Rhysand and Azriel were in the middle of consoling the defeated Illyrian when Valeria and Mor appeared. Their hands were full as they carried shot glasses.

“A round of shots to celebrate the best performance ever!” Valeria exclaimed with a grin as she clumsily raised her glass.

Cassian’s head lifted from the table. “The best performance ever?”

“Best performance ever!” Mor echoed, encouraging the rest to grab a shot.

Cassian’s eyes lit up as he took the remaining shot glass. They all grinned at each other as their glasses clinged, cheering for Cassian and then they were downing the amber liquid in one go. The night continued on, full of more dancing and drinking.

Valeria had lost count on how many shots they had taken but it was enough to have them all stumbling their way out of Rita’s. She let out a curse as she looked at her brother and friends behind her, realizing they were too drunk to winnow back to the Moonstone palace and too far away from the House of Wind to fly. 

Rhysand, who couldn’t remember his name but could remember all the lyrics to an old song, clung onto Cassian, who joined him in singing out loud. Mor was stumbling right behind them, lost in a fit of giggles. Valeria allowed them to walk ahead of her before she proceeded to continue but a large membranous wing came into her view, halting her in her step.

“Let’s fly back?”

Valeria laughed as she looked up at Azriel, who now stood in front of her. “I think we’re too drunk for that.”

“M’not.” Azriel objected with a hiccup.

Valeria raised an eyebrow at him and he responded with a defiant look on his face. She watched as he unfurled his wings, preparing to push off the ground. She reached forward in an attempt to grab his hand and stop him. He made it almost five feet into the air before he lost his balance and came crashing down.

“Az!” Valeria exclaimed but she couldn’t help the laugh that escaped from her.

She ran to Azriel to make sure he was okay, relieved that his injuries were nothing but a bruised knee. He looked up at her, still on his knees. His shadows danced around him, some reaching out to caress her face in a loving manner.

 A sly grin formed on his face. “Looks like I’ve fallen for you.”

Valeria blushed. “Yeah, sure.”

“Sure? What do you mean sure?” Azriel’s lips pressed into a pout. A sight Valeria found absolutely adorable. “Are you mad at me?”

He was then wrapping his arms around her, burying his face into her stomach. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

Valeria ran her fingers through his soft hair.

“I’m not mad at you.”

 “I love you.”

They said in unison.

Azriel’s three words hung in the air. She froze, her fingers no longer brushing through his hair, eliciting a small whimper from him.

“You’re drunk, Az.” She replied, her voice soft and quiet, opposite to the beating of her heart. “I’m drunk.”

“I still mean it.” 

The fingers embedded into his hair made their way to his chin. She coaxed his gaze to meet hers as she lifted his chin up.

His eyes, glossy and tinged with red, still shone with an unmistakable longing and admiration–feelings he held exclusively for her. She reached out to lightly brush his cheek with her thumb.

“Then, I love you too.”

His eyes fluttered shut at her touch. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

“I want you to be my boyfriend too.” 

Azriel inhaled sharply, his thoughts a swirling tempest like the shadows around him. He wasn’t sure if the alcohol was to blame entirely. He wondered whether her words were genuine or merely an agreeable response.

**

Valeria didn’t know how but by some miracle–perhaps thanks to the help of Azriel’s sober shadows–they found themselves in the middle of his room. His arms were still around her and head still resting on her stomach. She crouched down to shift one of his arms around her shoulder, looking at his shadows for help. They complied and together, they heaved him onto his bed.

The room around her was spinning and she lost her balance for a moment, the effects of all the alcohol still strong. She blinked the room into focus and her eyes darted around. She had never been inside Azriel’s room at the Moonstone palace.

It was neat and simple, adorned with dark shades of blue and black.

Her heart swelled when it landed on his nightstand and she recognized the worry dolls she had gifted him years ago, neatly placed. She noticed some were missing but she caught sight of one of them peeking out from his pillows.

When her gaze traveled back to Azriel, she found him propped on his elbows, looking right at her, awakening the butterflies in her stomach. His black dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows and unbuttoned, revealing the tattooed muscled skin below. His dark hair was tousled and earring glimmering under the fae lights. His eyes were hooded, clouded with admiration and lust.

He looked absolutely sinful.

Azriel smirked at her, spreading his legs further for her. There was a devious glint in his hazel eyes as he glanced to his lap and then back to her. “Won’t you join me in my bed, my pretty girl?”

Valeria bit her lip. Her legs were moving before she could form a proper reply. She didn’t hear the thud against the door or the footsteps behind her, too consumed by her desire.

But she did catch a figure out of the corner of her eye. 

“I’ll be your pretty girl, my pretty boy!” 

Valeria swayed on her feet as Cassian swept past her. He dashed for Azriel and threw himself on the bed. Azriel let out a groan, cursing under Cassian’s weight. It was then that Valeria heard Mor’s voice and she turned towards the open door just in time to see Rhysand face plant on the floor.

**

Cassian had been the first one to wake up, finding himself cuddled against Azriel’s back. Mor was on Cassian’s side, curled up against a pillow, snoring softly. When he sat up, he grimaced at the pounding in his head but also at the drool he had accidentally left on one of Azriel’s wings. 

His eyes had then darted around the room, remembering that Rhysand had been the one to winnow them back to the Moonstone palace. It had taken a couple of tries to get them to the Moonstone palace due to Rhysand’s inebriated state. He had winnowed them to Windhaven right outside of Lord Devlon’s camp on accident first and then to the Sidra before finally succeeding. As soon as they had arrived at the Moonstone palace, Cassian had insisted they–him, Rhys and Mor–sleep in Azriel’s room as his bed was the largest and comfiest. 

Cassian couldn’t help but let out a chuckle when he found Rhysand near the door. He remained on the exact spot he had face planted on. Except, he was laying on his side. 

But where was Valeria?

A slight frown formed on his face as he searched for her. He could smell her so he knew she had to be in the room too. Something prompted him to look to Azriel again. He followed the curve of his wing–the one that didn’t have Cassian’s drool. His eyes widened, lips pressing into a taut line.

Hidden beneath Azriel’s wing and curled into him was Valeria.

His hands were pulling at Azriel’s shoulders, forcing him to lay on his back. Valeria shifted, turning the opposite way. Azriel let out a groan, squinting his eyes. “What the fuck, Cas?”

“Get up.” Cassian almost seethed. “Now.”

**

tag list:  @justrepostandlove, @kemillyfreitas, @thelov3lybookworm

A/N: pls don't hate me for az and val choosing to live in ignorant bliss and not communicating with each other. they will communicate soon! I just couldn't help myself with a drunken confession, who knows if they'll remember it the day after. also, it ended up working out with having a both slightly possessive and pouty drunk Az (:

[classicmemorialbenches]

Where can you find a memorial bench?

Classic Benches are handcrafted to order in our workshop in the Lancashire village of Lathom.

A memorial bench should be strong, perfectly proportioned, and built to last. We've created a beautiful collection of benches that have been designed to complement and enhance their surroundings for decades.

[stvrluvrrpres]

Modern! Ellie x fem reader.

Ellie hasn't always trusted anyone; the only person she did trust was you, and you destroyed that like you have destroyed everything else. Now, she's sitting on a bench outside of school, feeling the weight of her loneliness. She pulls out a cigarette and flicks her thumb on the lighter her dad got her. The flame catches, and she lifts the cigarette to her mouth, inhaling deeply, feeling the familiar burn of the smoke.

A chime interrupts her thoughts, the sound of a new message. She sighs, fishing her phone out of her pocket. The screen lights up with your message: "Can we talk?"

She huffs in frustration, leaving you on read. The cigarette dangles between her fingers as she takes another puff, then drops it to the ground, grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. Ellie stands up, tucking her phone back into her pocket, her mind swirling with a mix of anger and sadness. The bench, now empty, is a silent witness to her turmoil.

Giving in, she texts you back: "Meet me at the usual spot." The usual spot was an abandoned cinema where they would go to get high and listen to music. Those were the good times when they didn't have to worry about anything because they had each other. You would always come to Ellie's aid if she needed anything, and Ellie would do the same for you.

You eventually arrive at the spot, spotting Ellie seated on a cinema chair, the same one where you both had engraved your names into the cushion. This makes you smile at the memory. You take a deep breath and sit next to her.

"Don't speak, just listen," Ellie demands. You remain silent, gulping your anxiety down as her gaze pierces through you, a mixture of hurt and longing in her eyes.

For a moment, the only sound is the echo of old memories, reverberating through the empty cinema. Then Ellie speaks, her voice softer than you expected. "You’ve never been the person to talk. I understand that." She pauses, her eyes searching yours. "But you did. You admitted your feelings for me," she continues. "Under your cold-hearted exterior, there is warmth, and that's the part of you that I love. But whoever you were three weeks ago, I hated her. She was cruel, mean, and she didn't care about anyone but herself. Your turn."

You let her words sink in, guilt overwhelming you. "I'm trying, Ellie. I really am. My mother just got out of rehab a couple of days prior. That's no excuse, I know that. I just needed to let my anger out, and you were the closest person." You look down, ashamed. "I'm sorry. I understand if you don't want to talk to me ever again."

Ellie is silent for a moment, then sighs. "I get it. Everyone's dealing with their own shit, but it doesn't mean you can hurt others. You can't just push people away because you're hurting."

You nod, the weight of your mistakes pressing down on you. "I know. I don't want to lose you, Ellie. You mean too much to me."

She looks at you, her expression softening slightly. "Prove it, then. Show me that you can be the person I trust again. Actions speak louder than words."

You take a deep breath, feeling a glimmer of hope. "I will. I promise."

[squishykitty825]

Dead Inside

Jason couldn't remember the last time he'd felt truly alive.

Physically, he was alive. Legally, he was dead. To his friends and family, he was alive. But to himself...

Words etched deeply into gray stone glared out at him. The markings of a boy, once so full of the magic of Robin until his untimely demise at the hands of a madman, engraved by a grieving father who couldn't even admit to himself that what he'd lost was a son.

Deep clouds of storm gray hovered ominously above him, the constant rumbling of the rolling thunder threatening to make them spill at any moment. Any wild animals had already taken shelter in their various hiding spots to wait out the oncoming downpour. No light peeked through the thick clouds from the waxing gibbous moon that hung among the stars in the sky.

It was late enough that his family was on patrol, well, most of them at least. No doubt Alfred was still awake somewhere in the Manor.

A bitter wind rustled the leaves of the trees scattered around the small enclosure that was the Wayne family graveyard. Goosebumps erupted on Jason's skin, reminding him of his lack of shirt.

He didn't remember getting up and coming out here. The last thing he did remember was a viscous memory disguised as a nightmare leaving him tossing feverishly in his sleep before jolting awake. Then he was outside. Staring at his own grave. In nothing but sweatpants and bandages, courtesy of Alfred (and also the reason he was benched from patrol). He knew he should probably go back inside, but something had brought him out and he didn't particularly feel like trying to wrestle in anymore sleep.

The touch of rain beginning to fall sparsely down from the sky cooled his heated skin, a side effect of the fever he'd gotten from an infected wound. Alfred would likely lock him away for life if he saw him standing there in the rain. But he couldn't find it in himself to move.

Memories sharp as shattered glass scraped his mind as he continued to stare at the headstone. Endless laughter echoed louder than the memory of screaming so loud it nearly tore his vocal cords.

Maybe that was the last time he'd felt alive. In the moments just before the explosion. Just before discovering his mother was a cold-hearted traitor. Before he'd ever found out that Catherine hadn't been his real mother. When he was Robin. That was when he'd last felt alive.

Sure, the Lazarus Pit had brought him back to life, but what was there to live for if you don't feel alive.

The soft sound of a footfall behind him alerted him to Bruce's presence. Jason didn't move. Didn't so much as flinch.

Not until Bruce was standing next to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and saying, "Happy Birthday, Jay."

Jason didn't need to check his watch to know that midnight had just passed. The distant sound of the old clocktower chimed in the air, reaching his ears even from so far away.

It didn't feel right. Getting older. When he should still be dead. Then again, maybe he was dead, just not on the outside.

Maybe he was only dead inside.

[the-moon-in-the-gutter]

Thinking about Ifrit spending his free time in the smithing house that is on the property, working on large wrought iron pieces. Benches that curve along paths in the garden. Hand forging ritual daggers for each new antipope, creating intricate hilts that reflect each pope's rise to power.

When he's not working on major projects, he spends his spare time working with Dewdrop's jewelry making supplies. The fire ghoul carefully casting and engraving intricate coin charms, effectively breathing life back into an old tradition. One evening Ifrit was curled around Zephyr in bed, listening intently as the air ghoul recounted memories of his past life. There was a particular theme to that evening, Victorian love tokens, Zephyr had a habit of mentioning them whenever Ifrit was in search of a new project to take on.

Victorian love tokens were smoothed coins, engraved with images or a lover's initials. The tokens were bestowed upon a partner for multitudes of reasons, be it relationship milestones, commemorating a vacation, or as something to be remembered by while their other half was away. Zephyr recalls ones he had in his past life fondly, the coins on a chain bracelet that commemorated each of his roles in the theatre. Bestowed upon him by an admirer at the end of the final show in a run of performances.

This recollection sparked the idea in the fire ghoul's mind, setting out to the smithing house early the following morning to cast coins in gold and silver. Spending hours hunched over the small work table, engraving intricate designs before including his name on the back side. "Ifrit" engraved in the effortless, airy script of the air ghoul he called his mate. The delicate strokes that took the air ghoul seconds to scrawl onto a gift tag, but upwards of a half hour for the fire ghoul to mimic with a dremel tool.

Later that afternoon, he returns to the main grounds of the abbey with a simple box in hand. The box was hand carved from two pieces of silver ash, the inside lined in a pale blue silk. Ifrit had carved the box months before, when he had decided to take up learning wood working from Ivy. The fire ghoul knew exactly where his mate could be found, basking in the warm sunshine that settled on the garden. As he approached the winding path he laid eyes on the air ghoul, the sun glinting off his gold and silver jewelry, a halo cast by the few flyaways of ice blonde hair escaping his braid.

Each afternoon the pair would rest and recharge in the sun, something that Ifrit referred to as "lizard time" for the air ghoul who has spent his morning in the cold of the infirmary for pain management treatment. Zephyr would sit, eyes closed as the sun warmed his aching body, heating the black clothing and heavy flannel lap blanket he used when in his wheelchair.

Ifrit cleared his throat, alerting the air ghoul to his presence as he settled into his favorite spot. The warmth of the sun had heated the iron bench, allowing for the fire ghoul to find relief of the pain that found itself settling into his spine from being hunched over for hours.

"I knew it was you my flame" Zephyr smiled, opening his eyes slightly to take in the sight of his mate.

Ifrit laughed softly, "You never know, those pesky jackdaws might have evolved to shape shift and we just haven't seen it happen yet."

"Even if they have evolved that ability, I doubt they'd be able to mimic scents. I'd know it wasn't you because they would smell of Sunny's wineberries and not of the charcoal used in the smithing house" the air ghoul jested, turning slightly to face his partner.

"One of these days I'm going to find a way to smell like wineberries just to trick you" Ifrit grinned, watching the sunlight dance off the air ghoul's jewelry in mesmerizing waves.

The fire ghoul placed the small ash box into the hands of his mate, the exchange of gifts were always wordless between the pair, as all that could be said was already known. He watched as the air ghoul carefully lifted the lid of the box, lithe fingers caressing the silk lining before lifting the bracelet from the box. No words were spoken as the air ghoul studied each of the tokens, only four had been placed upon the simple chain bracelet.

"Ifrit... you did all of this just for me?" Zephyr spoke after a long moment spent in awe. Each thin coin was cast from silver and gold, the intricate designs that represented milestones to the pair of ghouls.

"Of course, it was the way you were describing them last night put the idea in my head and I had to see it through" Ifrit spoke, carefully clasping the bracelet around Zephyr's wrist, ensuring the fit was perfect.

Zephyr turned his wrist slowly, getting a feel for the material of the bracelet. "It's far lighter than I remember them being" the air ghoul chuckled softly, the jingle of the charms accenting the love brimming in his tone.

"I made sure to cast the coins thinner than usual, which does make engraving a bit more difficult. But I wanted it to be a piece that was comfortable for you to wear," Ifrit said, his hand finding one of the charms and turning it to the back to show his name.

Zephyr smiled, the light jingle of his bracelet as he moved his hands to the wheels of his chair to test his movements, "And they don't hang too low so I can wear it when I'm in my chair"

"I made sure to keep mobility aids in mind when I made the charms and attached them, I wanted you to be able to carry a piece of me everywhere you go. No matter what" the fire ghoul explained, watching as his mate marveled over each of the coins.

Zephyr pulled Ifrit closer by the lapels of his thin jacket, lips capturing the fire ghouls and stealing the words away from his mate. No other words were needed, just an expression of love and gratitude.

[tyrelpinnegar]

Rabbit Hole by Tyrel Pinnegar

Paranormal Horror - 14,800 Words

This is the story of a lonely girl with an affinity for the macabre. Although she had never been the type to believe in ghosts, she couldn’t help but indulge fantasies of romance beyond the veil. However, when a cocksure spirit with a dangerous infatuation drags her deep into a private purgatory of blood and decay, what was once an innocent fantasy quickly becomes a precarious negotiation that could cost the girl her life.

Download Rabbit Hole for free at TyrelPinnegar.com, or read the full story under the cut:

Chapter 1

This story begins in a cemetery. A proper cemetery.

Nowadays, proper cemeteries are vanishingly rare. A proper cemetery is old enough to have been forgotten. At least, to a degree.

The last time you visited a cemetery, it was likely to pay respects to the recently deceased. Someone whose memory is still fresh enough to spark pain. You may have noticed, while you were there, that the cemetery was not entirely dissimilar from a suburban backyard. A neatly manicured, monocultured lawn, devoid of any weeds, or insects, or interest. Sterile, wasted space.

The only thing that set it apart were the grave markers. Little, x by x inch polished granite slabs that lie flush with the ground, and weigh so little you could pick them up and carry them away, if you were so inclined. Each one computer-engraved with a stock image chosen from a catalog. Some may have even been engraved with a customer-supplied digital photograph, as if they were some sort of mall kiosk knick-knack.

There’s a reason these grave markers lie flush with the ground. It’s so the groundskeeper can run a lawnmower over them. A matter of convenience. It’s easier, and therefore cheaper, to trim the grass when the stones that mark the graves are easy to ignore. Isn’t it something, that the lawn seems to take precedence over the dead?

Cemeteries like these serve their purpose I suppose, in a dull, soulless sort of way. But they hardly instill reverence.

This cemetery instilled reverence. It was overgrown. Unkempt. The tall, dried autumn grasses had gone to seed, forming not a lawn, but a meadow. The fallen leaves that littered the earth had already decayed down to the veins, reclaimed by detritivores and fungal mycelium, leaving the old, gnarled oaks that had shed them as skeletal silhouettes against an overcast sky.

None of this is what makes a cemetery a cemetery, of course. Only graves can do that, and this cemetery had no shortage.

This cemetery contained hundreds of graves, some older than the oaks themselves. A person could have spent a lifetime studying the lives of the people buried in that soil, and still barely have scratched the surface.

And save for a few that had crumbled to nothing over the centuries, each of these graves had a marker. Some were towering mausoleums, elaborate sculptural monuments to a life of privilege and means. Others were simple headstones, heartfelt labors of love, chiseled from whatever stone could be found.

Neither the rich nor the poor are immune to the rasp of time, however. Many of the older markers had been rendered nigh unreadable by lichens and erosion. Identities wiped away, leaving only death’s heads and other memento mori.

One of the deceased had chosen a more practical memorial. A dark, heavy, granite bench. Perhaps they themselves had once found comfort in visiting the cemetery, and wanted to make it easier for those that came after.

It was clear that their gesture did not go unappreciated, as there was someone sitting on the granite bench. A girl, with dusty, cornflower-blue hair, loosely braided into twin pigtails with white twine, and a short, feather-duster of a ponytail in the back.

She wore a thick, pale, turtleneck sweater just a few shades lighter than the color of her hair, and a pair of oversized, circular, white-rimmed glasses. The lenses were fake, for if they’d been prescription, they’d have been far too heavy to remain on her face. Secretly, her amber eyes functioned perfectly well.

And although the cemetery was old, this girl was not. Her birth date was decades more recent than any death date on the gravestones that surrounded her. She was not exceedingly young either, however. She was an adult by most definitions, though she rarely felt that way.

This girl was not there to pay her respects, but to surround herself with death. She had an affinity for the macabre. It might not have been immediately obvious from her appearance, but a peek inside her sketchbook would have left no doubt.

It was brimming with the Gothic. The romantic. Ghosts and phantoms, spirits and specters. Skeletons and apparitions. Wilted roses and tender, affectionate embraces. Why she drew such things was a mystery, for she was not the type to share her work with others. Her sketchbook was a place of privacy. A refuge for feelings and thoughts that would have otherwise been bottled up.

And yet, despite her efforts to keep her drawings hidden away, someone was admiring them now. Even as she sketched.

A presence.

Invisible.

Immaterial.

The girl shivered. There had been no wind, but the air around her suddenly felt cold. She shut her sketchbook and held it close to her chest.

If she had turned around in that moment, she might have seen something resembling a pair of eyes. Concave hemispheres, as if someone had dissected the tapeta lucida from behind an animal’s retinas and rendered them intangible. Each one, a reflection without a surface.

But she didn’t turn around, and they vanished as quietly as they had arrived.

The girl had just begun to reopen her sketchbook, when she felt a chill brush her cheek. Not a breeze, but a gentle caress. She let out a small yelp and staggered to her feet, glancing about nervously.

Her breathing became tense. She wasn’t the type to feel uneasy in an empty cemetery, but somehow this cemetery didn’t feel so empty anymore. Eventually, she turned to leave.

It was then that something seemed to tickle her earrings. The feeling of surgical steel against cartilage sent a violent shiver up her spine. She ran.

The girl scrambled her way down an old footpath, clutching her sketchbook tightly. She felt that if she could only reach the entrance gate, she’d be safe.

All of a sudden, she felt something shove her sternum with startling force. She staggered backward and began to lose her balance, only to be caught by unseen hands and tipped back upright. She stumbled forward, then swiveled around in a panic.

Silence.

The girl took a moment to catch her breath.

Then, she felt a sudden, sharp jab at her side. Then another, and another. An incessant jabbing, at her kidneys, her rib cage, her spine. She recoiled, repeatedly and involuntarily. The jabbing became shoving, and the shoving became herding. She shut her eyes tightly and waited for the ordeal to be over.

And then… it was. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

UNKNOWN SKELETON 9-24-62

Those were the words on the headstone the girl found herself standing before, deeply engraved in crystal white granite.

It was a very plain stone. A simple, upright, rectangular slab, slightly wider than it was tall. No grass grew nearby. The ground was bare save for a few stunted weeds, as if the earth surrounding the stone had been salted.

The burial vault had collapsed long ago, leaving a hole in the ground near the base of the stone. The hole was dark, and deep, and just narrow enough to dissuade exploration.

The girl simply stared at the stone a moment, chest heaving.

A sound from behind. Like the snapping of fingers, echoing in a way her surroundings shouldn’t have allowed. She swiveled around and stared into the distance. Listening.

Behind her, something emerged from inside the collapsed burial vault. A snare on a swivel, fashioned from thin, braided steel cable. It flared open slowly, without even the faintest sound, and came to a rest on the ground.

The girl’s heart was racing. She could feel it in her chest. Hear it in her ears. She stood her ground.

But nothing came.

Her heartbeat began to slow. Her breathing, began to calm. Her muscles, loosened. Her jaw, unclenched. And for just a moment, she let herself relax.

Something blew a sudden puff of icy air into her face. She took a step backward.

Deep down in the darkness, bones assembled. The snare zipped tight around the girl’s ankle. With a sharp yank, she was flat on the ground. And with a steady pull, she was

dragged

down

the

hole.

Chapter 2

Hello rabbit.

Those were the first words the girl heard. They were spoken in a raspy, feminine voice that seemed as if it were both breathed into the crook of her neck, and reverberated inside her skull. It was dark, and she couldn’t see their speaker.

The girl uttered a pitiful whimper in response, but there were a set of cold, arachnodactyl fingers wrapped around her face, clasping her jaw shut.

Sh-sh-shhh… Don’t speak.

A moment passed as the presence verified she’d been heard. She had been. She unclasped her fingers from the girl’s face, affectionately stroked one of her cornflower blue braids, then retreated into the darkness.

One by one, crudely formed candles began to light. But they didn’t burn with fire. They burned with something unfamiliar, something that seemed to suck color out of existence.

As each candle was lit, it faintly illuminated a skeletal hand, which then retracted back into the shadows. As if it were setting the candles alight by pinching their wicks.

Eventually, the candle lighting ceased. The girl could just barely make out a figure looming above her. A skeletal silhouette, nearly indiscernible in the dim, unearthly light. She strained her eyes, trying desperately to decipher what she was looking at.

Then, the figure ignited. Forcefully, like an antique propane stove burner, lit a few seconds too late.

And there she was… An uncanny, luminous silhouette in a well-worn sheepskin aviator jacket. The girl simply stared at her a moment, dumbfounded.

The spirit looked as if she had been diaphonized, and immersed in glycerin. A semi-corporeal matrix of decellularized tissue, lit from inside by luminous teal bones.

She moved as if she were immersed in glycerin as well. An inquisitive cock of her head sent her ethereal white hair drifting, like eelgrass.

The girl averted her eyes, trying desperately to wish herself awake. But the spirit placed a finger beneath the girl’s chin, and raised her eyeline to meet her own.

In this state of coerced eye contact, the girl finally peered deeply into the eyes that had stalked her in the graveyard. Concave, hemispherical eyes, mottled with iridescent teals, blues, and golds.

The spirit grinned impishly. Her skull was kinetic. Each bone moved freely, independent of the others. It looked as if the bones of a human skull had been teased apart at the seams, and their edges whittled smooth. Scraps of bone carved into an intricate, emotive mechanism. It was almost piscine, like the skull of some ancient Devonian fish.

The spirit took hold of the girl by the jaw, rotating her head from side to side. Studying her. Finally, she released her grip, affectionately tapping the girl on the nose with a finger.

The spirit laughed. It was a harsh, gravelly laugh, and it rattled the girl’s teeth in their sockets.

The spirit’s cavernous maw contained no teeth. Instead, her jaws formed a bony, jagged, shearing edge. Scissor-like, as if she’d been mindlessly grinding maxilla against mandible for ages.

Her laughing ceased. She stared at the girl expectantly. Almost playfully. The girl remained silent.

You’re a quiet one, aren’t you rabbit?

The girl reminded the spirit that she had told her not to speak. Her words were whispered, and just barely escaped her lips.

A pharyngeal snicker pushed the spirit’s ethereal white tongue from her throat. She pinched it betwixt the cusps of her bladed jaws, but it did little to conceal her amusement.

The girl surveyed her surroundings. She was in a burrow. A spacious burrow, but a burrow nonetheless. Fine, pale roots hung from the ceiling, and the walls were a rich, loamy soil.

The floor of the chamber was a deep, humid layer of finely shredded wood. Tweezed apart fragment by fragment, like a bored parakeet shreds paper. The girl briefly wondered where it had all come from, but her curiosity was quelled by the sight of rusty coffin nails blended into the mulch.

There were holes in the walls of the burrow, just a few inches across. Too narrow for a person to pass through, but wide enough for a human skeleton, if it were done bone by bone. Where they led, she had no way of knowing.

Over her shoulder, the girl spotted a larger tunnel. This one was wide enough for a person to wriggle through, with difficulty. But no wider than that. The girl feared how far it might extend before it reached the surface.

Not that it mattered. It was the only way out of the burrow. The girl side-eyed the spirit surreptitiously. The spirit was distracted by the girl’s sketchbook, admiring her work with a delighted grin. Relishing the eerie, Gothic romance of it all. She licked a finger and turned the page.

This was the girl’s chance. She bolted for the tunnel, and began to scramble inside.

Ah-ah-ah…

She felt the spirit grab hold of her ankles with long, icy fingers, and yank her violently back into the burrow. She gripped the girl tightly by the shoulders, and rolled her onto her back.

What are you running from, rabbit?

The girl shouted at the spirit, demanding that she stop calling her rabbit.

The spirit was taken aback, but only for a moment. She let out a short, harsh laugh. She seemed almost thrilled by the girl’s newfound pluckiness.

Why? I caught you in a snare, didn’t I? You live in a hole.

The girl exclaimed crossly that no, she did not, in fact, live in a hole.

The spirit glanced about the burrow, rather facetiously. She grinned widely and looked the girl directly in the eyes.

You’re sure about that, are you?

The girl gave the spirit an uneasy look.

The spirit extended an arachnodactyl hand. After considerable hesitation, the girl reached out and grasped it. The spirit’s touch was intensely cold against her bare skin.

The spirit hoisted the girl upright, and she found herself seated quietly on the soft, wooden mulch.

The girl rested her head in her hands. She was still very much struggling to process her situation. She raised her head meekly, and asked the spirit, rather bluntly, what she was.

A disquieted expression flitted across the spirit’s face, so subtly as to be nearly imperceptible. She was quick to recover however, flashing a fabricated grin.

That’s a good question, rabbit. If I ever find out, you’ll be the first to know.

The girl then inquired, her tone exceedingly wary, about just what it was the spirit wanted. The spirit’s playful demeanor returned.

I want for naught, rabbit. I have everything I need.

The girl then requested, if the spirit did indeed have everything she needed, that she let her go. She struggled to mask the growing indignation in her voice.

Oh, I can’t do that, rabbit.

The girl stared crossly at the spirit, awaiting an explanation.

If I did that, I’d want for something again.

There was an extended silence. The girl wasn’t quite sure what was supposed to happen next.

So she asked.

The spirit cocked her head just a little further than one might expect possible, and smiled at the girl. Almost sweetly. But she did not speak.

The girl scoffed. Averted her eyes. She didn’t want to give this ghoul the satisfaction.

But the spirit was patient, and eventually, the girl’s eyes wandered back. She found herself staring intently at the spirit’s heart. It was visible through her unzipped aviator jacket, nestled snugly within her rib cage. It beat softly between a pair of nearly imperceptible lungs, visible only by the cartilaginous rings scaffolding their various passageways. Inhaling and exhaling with a surprising tranquility.

The spirit’s heartbeat seemed to have an almost sedative effect on the girl. Her mood became still, and serene.

Would you like to touch it?

The girl looked to the spirit, and to her own surprise, she nodded… she did want to touch it.

The spirit descended from her mid-air perch, and delicately grasped the girl by the wrist. The girl inhaled sharply. She knew the spirit’s touch would be cold, but somehow it still caught her off guard.

The spirit looked the girl in the eye, as if awaiting some sort of signal. The girl’s silence seemed to suffice. The spirit plunged the girl’s hand deep into her abdomen.

The girl gasped, and by reflex, attempted to withdraw her hand. But the spirit was strong, and held steady.

A moment passed, and the girl began to recover from her initial shock. She flexed her fingers experimentally. The spirit’s entrails were so faint as to be nearly invisible, but they could be felt. They were cold, and fluttered with a rhythmic peristalsis.

The girl could feel them intersecting her flesh. Seeping between her cells like syrup through a sieve. To feel something so visually insubstantial provide such tactile resistance was an uncanny sensation.

The spirit slid a hand along the girl’s arm, and braced her elbow with the other, guiding the girl’s hand up and into her rib cage. The girl resisted ever so slightly, but the spirit resisted in return, slowly pulling the girl’s arm deeper into her chest.

Her fingertips intersected the spirit’s lungs, and she could feel a freezing wind within. She could feel the spirit’s heartbeat, sending ripples through the tissues surrounding it. Her breathing began to quicken.

The spirit’s breathing ceased entirely. There was no more freezing wind. Just stillness. Silence.

The girl could see her own curled fingers, just millimeters from the spirit’s softly beating heart.

She extended her fingertips, and the two intersected.

Immediately, the girl felt the warmth vacate her body. It began with the surface of her skin, and crept steadily toward her core. A coldness she never would have thought possible in a body with a pulse. She began to struggle.

The spirit released her grip, and the girl tumbled backward onto the damp mulch, shivering violently. The spirit watched with interest.

Oh rabbit… are you getting cold?

She asked this with an inquisitiveness, as if it were a novel concept to her. She received no immediate response.

The spirit removed her sheepskin aviator jacket, and hung it gingerly over the girl’s shoulders. The girl held the jacket tight to her skin, but it did not warm her. In fact, it only seemed to make her colder.

A few minutes passed. Eventually, the girl had recovered enough to speak. Through chattering teeth, she asked the spirit where the jacket had come from.

I stole it.

The girl quietly examined the worn leather, and aged wool. The jacket appeared well-cared-for, but it was obviously very old.

The girl noticed that her thinking seemed slower than it had before… Sluggish. Strenuous. But eventually, a second question began to percolate through her mind. She asked the spirit who the jacket had been stolen from.

A pilot. Don’t worry… they weren’t using it anymore.

The girl decided not to question any further. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the spirit had meant by that.

Again, a few minutes passed. The girl found herself focused on the flickering of the candles that lit the burrow, wondering if they might provide some modicum of warmth.

She attempted to reach for the candle nearest to her, only to find her muscles had stiffened. It felt as if her body had become waxy. Every movement, met with a distressing resistance. Yet somehow, she managed to grasp the candle, and bring it close.

But the candle provided no warmth. Passing her fingertips through the uncanny flame felt no different than passing them through thin air. Even touching the burning wick itself provided no sensation.

It took a disquieting amount of effort, but the girl finally managed to form a coherent question in her mind. She asked the spirit where the candles had come from.

I made them.

The girl pondered this a moment, before realizing that the spirit’s answer clarified very little. From what did she make them?

There’s plenty of wax to be found in a graveyard, rabbit.

It was only after the spirit spoke that the girl realized she must have wondered her question aloud. However, she was no longer cognizant enough to decipher what the spirit had meant.

She awoke suddenly. She had only slipped into unconsciousness for a moment, but to regain consciousness without any memory of losing it was jarring. She shook her head.

The girl felt something sickly and wet soaking into her clothing. An opaque, crimson liquid was seeping from the walls of the burrow, and pooling in the mulch beneath her.

Repulsed, she attempted to stagger to her feet, only to find her previously waxy muscles were now rigid, and immovable. She began to panic.

Something the matter, rabbit?

The girl told the spirit that she was stuck. That she couldn’t move. There was a genuine, unmistakable fear in her voice.

The crimson liquid continued to pool beneath her, like an incoming tide on an exceptionally shallow beach.

She pleaded for help. The spirit sank slowly to the floor, and knelt in the pooling liquid. She began to run her fingers through the girl’s cornflower-blue hair.

The girl’s ribs began to seize. It was becoming difficult to breathe. She tried to express this, but her breath was restricted enough that she struggled to form the necessary words.

Nevertheless, the spirit understood. She lovingly brushed the girl’s cheek, staring deeply into her eyes.

Oh rabbit… don’t worry your pretty little lungs about it.

The rising liquid met the girl’s lips, and began to flow down her throat. The spirit embraced the girl tenderly.

You’ll never have to breathe again.

Chapter 3

A thought entered the girl’s mind. A casual inkling that perhaps this was death.

She felt weightless. Adrift in a vast abyss. The barrier between her body and the fluid that surrounded her felt vague. She wondered if perhaps she was dissolving into it… unspooling, like gossamer threads. She couldn’t deduce the position of her limbs, or the temperature of her skin. Or whether her eyes were open or closed. There was no light. No sound. To someone who had always found the world a little too bright, and a little too loud, it was a welcome relief.

With nothing to upset her senses, the girl quietly became aware of her own heartbeat. She could feel it pulsing gently through her veins. Hear it flowing through her ears. If this was death, she thought, perhaps she didn’t mind it so much.

Her lips parted slightly. Fluid seeped between them, caressing the tip of her tongue. It tasted metallic… like a nosebleed.

The taste of blood sent the girl into a panic, fracturing any sense of tranquility as if it were glass. Once again, she felt cold, intact, and desperate to breathe.

She struggled to wake her sleeping limbs. Flexing the pins and needles from her ragged nerves, she swam weakly in a direction she desperately hoped was upward.

Thin air. A gasp for breath. Coughing violently, the girl clambered onto the surface of a vast, crimson lake. Somehow, the lake’s surface bore her weight. As if, despite everything, the lake was only millimeters deep.

The girl simply lay there, in a film of blood, trying desperately to catch her breath.

Shivering and terrified, the girl rose to her feet. Her clothing was saturated with blood, and weighed heavy on her shoulders. She stumbled slightly. Whatever lay beneath the lake’s surface felt almost spongy beneath her feet, like the saturated soil of a peat bog. Eventually, she found her footing.

She surveyed her surroundings. The air was as still as the surface of the lake itself. The vast blood flat might have appeared mirror-like, if there had been a sky to reflect. But there was no sky. There was nothing but a deep, dark, velvet void.

Staring into the distance, she tried to locate the edge of the lake. On the horizon, she saw what appeared to be dead trees. Branchless. Pale. Needle-like. Pointing steadfastly toward that abyssal nothing of a sky. Reflected in the glassy surface of the lake itself, like a grove of cedars, flooded a century ago.

That’s what they looked like to her, at least. They seemed so far away, it was difficult to tell.

She focused carefully.

A pair of arachnodactyl hands clasped the girl’s shoulders from behind, and a facetious whisper in her ear sent a shiver inching up her spine.

You’ve soiled my jacket, rabbit.

With a single swift movement, the spirit yanked her sheepskin aviator jacket from the girl’s shoulders. She slipped her own arms through the sleeves, and shook off the excess blood, like a starling in a birdbath.

Droplets of blood spattered the girl’s face. She felt her hairs bristle, and her temper flare. She snapped. She screamed at the spirit, demanding that she let her go.

For a fleeting moment, the spirit appeared almost startled. A careful observer might even have glimpsed something resembling a second thought flicker across her face. However, it was quickly brushed aside by a cocksure smile.

The spirit circled the girl, so swiftly and smoothly that by the time the girl had noticed, the spirit was already behind her.

The spirit hooked an arm around the girl’s neck. The girl tried to protest, but was silenced by the spirit pressing an icy finger to her lips.

Hush now, rabbit… You’re safe with me.

In another context, from another individual, this sentiment might have brought comfort. It was spoken in a calming tone, after all, and with a loving inflection. But this was a very specific individual, in a very particular context, and the girl didn’t find it reassuring at all.

The spirit nestled her chin in the crook of the girl’s neck, nuzzling her blood-stained cheek with an unnerving affection. The girl inhaled sharply. Exhaled with a shudder. The sensation was deeply uncomfortable.

The girl attempted to wriggle free, but the spirit’s vise-like grip only tightened. She felt the spirit’s thigh creeping up her own. She saw an opportunity, and struck.

She reached for the spirit’s femur, plunging her fingers through ghostly layers of muscle and sinew. She gripped the bone tightly in her fist, and attempted to wrench it from its socket.

Startled, the spirit instinctively released her grip. She panicked, and began batting at the girl’s cranium with open palms. The girl, in turn, twisted the spirit’s hip ever more forcefully.

She could feel the joint failing. Gripping the bone tight with both hands, she gave it one final twist.

The bone popped from its socket with such force that the girl lost her balance, falling backwards into the shallow lake and landing on her coccyx.

She winced in anticipation of pain, but the marshy substrate managed to soften the blow. She gave her head a shake, and stared at the bone in her hands.

It was no longer luminous. Outside the confines of the spirit’s ghostly flesh, it resembled any other stray bone. Dull, and dusty, and stained with tannins.

Yet, something felt off. It was weighted oddly… heavier toward the hip than toward the knee. A closer look revealed a tarnished stainless steel hip replacement, cemented tightly to the bone itself.

Give that back! It’s mine!

The spirit’s voice was shrill, and furious. The femur obviously wasn’t hers. It was stolen, and the girl said as much.

Of course I stole it, that means it’s mine!

The girl stumbled to her feet. It was clear from her stance that she had become fed up with the spirit’s games.

She glimpsed a flicker of hesitation in the spirit’s eyes. A fleeting moment of uncertainty, interrupted by a hollow bark of aggression.

I said give it BACK!

Her words were hissed, as if they had been puffed through the throat of a brooding mute swan. Yet the girl stood her ground.

The spirit stared daggers into the girl’s eyes, then glanced briefly at the femur. The girl took notice, tightening her grip on the bone defensively.

The spirit shivered with frustration. She shrieked like a jealous gull, and lunged at the girl.

The girl swung the femur with all her might, wielding the steel implant as a blunt weapon. The spirit dodged the attack, and lunged a second time.

Again, the girl swung her improvised war club. The spirit heard it whistle past her skull, at a proximity she immediately deemed too close for comfort.

The spirit quickly backed off, and held out an open palm, signaling the girl to stand down.

She did, a little.

The spirit began to approach the girl, palm still outstretched. The girl abruptly dropped to one knee, and braced the femur over the other, threatening to snap it in half if the spirit came any closer.

The spirit drew back apprehensively. It was clear she took the girl’s threat seriously.

A moment passed, and a thought crystallized in the spirit’s skull. Its conception was apparent on her face, if only for a split second. She breathed what appeared to be a sigh of relief, then locked eyes with the girl.

Alright rabbit…

She smiled, casually brushing back her ethereal white hair. The girl stared warily, ready to act on her promise.

I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot… let’s take a few steps back.

The spirit began circling the girl, slowly. Deliberately. The girl instinctively rose to her feet and took a step back, unsure what the spirit was playing at.

Not literal steps, rabbit.

The girl scoffed. She knew perfectly well what the spirit had meant, and she knew the spirit knew it as well.

Figurative steps. Let’s figure out where this all went… sour.

A whiff of something rancid prickled at the girl’s olfactory nerves. An oily, iridescent film had begun to form on the lake’s surface. The spirit snapped her fingers, recapturing the girl’s attention.

You do like it here, don’t you?

She could feel the spirit edging imperceptibly closer with each circle she made. A gradual, encroaching spiral.

Of course you do… it’s quiet. Peaceful. Just like that graveyard you spent so much time in, right?

A low-pitched burbling. The girl turned to identify its source, but by the time she saw it, all that was left was a ring of concentric ripples in the lake’s surface, dispersing into nothing.

Right. So what is it that’s upsetting you, rabbit?

Another burbling sound. And another. The girl saw them this time, from the corner of her eye. A pair of large bubbles, rising from the surface and bursting, as if from a volcanic mudpot. It dawned on the girl how thick and dark the blood had become. It was… coagulating.

Spit it out, rabbit. Nothing I’ve done, surely?

The bubbling gradually became more persistent, overlapping frequently enough that the girl quickly lost count. She began to choke, and sputter. The gas rising from the lake smelled of decay. Of putrescine and cadaverine. An anaerobic slurry, breathing rancid puffs of hydrogen sulfide.

Speak up rabbit, I can’t hear you!

The surface of the lake had begun to form a froth. A putrescent scarlet seafoam that shuddered and trembled with each bursting bubble. A feeling was welling up in the girl’s abdomen. An unbearable nausea unlike anything she had ever experienced.

Use your words, rabbit! Enunciate!

The poor girl was retching. Her abdominal muscles contracted rhythmically. Violently. Forcing the feeling up into her chest, into her throat, into the very sinuses of her skull.

The spirit was close now. Close enough that she was practically whispering in the girl’s ear.

Thaaat’s it rabbit… let it out.

The girl doubled over. Vomited. The spirit delicately plucked the femur from the girl’s fingertips as she fell to her knees.

Oh rabbit… It’s the smell, isn’t it?

She popped the femur back into its socket.

Don’t worry. It’ll pass.

The girl simply knelt there. Breathing labored. Staring at the mess. Gradually, the bubbling began to subside, and the sickly stench no longer seemed quite so unbearable. Now that her gut was empty, the endorphins began flowing through her bloodstream, gently quelling her nausea.

Instead, her nausea had been replaced by a burdensome pressure in her ears. The atmosphere felt constricted, as if it were held taut inside a latex balloon. She swallowed, attempting to equalize the pressure inside and outside her skull, but it didn’t seem to work.

The girl felt ten slender fingers slide beneath her arms, along her rib cage, and begin to lift her to her feet.

Alright rabbit. Up up up.

There was effort in the spirit’s voice, as she hoisted the girl’s dead weight. The girl groaned softly. Her abdominal muscles still ached from the strain of retching.

The girl teetered slightly, then stumbled. The spirit gently corrected her balance. She patted the girl affectionately on the head. Began stroking her hair. Comforting her.

The girl lashed out, pushing the spirit away. Warning the spirit not to touch her. To never touch her.

The spirit winced. Noticeably, as if the girl’s words had inflicted a sharp and sudden pain. An ice pick to her chest. For a fleeting moment, there was hurt in the spirit’s uncanny, iridescent eyes.

Her diaphanous muscles tensed. Her arachnodactyl fingers balled into fists. A quivering, guttural growl of frustration forced itself up through her trachea, and she turned her back to the girl.

There was a long, inelegant silence. The girl began massaging her forehead and temples with her fingertips. Her patience was wearing thin, and the pressure in her ears was becoming uncomfortable.

She was interrupted, however. By a sound. A deep, omnipresent hissing, almost too low-frequency to hear. It began quietly, then slowly grew louder, eventually becoming a fleshy, infrasonic sputtering that rattled her core. Both the girl and the spirit alike surveyed the sky apprehensively.

A deafening eruption. A sudden decompression. A violent, stinking windstorm, and a sharp ringing in the girl’s ears. Where once her eardrums had been pressed uncomfortably into her skull, she now felt them bulging outward.

The wind roared like whitewater, and the girl struggled to remain upright on the soft, slippery muck beneath her feet. She leaned into the gale, desperate not to lose her footing.

The spirit watched calmly as the girl struggled. She seemed almost unaffected by the storm, save for her fluttering, ethereal white hair. She nearly found herself reaching out to help the girl. To break her inevitable fall.

But instead, she paused. Let her arm fall to her side. The wind faltered, and the spirit watched as the girl fell face-first into sludgy, clotted blood.

Chapter 4

The velvet black sky had collapsed, crumbling like gold leaf, raining down like ash, and dissolving like candy floss.

In its place was an overcast sky. A featureless, unbroken sheet of mist, diffusing a cold, sterile light.

The girl sat cross-legged in a thick, liver-colored mud of congealed blood. She watched absentmindedly as little somethings scuttled about on its surface. She couldn’t quite call them flies. They moved too erratically to identify, and only seemed to sit still in her peripheral vision. A glance, and they would take to the air, leaving behind tiny clusters of carefully deposited eggs.

At least, she assumed they were eggs. To her, they resembled miniature tapioca pearls, only a millimeter or two across.

Suddenly, the girl piped up. She asked, rather casually, what it would take to convince the spirit to let her go.

The girl looked skyward. Roughly fifteen feet up, directly above her, the spirit hung motionlessly in the air. Balled up. Back to the ground. Hiding ineffectually behind the thick leather of her sheepskin jacket. She spoke drearily into her folded arms.

There’s nothing you can do to convince me, rabbit.

Her voice was coarse, dry, and disillusioned. A prickly static in the girl’s ears.

The girl thought on this a moment, before abruptly proposing a bargain of some sort… a trade, perhaps?

You have nothing to trade, rabbit.

Not on her, the girl admitted. But if the spirit were to let her go, she could retrieve something. Anything the spirit wanted.

The spirit sighed softly. Too softly for the girl to hear. The girl waited patiently for an answer, but she did not receive one.

How about a favor then? A task to carry out? Surely there was something the girl could do in exchange for her freedom?

The spirit balled up tighter, burying her face in her knees. She hung silently in the air, save for the gentle creaking of leather against leather.

Again, the girl prodded. What was it going to take? She was willing to make a deal with the devil.

The spirit uncurled, slowly. She swiveled around. Body first, with her head lagging behind. She squinted at the girl.

I’m not a devil, rabbit!

The spirit’s voice was saturated with incredulity.

I’m not a demon!

I’m not a fiend, or a monster!

I’m not trying to hurt you!

I’m not trying to make you unhappy!

The spirit lurched forward with each statement. She reached out toward the girl with one hand, resisting the urge to touch. Her fingertips hovered mere inches from the girl’s cheek. Her hand trembled with frustration, then snapped into a fist.

Wh…

The spirit inhaled softly, her jaw trembling. She tilted her head in genuine, wounded confusion.

Why do you hate me so much?

Now, this was a question that caught the girl off guard. This spirit really had no idea. She was naive. Completely naive. Naive to the way people work. How they think. How they feel. Naive to pain. To empathy. To human suffering.

This spirit had never conceived of a point of view that ran contrary to her own. Never had any inkling of the existence of an outside perspective. And now that she was face to face with a girl who embodied this concept fully, her worldview and confidence were beginning to corrode.

The girl simply stared at the spirit. In disbelief. In pity. All she could think to do was ask her: What did you expect?

The spirit’s breathing began to hasten, and shallow. Huffing quietly through her open mouth like a dying animal. She averted her eyes. Not in shame, but simply to allow herself time to think. She raked her fingers awkwardly through her drifting, ethereal white hair. Swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat.

The spirit began wagging her index finger, as if she were trying to summon a thought from deep in the folds of her brain.

You and I, w-we were supposed to…

She retracted her finger. Bit her lip betwixt her bladed jaws.

We were going to be happy together. I th-th-thought…

The girl squinted narrowly, watching in silence as the spirit, for the first time, struggled to find words.

I-I thought you would fall in love?

This was not worded as a question, but it was certainly spoken as one. It was less of a question for the girl, and more of a question the spirit was asking herself.

The girl answered it nonetheless, with a question of her own. A question that caused the spirit’s diaphanous muscles to tense, and her heart to visibly palpitate: With you?

The spirit appeared reluctant to look the girl in the eye, but the penetrating silence slowly forced her hand.

The girl shook her head in disbelief, uttering a question so blunt and direct as to fracture bone: How could you possibly have thought that?

The spirit remained quiet for a moment. Her thoughts seemed distant, and her psyche fragile. She chattered her mandible rapidly, a strange tic that caught the girl off guard.

She was thinking.

Eventually, the spirit drifted a ways away. She rolled up the sleeve of her sheepskin aviator jacket, reached deep into the congealed blood, retrieved the girl’s sketchbook from the muck with an unpleasant suction noise… and rose silently into the air.

The girl returned to her pondering. The little tapioca pearls peppered the ground now, like tiny hailstones after a brief and gentle storm.

A closer look revealed something moving inside. Nearly imperceptible threads, wriggling about wildly like little stop-motion dancers. The girl watched them intently, for there was little else to do.

Over time, she began to grow almost attached to them. She watched as they turned from a pale, translucent white to a deep, oxygenated crimson, and grew from the width of a silken thread to that of a horsehair plucked from a violin bow. She watched as they grew increasingly snug in their little gelatinous wombs, and wondered what they must be thinking. Or if they thought of anything at all.

One of the pearls burst, splitting along an invisible seam like a wine grape squeezed between two fingertips. Its occupant wriggled free of the deflated pearl, and out onto the vast expanse of gelatinized blood.

Why do you draw these, rabbit?

The girl was yanked suddenly from her thoughts. She apologized. She hadn’t quite heard what the spirit had said.

Why do you draw these?

Again, she asked the spirit to clarify.

The spirit turned a page of the girl’s sketchbook. The pages were delicate, and saturated with blood. Yet the graphite drawings were still clearly visible, and the spirit’s fingers were nimble enough not to tear them.

These… romances.

The spirit’s voice was wistful. She caressed the cheek of one of the figures on the page. It was a girl, not entirely unlike the one who drew it, in a passionate embrace with a spirit, not entirely unlike herself.

The girl briefly pondered why she drew such things, but she quickly brushed those thoughts aside, convincing herself that she didn’t know. In the silence that ensued, she became vaguely aware that she may have whispered her thoughts aloud.

She shook her head dismissively, assuring the spirit that they were just drawings. That they didn’t mean anything.

The spirit tore the page from the sketchbook, wadding it up like a wet paper towel. She squeezed the excess blood from the page, and tossed it into the girl’s lap.

Look again.

The girl uncrumpled the drawing. Stared at it. Reminisced on the feelings that had spurred its creation. If she were being honest with herself, this drawing had come from a place of longing. Of loneliness.

There are a hundred drawings just like that one in this book of yours, rabbit.

The spirit snapped the book shut with a wet slap, brandishing it in one hand as if to draw attention to it.

You spent time making these.

The girl asked the spirit what her point was, in a tone both sheepish and standoffish. She knew as soon as the words left her mouth that she had failed to mask her embarrassment.

My point is, rabbit, that you’re a liar.

The spirit tossed the book in the girl’s direction, and it landed in the sludge with a sickening splat.

You say these drawings mean nothing. It’s not true.

The girl gathered her sketchbook and held it protectively to her chest. She stared at the spirit, brow furrowed.

They must mean something!

The spirit’s tone was accusatory, that was undeniable. But it betrayed a desperation. The staredown that ensued made it clear that behind the posturing, and the arguing… the spirit was pleading with the girl.

But the girl refused to back down. Her eyes were intense, and their contact, unbroken. How long this lasted, neither could say. But it felt an eternity. The spirit began to squirm.

She shuddered violently, as if she were struggling to tamp down an outburst that was welling up inside her. But instead, she swiveled around, and went silent.

The girl rested her palms on the ground behind her. It was more worms than blood at this point. The tapioca pearl eggs had long since hatched, and their occupants grown, consuming and replacing their curdled blood substrate. All that was left were tangled clots the color of red wine, undulating gently, and contracting suddenly when disturbed.

The girl wondered where the time had gone, and why the sensation of sitting cross-legged in writhing worms didn’t seem to bother her as much as she thought it should.

She closed her eyes, and exhaled.

Do you know why I chose you, rabbit?

The girl inhaled sharply. The spirit’s voice had come from directly over her shoulder, and it startled her.

I’ve watched people wander that graveyard for decades. They’d come with expensive cameras. They’d come with rolls of paper, and colored wax. Occasionally, they’d come with flowers, if they were very old. But not you, rabbit… You came because you were lonely.

The girl began to fidget uncomfortably. She assured the spirit that was not the case. Why would she go to a place so empty if she were lonely?

You’re lying again, rabbit. I know what loneliness looks like.

The girl sighed softly, her lip quivering.

You sat on the same bench, time and time again. Drawing ghosts, and spirits. Each day I’d watch you draw another. Another daydream. Another intimate fantasy.

The girl’s cheeks flushed red with blood, and she turned her face away from the spirit’s voice. The spirit sidled closer. Close enough that the girl could feel her cold breath in the crook of her neck.

When you came to that graveyard each day, you were hoping, secretly, that a phantom would sweep you off your feet… weren’t you, rabbit?

The girl cringed in embarrassment. As silly as it sounded when spoken aloud, the spirit was correct. She had hoped for that. Precisely that, in fact. Of course, she never believed that such a thing might actually happen.

There was a long, lingering silence. The spirit swiveled around, turning her back to the girl’s.

Anyway, rabbit. That’s why I chose you.

The girl muttered under her breath. You can’t just choose someone. They have to choose you back. A nearly imperceptible grimace flitted across the spirit’s face.

So I’ve learned.

And with that, the spirit kicked off the ground, ascending quietly back into the sky.

Had she? The girl wondered this question aloud. The spirit drifted to a halt, and hung in the air. She swiveled around, and gave the girl a quizzical look.

The girl repeated herself: Had the spirit learned?

Are you deaf, rabbit? I’m not going to say it again.

The girl insisted that if that were true, and the spirit really had learned from her mistakes, then she should just let her go! Find someone else, who actually wants all of this!

The spirit began to sink lazily back to the ground, headfirst, like a salted baitfish through glycerin.

In the distance, there was a deep groaning sound, followed by a cracking, and a splintering. The pale, branchless, needle-like trees on the horizon had begun creaking, and toppling, their trunks the last thing to be consumed by the matted expanse of worms.

The spirit snapped her fingers, so as to attract the girl’s attention without touching.

Their eyes met, and with that, the two were face to face. The girl, right side up, and the spirit, hanging upside down, as if from an invisible thread.

The spirit’s expression was almost tender.

I can’t let you go, rabbit. You’ve been without oxygen for several hours. You don’t have an intact enough brain to go back.

The girl was struggling to understand. The spirit could see it in her eyes. She put it more bluntly.

You’ve begun to decay, rabbit.

The gravity of the situation finally began to dawn on the girl. What had once been an idle thought was now cementing itself in her mind as an irrevocable truth. This really was death.

She began to breathe heavily. Her larynx began to ache. No. The girl repeated herself. No no no no no. This couldn’t be happening. She stumbled to her feet. Began pacing.

Listen, the girl said. Listen. She told the spirit she didn’t need a body. Just let her go. She could live with being a ghost.

The spirit shook her head dismissively.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, rabbit… once a soul dissipates, it’s gone.

The girl couldn’t believe what she was hearing. What was the spirit, if not a ghost?

I’m just me, rabbit.

No. No no no no. She pleaded with the spirit. There must be something she could do to fix this! There had to be some way to undo what she had done! Please!

Listen, rabbit. The hocus-pocus it would take to unrot that brain of yours would literally kill me.

In the distance, another tree began to creak, and fall.

Your program is running on my hardware, rabbit.

The spirit tapped her temple knowingly.

So get used to it.

Chapter 5

A cocoon bounced off the girl’s forehead, and tumbled to the ground, disappearing amongst an endless expanse of others exactly like it.

The blood had long run dry, and the worms had coiled tightly, pupating inside a thick, leathery shell of dried mucus. If the girl had been bothered to look around, she might have compared them to beans in an endless silo.

Here and there, one would split at the tip, with a nearly imperceptible click, and a pale, pulsating ptilinum would peek through the crack.

A second cocoon hit the girl’s face, this time bouncing off her cheek. She flinched, causing the dried blood on her skin to flake off, and drift to the ground, like dandruff.

The air smelled of mold. Of mildew. Of dust and must. It bit sharply at the girl’s nose, but she didn’t seem to care.

A third cocoon, and a fourth.

Cat got your tongue, rabbit?

The spirit hung miserably in the air, flicking cocoons in the girl’s direction.

The girl didn’t respond.

You’re stuck here forever, rabbit. The least you could do is try to hold a conversation.

The cocoons continued to split at the tip with a click, creating a quiet cacophony not unlike the desynchronous ticking of a clockmaker’s workshop. The early risers had already wriggled free of their leathery shells. They were soft, and pale, and their legs flailed wildly as they struggled to find their footing.

The spirit twirled a cocoon in her fingertips while she waited, visually tracing the spiraling imprint left behind by the liquefying worm inside.

She touched the cocoon to the tip of a bony, tooth-like cusp, and applied pressure, impaling it. She sneered distastefully, tonguing it back off the cusp, and spat it at the girl.

The cocoon landed in the girl’s hair, and stuck there. She shuddered involuntarily.

A handful of the pale, scrambling dipterids that peppered the ground around her had begun to harden. To blacken. To pump their crumpled wings full of hemolymph, and air them out to dry.

The spirit watched the girl, waiting for her presence to be acknowledged. But the acknowledgment never came.

The spirit cast her remaining fistful of cocoons at the girl.

Why won’t you speak to me, rabbit?!

The cocoons bounced off the girl’s skin, and rattled as they hit the ground.

You couldn’t keep your mouth shut before!

The girl’s lip quivered. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes, and she was trying desperately to prevent their escape.

I’ve been alone in that hole for sixty years, rabbit! Do you have even the slightest idea what that feels like?! Any idea at all?!

The girl’s breathing became unsteady, and agitated. Yet somehow, she found herself unable to muster the energy to move. To speak. To do anything at all.

The spirit kicked a filthy clod of cocoons at the girl. The handful of flies that were capable of flight took to the air with a pitiful buzzing, settling back to the ground only a few feet away.

Look at you! You can’t even bring yourself to look at me! Am I that repulsive to you, rabbit?! Is the prospect of my company so distasteful to you that you’d rather just wither away?!

The girl was crying now. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. The spirit’s screaming had triggered a paralytic panic attack, and the spirit knew it. Yet somehow, the girl’s upset only seemed to provoke the spirit further.

So she continued. She continued until her voice was hoarse, and the ground had turned to a thick carpet of flies. Crawling on the girl’s skin. Buzzing in her ears. Swarming her nostrils to the point where she could barely breathe.

You can hate me all you want, rabbit! It won’t make a difference! Nothing you do will make a difference!

The spirit’s voice was strained, and her chest tight. And although there were no tears in her eyes, she breathed as if she were sobbing.

You’re never leaving me, understand?!

You’re MINE, rabbit!

The spirit quivered with rage. With frustration. She clenched her fists, and screamed at the girl. It was a primal, guttural scream, that caused vast clouds of flies to take to the air in wild murmurations. A droning, thickening darkness that blackened the sky.

It was in this fleeting moment, after the suffocating carpet had lifted, but before the flies had choked out the last glint of light, that their eyes met. Only then did the spirit finally grasp the depth of the girl’s pain. The weight of her suffering.

And then, everything went black.

Chapter 6

I’m sorry.

That’s what the spirit would have said to the girl, if the lump in her throat hadn’t plugged her larynx like a cork.

The swarming flies had long since dispersed, leaving the two of them sitting silently in an endless expanse of bone, as flat and smooth as a pebbled beach tumbled by the tides.

The girl ran her fingertips along the exposed blade of a pelvis, discolored and stained by blood reduced to soil. It had been halfway buried beneath carpals, and tarsals. Maxillae, and mandibles. Scattered teeth and disarticulated fragments of skull. She wondered if perhaps these were her own bones, repeated to infinity.

To the spirit, the girl seemed strangely at peace. A state of mind that the spirit envied, for her head was absolutely swimming. She felt guilt scratching and scraping at the folds of her brain, and regret prickling at its stem. A frightening and unfamiliar sinking feeling in her chest. A deepening awareness of the unforgivability of what she had done.

Again, the spirit tried to force an apology through her aching trachea, but her tongue stoppered her throat, and all that escaped was a pathetic croak.

The girl looked at the spirit a moment, and sighed softly. It was a sigh of quiet acceptance. It seemed foolish now, that she ever expected anything more from this spirit.

In time, the sun began to peer over the horizon, turning the sky from a paper white to a gentle sky blue.

In the warmth of the sunlight, the bones began to whiten imperceptibly. In time, they became old, and dry. Cracked, and weathered. Chalky, and pale.

And all the while, not a single word was spoken.

From between the sun-bleached bones, tender blades of grass began to emerge, reaching desperately toward the sunlight, and rooting themselves deeply into the soil beneath.

The spirit snuck a furtive glance at the girl, her head bowed meekly. The girl was simply sitting there, watching the grass grow.

It was no wonder the girl hated her. After what she had done, she deserved her hate. She had taken the girl’s freedom. Her life. Without hesitation, or thought. There was no redemption for her.

She was selfish. Ghastly. Loathsome and cruel. The fact that she had ever thought highly of herself now filled her with a stomach-churning embarrassment.

She was unworthy of the girl’s love. Of anyone’s love. She was an unsightly stain on creation, and the world would have been a better place had she not been a part of it.

Eventually, the endless expanse of bone became a verdant meadow that rippled in the breeze like ocean waves, though the spirit failed to notice. She simply picked at the grass, unconsciously. Compulsively.

And thought.

Chapter 7

The girl was not breathing.

Her heart no longer beat. Her skin was cool, and pale. Her muscles, rigid. Her amber eyes had sunken in their sockets, and her corneas had become clouded, and tacky. Like those of a discarded fish head left too long in the open air.

This was the body of a person who was unmistakably, unequivocally dead.

The spirit’s sheepskin aviator jacket was still draped over the girl’s shoulders. Her handmade adipocere candles had long burned down to stumps and snuffed themselves out. All that was left to light her burrow were her own luminescent bones.

And although her bones still radiated a diffuse teal light, it was no longer as vivid as it was before. No longer as intense. It was a dim, sickly light.

One of the spirit’s ribs fell from its cage, landing softly on the mulched coffin wood beneath them.

The spirit shivered and twitched. The nictitating membranes that had shuttered her sleeping eyes trembled momentarily. She was deep in the dream. A dream that had long since ceased to be pleasant.

The spirit, in her unconsciousness, only seemed to squeeze the girl tighter, nuzzling her face deeper into the crook of her neck. As if, for the first time, it was the spirit who was succumbing to the cold.

A second rib fell to the ground. The girl’s index finger twitched, nearly imperceptibly.

Chapter 8

The girl inhaled, sharply and suddenly. As if the tip of an icicle had been run up her bare spine. She turned to the spirit, dumbfounded.

“What did you just do?”

The spirit refused to acknowledge the girl’s question. She simply sat there, and continued to pick at the grass. The sun had slowed to a halt in the sky. Its stillness was too subtle for the girl to perceive, but the spirit knew.

“You’ve changed something. What’s going on?”

The spirit assured the girl that she had changed nothing. That she was being paranoid. The sun began to reverse direction. Again, too slowly for the girl to perceive.

The girl watched the spirit closely. She was up to something, and the girl was determined to find out what it was.

The grass began to retract. The girl could sense that something was off, but she struggled to pinpoint exactly what it was. The girl’s frustration grew, and she needled the spirit further.

“What are you playing at? Tell me. Now.”

The spirit snapped at her. She was up to nothing, and the girl should drop it, rabbit.

What seemed like hours passed, without a word spoken. In time, the girl’s suspicions became obvious. The grass was several inches shorter than it had been before. And not only that, it was speeding up.

But the girl said nothing. She simply watched. She watched the spirit, sulking in her little divot in the grass. She watched the sun as it inched back toward the horizon. And she watched the grasses retreat back into their seeds, and ungerminate.

The bones around them began to darken.

“Tell me what’s happening. Please.”

The spirit averted her eyes.

“I deserve to know.”

The spirit asserted that it was rude to look a gift horse in the mouth, rabbit. The girl briefly pondered the spirit’s slight misunderstanding of this phrase, but it was clear the spirit was offering something she considered a gift.

The girl backed off.

The gentle blue sky above them was long gone now, having faded to a stark paper white. The spirit coughed an ectoplasmic mucus from her lungs, and swallowed it back down her translucent esophagus.

“Okay, no. That’s enough. Explain yourself.”

The spirit struggled to suppress her hacking and sputtering. The girl rose to her feet and approached the spirit. She knelt down and began tapping the spirit’s skull repeatedly, forcing her to pay attention.

The spirit screamed at the girl. She screamed that she was trying to undo her mistake, rabbit! That she should be left alone to concentrate!

A string of mucus was hanging from her mouth. She wiped it from her chin and rose into the air, embarrassed. But it wasn’t long before she fell back to the ground with a bony clatter.

She coughed up a thick wad of mucus onto the ground. The girl approached her from behind, and placed a warm palm on the spirit’s shoulder, gently brushing her hair aside.

“How can you possibly undo your mistake? You told me that if you tried to unrot my brain, you would die…”

The spirit looked the girl in the eye, her jaw quivering. She looked as if she were about to cry.

Chapter 9

The air was black, and thick with flies. A ceaseless, thunderous buzzing battered the girl’s eardrums. There was nothing she could do, except wait for it to pass.

Eventually, the clouds of flies began to thin. Enough, at least, for the girl to stand, and attempt to find her bearings. The swarm was still thick enough to stifle her breathing, and her vision was impaired by the flies that fought incessantly to drink from the corners of her eyes. But the girl remained undeterred, swatting them away as best she could manage.

It took time, but the girl eventually found the spirit, sitting silently on a bed of empty, leathery cocoons. She was carpeted with flies. They drank freely from her open eyes. Lapped the phlegm from her mouth, and throat. The girl could see them, scuttling about deep inside the spirit’s trachea. An intrepid few had even wandered into her lungs themselves.

The spirit’s eyes shifted subtly in their sockets, as she sat, and thought. The end of her life was fast approaching, and she was taking the time to process that thought. She could, of course, have turned back at any time. And yet, for reasons she was still struggling to comprehend, she didn’t.

Was this really what she wanted?

“Is this really what you want?”

The girl’s voice snapped the spirit gently from her stupor. She was suddenly acutely aware of the insects in her chest, and began coughing violently, spewing clouds of flies into the air, followed by another thick, gelatinous wad of mucus.

She attempted to wipe the mucus from her chin using the sleeve of her jacket, with little success.

“You don’t have to go through with this, you know.”

The spirit insisted that yes, rabbit, she did have to go through with this. There was an audible irritation in her voice. A deliberate and precise articulation clearly intended to dissuade the girl from questioning her further.

The flies in the air around them began to fall to the ground, one by one, as their wings softened, and their bodies paled.

“You don’t. Not for me. I can stay here, if I need to. I’ll find a way to manage. Neither of us has to die.”

The spirit reminded the girl that she was already long dead, and rotting in a hole. She had killed her herself, rabbit.

The girl gave the spirit a withering look. That was not what she had meant, and the spirit knew it.

The spirit grinned smugly at the girl. It was a grin meant to taunt. To antagonize. But it was clear that it was masking an intense frustration.

The fact that the girl was willing to throw away her life for her sake was infuriating to the spirit. Somewhere along the line, this girl had got it in her head that her life, and that of the spirit’s, were of equal worth.

She was wrong.

The girl had a full life ahead of her, and she deserved every minute of it. She deserved the love, the hate, the pleasure and the pain. Everything that life had to offer, was hers to experience.

The spirit, though? There was nothing left for her in this world. The time she had spent with the girl had made that fact crystal clear. She had nothing, and deserved nothing.

The flies were dropping, as the colloquialism goes, like flies. Feverishly squeezing their soft, pale bodies back into their cocoons, which snapped shut around them as if they had never split in the first place.

The girl sat among the clicking cocoons, thinking quietly to herself. A very particular thought crossed her mind, and she looked to the spirit.

“You’re the only one, aren’t you?”

The spirit’s neck turned as if on a swivel, and she glared cautiously at the girl.

“You’re the only one of your kind.”

The spirit retorted, rather curtly, that perhaps that was for the best, rabbit. The girl insisted otherwise.

“No. I can’t sit back and let the last of anything die. I refuse to have that on my conscience.”

The girl approached the spirit, and placed a palm on her shoulder. The spirit recoiled from her touch.

“You’re a tiger. A predator. Even if someone dies, you don’t kill the last tiger for doing what comes naturally.”

The spirit became even angrier. A tiger? She wasn’t a tiger, rabbit! She was lonely, and selfish, and stupid! What she is doesn’t excuse what she’s done!

She clutched a fistful of cocoons so tightly they burst, and threw them in the girl’s face. She began to rise into the air, screaming every vicious insult she could muster. The girl was an idiot! An imbecile! A simpleton and a fool!

The girl scrambled backward, before clambering to her feet and retreating into the distance. She heard the spirit hacking, and choking, and the rattling of cocoons as she fell back to the ground.

By the time the girl turned around, the spirit was doubled over on the ground, wheezing, and gasping for air.

The girl simply stood there, watching the spirit struggle.

Eventually she took a seat.

Perhaps she should let the spirit die. As far as the girl could tell, it might be her only chance to do so.

The spirit had told the girl that she had been alone in her burrow for sixty years. So she was at least that old. Probably much older. She wondered if perhaps, once a person reaches that age, it feels like enough?

The spirit had also told the girl that she would be, quote: stuck here forever, rabbit. To the girl, forever seemed like a very long time to live. Too long, to be honest. For a person or a spirit.

Maybe this was for the best.

The last fly clicked back into its cocoon, and the world went utterly still, and utterly silent. The only remaining stimulus of note was the musty, fungal smell left in the wake of decay.

So the girl sat.

And waited.

Chapter 10

The girl stared absentmindedly at the skyline, where wine-red worms touched paper-white sky. She watched as the branchless trunk of an ancient cedar rose from the lake. It rose slowly, like a buoy lifted by an incoming tide.

With time, the tree stood upright, and reattached itself to its stump with an unsplintering, an uncreaking, and an uncracking.

The girl had never heard anything uncrack before, but now that she had, she knew immediately that it wasn’t a sound she’d be able to describe to anyone.

Not that any of this was something she was planning to talk about, once this ordeal was over. She’d witnessed an impossible event, and she knew better than to relay the impossible.

All she would be able to do is forget this ever happened. A task easier said than done, of course, but at the very least, the notion was comforting.

A second tree unsplintered. Uncreaked, and uncracked.

The spirit’s sickness was worsening. Her once drifting, ethereal hair was now knotted and tangled, clinging to her semi-corporeal skin like wet gauze, and her shimmering, concave retinas had become clouded with a sickly bacterial film.

The spirit’s body was not the only thing that had fallen ill. Her mind was sick as well. Sick with doubt. Sick with guilt. Sick with fear. The finality of death, once unfamiliar, was beginning to dawn on her, and she was scared.

In the distance, the trees continued to unsplinter, and uncreak, and uncrack. One by one, like the ticking of a clock.

There was a numbness in the spirit’s fingertips. She could feel her heart fluttering, a tightness in her throat, and an aching in her chest, caused not by the flies that had wandered too deeply into her lungs and passed away, but by a stagnant and suffocating dread.

A tree cracked, and creaked. Splintered and fell. The girl snapped to attention. These were sounds she recognized. But despite their familiarity, she was not happy to hear them. The trees were supposed to be uncracking. Uncreaking. This break in the pattern was, frankly, alarming.

She swiveled to face the spirit.

“What are you doing?”

The spirit didn’t answer. Instead, her breathing became rapid, and shallow. Like a mouse with its pelvis caught in a rat trap.

“Don’t play coy. Tell me what’s going on. Now.”

The spirit began to shake her head. Whisper nonsense into her own ears. Anything to drown out the sharpness in the girl’s voice.

The girl rose impatiently to her feet.

“You promised you’d put me back in my own head! What’s with the backpedaling? Are you toying with me?!”

The girl could hear the spirit’s pitiful whimpering. The way she chattered her jaw, like some sort of idiot toucan.

“You’ve decided to keep me prisoner after all? Is that it? You’ve decided to make me your little pet?!”

The girl cocked a middle finger against a stiffened thumb and struck the spirit between her sickly, half-blind eyes with an audible thwack.

“Hey! Answer me, dipsh—!”

The spirit shrieked at the girl. She’s scared, rabbit!

The girl’s aggression withered in an instant.

“What?”

She’s frightened, rabbit! She’s afraid to die!

The spirit’s words hit like a battering ram to the chest. The girl felt a hot wave of guilt wash over her. A surge of embarrassment and shame so searing that she feared the blood flushing her cheeks might cauterize her veins.

The girl began to tremble. Her fists balled, and her lips pursed tight as a thumbscrew. She felt her eyes welling, and her neck bristling, as her emotions wrestled violently with one another.

She growled in frustration. Swiveled around and stormed off. But of course, there was nowhere to hide. She kicked at the sludge beneath her feet, swore fiercely, and fell to her knees.

She braced an elbow against a knee. Her forehead against a thumb and forefinger. She could smell the coppery stink on her skin, and feel the worms dissolving back into coagulated blood and seeping through her knitted leggings.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the sleeve of her turtleneck sweater. In the distance, she heard another tree creak, and splinter, and fall.

The spirit was panicking inside. Her eyes darted about as she struggled to think, and she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. They floundered aimlessly, seeking to grasp at something that simply wasn’t there. Eventually they stumbled upon her mouth, and her breath hissed between her quivering fingers.

Another tree began to creak. The spirit reached out toward it. As if her subconscious mind thought she might be able to tip it back upright, if only she could reach it.

It crashed into the lake.

As the approaching ripples lapped at her shins, the spirit began sobbing. Apologizing tearfully. Profusely. She was so sorry. She was trying, rabbit. She swore she was trying.

The girl buried her face in her knees. Pressed her wrists to her ears. Anything to muffle the spirit’s mournful cries. She was trying, rabbit. She was trying…

“I KNOW you’re trying! I’M SORRY!”

The spirit went quiet, her breath trembling. The girl swiveled to face her, tears streaming down her cheeks. She stared into the spirit’s clouded, sickly eyes.

“I’m sorry…”

The spirit’s jaw began to quiver. She wrapped her spindly fingers around her face, and began to cry.

The girl rose to her feet. She approached the spirit. Took a seat alongside her. And in an act that surprised even herself, she placed her head gently on the spirit’s shoulder.

In time, the coagulated blood began to thin, like oil paint in turpentine. Gradually settling back into a shimmering, mirror-like surface. In the distance, the trunk of an ancient cedar rose from the lake. Stood upright. Unsplintered. Uncreaked. And uncracked.

Chapter 11

The girl sat silently. She stared uneasily at the spirit, lying lifeless in a pool of blood. Her bones no longer luminesced with a diffuse teal light. Her lungs no longer drew breath. Her heart no longer beat.

The spirit was gone.

The girl couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in her gut. The spirit had done this for her. She didn’t like that thought. That the stinking carcass before her was an act of love. She still wasn’t entirely sure she was worth it.

But what was done was done. There was no turning back now. However, as the girl continued to stare, she began to doubt whether there was still a moving forward.

Surely, something was supposed to have happened by now?

The spirit’s mouth hung open like that of a spent salmon, washed up dead on the riverbank after a spawn. Her once ethereal flesh was now sickeningly tangible, and her matted hair clung to it like withered algae to a seaside stone.

The girl could barely bring herself to look the spirit in the eye, although there were no longer eyes to look into. The rot had long since taken them, and where once there had been shimmering teals and golds, there were simply empty pits lined with decaying silverskin.

The girl began to fear that the spirit had not completed the task she had set out to do. Was it possible that the spirit had fallen short of her goal? That her sacrifice had been wasted?

The girl was struggling to shake the awful notion that she might be stuck in this place forever. That at this very moment, her brain was being reclaimed by decay. Its circuitry undone, for a second and final time.

The girl continued to stare at the spirit’s body. Its empty eyes. Its slackened jaw. Her lip began to tremble. Despite her better judgment, the girl was mourning the spirit.

The spirit had truly loved the girl, in her own terrible, misguided way. The proof was lying right in front of her, in an endless pool of blood. And even if that love had remained forever unreciprocated, the girl would have preferred to spend an eternity with someone who loved her, than an eternity alone.

The girl reached out to touch the spirit, but hesitated, just for a moment. Despite her fascinations, she had never encountered death so directly before. At least, not that of a person. She worried that her instinct to touch might not be appropriate.

Yet she did it regardless, touching her fingertips to the crook of the spirit’s neck.

The spirit’s corpse convulsed, like the salted flank of a freshly butchered cod. She gasped for air, but drew no breath.

The girl drew back, startled. She gawked at the spirit, lying limp in blood. As if she were a fish in the bottom of an aluminum boat, trying in vain to flush its gills with water.

The girl watched the spirit struggle soundlessly. Too weary to move. Too ragged to breathe. This was a being teetering between life and death.

The girl approached the spirit cautiously. It was clear to her that the spirit was unaware of her drawing near. How could she have been, with her eyes claimed by decay? For all the spirit knew, she was alone in this place. And despite her vacuous, dead-eyed stare, the girl could tell the spirit was frightened.

“Can you hear me?”

She spoke softly, and calmly.

“Hey, hey. Listen to my voice.”

The spirit twitched in response.

“How are you feeling?”

The spirit flexed her jaw as if she were attempting to form words, but to no avail. Her larynx had long since been reduced to tatters.

The girl couldn’t bear to see the spirit lying in blood.

“I’m going to touch you. Is that okay?”

The spirit’s rib cage expanded breathlessly. The girl reached out and gingerly touched her shoulder. Her mandible chattered.

“You okay?”

The spirit acknowledged the girl’s question with a barely perceptible nod.

The girl took hold of the spirit by the shoulders, and hoisted her upright. The spirit’s entrails spilled from her abdomen, followed by kidneys, liver, heart, and lungs.

Somehow, this didn’t seem to faze the girl. She took a seat across from the spirit, knee to knee, and touched the spirit’s forehead to her own.

The spirit began to shiver.

“Hey, hey. Listen to me. I’m here.”

The girl spoke softly, as if to a frightened child.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

A fragile silence.

“Oh hey, I just realized. I don’t think we were ever properly introduced.”

The spirit’s face twitched erratically. She seemed confused.

“My name’s Wren. Wren Barrows.”

The spirit’s twitching ceased.

“What’s yours?”

The spirit yawned widely, her jaw distending as if she were a sculpin on a fishhook. The girl coaxed it shut with a gentle finger to the spirit’s chin.

“I’m guessing no one ever gave you one, am I right?”

The spirit’s head quivered back and forth, ever so slightly.

“Would you like me to give you one?”

The spirit’s rib cage expanded, despite there being no lungs with which to inhale. The girl closed her eyes, and took a thoughtful breath.

A moment passed before she opened them again.

“How about Adrienne?”

Something stirred within the spirit. The girl could feel it.

“Adrienne Thistle. How does that sound?”

The spirit smiled weakly. One half of her mandible sloughed off and fell to the ground with a wet clap.

“I think Thistle’s a good name. You want to know why?”

The spirit awaited the girl’s answer with bated breath.

“Because you’re a pain in the ass.”

The spirit’s rib cage began to spasm rhythmically. She was laughing. The girl couldn’t help but crack a cheeky smile.

It wasn’t long before the spirit’s laughter deteriorated into heartbroken sobbing. The girl was swift to comfort the spirit. She placed a hand atop the spirit’s head, softly stroking her tangled, withered hair. The spirit tightened her grip on the girl.

The girl quietly returned the gesture.

Eventually, the spirit loosened her grip, and her arms fell weakly to her sides.

The girl let go of the spirit, hesitantly. Poised to catch her should she happen to fall. But the spirit did not fall. She simply sat there, quietly breathing nothing.

The girl stared at the spirit, with an expression of genuine concern. She had a thought, and nearly spoke it aloud… but fell silent when the spirit rolled up a sleeve and plunged her open hand deep into the marshy substrate beneath the lake.

She began pulling. Struggling to uproot whatever it was she had wrapped her spindly fingers around. When her progress slowed, she began to tug, repeatedly. Again and again, until her tugging became yanking, and her yanking became wrenching, and the girl began to fear that the spirit might literally tear herself apart.

The girl reached out as if to stop the spirit. To plead with her to take it easy. But the moment she did, her sketchbook came unbuckled from the muck and the spirit collapsed to the ground.

The girl stared a moment at the sketchbook in the spirit’s hand. And then, at the spirit herself. She was breathing heavily, although at this point it was more out of instinct than function. The girl found herself at a loss. She didn’t know what to say, or how to proceed.

The spirit began to lift herself from the blood, her hair hanging like a starched curtain around her decaying face. The strain she was exerting upon her increasingly fragile body was, to the girl, distressingly clear.

Again, she found herself reaching out to help the spirit. To keep her tendons from snapping, and her joints from dislocating. But there was a hesitation in her movements, as if she feared her fingers might cleave the spirit’s flesh like wet clay.

By the time the girl had composed her thoughts, the spirit was already sitting upright. The girl retracted her arm sheepishly, and felt a twinge of guilt nip the nerves along her spine.

The spirit placed the sketchbook in the girl’s hands. Her struggle was so pronounced that, to the girl, the book appeared unthinkably heavy. But of course, once it was in her hands, it was revealed to be no heavier than one might expect.

The girl stared at the book. The binding was tattered and frayed, as if it had been exposed to the elements for years, and its blood-saturated pages had become so delicate that they would have torn each other apart had she opened it.

The girl held the book tight to her chest. There was a profound sadness in her eyes, as she watched the spirit’s tactile fingertips probe the lake’s surface, searching blindly for any sign of the girl’s presence.

The girl took the spirit by the hand. First her left hand, and then her right. She held them tight. The spirit chattered what little was left of her jaw.

The spirit traced her fingers along the girl’s arms, and placed a hand upon each of her shoulders. With a remarkable tenderness, the spirit leaned in close, and touched the girl’s forehead to her own.

The girl peered sadly into the spirit’s hollow, empty eyes. Her breath quivered softly. She touched her fingertips to her lips. She nearly touched them to the spirit’s as well… but she stopped short, and her fingers curled.

The spirit arched her back. Braced her shoulders. And without warning, plunged the girl deep beneath the blood.

Chapter 12

The girl awoke.

She tried to draw breath, but her ribs were locked. An attempt to flex her fingers revealed they were rigid, and unfeeling. When she went to open her eyes, they steadfastly refused. And where she expected to feel the anxious beating of her heart, she instead felt nothing.

Although the girl’s mind was beginning to stir, her body was still cold, stiff, and dead.

With each thought that passed through the girls head, a modicum of oxygen was burned, and her brain sunk deeper into a desperate suffocation. An unbearable hypoxia, accompanied by an intense and overwhelming urge to breathe.

Finally, the girl’s lungs began to expand, drawing a sickly, rattling breath. And with that breath came a thump, thump, thump in her chest, as thick and stagnant blood began to pulse through her veins.

The girl opened her eyes, but saw nothing. Either she was shrouded in a near complete darkness, or her retinas had yet to regain their function. Although the girl could not have known it, both of these conclusions were true.

Slowly, the feeling began to return to her fingertips. At first, all she could feel were pins and needles. Prickles and stings. To most, an unpleasant sensation, but to the girl, a welcome relief.

With a repeated and conscious effort, the girl began to flex her slumbering fingers. Through the numbness, she could feel the zipper of the sheepskin jacket that hung over her shoulders. It was a jacket she had forgotten was there. The moment of her death felt so distant now, it had slipped her mind.

The girl extended a stiff, waxen arm to the ground. She felt damp mulch. Rusty nails. And loose bones.

Finally, an unobstructed breath. A gasp, spurred by a sharp and sudden realization: These were the spirit’s bones. She attempted to retract her hand, but was met with a distressing resistance.

With time, the girl’s body began to warm. Warmth was an almost unfamiliar sensation, at this point. It massaged her stiffened muscles, loosening them gradually. Dissolving their tension, until they could no longer support the girl’s frame, and she collapsed to the ground.

And there she remained, for quite some time. Not because she was incapable of rising. She was, within minutes. But simply to rest. To recover.

With newfound warmth, came the sensation of cold. The girl slipped her arms through the sleeves of the spirit’s jacket, and bundled herself tightly within its old and yellowed fleece.

What felt like an hour passed.

The girl extended a hand, and began a cautious and tactile exploration of her surroundings. Immediately, she felt something familiar. Her sketchbook. She picked it up and held it close. It wasn’t weathered, or soaked with blood. As far as her fingertips could surmise, it was just as she remembered it.

The girl explored further. She felt waxen stumps, and burnt-out wicks. Fist-width tunnels dug from loamy soil. Thin, delicate roots that hung from the ceiling. And eventually, the burrow’s entrance.

She ran her hands along its perimeter, measuring it carefully. To her, it seemed frightfully narrow. A nervousness tickled the back of her neck. But of course, she had no choice in the matter.

The girl took one last look over her shoulder. It was not an act of logic, but of instinct. In the darkness of the burrow, there was nothing to see.

But the girl did see something. An atlas, glowing with a faint teal light. A glow so faint that in the light of day, it would have been imperceptible.

The girl paused, and stared silently at the bone. A dull, dusty little vertebra that had once cradled the spirit’s skull. Her eyes shifted subtly. To the floor. To the tunnel. Then back to the bone. A moment passed.

Quietly, the girl plucked the atlas from between axis and occipital, and slipped it into her pocket.

Chapter 13

The girl emerged from the hole on a bright autumn morning. The sky was a pale and delicate blue, and the breeze carried with it an invigorating chill. The cemetery was empty, as it nearly always was. She was thankful for that.

The girl took a moment to assess herself. She seemed healthy. Intact. Perhaps a little tired. She had a sketchbook in her hand. A jacket on her back. A bone in her pocket. She felt as if perhaps she were a different person than she had been before, but there’d be time to evaluate those feelings later.

She felt a little jolt upon hearing the sound of an SUV arriving in the parking lot over the hill, and of indistinct conversation as its doors slammed shut. After taking a moment to compose herself, she shuffled off toward the bike rack near the cemetery’s entrance.

The girl fiddled with the dials on her bike lock, and entered a four-digit code: The date she had buried a pet mouse she’d had as a child. She hopped atop her bike, and rode home.

The girl had been missing for nearly seventy-two hours. It wasn’t long enough for someone to have filed a missing person report. After all, the girl was an adult, though she rarely felt that way. But it was long enough for loved ones to worry, and despite the girl’s loneliness, she did have a handful of loved ones.

She made excuses. Told them that it was no big deal. That the jacket on her back had been found in a ditch, and justified its retrieval with a price check online. Indeed, the price of such a jacket was considerable.

In the days, and months, and years that followed, the girl often left peculiar happenings in her wake. By the time they were noticed, the girl always had an explanation at the ready. Never a truthful one, but always a plausible one. Either that, or she had already slipped away, unseen.

No one ever discovered the atlas the girl carried in her pocket, despite it being on her person at all times. Occasionally, she would wonder if she might be able to pass it off as the bone of an animal, should it come to that. But the girl was clever enough that it never did.

Whatever it was the girl was hiding, it remained a secret to anyone but herself. She had decided long ago that no one would ever know. That no one needed to know. And indeed, no one ever did. Not family. Not friends. Not you, or I.

And in the end, the girl was content with that. Her choices were her own. Perhaps she had made the right choice. Perhaps she should have known better. But one thing can be said for certain:

She was never lonely.

[theothernads]

°❀⋆ :･ ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ ⁵: 𝐏𝐀𝐘 𝐔𝐏 || YJW

☰ ❛❛ 𝖮𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌❞ Y.JW.

𝘚𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: 𐙚 ⋆ ｡ ˚:

Yn believed in logic. Jungwon believed in understanding his emotions. Their friends knew they would get into petty arguments. All in all, they desire a successful university life, away from their past and families. However, when murders appear in the premises of their own school, and the past comes back to meet them, they find a link and team up with their logic and emotions to find out the culprit and resume their normal lives. But, no one guaranteed their safety and their feelings for each other.

ᯓᡣ𐭩𝖸𝖺𝗇𝗀 𝖩𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗐𝗈𝗇 × 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ౨ৎ. ｡˚

☰ TAGS: college au, enhypen smau, jungwon+reader, thriller, yandere themes, crime, slow-burn, angst 𐙚

╰┈➤𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 (comment or give an ask <3)

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚Full warnings on m.list page

╰➤ [ REBLOGS and COMMENTS are appreciated]

W.c: 4.9k

< m.list >

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YOU SHUT OFF YOUR PHONE AS YOU AND YUNJIN MADE IT TO CAMPUS.

As the next week came, tickets had started to sell and the fundraiser or festival increased in multitudes in emails and posters. The school was shoving the upcoming events in your face, and honestly, you wanted to bury all of the bombarding information into the dirt.

The stalls and booths for each club was being nicely set up even though everything was scarce with colours since nothing was complete yet.

Soon enough, you and Yunjin greeted Jay, Jungwon, Sunoo and someone else. Upon realising the new figure, your eyes cast over him: he was tall, grey frame of glasses to shield his brown eyes and plump lips with his black hair cut to perfection. Two moles were engraved in his skin, and he was nothing short of a giant.

Sunoo waved to you as he leaned back against a wooden table with benches, arms crossed as he gave a lambent smile. Jay and Jungwon glanced from their phones where the twitter conversation just happened.

And so, you cast your gaze to the unknown figure standing by Sunoo, your questions arising.

"So... uh- who's this?" You glanced to Sunoo curiously to which everyone else also looked at him.

He gave a sheepish smile as he looked at you. "Ah- right. He's one of my old friends, Park Sunghoon."

The dude named *Sunghoon stepped to you, his dead eyes boring right into yours with an outstretched hand to shake. No smile, no nothing.

"I'm Park Sunghoon," he said again to pretty much everyone. His voice was deep, a subtle tone of ice underneath. Yunjin didn't shake his hand, so for courtesy, you shook his hand and smiled a little.

"I'm Yn..."

Still no smile, and you shrunk back next to Yunjin who also introduced herself. Well, he was certainly a social butterfly.

"I'm a computer science major," he said, standing back next to Sunoo. You and everyone else fell into an uncomfortable silence and Jay cleared his throat.

"Well, anyway. Me and Yunjin are planning to do a dance number with some other people," Jay commented, shifting the conversation through. Which, you were glad because Sunghoon was burning holes into you right now.

Sitting down on the benches, you got your phone out again, tapping on twitter to the link Jungwon provided. It led to an article simply saying the CEO - Moon Minseok - was climbing the ladder for success quite swiftly.

He was advancing quickly to build a new division for his company but the new sector was unknown and was yet to be disclosed to the public. Probably for suspense and attention.

It tickled your brain in a familiar way. Whilst everyone kept discussing the festival, you repeated 'GoMin' under your breath, as if a fleeting cue would stop by and give you a push in the right direction to a memory.

Though, every hit and attempt missed the target and you couldn't get anymore than a ghost of the name you were relaying.

"GoMin..." you repeated again, catching Yunjin's attention. She perched her chin on her palm, eyes focusing on you, confused.

Noticing her gaze, you shook your head into focus and glanced back at her bewildered face.

"You good?"

"Yes. It just feels awfully similiar. I don't know," you replied, flicking through the article and she chuckled.

"Are you sure it's not because the school has mentioned it a hundred times?" She joked, but seeing your disgruntled shrug, she stopped and nudged you.

"Why? Where do you remember it from?" Yunjin turned her body to face you even more.

That's the thing - you wish you could answer her, but you couldn't quite grab at the roots and find the source. It was as if you were grabbing air at this point.

Sighing, you turned off your phone and shook your head. "It's probably nothing."

Yunjin didn't completely believe you, but she left it at that before turning back to the boys discussing their plans for the fundraiser. Sunoo sat down next to Jungwon slowly and started speaking.

"Actually, I think one of my younger friends are coming to the festival. His name is Riki, in his senior year of high school." Sunoo nodded along as he spoke.

You sent a warm smile, deciding to gravitate away from the 'GoMin' company and to your social circle. "Is he going to come with you?"

Another timid smile crept up Sunoo's lips as he shook his head, causing everyone to give him a quizzical look.

"Why not? It's makes sense if he comes with you," Jay commented, and he said something that everyone was thinking at that moment.

"With the whole internship thing, I didn't get to sign up to anything and I'm busy catching up," Sunoo replied. It made sense, but you realised he was always missing out on certain events.

It was like you barely saw him anymore except a few study sessions at the café.

"I'm sure you can take a break," you interjected hopefully, leaning your elbows on the table. Besides, he was a part of your friend group but it seemed like he was a ghost in your presence.

Unyielding, Sunoo rejected and shook his hand and head. "I really can't."

Knowing he wasn't going to move his decision, you gave up on it and turned away. Jay chuckled a little, poking his head out to see Sunoo.

"This company is really caging you there huh?" Jay teased as everyone chuckled a little. Sunoo gave a tight smile and Sunghoon stood there on his phone like an iceberg.

"I mean, it is a little dodgy that they're not even being lenient on a university student." Yunjin shrugged, wondering how far they're willing to push a simple student.

Jungwon hummed and turned to Sunoo nonchalantly "Did you even ask them to give you a break?"

His voice was a little monotone, and nothing short of a scoff. Considering what Sunoo asked you last week, you gave a short glare to Jungwon, who didn't even notice it.

The others might not notice, but you felt the awkward cloud hovering over the table. You had to turn away again to breathe.

Sunoo mumbled before turning away from Jungwon. "They're already aware. But, it's nothing i can't handle."

With a little furrowed of Jungwon's brows, he casually glanced at Sunoo, giving the face that looked a little unbothered. You wished you could shut Jungwon up, knowing that there was already some doubts rooted in Sunoo's mind.

"Oh, so I guess you kind of landed yourself into that one," Jungwon remarked to Sunoo. The air kind of fell into a terse silence again until Jay cleared his throat.

"Well, it seems like they are a busy," he said, swerving the conversation to a lighter atmosphere. You're glad.

"I just hope they're not overworking you. You said it's unpaid, no?" You glanced to a blank Sunoo, who snapped out of it once you asked.

He gave a slight nod. "Yeah. But it's great experience. And they would give me a great reference."

"Just make sure they're not dodgy," Yunjin said, half-serious and half-joking. Sunoo just chuckled lightly, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Hey, guys, I work there. I'll be fine." Sunoo drummed his fingers on the wooden table, sensing that everyone was a tiny bit worried for him, but he maintained his placid behaviour.

Everyone left it at that when the phones came out and everyone went back to their respective clouds of solitude. Sunoo took the chance to leave with Sunghoon, not before waving to you and Yunjin, to which you gave a respectful hand back.

After a good 5 minutes, Jungwon grumbled under his breath, letting him phone clatter to the table, alerting everyone of his little raincloud over his head. He soon ran a hand through his hair.

Jay glanced to him with a little side-eye. "You good there?"

Jungwon's brows dug deep into his head, a little frown tugging as always. You couldn't help but smirk at his continued rainfall of grimace that fell over him.

His head jerked to his phone, as if something horrible came upon it.

"Stupid film project." He pinched the bridge of his nose before glancing at his phone. Jay chuckled as he gave an are-you-serious look to his dear friend.

"You complained about this last time. Get a grip, Wonie, you're going to get projects."

"But do you even know the 'theme' or whatever?" Jungwon remarked with disbelief, as if thinking about it caused him internal pain. You rolled your eyes playfully, whilst Yunjin and Jay chuckled to themselves.

For Jungwon, it was a serious dilemma. "Individuality and warmth - what kind of shit is that?"

Amused, Jay decided to poke some more fun at Jungwon's strop.

"I think your teacher hates you," Jay said with another laugh under his breath. He knew Jungwon was the embodiment of ice- curt and hard to stay around if they were a complete stranger to him.

Yunjin joined in on the teasing. "Yeah, I think your teacher is out for you."

"He took one look at you and said, 'I'm going to make Yang Jungwon quit film'." You laughed under your hand, to which Jungwon narrowed his eyes at you and crossed his arms.

"Thanks for the support, guys," he grumbled, frowning at all of you guys with a voice deprived of joy, his cat eyes glaring at everyone.

"Even when thanking us you have to be sarcastic," Jay said, nudging Jungwon with a soft elbow. It only earned a peeved glower from the younger one, but you were thoroughly enjoying this.

"Yeah, you're totally going to fail this."

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Balancing 100 small gift bags in your arms was supposed to be time-efficient but you did look ridiculous. You doubted you were going to make it outside to the gardening booth without dropping some.

The seniors were already outside setting up the kiosk and putting the informative banners up. All you had to do was get the paper things outside.

Easy enough.

Jungwon said he would join you, but after waiting for him in the gardening room for 5 minutes, your patience ran thin and you decided to bundle a bunch in your arms.

So, here you were, walking down the halls of Yoreun, some people staring; you have no idea if it's from how ludicrous you look or if the past, nefarious news hadn't shaken off your figure.

Whatever it was, you were determined to finish quick, so you sauntered in a not-so-straight line. You blew air into your bangs as you walked, gasping when one nearly fell off the surface of your arms.

Though, you managed to balance it, and relief swept through you.

The outside area was so close, and you picked up the pace, not seeing anything else but the doors leading to the readying activities.

Before you knew it, a figure harshly knocked into your shoulder, sending a few dozen bags onto the floor. You yelped and glanced to see who carelessly stepped in your way.

And you scowled.

"Minhee..."

She gave an innocent look, a fake pout sent your way before she glanced down at your paper bags. A spark of anger ignited in your chest, but you forced yourself to freeze the emotion whilst she stepped away.

"Oh gosh. I'm so sorry," she uttered, tucking an annoying strand of her brunette lock behind her ear and gazing at your feet.

Without speaking, you crouched down to pick them up, but it only caused more gift bags to tumble from your arms, making you curse from embarrassment andl scathing anger.

"Oh, yn, I feel terrible. I would help, but I have class in 5 minutes," Minhee said with a dastardly tone. You could only look up at her with a clenched jaw.

She gave you a little smile before departing, and you were about to stand and yank her back by the arm, when a hand gripped your own shoulder, making you halt and breathe a little easier.

Glancing back, Jungwon stood behind you, boba eyes searching for your attention. You sighed and blinked at him, your lips etched with a sour look. Jungwon noticed and turned you back fully.

"You know you shouldn't give a reaction, right?" He chimed, momentarily gazing at the bags before crouching down and starting to collect them. His hair fell over his eyes and you clicked your tongue before following suit.

"I know, but she's so damn... annoying." You picked up the bags with an agitated snatch, frowning. Jungwon hummed, voice smooth, continuing.

"She is. But you know she's just jobless," Jungwon interjected, giving you a flick of his brown eyes.

Gosh, you know. But, it was like dealing with those popular and snobby kids in school a few years ago. They think they're on the high hill, and everyone was their doormat.

You thought by the time you arrived to uni, those people would disappear, or at least see you as nothing more than a ghost in the hallways. But no - Minhee was a thorn sticking into your side.

"Should I just let her then? Let her bully me?" You scoffed bitterly as you picked up about 30 bags hastily.

That earned a weary sigh from Jungwon as he followed suit. "Not what I said. I'm just saying that you can't let her get to you."

"Thanks so much for the advice..."

Jungwon snapped his eyes to you again at your sarcasm before standing with about 50 bags.

"I'm serious. People like her don't have a life. Now stop complaining and let's go. It's not worth it," Jungwon said as he jerked his head to the doors you were aiming for.

Not saying anything more, you picked up the remaining fifty bags and followed behind him, still trying to stitch your composure back together after Minhee tore it apart.

The breeze was soft, but icy as you and Jungwon made the route to the booth containing Danielle and another girl. They were crouched next to a brown box, conversing. They were interrupted when Jungwon gently placed the bags down into a little crate.

You were waiting to do the same, but he was taking so damn long that you ended up swerving around him impatiently. Not to mention that some of his bags tumbled out the crate, quivering because of the wind.

You huffed and nudged his elbow with yours, to which he looked at you with furrowed brows.

"What?"

"You're not even putting it in right. They're all flying away," you explained, gesturing to his shaky, paper bags. A scoff escaped his lips as he gripped them.

"How am I supposed to do it then?" Jungwon said with a snide as he turned his scrutinising gaze to you. To demonstrate, you moved him aside a little to access the crate on the surface of the booth.

Then, you let the bags hung on your wrist of one arm to strategically stand in the container to show him exactly how to do it. Jungwon watched, but his eyes showed no spark of realisation.

It was more of indifference.

"See?" You snapped your eyes to Jungwon in a matter-of-fact tone. He shook his head, rolling his eyes and proceeded to shove the bags into the crate.

"Does it matter? Just place it in efficiently. There's about 200 more gift bags to get." Jungwon continued to nonchalantly sort what he needed.

You stared incredulously, and scoffed. "But you might ruin it though-."

"You know what, just give me your remaining bags," he interjected when his hands were empty. Refusing to do so, you stepped back when he stepped forward swiftly.

You believed you could do it yourself and could do so efficiently. Which is why you held his arm with your free hand and glared at him.

"I can do it perfectly fine, Jungwon," You said, defending your strategy. Despite the hand on his arm, he moved forward and his fingers shot out to grab your remaining bags.

"Hey-."

Immediately, you stepped back and bumped into the pole of the booth as he came forward and he may have done it a little harshly because the next thing you know, gravity is pulling you backwards and your fingers dug into the wooden surface of the kiosk in an attempt to keep yourself upright.

With a yelp, you fell backwards when he basically pushed you, and landed on your butt. An immediate ache washed up your back, but there was also a tingle of pain in one of your fingers. Your forefinger to be exact.

Jungwon stared as you fell on your back, successfully gaining some of your bags, whilst the others remained crumpled around your wrist.

Guilt flashed across him as he saw your pained expression and glare, but he just stood there as you stared at your pastel green nails.

You gave out a disgruntled gasp, your eyes widening when you saw the abomination that just happened. With a swift turn of your head, you faced Jungwon, who flinched a little.

"You asshole!" You exclaimed in an exasperated tone, shoving your hand in his face. He was so glad the seniors weren't around to witness your yell.

"What did I do-?"

He was about to flare back in the same way, but he saw your finger, tip of the nail broken off haphazardly from the effort you exerted on the surface of the wooden table.

Jungwon froze and didn't know whether to laugh or be scared. From the glare you gave whilst standing up, he did feel a hint of apprehension.

With a slam of your hands, the bags were roughly placed on the table before you whirled around to meet Jungwon.

A look of amusement and anxiety twinkled in his eye before it quickly dispersed at your scowl. You invaded his space with your broken nail, a frown etched on your lips.

"Do you find this funny?" You accused Jungwon, stepping towards his taller figure. He didn't give an answer, but his shoulders hunched as if he was guiding the truth away from you- he found this funny.

Outraged, you nudged his chest softly, and he flinched, hiding the slight smirk of mirth. "Yang Jungwon, I'm actually going to kill you!"

He put up hands of surrender, brown eyes narrowed at you in defence.

"I didn't do shit," Jungwon asserted as he glanced down at you, remnants of amusement left in the slight crevices of his expression. You scoffed and cradled your poor nail with a desolate pout.

"You broke it," you whined to him. Your perfectly green pastel nail was now chipped off and somewhere in the dirt.

And gosh, did it tingle greatly with pain.

Upon hearing your cry, you saw Jay and Yunjin meander over whilst you mourned your nail, a flicker of annoyance immersing your whole being. Jungwon looked at them with a hand running through his silk strands.

The other two, seeing your distress, already knew what was coming. When they came over, Yunjin suppressed a chuckle when she saw your dramatic hug of your hand. Smirking, she crossed her arms whilst Jay rolled his eyes and hands tucked into his pockets.

"Want to explain why you're screeching like that?" She asked with a tease in her tone, mischievous eyes fluttering at you and Jungwon.

Though, you weren't in the mood for her cheeky comments and showed her your finger instead, showing the atrocity that was chipped on your nail. It took her a few seconds before she realised and made an 'ohhhh' gesture.

On the other hand, Jay couldn't help but smirk at the fact your green nails were ruined, and Jungwon stood there with a hint of remorse but more amusement than anything.

"Do you see this? He broke my nail. What am I supposed to do about this?" You asked tersely, your tone tense.

"Jungwon broke your nail?" Yunjin repeated, tilting her head and flickering her gaze to Jungwon. By the look on the younger one's face and the averted gaze, she guessed you weren't lying.

"Yes, he did. Do you think I would have ruined it?" You muttered back to Yunjin, examining your finger.

Jungwon glanced to you and your dramatic state. "I'm sorry, but I was just trying to get the bags."

"Asshole, I said I would put them down?"

"Yeah, in slow motion. I was trying to be time-efficient. We have more supplies to get," Jungwon retorted with furrowed brows, his body turned to you and a sassy hands on his hips.

His audacity, you thought. "And how did that work out?"

"Look, I said I'm sorry!" Jungwon threw his hands in the air in an exaggerated manner, his tone growing annoyed. You pouted whilst Jay and Yunjin giggled.

You're so glad you're the source of their little chuckles, but what were you supposed to do about this horror? You kept staring at your nail until Jay smirked and looked at Jungwon suspiciously.

"Why doesn't Jungwon just pay to get your nails done again?" Jay suggested. At that, it was as if your tingling nail disappeared from your thoughts. You slowly turned your gaze to Jungwon, who had a dropped frown.

And Jay's idea didn't seem bad at all. Your gaze melted into mischief and Jungwon looked at you as if he knew you would follow Jay's route.

"What a perfect idea!" You exclaimed, dropping the remaining bags into the crate and turning to Jay with a sweet smile. "Thank you, Jay."

Jay gave a mock salute, clicking his tongue as he did so. "You're welcome. Drain his card."

Jungwon scoffed in betrayal. "Are you kidding me?"

Shrugging, Jay ignored Jungwon's clear display of anguish and smiled at you. You were ecstatic and you honestly were due to change your nails anyway.

Heck, you wanted a different colour, charms, and obviously nail care because Jungwon obliterated your poor nail.

That's how you found yourself sitting in the nail salon at 4.30 pm, Jungwon to your left, and your right hand held by an older lady. The hum of the bright lights immersed the room in serenity, and Jungwon looked mildly bewildered.

It was as if he was a creature to a new environment, eyes focused intently on your hand that was being scoured by the technician, practically peeling off your old pastel green coat on your nails.

You noticed his curious eyes from the corner of your gaze, and looked up from your phone with a raised eyebrow.

"Did something catch your attention?" You asked, looking back at your phone and trying to find a nail design to enrapture your attention. Jungwon snapped out it, his focus leaving the curve of your hands and fingers.

"No, I'm just... confused. This is what you pay for every month?" He inquired, almost addled at the thought of paying so much for some... nails.

You sent a small smile to him as you shook your head in feign disappointment. "Why not? I'm pretty with it."

"You need nails to feel pretty?" Jungwon said with a deadpan look, eyes boring into yours as he leaned on the counter. You scoffed and shot your eyes to him.

"That's not what I mean. I like nails, and I want to do them for myself." You turned away to your phone on yesterday flat surface, scrolling through an endless list of designs in Pinterest.

He didn't react, but it seemed as up he still didn't understand. Deciding not to drag it on, he glanced at the screen, seeing your finger hover a few pictures of nails. From that, Jungwon concluded it must be inspiration. Except, you were incredibly indecisive and you couldn't choose a single idea to replicate.

Sighing in exasperation, you slid the phone into his view and pointed to it with determination.

"Choose one."

Jungwon shot an incredulous look as his face scrunched up into a scowl. "You want me to choose?"

Enthusiastic, you nodded silently in the chilled air of the salon. For Jungwon, a wave of uncertainty washed over him, and all he said was: " I don't know."

Of course he didn't. You frowned and grumbled under your breath as you scrolled more and more on the Pinterest page.

"You're actually useless," you mumbled, which earned a sharp look from him. Then, you added: "But since you're paying, I'll let you off."

You saw him turn away to gaze at the selection of nail polishes behind the technician, the array sending him into more confusion. He decided not to comment much. "Just don't drain my card."

"Thanks for giving me the idea," you said with a little smile full of mischief. Jungwon groaned and swiped the phone over to himself, scrolling.

When you whined and tried to get it back, he had selected a simple photo, one with the most simple French tips and a gloss coated over the nails. You weren't a simple girl - so this was unacceptable.

"Here. This one is nice," Jungwon interjected as he tilted the phone to your view. Shaking your head, a scoff escaped your lips.

"You didn't choose before and you don't get to choose now either. Give me," you chimed, batting your eyes at him with mock sweetness before snatching back your phone. He ran a hand through his raven hair and pouted a little from your clear rejection.

To be fair, he didn't choose them randomly. He genuinely thought the simple looks suited you, but how could he forget about your colourful personality.

Once the nails were cleaned, cut and filed, you finally chose a design and the technician went on her way to fulfill your vision. For a moment, all was silent, tranquil. A comfortable silence swayed between you and Jungwon, his brown eyes focused on your nails.

You couldn't help but think of him as a curious cat his head tilted, unblinking as he gazed at the operation on your fingers.

You noticed the way he didn't have any hostility in his face, no annoyance in his brows. He actually seemed peaceful, his chin leaned on his palm, hooded eyes sauntering over the curve of your hands.

When the technician pulled out the box of charms and twinkling gems, he snapped out of it and raised an eyebrow at the display, face inching closer.

"What are those?" Jungwon asked, addled. His tone just made you laugh as you turned to him, eyes turning to crescents.

"Charms?" You said, also mirroring his raised eyebrows. You don't understand why he was so confused, and it only gave you a realisation that he must be living under a rock.

He gave a little nod, leaning on his palm again, eyes never leaving your fingers.

"How much are they?"

"About 35,000 won?"

As soon as he heard that, Jungwon's balance on his palm practically faltered as he looked at you with a snap of his eyes. Shock swept over his face as he saw you completely unbothered.

"What!?"

About half an hour in, Jungwon yawned as he stared at your nails again, and then stared back at his. You also turned to Jungwon, seeing his tanned hands, the veins running down his arms, and you looked away.

Like before, an unfamiliar heat crept up your neck, and you became increasingly cautious of your gaze. To distract yourself, you started to speak.

"Why don't you get your nails cleaned. They're kind of crusty."

A scoff almost escaped Jungwon, brown eyes narrowing at you as if he was gripped by disbelief. "That's a new one."

Waving him off dismissively, you continued your ongoing pursuit of trying to get him to waste his money more but also make his nails look pretty.

"I'm just saying that even a guy can get his mails cleaned." You smiled a little, an underlying mischief buried in your tone. Jungwon shook his head, tilting his head at you again.

"My nails are just fine-."

Though Jungwon found himself giving his hand to another nail technician, his left hand was filed and cleaned by another lady.

A smile broke out on your lips the whole time, enjoying the slight burrow in his brows, the concentration and genuine curiosity of how the lady did it. Another serene silence immersed the air, comforting you.

With your first hand done, you sighed and perked up as you showed Jungwon your right hand with excitement. It made him turn to see the nude colour, the gems diligently engraved into your nail and an elegant gloss over the coated colour.

Absentmindedly, Jungwon clutched your hand with his free one, bringing it closer to himself, causing your breaths to catch in your throat, eyes unblinking. His hands were warm, and you swear, you felt a tingle run up your arm.

Maybe it was the fact you never had the touch of a man, but you kept your breaths calm, your words unspoken; though, to be so alarmed by Jungwon holding your hand made you feel pathetic, a heat running up your cheeks.

To you, it didn't seem like he noticed your flustered state because he was way too engrossed in seeing what was worth 35,000 won. Well, not until the silence was broken by the technician asking for his other hand.

Jungwon blinked and let go of your hand gently before giving his right hand underneath the glass. Only then did he realise that he held your hand so intently, and he cursed internally.

Even you didn't say anything, way too nestled by the thought of your cheeks heating up at the small contact of his warm hand.

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A/n: Lmao, I'm back <3 still planning chapter 31 and onwards, and I realised how much violence is in this...😀 thx for reading <3 also, I'm sorry if some of the quality of the pics are BAD. Idk why💀

---✄┈┈┈┈

Taglist: @ilovejungwonandhaechan

[cool-fancier]

Whispers of Unspoken Love

Synopsis: Your death made Bada's hidden love for her clear. With Lusher's help, Bada created a heartfelt memorial at your grave by expressing her unsaid feelings.

1.43k words

Note: I tried to make it sad and happy as possible

Bada had kept her emotions in check day after day, year after year, hiding the love that was growing like a buried treasure within her heart. She had noticed, supported, and cared for you, but her love remained unspoken, buried beneath layers of unsaid words and unshared experiences. It was a secret love, one she felt she could keep concealed for the rest of her life.

However, life had other plans.

Bada's memory of you would be forever engraved on the day you passed away.  The sky had been grey, heavy with the weight of nearing rain, and the air had been thick with her sadness. It was an accident, a cruel twist of fate that had took you far too soon from her. Bada had rushed to the hospital, her heart racing, but it was too late. Her life had been ruined by the news of your death, leaving her with a pain that nothing could fill.

Bada couldn't help but point her fingers at herself. She had always loved you, but she had never had confidence  to admit it. She imagined there would be more time, more days, more years, to tell you how much she loved you. But now, with you gone, she realized that time was a precious gift that should never be taken for granted.

Bada struggled to cope with her loss in the days that followed. She paid frequent visits to your tomb, speaking to you as if you could hear her from beyond the veil of death. She'd stand beside your gravestone, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, and speak her most intimate thoughts to you.

Bada's days became a series of routines, filled with memories of you. She'd go back to places where you'd spent time with, trying to bring back the memories that meant so much to her. She would sit at the park bench where you had shared your deepest dreams, and she would close her eyes, imagining your presence beside her.

She recognised a familiar face sitting alone at a corner table one day while visiting your favourite café. It was Lusher, a friend you'd introduced her to, someone who'd known you for a long time. Lusher had been severely impacted by your death, and Bada had always had the impression that they were grieving together.

Bada smiled as she approached Lusher. "It's been a while, Lusher. "How have you been doing?"

Lusher raised her head, her eyes reflecting her pain.  "Bada, I really miss Y/N. It's been difficult, but I'm doing my best."

Bada nodded, realising the extent of their mutual loss. "I, too, miss Y/N. It's been difficult, but I'm thankful for the time we spent together."

Lusher's eyes were filled with pain and understanding. "You were important to Y/N, Bada." You meant everything to her."

Bada's heart bled knowing she'd never told you her actual feelings. "Lusher, I have something to tell you. I was in love with Y/N, but I never had the courage to tell her.

Lusher's eyes widened, and she reached out to hold Bada's hand. "Bada, you don't know how much Y/N cared for you. I saw it in her eyes every time she talked about you. She loved you deeply."

Tears welled up in Bada's eyes, and she couldn't hold back the sorrow that had been hidden for so long. "I wish I had told Y/N how I felt. I wish I had the chance to be with them, to love them openly."

Lusher squeezed Bada's hand, making her feel better. "It's never too late, Bada, for you to show your love." Even if Y/N are no longer with you, your memory lives on in your heart. You can still share your feelings with her."

Bada nodded, her heart aching from the weight of unsaid words. She realised she had to find a way to express how much you meant to her, even in death.

Bada decided to write you a series of heartfelt letters in the days that followed. Each letter was an assertion of her love, a confession of the feelings she had been hiding for so long. She poured her heart out across the pages, expressing her memories, regrets, and profound love.

Bada went to the the cemetery one evening, clutching the sheets of paper closely. She stood at your grave, a stone bearing evidence to her sorrow and longing. The moonlight bathed the writing carved on the stone with a gentle shine.

"I am in love with you," Bada said quietly, her voice shaking with emotion. "I should have told you when you were still here.  I should have held you close and told you that you were my everything."

A sense of closure washed over her as she placed the letters on your grave. It was a bittersweet moment, an opportunity for her to finally express her love, even if you couldn't hear what she was saying. Bada knew she'd return to your final resting place, expressing her thoughts and affection with you as a means to keep your memory alive in her heart.

Bada's visits to your the graveyard and it became a ritual over time, a method for her to reconnect with the love she previously held so dear. She would sit at your grave and speak to you as if you were still by her side, sharing her ideas, dreams, and feelings.

Bada was sitting by your grave one nice afternoon when she saw a familiar face arriving. It was Lusher, her friend who had always understood her pain and silent love for you.

Lusher sat down next to Bada, a pleasant smile on her face. "It's been a while, Bada unnie. "How have you been doing?"

Bada glanced at Lusher, her eyes filled with gratitude. "Lusher, I've been finding comfort in our visits here. It helps in keeping Y/N's memory alive."

Lusher nodded, realising the significance of these occurrences for Bada. "I've missed Y/N as well. She meant everything to me."

Bada reached into her bag and pulled out a small, worn journal. "I've been writing letters to Y/N, sharing my thoughts and feelings, Lusher." It's my method of expressing feelings that I've never had the guts to express."

Lusher's eyes were filled with compassion and empathy. "Bada, I think that's a beautiful way to keep Y/N's memory alive and to find closure."

Bada opened the journal and began reading aloud one of the letters. "I love you," she said softly, her voice full with emotion. "I should have told you when you were still present. I should have grabbed you close and told you that you were my everything and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you."

Howl listened, his heart heavy with the depth of Bada's love. "Bada, I think Y/N would have appreciated your honesty and your love."

Bada closed the journal

and placed it on your grave. She turned to Howl, a sense of peace in her eyes. "Howl, I've come to terms with my unspoken love for Y/N. It's time to find a way to move forward, to cherish the memories and the love we shared."

Lusher nodded, a reassuring smile on her face. "Bada, you have a beautiful heart." Y/N was lucky to have you in her life, even if it went unspoken."

As Bada and Lusher sat at your grave, they told stories, memories, and laughs, finding peace in their shared sadness and love for you. It was a bittersweet time, an opportunity to remember and honour the love that had brought them together.

Bada continued to visit your burial site in the years that followed, although her visits became less frequent. She'd found a way to keep your memory alive in her heart, express her love in her own unique manner, and find closure in the wordless affection she'd had for so long.

Bada whispered her love on your gravestone day after day, year after year. It was a bittersweet ritual, a means of connecting with love that had never been revealed in life. Bada felt a sense of peace and a strong connection to the love that had previously been hidden but had never fully faded as she stood by your headstone, the wind sweeping her words away.

And in those quiet moments, as Bada shared her affection with you, she knew that her love would forever be a part of your memory, a testament to the unspoken feelings that had bound your hearts.