#i have an idea of sorts for a sequel but it would be after the ending of the manga and i think i ran out of writing juice... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cleo-fox · 1 year ago

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Overtime

Summary: Sometimes, working overtime isn’t all that bad.

Pairings: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ minors DNI, sex, cunnilingus, teasing, light bondage, office romance.

Series: Overtime (I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel).

A/N: This was largely written prior to season 2 and posted right before episode 4, so it’s not entirely canon compliant and the parts that are may be compliant by accident.

Also, @give-me-a-moose and I were on a similar wavelength about Loki angrily reading romance novels and I would strongly recommend checking out her fic The Imagine Nation if you too are enthralled by this idea.

You don’t think that Mobius intended to keep Loki’s desk behind yours.

“It’s temporary,” he tells you apologetically. “He just needs somewhere to go for now, until I figure out what to do with him.”

“You’re talking about him like he’s a stray cat that you found,” you say.

“You won’t even know he’s there, I promise.”

“You’re still doing it.”

Mobius sighs and puts on his most sincere, earnest expression—the one that he always uses when he’s about to ask you for a stupidly massive favor.

And it’s only because you almost never, ever see this look from him that you back down.

“Okay, fine,” you say. “But he’d better be on his best behavior.”

Mobius puts his palms together and tips them toward you. “Thank you. You will not regret this, I promise.”

You sigh and shake your head. “Just remember this next time you’re budgeting for raises.”

But then—in a move that you certainly don’t expect—Loki ends up sticking around. And, in the subtle way that the stray you’ve been feeding slowly turns into your cat, Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. And strangely enough, Mobius’ assurances turn out to be more correct than not: Loki does a lot of fieldwork and is often away; when he is at his desk, it tends to be because he is working on more complicated missions, the ones that require poring over mountains of files looking for patterns and trying to untangle the slippery mess of time itself.

Your work is decidedly less glamorous than Loki’s—almost no fieldwork, lots of files. Endless files. Some days you feel as though you must have seen every file in the TVA’s extensive library and then you’re immediately proven wrong by another wing of filing cabinets that you swear wasn’t even there before.

Although he is generally well-behaved as your desk neighbor, Loki’s presence has a way of distracting you. Even if you didn’t know who he was, your gaze would still naturally drift his way, lingering on those regal cheekbones, that ink black hair, that cunning smirk. The way that the fabric of his dress pants clings to his thighs certainly doesn’t help, to say nothing of how his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He can make your heart start to race with no more than a casual glance in your direction and god help you if he gives you one of those devastating smiles. Luckily, you don’t think he takes that much notice of you. You have the sort of pleasantly dull exchanges of coworkers who don’t really know each other and he is almost painfully polite to you. It’s a strong departure from the way he interacts with others—with others, he is bold, charming, sarcastic, talkative, a far cry from the more subdued, almost courtly tone he strikes with you. It’s a difference that is so stark that you can’t help but attribute it to some sort of negative feeling on his end.

“How’s it going with Loki?” Mobius asks you during a one-on-one meeting a couple of months after Loki’s temporary desk becomes his permanent desk. “He’s behaving himself, right?”

“It’s been fine,” you say, “though truthfully, I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

“What? Of course he likes you,” Mobius says. “Why wouldn’t he like you? You’re lovely.”

You shrug. “I dunno, he’s just different with me than he is with everyone else. Like…overly polite. It’s like he thinks I’m going to send him to the principal’s office or something.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Mobius. “First you were worried that he wouldn’t behave himself and now you’re worried that he’s too well-behaved?”

Privately, you realize he has a point. Outwardly, though, you’re not going to admit it. The sardonic tilt of Mobius’ mouth suggests that he knows this.

“No, I just…I don’t think he likes me all that much,” you say. “And he’s entitled to that. People don’t like each other all the time, it’s not a big deal.”

This is also a little bit of a lie—you do wish he liked you. Loki is so magnetic it’s hard not to want his attention. And with the matter of your silly little crush, well…that doesn’t help either.

Mobius sighs. “I think you’re overthinking this. He likes you, sometimes it just takes him a little time to warm up. He’s a bit of a prickly guy.”

You bite down the urge to point out that you’ve seen him warm to other people almost immediately. This conversation has already gone on longer than you want and you are edging dangerously close to having to admit that you care so much because you have a big stupid crush on him, which is obviously unacceptable.

“Well, the point is that it’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to project an aura of cool confidence. “I don’t have any complaints, he seems like he’s settling in, so let’s move on. Did you have any feedback on my recent report?”

The furrow between Mobius’ eyebrows deepens just slightly, the only indication that he doesn’t fully believe you. But for whatever reason, he decides to let it go and follows your change in topic without further comment.

This is one of the reasons you like Mobius as much as you do: he always seems to know the right moment to push and the right moment to bend.

You’re not sure if your relationship with Loki would have changed had it not been for the problem of Charles Berlitz.

The joke around the office is that after Mobius convinced Loki to work for the TVA, he needed something new to obsess over and Charles Berlitz was the next best option. It’s hard to say exactly who Berlitz is, as he has a tendency of showing up, well…everywhere. He is quite literally in every timeline, at least as far as anyone can tell. Sometimes he is an author, penning serious, scholarly essays on outlandish theories like the Bermuda Triangle and the Philadelphia Experiment. He seems to have a fondness for all manner of schemes—he was responsible for introducing both homeopathy and multi-level marketing to no fewer than sixty different timelines. His ability to peddle bullshit naturally led him to politics—pick any rebellion, coup, or campaign on any given timeline and there’s a good chance you’ll also find Charles Berlitz.

Scammers and con artists are not atypical in your line of work, but what makes Charles Berlitz an enduring mystery is that he has never been found. You can have reputable documentary evidence that Berlitz was present at a certain time and location, but if you show up to investigate, he is never there. There have been some glimpses over the years—a shadowy face in the back of a crowd, the hem of a cloak disappearing behind a corner—but nothing concrete or substantive.

“Our ghost in the timeline,” Mobius had said in one of his more poetic moments at an all staff meeting, his voice overly hushed and dramatic. You had seen Loki roll his eyes and you had to fake a coughing fit to hide your laugh.

Time moves differently at the TVA, so it’s hard to say how long Mobius has been working on this case when he makes a breakthrough, but it’s not terribly long after your conversation about Loki. A campaign button had been found in an apartment that Berlitz rented for two years in the French Quarter. That particular campaign button could only have existed in one specific timeline and its distribution was limited. You aren’t entirely clear on all of the details, but Mobius seems to have a plan.

And unfortunately, that plan involves you giving up most of your weekend to work.

It’s near quitting time on what passes for a Friday at the TVA. Loki has been in today and you can hear him starting to pack up. Technically, he’s got twenty minutes of work left, but you’re not about to tell him that.

You doodle absently on your notepad. Technically, you’ve also got twenty minutes of work left, but realistically: nothing is happening.

“Oh, great, you’re both still here.”

In general, this phrase has never meant good news for you and when you look up, you see Mobius with a sizable armful of files.

Also not a great sign.

Mobius plunks the stack of files directly on your desk. “There’s been a development with Berlitz. I need you both to review these now.”

“It’s Friday,” says Loki, affronted. “Surely it can wait until Monday.”

“No can do. I need this done by Sunday at the latest,” says Mobius. “This is an all hands on deck situation.”

Loki glances pointedly at the office around you, which has already started emptying out for the weekend.

“All hands on deck, but most hands are already in the field,” Mobius concedes. “Which is why I need the two of you—” He points to you. “You because you’re good—” He gestures to Loki. “And you because you’ve got desk duty.”

“I beg your pardon—” begins Loki.

“He’s grounded,” Mobius says to you in an exaggerated stage whisper.

This is not surprising to you: you had heard a rumor last week about an incident that had occurred on a mission to the inauguration of Richard Nixon and you suspect that these two events are likely connected.

You look at the pile of paperwork on your desk. You could probably get through it on your own in a couple of hours, but if Loki’s helping, maybe you still have a shot at having Saturday to yourself. You bite back a sigh. “What do you need me to find?”

“Anything that mentions anyone from the Lucchese crime family or Nero Variant N2815,” says Mobius. “I’ll go get the rest.”

Your heart sinks. Farewell, Saturday. “There’s more?” you say.

“It’ll be triple overtime, I already got it approved!” he calls over his shoulder

You sigh and glance at Loki who is scowling at the pile of files as though they’d wronged him personally.

There’s a long moment of silence before you speak. “Is there any truth to the rumor I’ve been hearing about the Nixon inauguration?” you ask.

“If it involved a hot air balloon, then yes,” he says rather tonelessly.

“Well.” You pause as you stare at the pile of papers. “At least it was worth it.”

That at least earns you a hint of a smile.

Several hours later, your stomach is growling and you’ve developed a rather impressive crick in your neck.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your neck to the side and rubbing the knot that is pulsing in your upper trapezius. Office work has done nothing positive for your posture in general, but tonight’s work has you hunched over more than usual and your neck is aching.

You and Loki have made good progress, but your pile of finished and sorted files is scarcely comparable to the full cart that Mobius had brought in. Back when the evening was new and you weren’t quite so tired, you’d been optimistic about possibly having half a Saturday free from work; that hope has slipped away the longer the evening has dragged on. Now you’re hoping that you’ll still have a bit of Sunday to yourself and even that feels unlikely.

Your stomach growls again. You should probably eat something—you’d worked through your regular dinner hour in a fit of misplaced optimism. The cafeteria is closed this time of night, but there’s a vending machine not far from your office that has shitty coffee and mostly edible sandwiches.

You stand and stretch, stifling a yawn as you turn around. “I’m gonna grab a coffee and some dinner,” you say. “Do you want anything?”

Loki looks up at you from the file in front of him, blinking somewhat dazedly and running a hand through his messy curls. “I’d like to stretch my legs a bit, if you don’t mind the company.”

You honestly didn’t expect him to want to join you. It’s a pleasant surprise, certainly, but also a little nerve wracking in the way that interacting with Loki always is. He’s so handsome and aloof and you’re not quite sure how to talk to him without acting like a total fool.

But you’re also not about to say no, either.

“Of course,” you say, “I don’t mind at all.”

The TVA is unusually quiet at this time of night—the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the murmur of distant voices is all that accompanies the tap of your shoes on the linoleum. It only heightens the jittery, nervous feeling you get from Loki—like your stomach is filled with drunk, lightning struck butterflies.

“Are you finding much?” asks Loki as you enter the hallway together.

You shrug. “A bit. Mostly on the Nero variant. I’m not having as much luck with the Luccheses.”

“I’ve got all of their property transfers, I think,” he says. “Renato Lucchese never met a vineyard he didn’t like.”

“Or racehorses, from what I understand,” you say. “I think that’s how he lost most of his money.”

You arrive at the vending machines. Loki looks at the vending machines and then back at you, a somewhat puzzled and troubled expression on his face.

“This is what you meant when you said you were going to get coffee and dinner?” he says.

You shrug. “Yeah, what’s wrong with this?”

He points at the coffee machine. “Mobius calls that machine Satan’s coffeemaker, does he not?”

“Yes, but I know how to trick it into giving me something that’s almost palatable,” you say.

Loki gives you a rather dry look. “Something that’s almost palatable?”

“I mean, I’m just trying to manage your expectations. It’s still pretty shitty coffee, it just tastes less burned.”

He looks at you for a long moment before tilting his head toward the hallway. “Come on, let’s go.”

It’s your turn to look skeptical. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going out for dinner.”

He takes you to a twenty-four hour diner called Frank’s that’s maybe a five minute walk from the TVA. It’s one of those places with yellowing Formica tables and big booths covered in red faux leather patched with the occasional square of duct tape. It smells like coffee and grease with a faint odor of cigarette smoke despite the prominent no smoking signs.

“I wouldn’t have thought this kind of place was your style,” you say as you sit down in a booth next to the window.

“I’ve expanded my horizons,” he says, sliding into the seat across from you.

An older woman with greying blonde hair approaches your booth. She wears a nametag reading “Connie” in big capital letters, a sticker of a pink cat stuck on the space next to her name.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” she says as she hands you each a laminated menu. She looks at Loki. “You want your usual?”

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She turns to you. “How ‘bout you, hon, can I get ya started with something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“All right, I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

You raise your eyebrows at Loki as she walks away. “You eat at diners and you have a usual order. My expectations are being completely upended.”

He returns your pleasantly amused expression. “And you have vending machine coffee for dinner. It’s a revealing night.”

“I mean, I don’t actively seek it out,” you say. “It’s a convenient option that I exercise only when I have no other choice.”

“No other choice?” A sly smile curls at his lips. “Do you not have the entire array of space and time at your fingertips?”

“Well, first of all, we aren’t supposed to use TemPads for personal errands without a supervisor’s approval.”

“Technically.”

“No, actually. It’s in the personnel manual. Like verbatim.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You would put yourself through the egregious physical suffering of vending machine coffee simply to appease the capricious whims of our cruel overseer Miss Minutes?”

You bite back a laugh. “You know she’s not actually our boss, right?”

“I can’t discount that possibility. She wields a concerning amount of power within the organization.”

Connie is back with your drinks—coffee for you and tea for Loki. “Sunday Special?” she asks Loki as she sets a metal teapot and empty mug in front of him.

“Please,” he says.

“You got it.” She looks at you. “Didya get a chance to look at the menu or do you need a minute?”

You’re feeling a little daring. “I’ll try the Sunday Special as well.”

“All right, two Sunday Specials comin’ right up,” she says, collecting your menus.

“So, what’s in a Sunday Special?” you ask Loki as you take a sip of your coffee.

“Boiled fish eggs, mainly,” he says, pouring the hot water into his tea mug.

“Liar,” you say promptly.

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t even look at the menu, how could you know?”

“Places like this don’t serve fish eggs,” you say. “Way too unusual and definitely the wrong price point.”

“I suppose you’ll just have to see,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes. The easy charm that you’ve seen him use with the others is on full display and it’s enough to make you giddy. Maybe he doesn’t dislike you after all.

“Well, if it’s fish eggs, you’re picking up the bill,” you say, “and I’ll be getting something else instead.”

“You’d really hold me responsible for your impulsive dinner selections?”

“Yep. And I don’t even feel bad about it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you could be so unforgiving.”

“Well, you don’t know me all that well.”

“To be fair, you keep to yourself quite a bit.”

“A little bit,” you say. “But also to be fair, you haven’t really asked.”

“On work time?” he says, widening his eyes in mock horror. “That would mean write ups for both of us, I couldn’t let that happen.”

“I think I know enough about you to know that getting in trouble is not one of your primary concerns.”

He gives you a sly smile, like you’ve caught him out and he likes it. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” He takes a sugar packet from the dispenser on the table and tears it open before pouring it into his mug. “Well, we’re on break now, so you can safely tell me something about yourself.”

You drum your fingers on your coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, this can’t be the only part of your life. Who are you outside the TVA? What did you do before this?”

That giddy feeling comes to a screeching halt and you take in a long, slow breath. It’s a simple question, one that most people can answer to some degree. For you, though, it’s a bit more complicated.

“Well,” you say. You take a sip of your coffee, mostly to give your hands something to do. “I don’t actually know—I chose not to remember when they gave me the option.”

You’re surprised by how gentle his eyes are when you look up. “My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” you say and you really do mean it. “You couldn’t have known.”

Usually, you say something like this and then gently redirect the conversation, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to continue. Like maybe he understands difficult things and doesn’t mind hearing about something that others would shy away from.

“When they told us everything and said they could fix our memories…” You clear your throat and focus your gaze just above his shoulder. “It’s weird, but I just had a feeling that it wouldn’t be good for me to know…that something really bad had happened. So I asked Mobius to check for me, just to be sure…” You swallow, blinking hard.

You remember how sad Mobius’ eyes were, how he’d gently placed a hand on your shoulder and said, “I think you’re making the right call, kid.”

“It’s not really okay, is it?” Loki says softly.

You shrug. “I mean, it’s…it is what it is.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“It’s not a lie—”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow and you remember that he is, in fact, the god of lies.

“It’s more like…I can’t really miss what I don’t know, but at the same time, the reality of that absence hurts a little. So maybe not exactly okay, but not exactly not okay, either.”

There’s a lot of kindness in his gaze and you have to look away because it makes your head spin and your breath catch in your throat. “I’m not really sure if that makes sense,” you say.

“It does.”

There’s a silence between you, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“Do you…do you think you’d want to forget if you had that option?” You’re not entirely sure what prompts the question and you regret it almost as soon as it leaves your mouth. “I’m sorry, that’s probably too personal.”

He shakes his head and there’s a warmth in his eyes that you don’t expect. “I rather think I owe you one.” He pauses, running a finger around the rim of his mug. “Sometimes I do,” he says finally. “It can be quite painful remembering.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “But I’m not sure who I would be without the knowledge of my past, either.” His gaze flicks back to you. “What’s it like for you? Do you feel like you know who you are without those memories?”

It’s a good question—one you’ve never been asked. “I mean, it’s hard to say for sure. I think I do,” you say. “Sometimes I wonder if I was different in my timeline. Maybe I was kinder because I had different experiences that made me more empathetic. Maybe I wasn’t—maybe I was worse. Maybe I had a villain arc.”

He chuckles. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“I dunno, maybe it explains the vending machine coffee and my fish egg related threats,” you say and you feel almost giddy when he returns your smile. “Or maybe I’m the same and all those experiences that shaped me are just scars I can’t see.” You shrug and take a sip of your coffee. “At the end of the day, though, that timeline is gone. I’m all that’s left. It’s sad, but it’s also freeing, in a way.”

He nods. “Mobius has said much the same.”

You smile slightly. “Our philosophies are similar, I suppose, though I think there are probably more bits of his past self in his present self than he realizes.”

Loki grins. “It’s the jet skis, isn’t it?”

“I mean, I just don’t think most normal people spend that much time expounding on the reliability of the Yamaha engine versus the pure, raw power of the Kawasaki.”

Loki holds up a finger. “But have you gotten the lecture about Yamaha’s braking system?”

“I think I have that memorized at this point.”

“‘The perfect choice for families.’”

“‘You just tap the brakes. Just tap them. Perfectly smooth stop every time.’”

“‘Reliability meets affordability.’”

“‘You can’t say no to that.’”

You think you probably could have riffed on this for a bit, but you’re interrupted by the arrival of Connie with your dinner.

The Sunday Special turns out to be a fairly traditional breakfast—eggs, hash browns, two fluffy pancakes, sausage, toast, a little bowl of strawberries.

“Definitely lots of fish eggs in this meal,” you say to Loki after Connie leaves.

His smile is small, but genuine. “You haven’t looked under the pancakes yet.”

You feel it then, but you don’t fully understand until later that this dinner has unlocked something important between the two of you. After months of awkward, stilted conversation, it’s like you finally understand how to talk to each other. And you’re surprised to find that even outside of your big stupid crush, you actually like Loki. You like his sly smiles and his dry humor and how easily the two of you fall into a routine of playful banter. You click in a way that surprises you, in a way that makes you mourn the lost potential of all those awkward, stilted months and feel giddy about the possibilities ahead.

Dinner is over too soon and you walk back to the TVA feeling revived from the coffee and the conversation.

Disaster awaits you back at the office, though: you’d left a stack of the Nero variant files on your desk and evidently the construction was too precarious, as the entire pile had tipped off your desk and spilled to the floor, contents scattered everywhere.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, running a hand through your hair. You’re not sure whether you want to laugh, cry, or scream. Possibly, it’s all three.

“Here.” Loki is bending down on the floor to gather the files. You studiously try to not ogle his ass or thighs. Or at least not obviously. “Clear off some space on your desk—I’ll help.”

Twenty minutes later, you’ve set up an entirely new system—Loki has dragged his chair over to your desk and the cart of unsorted files sits between you, like a surly metallic chaperone. And even later when you’ve sorted out all of the files from the floor, he remains parked at the end of your desk, a stack of new, unsorted files in front of him. Admittedly, it’s a lot more efficient for you to work like this: privately, though, it gives you a warm glow that has nothing to do with workplace efficiency.

“I’ve invented a new game,” he says some time later.

“What’s that?”

“Every time either one of us finds documentation showing Renato Lucchese losing money on a racehorse he was told was not a good investment, I get to have a drink.”

You look up at him. “Look, I know you’re a god and everything, but I am pretty sure that will kill you.”

He sighs and tosses the file into the Lucchese pile. “I think it would add a little excitement to the evening, don’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows and look back at the file in front of you. “You mean this isn’t your idea of a fun Friday night?”

“My idea of a fun Friday night includes far fewer files and a lot more debauchery,” he says, taking a new file from the cart.

You glance at the clock. “Well, it’s only eleven. I don’t usually start body shots until after midnight.”

“What are body shots?”

For one horrifying moment, you think that you’re going to actually have to explain this to him, but then you get a good look at his expression.

He’s teasing you.

“You’re an ass,” you say, swatting him on the shoulder with the file you’re holding.

He wags a finger at you. “That’s workplace violence. I’m going to have to report that.”

You lean back in your chair and return to your file. “I’m pretty confident that you’ll be put off by the amount of paperwork that process requires.”

He shakes his head as he returns to his own file. “Uncontrolled bureaucracy is how bad actors escape accountability.” There’s a brief pause. “And…there’s another racehorse.”

You continue on like this for the rest of the evening, occasionally chatting and Loki proving definitively that the Renato Lucchese racehorse drinking game could not be played without resulting in a fatality. It’s nice, though. Yes, it’s sorting files and yes, it’s not the most intellectually riveting task you’ve ever done, but spending time with Loki is nice. It’s because of this that you find yourself trying to stay awake, pushing past your looming exhaustion.

But around two, you can’t quite fight the heaviness of your eyelids any longer and you doze off in the middle of a report on the sinking of the Lusitania.

“Hey.” Loki is gently shaking your shoulder. The way he says your name in that deliciously deep voice makes you want to swoon and you’re glad that you have the ready made excuse of sleepiness to explain any embarrassing behavior on your end.

“I think you’d better call it a night,” he says gently. “Get some sleep and come back with fresh eyes.”

“What about you?” you say. “Are you going to do the same, or are you just all talk?”

He smiles at you and it warms you to the very tips of your toes. You could bask in that smile like a cat in a sunbeam.

“I’m starting to fade a bit myself,” he says

“Very convenient,” you say and he grins at you.

“Come on, I’ll see you back home.”

Part of you wants to protest—there’s really no need for him to walk you home—but a larger, louder part of you wants to let it be, prolong the magic of tonight for just a little longer.

There’s a comfortable silence between the two of you as you walk out of the office together.

“What time do you think you’re going to come in tomorrow?” he asks as you approach the residential wing. “It’s probably sensible to coordinate our efforts a bit.”

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” you say. “I was thinking nine, but that will be dependent on how much coffee I have.”

“Yes, about that,” he says. “I cannot stand idly by and watch you torture yourself with vending machine coffee.”

“Well, the cafeteria will be open, so I was going to torture myself with cafeteria coffee, which is at least thirty percent less over brewed.”

He clicks his tongue. “You’re not making a compelling case for yourself.”

“To be fair, it’s quite late and I’ve been staring at files for hours.”

“All the more reason to get decent coffee,” he says. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, we are?”

“Consider it an intervention,” he says. “I’ll come collect you at eight.”

You’re not quite sure if this is just his natural confidence and swagger coming through or if he’s flirting with you and this counts as a date.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a place.”

The place in question turns out to be a food cart in Central Park in 1998.

“Should I even bother asking if you have supervisor approval for this?” you say, looking skeptically at the time door glimmering before you.

Loki scoffs. “I don’t have a supervisor.”

“You do. It’s Mobius.”

“That can’t be right, we’re peers.”

“You’re absolutely not. Did you read any of the onboarding materials?”

He ignores your question. “I don’t see why I’d even need a supervisor, honestly.”

You snort. “Need I remind you of what happened at the Nixon inauguration?”

He spreads his hands in front of him. “It’s not my fault that I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”

“I’m not entirely sure that was the problem,” you say. “Gerald Ford is never going to be the same, from what I understand.”

Loki waves a dismissive hand. “He’ll be fine, the tail isn’t permanent. Now, are you coming or not?”

You roll your eyes at him and make a halfhearted complaint about proper protocol, but you know that you’re walking through that time door and not looking back. You knew that before he even posed the question.

The food cart is owned by a man named Samir who has a wide smile and booming laugh. He talks to Loki like he’s a friend and he tells you that you have the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. You are fairly certain he’s exaggerating, but you stuff a few extra bills into the tip jar anyway.

“I can’t believe you fell for that,” says Loki as you walk away, each carrying a coffee and a brown paper bag with a breakfast sandwich.

“Fell for what?” you say, batting your eyes at him. “I do have beautiful eyes.”

“I’ve heard him say that on at least thirty separate occasions.”

“Yeah, but this time he really meant it. I could tell.”

He rolls his eyes and leads you to a park bench overlooking a wide, grassy field. The leaves are just starting to change and the air has a little bit of a bite to it.

You sit down on the bench and take a sip of your coffee.

“It is good coffee, I’ll give you that,” you say.

“See,” says Loki, “you can’t go back to that vending machine sludge after this.”

“I mean, if it’s eleven o’clock at night and I’m on a deadline, I can.”

“Darling. You have a TemPad.”

“Loki. Read the personnel manual.”

He wrinkles his nose. “It’s not really my genre.”

You roll your eyes and take out your breakfast sandwich. “What is your genre?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that a serious question?”

“Of course it is,” you say. “I love talking about books.”

He gives you a slight smile and takes a sip of his coffee. “A little bit of everything, honestly,” he says. “Philosophy. Magical theory. History. Politics. Anything from Asgard, really, though it can be a bit more challenging getting some of those titles.”

“I’ve had pretty good luck with the Library of the Sacred Timeline—have you checked there yet?”

He frowns. “I’m not familiar.”

“Oh, you’d like it—it’s on the eighteenth floor. It’s intended to be a collection of the greatest works of literature from as many branches of the timeline as possible,” you say. “It started as a research project, but people liked it and it just kind of evolved into this huge collection. They’ve actually got a pretty sizeable collection of books from Asgard.”

It’s like you’ve told him that his personal paradise had been located on the eighteenth floor this entire time. “Will you show me?”

He is practically vibrating with the sort of anticipatory, manic energy that you typically would associate with Christmas morning right before you tear into presents. It’s sweetly endearing.

“Of course.”

Ten minutes later, you’re leading him through the winding hallways on the eighteenth floor. You’re not surprised he hasn’t heard about the library—it’s a bit out of the way and the eighteenth floor is so poorly designed that it’s not terribly easy to find.

The design of the library is a sharp departure from the rest of the TVA. The shelves and floors are made of the kind of dark mahogany that you typically see in the kind of estates that look like something directly out of a Jane Austen novel. Worn oriental rugs muffle your footsteps on the creaky wood floors and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.

There’s a subtle change in Loki when you walk through the doors—almost like a muscle in his shoulders finally relaxes and he seems truly at home for the first time since he arrived.

You touch his hand. “This way.”

You lead him into the stacks, back to the far corner, right after the books from Alfheim.

“You can borrow whichever ones you like,” you say softly. “There’s a sign out sheet at the front desk.”

He nods, though you don’t think he really hears you—he only has eyes for the shelves, his gaze sweeping across the spines like they’re old friends. You’re about to excuse yourself to give him a little privacy when his brow furrows and he exhales sharply. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

“What is it?”

They have the entirety of the finest Asgardian literature at their disposal. Untold centuries of the writings of our greatest minds—” he plucks a book off the shelf, “—and they choose to include this?”

The title looks fairly innocuous—a red, leather bound book with the title The Cloistered Heart embossed in gold script on the front. You take the book from him and open it. “What’s the problem with this?”

“It’s inconsequential fluff, literary pablum of the highest order.”

This is the Loki that you’re more familiar with and a smile curls at your lips. Almost on cue, you flip the book open to a chapter titled “The Wedding and Bedding of Aloisa.”

You bite back a laugh and look up at him. “It’s a romance novel.”

“Precisely my point,” he says. “To think that this is on the same shelf as Nielsen and Auber.”

“That’s kind of how libraries work,” you say, flipping further into the book. The phrases “throbbing length” and “eager moans” draw your eye and you have to tamp down another laugh. “Oh, and it’s a sexy romance novel.”

“It appeals to the lowest common denominator, yes.”

“What, so you’re too good for a bodice ripper?”

He scoffs. “I prefer to do the bodice ripping myself, not read some overwrought description of it.”

You are glad you’re looking at the book because you’re pretty sure you’d disintegrate if you had to make eye contact with him while he delivered that line. “Oh spare me,” you say lightly, snapping the book shut and drawing it to your chest. “I’m gonna read this.”

He blows out a puff of air. “It’s a waste of your time.”

“I’ve got lots of time, I can afford to waste it,” you say cheekily. “Besides, I’m curious to see what kind of book turns the god of mischief into a pearl clutching prude.”

Loki sputters. “Prude? Darling, let me assure you, I’m no prude—”

“I’ll leave you to browse,” you say with a grin as you turn away from him. “Come find me at the front when you’re ready to go.”

You’re a few chapters into the book when Loki rejoins you at the front of the library, a small stack of books tucked under his arm.

You close your book with a snap. “This book is a delight. I think your real issue is just that you’re no fun.”

He scoffs. “I’m very fun.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

You bicker playfully back and forth as you check out your books and leave the library. A quick glance at your watch tells you that you spent much more time there than you’d planned. You can’t quite bring yourself to worry about that, though, not with the memory of Loki’s wonderstruck expression burning so bright in your mind.

There’s a bit of a lull in the conversation as you wait for the elevator.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For showing me that.”

“Of course. I’m sorry you didn’t know about it sooner.”

He looks at you, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something. His tongue swipes briefly over his bottom lip and you would swear that his gaze drops to your mouth for just a second.

For just a second—one heady, slightly irrational second—you think he might be about to kiss you.

The ding of the elevator arriving breaks the spell, startling you just a little. You run a hand through your hair, trying to give off the impression of composure even as your heart beats wildly in your chest.

Loki gestures to the elevator doors. “After you.”

There is a group of analysts in the elevator already, chatting animatedly and completely obliterating any chance you may have had at recapturing that moment.

You try not to dwell too much in contemplating what ifs or timeline branches—often, it feels too much like work, something Mobius might assign you.

But you know that the possibility of that moment—what if the elevator had been a hair slower, what if those analysts had taken a different route, what if you were braver—you know that’s something that’s going to haunt you for a while.

You wouldn’t give up that time in the library for anything—it’s one of those moments that feels formative, something that you’ll return to again and again for one reason or another.

But it’s also true that it’s time that you probably could have used for sorting files and as Saturday ticks on, you can’t help but wish you had a way to pull another hour out of somewhere.

“We’re not going to be able to make this deadline, are we?” you say with a sigh.

It’s getting late into the evening and the cart of files still to be sorted still remains depressingly full, despite the fact that you’d brought both lunch and dinner back to your desk so you could continue working.

Loki eyes the remaining files. “I think we might. We made good progress today.”

You rub your eyes. “My brain feels like it’s about to leak out my ears.”

Loki takes the file you are working on and sets it back in the stack of unsorted files. “I think that might be a sign it’s time to turn in,” he says.

“There’s still so much left.”

“There’s still tomorrow.”

You reach for the file. “Well, let me just—”

He pulls your hand away from the pile. “You can come back to it in the morning. Besides, if you’re this tired, you’re not going to do good work anyway.”

He squeezes your hand and drops it. It’s brief enough to still be friendly, but unusual enough to make you wonder and send your mind racing back to that moment by the elevator.

You shake the thought away. It’s late and you’re tired.

You heave a world weary sigh and slump back in your chair. “I hate it when you’re right.”

To his credit, he only smirks a little. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Once again, there’s no reason for him to do this, but once again, you’re inclined to let him.

You pack up for the evening and walk out of the office side by side. You’re trying very hard not to think about the fact that this is likely the last night that you’ll do this, that tomorrow the assignment will be over.

As you near the residential wing, you start to hear distant shouts. If you inhale deeply, you catch a very faint whiff of explosives—you’re not sure what kind.

“I think someone brought work home,” you say with a sigh.

This happens from time to time—things get out of hand in the field or something happens when retrieving an asset or a target and all hell breaks loose at the TVA. Mobius had once referred to it as “bringing work home” and the name had stuck.

“Wasn’t there an incident in this wing not long ago?” asks Loki.

“Yes.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I had to call off the next day—I got no sleep that night.” You listen carefully, trying to determine the source of the noise and the status of the problem. “But maybe it’s almost over,” you say with an optimism you don’t fully feel. “Sometimes these things are resolved really quick.”

Your heart continues to sink the closer you come to your home. The acrid burn of explosives only increases and you think you catch the low, dull roar of something not quite human.

And indeed, when you turn the final corner, you are immediately stopped by an electric blue barrier being monitored by a hunter. G-21–you’ve worked with her on a couple of missions before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“There’s an ongoing incident in this area,” says G-21 and you almost want to laugh because no shit.

“How long do you think it’s gonna be closed off?” you ask.

She shrugs. “We’re at a code 54 right now, but it’s probably gonna escalate.”

With pitch perfect timing and before you can even try to remember what a code 54 means, there’s an almighty crash and a low bellow.

“Go!” she yells before running toward the commotion amid frantic calls for backup.

Loki is grabbing your wrist and pulling you into a run.

Your standard issue work shoes are comfortable enough on a day to day basis, but you certainly want to have words with whoever decided that leather soled shoes with absolutely no grips were a good choice for a building floored almost entirely in linoleum. In a low stakes situation, it’s meant occasionally you wipe out in the cafeteria and hurt nothing but your pride. In this situation, it means that Loki’s firm grip on your hand is the only thing keeping you upright.

But there’s a small mercy in that while you can still hear distant crashes and shrieks, whatever is happening down that hallway doesn’t seem to be following you and eventually, you both slow to a brisk walk and Loki drops your hand.

You haven’t even had a chance to consider where you are going to sleep tonight. You could probably curl up on that terrible couch in the office and just plan on getting up early enough to run back to your place for a quick shower and a change of clothes…assuming the incident resolves by then—

“You can stay with me,” says Loki, as though he can hear you trying to sort this out.

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just—”

“If you say you’re going to sleep on that terrible couch in the office, I will personally take you to the most boring governmental proceeding I can find and leave you there until you come to your senses.”

“Sounds like a great place to fall asleep,” you say.

His eyes glint, but his tone brooks no arguments. “You’re staying with me tonight.”

You sigh, but you can’t think of a counterpoint. “When did you get so bossy?”

“Darling, I’m a prince,” he says with a bit of a wry smirk. “It’s my birthright.”

Loki lives on the opposite end of the residential wing and his place looks quite a bit like yours—he’s got an extra window in the kitchen but the floor plan is otherwise the same. A lot of his furniture is standard issue, but there are little details that make it seem more personal: an area rug with a bit of fraying on the edges, a painting of what you think is an Asgardian landscape, a vase filled with dried flowers so delicate they look like they might disintegrate if you were to touch them. And books—so many books. Books on shelves, stacked on the coffee table, tucked into the little rack that you know is meant to hold magazines. Hardbacks, paperbacks, leather bound, dog-eared, well-worn and brand new. It’s no wonder he was so excited about the library.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the couch. “I’ll get some things for you.”

You sit down and he disappears down the hall. You idly examine the books stacked on the end table next to you. Many are quite clearly from Asgard and it sparks a pang of sympathy—it’s like his homesickness is on full display in his living room and there’s something sweet and sad about seeing that vulnerability laid so bare.

He returns a few minutes later with a pair of pajamas, a toothbrush, and a hand towel.

“Here,” he says, handing you the pile. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll make up a bed for you.”

“Thanks.”

In the bathroom, you realize that the pajamas he’s given you aren’t the standard set you can order from the TVA. These are made of a dark emerald silk that ripples over your skin like water, and somehow, that makes it feel a thousand times more personal than if he’d loaned you a standard set. They don’t fit quite right on you, but they’ll work well enough for tonight.

You brush your teeth and attempt to get through as much of your evening routine as you can before collecting your clothes and exiting the bathroom.

When you return to the living room, you expect to find that he’s made up a bed for you on the couch. These living units only have one bedroom—it would be quite reasonable to have you sleep on the couch.

You do not expect to find a pajama clad Loki stretched out reading on the couch, a blanket over his lap and his head propped up on a pillow like he intends to sleep there.

You exhale slowly. “Please tell me you are not giving up your bed.”

“Don’t be absurd, of course I am,” he says without even looking up from his book. “The point of this was to prevent you from sleeping on a couch, not simply put you on a couch in a different location.”

You wish you had something to throw at him. “You don’t even fit on that couch.”

“Luckily, my knees bend. Besides, you’re a guest,” he says, as though that settles it.

You roll your eyes and plunk yourself down in the armchair across from the couch, setting your pile of clothes on the floor. “I’m not moving until you give up the couch.”

He finally looks up from his book. “You’re really going to do this?”

You examine your fingernails, flicking away an invisible speck of dust. “I’m not the one being unreasonable. I’m simply meeting you at your level.”

“If you think that I’m being unreasonable and you’re also saying you’re meeting me at my level, does that not mean you are admitting that you are being unreasonable?”

“It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning. I’m not arguing semantics with you.”

“Fine.” His eyes glimmer as he sets his book down and slowly rises to his feet. “But you’re still not sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh, you’re going to be so disappointed when you realize how wrong you are,” you say. You think you see your opening and you try to play it cool.

He’s walking toward you, leaving your path to the couch wide open. In your head, you can see exactly how this works: you’ll spring from your chair and dart around the coffee table before diving onto the couch like a baseball player sliding into home plate, soundly defeating Loki. Easy peasy.

Instead, what happens is that you spring to your feet and Loki moves with inhuman speed, grabbing you around your waist and pinning you to the front of his chest, stopping you in your tracks almost immediately.

“I suppose I should have expected that,” he says. Your back is facing him, but you can almost hear the dry, sardonic look he’s giving you.

“Probably,” you say. “God of mischief and all.” You struggle fruitlessly against his iron grip. “You can let me go now.”

He laughs. “I’m afraid I can’t. It was clearly a mistake to trust you. I won’t be making that error again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, trying again to squirm away from him. “Let me go.”

“The interesting thing about all of this is that you’ve made a rather substantial tactical error,” he says, continuing as though he can’t hear you.

“You’re bluffing,” you say with more confidence than you feel.

“Fascinating theory,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s going to work out for you.”

With that same ridiculous speed, he’s suddenly spinning you around and lifting you, tossing you easily over his shoulder.

“Hey!” you shout in protest.

“I warned you,” he says, his voice full of mirth as he carries you toward the bedroom.

This is not exactly how you’ve imagined being carried off to bed by Loki.

Though, admittedly, you do have a nice view of his ass.

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

“You brought this upon yourself.” He’s walking into the bedroom and a moment later, he’s lifting you from his shoulder and tossing you unceremoniously onto his bed.

You scramble to your feet and try to lunge toward the door, but he’s clearly expecting that. Before your feet even hit the floor, he catches you around the waist and hauls you back to the bed. Your back hits the mattress and you try to leverage the momentum to propel yourself back onto your feet.

He catches you immediately and you find yourself back on the bed again.

“I don’t mean to be patronizing,” he says, failing to bite back a laugh, “but it’s adorable that you think you can outmaneuver me.”

That is deeply offensive and the only way you can earn my forgiveness is by letting me take my rightful place on the couch.” You can’t quite keep the laugh from your voice.

He grins. “Not a chance.”

You attempt to dive off the opposite side of the bed, only to have him grab you by the ankles and pull you back. You manage to dislodge him and lunge in the opposite direction, only to be immediately thwarted.

It becomes increasingly hilarious the longer it goes on and soon your sides are aching from laughter. Loki is laughing too, but it doesn’t seem to affect his strength or speed at all.

Eventually, he wrestles you back down onto the bed and you are fairly certain there’s no way out of this one—he’s got your wrists pinned above your head and his legs locked around yours. You’re both a little out of breath.

“Yield,” he says.

You shake your head. “Never.”

His gaze flicks to your lips and back to your eyes. “Yield.”

“No.”

Something has changed. There’s an electricity and intensity that crackles in the air between you, possibilities blooming in both of your gazes. It feels a little like that moment by the elevator, but you’re afraid to hope, afraid to even wish because the idea of him wanting you still feels as impossible as capturing smoke with a net.

But the way he’s looking at you, the way his gaze keeps drifting between your eyes and your lips…that’s not nothing.

“Yield.”

You lick your lips, your heart beating wildly. “No.”

Is it just your imagination, or did his breath hitch when you licked your lips?

“Yield.”

God, he’s so close and you want him so badly.

“No.”

He looks again at your lips and this time, he closes the distance between you.

They call him Silvertongue—you’ve heard the jokes, you’ve rolled your eyes at all of them. But as he kisses you, you realize that there’s an element of truth there because only seconds in and you’re ready to sign away your soul to live under the power of Loki’s tongue. The slow, warm slide of it against yours, the way he guides your mouth against his, the way he lets out a soft sigh as he tastes you—you would give up everything if it meant you could stay like this.

“Yield,” he breathes against your lips.

“No,” you say.

He deepens the kiss, catching your lower lip between his teeth and gently tugging until you whimper and arch against him.

He still has your hands pinned against the bed, his grip unyielding when you try to wrestle them away.

“Let me touch you,” you say when he draws back. You want to touch him everywhere—run your hands along every muscle you’ve admired from afar.

“Then yield,” he says with a grin, his eyes flashing with devilish intent.

You consider this for a moment. You could give in—there aren’t really any stakes at this point and you’re pretty sure you’re both going to end up sleeping in his bed tonight anyway. But that glint of mischief in his eyes also promises some intriguing possibilities if you stand firm.

“No,” you say.

“Such a pity,” says Loki, though his expression is one of hungry delight.

His hands slip free of your wrists then, but they stay pinned to the bed by some invisible force.

“Cheater,” you say.

“I think this is only fair,” he says, his hands sliding to your hips. “I’m clearly the victor, am I not entitled to my prize?”

You shiver. “Your prize?”

“Yes.” He kisses down the column of your throat. “My lovely, lovely prize.”

“How can I be your prize if I’m also your competitor?”

“You think too much,” he mumbles against your neck.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Generally, it’s not.” He sits back on his heels between your legs, looking you over with satisfaction. “But in this case, it’s distracting you from more pressing matters.” His hands creep under the hem of your shirt, stroking the small of your back, thumbs tracing teasingly along the waistband of your pajama pants.

“Have I mentioned how much I enjoy seeing you in my clothes?” he asks. There’s a husky depth to his voice and a hunger in his eyes that sends a flood of arousal to your cunt.

“You have not,” you say.

“A casualty of too much thinking,” he says solemnly, his thumbs gently grazing the skin at your hipbones. “You look utterly delectable. I almost want to leave them on.” His eyes glitter with mischief. “Almost.” His hand strays to the bottom button on your pajama top. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He slips the button free and slowly makes his way up until your shirt is open. He carefully pushes the fabric aside, baring your breasts to his sight and touch.

You’ve never felt more beautiful seeing Loki stare at you, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and hungry. He trails one hand up your stomach and rib cage and slowly brushes a thumb over your nipple. You gasp and the sensitive skin puckers and stiffens as he palms your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs as he lowers his mouth to your breast, his tongue and lips taking up the role of his hand, while his other hand moves to cup your other breast. You whimper, wishing you could run your hands through his hair. “That’s it,” he purrs, “I want to hear all the sounds you can make, my love.”

You rock your hips forward and arch your back as he lavishes attention on your breasts. It’s the most delicious kind of torture, having him so close, but not being able to touch him.

He’s taking his time, which you both love and hate. He feels so good, but you need him to touch you, you need to touch him, you need him inside of you. You wait until you can’t take it any more and breathe his name like it’s a prayer.

You wonder if this is what he was waiting for because with little more than a brief smirk and a wicked look, he starts kissing his way back up your chest and neck. You whimper when his lips meet yours and you can feel him grin as he kisses you. He fits his hips against yours, angling himself so that his cock rubs up against your clit just right and you moan into his mouth. You can tell that he’s big and part of you wants to savor the anticipation even though you feel like you might go mad if he doesn’t fuck you now. You rock your hips against him, trying to feel that friction.

His large hands frame your face, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head so he can draw you deeper, the other trailing from your cheek to your throat.

Both hands soon stroke down your sides, lingering teasingly at the waistband of your pajama pants. He hooks his thumbs underneath the waistband and you lift your hips. He slides your pants down maybe an inch and you can feel him smiling as he kisses you. You lift your hips again and your waistband creeps down another inch.

“Loki.” His name falls from your lips with a sigh.

“What is it, my love?”

“Touch me,” you breathe. “Please.”

You lift your hips again and this time, he pulls the fabric fully down and off your legs. He guides your legs apart and stares appreciatively at your bare cunt, his teasing expression replaced by a rapt awe.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs.

You believe him.

His hands stroke your thighs, seemingly in no hurry, despite your pleading whimpers and the way you arch against the mattress. He draws his thumb gently along your slit, barely grazing your clit.

“Do you know what an utter distraction it’s been sitting behind you?” he asks, tracing your clit in the slowest, lightest circle.

You arch upward, hands still bound by his magic. “Tell me,” you breathe, your hips rising to chase his hand.

“Every time you stood up, I could only think about bending you over the desk.”

You manage a sly smirk. “And here I thought you didn’t like me much at all.”

His thumb presses a little more against your clit and you moan.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he says, rolling his thumb in a slow circle. “I kept you at arm’s length partly as a matter of protection.”

For who?”

“You,” he says. “I’m not fully redeemed in some eyes and you being involved with a dangerous variant—”

“You’re not,” you say.

“Some would disagree.”

“Well, they’re wrong,” you say. “You’re not a dangerous variant. You’re Loki Laufeyson and I want you just as you are.”

There’s something unreadable in his expression and it makes you wonder how many people have told him that he can just be himself.

“You should be careful saying such lovely things to me, you know,” he says solemnly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? And why is that?”

“Because it makes me want to do very wicked things to you.”

You’re surprised you’re not shaking, you want him so badly. “What kinds of wicked things?”

“Oh, all manner of wicked things.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, his tongue swiping briefly against your skin. “Things with my mouth...” His thumb rolls over your clit again, his index finger teasing your entrance before retreating. “…my hands…” He drags his gaze over your naked form before locking eyes with you. “My cock.”

A shiver works its way up your spine. “So if I talk about how I think you’re really clever and funny and I find it unbelievably sexy, what sort of wicked thing would that merit?”

The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver again. He crouches down and presses another kiss against the inside of your knee, slowly moving upward. “If you keep talking like that, I’m not going to let you leave my bed for days.”

“You know that’s not a disincentive, right?” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as he nips at the soft skin of your inner thigh. “I’ve wanted you for such a long time, Loki.”

“I’ll make it weeks if you’re not careful.”

“Again, not a disincentive.” You gently tug at your bound wrists and find that they’re still firmly secured. It’s exhilarating, even though you really wish you could run your hands through his hair, especially if he ends up where you think he’s going.

“What else should I tell you?” you muse as he continues his agonizingly slow path along your thigh. “You know, half the reason I kept to myself was that I wanted you so much I was certain that I’d make a fool of myself.”

That earns you a few circles of your clit with his thumb, but his progress up your thigh remains slow. You have a theory about what might move the needle, though.

“I know you like to act like you’re this sort of barely reformed villain, but I think there’s more good in you than you’d like people to believe.”

This time, he moves up to the crease where your thigh joins your hip, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath ghosting along your labia. His tongue traces a line along your skin and you briefly wonder if you’ll be able to hold it together enough to deliver the last part.

“And,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “yesterday and today made me want you even more because I feel like I finally saw who you really are and you’re even more wond—”

Your words abruptly give way to a breathy moan because his perfect, skilled tongue has finally found its way to your clit.

You had a plan from here, but whatever it was has dissolved into nothing under the skilled caress of Loki’s tongue. You suspected he would be good at this from the way that he’d kissed you earlier, but you could not have imagined that it would feel like this.

“Oh my god, Loki.” Your thighs are already quaking. You tug again at the invisible bonds on your wrists, but they hold fast. Something about the way the bonds are keeping you gently stretched along the bed combined with how his large hands have your thighs spread open seems to heighten every sensation. There’s no wiggling away from him or adjusting yourself so that you feel more or less of the onslaught of his tongue on your cunt. You are completely at his mercy and you’re not entirely surprised that you fucking love it.

He slides a finger into your aching channel and your cunt shudders around the thick intrusion. The warm, roiling center of your orgasm starts builds in your hips with every stroke of his tongue, spinning faster and faster, like ocean winds whipping up into a hurricane. Your back arches and his tongue presses flat against your clit, and suddenly you know that this is going to be what takes you over the edge.

Loki seems to know it too, at least from the way that he presses his tongue more firmly against you, one arm slung across your hips to hold you in place. His other hand slides two fingers inside you, rocking and curling against that aching, tender spot.

You whimper, your hips bucking wildly. It’s so good and so much and you are almost there.

You look down at him then, his hair wild, hollowed cheeks flushed pink as his tongue works you over, his eyes closed like he couldn’t imagine anything more blissful than being in between your legs while you come undone.

This is ultimately what tips you over the edge. The storm that has been forming inside you is finally let loose and you arch your back and cry out in a wordless scream as your climax crashes into you.

Only then do the bonds around your wrists release and your hands fly down to grab his hair as your body shakes with pleasure.

It takes a moment for you to get your breath back and reacquaint yourself with the concept of speech, but when you do, you find Loki looking up at you, his expression pure mischief.

“And to think you wanted to sleep on the couch.”

“It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep on the couch, it’s that—” Your voice cuts off as his tongue starts stroking your clit again.

“It’s what?” he asks in between strokes, his smirk obvious in his voice. The lingering ripples of your orgasm are coalescing around the path of his tongue, tightening that coil in your belly again.

“Fuck—you’re not playing fair, you can’t just—” You lose your sentence to a low moan that rises up from your chest. “You can’t just—fuck, yes—you can’t…oh god, yes, just like that.”

His laughter rumbles against you as your hips start rocking against his mouth. How are you already so close?

“You can’t just—fuck—win an argument by—”

You’re trying to say that he can’t expect to win an argument by making you come and you think he might understand this based on how determined he seems to be to prove you wrong. His fingers curl again until he finds that soft, tender spot that is so often the key to your unraveling.

You have stopped trying to complete that sentence—you moan, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on as the swell of your climax rushes up, inevitable as a tidal wave looming over a seaside village.

You cry out as it crests and breaks, falling down over you in a rush of tingling pleasure that feels like champagne and fireworks all at once.

“Now, what was it you were saying, my love?” he asks as he releases your clit a moment later. “Something about how I can’t just win an argument by making you come? I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of you coming completely undone on my tongue.”

“Oh, you think you’re so smart,” you say, giving him a stern look as he crawls up your body.

“You know what I think?” he says, settling himself on his side next to you. “I think you liked submitting to me.”

You shiver before you can even think about hiding it and his smile turns decidedly vulpine.

“You did, didn’t you? You liked having your hands bound and being completely at my mercy while I licked your pretty cunt until you came undone in my mouth.”

“You are enjoying this far too much,” you say.

“I am enjoying it the correct amount.”

You realize your hands are now free to explore his body and you tug at his pajama shirt. “I think you’re wearing too many clothes,” you say.

He gives you a wicked grin as he lets you pull his shirt over his head. “Yes, perhaps it’s time we even things up.”

You pull the shirt away and rake your eyes over him greedily, your hands following the path of your gaze. He is as perfect as you imagined, unfairly beautiful in the dim light of the bedroom.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants and lower them an inch, a cheeky parallel of how he teased you earlier. His lips curl into a sharp smile when he realizes what you’re doing.

“Interesting strategy.” There’s a bit of a growl in his voice, a rough desperation that makes your cunt clench. “But I think you forgot that I have the upper hand here.”

He raises his hand and with a twist of his wrist, his remaining clothes dissolve in a shimmer of green and he is bare before you.

Your breath catches in your throat. His cock commands your immediate attention, nudging up against your thigh—he’s big, as you suspected, but completely bare and rock hard, he somehow seems longer and thicker than he had when he was grinding against you.

He pulls you into a slow kiss as you reach for his cock. You wrap your hand around him, delighting in the silky hardness of him, the way he throbs in your hand and the low groan he makes as your hand moves from base to tip and back, the way his hips thrust along with you. Your cunt clenches in anticipation.

After a moment, though, he places his hand over yours, slowing your movements.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps.

“Yes,” you breathe.

He rolls on top of you and you’re not sure that you’ve ever felt anything quite as wonderful as the heat of his bare skin and yours pressed together. This feeling means intimacy, a closeness that you’d longed for but never expected even in your wildest daydreams.

He pulls you into a kiss, slow, soft, and languid, like you have all the time in the world and he intends to take it. It’s decadent and dreamy and perfect.

But the heavy weight of his bare cock resting against your stomach combined with the ache between your legs—an ache that would be so perfectly soothed by the hard column of flesh currently throbbing against you—proves to be a force too powerful to resist for very long.

You cant your hips against him, snaking one leg around his waist, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He does.

He braces himself on one hand, the other sliding between your bodies to rub his cock along your slick folds. He positions himself at your entrance, waiting for your breathy plea to begin to ease himself slowly into you.

He fills and stretches you in the most wonderful way, but even more than that, he feels like home. The thought strikes you quite suddenly and you’re not entirely sure about everything it means, but you know it’s good and right.

He pauses for just a moment, seeming to savor the feeling.

“You feel better than I ever imagined,” he says.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You imagined?”

He gives you a hungry smile as he leans in to kiss you. “Like I said: it has been an utter distraction sitting behind you.”

His rhythm is slow and easy, like he wants to take his time learning every inch of you and memorizing how you react to his touch. His mouth moves over yours in a slow kiss that’s somehow both languid and demanding, his tongue gliding in and out of your mouth in the same rhythm of his hips rocking into you. His cock bumps up against that sweet spot inside of you that his fingers had teased earlier, each stroke inching you closer to bliss.

He shifts the angle of his hips so that his pubic bone grinds against your clit and it feels so good you almost see stars. You can feel your orgasm building, your cunt growing slicker and tensing around his thrusting cock.

He draws back to look at you, eyes hazy with a loose, dreamy kind of pleasure.

“Do you have any idea how good you feel?” he breathes.

You are shaking. “Loki, I’m gonna come.”

“I know you are,” he purrs. “Let go for me, let me feel you, my love.”

With two more thrusts of his hips, you unravel.

He groans as you tremble around him, but mostly, he watches your face, rapt by the way you throw your head back against the bed and gasp his name like it’s the only thing that will save you.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he breathes. “Absolutely stunning.”

He waits until you catch your breath before he kisses you again, slow and sensual. His hips are still rocking in that beautifully slow rhythm and you don’t know how it can still feel so good.

He keeps moving against you, his touch and his low murmurs of praise invoking a symphony of sensations. He presses deeper and your body sings with every thrust, your muscles tensing and tightening around him like you never want him to leave. Your climax swells again and you come with a whimper, your whole body shaking as he fucks you through it.

You want him to come, want to hear the sounds he makes and feel his sweet, hot release burning inside of you.

“I want you to come for me,” you breathe.

He grins at you. “Oh, I will, but not yet. You’re not done yet.”

You whimper. “Loki—”

“Two more, my love, two more and then I’ll come for you.”

Somehow, you give him three. By the second one, he’s panting and his words have become rough, his voice a growl as he utters some of the filthiest praise you’ve ever heard. The third builds quickly after that and you know instinctively that you’re going to take him over the edge with you this time.

You fight to keep your eyes open against the tidal wave of pleasure blooming again in your hips. You need to see him come undone.

As in everything else he does, he’s unfairly beautiful—he throws his head back, letting out a low groan that you can feel all the way to the tips of your toes. His cheeks are flushed, a few ink dark curls plastered to the light sheen of sweat on his forehead. You can feel him emptying himself inside you, his release hot and hard won.

It seems to last a long time and it’s another minute before his hips slow to a halt. He kisses you, so soft and sweet it would almost seem chaste were it not for the fact that his cock is still throbbing inside of you.

After a moment, he slowly eases out of you, rolling over onto his back, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you to him like he can’t bear to be parted from you even for a moment.

You curl up against his side, your legs tangling with his. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before resting your clasped hands on his heart.

You could fall in love like this, you think sleepily to yourself.

You don’t know it then, but you’re right.

Time moves differently at the TVA, but a couple years later, there’s a ring in a box on your desk.

Loki likes a spectacle and you’d daydreamed about a traditional wedding, but when you talk it over, you both agree that you want to do something different, something quiet, something just for the two of you.

“I do think we should tell Mobius beforehand,” you say to Loki.

“Isn’t the point of eloping that no one knows until after it’s done?” says Loki.

“Yes, but I feel like we could make one exception,” you say. “If we’d done a full wedding, I would have asked him to give me away.”

Loki’s gaze softens a bit then and he pulls you close. “All right. But we only tell him right before we leave. The man can’t keep a secret.”

But Mobius doesn’t seem terribly surprised when you tell him—in fact, he seems far more concerned about your wedding gift.

“I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet,” he says. He’s retrieved a large picture frame that had been propped against his desk, though he keeps it turned away from you. “So…this also requires a bit of an overdue confession for context.”

You raise your eyebrows. “A confession?”

“A confession,” says Mobius.

“Will I be angry about this?” asks Loki at the same time you say, “Is this like a go to jail confession or a misdemeanor confession?”

Mobius gives a good natured chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “God, the two of you. Always so dramatic. No wonder you ended up together.” He takes what feels like an unnecessarily long drink from the coffee mug on his desk. “It’s not bad, I promise.” Another sip of coffee.

Loki sighs. “He always does this,” he says to you. “Have you noticed? Whenever he has something that you want to know, he stalls and drags it out just to torment you.”

“Okay,” you say, “but you jumping in to bicker with him probably doesn’t help.”

“I’m not bickering,” says Loki. “I’m simply pointing out that he’s stalling—”

“What was it you were saying, Mobius?” you say brightly, nudging Loki with your elbow.

Mobius’ eyes twinkle. “See,” he says to Loki, “I always liked her. It’s a good match.”

You don’t have to look at Loki to know he’s rolling his eyes, though he also makes a point of surreptitiously pinching your ass, a detail you hope Mobius doesn’t notice.

“Anyway,” says Mobius, taking a deep breath, “it was pretty clear to me from the start that you liked each other. And you also seemed absolutely determined to get in your own way.” He points to Loki. “Especially you with your whole stilted Asgardian prince thing.”

Loki frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Mobius sighs. “Anytime you like someone, it’s like your brain gets a factory reset and you get all overly polite and courtly.”

Loki scoffs. “I don’t do that at all.”

“You do. It’s deeply weird. You’re like a mannerly robot.”

Loki turns to you. “Darling, tell him he’s being absurd.”

You reach over and squeeze his hand. “You did call me ‘my lady’ a couple of times in the early days.”

Loki sighs and looks back at Mobius. “What was your point in mentioning this?”

“Well,” says Mobius, “you seemed pretty determined to get in your own way, so nothing was happening. And eventually I got sick of all of the pining, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“What do you mean?”

Mobius pauses, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “There wasn’t a breakthrough with Berlitz that weekend. What there was was a surplus in the overtime budget and a high priority indexing project for Archives.”

Your lips part as your brain slowly puts the pieces together. Mobius’ eyes twinkle.

“Wait,” you say, “you lied to us?”

“I did not lie,” says Mobius, his demeanor suddenly becoming very serious. “That would have been wrong.” He nods at Loki. “Also, it would’ve tipped him off and that would have ruined the whole thing. I simply failed to mention that the cart of files that I gave you needed to be sorted for indexing for the Archives department and I peppered in a couple of unrelated things about Berlitz.”

“But the office was empty that weekend,” says Loki.

Mobius snaps his fingers. “Right. I did make some adjustments to the schedule that weekend.”

“And the disturbance that prevented her from returning home on Saturday night?”

Mobius spreads his hands wide and grins. “All me, buddy. Paid G-21 five hundred bucks for that one.”

Loki pauses for a moment and then looks at you. “I don’t think I can be mad about this. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“I mean, I can’t argue with the results, but Jesus, Mobius, you could’ve just set us up on a blind date,” you say.

“Ah, but that’s not as fun,” Mobius says. “Plus, it wouldn’t have made for as good a wedding gift.” He turns the frame around and hands it to you both.

It’s both your timecards from that pay period, neatly framed side by side. Your eyes well with tears and Mobius smiles.

“Honestly, I’m just relieved it’s not a jet ski,” says Loki.

“He's deflecting,” you say to Mobius in an exaggerated whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back.

But you can’t help but notice that Loki’s eyes are brighter than normal.

“Okay, now get out of here,” says Mobius. “You’ve got a wedding to get to.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re wearing a simple white dress and standing with Loki in front of a time door, your hand clasped in his.

“Technically, we don’t have a supervisor’s approval for this,” you say with a wry smile.

He looks at you, eyes dancing with mirth. “I had Mobius sign off on the paperwork while you were getting ready.”

Your heart swells and your smile is so wide that you feel like your face might split in two. “Then hurry up and marry me, Laufeyson.”

He grins and tugs you through the time door.

-------

But wait! There's more: I don't have a masterlist for this, but if you enjoy these idiots, check out Daylight, a sort of sequel.

#loki smut #loki x reader #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson smut #loki x female reader smut #loki x female reader #loki laufeyson #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #tva loki x reader

7K notes · View notes

bratbarzal · 21 days ago

Text

The Secret of Us (LH43) 1/3

aka the sequel to let it happen

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 21k (oops)

I felt it, you held it, do you miss us? wonder if you regret the secret of us.

General Warnings: angst (lol), a severe lack of proofreading, mentions of injuries, a couple of angsty flashbacks with avoidant behaviour and fade to black type smut

A/N: just want to say thank you guys for liking this so much 💖 seeing all the comments and the messages and people recommending this to others and the sweet things you're all saying (even if I betrayed you lol) made me so unbelievably happy!!! I could never let these two go out like that, I enjoy writing this dynamic way too much, and I also have way too much discussing this fic with people!! shoutout to the let it happen film club lmao!!! I hope you guys enjoy this sequel, and I hope it lives up to LIH, they really are my babies!!

and I know what you're thinking, maggie how could we ever trust you again after let it happen??? you can't!! and you shouldn't!!! but I wouldn't do that to you twice.

or would I???

I wouldn't 😌

OR WOULD I?!?!?!?! 😏

You need to start getting more comfortable saying no to people.

It’s something you tell yourself all the time, that being a people pleaser is going to lead to your downfall - it’s something you’ve always known.

So why you would ever possibly agree to attend a football game with your sorority sisters after weeks of hiding away in the safety of your childhood bedroom, you have no idea. You’ve spent the last 4 weeks alone convincing yourself to grow a backbone, and you’ve only been back in town a week. 7 whole days and your resolve has crumbled to pieces.

And now you’re squeezing yourself through a crowd of sweaty, yelling men to find your seat in the cramped spaces of Michigan Stadium, after already being packed like a clown into the back of your friend Molly’s car, and your head is throbbing, already.

A football game.

You at a football game.

It’s absurd.

Dressed in team colours with a ridiculous yellow M painted on your cheek like you’re some sort of local.

It’s your own version of a living hell, and you can’t wait for it to be over.

“Are you guys always sat this low?” You yell out to Molly as the rest of your friends amble in, surrounded now on all sides with no way out.

“Aren’t the seats, great?!” She yells back, louder than you, causing you to wince a little at the shrill sound in your ear.

The seats are not great, but you wouldn’t be happy anywhere in here.

You can barely even see the field, the sidelines packed with God-knows-who, and your back hurts already, and all you want is to go back to the version of you that was first asked if she wanted to come with. A version of you that should have told Molly straight up that you’d have rather sat at home plucking at any remaining body hair with a pair of pointed tweezers than to come to a Michigan Football game.

“Oh, look!” Molly jumps, and you’re assuming she’s just going to point to her boyfriend, following her finger with a bored gaze. You’ve seen him, before. You don’t need to see him again.

Only Molly’s finger doesn’t point to her boyfriend.

It points to the sidelines - to a group of guys stood with a shorter girl with curly blonde hair.

Ellie’s down there, dressed in team colours, too. She’s stood next to Jack, who’s stood next to Quinn.

And you don’t even need to look past Quinn to know who’s gonna be stood beside him.

It’s way too late to go home, now, you fear.

Not when Molly is digging her phone out and pressing immediately on Ellie’s contact, and you can see the whole situation unfold in front of you.

Ellie never has her phone on silent, and when it rings, it rings loud - a high-pitched, horrific tone that honestly sets off your fight or flight, and you can see the immediate reaction the boys have to it chiming in her hand.

She answers, instantly, and you can hear Molly’s side of the conversation, guiding Ellie to where your group are up in the stands, waving like a lunatic until Ellie finds you all - and, as if your life isn’t bad enough, she then starts gesturing at you.

“Look who I managed to convince to come with!” She yells, still pointing like you’re some circus attraction, and, if you could remember what the ground felt like, too long in the stands, now, that you miss it, you would honestly want it to swallow you up.

Because obviously Ellie isn’t the only one looking.

Jack is looking.

And Quinn is looking.

And you know, once again without looking yourself, that the person beside Quinn now has his eyes on you, too.

The weight of them takes you back in a dizzying flash, and all of a sudden, you’re back in the lake house, sobbing into your hands until you were pulled into the soft embrace of your best friend.

“Hey, you’re crying, what’s wrong?” Ellie cooed as she came over, throwing her arm around your shaking frame and rubbing a hand up and down your back. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” you tried through shaky breaths, attempting and entirely unconvincing smile, like it would at all mask the flood pouring down your cheeks, “Go back to your party, I’m just being dumb.”

“I’m not gonna leave you like this,” she told you, “What's going on, is it Luke?”

The mere mention of his name brought back the onslaught of tears, your face scrunching as you tried to hold them back, but it was no use. Every single part of you ached with regret, your throat, your chest, your limbs - and all you wanted to do was curl up and cry it out. “I fucked it all up, El.”

“No,” she reassured you, “He fucked things up, he should never have spoken about you like that, it wasn’t fair. Not if the two of you are into each other, he shouldn’t be saying things like that.”

“He was right, though,” you sobbed, “I’m a mess, I just ruin everything good, I don’t even know why.”

“Aw, babe, no-,”

“I told him I’d go out with Cole. I don’t even know why, I just wanted him to stop trying to make things work, he kept trying to tell me that he didn’t mean any of it, but I know he did.”

“Do you?” She asked, “Want to go out with Cole?”

“No, of course I don’t.” You shook your head, although you didn’t know how obvious it was, especially to everybody else, how little you wanted to be with anybody that wasn’t Luke. “I just want to go back to this morning, before I heard him say any of that stuff.”

“Why don’t you come downstairs, huh? We can find him, and the two of you can try to talk again-,”

“I can’t,” you refused, the thought of trying to communicate your feelings while you looked the way you did - eyes red raw and face all swollen - filling you with anxiety. “Can you just tell people I’m sick if they ask? I know it’s your birthday but I can’t go down there, Ellie.”

“Okay,” she had agreed, although the worry in her eyes made you feel even worse - missing your best friend’s birthday party because you were too chicken to face your feelings?

What sort of friend does that?

“I’ll come check on you, though. And tomorrow, you’re gonna have a serious conversation with Luke, alright? You can’t keep pushing people away, it isn’t good for you.”

“I know,” you sniffled, “I promise, I’ll try tomorrow.”

But trying had been futile. Luke wanted nothing to do with you - he could barely even look your way. He didn’t come downstairs for breakfast the next day, and when he finally did, he turned straight back around. Every time you tried to talk to him, he would shut you down, and by the tenth day of trying, you’d given up, entirely - booking yourself a ticket home, packing your things up one night and leaving the morning after.

The following weeks were spent wallowing back home with your mom - texting Ellie, waiting for him to reach out, even though you knew he wouldn’t. Watching sad movies, staying inside, spending your days alone, while your mom was at work, and trying not to miss him so much.

And coming back to Michigan had only been made easy by the fact that he would be gone - due to go back to training in Jersey, and the two of you wouldn’t cross paths.

It won’t hurt as much, you had thought, if you didn’t have to see him.

But now here Luke is, following Ellie’s gaze as she waves up to you in the stands, stood on the sidelines of the football game you’d only attended to finally get yourself out of the house - still in Michigan, stood at the end of the path you thought no longer led to him.

This might be the first time he’s met your eye in a while, and there’s a visceral feeling that shoots straight through you - your heart falling into an alarming, irregular thump that reverberates through your entire body, and it’s a strange sensation, like the slowing of time, the blurring of everything around you but him.

His arm is held to his front with a sling, and you try to ignore the way your stomach turns at the sight of it. It’s nothing to do with you, he doesn’t want you to care. He doesn’t even want to talk to you, and you don’t want to talk to him, either - not anymore. Not after almost 6 weeks of silence - of forcing yourself to think about anything but him, like you even could.

You offer a tight lipped smile and a wave to Ellie, and try to ignore his presence for as long as you can, try to watch the game, to focus on your friends in the stands beside you - only, he keeps looking back. Craning his neck, surveying the crowd as it fills up just to find you, and your heart starts to hammer in your chest every time you catch his eye.

What happened to him avoiding you at all costs? What happened to ignoring your attempts to talk, the knocks at his door, the pleading, persuasive looks you’d try to give him when it all got a little too much in the end.

Why can’t he just let you slip away into nothingness, like it would be so much easier to do?

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket as you’re trying to focus on the game, the desire to flee growing by the second - cramped and claustrophobic in your seat, dying for a drink and a minute of reprieve away from the crowd, away from Luke and whatever weird telekinetic powers he has on your heart.

Luke: can we talk?

Luke: I’ll be at the closest concessions in 5

You slip your phone back into your pocket without responding, and by the time you look back down to where he had been stood, he’s gone.

You should be relieved.

Maybe if you ignore his message, he’ll stop looking at you.

Maybe this is where it ends, and you can finally let each other go - too far gone to fix, nothing left to say.

Only your legs are now moving, side stepping Molly and the other girls, along with the rest of the people in your row, and your mouth is apologising to those you bump into, and your feet are carrying you down the stairs to where you know he’ll be, sneakers squeaking against the sticky floor as you search for him in the small concessions queue.

He stands taller than most, waiting by the counter, facing the other way, and you take the second that his back is turned to you to reconsider.

Stuck in place, staring at broad shoulders you’d once spent tracing the freckles between while he slept, and wondering which might hurt more - walking away or hearing him out.

He turns before you get the chance to choose, his eyes meeting yours , widening in surprise, as much as they can, considering his current predicament, and he immediately heads your way.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Luke just about says as he precariously holds onto a plastic cup between his teeth, offering you the one in his free hand - what you assume is diet coke with ice sloshing a little over the rim and onto the already sticky floor.

“Can hardly leave a one-armed man to navigate the concession stand on his own. Not one with your appetite, at least.” Your brows furrow when you notice the distinct lack of snacks in his hold, but you figure he prioritised using what little carrying capacity he had to get your drink. “Do you want me to hang around while you get something to eat? I can hold your drink,”

“I don’t have much of an appetite,” he says, clearer now that he can hold his cup in his hand instead of his mouth. “I’m on some pretty strong painkillers, can’t eat without feeling sick.”

“Oh,” you frown, eyeing the sling that holds his other arm. He had been fine when you left the lake house - and even last week, in Ellie’s story on instagram, he hadn’t seemed injured then. It must be a recent development, and so close to the season, for him to be out in public wearing a brace, it can’t be good. “What happened?”

“Took a pretty bad hit on the ice,” he shrugs with his other shoulder, lips turning down like he’s trying to play it off, “Been telling myself it’s karma.” The way he chuckles is distant and noncommittal, and not at all like all the ways you’re used to seeing him smile or laugh. His eyes don’t squint, his mouth barely turns up, barely pushes those tell-tale folds into his cheeks that you used to press at when he was close enough to do so. Back when being in such close proximity made your heart thump in a different way.

But maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe one of Luke Hughes’ signature crooked grins might have made you do something stupid, like touch him again. You’ve worked too hard to push away the feeling of wanting to for the past month.

“Karma for what?” You ask instead, head tilting to survey the damage, like you’d even be able to see anything through the thick yellow hoodie he has on. It’s better than looking him in the eye, you think.

“For what I said to Cole,” he tells you, the shame that lines his words doing little to alleviate the way they so quickly jab at you, all the memories of that day and that conversation rushing back at you full-force. Memories you’ve worked really hard to suppress. “For hurting you. I probably deserved to get hurt, too.”

“I’d never want you to be hurt, Luke.” You say before you can think better of it, narrowed eyes meeting his finally, watching as they soften slightly, let your words sink in and melt like warm butter, seeping into his every pore and breaking down his hardened exterior.

“Me neither,” he almost-whispers, “For you, I mean. I wouldn’t want you to be hurt.”

You nod, momentarily pressing your lips together, your focus dropping to a patch of lint on his hoody, clenching your free hand into a fist behind your back to save yourself from reaching out to pluck it off.

“Is that all you wanted to see me for?”

You don’t want to be rude to him, but it’s hard, especially when every instinct in your body is telling you to push him away - to keep him at arms length where he can’t pull you back in.

“No,” he utters quickly, his feet shuffling as if he wants to step forward, reduced the metaphorical distance you’re trying to force between the two of you. “I was hoping we could talk.”

You just about save yourself from having your jaw drop wide open.

You’d tried to talk to him last month, before you left, and he had wanted nothing more to do with you.

“In the middle of a football game?” You frown, daring to glance up - taking notice of the panic in his eyes when he reads you like a book, can recognise your retreating form from a mile off, by now.

“No,” he blurts out, “No, I mean later, if you’re free. Somewhere else.”

“I don’t know-,”

“We’re having a barbecue back at the house,” he interrupts, a look on his face like he couldn’t possibly accept no for an answer. “Like an end of summer send-off thing, you should come over, I know the guys would want to say goodbye properly.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you finish your earlier thought, “Besides, your family probably all hate me.”

“Why would they hate you?”

“Because of what happened with us,”

“Oh,” He frowns, “No, they don’t hate you, I promise, not even Jack.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you scoff - when he had helped Ellie move rooms back in the sorority house last week, he could barely even muster a smile to send your way. He hadn’t been his usual stand-offish self, but he had hardly been friendly, either. You didn’t expect laughs and hugs and welcome-backs, but after the two of you had kind of made up back at his cousin’s wedding, and things were finally solid between him and your best friend, you thought some kind of bridge had been built.

Apparently not.

“I didn’t tell them.”

“Oh,” you don’t know whether you feel relieved or disappointed. He can’t have been that heartbroken about the whole thing if he never told a soul, right? Even you told your mom when you got home - granted, she was a whole bottle of rosé deep into the night and seconds from falling into a wine coma, but you still at least acknowledged your feelings to somebody.

What did he do, just bottle all whatever feelings remained up and send them off down the lake? Enjoy the rest of his summer like you never happened?

“I didn’t think you’d want me to,” he continues, “You never really liked me talking about us with other people, so I didn’t.”

“Right,” you nod, biting your tongue to save from throwing out a bitter, thanks. You spent the last month watching heart-wrenching sad movies in your bed all day and he just went about his life like the two of you were nothing That’s fine. That’s cool.

“Ellie’ll be there,” he tries again, like she won’t be attached to Jack’s hip all night and you’ll be left on your own. “And a few of the Michigan guys, if you need a ride back to campus. I’d offer to drive you, but,” he nods down to his arm, “Or you can stay, your room is still free.”

Yourroom. Like you have any claim on any part of his world, still.

“I’ll think about it,” you tell him, because you can’t fully bring yourself to say no to his face. It’ll be easier when you’re back home, later, and can just ignore his texts, if he even cares enough to send any. “I should get back.”

“I can walk you back,”

“You shouldn’t be in a crowd with your arm,” your head shakes and you step back, your body language saying more than your lips even dare. “It’s fine. Thanks for the drink.”

“No problem.” He chews at the corner of his lip as he watches you retreat, like he has more to say.

Despite spending the last month doing everything in your power to wipe your thoughts clean of Luke Hughes, you want nothing more than to hear it - but where you’ve been suffering and relating every pathetic, sad song you hear back to him and fighting every urge to reach out through fear of rejection, he’s been ignoring your entire existence. Repressing whatever feelings he may have had and neglecting any instinct he might have had to reach out, too.

“Promise me you will?” He calls out when you’re a little ways down the tunnel, causing you to turn back to see him in the same spot, “Think about it, I mean. I’d really like to talk to you.”

Your fingers tense at the mere mention of a promise tumbling from his lips, your pinky sending signals to your feet to run straight back to him, practically itching to reach out and link with his. Instead, you nod, eyes darting to the big M that stretches across his chest, easier to look at that and lie than into his hopeful gaze.

“Sure,” you tell him, because you can hardly make a promise you can’t keep.

Not to Luke.

You’re not coming.

Luke realistically knew as much when Ellie arrived on her own - immediately going over to Jack and sparing Luke a glance out of the corner of her eye as she whispered to his brother.

But it’s taken him almost 2 hours to really come to terms with the fact - to stop keeping an eye on the door and whipping his head around any time a newcomer enters the house.

He should have known when you refused to make a promise to him - not like you owed him anything in the first place. Should have known when the few attempts you made at joking around with him like old times, you’d barely mustered a smile - that familiar glint in your eye that shone only for him watered down into a dull gaze you refused to hold.

God, he’s an idiot, he thinks.

He should have spoken to you when he had the chance - those few times you had tried to offer an olive branch, pushing a pre-poured glass of juice his way at breakfast or making space for him on the couch he’s now conveniently slumped on, all alone.

It feels a little like a lost cause now, trying to reignite some sort of spark between the two of you - not when you won’t even hear him out.

He’d felt a bit of hope when you’d met him at the stadium, thinking his text might have been left on read - and even though he’d made the effort to buy you a drink, he hadn’t entirely expected you to turn up.

He thinks maybe that had been the first thing to throw him for a loop - arranging a meeting on a whim and you actually making an appearance. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t form a coherent sentence, or relay any sort of confidence in himself or what he was trying to sell you on.

Maybe that’s why he couldn’t convince you to come.

He can’t blame you - your last 10 days here at the house had been miserable, on his account, and if he was in your shoes, he wouldn’t come back, either. He wouldn’t hear himself out, wouldn’t forgive himself.

The night of Ellie’s party should have been where he drew the line at avoiding you - the initial aftermath of your fight still sizzling, too hot to touch while the both of you were still reeling.

The morning after, he had been hungover - throwing back drinks like nobody’s business just to drown you out - and there was no chance of having a serious conversation, then, even though he had woke up alone in his bed wanting nothing more than for you to be there.

He’d gone downstairs sometime in the early afternoon, ignoring his growling stomach until he couldn’t do it any more , and had trudged into the kitchen only to find you there with Cole.

The bitterness within him fought violently with his need to puke, and he stormed back up to his room, no longer having any sort of appetite, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

The days that followed were no better - avoiding you at every given opportunity, ignoring your pleading eyes, leaving no chance for you to speak to him, despite all the times he could see that you wanted to. He’d leave every room you entered, turn away from every conversation you joined, and the final nail in the coffin was probably the time he ignored you knocking on his bedroom door one night, the soft call of his name feeling like a knife that twisted in his gut.

You were gone the next day - your bedroom door open and the room empty when he walked past, your seat at the table vacant when he came downstairs for breakfast, and he seemed to be the only one who didn’t know. Ellie seemed unbothered, already having moved into Jack’s room, Quinn was drinking the green tea you had bought, that no one else was supposed to touch, Alex probably wouldn’t have cared either way, and Cole was already talking about meeting up with some other girl.

“Wow,” Luke had scoffed, throwing himself into the chair beside Cole’s and sneaking a peak at his phone screen, suddenly feeling a burning need to call the guy out. He was to the entire reason you called things off with Luke, and now he was talking to someone else? “Her bed isn’t even cold and you’re already moving on, huh?”

Ellie had glared at him from across the table, and Jack had frowned too, no doubt wondering why after 10 days of complete silence about the whole thing, he was daring to bring you up now.

“What are you talking about?” Cole chuckled, leaning back in his chair and raising a brow at Luke, who just said your name in response, with a pointed stare. “What about her?”

“Thought you were ending your summer with a girlfriend.”

“Dude, where the hell have you been?” Cole snorted, amused, if anything, “She couldn’t have turned me down quicker if she tried. Man to man, don’t ever follow instructions from that one,” he pointed over to Ellie, “She led me on a wild goose chase all summer just so that I’d help her get her guy.”

“Hey!” Ellie called from across the table, “It’s not my fault you have no game. And I would have gotten my guy just fine without your help.”

Before Cole could retort, spurred on by the way Jack was chucking by her side, Luke frowned, straightening in his chair. “She didn’t want to go out with you?”

“No, but before you say anything, it has nothing to do with my game, alright? She’s into someone else, I guess.”

“Someone else?” Luke’s eyes darted over to Ellie, who just rolled hers in response, turning her attention back to Jack before she excused herself from the table.

“That’s my guess,” Cole shrugged, “She said she wasn’t into me like that, but come on.”

Wasn’t into him?

That wasn’t what you had said to Luke.

“Sorry man,” Luke offered, absentmindedly, head craning to see which direction Ellie left in. “As you were.”

He jogged out of the kitchen and up the stairs, just about catching her before she disappeared into her and Jack’s room. “Hey, wait,” he had called, watching as she let out a heavy sigh and turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. “She turned him down?”

“Did you not just have this exact conversation with Cole?”

“Ellie, c’mon,” he pleaded, desperation creeping up inside - feeling a little too much like guilt, and causing a serious discomfort in the pit of his stomach. “She said she wanted to date him.”

“You’re so unbelievably stupid.”

It didn’t quite hit the same as when you said it, shame washing over him at the way Ellie was glaring at him.

“She heard you tell him that she wasn’t girlfriend material, and that she would just be hard work, and not worth his time. Lucky for you, she didn’t hear the bullshit you said before that.” Regret formed like a heavy ball in his gut, the weight of it almost pushing him to keel over. “She said whatever she had to to get you off her back because it hurt her less to push you away.”

“I don’t-,”

“And you’re the dumbass who just let her do it.”

That’s not fair, he thought. What was he supposed to do, just watch you move on without a care in the world, cheering you on with a stupid grin on his face while his whole heart crumbled to pieces at the thought of you being with anybody else?

“I’m not a mind reader, Ellie,” he tried to defend himself, “I can’t keep pushing at a door that won’t open.”

“My God, do you have a peanut for a brain, Luke?” She had shoved at his chest, “She’s been holding the door open for the last ten days, and all you’ve done is walk past it. She wanted to talk to you, and you wouldn’t even look at her!”

“I wasn’t ready! I thought she-,”

He had thought you had taken Cole up on his offer of taking you out - had thought that’s the conversation he had stumbled into the day after the party - and he didn’t want to risk hearing anything about it, or seeing it in action.

“She said it didn’t matter.”

You had said that - he had asked you straight up, so there was no confusing it, but when he tried to remember, he can’t picture your eyes as you did. He must not have been looking, he thought, or maybe you weren’t looking at him. Either way, how’s he supposed to muster up a clear idea of your intentions if he can’t remember the look in your eyes as you spoke them.

You couldn’t lie to him - you never could, even in the beginning, pretending to be aloof, pretending you weren’t into him, he could always see through you, back then, so why didn’t he try harder when it was something he didn’t want to hear?

“She’s really gone home? Not just back to Ann Arbor?”

“What are you gonna do?” Ellie scoffed, folding her arms across her chest, “Chase her down?”

“I don’t know, if I have to. We need to talk.”

“She’s probably back at her mom’s by now, she left pretty early. And I think it’s for the best if you leave her alone, Luke. She gave you a hundred chances to talk.”

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t just leave things like this, I made a mistake, I need her to know that, I need her to know I’m sorry.”

“It’s better if you both just cool off a little. She’s hurt that you’ve been ignoring her, it isn’t fair to keep playing hot and cold with her feelings.”

“That’s not what I-,”

“I know.” Ellie sighed, leaning against the wall and giving him a pitiful look as she finally took in just how panicked he had become, running hands through his hair and shifting between his feet. “Just give it time, that way you can both think about it, think about what you want to say without just saying things and not meaning them.”

And that’s all Luke has been doing since then.

Thinking about what he wants to say to you - thinking about how to fix things. All without knowing when it is that he would even see you again, or if you’d be willing to listen.

He’d distracted himself with it - his mind stuck on just how bad he had messed things up, and it had put him into a rut - so much so, that he ended up hurting himself in training, an injury that would have him out for a good couple of months. And he had meant it, when he told you he thought it was karma, because he deserved a reality check, he thinks. It had shifted things into perspective, at least - because now he could stay in town a little longer, could try and make amends before he had to go home and properly start his season.

And when he’d noticed Ellie scanning the crowd back at the game, had followed her beaming smile all the way to you in the crowd, he thought his heart had stopped.

It had been 4 weeks since he’d seen you last - almost 6 since he’d spoken to you. Since he’d touched you, or kissed you, or seen you smile, and when your eyes meet his from the stands, widened and hesitant, he could tell you were feeling the same.

An insurmountable longing for something the two of you should never have thrown away.

He saw the truth, then, even as you looked away and diverted your attention back to Ellie - the truth he was too hurt to notice all those weeks ago back in your room in the lake house.

That you felt the same way - you always had - you just weren’t used to it. Weren’t used to loving someone, or having them love you.

But he can’t quite tell if you still feel it.

He can’t expect you to, not with how reserved you’ve become.

He sighs, sinking into the cushions of the couch, legs stretched out and head thrown against the back as he squints against the light - the noise around him dwindling to a constant buzz.

He’s too caught up in his head to notice when Ellie sinks down beside him until she nudges at his side, and he slowly looks her way.

“If it helps at all, I could tell she wanted to come.”

Luke snorts out a humourless laugh, eyes rolling. “If she wanted to come, she’d be here.” He says, the muscles in his jaw tensing. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“She doesn’t really open up to people,” Ellie sighs, and he can tell from the way she’s looking at him that’s only divulging this from a place of pity, although he guesses that’s better than her saying nothing at all. “It took us years to get to where we are, and even now I’m not sure she lets me all the way in, and we’re supposed to be best friends.”

“I feel like I don’t even know if she was ever into me in the first place,” he mutters, tracing at a scratch in the surface of the table. Even if he had thought different, back in the stadium, he can’t be so sure now that you haven’t shown. You’d have come if you still cared. “I’m still confused by the whole Cole thing-,”

“That was my fault,” Ellie interjects, “I thought I was doing the right thing, I didn’t realise that you two were-,” her teeth clash as she bites down, as if to stop saying the word, together. “Whatever you were. And she just got all in her head after she heard you saying all that stuff, it’s what she does, keeps her cards close to her chest until she loses them all.”

“That’s the problem, El,” Luke groans, “If she really liked me, she would have told you. If she was ever serious, you’d have known something was up. She wouldn’t have hidden it from her best friend and told me that she was gonna go out with Cole after all.”

“You know she turned him down, Luke, he said himself, she was into someone else.”

“Yeah, or so he assumed,” he grumbles, recalling the feeling he got when Cole had said as much, back on the day you left.

“And you know on my birthday when she overheard that conversation, she’d literally just told me that she liked you. That’s big for her, Luke. It might have taken her a while but she got there in the end. It’s your own fault for having such a big mouth and ruining it.”

“I told her I didn’t mean it,” he can’t help how whiney he sounds, lips pouting and a crease forming between his eyebrows. “I told her I was sorry.”

“And then you ignored her for almost two weeks until she had no choice but to leave. You don’t get to claim the moral high ground here, I’m sorry.”

“So what am I supposed to do? She won’t talk to me.”

“You just have to give her time, don’t give up again.” Ellie nudges him a little too forcefully, the sharp jut of her elbow in his ribs causing him to wince. “Really think about if there’s a version of you that could be friends.”

“What if I don’t want to be friends, what if I don’t wanna keep taking one step forward and three back?”

“Then think about if you’d rather be nothing at all.”

“She hates me that much?”

“I don’t know, she stopped talking to me about it.” Ellie huffs, leaning back a little more into the couch. “But I’d take that as a no. If she hated you, neither of us would hear the end of it, trust me.”

He knows that’s true - all the odd comments you’d drop about Jack back in the beginning of summer. He knows you never hated Jack, but there was always a clear dislike, and you were never shy about voicing it to anyone willing to listen.

If you’re not talking about him at all, it means one of two things. You either give so little of a shit about him that you don’t see a use in bringing him up, or you don’t want to show vulnerability by admitting how much he hurt you.

He knows what he’d put his money on.

“Can’t you talk to her for me? Put a good word in?” He pleads, rounding his eyes in the hopes that Ellie’s pity extends to doing him a solid - he dedicated his entire summer to getting her and Jack together, after all.

“I think it’s best for the both of us if I stay out of her love life. My meddling is what got you guys into this mess in the first place.”

Luke sighs as he resumes his previous position, neck thrown against the back of the couch and eyes cast to the ceiling.

Your room is right above - the bed on which you’d kissed him that first time, away from your scheming at the mall, still made and empty. The bed where you two would lay atop the covers, watching movies on the old staticky TV, sharing snacks between you and spouting commentary into the night.

He wonders, then, if you’d watched anything since the last time - before you left - and it’s that thought that has him pushing himself up and making his way up the stairs.

Despite the amount of time since you were in here, it still kind of smells like you - like melon sunscreen and passionfruit perfume - and he casts a glance around for anything that might remain.

There’s nothing, though. No loose hair ties, forgotten jewellery, not even a book left behind.

And then he checks by the TV - the shelf below it housing a DVD player, and he powers it up just to press eject.

After a few seconds, a disc spins out.

Silver Linings Playbook, with Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence.

He might have seen it once or twice, can vaguely remember some of the storyline, but it isn’t until everybody has left the house a good hour or two later that he thinks he should watch it - if it’s the last movie you watched before you left - just to get an idea of your headspace.

When he’s lounging on his own bed, the movie playing on his TV, Jennifer’s Tiffany saying to Bradley’s Pat, “I used to think that you were the best thing that ever happened to me, but now I think that you might maybe be the worst thing. And I'm sorry that I ever met you.” And it turns his stomach in a way he isn’t prepared for, tears pricking at his eyes at the thought of you watching this and thinking the same.

And then Pat responds, and Luke sits with the line for a good minute, pausing the movie as he ponders the response, "Good for you. Come on, let's go dance.”

He wonders if you smiled the same way - soft and small, hopeful that one day the punches you throw to defend yourself are met with the same resistance, with a hand that grabs at them, and instead of fighting back, just pulls you closer.

It’s almost by instinct that he pulls his phone out, loading up the same app he always does when he’s watching a movie, ready to fill in a review when it gets to a part that resonates with him.

And there you are, on his friends feed - the last movie you logged being an hour ago, La La Land, which you had unsurprisingly given 5 stars, and had reviewed with just a quote - It’s pretty strange that we keep bumping into each other. Maybe it means something.

And he grins, really and genuinely beams, for what feels like the first time in a while, a small chuckle rumbling up from his chest as he checks for your review on Silver Linings - the same quote he loved so much sitting there under your 5 star rating.

He doesn’t want to be nothing, he decides, then, like it was ever in question.

And he realises it’s up to him to do something about it.

Luke’s first thought when it comes to fixing thing is to text you.

It’s simple, and it should be easy, but he sits staring at your name in his phone for 30 minutes trying to think of what would be best to say.

A casual, hey, in the hopes that you’d just instinctively type it back.

A call out, like, Bummed you couldn’t come over the other night, thinking you might have been feeling guilty.

A question, or even an invite, along the lines of, Do you want to meet somewhere? Because leaving someone hanging on an invite is just plain cruel.

But then he feels like he doesn’t want to force your hand - weirdly inspired by that La La Land quote you loved so much, about bumping into each other.

Only orchestrating a chance encounter was hard when you weren’t going out. Ellie had mentioned everybody going for drinks at one of the bars on campus, and you never turned up.

She told him your favourite coffee shop, and despite him hanging around all day one time, like a total creep, he didn’t catch sight of you once.

You weren’t with Ellie when he bumped into her at the mall, or at the diner, when he had gone for burgers with the guys and seen a few of your sorority sisters on the other side of the restaurant.

And even when Ellie had told him to come over to the house, that she’d take him into town to pick up some suits, because he was still in his sling and couldn’t drive himself, he had been disheartened to find out you wouldn’t be there - that you had a morning class, and Ellie hadn’t even seen you.

He settles for looking at the cute photo of you and Ellie on the mantle, greek letters painted on your cheeks, beaming smiles as you looked straight into the camera, and he still gets that twinge in his chest even looking at a photo.

A twinge that only grows when he hears a gasp from behind him, and he swiftly turns to see you at the bottom of the staircase, looking back at him, alarmed and surprised.

Luke’s eyes trail slowly up your bare legs, his throat going dry as they land on the oversized shirt you’re wearing - his shirt, he’s pretty sure, although he knows it’s probably best not to comment on that - before cutting up to your face, wide eyes staring back at him.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, stepping back toward the staircase where you rest your hand on the bannister, putting as much distance between the two of you as you can without completely retreating up the stairs.

“I uh-,” he stutters, losing his train of thought as he stands there with his mouth agape, taking you in.

He hadn’t been prepared to see you, that much is clear - and especially not like this, dressed in his shirt, which you’ve obviously slept in, hair a little messy, skin bare of any makeup. It reminds him of those mornings in his bed, waking up before the rest of the house, your body bathed in the soft glow from the rising sun, trading sleepy kisses until you would sneak back off to your room.

It makes him yearn for that, again, and feelings like that need some kind of forewarning, otherwise they serve nothing but to make him ache.

“I said I’d drive him to an appointment,” Ellie says as she emerges from the kitchen, car keys in hand, “I though everyone had class this morning, you’re not gonna hand me in for having a guy in the house, are you?”

“I’m not a snitch,” you frown, tugging at the ends of his shirt, “I slept in, I didn’t think anyone else was here either.”

He didn’t exactly need the confirmation, considering your current state, but knowing you slept in his shirt makes the heat creep up his neck, his chest puffing as he really takes in the meaning of it.

So many things about you are screaming that you want nothing to do with him, but you’re sleeping in his old Michigan shirt, one you’d borrowed when your shoulders were burning out on a wakeboarding trip one day, he’s pretty sure - one he never even realised you kept.

“Do you need a ride?” She offers, stepping beside Luke, close enough that in order to look at Ellie, you pretty much have to look his way too, and every time you glance at him, he catches you. “We were gonna go get a drink before, so we’re heading your way anyway. Or you could come with, if you’re skipping."

“Uh, no,” you decline, without even thinking about it, Luke’s chest feeling a little tighter at just how quick you are to avoid being near him. “I’m gonna go to the library.”

“I could still drive you. I doubt you’d mind a detour, would you, Lukey?”

“No,” he breathes out, almost immediately, eyes staying on you. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s fine,” you offer Ellie a tight lipped smile, “I’ll walk.”

And that’s that - your figure retreating back up the stairs before Luke has anything to say about it, his shoulders slumping as Ellie offers a friendly pat to his back.

“C’mon then, I need to stop for gas, you’re paying.”

He follows Ellie out to the back of the house, where the girls usually park their cars off the street, and just as he’s climbing into Ellie’s Mini, he glances up to the one of the windows, just in time to catch the quick shift of a curtain.

“Don’t worry,” Ellie says as he adjusts the passenger seat, folding his long legs into the limited space, an assured smile sent his way before she starts up the car. “I’ve got a plan.”

“What happened to no more meddling?” He huffs as he buckled himself in.

“I can’t sit back and watch my best friend become boring trying to avoid you, Luke,” she sighs, “It’s borderline painful.”

—

You don’t know when managing your social life became Ellie’s full time job - as if the two of you aren’t tumbling into the depths of your final year of school with very little direction or guidance - but you’re growing tired of it, quick.

First, it had been, you’re coming to the bar and I’m not taking no for an answer, except, she had taken no for an answer, she just relished in making you feel bad for it after.

Then it had been, I need your opinion on halloween costumes, and she had insisted you join her at the mall, but you had an appointment with the careers counsellor that you really couldn’t miss, and she had to settle with sending you photos, again adding incessant messages about how she wouldn’t let you turn down the next invitation out.

Never mind trying to avoid bumping into Luke during his extended stay, avoiding Ellie was becoming a real task - slipping out before she can corner you in the mornings and staying out most of the day.

She caught you off guard, the other day, though - inviting Luke around. Sure, you were supposed to be in class - would have been, if your alarm had gone off on time - but still, bringing him into your space was like crossing a line, breaking an unspoken rule.

She’s supposed to be on your side. She isn’t supposed to be bringing the guy who hurt you into your house and driving him around town like his personal assistant, all from the good of her heart.

She’s just trying to kiss up to Jack.

At least, you thought so, until she sent you a text later that day - a bunch of pictures of Luke in different suits, tailored perfectly to his lean figure, shirts that stretched taut across his broad shoulders and pants that clung perfectly to his hips, followed by the message, thoughts?

You had many, but none that you could possibly sent to her - only replying with a question mark until she apologised, claiming they were meant for Jack’s approval.

It became clear then, what she was doing - flaunting him in front of you until you burst at the seams, like one of those jackets looked like it was going to do in a few of the pictures from the back of Luke in the tailor shop. Sending you those had been no accident.

And that’s why you were sceptical when the weekend rolled around, and she was begging and pleading for you to go with her to a party at the hockey house - promising you that he was finally heading back to Jersey, and definitely wasn’t going to be around.

She’d buttered you up with groans of, I feel like I never see you anymore, and, school is stressing me out, already, I just want to let loose with my best friend!

And it was the promise that she’d let you wear a skirt you’ve been eyeing in her closet for the past two years that sealed the deal - a vintage Diesel mini that she had thrifted and guarded like her whole life depended on it.

You can’t help it, anyway - it’s been so long since you’ve been out like that - probably summer being the last time - and you need to let loose too.

And that’s how you end up walking hand in hand through the front door, Ellie having styled your hair, the two of you looking like a million dollars, and it’s the first time in months that you aren’t disturbed by the feeling of eyes on you.

You kind of feel like your old self - confident, self-assured, like there isn’t a soul on earth who could possibly make you doubt yourself.

You wish the universe gave you at least five minutes to sit with that feeling before you saw him.

Before you saw Luke, sling-free, bottle in hand, leaning against the wall, talking to Victoria Anderson, a girl you know he has history with - a girl you have history with, yourself.

You hate how quick the switch within you flips - the slight slump of your posture, the tension in your jaw, all your self-worth seeping from your pores like your body is actively trying to kill it.

Your hand slips from Ellie’s, immediately heading in the opposite direction to where Luke is - making a bee-line straight for the kitchen, straight for a drink.

Ellie is hot on your heels, grasping at your arm to keep up, “I’m sorry,” she calls after you.

“You said he wouldn’t be here,” you grumble, shoving through the swinging door and heading straight for the line of bottles on the counter.

“What am I, his keeper?” She scoffs, trying to play it off as a lighthearted joke, but you can see it in her eyes that she knew. “I don’t know where he’s gonna be at all hours of the day.”

“You said he was going back to Jersey.”

“Yeah, well, I must have got my days mixed up!”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, pouring out a shot from the first bottle you find without even reading the label, and throwing it back before you can think twice. You pour yourself a proper drink, after - a vodka with diet coke - and sip at it just to cool your nerves, trying to calm yourself down.

You don’t want to be mad at Ellie - whatever she’s doing, she’s doing it because she cares - but you’re so tired of overthinking this whole thing. All you want is a break from it all, and no one is willing to give you one.

“I’m gonna go find Ethan,” you tell her, figuring you can kill two birds with one stone - ask him about the class you missed the other morning, and avoid speaking to Luke, “If you want to make this up to me, I need you to tell Luke to steer clear, okay?”

“Fine,” she scowls, rolling her eyes as she has to pour her own drink.

You storm off back toward the door, and just as you get close, it swings open, the edge of it knocking straight into you - into the hand holding your freshly poured drink, which is now dripping down your front.

Your whole body tenses at the sensation of the liquid seeping through your shirt, only momentarily thankful that you hadn’t added ice before you remember the coke - remember the vintage skirt, with the light denim wash.

You hear Ellie groan from behind you, and you squeeze your eyes shut in the hopes that you’ll magically gain some sort of time travelling superpower - a rewind button, like Click.

“Are you okay?”

Of course it had to be him, you think - because you’ve somehow unsettled the entire balance of the universe, and this is how it’s decided to repay you, your eyes opening to find those concerned, grey-green eyes peering back at you.

He takes the empty cup that’s being squished in your grip and tosses it into a trash can to the side before you feel a hesitant hand on your side, watching as he surveys the damage.

“And here I thought that skirt couldn’t get uglier.”

Victoria’s piercing blue eyes gleam back at you, a sinister smirk plastered on her lips, and you’re lunging before you even know it until a strong arm curls around your waist, the heat of his skin slipping straight into the gap between your skirt and t-shirt, and sending a shiver straight down the spine that’s now pressed to his front.

“Hey, c’mon,” he warns, pulling you back with enough force that there’s a good couple of feet between you and Victoria now, and her eyes narrow at all the points he’s touching you. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You think you only let him guide you away to piss her off - and it isn’t until he’s ushering you into the small downstairs bathroom and closing the door behind him that you realise how little consideration you put into that.

You watch as Luke retrieves a towel from the small cupboard by the door, forgetting he probably still knows this place like the back of his hand, and starts to work at the front of your t-shirt before you snatch it away.

“I’ve got it, thanks.” You snap, entirely frustrated with the whole situation than you think you are with him, a small swirling of guilt immediately bubbling up inside you.

You dab at the skirt, first, hoping there’s some way that it’s salvageable, or Ellie’s going to murder you. You lean against the counter by the sink, and glance down at the damage. It looks just like a water stain, for now, unfortunately placed, but you won’t know for sure until it dries, and dabbing at it with a towel isn’t really going to fix that.

“Did she hurt your hand?” Luke asks, low voice breaking the silence you were starting to cherish, and it’s only then that you realise where the door hit you. Your knuckles ache a little, but you can still flex your fingers, so you figure they’ll just be bruised tomorrow.

You do wish you could have bruised them another way - maybe with a fist to Victoria Anderson’s smug grin - but you’re supposed to be a pacifist, so maybe not. If anyone’s going to break that pattern, it would be her - your rival in every way ever since you came to Michigan. Academically, in all the same classes, socially, in opposing sororities, and even romantically, with her somehow always looking out for the same guys.

She’d even been at one of the parties back at the lake house, with her hands all over Luke - you remember hearing her shrill laugh and feeling like someone had just drug their nails down a chalkboard, all semblance of peace instantly lost.

You’re brought out of whatever fiery daydream even her name elicits with the touch of Luke’s fingers to yours, the soft brush of his thumb over your knuckles as he checks for any real damage.

“I’m fine,” you croak out, dazed a little by the feeling before you tear your hand away, “It was just a knock.”

“You want me to kick her ass?”

You blame the shot you took for the way you snort out a laugh - caught by surprise and unable to even consider the reaction, slipping straight back into your unguarded self around him - like the walls you’ve tried so hard to rebuild just dissolved. Not even a knock or a tumble of bricks, just them fading into nothing like magic.

Luke smiles back, soft and hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to fade away, too.

And then there’s that silence you thought you wanted - heavy and tense, and it’s too much for you to handle, so you slip past him, wordlessly, and head straight back to the door.

And just as your fingers grasp at the handle and you prepare yourself to pull, a large hand lays flat on the surface beside you, trapped by a warm chest closing in on your back.

It’s quiet for a minute, the dull thump of the bass from the music somewhere else in the house now distant and fading, and the room feels charged way beyond the atmosphere of the party you’ve been away from a little too long.

You see the bend in his elbow before you feel his breath on the back of your neck, and you can feel the distance closing - an inch or two now, so close that you have to stay vigilant not to take even the slightest step back.

“Luke,” you breathe, your throat stinging in preparation for some sort of hurt, and your lip trembling until you start to chew on it.

“Just one more minute.”

“You have to let me go.”

“Please, I just want to talk.”

You turn, slowly, and you don’t know why you do it to yourself, because it’s inevitable you’ll fall prey to the pleading look in his eyes. Your back falls against the door, and you’re craning your neck to look up at him, blinking slow as his eyes flicker between your own.

Every passing second feels like a minute, and just as you’re about to give in - to tell him to go ahead and talk, the door vibrates behind you, a fist banging into the other side.

“Please tell me the skirt is okay!”

You press a hand flat to his chest and push, wedging some much needed space between the two of you - enough that you can swing the door open and face Ellie, and save yourself from plunging into whatever rabbit hole that would have taken you down.

“I won’t know until it’s dry, but if it’s bad, we’ll take it to the cleaners, okay?”

“Ugh,” Ellie groans, grabbing you by the hand and dragging you back to the kitchen for another drink, “I’m so running her ass over the next time I see her on the street.”

You look back at Luke, still stood in the doorway, watching the whole way until you disappear around the corner, and it’s only when you can’t see him anymore that your heart rate returns to an acceptable speed.

You successfully manage to avoid Luke for a good couple of hours, almost forgetting him, miraculously, despite being in a house filled with his closest friends. There’s even a point where you think he might have left, until you stumble out into the backyard to a group setting up a small fire to keep warm.

You’re too buzzed to comment on the legality of it, so far gone that the thought of campus police coming around barely even crosses your mind, and you throw yourself down into one of the camp chairs with a drink in hand as the group discuss how to pass the time.

You can’t remember who suggests Never Have I Ever, too distracted by the figure settling down on the opposite side of the fire, long limps stretching almost comically out of the small chair, meeting your eyes for a moment before you look away at the arrival of Nick, who comes with cards in hand.

You’d usually make some sort of comment about how juvenile it is, but there’s this part of you that’s probably trying to cling a little to that, lately, so you let it pass, leaning almost sleepily back into your chair as it kicks off.

The game is pretty tame compared to other times you’ve played it, stuff like, never have I ever crashed a car, and, never have I ever broken a bone, coming from the top of the deck, and there’s only a few complaints about it needing more spice before it gets to Ellie’s turn to pick, a few people down from you.

“Never have I ever,” Ellie drags out before picking a card, flipping between her manicured fingers and smiling slowly as she reads the rest, “Been in love,” she coos, turning it to show the rest of the group with a love-struck grin.

A chorus of groans sing out from around the circle, Luca reaching to swipe the card from Ellie as she takes a big chug from her red cup. “That’s so lame,” he huffs, “Pick another, this isn’t the Ellie show. We get it, you're happy, doesn't mean the rest of us should suffer.”

You glance down at your empty cup as the two of them start to argue about the rules of the game, Ellie grumbling how she didn’t write the cards, and Luca retorting with how she could have at least gone off-script to make it a little more interesting.

If you had any semblance of your inhibitions, any control of your reactions, your gaze would have stayed on the last few drops swirling around the base of your drink. Your eyes wouldn’t have trailed up slowly, past the dancing flames of the makeshift-campfire, and fallen onto another cup at the opposite side of the circle.

It wouldn’t have watched intently as long, slender fingers raised to bring said cup up, pressing to parted lips, the contents gulped down as you stare at the movement of his throat around the liquid.

When you dare to look higher, you find him already staring back at you, piercing green eyes burning hotter than the fire between you, and your own throat goes dry as you watch.

And of course he makes a show of it, squaring his shoulders and swiping a thumb across his bottom lip to make sure there's no residue. No evidence of all that he had just admitted to. Nothing but the memory of it burned already into the back of your retinas, lingering like an ache all the way down your spine.

No one else seems to notice - but you suppose that’s just how things go between you and Luke. One more secret to add to the ever-growing pile.

Your hand trembles as if it wants to copy him, but you’re thankful for the last shred of dignity you have that tells you that even if you wanted to drink - even if you could play it off as assuming the question had been vetoed, and you were just quenching your thirst in the brief break in the game - there’s nothing left. Even if you wanted to drink - which you brain is so loudly telling you that you don’t - you can’t.

And when Luke’s gaze shifts, lowers painstakingly slow as everything else fades to background noise around the two of you, you don’t know why you find yourself tilting your cup when his eyes land on it, making a show of just how empty it is.

“You’re not gonna drink?” Ethan frowns from beside you, a nudge of his elbow knocking at yours and bringing you back down to earth with a painful splat.

Why would he assume that?

“What?” You ask, frowning as you meet his chocolate brown eyes, the reflection of the flames basking them in a warm, melting glow.

“He said never have I ever been kicked out of a bar,” he chuckles, quirking a brow as your face morphs from one of confusion to one of recollection. “I know for a fact you have.”

“Oh, right,” you laugh, nervously, the reaction coming out more like a stuttered breath as the panic swirling in your chest dissipates just the slightest. “I’m running on empty. I’m gonna go get a refill.”

Ethan nods as he shuffles a little to let you out of the circle, watching with narrowed eyes as you lift yourself from the chair and edge your way out of the group and back towards the house.

The kitchen is thankfully empty when you get back inside, sliding the door shut behind you to block out the noise, your thoughts overbearing enough without still being able to hear everyone yelling out in the yard.

You move almost on autopilot, heading for the row of bottles on the counter and reaching straight for the vodka you’ve been mixing with diet coke all night.

You pour out a measured shot first, swirl it in the cup before lifting the it straight to your lips, leaving little room to think much more about it, and throwing your head back.

The liquid burns the whole way down - all the way from the back of your mouth, past your aching chest, and into the pit of your stomach, pooling there in a nauseating bubble of heat and regret - and you don’t know entirely if the need to drink was just to quench your thirst, to alleviate the warmth spiking up your neck, to quell the rampant beating of your heart, or to play along with the game. With Luke’s game.

Maybe some mysteries are better left unsolved.

He wasn’t in love with you.

You think you’d know. He would have told you - he’s hardly shy about voicing his opinion, you learned that the hard way.

He’s just being cruel, now, you’ve convinced yourself - probably payback for earlier, for leaving him in the bathroom and telling him to let you go. One final act of defiance, because he has to have the last word.

God, why would you even play along?

You shouldn’t have even looked his way - should have kept your eyes down, then you wouldn’t still be feeling like your whole body is on fire.

Your eyes dart up at the sound of the screen door opening, and your heart thuds in your chest at the sight of who walks through.

You hold your breath as he slowly makes his way toward you - cautious steps carrying him toward the counter where you stand, and he places his empty cup on the surface beside yours,

“You can’t avoid me forever.”

“I don’t have to avoid you forever,” you shrug, circling around him and trying not to let him trap you again, “I just have to avoid you until you go home.”

“I don’t want to go home without us talking,” he grasps at your wrist before you can fully get past him, levelling you with a tired look, one that says he’s resigned to his fate, but he can’t rest until he tries one last time. “Please.”

“Luke,” you groan, the remnants of intoxication slowly fading into exhaustion.

“Just one conversation.” He begs, “Then you can be done with me, I’ll leave you alone.”

Your lips twist as you try not to give under the weight of his softened, pleading gaze. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that - and he’s technically surpassed the efforts you had made back before you left the house toward the end of summer, now almost 3 weeks since you had turned him down back at the football game.

And do you really want him to leave you alone? You’re not entirely sure. Maybe talking to him can help you finally figure that out.

“Fine.” You acquiesce. “One conversation.”

“You want me to walk you home?” He asks, his voice soft and low, a tilt to his head that makes his curls shuffle and a caring glint in his eye that makes your legs feel like jelly. It’s probably for the best if he does, you think, you’re at a serious fall-risk now. Tired and buzzed, a lethal combination.

You nod, wordlessly, watching as he seemingly tries to fight a small smile, straightening up to swipe your cup, stacking it with his own and throwing it in the trash.

“C’mon, I already gave Ellie a heads up, I’ll come back for her.”

You soften a little at the thought of him considering her - even if it isn’t about you. If it’s on Jack’s behalf, and he’s just being a good brother, him looking out for your best friend is still sweet.

You let him guide you out of the house, and it’s quiet in a way you can’t stand, walking side by side down the otherwise empty street.

“You’re out of your sling, then?” You don’t know why you feel better to make small talk - but waiting with bated breath for him to say what he’s been trying to for so long now makes your heart pound almost painfully against your ribcage.

“Yeah,” he flexes his arm a little, as if to prove a point. “I’m back in Jersey at the end of the week, will probably be doing no contact training for a while.”

“How long until you’re playing again?”

“They’re saying it’s looking like November,” he tells you, “Which sucks, but at least I don’t need surgery like Jack.”

“Do you miss it?” You ask, conscious of the way your steps are slowly turning toward his and trying to straighten yourself up. “Being back in New Jersey with your team, with Jack?”

“Jack doesn’t give anybody a chance to miss him, you should know that by now.” He grumbles, "In my texts 24/7 like it’s his second job.”

“Ellie’s too,” you tell him in a breathy chuckle, crossing your arms over your torso just to keep your hands busy with something as he shoves his back in the pockets of his jeans. “I don’t know where he finds the time,”

“He doesn’t need time, he’s annoying to his very core.” Luke scoffs, “I do miss the guys though, but there’s a couple group chats. And I’d probably miss the guys here if I was back there.”

“So either way you’re missing somebody?”

He gives an affirmative hum, kicking a rock down the side of the curb, figuring you don’t quite realise just how true that question rings to him. The sorority house is at the end of the path, now - closer than either of you really anticipated, and you almost start to panic, like the walls are closing in on you, like you’re running out of time.

“Listen-,”

“Look-,”

You both stop in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at each other wide eyed until you press your lips together, and gesture for him to carry on.

“I miss you,” he says, plain and simple, like it’s all he can muster up - and if you’re honest, it’s all you want to hear, an acknowledgement that without you in his life, there’s this gaping hole that no one else can fill. “I know that if I want to fix things between us, that I should give you this huge speech about how much I fucked things up, and that I should have trusted you, and listened to you when you tried to talk to me, and I do think all those things. I know those things, but I’ve been trying to figure out how to say them without it sounding like some bullshit excuse, and I figure I just need to be honest with you.

“I feel like the whole time we were together, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know, like I could never just be in the moment with you because I felt like it was gonna end. And I think maybe you were doing the same.”

It’s crazy, you think, how well he knows you.

“And neither of us were ever gonna be ready to be anything more, because we weren’t even acknowledging that this thing between us probably wasn’t healthy.”

You’re quite thankful for the sting in the back of your throat, because you don’t know what you’d say to that, if you could speak.

It hurts to hear it, but he’s right.

“I just wanted to believe it was a good thing for as long as you’d let me, and when you said you’d have dated Cole, and that you’d have thrown it all away, and I just left without a fight, I-,” he blinks, like he’s trying to rid himself of the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, like he doesn’t want to give in and let them shed. “I don’t know, I thought it was best to avoid you all together than watch you put that final nail in the coffin, or whatever.”

“You know I never went out with Cole, right?”

“I know. He told me before he left for training camp. The day you left. Almost considered running after you to apologise for being such a dick. Even thought about flagging you down in departures at Wayne County.”

You let that thought sit for a moment - Luke chasing you down like something out of one of the romantic comedies you would watch together - like the angsty movies you watched after you went home, laying on your bed and wishing the two of you could have had a happy ending.

“Probably for the best you didn’t chase me through the airport,” you tell him with a wistful smile, “declarations of love freak me out,”

“I thought they might.” He chuckles, breathily, his heart not entirely in it.

“I also took the greyhound.”

“You know serial killers get those things, right.”

“You watch too many movies.”

His eyes flicker to yours, then, knowing and amused - like a new inside joke has cemented itself into your dynamic.

“I don’t want to be nothing with you.”

It’s a weird statement, almost nonsensical, but you get it.

It’s what you’ve been trying for ever since you left Michigan, after all, and especially after you returned.

You let the thought settle for a moment, your lips twisting and your eyes tearing up as you watch him wait for a response.

“You really hurt me, Luke.” Your voice trembles as you say it, and you think you’re only part spurred on by liquid courage, the rest of it probably the incessant need to open up to somebody.

“I know,” he practically whispers back, choked up as much as you are.

“I don’t think I can do that again.”

He nods, pressing his tongue to the side of his cheek like he’s trying not to press you on it, stepping back ever so slightly and huffing out a deep breath.

You almost think he might retreat, entirely - accepting your reluctance this final time and letting you go, just like you’d asked, earlier.

“What about if it’s not,” he shakes his head, sighing as he tries to think of the best way to say it, “What if it’s not romantic, between us?”

“You really think we could be friends?”

“You don’t?” He asks, wincing a little like the thought of anything else is painful.

“We’re hardly gonna see each other,” you tell him, “Is there really any point in keeping it up?”

“I’d like to try.”

You don’t know what concept hurts you the most, the thought of trying and failing, or not trying at all. Either way, you lose him.

You wish, for a moment, you were in any way good at math - that you could work out the statistic for the other option, the one where it actually works.

The option where neither of you get hurt, and you get to keep him.

You imagine that it’s slim.

“I don’t know, Luke,” you sigh, unable to shake the heaviness of your doubt, “It feels like we’re just stretching out the inevitable, here.”

“I don’t think so,” he fights back, taking that step forward that he just took back, “Just friends, it doesn’t have to be anything more than that. Hell, if you want to build up to friends, I’ll take that, too. Just not nothing. I miss you too much to be nothing.”

You miss him, too. You missed him the past 3 weeks while he’s been in town, and the two of you have somehow managed to avoid seeing each other for the most part. You missed him for the month you were back at your mom’s house. You missed him those ten days over in the lake house, when he was still technically right in front of you the whole time.

“Can I think about it?”

“Yeah!” He nods, eagerly, the slight etching of a smile spreading across his lips. “Yes, you can think about it.”

You nod back, then, hesitant and before you can do something stupid, like wrap your arms around him as a goodbye, you step away.

You bid him goodnight, offering a thank you for walking you home, and you retreat into the safety of the house, watching through the window by the front door until he disappears back down the street.

The start of your semester passes in a chaotic blur, and you very quickly, and very frantically, find yourself panicking a little about the what’s-next of it all.

With the last few months of your headspace occupied entirely by a certain brunette, you realise quickly that you really need to knuckle down and figure out what you’re going to do with yourself once school is over.

And that’s what brings you to New York City in the middle of October - one of your very few prospects for the aftermath of your college career discussed over iced teas in Midtown, Manhattan, before you’re crossing state lines through the Holland Tunnel and scrambling to get ready in the hotel room you and Ellie had booked.

You don’t know how you managed to hide all of your efforts behind a veil of secrecy, but Ellie had been all too distracted by you agreeing to accompany her to Jack’s team halloween party in Jersey City, and so she had little brain power left to question where you disappeared off to, or why you’d possibly have any sort of appointment anywhere near here as soon as you told her she could pick up a costume for you.

You should have known it would be something ridiculous, evidenced by the poofy yellow dress and cartoonish crown she had left on your bed for you to change into.

When you emerge from the bathroom, fully dressed, she’s stood in her Princess Peach costume - the colour palette a lot more complementary to her than the yellow is to you, but you can hardly fight her on it now - especially knowing Jack is out there somewhere dressed as Mario.

You don’t know how it slips your mind that he and Luke play for the same team, or that they’re brothers, or that he could possibly at the same party, dressed as Luigi. Not until you and Ellie are walking into the party a little after it starts, and you meet his eye for the first time in a couple of weeks, your mouth falling agape as you realise just what Ellie has done.

You don’t even have a second to call her out before she’s prancing off to some far side of the room with Jack, all over him after their own extended time apart, and you literally have no option but to sidle up to Luke, tail between your legs, cringing at the entire situation as you stand beside him in a room full of his peers after you had only just shut him down not long ago.

Thankfully, it’s Luke - and he would rather choke than make you feel uncomfortable about it.

He offers an easy smile, amused, even, as he greets you from the tall table he’s occupying, handing you the beer he just opened for himself and reaching for another from the table behind him.

“I don’t even know why I agreed to come with them, I knew they’d just split and make out in the corner,” you roll your eyes, taking a swig from the bottle and grimacing a little at the taste. “I don’t even know anybody.”

“You know me,” he shrugs, “I don’t mind keeping you company.”

“Yeah right,” you scoff, “You literally just came back, the last thing you need is to be lumped in a corner with me all night when you’ve hardly seen your teammates for months. I’m just gonna duck out in a little bit, no one will care.”

“I’ll care,” he chuckles lightheartedly, the ease in which the statement slips out and the certainty in which you feel it sends a slight shiver down your spine. “I’ve been back in training for a week, trust me, I’ve already had enough.”

You sigh, trying to ignore the convincing look he’s giving you - head titled, a lopsided smile and eyes filled with hope.

It was only just under two weeks ago that you told him you didn’t want to be friends, so you can’t really understand why he’s so intent on you sticking around. He should be personally ordering you an Uber back to your hotel and pushing you out of the door, but he’s giving you this pleading pout now that’s making you think his night would fall to pieces if you left so soon.

The thing is, you’re not that great around people you don’t know, not lately, anyway - especially not when those people are all big, bulky high performance athletes (and Jack) and their drop dead gorgeous partners. You feel like an intruder, like you don’t belong, and you can’t imagine anything happening to change your mind.

“I still feel like such an outsider at these things,” Luke huffs, elbows resting on the tall table in front of you, his body leaning onto it in the absence of any stools nearby until he’s more around your height. “This is the first time Jack’s brought anybody with him so I can’t exactly stick to his side like normal.”

You frown.

Is he serious?

Luke has never been the type to stick to his brother’s side - not from what you’ve seen, anyway, and you’d pretty much spent your entire summer observing the guy - you’re way past the point of trying to deny that, now.

“Isn’t that Seamus over there?” You point to the opposite side of the room, where you’re pretty sure you recognise another of yours and Luke’s previous classmates. “Aren’t you two friends?”

“We got into a pretty heated discussion during Thursday Night Football the other night, we’re on a break.”

You almost forgot how quick Luke can be, the slight quiver in the corner of his mouth giving away his attempts at deception, but you’re hardly in any position to call him out on it.

He’s trying to do you a favour, after all.

“In fact, I need you to stay for my protection. He might be out for my neck, you can’t let me die in a Luigi costume, that would be cruel.”

You snort as you take him in in his entirety, from the ridiculous hat, to the stretched out one-piece outfit topped off with a pair of white sneakers.

“Speaking of, aren’t you supposed to have a moustache?”

“It’s in my pocket, didn’t want to make Jack feel bad, ‘cause he can’t grow one and all,” he mutters, reaching into the front of the outfit to retrieve the stick-on prop, the back still taped up and in-tact.

“Right,” you scoff, taking it from his hand and peeling the tape, “Jack can’t grow facial hair.”

You reach forward and press it to his upper lip, holding it in place until it sticks, careful not to actually touch his mouth in the process.

“I can grow it,” he rolls his eyes, “I just don’t suit it.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug as you pull back, admiring the results and trying not to laugh, “I’d say you suit it just fine.”

You reach into the pocket of your own dress to retrieve your phone, and snap a picture just to show him, pressing your lips together as you see his eyes widen in horror.

“Delete that,” he huffs, and you just about manage to stop him before he rips the thing off.

“No,” you whine, “Keep it on, it’s funny!”

“I don’t want to look funny, I want to look cool and hot.” He huffs, frowning when he seemingly realises how ridiculous that sounds.

“Halloween costumes aren’t supposed to be hot.”

“Easy for you to say, Princess,” he gestures down to your dress, and you once again have a visceral reaction to how natural it is for him to say things like that. You feel your ears going warm, and you break eye contact just so that he doesn’t see straight through you.

“I meant to say, sorry about this,” you gesture down, too, all of a sudden feeling every fibre of the costume that’s covering your skin, “I don’t know why I didn’t connect the dots sooner when Ellie said she and Jack were doing Mario and Peach. She just said she’d get me a costume, I didn’t think that we’d be-,”

“A couple?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s no big deal,” Luke shrugs, sipping at his drink with a nonchalant frown. “S’just a costume. Besides, what else could you have been? I don’t think they sell sexy Goomba outfits.”

“Please,” you scoff, swatting lightly at the blue overalls stretched across his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous, if anything, I’d be sexy Toad.”

“Hmm,” he considers, with a long glance down your figure. “That might have actually worked.”

You feel the heat creep back up your neck before you can regulate yourself, not concealed at all by the sweetheart neckline of your dress, or the way Luke’s eye linger on any exposed bit of skin.

You press your lips together and divert your attention to Jack and Ellie in the corner, feeling every extended inch of Luke’s presence beside you, your heart thumping at the mere proximity of him, and you start to chew on your bottom lip.

“Can’t believe we tried so hard to get them together,” you mumble, watching as they start to kiss, “They’re disgusting.”

“Absolutely revolting,” he agrees, “We were out of our minds all summer.”

You know he’s referring to the scheme you two kept up, you’re the one who even brought the topic into conversation, but you can’t help the instinctive way your chest starts to ache again at the mere mention of summer.

The two of you had talked about this, back in Ann Arbor, before he had come back to Jersey. You’re supposed to be over it, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You swallow thickly before reaching for your drink and chugging down the contents, avoiding his gaze as he watches you.

The thought of leaving crosses your mind again, but there’s a larger part of you that has missed this - missed him, maybe - a little too much, and those weeks back in Michigan last month had only served to weaken your resolve.

Keeping your distance had been a giant failure from the second you started to attempt it, and Luke is persistent - that much has always been obvious - so denying him any sort of contact is just pointless, now.

You had thought, back when he had dropped you off at the house the other week, that turning down his offer of friendship had been the right thing to do. You’d told him you would think about it, but it was always going to end up in rejection.

He’s in Jersey, you’re in Michigan. He has a really hectic schedule and career, and you’re supposed to be putting your head down and studying for your final year.

He broke your heart, and you broke his right back.

But you realise that you were naive to think that your paths would hardly cross.

Your best friend is dating his brother. You have so many mutual friends that you can hardly avoid him when he’s back in town. And beyond all that, you miss the versions of the two of you that just got on - before it all got messy in the summer.

The banter, the inside jokes, the deep understanding of how each other worked.

And you had regretted it since - turning his offer down.

Bringing it back up again is daunting, though. Opening yourself up to him, to say that you’d been thinking about him this whole time, and feel a deep, ever growing pit in your stomach now at the thought of being nothing, just like he had said he felt.

“Listen,” you start, with all intentions of figuring it out as you go along, only now feeling a serious urge to fix things, somehow, before you go back home, tomorrow, “I-,”

“Hold on, I gotta introduce you to someone. Hey, Pesce,” he calls out to his ever so-slightly taller teammate as he passes nearby, waving him to stop by the table the two of you are at before he walks away. He introduces you both by name, and you don’t miss the silent interaction between the two of them as he does, wide eyes and wiggling brows, a telepathic taunt from Brett and a wordless warning from Luke. “She’s my friend from back in Michigan, and he’s been my rehab buddy.”

You allow yourself to be distracted by that - not Ellie’s friend. His. Not a plus one of a plus one, or an outsider hovering around the edges of a private party. Someone he wants his teammates to know.

You like it more than you ever thought you would.

You feel your lips turning up into a natural smile, and a weight lifting off your shoulders - 7 words erasing the need for an entire conversation, already.

You probably could have told him to go fuck himself and that you hated his guts back on the street outside your sorority, and he’d still be out here calling you his friend.

Persistent.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Brett, reaching out to shake his hand, matching his firm grip and meeting his steely gaze.

“You too,” he smiles back, “I’ve heard-,”

“Lukey! Finally got a girl to notice you, huh?”

Another of Luke’s teammates approaches the table, and the absolute comedy of being introduced to a bunch of people in ridiculous costumes isn’t lost on you as he comes closer, a gigantic, teasing smirk almost overshadowed by a glaring red headpiece he wears.

“Nice to see ya, Curtis,” you watch as Luke embraces his other teammate, a wry, crooked grin on his face as he rolls his eyes fondly, and you try to ignore the weight of Brett’s discerning gaze on you. When he introduces you this time, Curtis shows no sign of recognition at your name, offering you a kind smile and extending his hand for you to shake.

“Not talking your head off, is he? We’ve tried to train it out of him, but he’s a stubborn thing,” he chuckles, ruffling Luke’s hair like he’s petting an excitable puppy.

“I’m used to it by now,” you shrug back, smiling when Luke scoffs, returning to your side.

“Nice costume,” Curtis looks Luke up and down, and it’s like you can see him trying to formulate a joke in his head, your lips twisting as you notice Luke anticipating the same, watching with a raised brow and a bored roll of his eyes. “That might be the closest we ever come to seeing you with facial hair.”

“Big talk coming from a dude dressed as shrimp.”

“I’m obviously a lobster, Luke.”

“Obviously,” Luke mimics back like a child, his face sour and his lips pouted as his older teammate just laughs in his face.

“C’mon, man,” Brett claps a hand on Curtis’ back, “Enough bruising the kid’s ego, you owe me a drink, remember?”

He knocks his free fist against Luke’s as he passes, offering you a wink and a nice to meet you before he’s guiding Curtis over to the bar and leaving the two of you alone, once more.

“Sorry about them,” Luke mutters, “I could save them both from a burning building and they’d still treat me like their annoying baby brother.”

“It’s cute,” you shrug, sipping at your drink and catching his eye as they narrow toward you, clearly taking further offence at your choice of adjective. “They do it ‘cause they love you, Luke, it’s sweet.”

You try not to react to what you’ve just said - try not to think of that sentiment in the context of your own interactions with Luke, lightheartedly poking fun at him just to get a reaction because he can be so gut-wrenchingly adorable.

It’s not the same.

But you can tell he’s thinking it too, looking at you with eyes that see straight through you, and a tilt to his head that’s almost mocking.

“I uhm,” he sighs, stepping back a little closer to you and leaning down on the table so that he has to look up to meet your eye, “I told Pesch about you. About us.”

You blink back at him, waiting for him to say more - not really knowing how to respond, because you kind of had a feeling anyway. Brett has the worst poker face you’ve ever seen in your life.

“It’s just been me and him training together, and we were getting to know each other, and you know how it is, he asked me about how I spent my summer, and about girls, and there’s just you for both, so it sorta just came out. Plus, I kinda felt like I had to talk about it with someone or I was gonna go crazy.”

You look down, giving a slight nod of understanding - because you do get it.

Also, the confirmation of something you’ve been wondering is kind of a relief. He hadn’t started anything with anyone else after you left, or back in Michigan, when you were making everything so hard on him.

There’s just him for you, too.

And it’s really hard, having one person consume your thoughts in such a way when you have no outlet to properly talk it through with anyone.

You never felt like you could talk to Ellie about any of it, and having all these feelings fizzing up inside you for so long is starting to make you feel like a volcano on the brink of eruption.

Luke had done the sensible thing, finding an unaffiliated third party and seeking advice from someone with no bias. No scathing comments from his brothers, judgement from any of the guys back in Michigan or pitiful looks from your best friend.

“I didn’t say anything bad,” he assures you, “Not that there is anything bad, I promise I don’t think poorly of you or anything, and I wouldn’t go around telling random people if I did, especially not my teammates, I don’t want you to think-,”

“Luke, it’s fine,” you place a hand on his forearm, his eyes snapping up to meet yours at the slightest touch, wide and alarmed, like he feels like he’s digging himself into a hole. “I get it. Sometimes I feel like I’m gonna go crazy, too.”

“You do?” He frowns, like that was the last thing he expected you to say.

You had told him you were hurt, so it can’t come as that much of a surprise that you feel some type of way about everything that went down between the two of you.

You’re not that heartless.

“What did you say to him?” You ask, hoping to engage with his incessant need to talk, rather than any attempt to eke information out of you. “About us?”

“Just that I didn’t like how we left things,” he tells you as you lean beside him, “It’s hard, not knowing where we stand, or what it’s gonna be like when I see you again. I still get the urge all the time to text you, even about stupid things. Someone was telling me about this Matthew McConaughey movie the other day, and I thought of you. Wanted to ask if you’d seen it.”

“It’s probably safe to assume I’ve seen all the Matthew McConaughey films. Even the bad ones.”

“It wasn’t on your Letterboxd.”

You swat at his bicep, your lips turning slowly into a grin as you can’t help but laugh at how little he cares about hiding his intentions.

You’d caught onto him monitoring your account somewhere between him coincidentally watching Notting Hill a couple days after you did while he was back in Michigan, the five star rating he gave to Call Me By Your Name, and him somehow knowing all the most obscure but gut-wrenching quotes from all the movies that really tore your heart out - writing them in his reviews like he was talking to you in some secret language that only the two of you spoke.

I think I’d miss you even if we never met, from The Wedding Date.

I’ll do anything to make you happy. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it, from Past Lives.

There will be a piece of you in me always, from Her.

All movies you had listed after going home from the lake house - had laid in bed with teary eyes and trembling lips for the most part, and associated all those same quotes with him, too. And even without you putting them in your own reviews, he just knew every time which part of the movie made you think of your relationship.

You’d even tried baiting him out with Barbie, the other week, snorting to yourself despite your heartache when you imagined him seriously typing out, I only exist within the warmth of your gaze, without it, I'm just a little blonde guy who can't do flips, and hoping you would see it.

If anyone else had done it, it would probably have been corny. You’d have blocked them, the level of perception and lowkey invasion of privacy making your skin crawl - but Luke seeing you was different. Him being on the same wavelength - feeling the same feelings, thinking the same thoughts - was something you couldn’t ignore.

“You’re not supposed to admit to cyber stalking me, you idiot.”

“What?” He chuckles, rubbing at his arm, “I missed watching movies with you.”

He shrugs at that like it’s nothing, but you can feel your cheeks go warm even if his don’t. You missed watching movies with him too - missed the long stretch of his legs far surpassing yours on top of the sheets, and the way he’d hold out candy for you to get some every few minutes.

“Plus, you were stalking me, too. Why else would you be watching The Mighty Ducks on a Saturday night?”

“I thought it might teach me about hockey.” You frown, although you’d been all too caught up with just how cute those movies were. You still know very little about the sport, but you can still appreciate the charm of a young Joshua Jackson.

Luke smiles, lopsided and gentle, but you know by now that’s his version of cocky - the kind of smile that shows you that something you’ve said has scratched at his ego, and he’s banking it somewhere in the back of his head.

“I can teach you,” he says, his voice an octave lower as he leans in - and you know he isn’t doing it on purpose, but it makes the hairs on the back of your arms raise, how he almost purrs over to you. “Can give you a crash course if you want?”

“Now?”

“Nah,” he sips at his drink, “Another time. Need an excuse to text you remember?”

“You can text me whenever,” you tell him, chewing at the corner of your bottom lip as he smirks at you, “Just so you know.”

You don’t tell him that you’ve been waiting for him to do it, anyway.

That for those first few days after he finally left Michigan, every buzz of your phone had your heart rate doubling.

The first instant you had started to regret your decision, you had been hoping he would still try to change your mind.

You don’t tell him you started following a random team update account for news on how he was getting on with his injury, because he wasn’t letting you know, himself, or that you once spent an hour reporting people trolling him or talking smack in the comments just for something to do.

“What about FaceTime?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

To say you were planning on leaving as soon as you had arrived, you enjoyed yourself way more than you thought you would with Luke and his teammates - in fact, you’d probably go as far as to say it’s one of the best nights you’ve had since the summer.

Luke had introduced you to pretty much everybody, flitting around the room and making the rounds, and it had been nice to see how normal and nice everybody was - instantly making you felt like you belonged, to the point where you figured out that Luke had only said all that stuff about feeling like an outsider because he knew that was how you felt, knew it would tug at your heartstrings and make you stay.

You know from how close he is with the guys back in Michigan that Luke loves his teammates, but seeing it in action for the first time had been sweet. Seeing the other guys ruffling at his hair, play fighting, throwing their arms around him and indulging him in his corny jokes kind of made you feel less tense about the way you’re so instinctively affectionate with him.

Even after what had happened toward the end of summer, and swearing off any sort of romantic connection since, you still want to touch him, still want to be near him, and while you don’t think his teammates exactly have those same thoughts, it makes you feel a little more normal, how much they all love him. Makes you feel less like you should be wedging all this distance between the two of you - because if they all love him like this, then why can’t you?

You don’t even realise that Ellie and Jack have long snuck off until you get a text to say not to come back to the hotel, and that Jack’s bed is freshly clean for you to sleep in. The thought of it is gross, but you figure that two athletes will have a comfy couch, so you’re not all that bothered in the end.

Plus, it gives you more time with Luke - to have a proper conversation, to figure things out. So, when it’s time to leave, and he ushers you out of the bar with a hand on the small of your back, you let him cross the boundaries of being nothing, and lean into his touch until you’re out in the cold, wrapping your arms around yourself as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Put this on,” he demands, throwing it to you and watching as you catch it with a clumsy grip, “We’re walking.”

“Walking?” You ask, stumbling to catch up with him as he starts to make his way down the street, his long strides making it incredibly difficult, especially in the stupid costume heels you’re wearing. You ease into his jacket as you move, shaking your arms until your fingers just about peak out of the ends, and relishing the warmth that encapsulates your body.

“Yeah, it’s 10 minutes. I know that sounds like a lifetime in campus terms, but I’m assuming you still know how to walk.”

You scoff as you pretty much jog to keep up, taking rushed, small steps until you just about make it to his side. “I don’t have a car, remember, I walk everywhere. I just assumed we’d be getting an Uber or something."

“S’good for you,” he shrugs, “Clears the mind. And it’s only a few blocks back to the apartment. I can show you all the best breakfast spots for you and Ellie to visit before you leave tomorrow.”

“But it’s dark out.”

“What, you’re scared of the dark, now?” He looks down at you from the corner of his eye, his height advantage meaning you can so clearly see the amused way in which his mouth curves up on the side closest to you.

“I’m scared of being abducted in a back alley and brutally murdered so that my organs can be sold on the black market.”

“That happens more on the other side of the river,” he hooks a thumb in the general direction of what you assume is the Hudson, but it could be anywhere for all you know. This is your first time in New Jersey, and your brief expedition into Manhattan in the morning had done very little to clue you in on the lay of the land.

“Murder is an international issue, Luke, I don’t think they draw the line at what state they do it in, look it up.”

“You watch too much TV,” he chuckles, “Who’s gonna mess with you when I’m around? Look at me,” he gestures down to his ridiculous costume, “I’m the picture of intimidation. You don’t think I’d protect you from the black market organ thieves?”

“You’re dressed like an Italian plumber, you dork, and you’ve got arms like toothpicks, they’d probably kill you first just for fun.” You retort, grabbing at his arm to bring him back to your pace. You almost can’t believe that in the brief expanse of one evening, you could possibly have returned to this level of comfort, but you’re trying not to think too hard about it - especially with a mind partially loosened up by a couple of drinks. “Could you at least slow down? Your legs are like twice the length of mine.”

“Aw,” he pouts, “Do you want me to carry you?”

“Don’t joke, I’d pay good money for a piggy back right now.”

“Shame I’ve got such toothpick arms then, isn’t it?” he fakes an exaggerated smile, and you narrow your eyes until he drops it.

You huff as he carries on, thankful at the slightly slower pace he seems to have adopted, and the way his chin keeps jutting in your direction to check on how well you’re keeping up.

“What about a fireman’s carry?” You suggest, looking up at him with pleading eyes and pouted lips.

“The best you’ll get is me giving you my gloves to wear as socks and I’ll carry your shoes for you.”

“And if I step on glass, cut into a vein and bleed out?”

“I suppose then I’d carry you.”

This feels familiar.

Feels comfortable and right, and when you look back on those nights in September when you had seen him - at the football game, in the living room back at the sorority, and the party at the hockey house, this is what you’d felt like you had been missing.

It doesn’t have to be awkward, or charged, or tense between the two of you.

Maybe it can be like this again.

Like it was in the beginning, before everything got messed up.

“I meant to ask earlier,” he nudges at you with his elbow, “Ellie said you had an appointment over in Midtown,”

“You’re such a stalker,” you snort, shaking your head with a wry smile as you glance over at him, “Literally the snoopiest guy I’ve ever met.”

“Snoopiest?” He scoffs, “It’s called curiosity. I can’t wonder what my friend did with their day, now? I’m snoopy?”

“There’s a masters programme at NYU,” your eyes dart down to the floor as you start to tell him, figuring that you’ll feel less nervous if it just feels like you’re speaking in general, instead of confiding in him. There’s also a part of you spurred on by his immediate adoption of you being his friend - still reeling from the ease in which he had been introducing you as such to everyone all night. Opening up to him is just as easy, and now that you’re embracing the dynamic, it’s like the pieces that form all the resistance within you are shifting out of place, creating a bunch of cracks for him to seep straight into. “One of my sorority sisters has a cousin who’s in her final year, she set up a meeting so that I could talk about my application.”

“You’re applying to NYU?” He asks, quickening his step until he is a little ahead of you, turning on his feet until he’s walking backwards, giving you no chance of ignoring his presence anymore.

“I’m thinking about it,” you shrug, “It isn’t a done deal, so don’t tell anybody.”

“I can keep a secret,” he promises, and that same ache starts to form in your chest again, at just how well you know that to be true.

“Plus, it’s a long-shot, so even if I did apply, I probably wouldn’t get in, and I don’t want to get Ellie’s hopes up that I’ll be sticking around.”

You have a job lined up elsewhere already for when you graduate - an entry level role in a PR agency over in Chicago, close to home, close to your mom - but the more you’re considering it, the less sure you are. The job would be pretty much you getting taken advantage of for being a recent graduate, and furthering your education could help secure something bigger and better. But throwing away a sure thing seems stupid, and you don’t really want to do so if you don’t have something else secured.

“Getting into the NHL is a long shot, and you’ve just spent the night in a room full of people who made it happen,” Luke tells you, ducking his head a little lower until you look him in the eye, “Don’t underestimate yourself, you’re really smart, you’ll get in if you do end up applying.”

The way he says it is so sure - so different to anybody else, who you feel like is just saying it to make you feel better. Luke believes it, you can see it in the way he looks at you, confident and certain of your abilities more than you’ve ever been in yourself.

“I don’t think you can call you getting into the NHL a long shot, unfortunately,” you tell him, your lips twisting in the corner as you bite back a smile when he starts to frown.

“Not you too with the nepotism stuff,” he scoffs, only partially feigning offence.

You swat at his chest, “Hey, I’d never,” you gasp, “I meant ‘cause you’re so talented.”

“I bet you did,” he snorts, falling back into step beside you, a little closer this time, your elbows knocking as you continue to walk. “Haven’t even played yet this season, what would you know about my talent?”

You think it’s the way he’s leaning in a little that seems to hypnotise you, rendering you a speechless, practically-spluttering mess as you struggle to form words or a single, coherent thought. You wonder if this is how he felt, all those times when you turned on the charm and innuendo and purposely tried to push his buttons. Defenceless and weak.

“I’ll tell you what I do have a talent for,” he straightens up a little, increasing the space between you so that you feel like you can at least breathe again. “Important old man voice. If you ever need to put someone down as a phoney reference.”

“I’ll bare that in mind when the NYU admissions board loosens their policy on Kevin McAllister level schemes, thanks,” you chuckle, your smile lingering when he returns it, cheeks folding into a lopsided grin.

“Hey, give a guy some credit, there’s a little Ferris Bueller in there too.”

“Yeah, ‘cause schools love Ferris Bueller types.” You scoff, “You’re such an idiot.”

You glance over to see him pretty much beaming in response, and, if you were a betting person, you’d put all your money on knowing his exact train of thought.

You have a tell, after all, you remember, for when you’re enjoying yourself more than you think you should be.

Walking back to his apartment gives the two of you a little time to properly catch up - away from tense conversations and teary admissions - he tells you about his training, you tell him about school, and it feels like seconds pass before he’s ushering you into his building with that same guided hand on your lower back, the heat of his touch felt even through his jacket, and into the elevator.

You stand by his side as it slowly ascends, hands buried in the warmth of his jacket pockets and ever so often meeting his eye in the reflection of mirrored doors before you glance away with a flush to your cheeks.

Every time you look back, he’s smiling a little, soft and small, but sure of himself in a way that makes all those hardened parts of you melt a little inside.

There’s something different about him that you can’t quite put your finger on - something in the way he carries himself, around his teammates, around you, even just in general - like he stands taller, somehow. Like here in Jersey, he makes a point to hold himself up a little more, and it makes you cherish the version of him you had, those months ago - vulnerable and raw.

You hadn’t appreciated at the time, just how much of himself he gave to you - all the little quirks and insights you got to see - but you appreciate them, now.

“I had fun tonight,” you tell him, smiling instinctively when he meets your eye, “Thanks for not letting me leave.”

“Thanks for not leaving,” he chuckles, the doors opening in front of you and that hand going straight to your back again until he’s guiding you towards his apartment. “It’s been nice just talking to you again, I missed it.”

“Me too,” you admit, because there’s really no use in keeping it bottled up when he’s so freely opening himself up to you. He so easily tells you that he misses you, and wants to speak to you, and it enjoys your company, so you not doing the same only feels like you’re doing yourself a disservice - especially when admitting as much back to him earns you one of those cute, crooked smiles he’s so good at giving.

He holds open the door for you and you have to brush past him to go in, but your hesitance to touch has long dissipated throughout the night, so you don’t entirely mind when he follows you straight in, and you can feel the heat of his presence.

“Are you wanting to go straight to bed?” He asks, hand on your waist as he passes you and heads for the kitchen, flicking on the lights under the cabinets and getting two glasses down from one of the cupboards.

“I probably should,” you huff, despite wanting to stretch this out with Luke - your mind going back to I miss watching movies with you, and considering flopping down onto the couch and putting something on, for old time’s sake. “Is your couch comfy? I don’t really want to sleep in Jack’s bed.”

“You can sleep in mine,” he offers, before he even has a second to consider it.

“Oh, I don’t know-,”

“I’ll go in Jack’s, it’s fine,” he nods down the hall, gesturing you to follow as he carries two glasses of water, knocking the handle to the room on the left until the door opens and letting you go in first.

The sheets are the same as on his bed back at the lake house, and it’s the first thing that takes you aback, a familiar grey-blue comforter that you already feel the softness of from across the room, and a cream throw haphazardly thrown across the top.

You can tell the sheets aren’t entirely fresh - slightly crumpled, and not-very-neatly made, pillows askew - but if you’re sleeping in Luke’s bed, weirdly enough, you would probably prefer it that way.

“Sorry, I should have tidied up a little,” he chuckles nervously as he passes you to place a glass down on the nightstand.

“It’s fine,” you shrug, stepping forward just to fall down onto his bed - the mattress plush enough that you already feel yourself sinking into it, tension easing away from your muscles.

You’re kind of glad you kept an eye on him, watching his gaze shift to the way your dress now rides up on your thighs, and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly before looking away.

“I’ll just get something to change into then I’ll get outta your hair,” he mumbles, trying to busy himself with something else as a distraction. Just before he can pass you to his closet, you reach out to grab at his wrist, and it’s almost like muscle memory is forcing you to do so - something within you not allowing him to get away.

He’s in front of you now, close enough that you kind of have to crane your neck the whole way to look up at him, and you watch as his eyes drag slowly from the point of contact to meet yours, every movement he makes unhurried and purposeful.

“I just wanted to say thank you again, for tonight,” you start, speaking without any real plan as to what you want to say, but wanting to keep him just a little longer, “For keeping me company, and letting me stay in here-,”

“It’s no big deal-,”

“And for not letting me push you away.”

It might be the first time you’ve ever owned up to it - being the master of your own downfall, or the downfall of your relationship with Luke, and anything you still could have been after the fact - and it isn’t easy, admitting that you’re the problem.

But you feel like you owe it to him, as a reward for all this resilience in the face of your constant rejection. He’s been nothing but patient, and you’ve been nothing but hard work, and you’re willing to admit, now, that you’re done with it.

He smiles, eyes knowing, the relieved, breathy sigh he gives dissolving all the guilt that’s building in the depths of your gut, and sinks down beside you on the bed, his thigh brushing yours as he settles in.

Hours ago, being this close would have terrified you. You’d have shut down, turned away, shuffled across the sheets until there was a healthy distance between the two of you, but you don’t move. You just turn, a little, to be able to meet his eye.

“Are you saying you’re done with that?” He asks, a little hesitant, assuming, probably, that you won’t be entirely open with him.

But you nod, chewing at the corner of your bottom lip as he presses his own together, eyes darting a little lower.

“So we’re friends?” He asks, his voice low, the depth of it causing a weird vibration to wrack down your body - a buzz that won’t go away, now that he’s this close, and he’s looking at you the way he is.

“If that’s what you still want to be.”

The thought of him changing his mind makes you a little dizzy, an ache growing in your chest again at the thought of being nothing - but you’d deserve it, you think, after all the times you turned him down.

It would hurt, but, as always, it would be your own doing.

“And we won’t ever be more?”

The pleading tone in which he asks makes the back of your throat go dry, and all you can do to respond, now, is shake your head. Slowly, and hesitantly, but it shakes all the same, tears welling in the corners of your eyes as you take in his resigned acceptance.

And then, something shifts.

A subtle shake of his head, as if he’s fighting an inner monologue, and then an assured switch in his demeanour - a tilt of his head as he surveys your reluctance, and the swipe of his tongue to wet his lips, like he’s preparing to fight back.

“If I kissed you right now,” he asks, voice still low, eyes lower, pinned to the curve of your lips as they part as if by instinct, “Would you tell me to stop?”

“Luke,” you warn, no more than a whisper as you watch his lips too, “We can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked,” his eyes trail slowly up until your gazes meet, and his head tilts again in question, blinking heavily before he asks, “Would you push me away?”

Your lips form around a response that you can’t even think to give back, opening around an answer you’re not ready to give at all, and all your body wants to do is deny. You fight the urge to shake your head, but you think that it’s a losing battle, especially considering how much your brain feels like it’s being rattled around anyway.

You don’t know what you do to make him move forward, but you figure by now you don’t actually have to do anything. He can probably read your mind at this point, spurred on no doubt by the way your eyelids flutter closed when he’s close enough, and the tip of his nose presses to yours, slow, heavy breaths falling into the decreasing space between the two of you.

You should stop him. You know that.

It isn’t good for either of you, letting this carry on, leaving the edges of your relationship so frayed that even the smallest tug could pull the whole thing apart, thread by thread.

You should tell him to stop, should push him away, should hold a lighter to the loose ends and singe them together to prevent further damage. You’ve only just settled on friends, and now you’re not sure, again.

But the second he gets this close, you’re not in charge, anymore.

It’s like some force of nature takes over, brings the two of you together like tectonic plates meeting, and causing unfathomable destruction to both of your hearts in the aftermath.

His kiss is so instantly tender that it hurts already, tears prickling at the seams of your scrunched-closed eyes, and all you can do is push through the pain. You kiss him back, lips closing around his again and again as your faces smush together, and you start to feel the passion consume him - something takes over almost like an urgency, where you’re clawing at his the front of his costume and he’s clutching at your waist, doing anything physically possible to close whatever gap still sits between you.

The pressure of his lips is almost bruising, now, but you like it that way - soft exhales puffing out from his nose so that he doesn’t have to part to catch his breath, fingers pressing so hard into your flesh that you hope they leave a mark.

He tastes just how you remember, and it takes you back all those months to summer - to stolen kisses over centre consoles and making out in his bed when everyone else was out. There’s a part of you that feels giddy with it, just like you had then, partaking in something so precious that was just for the two of you, and it starts to distract you from what this actually is.

A mistake.

You pull away instead of pushing, bringing your chin back until your lips part with much effort, a hmmph and a furrow of your brow, and you can’t bring yourself to open your scrunched eyes, not yet, but you know when he’s going to chase.

“Luke,” you whisper in warning before your eyes flutter open and you peer up at him through your lashes. He looks so soft, you think, despite all the ways he tries not to. Despite the sharp line of his jaw, and the hardened look in his eyes. You feel your walls crumbling at just the sight of him - defenceless to his charms, once again, because how much could Luke possibly hurt you? “Friends don’t do that.”

“Maybe our friendship starts tomorrow,” he hums back, “Maybe we get this out of our systems one more time.”

And it’s sitting on the precipice of that feeling you’ve been chasing since July that has you considering it - ever so close to finally getting closure on whatever the two of you were, or could have been.

Getting it out of your system sounds healthy. Sounds like a clean slate, a fresh start, and you have no doubt that if you’re going to be friends with Luke Hughes, that it’s exactly what you need in order to do so.

Because, if you’re honest, it’s that exact thing that’s been holding you back this entire time - closure. With such an abrupt end to what the two of you had, how could you ever possibly close that chapter mid-sentence? How could you ever move on?

“One more time,” you try to sound stern, try to convince yourself of your own words, “Then we have to let this go.”

“You got it.”

“No more Luke, I mean it.” You have to push down this feeling of impending doom, or you’ll never get anywhere, but you need to warn him one last time, just to be safe. “Strictly friends after tonight.”

“I already agreed, can you please just let me kiss you again?”

“Okay, fine, just,” you huff, hands splayed across his broad chest and pushing until your bodies part, his butt shuffling back on the bed. “Take the costume off, first, I’m not feeding into whatever dorky cosplay fetish you probably have.”

You’re only part joking, but it’s the only way you know how to relieve the tension a little, and your nerves start to dissipate at his reaction.

He chuckles, with the kind of cocky smile that makes your heart jump, reaching behind himself to unzip the back of his costume with an affectionate shake of his head. He stands, then, to shuck it off, the whole thing dropping off of him until he kicks it across the floor, towards his laundry hamper, then stands in just his briefs, which are slung low on his waist. “You can keep yours on, I don’t mind,” he tells you when you’re distracted by the taut, defined lines on his stomach, eyes trailing slowly up to meet his, gleaming back at you.

“You’d love that wouldn’t you,” you scoff, watching as he draws closer, shuffling back a little on the bed to accommodate him, “You absolute freak.”

“You can’t sit there and pretend you don’t want me to call you princess again.” He smirks, bending down until his hands are on either side of your hips, and you’re leaning back with your fingers pressed into his sheets and your head craned back to meet his eye, “Saw you getting all flustered about it, earlier.”

“Shut up,” you huff, curling a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down into you - the two of you colliding in a clumsy, messy kiss. His body crawls over yours, encapsulating you entirely in an intoxicating warmth, and you find yourself melting into his every touch - large hands running down your sides, settling on your waist, and the other easing its way under the skirt of your costume.

You put both hands to use too, one remaining behind his neck, scratching into the grown out curls that sit there and tugging when he starts to tickle up your thigh, the other on the warm skin of his chest - the rampant thud of his heart beating against your palm.

One more time, just to get him out of your system.

And then you can be friends.

What could possibly go wrong?

another a/n: I'll try to finish the next part asap!! thank you for reading, I know this was long lmao!! would love to hear your thoughts!!!!

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #luke hughes fluff #*writing #GUYS GUYS GUYS I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS I GENUINELY HAVE SO MUCH FUN WITH THESE TWO #AND I HAD SO MUCH FUN AFTER LET IT HAPPEN #SO THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVE ON IT!!!! I FEEL LIKE WE ALL BUILT SOMETHING MAGIC TOGETHER

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covenofagatha · 1 month ago

Note

Hey! I would love to give you an idea of your next fic!

How about G!p!Director!Agatha asks Actress!R if they can make a sex tape, so she won't be lonely that much when R is away for work(They're married). Turns out she feels even more lonely and hornier when R is away. She's going crazy when she sees her cum leaking out of R in the video. She's been sending R videos of her fucking fleshlight and express how much she needs R. And when R gets back home, they fuck like a horny teen. (Breeding would be perfect for this🤩🤩)

Thank you so much!! I love all your fics!!!🩷

Ohhh 🫠🥵 writing this one killed me in the best possible way

Baby, you're a star

Word count: 8.3k

Warnings: mommy kink, filming, GP Agatha, sex toys, breeding kink, masturbation, blowjobs, sex, oral sex, fingering, minor spanking, so much filth, porn with very little plot, I have never written this much smut in a single post

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7 @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly

You’re running, running from something, and it’s closing in on you. Looking back over your shoulder, a terrified look on your face, you trip and end up sprawling onto the ground.

It’s about to get you. Your eyes widen in fear, a loud sound coming from the distance —

“And…cut! That’s a wrap!” With the shout from your director, your character of Samantha Wren, a girl haunted by a dark creature from her past that finally catches up to her, melts away and you push yourself off the set floor, brushing your hands on your torn pants.

The scene you just shot is the cliffhanger ending to the film, The Figure in the Walls, where Samantha is sprinting through the woods after realizing what the monster is, trying to get away. It’s unclear if she does, which leaves some room for a sequel.

The movie’s director, Agatha Harkness, steps out from behind the cameras and slow-claps, smirking at you. You make a beeline for her and she wraps an arm around your shoulders and steers you away from the set. A PA jogs over and hands you a cup of coffee and a bagel. You’ve been filming for the past five hours, doing scenes from earlier that weren’t as good and finishing up the movie sequence, and you’re starving.

“You did so good, honey,” Agatha murmurs into your ear and presses a quick kiss to your temple.

It’s not a secret on set that the two of you are married, you both just prefer to keep it professional for the most part, at least when other people can see you.

You first met Agatha at the Golden Globes about two and a half years ago. You had never met, but were both nominated for separate projects: you for Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy, and her for Best Director. A mutual friend had introduced you to her during a commercial break, and you hit it off instantly.

There was almost something magnetic between you, and it just kept pulling you to her all night long. You won for your category, and so did she, and the picture of you two with your Globes is framed above the fireplace mantle in your mansion.

You’re beaming at the camera while Agatha is staring down your dress, trying to look inconspicuous. When you tease her about it, she says she was just looking at the trophy.

It’s unclear if she means the Globe, or you.

She had invited you to go to an afterparty with her and you had immediately agreed. It was a quiet, intimate sort of thing with an open bar, and she had brazenly flirted while the warmth from the alcohol settled pleasantly in your stomach.

After a few hours and after you had been practically sitting in her lap for quite some time, she said that she should get going, but asked for your number.

You had clasped her cheeks and pulled her into a hot kiss right there and promptly dragged her out the door into your car and back to your apartment.

A year and a half later, she asked you to marry her as you were walking along the Santa Monica Pier. The sun was setting, purples and pinks reflecting off the ocean waves, and you had never felt so happy in your entire life. You bought a mansion in Beverly Hills together, and you’ve lived there ever since.

When Agatha first signed onto direct The Figure in the Walls, your name had been already thrown around as for who would play the lead. You still don’t know if she pulled some strings, and there was obviously gossip that you had only gotten the role because your wife was directing, but Agatha assured you that once everyone saw your performance, there would be no doubt that you had earned every part of it.

“Thank you,” you whisper to your wife. You can’t believe the movie is finally done, but your turn-around is quick. Tomorrow, you fly out to meet with an agent in New York about a new film franchise in the works. If you land the lead role, it would be absolutely huge for your career.

You will be gone for a week, though, and you and Agatha have been looking forward to some time for just yourselves. You’re eager to get home and at least have tonight, but with the wrap party and the closing speeches, it’s going to be awhile before you’re able to.

Some of the other cast members come over and mingle while you sip on a soda, but you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you the whole time. At one point, you give in and glance over to where she’s sitting — all alone in her director’s chair for some reason, but she’s facing you.

She uncrosses her legs and slouches back, casually putting a hand on her right upper thigh. Agatha ever so slightly spreads the fabric of her dark gray pants and you can see — she’s half-hard. Just from watching you, just from the thought of finally getting some quality time. You’ve made it work with the busy schedule, always finding a half hour for a quick fuck every now and then, but it’s been too long since you’ve been able to take your time. There’s the unspoken promise that neither of you will be sleeping much tonight.

Swallowing roughly and trying to fight back the heat creeping into your cheeks, you turn back to your co-stars and try to look like you’re listening.

And then finally everyone starts to leave. With Agatha being the director, she waits until every single member of the cast and crew has gone while you sit and impatiently tap your foot.

“You ready?” Agatha asks and you jump out of your seat, eagerly nodding, and she laughs. “Looking forward to something?”

“I can’t wait for you to fuck me, mommy,” you answer matter-of-factly and it catches her off-guard for the slightest second.

It’s not often you’re this bold and straight-forward without her prompting. And she fucking loves it.

The car is already waiting outside — you called it while you were waiting for everyone to leave — and the air between the two of you crackles with electricity. The tension is thick, but neither of you move to disturb it, instead just choosing to let it build until you’re in the sanctity of your home.

But your breathing quickens and you can feel your underwear getting gradually wetter, the anticipation steadily rising. When you look over at your wife, you can see her fully-hardened cock straining against the fabric of her tailored pants and her long fingers are digging into her thighs, making her veins pop.

It’s about twenty minutes later of lingering looks between darkened eyes when the car pulls into the driveway of your house.

Agatha barely thanks the driver before you’re both scrambling out of the car and up to your front door.

The moment it’s closed, you’re shoved against the pillar next to it, Agatha’s mouth on yours in a bruising kiss.

“Fuck,” you moan, her tongue hotly licking against yours. She grunts in agreement before grabbing your wrists and holding them over your head, thrusting her right leg between yours. You can feel her cock, can feel the heat radiating off it, and you throb against it and swiftly grind down.

She groans into your mouth and angles her leg up higher and you can feel her dick pulse, which makes the ache inside you grow unbearable. Your kiss has become sloppy, a flurry of teeth and lips and tongue, and she pulls back to trail her mouth down your neck. You hiss when she sucks a bite and it makes your hips jerk involuntarily.

“Agatha — mommy, please,” you whimper, your cunt absolutely dripping. All of your thoughts are being consumed by her right now, and you just need more. You need her fingers, her mouth, her cock inside you, you need her.

Agatha chuckles breathlessly, planting an open-mouth kiss on your lips. “What do you need, honey?”

It’s almost frustrating that she’s making you say it, like it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world how desperate you are for her. “Can we — upstairs?” Your head is spinning and it feels like you’re drunk with need.

If it were any other time, she would make you repeat it and ask clearly. But she knows, she always knows, and there’s no time to waste.

She lets go of one of your wrists but pulls you by the other to the staircase and then stops on the third stair to kiss you again, like she can’t possibly wait. She sucks on your tongue and you gasp.

“Fuck, mommy’s going to miss you tomorrow,” she mutters and in the haze in your head, you feel a slight pang of sadness. Agatha would’ve come with you, but she has a meeting here that she can’t miss either. It’s tough to be apart, even for just a week.

But then the sentimental moment is gone and her teeth sink into your bottom lip, her hand coming up to rest around your throat. She barely even squeezes but it does wonders — you clench around nothing, eyes glazing over, and you let out a strangled gasp.

Agatha smirks and tugs you the rest of the way to your bedroom. Shoes are kicked off and she quickly helps you take off the shirt and pants you changed into after filming and then you rip open the silk button-down shirt she’s wearing, sending buttons flying everywhere. She pushes down her pants and underwear and a ragged gasp tears itself out of your mouth when you see her cock, hard and red and leaking.

You let out a small moan and move closer to touch it, but she stops you.

“Honey,” she says, a bit timidly, and concern washes over you like a bucket of cold water.

“What’s wrong, is everything okay?” you ask. She looks around, biting her lip like she’s not sure how to phrase it. “Hey, whatever it is, you can tell me. Is it something bad?”

Agatha shakes her head. “No, it’s just something I was thinking of. Something I wanted to see if you’d want to try, just because you’re going to be away for a bit.” A flash of heat bursts through you — usually you’re the one who brings up wanting to try new things in the bedroom, but now that it’s Agatha, fuck, you can’t wait.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“I was wondering if you’d let me film you — us. While we have sex,” she says and your cunt throbs. You’d never thought of it, but you can see it in your mind now. You can imagine how hot it would be to watch yourself take her cock. “So when you’re gone and I get lonely, I can watch it back and remember what a good girl you are for me.”

The praise settles right into your stomach and now you can’t stop thinking about Agatha stroking her cock while watching the two of you have sex.

“You want to, what, direct me in a porno?” you ask, partly as a joke, but there’s no missing the involuntary sound that slips out of her lips, no missing the darkening of her already hungry eyes. “Fuck. Okay.”

She looks a little surprised at your easy agreement, but presses a chaste kiss to your lips, and then another one, and then leaves the room. You sit down on your bed, the excitement almost overwhelming, and try to slow your racing heart.

It’s only a minute before Agatha comes back, holding the iPad that she uses for work sometimes, and a stand for it. Has she been preparing for this? The thought sears through your veins and you feel yourself getting even more wetter.

Her cock seems to get harder if possible as she sets it up close to the bed and the moment she nods and steps back, you feel a new-found sense of confidence wash over you.

You’ve always come alive in front of the cameras, you thrive under being watched, and it feels no different now, even if you’re not becoming a character.

It’s exhilarating. And you’re going to do your best to put on a show.

“Move to the center of the bed,” Agatha orders, still watching through the screen. You swallow roughly and obey — you’ve always found it incredibly sexy watching her command a scene with just her words, and now that she’s doing it in this context?

Fuck.

You lean back against the pillows and look at her, awaiting her next instruction. Agatha nods and her eyes rake over you appreciatively. “Spread your legs and touch yourself over your underwear.”

Moaning softly, you widen your legs and plant your feet flat on the bed so your knees are bent. And then you cup your pussy and your lips part involuntarily when you feel how wet you are. The fabric is absolutely drenched and you can see from the look on Agatha’s face that she can tell too.

You slowly start to trace the outline of your pussy lips through your panties, up and down over your slit, and then when you circle over your clit finally, your back arches off the bed and you sigh heavily. The pleasure is so much more acute now — is it because of the camera? Because you know that Agatha is going to fuck herself later to this?

“There you go, honey,” your wife says approvingly. There’s a wild look in her eyes and her hands are twitching like she’s dying to touch her cock. The tip is even more red now, and you can see beads of liquid collecting and dripping onto the floor. Your hips jolt when you press down harder on your clit. “Take your underwear off and tease your entrance — but don’t go inside just yet.”

You have to peel your panties off your sopping wet pussy and you teasingly toss them over to her. She catches them and lets out a surprised groan when she actually feels them.

And then she lifts them to her nose and breathes in the scent of your wetness and your clit pulses. You try to focus on her instructions and glide a finger through your folds, molten hot and dripping. You dip into your pussy and then withdraw. You repeat and whimper at how good you know it’s going to feel when she finally lets you fuck yourself.

“Slide one finger in slowly,” she demands and your head drops back as you do, the stretch nowhere near enough but still feeling delicious. Your walls immediately clench down around it and you moan.

When you look back at Agatha, your hips roll of their own accord — she’s started stroking her cock with your underwear. You can see how she’s glistening with your wetness and she thrusts every few times like she can’t control it.

“Mommy, can you…” Pleasure swims in your mind when you curl your finger and it interrupts your thoughts for a second. “Want you to be in the video, too.” You want to watch it back and see her as well.

Agatha inhales sharply. “Yeah, okay, babygirl. Whatever you want.” And then she steps around the iPad and comes into view of the shot, standing near the side of the bed so you can see each other more clearly.

Her cock bobs up and down and you time your thrusts inside you with each of her strokes so you can imagine it’s her inside you.

“Put another finger in,” she rasps and starts to speed up, your underwear moving frictionlessly over her with how wet it is.

The addition of a second finger makes you groan loudly and you can’t even tell if you’re trying to show off for the camera or not. Everything is so much more heightened now.

She makes you fuck yourself like that for about ten minutes, every now and then telling you to fuck yourself faster, babygirl and slow down, sweetheart and fuck, honey, you look so fucking hot for mommy.

You’re a complete mess now, absolutely ruined and babbling incoherently, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your orgasm has been steadily building this whole time and you know it won’t be much longer before you cum.

Agatha is also close by the looks of it; she’s completely flushed, her chest and neck tinted the prettiest pink, and her cock is leaking even more, her hips moving more sporadically. The ache inside you isn’t going away — it’s only getting worse the more you look at her.

“Mommy,” you whine, needing to feel your wife on you more than anything. “Please, please fuck me.”

“I know, baby,” she pants. “Just a second, let mommy move the camera.” And god, it makes you throb when she grabs the stand and angles it perpendicularly to the bed.

And then she climbs on the bed and situates herself between your open legs and leans over you so she can drag her cock through your soaked folds. The gasp she lets out drives you crazy and you keen when she rubs her tip against your clit.

“Beg for mommy,” she says, hair falling down over her face as she bites her lip. She positions herself right at your opening.

“I need you so bad, please fill me up, please fuck me, I need you so bad, mommy —” She pushes into you in one motion and your mouth drops open. Your walls immediately clamp down around her and she groans at the feeling.

It’s exactly what you need and when she starts to move, soft sounds fall from your lips with every thrust.

She twitches inside you when you pull her down for a quick kiss. “God, I can’t wait to watch this,” she grunts and it makes you clench. Her hips stutter. “You’re so good, such a good slut for me. Taking my cock like a superstar. Fuck, honey, I’m going to watch the video everyday, gonna figure out how to make it my home screen.”

The thought of Agatha opening up her phone to immediately see you being fucked by her makes you moan gutteraly and she huffs out a laugh. “Mommy, please.”

“Fuck, baby, you really like this, don’t you?” You nod your head quickly under her and her cock throbs inside you. You’re so fucking close. She feels so good inside you, her cock dragging deliciously against your walls, and hitting that spot inside you that she always does.

Pleasure is rolling over your body in waves and you lift your hips to meet each of her thrusts. It’s never been this intense before and you can’t believe you never thought to try filming sex before.

Agatha’s rhythm starts to falter inside you, she’s cursing, short of breath. She reaches between you to rub at your clit with two fingers and it makes you sob with how good it feels.

“Agatha, I’m so close,” you whine, beg. She ruts into you urgently, like she’s about to cum but needs to make sure you get there too, and she scrapes her teeth against your collarbone with a sharp thrust and presses on your clit and you explode, your orgasm tearing through your body and absolutely blowing your mind.

Your walls convulse around her and she stiffens, her breathing tightening, and then she lets out a long moan and you feel her pulse before her seed spreads through your cunt. You gasp at the warmth and Agatha collapses on top of you.

She lays there until she starts to soften before pulling out. Her cum starts to trickle out of your swollen pussy and you grind against nothing at the sensation but Agatha quickly jumps off the bed and grabs the iPad off the camera.

You gasp when you figure out what she’s doing — Agatha holds your legs open and holds the camera down close to your pussy.

“Spread your folds,” she directs, but without any of the authority she usually has. You reach down and do as she asks, more of her cum oozing out as you do. She swears under your breath. “Make yourself messy.”

You know what she means. You collect the wetness between your legs, both hers and your own, and start to stroke it all over your cunt.

“Fuck, honey, just like that,” she says and you rub your clit again, your body jerking under your own touch. “Clean your fingers.”

And then she lifts the camera to film you sucking your two cum-covered fingers into your mouth. You moan at the taste of both of you and Agatha looks like she might ravish you all over again.

The iPad gets tossed somewhere else on the bed and she leans over to kiss you before crawling down your body and cleans out her cum from inside you with her tongue.

Agatha doesn’t stop until she’s made you cum three more times.

When you wake up in the morning, there’s a pleasant soreness in between your legs and the sheets are still slightly damp. Light has started to stream in through the curtains on the large windows and you roll onto your side to find that it’s 8 am.

You have to be at the airport in an hour.

“Fuck,” you curse and jump out of bed, rushing around to get dressed and throw some clothes into a suitcase. With the end of the film, you haven’t had much time to get ready for this trip, and you are sorely regretting it now.

Agatha stirs while you’re trying to find the black dress for the cocktail party you have to go to in New York and mumbles something. You pause and wait for her to repeat herself. “Why don’t you come back to bed?” she asks suggestively, picking her head up to watch you.

“Babe, I have to be at the airport in an hour,” you say apologetically. “How do you still have energy after last night?”

Agatha chuckles and gets out of bed, coming over to wrap her arms around your shoulders from behind. You can feel her semi-erection through your suit pants. “I just always want to fuck you,” she murmurs into your ear and you debate whether or not you have enough time.

In the end, logic wins and you twist in her arms to give her a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry. When I get back I’ll make it up to you. Plus,” you say, eyebrows raising mischievously, “you have that video from last night.” The memory of making it heats through you — Agatha directing you on how to touch yourself.

You will definitely need to revisit that in the future.

But it does very little to quell Agatha’s lust and she grumbles as she goes to get dressed. “Maybe, when you get back, I’ll make you cockwarm me while we watch our little home movie and if you make one move, I won’t let you cum for a week.”

The idea runs straight through you right into your cunt and you seriously debate saying fuck it to New York entirely.

But an hour later, Agatha’s pulling up to the airport to drop you off and giving you a tight hug while she whispers in her ear how much she loves you.

You miss her the second you walk into the terminal, but you try to focus on preparing for your trip. There’s a few dinners, meetings, and parties that you’re expected to attend, just to get to know the right people for the next project that you could potentially be in. You know the other actresses being considered will also be there, so you need to be on your A-game.

And you’re able to focus for the entire plane ride, memorizing parts of the script they gave you, and when you land, you pull out your phone to text Agatha that you made it, only to find that she’s already messaged you a few times.

I miss you already, honey.

Hope you have a great time in NY! I know they’ll love you.

I wish I didn’t have to be here for this stupid meeting. I’d have loved to be there with you.

The first ones make you smile at how sweet your wife can be. But then the next couple are enough to reignite the fire in your stomach from earlier.

I miss your pussy, babygirl.

Can’t wait for you to come home so I can taste you.

Fuck, baby, mommy is so hard for you.

You’re too caught up in the messages to realize that your row is moving and the person in the middle seat taps your shoulder to get your attention. You startle and mutter an apology, hoping he didn’t accidentally see anything she sent you.

As you’re getting checked into the hotel, you get another text from your wife and the second you open it, you have to slam your phone down on the receptionist’s desk. She gives you a weird look but you pretend not to see it.

Watching the video — mommy loves watching her cum drip out of you. Fuck, honey. I’m going crazy.

Your heart is pounding, blood rushing to your cheeks, and you quickly take your room key and hurry up to the room. You press the call button and put your phone on speaker so you can start unpacking.

Agatha answers immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” she says, the most casual you’ve ever heard, and you clench your jaw.

“Agatha, what are you doing? I haven’t even been gone six hours. You’re going to kill the both of us!”

Her low chuckle makes you squeeze your legs together involuntarily. “I’m actually all right, baby. Remember that fleshlight you got me as a gag gift last Christmas?”

Fuck. “Agatha,” you say warningly. You have to be at a steakhouse in about thirty minutes — you don’t have time for her to get you all worked up. You were so distracted this morning you didn’t even bring any of your toys with you either.

��Of course it’s not as good as the real thing,” she sighs, and you can hear a soft slapping noise on the other side. You feel dizzy with heat.

“Are you…” you trail off, not even sure you could say the rest out loud. Could you pretend to be sick tonight?

Agatha lets out a little moan and you’re sure it must be for show, just to rub it in. “Fucking this toy and pretending it’s your pussy?”

You can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips and you have to sit down on the bed. “Fuck, mommy,” you whine and she laughs cruelly.

“Don’t you have that dinner to get ready for?” she asks and with a sinking feeling in your stomach, you know what’s going to happen. You hum, almost wishing you would’ve lied. Agatha grunts, the slapping sound speeding up, and you have to close your eyes. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Love you.”

She hangs up before you can protest and you’re forced to get into the shower, the heat in your stomach burning more than the water, and your hand makes its way between your legs to furiously rub your clit.

You cum in about three minutes.

You can barely focus at dinner with the thought of her using a fleshlight, one that you got her as a joke nonetheless. Her hard thrusts into the toy, picturing your mouth or pussy.

When you finally get back to the hotel, you’re absolutely exhausted. The travel, being teased by Agatha, and now that dinner where you had to pretend like your body wasn’t screaming for you to get on a plane and go home to your wife wiped you out, and you barely press send on a goodnight text to her before you’re passed out.

The next few days pass in a blur with events jam-packed into your schedule and you hardly have any time to talk to Agatha. She’s good for the most part, with the occasional dirty text every now and then.

But on your second-to-last day in New York, she starts to play a different game.

You’re sightseeing, checking out the American Museum of Natural History, when your phone buzzes. It’s a video from Agatha.

You don’t really think much and you click on it and your jaw drops as your entire body freezes.

It starts out shaky and it takes a few moments for it to focus, Agatha clearly in the middle of something. And then it points down and you see Agatha fucking the fleshlight.

Turn your phone off your brain screams. But it’s as if you’re stuck, your eyes glued to the screen to watch her thrust over and over into the silicone toy. She’s holding it with her left hand, her phone in her right, and her hips are driving her cock into the fake pussy hard. You can almost feel her cock inside you, as if the toy and you are connected.

She’s going faster and you wish more than anything you weren’t out in public so you could turn up the volume and hear her moaning, hear if she’s saying anything. It cuts off right as she’s about to cum. You have no doubt that you will be very busy with the video once you get back to your room.

And by the time you get back to the hotel, she’s sent you another one. Luckily, you don’t have anything for two hours, so you’re free to do whatever you want.

You’re almost afraid to click on it, and you shimmy off your jeans and underwear preemptively. You’ve been worked up for so long and you’ve barely had a chance to touch yourself and you breathe a sigh of relief when your fingers press against your clit.

Clicking on the new video, your pussy spasms when you realize what you’re watching.

Agatha has the iPad set up on the table, the video of you two open and playing. It’s strange to see your own face contorted with pleasure on film while Agatha tells you how to touch yourself.

And then in the lower half of the video she just sent is her, thrusting into the fleshlight again.

“Fuck,” you whisper. She’s fucking the toy while watching you fuck yourself. You turn the volume all the way up so you don’t miss anything and her little grunts with each drive only turn you on more.

Your wetness makes a squelching sound when you drag your fingers up and down through your folds and when you come back up to circle at your clit, there’s almost no friction.

“God, babygirl, mommy can’t wait for you to come back,” Agatha groans and it makes your heart skip a beat. On the iPad, Agatha has slid her cock into you and you’re in awe at how hot it is watching yourself get fucked.

It becomes quite clear to you that Agatha’s idea of having you cockwarm her while watching this video would not bode well for you. There is absolutely no way you’d be able to stay still, as evidenced by your squirming hips grinding against your hand right now.

Agatha takes her cock out of the fleshlight, puts it down, and strokes her hand quickly over it and a flash of heat bolts through you when you see it glistening. And then she places the toy on the table and teases her tip against the opening, sliding it up and down, you keen and your back arches off the bed.

All you’re doing is touching your clit a little.

On the iPad, Agatha’s speeding up and you’re whimpering underneath her. In the video you just got, she starts to slowly push her cock back into the fleshlight.

In your hotel room, you shove two fingers inside you, moaning at the stretch, and begin to thrust in time with Agatha, who is thrusting in time with the video you made.

“Fuck, honey, I need your pussy,” she babbles and you curl your fingers just right, a moan slipping out of your mouth. “Can’t wait to fuck you when you come back, can’t wait to fill you up.”

Her thrusts are becoming shallower into the toy, her sounds getting louder, and you’re right there with her.

You’re determined not to cum before she does, even though it’s a video and you could speed it up to cum with her. But you don’t want to miss a thing.

Turns out, you don’t have to wait too long, because when Agatha on the iPad moves the camera close to your pussy after she came inside you, her cum gushing out of you, that’s it for your wife.

“You feel so good,” Agatha says on the video before letting out a long moan and thrusting roughly one more time into the fleshlight. She stiffens and grunts and then pulls her cock out and lowers her phone so you can see her cum still spurting out onto the lips of the fleshlight.

That makes you cum almost immediately and you clamp a hand over your mouth so you don’t get any neighbors in the hotel wondering what you’re up to.

The video ends shortly after that and leaves you gasping for breath on the bed. You type out a quick Can’t wait to get home tomorrow and hit send. Thankfully, your plane leaves in the morning so you’ll be home soon.

Agatha immediately sends you back a wink emoji and then an eggplant emoji, making you laugh.

After the last dinner, you watch the video again and make yourself cum two more times.

It’s been the longest week of your life, and when the agent for the franchise drops you off at the airport, you barely remember to shake her hand.

“We’ll be in touch,” she says. “But between you and me, I think you have a very good shot of getting this part.”

Even through the horny fog in your mind, you realize just how big of a deal this is and you can’t wait to tell Agatha.

You call her while you’re waiting to board and tell her.

“Honey, that is amazing,” she gushes and your heart swells. Agatha has been your number one cheerleader since you met.

“You know I’d be spending a lot of time in New York. If you could barely last a week, imagine how hard that would be,” you joke.

Agatha snorts. “I’d come visit you all the time. Or I’ll just quit my job and become your trophy wife.”

The thought of the legendary director quitting her job for anyone makes you laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Got to get on the plane, Mrs. Harkness. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“I can’t wait, baby,” she says, her voice dropping an octave and making your stomach warm.

The entire plane ride, you can’t stop thinking about Agatha — about her hands, her mouth, her legs, her cock.

Would anyone notice if you pulled up that video again? Maybe you could go to the bathroom. With how you’re feeling right now, you wouldn’t need more than a few minutes.

And it only gets worse when you finally land and a car is already waiting for you to take you back. Excitement vibrates under your skin as you get closer to your house and you have to fan yourself to calm down. You can already feel your underwear sticking to you uncomfortably — lacy purple lingerie you brought on the trip just so you could wear it home.

When the car pulls into your driveway, you tip the driver and try to walk up to the door as slowly as possible, not wanting to seem too urgent.

The front door opens right when you get there and your wife is standing there, two glasses of red wine in her hand, casual pants and a tank top on, hair in a loose ponytail. You’re not sure she’s ever looked so hot.

“Hi,” you breathe, shutting the door behind you and leaning in for a quick kiss. Agatha deepens it and presses a glass into your hand and you take a long gulp.

“How was the flight?” she asks, sipping on her own wine. You drop the suitcase in the foyer and walk into your living room before plopping down on the white couch. She follows and sits next to you, her thigh touching yours.

Your heart is pumping so fast and you couldn’t care less about the flight because you’re finally here, with her. So you take her wine glass and put it on the coffee table with yours before climbing into her lap and kissing her roughly.

She makes a slightly surprised “oomph” before her tongue is in your mouth, entangling with yours, her hands creeping under your shirt and stroking up and down the skin of your sides. Her fingers are cold and they make you gasp.

“I missed you so much,” you murmur against her mouth and grind down hard on her rapidly growing bulge. She hisses and digs her fingernails into you. “You fucking tortured me.”

She laughs breathlessly, tugging on your bottom lip with her teeth. “I thought the video would help. It just made it so much fucking worse,” she admits and your entire body heats up. “I was so lonely — so horny — fuck, baby.” She loses her train of thought when you kiss down her neck and nip.

“I need your cock so bad,” you whimper, having thought of little else for the last twenty-four hours. You slide off her lap and onto the floor between her legs, your body moving faster than your mind, and you’re undoing her pants before either of you realize what you’re doing.

You pull her cock out and lick up the length with your flattened tongue and the sound she makes, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, goes straight to your cunt. She slouches more onto the couch so it’s easier for you to start lathering your saliva all over her. Her hips thrust up every now and then, and when you take the tip in and hollow your cheeks out, her ass fully lifts off the couch.

“God, honey, you suck mommy’s cock so well,” she whimpers and it spurs you on to go further down. There’s an ache in your stomach already and you can feel your wetness on your upper thighs.

Agatha’s hand tangles in your hair, but just rests and lets you go at your own pace. You can feel her twitch against your tongue and you suck harder.

“Baby, god, fuck — you’re so hot, mommy loves your mouth,” Agatha rambles and she throbs when her cock hits the back of your throat and you gag, tightening around her. She’s not going to last long, you can feel her pulsing and swelling, her cock growing heavier on your tongue. You think you could cum right now if you touched yourself.

You look up at her through your eyelashes and she groans like she’s in pain and then you pull your mouth off her, gasping for breath, while strands of spit still connect your lips to her cock. “Use me, mommy,” you say hoarsely and her hips involuntarily jump. “Fuck my mouth.”

This time, when you take her cock again, she thrusts her cock deep into your throat over and over. The only sounds in the room are you gagging and her moaning.

“Fuck, honey, I’m going to cum,” she pants and you nod slightly before trying to say something around her cock. But the vibrations against her feel too good and she stiffens before spurts of her cum fill your mouth. She slows her thrusts while she pumps her seed down your throat and you take it all, groaning at the somewhat salty taste.

She pulls out, cock soft, and slumps onto the couch and you wipe a strand of cum off your lip and suck it from your finger. You shift on your knees and she tracks the motion with her eyes, smirking wickedly.

“I always forget how hot and bothered sucking my cock gets you,” she purrs and then jerks her head to the couch. “Take your clothes off and lay down.”

You swallow roughly and get to your feet before teasing her by slowly taking your clothes off. Her fingers dig into the couch beneath her and her limp cock twitches just a bit when you reveal that you’re wearing her favorite lingerie. She’s always been able to recover relatively quickly and your mouth waters at the thought that, soon enough, you’ll have her inside you.

Once you’re naked, you settle on your back, one leg up over the pillows and your other foot resting on the floor, baring your dripping cunt to her. The look in her eyes is positively ravenous and she tosses the hair that’s come loose from her hair tie over her shoulder before situating herself so that she’s on her knees in front of you.

And then she leans down and runs her tongue through your folds — which are practically fused together with how wet you are — and you keen.

“Mommy,” you gasp, back arching. She chuckles against you and the feeling makes you moan. “I need you, please.”

She teases you a little, her tongue circling around your clit but never quite touching it, and your hips grind up to try to get just a little more stimulation. One of her hands trails up your body to pinch your nipple right as she sucks on your clit and you’ve never made such a high-pitched sound in your life.

Your noise drags a strangled moan from her mouth and her hips jerk. She starts to devour you, her tongue lashing against your clit and then thrusting inside you as far as she can go. Her other hand digs into your thigh, holding it open and using it for leverage just the same.

It takes you a little bit to notice what she’s doing — her hot mouth on your pussy has made your brain go completely fuzzy — but when you pick up on her flattened out body on the couch and her ass flexing in a steady rhythm, you clench violently around her tongue.

Agatha is grinding her cock against the couch. Eating you out for three minutes has gotten her so hard that she’s desperately getting any stimulation that she can.

Her fingers continue to tug and roll your nipple and her mouth is furiously lapping at your cunt and you can feel yourself getting so close.

“Please, mommy, Agatha, I’m —” you whine and her hand on your leg removes itself before she quickly slides two fingers into you while she rubs her tongue against your clit. Your walls bear down immediately around her and she curls them up and presses deep inside you. It makes you sob and your hips move on their own accord to chase the orgasm that is about to wash over you.

Agatha’s thrusts against the couch are getting more and more sloppy and she’s moaning against your cunt like she’s never been more content in her life. Your breathing becomes short and shallow and tingles spread through your entire body.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish your sentence before she sucks roughly on your clit and sends you right over the edge. Your vision goes white for a second, completely overwhelmed with pleasure as she keeps fucking you through your orgasm. She doesn’t stop, and although you have no doubt you’d be able to cum again in no time at all, it’s been too long without her cock inside you.

You tug at her hair weakly until she finally stops and looks up at you, her nose and the entire bottom half of her face absolutely coated with your wetness. Heat flares through your stomach and you almost shove her right back down between your legs.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Agatha coos and you whimper at her sweet voice. “Do you need more? Do you need mommy’s cock?”

When you nod eagerly, Agatha grins and crawls back up to her knees and you moan when you see her cock. It’s just as hard as it was before — maybe even harder? Is that possible? — and so red. It looks almost painful.

She bends over you and slides her cock against your entrance, both of you letting out heavy sighs of relief. “Wait,” you choke out, and she stops. You need to feel her deeper.

You turn over from your position on your back and get on your knees and elbows so that your ass is straight up in the air. Agatha sharply inhales and her hands cup your asscheeks before giving each one a little spank simultaneously.

Agatha drags her cock through your folds and then circles your clit with it, the feeling of her skin against yours making you keen.

And then she pushes into you, your mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Agatha mews once she bottoms out and holds still for a second, savoring the feeling of your walls milking her.

She starts to move, not even giving you a chance to adjust before setting a fast pace, her hips making a sound every time they slap against your ass. She’s filling you up so good, hitting a spot so deep inside you that makes you gasp each time, and your head drops to rest on your elbows while you start to push back against her thrusts.

Her pace stutters when you clench around her and she grabs onto your hips so tightly that your chest warms at the possibility of having bruises so you can remember just how good she fucked you. She practically slams you back and forth on her cock and there are no other thoughts in your head, no other words you can say, besides “Mommy!”

“I know, babygirl,” she rasps. “You’re taking my cock so well — fuck, I think this pussy was made for me. You were made for mommy’s cock, weren’t you?”

“Yes, god, yes, I was,” you pant, letting her completely use you. It’s like she’s just fucking her fleshlight and, god, that shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does.

She spanks your ass again and the familiar feeling of your orgasm rises steadily in your stomach. You can feel Agatha’s cock throbbing inside you with each thrust, can hear her groans become less restrained as she loses composure for the second time, and you need more.

Your hand snakes down between your body and couch to rub at your clit and your walls instantly clench around Agatha.

“Fuck, babygirl, mommy’s about to cum,” she gasps and it only drives you closer.

You press on your clit while her drives become short and fast, effectively knocking the wind out of you every time. “Cum inside me, mommy, want you to breed me,” you breathe and she falters for a second, a loud, guttural moan tearing from her lips, before recovering and fucking you even harder.

“Yeah, honey, mommy’s gonna breed you,” she babbles in agreement, an urgency you usually don’t hear from her lacing her tone. When you fuck, she usually does cum inside you anyway, but there’s something about asking her to breed you that turns you on beyond words. Seems like it has a similar effect on her too.

Tears gather in your eyes as she keeps thrusting into you and you’re not even aware that you’re cumming before your body spasms and jerks around her, and you keep frantically rubbing your clit to prolong the feeling spreading through you.

Your pussy convulses around her and she stills, grunting lowly, and then her cock stutters a few times inside you before pulsing and you whimper at the feeling of her cum spreading through you, and fuck, you’re so full.

Agatha stays inside you for a few moments, both of you enjoying the feeling, before pulling out. You curse under your breath when her cum oozes out of you in globs and Agatha runs and grabs a towel to clean you up.

You swear when she rubs the towel over your pussy, she brushes against your clit on purpose, and it makes you wince. You’re already sensitive from your two explosive orgasms and you don’t know if you could take anymore.

She helps you stand and the two of you walk up the stairs together, whispering sweet nothings and exchanging soft kisses, and then once you get to your room, Agatha turns on the shower while you sit on the edge of the tub and wait for it to warm up.

“I think next time you leave, I should come with you no matter what so I can fuck you every night for the rest of our lives,” she jokes and you laugh.

“Why did we even make that sex tape then?” you tease.

Her eyebrows wiggle teasingly and she comes closer to you and tugs you off the tub. “I seem to remember you liking that quite a bit. Plus, now when I’m at work and I get bored, I can just pull out my phone and watch what a good slut you are for me.”

Despite you being completely worn out, there’s no ignoring the heat that runs through when she says that. “God, you’re insatiable,” you say, mockingly dropping your jaw, and she chuckles before kissing your lips.

And then she opens the door to the shower for you both to get in and sinks to her knees in front of you. You gasp.

“You love it,” she says before licking through your swollen pussy and you have to lean back against the wall.

Yes, you do.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along

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endearng · 4 months ago

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Stranger Danger

Pairing: Spencer Reid x single mom!reader Summary: The power goes out. You and your daughter leave your apartment to find some light. Luckily, a stranger floods your being with it. WC: 2.1k Warnings: reader is scared of the dark; light mentions to stranger danger; it's a meet cute (guilty). Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: HI!!! I couldn't sleep so I decided to finish and post this one. I hope you guys enjoy it. Totally planning on a sequel for these three. Feedbacks are highly welcomed and appreciated. <3 neighbor!au masterlist | main masterlist

Spencer Reid was the most unnoticed and absent tenant of his building. His apartment was almost eerily quiet during most of the time, because of two main reasons. One, he was out of town often because of his job, of course, and, two, he didn't do much when he was there. He was a man who kept to himself whose idea of fun consisted of reading classic Literature. And don't take it the wrong way; not being around much didn't mean that he disliked his place, it was quite the opposite. He thoroughly enjoyed having a space to call his own, to organize, to cramp up the areas just the way he liked it. It gave him a sense of comfort, even though it felt lonely more often than not.

One of his neighbors had a child, he could tell that much because of the noises he would hear when he was around — while playing or the whining when she wanted something, after all, that's how kids usually behave. Spencer didn't mind them, of course, he was away for most of the time, so it wouldn't be rational to be bothered by a child acting like one. It was like being annoyed by an adult acting out, which did happen, but adults were supposed to be more self-aware than kids.

Although fairly acquainted with the routine of the family by putting pieces together from time to time (something his brain couldn't help but do, almost automatically), he had never seen their faces. He knew their voices and could even tell their footsteps apart. Sometimes, he would think about them. How did their day go, if everything was alright, if they ever addressed uncomfortable topics, if they ever had problems like his own frequently faced after they discovered about his mother's condition. He was acutely aware of the fact that those thoughts were the results of some sort of projection, almost like those neighbors were his personal novel to read and he longed to relate to its characters, because so much of his childhood had been ripped from him in ways he worried he could never recover from and terribly soon — he didn't remember ever knowing the sense of a loving, ordinary family like they apparently did and lived.

Today was a day off. He sat on his balcony, the summer breeze kissing his skin and messing up his hair, writing a letter to his mother. He tried his best to remain true to the commitment of making her a part of his life as a way to ease the guilt and sadness that gnawed at him for not being capable of caring for her properly by himself. He dearly missed Diana, he was his mother, after all. The only one who stood by him, even if not at her best, the only family he had left.

Satisfied with his writing, he finished the letter with a promise that he'd visit her soon. As he was folding the paper to put it inside the envelope, everything went black. The light left completely and, for a moment, he thought he had fainted because of the suddenness of it. That's when he heard the shrieking coming from the apartment next door and with a small chuckle, he deduced it was a power outage.

"Oookay, we don't need to panic, Oli, right? The light will be back in a few moments," he heard from the balcony next to his. It was the mother's voice, surely.

"Mommy, 'm scared," the little girl, Olivia, cried.

"I know, baby, but mommy is right here," was the answer provided, followed by the sound of a loud and exaggerated kiss. He heard the little girl giggle. "That's better, sweetie. Come on, let's talk. How are you feeling?"

"'m scared, but happy that you're here, mommy," she said.

"I'm happy to be with you, too, my girl," the woman cooed.

Spencer all but listened to the sweet interaction close to him. Unbeknownst to the woman, he held it even closer to his heart. It was one of the purest forms of love he had ever witnessed and he was grateful for them both during that time.

You, on the other hand, felt panic rising in your chest as the minutes passed and the dark still engulfed you, your little girl's voice the only comfort soothing you from time to time. Olivia was really scared of the dark, so as time went by, you tried to assure her that there was nothing to be scared of, and even if she was, she shouldn't feel embarrassed, that it was okay to express those feelings and that you were there for her. You were glad that she trusted you enough to believe those empty words, because you were terrified of the dark.

It all started as a kid. Not knowing what could be lurking in the shadows absolutely freaked you out and admiting it out loud was mortifying, so you did your best to hide it. If your daughter's reaction was anything to go by, you were doing a good job, so you relished on that.

Right now, it was becoming more and more difficult to play the part of the brave, fearless mother. So you started singing, soon enough followed by your daughter.

Super trouper lights are gonna blind me

But I won't feel blue like I always do

'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you

Olivia giggled. It was one of her favorite songs, you had introduced it to her when she was too shy before one of her recitals. She had only memorized the chorus, of course. You were forever thankful for having that song engraved in your memory, because now the footage you had from said recital had Olivia showing all her moves looking right at you, basically all of the time.

"Oli, what do you think of going to the lobby? Maybe we could find some friends there." You suggested, which made Spencer's interest rise. Could it be a chance for him to finally address faces to the family he almost felt a part of?

For someone so bright, he truly didn't know if he was overstepping or being obsessive, it just made sense to him. Like aforementioned, he felt like it was a novel.

He heard little hands clapping excitedly and heard the next door opening and then closing right after. He used the time to think if he was behaving like the creeps he profiled for a living, but decided to give himself some credit by realizing he didn't mean to do no harm, he was just curious.

As time went by, the lobby soon became crowded with people and basically everyone had a flashlight on. It made Spencer laugh internally. He searched the area for a woman and a little kid, but no success. The room was so packed it almost felt suffocating and for a moment he felt ridiculous for considering searching a room for someone whose face he wasn't familiar with. What was he thinking? His mother always said that his job should stay out of his personal life and he had yet to learn that. So, he decided to go outside for a breath of fresh air.

What he didn't expect was to find a woman and a little girl sitting on the benches just outside the apartment complex. Their voices sounded exactly like the ones he had been noticing for some time now. He froze, unable to look away from them.

The girl had her mother's features. They were so scarily alike that it felt like he was watching the same person during different periods of her life, but simultaneously, as if he was on some sort of time travel.

He was ripped out of his daydreams when the little girl came running towards him, "Look, mommy! He has a letter! You send them to grandpa!"

Although very embarrassed by your daughter's sudden run, you jumped on your feet to catch up with her. You didn't know that man, so it only made sense to be very alert and to keep your child away from him. As you neared the two of them, you placed your hands on Oli's shoulders, who was standing in front of him, you took in his appearance. He was tall, a little lanky and had long-ish hair, cut just around his shoulders. He had dress pants and a shirt loosely buttoned up as well. His eyes were searching your face, as if he was scanning you as well. The poor lighting didn’t help either of you, but you two were almost touching with your eyes, if such a thing were possible, from how much you were looking, almost admiring each other.

Amid his thoughts from earlier, he didn't even realize he was still holding the letter he had written that afternoon.

"Hi," you greeted, a little awkwardly, "I'm sorry. She’s still learning about stranger danger. Or bothering people." You chuckled, nervously.

What the hell have you just said?

"Actually, stranger danger did the most harm to this country in terms of crimes like that. I remember them coming to my classroom. It was Officer Friendly with stranger danger coloring books. Taught a whole generation about a scary man in a trench coat, hiding behind a tree. Then we learned that strangers are only a fraction of the offenders out there." He rambled.

What the hell has he just said?

You knitted your eyebrows together, perceiving his comment as peculiar, to say the least. "Well, yeah."

"Sorry about that. I tend to ramble about some topics. I'm not a creep, I swear. I work with the FBI, I know it can be odd to start a conversation like that. Well, your daughter did," he chuckled, albeit tensely, "My name's Spencer. Spencer Reid. I live in this building. Third floor."

You laughed a little over his rambling, relief flooding your body once you realized that he was just a regular guy. A regular guy that worked for the FBI. You told him your name and Olivia's as he offered you a friendly handshake, "Me and Olivia live there, too."

"MOMMY!" Olivia shouted, sounding exasperated and thrilled at the same time. "He is the ghost neighbor!"

"Ghost neighbor?" He asked, shocked and a little humored.

You laughed at your daughter and the confusion adorning his beautiful features. "Oli, don't scream. We already talked about it," you addressed your daughter, firmly but gently. Spencer was in awe. "It's just an inside joke between the kids. You're almost never home and every once in a while they hear some sounds coming from your apartment. They say a ghost lives there. They even put up some decorations on your front door on Halloween, but I decided to remove it in case it bothered you."

Olivia laughed like someone had spilled a funny secret and Spencer quickly joined her. You chuckled, even though you were more puzzled than anything by the fact that your daughter had approached, so confidently, a stranger. It made you both terrified and happy. Terrified because he could be a weirdo. Happy because she was able to come out of her shell. Even happier to see her coming out of her shell with a nice stranger.

"It’s alright. I wouldn’t have minded. I love Halloween.” He said, addressing you. You could tell then that, at least, he wasn’t someone bitter. “Sorry to disappoint, Miss Olivia. It's just me moving some chairs every now and then. But I won't tell if you won't."

"I won't!" She squealed, and Spencer smiled. You couldn't draw your eyes away from their exchange. Olivia balled her small fists on your skirt, pulling you out of your reverie, so you crouched down at her height. She whispered something in your ear. Spencer watched, curiously, as you nodded at her.

"She said you need a pinky promise." You told him once you were standing again. Spencer gladly crouched and stuck out his pinky towards Olivia, who intertwined her own with his.

"Now we can't tell anybody." He said, with a genuine smile on her face.

"Mommy, you hafta promise it too." Olivia said, grabbing your hand and pulling your pinky toward Spencer's hand, linking them together. You felt the heat rising to your face.

The power came back. Suddenly, your pinky was linked to a very handsome man who you had just met because of your one-of-a-kind daughter. It made you nervous, because the light highlighting his beautiful features in all the right places made you feel like a deer caught in the headlights. By looking at him alone, you thought of words related to the light four times. As he looked back at you with a gorgeous smile on his face, you finally understood why people associate light with feelings.

divider by @cafekitsune <3

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x singlemom!reader #singlemom!reader

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 1 year ago

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S̶̤̋̉t̸o̶̝̍r̵̛͠m̸̠͌͝

Look, I know I promised a continuation of "Get in the Water," but I had this idea and just had to write it, okay? So this is the non-canon sequel, the canon one is still in progress.

They escaped. Batman dragged Damian's frozen body away from the Lazarus Pit and through the tunnels as Danyal's screams-sobs-wails echoed behind them. Eventually the sound ebbed away and they emerged to the surface.

A debrief was demanded from everyone; even Todd was in the Cave. Damian trembled, his only sign of distress, his mind stuck on Danyal's face, his brother's voice rebounding around his head.

Father's debrief had been rough. Damian could barely explain what happened, why he was drawn to the waters, why Danyal wanted to drown him. He'd only explained the Danyal was someone he'd killed while with the League, and Father was the only one to doubt his explanation.

Damian took the first opportunity to escape to the showers. Stripping down, Damian turned the faucet and the bathroom lit up bright green.

He flinched away, and when he opened his eyes, the water was just water. A stone sunk into his stomach.

The next day, while Father was consulting with Justice League Dark, Grayson and Drake returned to the caves for their own investigation of the Pits. And while they found the cavern--found by tracking the batarang Father threw--it was desert dry. There was no sign of Lazarus Water, nor did it look like it had ever been there.

That night, as Damian was washing his face before bed, he filled the sink basin with water. He turned away for one second, but when he looked back, he almost dipped his face under the green slime oozing out the spout. He bolted, and when he returned with a startled Father, the water had returned to normal.

Grayson insisted on taking him out for lunch the following day, citing that Damian needed a "break." Damian was furious, but allowed it; Justice League Dark was visiting the cave to discuss the... incident, and Damian wanted to interrogate them. He... he needed to know if that was really Danyal or not. If his sweet brother could have been twisted after his murder into that monster, that Siren crooning at him to choose to die.

He'd never contemplated the fate of his brother's immortal soul before. Had he done this to him? Could Damian had avoided this by killing him honorably, instead of cowardly poisoning Danyal so he'd pass away in his sleep?

Damian allowed Grayson order for him. He wasn't hungry. The clouds above swirled ominously as he followed Grayson to a nearby awning with a picnic bench underneath.

Grayson took a bite of his gyro. "So? How have you been coping these past few days?"

"I'm not an invalid, Grayson," Damian hissed, glaring. "I'm fine."

A frozen breath brushed across his ear. "Ĺ̶̥̲̪̀̐ỉ̷̢̜̚a̴̧͖͛r̶̺̫̾͗̃͜,̶͕̐" Danyal whispered in his ear.

Grayson didn't notice or hear Danyal's voice. "You see, I don't believe you. One of your dead League friends is supernaturally gunning for you, Dami; it's normal to feel out of sorts."

Damian scoffed. "Nothing about this situation is normal."

He looked down at his food and sighed. "Yeah, that's for sure. I'm sorry, Damian. I wish this wasn't happening to you."

"And I wish the creature would just attack already," Damian griped. "It's the waiting that will kill me, not that fake."

Like someone had been listening, the sky opened up and it rained green throughout Gotham.

#damian and danny are twins #dc x dp #dpxdc #dp x dc #dcxdp #dc x dp crossover #c: damian wayne #c: bruce wayne #c: dick grayson #c: tim drake #everyone kept writing about how Damian would have been dragged under so i wondered what would have happened if he escaped #Danny promised to flood Gotham; now he might just do that #there's a surprising lack of jason in this #i'm imagining he's dodging his own supernatural IRS agent right now #specifically technus bc he'd piss jason off the most #while jason is experiencing rage inducing comedy Damian is experiencing the Horrors #get in the water au

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cressidagrey · 7 months ago

Text

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 2

Summary:

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings:

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, low Self-Esteem, Cassian is kinda an idiot, mention of murder, mention of stabbing and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

“It’s open!” Eira called out as she heard the knock, her eyes flicking towards the door.

The shadows had just finished playing with her hair, their efforts resulting in an intricately braided updo that she had absolutely no idea how to replicate properly. She wondered who exactly had let the shadows play hairstylist for long enough that they had learned how to pin her hair in increasingly complicated updos, whenever she let them.

For some reason, Eira had the feeling that it amused them for some unknown reason. And they liked doing it. At night, when she couldn’t sleep, they kept playing with her hair, lulling her to sleep…when she was awake, they braided and rebraided it as often as they possibly could get away with it. And tonight, they had tried two different hairstyles, before finally deciding that this one was the one. Now, they were just finished scattering some blooming Asters through her hair, the purple-blue colour matching a dress that had suddenly been in her closet.

It was all…very much like a fairytale.

“Hey,” Feyre said as she entered her room. “Are you ready for dinner?”

"I am pretty sure the shadows keep stealing your dresses for me," Eira said drily, as she nodded. Feyre blinked twice, taking in the dress that the shadows had trussed Eira into. It was beautiful. A dark bluish purple, with spiderweb-thin lace that covered her arms and heavy silk that fell to the floor.

"That's not mine," Feyre answered with a laugh. "It's gorgeous, but definitely not mine.”

Eira stared at the dress, then to the shadows that quickly flitted through the open door away from her. She just sighed, while Feyre giggled. "They do seem to be surprisingly delighted at treating you as their lifesize doll," her sister quipped.

Eira just shrugged. "Well, at least they have good taste," she said with a grin making Feyre laugh aloud.

"Maybe they are just happy that they finally get somebody to dress up. Azriel wears his leathers nearly exclusively after all,” Feyre quipped.

Eira chuckled at Feyre’s words, thinking of Azriel’s usual attire. It was true, the shadowsinger rarely bothered with anything more formal than his leathers. She turned her attention back to the dress, running her fingers over the lacework of the sleeves. "It’s beautiful," she said quietly, admiring the fabric. "But it’s a bit much, isn't it?"

Feyre rolled her eyes at her words. "It’s not, Eira," she said, her tone slightly exasperated. "Besides, I think a certain shadowsinger may appreciate the effort," she added with a wink.

Eira's cheeks flamed. Maybe...maybe that was the reason why she hadn't protested the shadows and their insistence on dressing her up. Maybe that was why she hadn't protested that dress or the updo...or even the lipstick they had very carefully applied.

Eira had initially assumed that the shadows just enjoyed playing dress up, that they derived some sort of twisted amusement from seeing her in fancy dresses and elaborate hairstyles. But, now that Feyre had brought up a certain Shadowsinger... Perhaps the shadows had a more specific reason for their interest in dolling her up...

"Come on, I want to see if you manage to make Azriel's jaw hit the floor," Feyre quipped.

Eira’s heart skipped a beat at Feyre's words, heat rising to her cheeks. She knew it was silly, knew that she shouldn’t get her hopes up. But the thought of seeing Azriel’s reaction to her wearing that beautiful dress...it made her stomach flutter with something.

They had agreed to a courtship but she...she knew that for him the mating bond trumped anything.

That's why he even considered it in the first place, why he was willing to go along with it.

It was...It was something she liked to push out of her mind in a way because she would rather just...enjoy the possibility of having him. Something that she hadn't thought she ever would have. She never thought that she would have a chance.

For just a moment her mind replayed Elain’s vision…They had looked so happy in that vision…had looked so…in love.

So did it really matter why he wanted to court her? If they could build that? The image that had plagued her since the day of the vision flitted through her mind, the image of a daughter that they could perhaps someday have together.

And yet, something twisted in her gut, a pang of doubt creeping into her heart.

Wasn’t she only asking for heartache? Shouldn’t she not get her hopes up too high, shouldn’t she stop herself from building up too many fantasies in her head?

But she had never been good at telling her heart no. It had always been too hopeful...a bit foolish.

And the thought of Azriel seeing her...of seeing his reaction to her in this gorgeous dress, with her hair pinned up...it sent a thrill of excitement through her veins.

So she followed along with Feyre towards the dining room, her heart beating fast in her chest. Just a family dinner...just like they had had so many. Granted most of the time she had sat at the edges and had then rambled to Azriel about everything and nothing but...

This dinner would be the same as all the others, she told herself, just like every other one they had shared in the past...the only difference was that this time, she was dolled up in a fancy dress and an elaborate hairdo courtesy of the shadows.

And the fact that she had agreed to let him court her. The human way.

Well, in the way Azriel probably thought was human. She highly doubted that it would pass as courting for any gentleman, but she didn't care about that. She really didn’t care. She would sit through whatever he wanted if he had the chance of…the chance of having him.

It was so sweet that he was even willing to entertain her like that. He could have just as easily never even thought about it...could have just as easily refused to do anything human because he wasn't human. He was Illyrian...even when she sometimes wondered what Azriel would call himself if she asked. He seemed to have no love for Illyrian customs, much differently than either Rhys or Cassian.

Eira pondered that as they walked. She knew how much Azriel disliked the Illyrian culture, how much disdain he had for some of their archaic traditions, their backward ideologies.

And yet, he indulged her, willing to do it the human way even though he wasn’t human. It filled her heart with a strange sensation, a kind of warm affection.

It was...endearing, in a way. Sweet, in fact. That he would take the time and effort, simply to let her have a taste of that kind of romance.

But all of that was nothing against the way her stomach fluttered as she spied him in the dining room, deep in conversation with Cassian and Rhys...Wings carefully tucked behind his shoulders so that she couldn't see the full, massive span of them...couldn't see their majestic beauty.

And then his hazel eyes looked up and for just a moment it felt like it was just the two of them, everybody else forgotten.

Eira's breath caught in her throat when Azriel looked up and their eyes met.

For a brief moment, everything else around them disappeared, the world slipping away in a rush of colour and sound. It was like the world faded away, leaving just the two of them staring at each other.

She saw the surprise in his eyes, the flicker of shock before his gaze flicked over her figure, taking in her dress, and her hair.

Something flickered in his gaze, something she couldn’t quite place. His stare was intense, and heat rose in her cheeks as his eyes traced over the lace of her sleeves, the shape of her waist, the way the silk hugged her skin. It was...overwhelming, almost, having his attention so completely on her.

Overwhelming and addictive.

Eira's heart leapt in her chest, her cheeks flushing under his gaze. She was suddenly very aware of the way the fabric of her dress glided against her skin, how it clung to her figure.

"Damn," Cassian drawled. Cassian's voice jarred Eira out of the moment, breaking the strange spell that had seemed to fall over her and Azriel.

She jerked her head in Cassian's direction, finding him staring at her with an appreciative grin. "Someone's looking very nice tonight," Cassian drawled, his gaze roaming over her dressed figure.

Eira could feel her cheeks flushing even more under his gaze, the heat of them spreading across her chest and neck, embarrassment settling. She knew that dress had been too much, she shouldn’t have…

And then she heard that growl. Eira's eyes widened at the sound of Azriel's growl, the feral sound making her shiver. She watched, slightly stunned, as he shot Cassian a glare that should have set the other male on fire on the spot.

Cassian just smirked at his brother's reaction, his grin widening with smug satisfaction.

"What's wrong, Az," he drawled a hint of amusement in his voice. "Didn't like me looking at your lady?"

Azriel's eyes narrowed further, the muscles in his jaw tensing. He took a step forward, his wings flaring, as if to shield Eira from Cassian's gaze.

"Enough, you two," Rhys said with a sigh. "Cassian, if he kills you, that's on you. You know exactly how that mating bond feels to him right now."

Cassian just chuckled at Rhys' words, his eyes still sparkling with mirth. "Oh, I know," he drawled. Rhys just rolled his eyes at that, his expression exasperated.

Azriel's wings flared a little further, the movement enough to distract Eira's attention back to him. His eyes were still fixed on Cassian, a silent warning in his gaze.

Eira's heart skipped a beat as she took in the expression on his face, the protectiveness that had taken over his features. But she could also see the other, lurking underneath that protective surface. There was a hint of possessiveness, a hint of something much more primal and instinctual. The sight was enough to send another shiver down her spine.

"You do look very pretty, Eira," Cassian said, his voice growing serious and she couldn't help but stare at him. What? She hadn't expected the compliment, especially not after the way he had been riling Azriel only a moment before.

"Thanks," she responded after a moment, her voice quiet.

Nesta just snorted. "Wrong sister," she told her mate drily. "You are supposed to tell me how pretty I am," she pointed out, making Eira laugh.

"You are gorgeous," Eira told her oldest sister, making Nesta snort, her grey eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Did you make the dress?" Nesta asked as they found their seats, Azriel pulling out the chair for her without a word,

Eira smiled as she took her seat, Azriel's hand on the small of her back sending a strange sensation through her body. She watched as he sat down to her right, his wing slightly flared to block Cassian from her line of sight.

She looked back to Nesta, her cheeks still flushed from Azriel's touch.

"No," she answered, a smile on her lips. "The shadows…the shadows picked it out for me."

Nesta raised an eyebrow at her words, her gaze flickering from the dress to Azriel, who was still shooting warning glances in Cassian's direction.

Rhys and Feyre were also exchanging knowing looks, clearly amused by the shadow's involvement.

"They have good taste," Feyre quipped, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

Azriel's wing twitched, his glare deepening. "Don’t give them ideas," he said gruffly.

Feyre just laughed at that, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"Oh, I think they already have plenty of ideas, Az," she said with a smile. Azriel just grumbled under his breath, his eyes flickering to Eira for a moment before looking back to Feyre.

Eira couldn't help the flush that spread over her cheeks as Azriel's gaze flicked over her again. She could feel the heat of it like a brand, making her skin tingle and her heart flutter.

The shadows that had gotten her ready for the night whispered in her ear, their voices too soft for the others to hear.

He likes it.

Eira barely resisted the urge to shiver at the whisper, Azriel's gaze still on her, his eyes locked on her face. She could see the possessiveness in his gaze, the way he was looking at her as if she were something he wanted to keep all for himself. The shadows' voices purred again.

He thinks you're beautiful.

Eira's heart fluttered at the words, her stomach twisting with a strange sense of...giddiness. She knew it was silly, foolish even, but that possessive gleam in his eyes made her feel...wanted, desired. She couldn't help but smile as the shadows continued to whisper in her ear, their voices soft and sly.

He can't take his eyes off you.

"Would you stop it?" Azriel growled at that moment and she looked up to find the shadows having wrapped themselves around their master, the tendrils of darkness twining around his arms and shoulders.

The sight was both eerie and beautiful, the shadows moving like dark, writhing serpents over his skin. Azriel's eyes flared with irritation as he tried to bat the shadows away, but they seemed to only cling tighter, almost as if they were taunting him.

Rhys and Feyre were watching the scene with amused expressions, clearly enjoying Azriel’s frustration. They really did like to rile him up, it seemed.

Cassian, on the other hand, was grinning like a fool, clearly enjoying the display.

"You just can't keep the shadows in check, can you, shadowsinger?" Cassian drawled, a smirk on his lips. Azriel just growled in response, his eyes narrowing as he shot a glare at the other male across the table. Rhys chuckled at the scene, clearly finding the whole thing amusing.

"It seems like they have a mind of their own," he mused, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Feyre just snorted, her lips curving into a smirk as she watched the shadows continue their dance around Azriel. Eira couldn't help but laugh as well, the sight of the shadows wrapping around Azriel's form while he sat there looking annoyed was truly hilarious.

The shadows were clearly enjoying themselves, their tendrils moving almost playfully over his broad shoulders and strong arms. Eira watched as Azriel seemed to give in to the shadows' antics, his shoulders relaxing and his expression softening. The shadows still coiled around his arms like snakes, the tendrils of darkness wrapping around his wrists and up his forearms.

He seemed resigned now, his eyes flickering to her for a moment before looking back to the shadows.

"You look beautiful, Eira. The colour suits you," he said quietly, his cheeks reddening.

She could have sworn her heart skipped a beat at his words, a rush of warmth spreading through her chest at Azriel's words. She could feel her cheeks flushing even more as he complimented her, her heart fluttering against her ribs.

He liked it?

Azriel let out a huff of irritation as one of the shadows extended a tendril to poke his cheek, his lips pressing into a frown.

He reached up a hand to brush the shadow away, but it just twined around his fingers instead.

The shadow seemed almost...playful, the way it wove between his fingers, the touch surprisingly gentle. "Stop it," Azriel murmured under his breath, his eyes narrowing at the shadow.

But the shadow just continued to wind itself around his fingers, almost like a cat begging for attention. Eira couldn't help but grin at the sight, the shadow's antics adorable, even if they were clearly bothering Azriel.

"I don't think they are going to stop until I give in," Azriel finally said with a sigh. Eira chuckled as Azriel finally spoke up, the shadows clearly intent on getting his attention. "I was going to wait until after dessert," Azriel said quietly, "But they seem to have a mind on their own...so…” he hesitated for a moment. “I apologise. I learned that I did it wrong."

She stared at him, her heart plummeting.

That he did what wrong? Why was he apologising to her? What was… "What did you do wrong?" Eira asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Azriel's cheeks flushed again as he looked at her, the shadows still clinging to his fingers. He took a deep breath before speaking, his eyes never leaving hers. He took a deep breath before speaking, his eyes never leaving hers. "I...I should have given you a gift when I made my first courting overture," he said quietly, his voice gruff with embarrassment. “I am sorry. While I did not know, that is not an excuse for my behaviour.”

Eira's heart skipped a beat at his words, her eyes widening. She hadn’t expected him to give her a gift, let alone bring it up now.

"You don't need to give me a gift," she protested immediately.

Yes, it was true that...that should have been something that happened. But then, if she was still the daughter of a wealthy merchant, she probably would have met her future husband at a ball and there would have been weeks of flowers and pralines before he asked her to court...and a courtship already was fully expected as a prelude to a formal engagement. By the time a man would have asked her to court, he should have already made his mind up if she was the woman he intended to marry.

Eira's mind flickered to the memory of Elain's courtship with Grayson, the wealthy heir sending her gifts for weeks before officially courting her. And the number of gifts and the extravagance increased tenfold when he requested her hand.

She had never expected Azriel to do anything of that sort.

But the fact that Azriel seemed ashamed... that the shadows were so insistent that he followed the proper courting practices...it made something in her chest warm, the feeling almost like a fuzzy, pleasant burn.

She looked up at him, a small smile on her lips. "You didn’t have to get me a gift," she repeated, her voice soft.

Azriel just shook his head, a stubborn frown on his face. “I did,” he said firmly, his eyes locked on hers. “It's part of the tradition, part of your culture.”

Eira felt her heart skip a beat at Azriel's words, his firm tone making something flutter in her stomach. He was taking this seriously, that much was clear. She could see the determination in his eyes, the shadows still coiled around his fingers as if to remind him of his task.

"Alright," she said softly, her gaze locked with his. "You...you really want to follow proper courtship etiquette?" She asked, her voice almost tentative.

"He got like 10 books on it," Cassian said with a snort.

Eira's eyes widened as she heard Cassian's comment, her gaze shifting to him for a moment before returning to Azriel.

"You...you researched this?" She asked, her voice tinged with surprise.

Azriel just grumbled under his breath, his cheeks reddening even more. "The shadows found me books in the Human Lands.," he muttered, his eyes flickering to the tendrils of darkness still wrapped around his fingers.

But it was Nesta's laugh, a high tinkling sound, her older sister winking at her. "Bring out the goods, Az. I want to know what you ended up choosing."

Eira's heart fluttered in her chest as Nesta spoke, her words sending a strange mixture of anticipation and...giddiness through her.

Eira looked to Azriel, whose cheeks continued to redden under the attention, his wings shifting behind him. The shadows around his fingers seemed almost...encouraging, the tendrils coiling and uncoiling like they were urging him to hurry.

“Let me get it.” Eira's heart seemed to skip a beat as Azriel finally spoke, his voice deep and gruff. He extricated his fingers from the shadow's grasp, the tendrils retracting like they had only been waiting for that particular permission.

Azriel stood from the table, pushing his chair back, and Eira found herself holding her breath.

Azriel crossed the dining room in a few quick strides, his wings flared out behind him as if in excitement. Eira's eyes followed him, her heart still fluttering in her chest.

The other occupants of the room remained silent, their eyes following the shadowsinger as he made his way into the next room.

A moment later, he reappeared, carrying...something.

A harp.

Eira's eyes widened as she saw the harp in Azriel's hands, her heart skipping another beat in her chest.

It was...beautiful, the strings gleaming in the light from the candelabras. The wood was polished to a fine shine, each curve and line of detail flawless.

She could just stare at it.

The sight of it brought back memories from her childhood when she had started learning the harp. When she had dreamed of playing for a court, of learning every single song there was...when she had...She had one then...a gift from her father...a beautiful gilded one, made out of light wood. It had been smaller than that one, with fewer strings than the 47 she expected this one to possess. This was the kind of harp professional used in an orchestra setting...the kind of harp she had always dreamed of.

Her harp had been sold off along the rest of their possession to keep their money troubles at bay back in the day...and somehow it had been...it had been the worst loss. Somehow the house and her clothing and any jewellery...that hadn't mattered to her as much as the harp.

"Nesta said you used to play," Azriel said quietly, his voice unsure, as he placed it in front other, carefully. Eira's eyes snapped up to meet Azriel's, her heart still fluttering in her chest.

She took in the expression on his face, the uncertainty and the shyness that had replaced his usual confidence. She could see the...the hope in his eyes, mixed with a hint of anxiety as he waited for her response. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she looked at him.

"I...I used to," she finally replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her fingers itched to reach out and take the harp from him, to touch the strings. To hold that instrument in her hands and...to run her fingers over the smooth wood, to feel the coolness of the strings as she plucked them.

The memory of how they felt under her touch, the sound they made when she had been younger and could still play...the memories that rushed through her mind made her heart beat faster in her chest.

"I stopped after...after our father lost our wealth," she continued, her voice softer now. "We had to sell most of our possessions, and...well, harps aren't exactly the most practical thing to keep in your house when you're struggling to buy food."

But now...now Azriel was holding this harp out to her. Holding this most wonderful, most beautiful thing...this thing she had lost, this thing she never thought she would hold again.

Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at the harp, her mouth going dry. "You-" Eira's words caught in her throat as she met Azriel's gaze again, the tears in her eyes making his face blurry. "You...you got this for me?" She managed to whisper out.

"It's not a human one," he warned her quietly. "You would probably break it without meaning to...it wouldn't withstand your strength. This ones is fae-made. Made out of Ebony. Your magic will interact with the instrument and...the sound should be even more beautiful."

"It's beautiful," she repeated, her voice soft with emotion.

She reached out an unsteady hand to brush the harp, her fingers tracing over the smooth ebony wood. She could feel the hum of magic under her fingertips, the power contained in the instrument, the magic that was just waiting to be released.

She looked up at Azriel, tears still shimmering in her eyes. "You-" her voice broke for a second before she tried again. "You did all this...this is your courting gift?"

Azriel's cheeks reddened even more at her question, the tips of his ears turning pink. He nodded once, his eyes fixed on her face, his expression almost hopeful. "Yes," he said quietly. "It is."

Eira's heart skipped another beat, the tears pooling in her eyes finally spilling over.

She looked back down at the harp, her fingers still tracing over the smooth wood, her lips trembling. This was...this was the most beautiful gift she had ever received, it was...it was more than she had ever expected, more than she had ever hoped for.

And Azriel had gone through all that trouble, researched her culture and the proper courtship rituals, had found this harp...for her.

She took a trembling breath, desperately trying to contain the swell of emotions in her chest, the tears now falling down her cheeks.

She looked back up at Azriel, meeting his gaze once again, her heart thudding loudly in her chest.

She opened her mouth to speak, to try and say something, a thank you, a...a declaration, anything. But the words stuck in her throat.

Azriel just stood there, watching as she tried to speak, the expression on his face unreadable. The worry in his eyes was unmistakable, as if he wasn't sure how she would react.

The room was quiet, the other occupants of the room watching the scene with rapt attention. Even the shadows seemed unusually still, their usual playfulness and mischief replaced by a strange kind of tension.

Eira took another shuddering breath, trying to collect herself. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, her heart still hammering in her chest.

She looked at the harp again, taking in every detail of the instrument. The smooth wood, the perfectly tuned strings, the magic contained within. The sheer...beauty of it, the thoughtfulness and care that had gone into choosing it.

It was a beautiful harp. A truly perfect gift.

"It's...it's perfect," she finally managed to whisper, her voice raw with emotion.

Azriel's shoulders relaxed slightly, the worry in his eyes diminishing a little. "You...you like it, then?" He asked quietly, his voice tense with anxiety.

"Like it?" Eira repeated, her voice almost indignant. "Like it? I...Azriel, it's the most beautiful, most perfect gift I've ever received."

She rose, her knees shaky, taking a step forward, the tears still trickling down her cheeks.

"It...it's perfect," she repeated, her voice cracking once again. "And you...you learned about the proper courtship rituals, you...you researched my culture," she continued, her voice soft and shaky. "You did all this...for me."

Eira took another step forward. She took another shuddering breath, her heart beating harder and hard in her chest.

"No one...no one has ever done that before," she whispered, her voice breaking again. "No one has ever put so much thought, so much effort into a gift for me."

Azriel shifted awkwardly, looking as if he were torn between wanting to reach out to her and not knowing if it was the right thing to do.

"You...you're worth it," he finally said, his voice quiet and gruff. "You're...you're worth all the research, the effort...the trouble. You're worth it, Eira."

Eira's heart clenched in her chest at his words, her breath catching in her throat.

No one had ever spoken to her like that, ever made her feel as if they were so certain of her worth.

She shouldn't be doing this. It wasn't her place to be this forward, wasn't...but still she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against his cheek, breathing in cedars and mist and Azriel and then pulled back. "Thank you," she whispered."

Azriel's eyes widened in surprise, his cheeks reddening furiously as she kissed his cheek.

He seemed completely taken aback, his wings fluttering slightly in shock. His entire body tensed, as if he suddenly didn't know what to do with himself.

And then, as a moment later, a small, shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're welcome," he replied, his voice gravelly and rough.

"So are you gonna play something?" Cassian asked, breaking the silence.

Eira's cheeks flamed bright red as she remembered they weren't alone. She had...she had forgotten the others were there, had allowed herself to get lost in the moment, in the emotions and the...the sheer perfection of Azriel's gift.

She pulled back slightly and looked at Cassian's cheeky smile as he teased.

"Not unless you want to go deaf by my out of practice screeching," she said drily. "I'll need to practice before my playing is anywhere near fit for public consumption."

"Oh, come on," Cassian said with a pout. "It can't possibly be that bad. Let us have a taste of the music you're capable of making."

Nesta smacked his arm with a disapproving glare, but the slight upward curl of her lips made him just grin wider.

"I promise you, it really is that bad," Eira replied, her heart still hammering in her chest. "Trust me, you'll be much happier not having to listen to how horribly rusted my playing has become."

Cassian opened his mouth to response but Nesta's elbow ended in his ribs. "Whenever you are ready," her older sister told her gently.

*****

"You're distracted," Rhys's voice cut through his thoughts, making him snap back to the present. He looked up to see his brother watching him with a smirk and an arched eyebrow.

Azriel huffed a sigh, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face.

Of course Rhys would immediately notice. The High Lord had always had an annoyingly sharp eye for his inner circle.

He couldn't help himself though as he stared out of the window. Feyre and Nyx were down in the garden...and he had watched how Eira had joined them a few minutes ago, settling herself comfortably under one of the trees, watching her sister and nephew play.

"I'm not distracted, I'm..." he started to protest, but he knew it was useless. He was distracted, his thoughts had been all over the place the past day, revolving almost entirely around a certain Archeron Sister.

Azriel's mind was still filled with images of the previous night, of the memory of Eira's reaction to the gift he had given.

She had been...he had never seen her so emotional before, so overwhelmed, and...he had caused it. He had made her feel that way.

His mind replayed the memories over and over again, the way she had looked at him, with such wonder and gratitude, how she had...how she had kissed his cheek.

Especially after she had...pressed a kiss to his cheek.

After she had seemed so pleased by his courting gift.

A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he thought back to that moment, the way she had looked holding the harp, the expression on her face when she had realised what he had done.

His heart fluttered in his chest as he remembered how she had looked at him, how she had seemed to forget they weren't alone for a moment, had pressed her lips against his cheek, so soft, so warm, and had whispered her thanks against his skin.

"You're staring."

Rhys' voice broke through his thoughts, yanking him back to reality and away from the memory of her lips on his cheek, her warmth, her scent.

Azriel realised his gaze was fixed on the window, on Eira outside with Feyre and Nyx.

"I also always have this dreamy expression on my face when I think about Eris Vanserra and the Autumn Court," Cassian said sarcastically.

"Shut up," Azriel said irritably, though with no small amount of truth in his words.

He knew he probably had that 'dreamy' look right now. That hopelessly in love, pining look that Cassian teased him about.

"You are as subtle as a bat," Rhys teased, a smile on his face. "We can all tell she's got you wrapped around her little finger."

Another irritated huff left Azriel, but he didn’t deny it. He was wrapped around her little finger. There was no denying that.

"Though your shadows are worse," Cassian quipped.

"My shadows are not worse," he protested, but his shadows curled and coiled around his fingers, as if in silent agreement with Cassian.

"They’ve been pining for her too," Rhys chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Have you noticed how often they’re clinging to her?"

"Or how they pick out dresses for her...and braid her hair?" Cassian said with some amusement. “I didn’t even know they could do that!”

"And how they preen whenever she touches them," Rhys added, his voice still full of laughter. "They’re as whipped as you are, brother. If not more."

Azriel huffed another irritated sigh, but he didn’t protest. It was true. His shadows practically worshipped the ground Eira walked on. They clung to her every chance they got, they preened whenever she so much as looked at them. He had absolutely no control over them when they were around her.

"Were where Amren and Mor yesterday?" he asked suddenly instead, trying to change the topic.

"Well, Amren still thinks she has done nothing wrong," Rhys finally said with a sigh. "And Mor...that's...another thing entirely."

Azriel groaned.

He could imagine what was going on. Amren was stubbornly refusing to apologise for acting the way she had towards Eira, and Mor...he didn't even want to think about it.

"Amren will come around," Rhys assured him. "It will just take some time, some convincing. She's the most stubborn person I know. And Mor..." his expression darkened. "Mor is being difficult."

Azriel huffed another sigh, running a hand over his face.

Of course Mor was being difficult. When was she ever not difficult? He could guess how the conversation had gone between Rhys and her. She probably saw nothing wrong with how she had acted towards Eira either.

"She's jealous," Rhys said with a sigh. Azriel could just stare at him gobsmacked. Rhys shrugged. "She is jealous, Azriel. She's jealous you've found someone, that you're going to court someone else. And she's decided to take it out on Eira."

"That's a damn shitty reason to be this resentful towards someone," Cassian chimed in, leaning back in his chair with a huff. "Especially when we all know that she was never interested in Azriel in the first place."

"Yeah, well, you aren't available to her anymore either," Rhys said drily. "Mor will need some time to...wrap her head around it."

Cassian just grunted, his expression darkening for a moment. It was true. He no longer was available, no longer an option for her. Not that he had ever truly been an option. It had never been anything more than...passing flings.

"Either way, she'll need to stop behaving like this towards Eira," Azriel growled, the thought making his blood boil. "Just because she is upset with me, doesn't mean she gets to take it out on someone innocent."

"That one," Rhys said, raising an eyebrow and pointing towards Eira through the window. She was still outside, now sitting against a tree. Nyx was curled up against her, asleep. Feyre was sitting next to her, drawing something, a lazy, happy smile on her face. Azriel's chest tightened at the sight. “She is more resilient than you think.”

Azriel swallowed past the lump in his throat as he stared at her through the window.

Rhys was right. She was strong. She was so strong. Stronger than she gave herself credit for, even. And her resilience was something he had…always been in awe off. How whatever happened, Eira just seemed to take it in stride, adjusting.

"I know she is," he said, his voice thick with emotion."But she shouldn’t need to be. I just..." he continued, his gaze still fixed on her through the window. She was laughing about something Feyre had said, her head thrown back, her face lit up with happiness. “I just want to protect her. I want to wrap her up and shield her from everything bad in this world and just…keep her safe.”

"You know you can't do that, right?" Cassian’s voice was quiet, sincere.

Azriel knew he was right. He knew that. He knew he couldn’t protect her from the world, from everything bad in it. That she wouldn’t even want him protecting her all the time.

He knew all that, but still...still the thought of something bad happening to her, still the idea of being unable to protect her…it made his heart ache.

"Welcome to the mating bond," Rhys quipped weakly.

Azriel huffed another irritated sigh.

He knew exactly what he was dealing with. He knew that this...that feeling the need to protect her, to keep her safe at all costs, to wrap her up and shield her from the world...it all came down to the bond, to the instinct.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it. That didn’t mean he had to be content with his hands being tied, with not being able to have control.

It was driving him nuts.

"It gets easier," Cassian promised him. "Just keep in mind, she can hit anybody with lightning."

Yes. If she could control it.

Which she couldn’t.

Neither of them had yet broached the topic of training her power with her. Not even to…hone it into a weapon, but only to make sure that Eira didn’t electrocute any innocent bystanders. The problem was only that if they told her that…she would become deathly afraid of her own powers, which would make training them even more difficult.

And then there was…another matter. "She cries herself to sleep about 4 males that she killed," Azriel said quietly. "I had killed more often than that before I even reached the Blood Rite."

"That’s not the same," Cassian disagreed quietly. "We both know it’s not. You and I are warriors. It’s what we’re supposed to do. Eira is not a fighter. She’s not a warrior. The deaths she caused weigh differently on her, and you know that."

Azriel sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

Cassian was right, of course. The deaths Eira had taken on her conscience…he knew they were different from his or Cassian’s. His own hands were stained a dark red, had been for centuries. They were both warriors, soldiers. They had been conditioned to accept death, to expect and embrace violence. It came with the job. It wasn’t the same for her.

And it worried him.

"How could the cauldron ever think that I..."

"The Cauldron has its own reasons," Rhys interrupted, his voice softer now. "We don't always understand its decisions, but it knows what it's doing."

Another sigh left Azriel.

He knew that. He knew the Cauldron was always right, that it knew what it was doing, even if its ways were not always clear. But it didn’t change the fact that he felt unworthy. He felt unworthy of the gift the Cauldron had offered, of a mate at all. Of Eira in particular.

"I have hundreds of years of blood on my hands," he said, his voice low. "How could the Cauldron pick me for her? How could it think that I am worthy to be her mate?"

“Because you are worthy,” Rhys said softly, his voice almost tender. “More than you give yourself credit for. And because the Cauldron knows things about people that even they themselves don’t know.”

Azriel couldn’t help but scoff softly.

There was no way he was worthy of her. Not in a million years. And it didn’t matter if the Cauldron thought so.

But still, his chest ached as he looked at her, at the smile on her face as she talked with Feyre…Nyx still sleeping in her arms.

Rhys and Cassian were right. He was already wrapped around her little finger.

"You should stay for lunch."

Azriel groaned. He really wanted to, wanted nothing more than to stay for lunch and watch her for just a while longer.

But he couldn’t. The day was already half over, he had work to do.

"I can’t," he told Rhys, the words almost painful to get out of his throat. "I’ve got paperwork to look over, reports to submit, meetings to attend, patrol to"

"Yes yes, we know your schedule," Cassian cut him off with a snort. "And we know that you work yourself to an early grave. You can afford to stay for one more hour or so and have lunch with us. Have lunch with your mate. Aren't you supposed to spend time with her while there are people there to chaperone you?" Cassian wondered. "Isn't that what your books told you?"

Azriel shot him a glare. Cassian only grinned back innocently.

He wasn’t wrong, of course, he was absolutely right.

That was what the courtship was all about, right? He was supposed to show her that he was husband material. That he could provide for her and for any eventual future children.

Azriel shot another look towards the garden, where Eira was still talking with Feyre.

Rhys and Cassian knew they were right, knew that they had him in a corner. He wanted to stay. He wanted nothing more than to spend another hour here, with her.

"Just for that, you and Nesta can accompany us to the symphony this weekend," Azriel said drily. "I got tickets."

Cassian sputtered. Rhys snickered.

"You manipulative bastard," Cassian muttered. "I hate you. You know I hate the symphony."

"Well, as you said, I need to have people around to chaperone me," Azriel pointed out, his voice laced with false sweetness. "I thought maybe you and Nesta would enjoy the occasion." Azriel knew that Nesta would enjoy it. So only because of that Cassian would go along with it.

"I'll get my revenge, don't you worry," his brother hissed.

"I’m looking forward to it," Azriel deadpanned, a smirk tugging at his lips. It widened when he saw Cassian’s enraged expression.

"You’re the absolute worst," Cassian grumbled.

Azriel couldn’t repress a snort, even as Rhys let out an amused huff.

"You’ll survive," he assured Cassian. "...I think.”

"I’m not so sure," Cassian said darkly. "I think I might just die of boredom."

"Well, Nesta is delighted," Azriel said brightly. "I already asked her this morning."

The betrayed look on Cassian’s face was almost comical.

“You bastard,” he muttered. "You’ve used my mate against me. That’s the lowest blow you’ve ever dealt.”

Azriel only grinned back at him, not sorry in the least. "It’s not my fault you’re whipped, brother,” he turned Cassian’s words back on him.

“You should winnow right into the box,” Rhys said quietly. Azriel looked up surprised.

“Eira didn’t do so well with doing outside,” Rhys explained quietly. “It’s getting better…slowly. But it scares her.”

“We would be with her,” Cassian protested. “Nothing would happen.”

“Her brain may understand that, but her heart doesn’t,” Rhys said with a sigh. “It happened outside, so…”

He didn’t end that thought, but he didn’t need to. Azriel understood.

Lunch was served inside, and Eira seemed to flag slightly. An afternoon nap seemed to be in her future. The knife wound had healed well enough but she didn't seem to be up to her usual levels of ability yet.

Still, she smiled as soon as she saw him, something that made his heart painfully constrict. Mate, his shadows sang happily. Her smile made his heart ache, made him want to scoop her up in his embrace and just hold her.

Her face was paler than usual. Clearly, the wound was still affecting her. But the smile on her face, the happiness that lit up her expression as she saw him almost drove his worries away.

Almost.

He took the seat next to her, his shadows curling around her almost immediately, as if as desperate for the contact as he was.

She shot him an amused look, but her hand reached out to greet his shadows, scratching at their invisible heads almost instinctively.

Azriel could hardly keep himself from shuddering at the sight of her fingers running through his shadows. It was almost enough to drive him crazy with the primal, animalistic urges in the back of his head. The urges that urged him to pull her into his lap right there and then, bury his face in the crook of her neck and just hold her. Claim her. Mate.

He shoved them all down as firmly as he could, focusing on his breathing for a moment.

He was painfully aware of how closely Cassian was watching him, a smirk on his face. And based on the way Rhys was watching him, he probably wasn’t doing a very good job hiding his reaction to how she touched his shadows.

Damn it.

Luckily, Eira didn’t seem to realise the effect her actions had on him.

She was still staring at his shadows as if trying to work out how they worked. They clearly loved her. They purred and twirled around her, preening at the attention.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her, desperate for something, anything...to just hear her voice.

She looked up from his shadows to stare at him, her eyes a soft, gentle grey.

"I’m fine," she assured him, her voice so soft it sent a shiver down his spine. "I’ve just been so sleepy all day."

"The wound is still affecting you," he said, his voice low, his gaze studying her face carefully, taking in the paleness and the hint of dark circles under her eyes. "You need to rest." Maybe the symphony wasn't the best idea after all.

Of course, he wanted to spend more time with her. He always did.

But the knife was clearly still affecting her, making her tired, making her sleep longer than usual. The last thing he wanted was to have her exhaust herself with an evening out.

"Well, I hope you are up for an evening out later this week because Azriel got tickets for the symphony," Cassian said, between shovelling food into his mouth. Azriel glared at him.

"...the symphony?" Eira echoed, her gaze switching to him.

"The symphony," Azriel confirmed in a low mutter, shooting Cassian another glare.

He hadn't been intending to spring that on her. He had hoped to ask her a little more subtly She was staring at him, her eyes wide, a little confused, as if she couldn’t quite work out why he had gotten them tickets.

"Nesta and Cassian would accompany us," Azriel said quietly. "If you are up to it. If you aren't..." he trailed off.

Eira seemed to relax slightly at the mention of Nesta and Cassian accompanying them as if the prospect of it not being just her and him but a group event made her feel better. It made some of the tension in his chest ease, knowing that the prospect of going to the evening out didn’t make her anxious.

She smiled faintly, her eyes still a little confused.

"I would love to.".

The tension in Azriel’s chest eased further.

For a moment, he had almost feared she would turn down the offer. He had half expected a protest from her, a reason as to why she really wasn’t feeling well enough to go out. But she hadn’t. She had agreed. She wanted this.

His shadows chittered happily at the thought, twisting around her fingers.

His eyes followed their movements as if drawn to the sight of Eira’s hand touching his shadows.

They were practically writhing around her, as if drinking up the attention, practically begging for more.

Part of him wanted to pull her into his lap right there and then, just to hold her as she continued to pet his shadows.

He suppressed the urge though, forcing himself to look away as Rhys shot him a knowing smirk. He just knew Cassian was silently snickering at him on the other side of the table. Damnit.

He could feel Cassian’s curious gaze on him and knew that his brother had to be noticing how his shadows were acting. They were never so openly affectionate with anyone, except now with Eira.

Azriel couldn’t decide whether he hated his shadows for it or was grateful for them. Hated them for making it so obvious that he himself desired nothing more than to wrap her up in his embrace and hold her close. Or whether he was grateful for them, for getting the little bouts of contact he so desperately craved.

Part of him was tempted to command them to stop, to get them to cool it down so that Cassian and Rhys didn’t notice just how affectionate his shadows were being.

But he also knew how much they loved this, how much they loved her. He could see it in the way they twisted around her hands, in the way they seemed to curl into her touch, as if desperate for more contact.

The rational part of him was screaming that Cassian and Rhys were noticing, that they would have to be blind not to notice it.

The less rational part of him was silently preening, utterly satisfied that not only his shadows but everyone knew that she was his.

But then his brain finally kicked in and he muttered a soft command for them to behave.

To his relief, they obeyed, though not before coiling around her hand one more time. Azriel was half surprised that they didn’t attempt to actually lick her.

He could see Rhys’s lips twitching into a smirk, clearly having heard the command, and based on the grin on Cassian’s face he had also noticed the interaction.

His two brothers were clearly having a field day, noticing every little reaction he had to Eira.

Azriel didn’t care though. Right now, all he cared about was the pleased little smile on Eira’s face.

She seemed blissfully unaware of his shadows acting as they had, completely oblivious to the fact that they were practically worshipping her every move.

It was a thought that both delighted and concerned him.

Delighted, because she still clearly didn’t even know how much his shadows adored her. She had no idea the degree of their devotion to her.

But it also concerned him. It worried him, that she was completely unaware of his shadows worshipping at her feet. Worried him because she had no idea what lengths they would go for her…what lengths he would go for her.

But the only person he could give the fault for that…it was himself.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader #the prophecy #Looked to the sky

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mtchee · 8 months ago

Text

An Honour to be in a Harem!? - [Genshin Impact SAGAU] | MDNI | GN AFAB 18+

blurb:

The concept of all these gorgeous people bowing before you is hard to grasp, but it's even worse to think that they'd actually offer themselves to you as a love interest. So obviously, you brush them off and decline, retorting that just because you're their supposed Creator doesn't mean they should feel as though they had to subject themselves to your unwanted affection. After all, who were you really, to compare to them? Unfortunately (or fortunately, actually) they seem quite boggled at your output. Ah! It all makes sense now! Their dearly Beloved is the shy type! Worry not, your Grace! Your dearest acolytes are more than happy to bask in any sort of attention you decide to share! Rest assured, they'll take care of all your needs~

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, kind of a sequel?, afab bodied, you are dearly beloved and longed for <3, realistically if this happened i would rather die of a heart attack, lots of love and affection!!, mdni, spicy content, swearing, smut, overstim, manhandling, voyeurism, squirting, fingering, cunnilingus, sub [name], use of terms cunny cunt pussy tit breasts, help i'm embarassed i wrote this omfg who am i, would u believe me if i said this is my first smut

| masterlist | genshin impact collection |

< prev. - amab! ver. - next. > [afab] [amab]

[3.0k]

What is this bullshit.

You can't help but just blink at the Archon knelt at your feet, his head bowed low. When you emit a shocked squeak he looks up at you, amber eyes latching onto your flustered expression.

Your gaze darts around the few others surrounding your throne--you only really sit in it when the people of teyvat line up for personal prayers and blessings, or when someone tells you to. Otherwise, you avoid sitting in it.

Venti, Ei, Al-haitham, Ayato, Ningguang, Jean, Furina, Neuvillette, and Tartaglia stand past Zhongli who is knelt before you.

You force a polite smile and let out a nervous laugh, "Aha, um... d-dont.. you don't have to do that. Really."

"Do not misunderstand, Beloved," The geo Archon stands to his full height, and you feel small despite the grandness of your seat, "it truly would be my--our, utmost honour." He places a hand over his heart and bows lowly by the waist. The others follow in tandem, and you panic.

"No! Really," Although all your fanfic dreams were coming true, knowing that these are now very much real people and not just characters put you on edge. They all have their own lives to live, their own goals and ambitions, likes and dislikes, preferences and attractions that you certainly didn't and never would attain.

At first, the idea is flustering and the offer makes you feel giddy, but looking into it, you feel bad. They see you as their All-Maker, who are you to make them miserable?

"You don't need to do that. I-I know there's that rumour going around, but really, I'm fine by myself."

"Your Grace," Ei steps forwards with a tiny furrow in her thin brows, "please, it would be our honour--"

"You know what would really be an honour," Your heart stings slightly, but you straighten up on your throne and give your audience a reassuring smile, "is if you went out on your own to seek who you actually love, to find a partner you'll be happy to spend your time with--to love on your own accord. That, would be an honour, I'd say."

You're not oblivious to how everyone reels back at your words, a mixture of shock, fear, and disbelief covering their features sported by prominent frowns.

Al-haitham is the one to break the tense silence that freezes the room.

"Beloved," His eyes flicker over you, thought and theories wiring around his ever working mind, "are we unsatisfactory?"

You blanch, "Gah! No! Oh my--it's nothing like that!" You can't help but feel flushed under the intensity of their eyes.

"It's just, you need to not see me as a duty."

You address them calmly, forcing your fluttering feelings down to school your face passively.

"You need to focus on yourselves, and your own lives. I'm not here to come between that."

Their silent stares are unnerving, and Venti and Furina share a look with hidden smiles while Jean steps forward with a respecful bow.

"Of course, your Grace."

"F-Fuck..!"

Embarassed tears sting your eyeline while you hold your breath, desperately trying to get ahold of yourself.

Plap! Plap! Plap!

Your pretty eyes roll to the back of your head and a loud moan is forced out of you each time Ayato's fat cock plunges in and out of your sloppy cunt.

He sits leant against the finest silken pillows with your naked back pressed against his bare, toned chest, an arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other sweetly fondles with one of your spit laden breasts.

Thoma lay stomach down on the soft doona, face buried dutifully between your quivering thighs which he holds apart with surprising strength. He tongues at your swollen clit fervently, and you cry out in humiliation when your slick gushes from your slit and onto the expensive fabric below.

"G-nngh!" You clench your eyes shut at the embarassingly loud noise of skin slapping against skin and the lewd sucks of Thoma's mouth and the squelching of your pussy, "a-ah..! Ah! Ah!"

The Kamisato Commisioner lets out a low moan by your ear, feeling your hot and gummy walls squeeze down on his cock deliciously.

"Remember-- hng! R-Remember to breathe, my beloved."

He gently squishes the enticing softness of your tit, bucking up into you abruptly when you let out a squeal as he pinches your nipple.

"M-Mm~ my dearest," Thoma moans onto your slickened pearl, and you just about explode at the burst of electric pleasure that shoots up your spine, "you taste.. divine..~!"

Your heart thrums at the messy sight of him, his lips, chin and cheeks covered in your honey thick slick with half lidded eyes locked onto your expressions. You let out a needy moan when you notice him desperately grinding his naked hips into the bedding for release.

A now all too familiar searing pleasure suddenly coils in the utmost depth of your body, and you scream at the sheer ferocity of it.

"C-Can't! I can't!"

You buck your hips away from Ayato's throbbing length and bump into Thoma's chin, but they only follow you--the commisioner's arm moving from your waist to your hips, locking you in place while Thoma's grip moves from your thighs to the underside of your knees, opening you up and forcibly holding you still.

You dig your nails into Ayato's arm, your other hand fruitlessly shoving at the housekeeper's head to push him away.

The pleasure becomes piercing, and you choke on a sob as your gushing cunny just goes squelch, squelch, squelch with every thrust you have to take. His cock feels so dangerously good, and you fear your clit might bleed from its continuous onslaught of pleasure.

Thoma's tongue licks at the opening of your slit and the base of his lord's cock, and Ayato curses lowly, his grip tightening.

You feel something thick and heavy and hot spurt inside you, though the pounding doesn't let up and the near painful coil violently pops inside you, and you shriek in tandem with the burst of watery clear fluid that squirts from your throbbing cunny.

Your face burns hot with humiliation, and you can only muffle your embarassed moans into the fabric of the couch.

Naked and vulnerable, you're bent ass up and face down over Al-haitham's lap with his dominant hand knuckle deep in your wet pussy.

Maybe, just maybe you might've been able to handle this amicably, but not with Kaveh walking in and berating the Akademia Scribe turned Grand Sage on his pleasure skills.

With your ass held high and knees spread, your leaking cunt is on display for the genius architect while his roommate fingers you ruthlessly, constantly prodding and rubbing that special squishy spot inside you that renders you immobile.

"H-Hah.. mmngh! Ah..."

You can do nothing but take it and drool on the couch while they squabble above you as though you're not there.

"--Y-You brute! That's our beloved and you're treating them like that!?"

"I'd say our Creator quite likes it."

You stifle a screech when Al-haitham takes his other hand and spreads your ass open to prove his argument to Kaveh.

"See?" He takes out his fingers and spreads them apart, watching your hot slick string apart, "and here too." You sob loudly as he gently prods your pussy lips apart to stare down your red, throbbing clit.

Kaveh's face flushes at the lewd display, and he gulps while setting his suitcase down off to the side before approaching.

"A-And?"

"[name] has cum thrice already."

Kaveh's brow twitches, "Were you not going to clean them up?!"

Al-haitham huffs indifferently despite the miniscule tint of pink arousal across his cheeks, "I'll leave that to you."

The blond hmphs at him before cooing at you softly, praising you with your title and demeanour.

"Our beloved," He caresses your back, and you shiver pleasantly at the tingle it stimulates, "you've been so good, haven't you? Done so well..."

He hushes you gently as he moves closer behind you, kneeling at the couch's edge, face level with your puffy cunny. Al-haitham remains quiet this time around, his non-slick covered hand patting your head lovingly.

"It's okay~ I'll take good care of you now, I'll clean you up all nice, alright?"

You only whine when he sinks his tongue into your pussy, lapping up your spilled juices and nipping at your reddened bud. Your body trembles with an absentminded moan when he sucks on your sore little clit, and he emits a noise of suprise as a new abundance of syrup leaks from your opening.

Al-haitham quirks up a brow, "Four times, now."

"Mercy! M-Mercy..!" You cry out.

"Oh," Lisa tuts demeaningly, "no, no, no dear one~ You see, you didn't quite seem to believe our intentions true when we offered ourselves to you. So it only seems right that we prove it, yes?"

You can't squirm away from Eula's mouth, her strength baffling as she keeps you stood still against the Grand Master's desk with ease. Amber mouths at the mounds of your breasts, obessed with how soft the fat of them are.

You whimper loudly when Eula curls her two fingers into your front wall, clenching down on her and nearly screaming when she thrusts them into you punishingly.

Jean can't help but watch in stunned silence of you, your voice and body ethereal. She can't wait to get a taste of her own as you shudder and gasp.

It was bad enough when Venti had his way with you earlier under Vanessa's tree, simultaneously teasing you and giving you everything you wanted.

He ran his mouth with words that were both endearingly sweet and pure debauchery, controlling the winds to graze at your hardened nipples with ghost like touches that left you spasming and breathless.

He'd shown you his choice of belonging to you through the intimate thrusts of his hips and sloppy, loving kisses across your body--he'd then guided you back to the gates of Mondstadt with the help of the wind to keep you balanced.

You cry when a thin zap of purple shocks your pulsing clit, cumming instantly while Eula's tongue soothes over it with the help of her cryo ability. Your lewd honey drips down your leg and onto the floor, and the blue haired girl sneers at the waste of it.

A whimper escapes you when Amber nips at your soft tit a little too harshly, and she murmurs a timid apology, looking up at you reverently before continuing.

"P-Please..!" You hate how they've all been able to make you cry with pleasure, as though they always knew just what they were doing to you, "it..-it hurts now..! A-Aaahhh..."

You let out a long, breathy whine as you cum again, tears steaming down your cheeks as the gentle wave of bliss washes over you. You almost miss Acting Grand Master Jean calling for someone to enter after a knock on the door.

Humiliation of your state causes you to flush and shut your teary eyes as Kaeya walks in, gaze latching onto you immediately.

He closes the door behind him, humming lowly at the sight.

His eye glints in dirty interest, a grin creeping up his lips at the sound of your whimpers and sloppy cunt.

"Oh? It's our turn already?"

"Kaeya! You're just in time," Lisa grins mischieviously, "I believe our dearly beloved is ready for something... thicker, now." She smiles as though her filthy implication were a casual statement of time.

You hate being the centre of attention, but fuck does it feel good. You hate feeling so vulnerable, but good god do they take care of you.

Maybe, just maybe you could allow yourself to indulge in their affections...

Nope.

Hate. You hate, hate, hate, hate hate it.

You whimper quietly, head bowed to hide your face from the prying eyes of the others seated around you.

You're back in the lands of Inazuma, in the very same place you were last time the picnic was set up. It was much more lavish this time around, based in the early evening with a gorgeous ocean view, lights strung up in the trees and scattered atop a few stable rocks.

The blankets laid down were much thicker this time, and the pillows larger and fluffier. The sunset paints the horizon gold and pink which fades into a rich purple and, eventually, the glimmering darkness of night.

You sit in Zhongli's lap, a spare blanket covering your bare lower half as you squirm on his throbbing cock. You could feel his other drooling pre-cum against your lower back.

The others had been coaxing you to eat your share of the platter, Navia and Wriothesly feeding you small portions since you were too shy to do so yourself.

Though ashamed and bashful, you can't help but clench and throb, and you fluster when Zhongli lets out a small groan from behind you.

Navia places a comforting hand on your covered knee.

"Beloved Creator, are you alright?" Her voice is soft, loving.

You swallow sharply, shoulders hunched and tense nervously from those watching.

"Your Grace?" You glance over at Diluc who huffs with a small blush of his own, "we'll take care of you."

Your cunt throbs, and Zhongli thrusts into you.

You yelp at the sudden motion, straightening up instinctively to balance yourself only for your most devoted to thrust into you again, and again, and again. His arm wraps around your waist to keep you seated, and the blanket slowly slips from your lap from the movement.

"A-Ah! Zhon--aahhh!"

Squelch, plap, slap, his fat cock hits the textured roof of your squishy insides and sends an overwhelming shock of pleasure through you. Throwing your head back with a lewd moan, both your embarassment and arousal increase tenfold at the sight of your most shameless worshippers touching themselves at the sight of you.

Others swallow roughly, barely holding themselves back with a single thread of dignity. Those of them watch with eyes that burn your body into memory, and the intensity both frightens and arouses you.

The better of them murmur and coo praises at you, causing your stomach to flutter and your pussy to gush.

You pant loudly when Ayato softly intructs you to breathe, and you squeal when Tartaglia reachs out to play with your pretty clit while rubbing his neglected cock.

"Pl..ease..! Hah..!"

You feel a pair of lips on your neck and whine, whimpering shamefully when Neuvillette starts whispering sweet praise into your ear, sucking on your skin softly. You white knuckle the thick blanket by your forcefully opened legs and clench your eyes shut in humiliation.

Your cunny starts to tingle with sparks of pleasure that strike your overstimulated bundle of nerves, and you flush at the feeling of your sex juices trailing from your slit to your ass, soiling Zhongli's clothed lap and the pillows and fabric below.

"Hng! Cumming! AH!" You shriek, thrashing in their hold, "c-cumming! H-Help, 'm cumming-- oohhh~ Ohh~"

That weird prickly feeling coils in your tummy again, and you let out a lewd and bratty whine when they don't let up on their touching.

"S-Slow! PLEASE! F-Fuck! Feels funn-y~!"

When you slap at Childe's hand, your own are quickly restrained by Kazuha who simply smiles with red cheeks and mutters to you flowery reassurances.

The sound of your pussy is loud, it's noisy, and filthy. You emit a desperate, pleading wail, not knowing if your subconscious is trying to beg them to stop or to stay.

Saliva pools in your mouth then begins to hang open as your starry eyes roll into the back of your head, chest heaving.

Your thighs tremble and your fingers twitch--Kazuha intertwines them with his own, and you lock onto the comforting hold.

"G-Good!" You can't stop yourself from babbling, "m-makes me feel soOo goood~!"

"Oh, sweet one~" Yae Miko giggles.

"You understand that we choose you now, yes?" Ningguang hums with a teasing quip. Her eyes torn between your adorably lewd features and your swollen, glistening cunt.

"Relax, beloved. It's only us, your most faithful~"

"Mm, don't hold back, dearest."

"Can you moan for us, beloved? You sound just delicious when you moan!"

"Are you gonna cum for us?"

"It's not fair how they got a taste of you first~!"

"Hng..! A-ah, hah!"

"Oh-oh! Beloved, calm down, you're alright. Just let it happen.."

"Do you feel good, your Grace?"

"--c-cumming- cumming! Cumming..!"

A white hot blaze of heat crashes over you, and your ears ring as your body trembles in utter bliss. Your slick pussy squeezes and gushes with your lewd honey, and as your abused little pearl sears with an almost painful pleasure, your body squirts out your most powerful orgasm that soaks the blankets and the people surrounding.

Pleasure caused tears leave hot stains on your face, and your head lulls to the side tiredly. Your chest heaves for breath as you come down from your high, and it takes a few moments before the ringing finally stops and you can hear again.

Doting whispers and coos are the first thing you process, followed by something thick and hot leaking out of your stretched and now empty hole.

A hand caresses your head as many others touch on you innocently, checking in on you and taking care of you.

Someone holds a glass to your lips, and someone else helps you lean forwards to sip.

You startle at the feeling of a soft mouth coming to gingerly lick and suck at your sore pussy, and you let out a delirious whine.

Another acolyte hushes you gently, kissing you softly before another joins in peppering kisses all over your tired face to distract you from the one cleaning you up between your legs.

You still feel light headed from the embarassment of it all, but you've latched onto the pleasant tingling you feel when they look at you so adoringly--more lovingly than just in reverence.

No, actually.

You don't hate this at all.

525 notes · View notes

skzdarlings · 1 year ago

Text

sharing a bed ; seungmin ; sequel

masterlist.

original one-shot.

pairing: kim seungmin/reader content info: sexual content. enemies2lovers. sequel to sharing a bed one-shot linked above. morning afters. running from feelings. making reader jealous. confrontation with a creep and light violence. sexual content includes blow-jobs, hand jobs, strap-on blowjobs, 69ing, rimming, pegging, light choking. some brat seungmin and sort of brat tamer reader (kinda just likes the brat lol). word count: 7k.

Kim Seungmin, the perpetual thorn in your side and ache in your head, is torturing you.

Not the fun kind of torture, either. You had your fill of that two nights ago when a silly scheme resulted in a horny happenstance and you let yourself get carried away. Your careful control not only slipped, but fell right into the hands of someone you once disliked.

It left you befuddled in the light of the day, when you woke to Seungmin curled around you, his cheek pressing into your bicep and his leg hooked around yours. Not to mention his morning wood digging into your hip. It surfaced memories of the pretty and unexpected piercing you found there, how your idea of this guy was so so wrong. And it made you wonder what else you were wrong about, and all the ways this burgeoning something could go wrong in turn. Your thoughts spiralled.

You were no longer handcuffed, so you slipped out of bed and walked right out the front door. You hoped a walk through the brisk winter morning would help clear your mind. It did, but only momentarily. When you got back to the vacation house and ran into Seungmin, you fumbled. Badly. You meant to be pragmatic but came across dismissive. Something about how last night was the only night. Something about how you were bad at commitments. Something about being better off friends.

Seungmin was silent the whole time, letting you ramble like an idiot. Then his eyes narrowed and he laughed. It was an airy, unpleasant, and derisive sound.

“Trust me,” he said. “We will never be friends.”

“Well, fine,” you said, bristling despite the fact you were the one rejecting him. What did you care if he hated you again? You didn’t. You shouldn’t. “Good.”

It was not good. Saying it left a sour taste in your mouth and a pit in your stomach.

And despite it all, your stupid horny hindbrain did not relent, purring like a kitten when Seungmin gave you a judgemental once-over and scoffed. You could not help but remember the very different noises he made last night, again and again, in your hands and mouth, from your actions and words.

You will never look at him the same way again. You have no idea how to move forward, but you know you can never go back. Pretending nothing happened will not work for once.

It freaks you out. You are usually good at shucking attachments. His cold acceptance should not have hurt. What did you care? This vacation would end and you would go back to your own lives, right? So you let Seungmin shove past you. He ignored you for the rest of the day. When he started an argument later, causing everyone else to groan, you replied like always, but it was half-hearted at best.

Oh god, you think now, rubbing the bridge of your nose, I can’t start thinking with my damn heart.

Emotional attachments and long-term romantic liaisons never turn out well. You cut a dashing figure but your many flaws eventually find their way to the surface. It is not worth the inevitable heartbreak when someone sees under the charming mask to the real you.

Rather than suffer later, you are suffering now, brooding over a beer while doing your damnest to not look across the bar. You know you will not like what you see.

You and your friends only have a couple more nights at the vacation lodge, so you all went down to the nearby resort to drink and dance and enjoy a fun night out.

You are not having any fun, of course. You are sitting on a bar stool, all alone at the counter, in your signature leather jacket as you hunch over your drink and glare at nothing in particular.

Seungmin, on the other hand, is suddenly a dazzling socializer rather than an obnoxious stuck-up jerk like he used to be. You expected him to sit in a corner, making snarky remarks all night, but instead he has been moving from person to person, flirting with anything that breathes.

He is also wearing an obscene pair of jeans. No one else in the friend group seemed to notice, not a single eye so much as twitching in his direction, but you noticed. Oh, yeah, you fucking noticed. The second he came bounding the stairs, swinging on a stupid baggy letterman jacket like the twerpy little prep he is. His dark hair neatly combed, bangs swept off his forehead, brightening his gaze.

The jeans. The stupid fucking jeans. Straight-cut denim that has absolutely no business cupping his ass the way it does. And why does he have such a nice ass anyway? It also has no business looking that way.

Kim Seungmin. What a nightmare.

You take a swig of beer and glare at the wall. You tell yourself not to look at him. He is probably leaning over some equally prissy knob and offering to buy them a glass of milk or whatever people like them drink.

So, no. You will not give him the satisfaction. It is no coincidence that in all the time you have known him, Seungmin has never been flirtatious or promiscuous, but the second you turn him down he is slobbering all over anything that moves.

You will not let him get to you. You will not look at him. You will not react.

Except he is already getting to you. So you look over. You react.

“For fuck’s sake,” you grumble, abandoning your beer and stomping down from your stool.

Seungmin is huddled in a booth with some colossal bitch of a man. You recognize him from the other night, remembering how much time he spent harassing the bar staff. Seungmin doesn’t know that. He might be your enemy – or whatever – but you are not gonna leave the guy with that kind of jerk. And you are not secretly thrilled that you are justified in storming over there, drawing up to the table with all the aggression that has been building inside you.

You slap a hand on the table, bringing their attention to you. Seungmin gives you a once-over, then smiles that stupid smile of his, all boxy and puppyish, like you are the funniest punchline to the funniest joke in the world. There was a time you used to fantasize about swiping that smile off his mouth. You are still thinking about occupying his mouth, just not like that.

“Move along,” you say to the creep.

“Excuse me?”

He is already drunk. You can smell it as much as see it. Seungmin is looking very smug and you start to feel like he picked this guy on purpose.

Seungmin drives you crazy, he really does. One second he is all good boy, the next he is purposefully throwing himself at a creep just to get a rise out of you. You feel like he would take a running leap off the mountainside if he was inclined to a prove a point to someone. He is fearless and ridiculous and you want to hate him. You want him to be the boring two-dimensional snob you thought he was. You have no idea what to do with the complicated man in front of you.

That’s a lie, you think, meeting his gaze. You know exactly what to do with him.

You swear his eyes are twinkling. He slouches back comfortably, arms crossed.

“I told you once,” you say, tearing your gaze from him to look at the creep. “Now move along.”

“Try me.”

The guy was only bothering women and seems uninterested in Seungmin so you suspect he just wants to piss you off, but then he puts a hand on him anyway, grabbing Seungmin by the arm so suddenly that it surprises him.

Before Seungmin can shake him off, you snatch the guy by his wrist and twist. He yelps, struggling to wrestle his arm back from your iron grip. You slam him against the back of the booth.

“Touch him again,” you say, “and I will break your hand. You wanna try me?”

He opens his mouth, no doubt to spew some smelly rejoinder, but you don’t stick around for it. You grab Seungmin by the elbow and yank him out of the booth. You drag him away.

“Excuse me,” Seungmin says, not politely, ripping his arm back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I think I’m saving your dumb ass from getting felt up by every creep on this mountain.”

“Meh-meh-meh,” he mocks, dodging when you reach for him again. “I’m having fun. I don’t need you to do anything. It’s not like you’d really care if something happened to me. Bad,” he smirks, “or good.”

He knows he has you cornered. You might have the physicality over him, but he is holding this entire scene in his hands. You can only rub your jaw and shake your head, trying and failing to remember how to act indifferent.

He has the tiniest drop of cream on his upper lip, leftover from the sugary abomination someone bought him.

You say nothing in reply to his deliberate antagonizing. You plant one hand on your hip and reach for him with the other. When he tries to dodge, you grab him by the shoulder, firmly putting him in place. He does not move the second time, standing still while you wipe a thumb across the sugary residual.

Then you push at his bottom lip, press down, flicking your thumb so it bounces back. His stare is unwavering. He is not the blushing type, but he noticeably swallows.

“Come on,” you say, zipping up your jacket. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“What if I don’t want to?” he asks.

You grab the back of his neck and drag him right up against you.

“I didn’t ask,” you say.

“Friends don’t get to make demands, dumbass,” he says, sneering the word friends. He does not wriggle away, but he does not fully surrender either. He meets your stare head-on, unmoving and unintimidated.

He is going to make you say it. He is not going to let you act sexy and charm your way out of it. He is going to stand in this bar with your hand uselessly holding his neck until you do.

“Fine,” you say. You exhale. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I said all that dumb shit. I’m a moron.”

“Yes,” he says. “You are.”

“I didn’t think it would matter that much anyway.”

“Because you aren’t the romantic type,” he says dryly.

“Because I didn’t think you’d care,” you admit. “You don’t like me and we don’t get along anyway. I just—” You finally drop your hand, waving at nothing and looking away. You can feel him glaring at you. “Look, I suck, I get it. Believe me, I know all the ways I suck. I figured I’d spare us the mess when you figured that out so I just walked away while it was still good.”

“You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought,” he says. He is still frowning at you. “I already know how much you suck. It was the first thing I noticed, you arrogant, womanizing ass.”

“Hey now…”

“You’re vulgar and loud and, for someone without a dick, you think with it constantly.”

“I… don’t…” You do.

“And for some reason even though you are the biggest idiot and the worst person I have ever met,” he says, still glaring, “I still like something about you. Because even though you’re determined to not let anyone see your good side, unfortunately you have one. Even though it’s buried so deep you have to walk into hell to find it.”

It did not really occur to you that Seungmin has already seen your worst qualities. Because you did not get along, you never felt a need to hide those attributes. Inadvertently, you have been more open and honest with this annoyingly handsome brat than anyone else you have ever known.

You cannot help the smile tugging at your lips. Seungmin rolls his eyes.

“You’re hopeless,” he says, shaking his head as he shoves past you. “Take me home, idiot, before I come to my senses.”

You turn to follow him, only to get bopped on the nose when he shoves a pointed finger in your face.

“If you even think about acting like a moron in the morning,” he says, “I will kill you and make it look like an accident.”

You draw a cross over your heart and nod. He huffs in aggravation, turning on his heel and stomping outside.

“You’re the worst,” he says. He swings open the door and stomps into the snowy night, seemingly unbothered by the fluffy bits of snow swirling around his face. He just swings up his hood and marches through the downy white carpet. “You better make this worth my while,” he says.

Your eyes are on his ass in those jeans, thinking about how you very much will be making it worth his while. You look up when he keeps grumbling to himself, a marked sign he is maybe more nervous than he is letting on. You remember his stubbornness before his eventual acquiescence, the way he hid his face at his most vulnerable moments.

You might be in the habit of ducking out the door, but he deflects just as much with his wit.

You hurry your pace, catching up to him. He is still muttering to himself, head down, a soft layer of snow dusting his jacket and hood. It must be all over your head but you hardly feel the cold. Your mind is on warmth, that stupid heart of yours suddenly flooded with it.

You want this to be good for him, even if he would never outright ask for you to be kind. It is all the more reason to make sure you are. You really were such an idiot.

Your grip is firm but not rough, hand curling protectively over his shoulder. This touch invites more than demands.

He stops in place, looking at you with a wary glare. It disappears when you swoop in. His hood falls as you tug him close. He goes without protest, lips parting under yours with a claiming so heated that the cold does not stand a chance against you.

You try to keep it romantic, a rare act of restraint on your part, but the supposed good boy drags the zipper of your coat down, down, down, then grabs your belt and tugs. You stumble, uncharacteristically shaky, gasping against his lips when he grinds his knuckles against the zip of your jeans.

“Tsk,” he says, lips still brushing yours. “Not prepared.”

“I was planning on sitting around feeling sorry for myself,” you say, with a helpless laugh despite his teasing. You grab his wandering hand, leading it away from your crotch. You are eternally grateful your dick is the kind you can leave in your sock drawer, because resisting him right now would have been impossible otherwise.

“Trust me,” you say. “I’ll make up for it.”

“Fine,” he says. “I will. You better not let me down.” He looks at you when he says this, as close to imploring as Seungmin ever does.

You feel the weight of that trust. You nod, swallowing, looking at his lips, full and pink from the hard press of your kiss. You lean in for more when he abruptly zips your coat again, all the way up to your chin so he smacks your jaw.

“Come on then,” he says with that mean little laugh as he scampers away, grinning at you. “Are you gonna prove it or not?”

It is a short drive back to the cabin, and a torturous one to boot. Not because Seungmin touches you, but because he doesn’t, and he won’t let you touch him either. You try to put a hand on his knee but every attempt is rebuffed. All you get is that cheeky grin or a glare, then a mere flick of his wrist as he brushes you away like lint.

Somehow it is more maddening than a direct touch. You can feel him everywhere just by his proximity. He even jumps out of the car before you unbuckle your seatbelt. He is inside the cabin before you reach the door.

You are panting from the sprint up the driveway, trying to keep up, not entirely convinced he won’t play you for a sucker and run right out the back door. It would be like Seungmin to make you chase him up the mountainside. You wouldn’t blame him for making you prove yourself, considering what an ass you were.

But he is waiting inside the cabin. Everyone else is out for the night and should be gone for hours. When you close the door, sealing out the cold and the world, this cabin feels flush with more heat than you know what to do with.

You do not hesitate. The tantalizing promise of more is like a touch on its own, heightened by his stubborn refusal to give you anything easily. It makes catching him that much more satisfying, that soft sound all the sweeter when you pull him into your arms and finally steal that kiss.

His skin is cool from the weather but his mouth is warm, the kiss searing hot. He digs his blunt nails into the arms of your jacket, pressing the whole length of his hard body against yours.

You remember his unexpectedly tender places, how just a faint stroke behind his ear will have him curling into you, how looping some hair around your fingers and tugging will deepen the rumbling sound that spills past his lips.

You unzip his coat while kissing, licking into him while he scrambles to help strip. The coat hits the floor in a damp heap. You separate for just a moment, giving him the chance to tug his hoodie up and off. You toss your own jacket over the nearby couch, then hook your fingers into his belt loops and pull him close.

His hair is in an endearing state of dishevelment and he looks flushed from the rush of warmth after the chill. Just looking at him like this has you throbbing. You try to imagine telling the old you that you would feel that way, that the annoying friend-of-a-friend who mutually hated your guts would be looking at you like he wants to devour you and let you return the favour.

You can’t imagine believing it. Now it feels completely natural, letting him walk you backwards until your back hits the wall and his chest is pressed to yours, rising and falling with the quickness of his breath.

He is looking aside, contemplatively. You cup his jaw and draw him back to you, unable to resist a breathless laugh when he nips at your fingers. You do not shy away or let go, and that seems to placate him. He practically melts against you, your hand curving around the shape of his cheek, lowering to curl gently around the side of his neck.

“We should go upstairs,” you say. The stairs are right beside you, but somehow the bedroom seems too far.

Impossibly, ridiculously far, when Seungmin flicks some hair out of his eyes and looks at you intensely.

“Don’t you want me on my knees?” he asks.

Your response is not a real word, just a rough sound. He smirks, but is still flushed and a little shaky as he sinks onto his knees. He gets your belt open, tugs it free, and tosses it to the side. The sight of him licking his lips has you seeing stars before he even leans in.

You brush some of his hair back, looking down at his face as he focusses on unzipping your jeans. He has the fly down when you catch your breath and your senses.

You gather the hair at his nape in your fist and tug, firm and sharp. His mouth falls open and his breath stutters, eyes so dark and lips so wet and plush that you are tempted to drive his face right between your legs, where is obviously offering to be.

But that’s not how you want to do this, not yet. You move from his hair to his neck, wrapping your hand around his throat and watching his eyelashes flutter with surprise. There is always a breath of panic in that surprise, adrenaline fueling the flood of desire that follows. He is visibly hard, straining in those sinful jeans, breathing harder as you none-too-nicely push him down onto the stairs.

“What are you doing,” he says, though it sounds like less like a question than acceptance. Continue, waving his hand like a prince on silk sheets even though he is sprawled on his back on the staircase.

“Making it worth your while,” you say. He is not wearing a belt because these jeans are made for his body, snug and perfect and fitted everywhere, so it is just a matter of unbuttoning—

Oof.

He plants his foot on your chest like last time, pushing you back. He blinks innocently.

“Shoes first,” he says.

You smile, though it less playful than predatory, a promise in the flash of your teeth. You nonetheless obey his silly whim as you tug off one shoe than the other. It leaves a damp patch on your shirt which he remarks on. You roll your eyes but tug your shirt off, sports bra following.

The second time you push him down, you are even less nice. You gather his hands in yours and pin them above his head, holding him there when he squirms ineffectively.

“You’re kind of a brat,” you say, yanking his zipper down. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“You,” he says, panting around the word. “Jerk.”

You laugh, then cover his mouth with yours, swallowing the moan that takes him by surprise. His hips buck towards you when you reach into those jeans to take him in hand. He wriggles in your hold, arms straining while his hips lift toward you for more, following the snapping rhythm of your hand. You trace the dick piercings that caught you by surprise last time, the metal smooth under your rolling thumb.

You only release him when you duck down, tasting for yourself, relishing in the sounds that spill out of him. He claws at your bare shoulder, spreading his legs to make room for you to lay between them. His head falls back, resting on the step above while you work him in your mouth.

“I’m—I’m—” His voice gets lighter, breathier, his orgasm hitting him all at once. He throws an arm over his face instinctively, head thrown back, hips lifting. It catches you by surprise, making you choke just a bit, but he is already coming so you ride it out.

He is still twitching when he finishes, gasping behind his arm when you roll a thumb around his piercing again. When he hisses, knees jerking, you let go.

Knowing him better than you ever thought you would, you move, stretching out alongside him. You tug him into your arms and he goes without hesitation, burying his face in your neck. You snake a hand under his shirt, stroking his back affectionately.

Once more, you are genuinely endeavouring to be sweet.

Once more, he shoves his hand down your pants.

“Hello—” It is all you manage before he is touching you, finding all that wet desire and rubbing a little haphazardly. It makes you laugh and you grab his wrist, slowing him down. “Easy,” you say, showing him a better pace. “Just like that is good.”

He learns quickly. It was the same last time. Every idea you introduced, he contemplated, experimented, then excelled. With just a nudge now, he skillfully obliges. He is breathing hard against your throat, pressed so close to your whole body, his fingers finding all your secrets and working them out. You slide a hand down his backside, squeezing a handful of his ass. The sound he makes has you coming faster than usual.

He puts his hand on your thigh, then lifts his head and grins at you.

“I’m still winning,” he says.

“It’s still not a contest,” you reply, quirking an eyebrow.

“It is,” he says. “And I’m winning.”

“I see.”

You scoop him into your arms and cart him up the stairs. He situates himself by the time you reach the bedroom, legs around your waist and arms around your shoulder.

“Still winning?” you ask.

“Obviously,” he replies.

You shake your head and sigh but with no real animosity, just like his smirk is more playful than vicious. You still whole-heartedly believe he is capable of catching you off guard, so you are prepared for the brat switch to flip at the slightest provocation.

You drop him onto the bed with a gentle thump, then cross your arms and look down at him.

“Can I leave you unsupervised for two minutes while I get my dick?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, blinking innocently. “Can you?”

“Probably not,” you say, but retreat nonetheless. Your equipment is in your travel bag. You left it behind when you went to the bar because you were not in the mood for a hook-up, which should have been the first sign you were hopeless. You were already in waters far too deep when you tried reaching for that shitty life preserver. Learning to swim is not easy but infinitely more rewarding.

You change into packing boxers and tuck your toy into it, buttoning up the pocket. You grab some lube and a towel, then walk back to his bedroom, certain that he has somehow caused trouble in the five minutes it took to do all that.

He’d naked. Of course he is. Sitting where you left him, perched on the edge of the bed, but his clothes are folded in a pile on the dresser and he has nothing but a bedsheet pulled over his lap. He is not wearing his usual cheeky expression, though, and you are about to ask if something is wrong. Then he says, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Oh,” you say. “That’s fine.” It is the unthinking response, automatic as the admission is not too surprising. You live in a world where strap-ons and gender games are the norm, so sometimes you forget that most people consider it inherently kinky or an anomaly. A lot of men are new to it. Seungmin didn’t even know what was packing was when you first mentioned it.

But then he says, “Any of it.”

And you say, “Huh?”

“I’ve never done,” he says slowly, “any of this.”

“Any.”

It takes a long minute to compute. You think about his clumsy touches and experiments followed by his quick learning. Unabashed and unjudgmental regardless of what he encountered. Testing and figuring himself out just as much as you.

“Oh,” you say. Then, “Oh. Fucking shit. I’m such an asshole.”

Because that was his first time doing anything with someone, and you just walked out the door without a word the next morning.

He does not look upset about it anymore. In fact, he laughs, though he tries to hold it back. It turns into a snort he barely catches, amused eyes gazing up at you.

“Yeah,” he says. “You are. We already knew that.”

“I really, I just—”

“Can you shut up and come take my virginity before I get beatified for involuntary chastity?”

“But you’re so fucking hot,” you blurt.

It is obviously not the retort he anticipated, because he blushes profusely, which is not the response you expected.

He clears his throat and looks away, rolling his eyes to compensate for the obvious vulnerability.

“Thanks,” he says. “Stating the obvious. I’m also picky. And apparently I scare people.”

“Scare them?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow. “Who’d be scared of you?”

“Evidently not you,” he says. His tone is snarky but he looks at you, up and down, and the look is a thoughtful one. “Not ever.”

Agh. There’s that heart again, pounding away. Who knew that thing could race so fast.

“Well,” you say, finally putting the bottle and towel on the bedside table. “That is their loss. Not everyone is built for chasing luxury, I guess.”

“Luxury,” he says with another snort, grinning despite himself. “I’m high-end,” he says it like a fact, not a question.

“Naturally,” you say, approaching where he is sitting.

“I’m going to be honest,” he says, eyes wandering your body before landing on your face. “I thought you were going to be weird and egotistical about being with a virgin.”

It suddenly pings in your head that you are his first, that there is a certain responsibility that comes with that. That the wrong person could make this terrible for him. That you want to make sure it feels better than anything he could dream. These thoughts are completely and truly unselfish.

And there is one admittedly egotistical and selfish thought, of making him irrevocably yours with one really good fuck.

He glares when he sees the look on your face, his lips pursed, though a breath of a laugh escapes nonetheless.

“Wow!” he says. “You’re a pig, go away.”

“No, no, I’m not, I swear!” you say, laughing.

He laughs too but shakes his head, pushing you away when you reach for him. “No way,” he says. “You and your ego. Gross.”

“Please, I promise,” you say, getting on your knees and lacing your hands together like a praying supplicant. “I’ll be so normal,” you say. “I have no ego at all.”

“You’re the worst,” he says dryly.

“Yeah, but…” You wiggle your eyebrows at him. “You kinda like me anyway, right?”

It is a more vulnerable question than you thought it would be. It prompts him to look at you, really look at you, before he huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Unfortunately,” he says.

You giggle and he swats your head.

“Are we just going to sit here all night and look at each other?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“No, no, of course not,” you say. You get back on your feet, standing bedside so you are looming over him.

“What are we doing then?” he asks.

“Well, you know what we’re doing,” you say, laughing when he rolls his eyes and huffs again.

You reach out, cupping his face in both your hands and guiding him to look up at you. Your heartbeat hammers away not only in your chest but everywhere else, a rapid current of heat that thunders most prominently between your legs as shiny dark eyes gaze up at you amorously from such a suggestive vantage.

“First, before anything else, this.” You speak in a lower voice, watching his spine straighten as the sound. You run your thumb across his bottom lip like you did earlier, except this time it is a bruised pink from kissing. It really makes you feel like that extra weight in your boxers is coming to life, connected to you intimately, ready and wanting as you are. Especially when you tug on that bottom lip, when he leans towards your hand like he needs it, needs you.

“Now,” you say. “Now I want you on your knees.”

There is a sharp intake of breath before he nods, subtly, then shifts. The sheets falls away from his lap, revealing he is already half-hard again. There are goosebumps along his skin, from his nudity and the chill or just anticipation.

Last time, he needed almost no direction. He followed his own instinct, logically deducing that the part of the toy you could feel was the part at the base, closest to your body. He uses his usual deductions when unbuttoning your boxers, taking a second to first press the base of the toy against you before leaning back and opening his mouth.

It is not easy to come like this, but you are so worked up that it might happen. It does not matter if you do. It is not always about chasing the perfect orgasm. This time, it is touch and sensuality. He lets you teach him, rather than stampeding like last time. You wonder if his heart is pounding given how red the tips of his ears are, blood rushing everywhere in a hurry. You hold his face and slide back and forth, taking your time getting wet, both yourself and the toy, pushing him a little further each time.

When his mouth is full and he blinks slowly, contently, every bratty remark and combative tone far from his mind, you smile and tug his hair. He moans and you push a little more, gliding back and forward again.

“You’re a fast learner,” you say. “Bet you could get used to this.”

It is a testing tease, to great success if the returned moan is anything to go by. He squeezes his eyes shut and starts touching himself, finally moving his head instead of letting you guide him. Before he gets too lost in the rhythm, you ease him back. You smile and rub your thumb across his shiny lips as he blinks up at you.

“Come here,” you say, and kiss him.

He falls into the kiss, arms wrapping around you as you lay down with him. He is eager in the searching heat of the kiss, long and deep and hungry. You get on your back and pull him on top of you, give him one more drawn-out kiss with a filthy wet lick into his mouth, then smile.

“Turn around,” you say. “Keep going.”

It takes him a second to work out what you mean, but he really is a fast learner. Soon he is laying on top of you, face where it was before, mouth wrapping around the end of your dick and his fingers searching beneath it to stroke you directly.

You snatch the lube off the table and wet your fingers then him, taking it slow and easy, using your mouth and spit then more lube until everything is slippery and he gives in so easily into you. He is breathing hard down between your legs, resting his cheek on your thigh and no longer using his mouth on you. His eyes are closed and his hips are rocking, focussed on the sensations that you are certain are overwhelming him.

You move him around, at which point he comes to attention, looking back at you. This is the quietest he has ever been, all the action in his heart as you expected; you can feel it racing when you touch his chest.

You lay him down in front of you, sidling up behind him. You lay a hand on the wildly fluttering race of his pulse, throat cupped in your palm. You turn his face to kiss him, your wet hand stroking your wet dick. You probably should have thrown that towel down before getting started. The sheets are a mess already.

“Ugh, hurry up,” he says, reaching back to smack your thigh. “You’re the worst. I hate you.”

You laugh. Oh well. No time to worry about bedsheets. You give his throat a gentle squeeze and smile at the noise he makes, strained and needy, his hips rearing back into you.

“What?” you ask, sliding the toy down his backside. “You want something?”

“I will bury you in the mountain pass,” he says. “They’ll think it was a skiing accident. And that you got mauled by a bear. And eaten by wolves. And—”

To be honest, having him distracted and rambling is for the best. It means he is more relaxed, not so focussed when you finally start pushing in. Of course, he feels it pretty fast, and instinctively rebels. You stop clutching his throat and hold an arm across his chest instead, holding him protectively and kissing that sweet spot behind his ear. His groaning turns into a whine.

“Okay?” you ask.

“Gonna kill you,” he says.

“That a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” You hook a hand under his leg and pull it up, giving yourself leverage, then fuck into him completely. His whine turns to a sharp yelp, hand scrabbling against the arm on his chest. You let him catch his breath and adjust. “Still okay?”

“It’s weird,” he says.

“Bad weird?”

“No,” he says. “It’s… it’s good. It’s just…” You move a little and his whole body clenches then loosens. He makes a strangled noise but softens in your arms, though his nails have dug a pretty picture into your skin. You are surprised he hasn’t drawn blood. “Ugh,” he says. “It’s so wet. I feel like a river rafting ride.”

“Not… what most people usually say… but okay…”

“I’m… not… most people.”

“No,” you say, kissing that spot again and finally moving your hips. “You’re not.”

You are not sure if his little sound of submission is in response to your actions or your words, but with it he seems to all at once open to you. You find a rhythm, holding his hand when his fingers search for yours on his chest. He ends up biting your arm, which you should have seen coming, but it’s fine because you leave a visible bite mark on his neck in return.

At that he gets into it, meeting the pace you set, altering it to what he wants. It is a good thing the house is empty because you are not quiet at all. If your fooling around was enough to send an aggravated Minho storming after you, then this probably would have led to him burning the cabin down.

The thought makes you snicker, which makes Seungmin ask what is so funny, so you tell him then he laughs too.

“Ugh, stop making me laugh,” he says.

“You can laugh while making love,” you say, kissing his neck. “It’s okay.”

That does not make him laugh but it does make him sigh. “Making love, huh,” he says dryly. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“It didn’t,” you say, finding another sweet spot that has his whole body rearing into yours. “I guess I’m a fast learner too.”

“Ew, you’re so annoying,” he says, but squeezes your fingers in his hand.

“I think you’re not getting fucked right if you’re still this bratty,” you say playfully, prompting him to roll his eyes.

“What are you gonna do about it? Make love at me? Sap.”

You laugh, kiss his neck, then move away to roll him onto his back. He wriggles a bit, surprised with the change and sudden emptiness. His legs part easily when you move between them, but you still snap, “Spread. Good.” Because it makes him swallow hard, his dark eyes sparkling and his mouth bruised, hair mussed and body flushed. He is already a fucked out sight, but he wants more, and you give it.

You snap your hips together and fuck into him. This time you do hold his throat, gently, not repressing air but showing control. He holds your forearm with both hands, his face scrunching up, eyes closed as he focusses in that intense way of his. He breathes hard, makes sweet sounds, and not a single antagonistic or bratty word leaves his pretty mouth.

“I think I’m finally winning,” you tease, to which he just makes a hiccupping sound of pleasure. “Yeah, that’s right.”

You hold his ridiculously pretty dick and give it the expert treatment it deserves. The combination of sensations has him throwing his head back, clawing your arm as you work him in your head. You cannot feel the end of the toy, but there is a magic in this kind of fucking, and when he comes and he clutches your arm and he screams your name, when the muscles in his abdomen clench and you know he is feeling sensation in every part of his body, you can feel him wrapped around you, wholly and completely, like you could feel him when he wasn’t even touching you at all.

He writhes almost desperately as you keep touching him until he can’t take it anymore, then you ease him down and pull back.

“Good?” you ask, sitting back, looking down at him, blissfully fucked out and dishevelled.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I won. Again.”

“Gonna need to supply me with that rubric one of these days,” you say.

“Meh-meh-meh,” is the half-hearted retort, delving to a sleepy sigh.

“Gotta take care of yourself before you go to sleep,” you say, though you have a feeling it’s a losing battle, his eyelids already heavy.

“That’s what you’re for,” he grumbles.

That damn heart really does have a mind of its own. It has clearly decided to make its presence known whenever it damn well pleases.

You run your fingers through his messy hair, smiling when he blinks up at you.

You tidy him up then scoop him into your arms to carry him to your bed, because that one is not a filthy sex nest. He wakes a little on the journey. And when you lay down and pull a sheet up, he rolls towards you and throws an arm and a leg around you, pinning you to the bed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says. “You’re too stupid to be out there on your own.”

You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head, but you put an arm around him and nod.

“You’re right,” you say.

“Of course I am.” He snuggles in close and sighs. “Now go the fuck to sleep. Your dick is in the sink so you have no excuse. Good night.”

“Good night,” you say with a laugh.

I think I won too, you almost say, but decide let him believe he is the only winner for now, because he is already falling asleep with his head on your shoulder.

You can tell him in the morning.

#kim seungmin x reader #seungmin x reader #kim seungmin smut #skz smut #skz x reader

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