#i made a playlist of songs i thought he might like but so far he's only played odo out of those

[mothbaaalls]

oh yeha The Child really likes playing pjsk but he doesnt like bandori because it's pickier about the accuracy of your taps (in terms of the physical location of your fingers, bc the notes are smaller)

his favorite song in pjsk is underwater so he plays that 99% of the time but sometimes he picks paradichlorobenzene instead

[hyunverse]

wherever you are ☆ hwang hyunjin.

hyunjin x fem!reader. childhood best friends to lovers. slowburn, pining. fluff, angst. suggestive. a hyunjin birthday special.

wc: 12.9k words.

warnings: reader often referred to as "girl," suggestive. mentions of sex.

note: this fic is my baby. it might be one of my favourite things i've ever written so far, please treat it well <3 feedbacks are very much appreciated.

playlist.

Hyunjin promised you that he'll be wherever you are. What do you do when your best friend of years — the only person you've ever loved disappears without saying goodbye? Especially when you've spent your entire life with Hyunjin, you didn't know of life without him.

one.

“Happy Birthday, Hyunjin.”

It was Hyunjin’s 10th birthday. 

Despite already singing him a happy birthday song, you muttered the wish once again in the comfort of his tree house. He sat adjacent to you, feet dangling over the platform, the large leaves hovering over the tree house’s roof providing shelter from the blinding sunlight. 

He hummed in gratitude, eyes busy watching Kkami running around below the tree house. Afternoons with Hyunjin were often spent like this — hanging out in the tree house as Kkami played around on the grass, its barks mirroring its happiness. For years, you’ve spent enjoying the fact that your afternoons were spent like this — were spent with Hyunjin, in childish innocence. 

After letting the silence take over for a while, Hyunjin turned his head towards you, a little surprised once he saw that you were already looking at him. He tried his best to not let his surprise show. 

“Why did you want to come up here? I thought you were enjoying the party inside.” 

Indeed, you were enjoying the birthday party, a little too much for Hyunjin’s liking. The boys from Hyunjin’s school came to the party, and you seemed to get along with them quickly, despite being the only girl at the party. Hyunjin hates to admit it but he was a little envious. He told himself that he’s jealous because he’s your number one best friend, so you should pay more attention to him. It was true, but only partially — he was jealous because they were all boys. Not that he would ever admit that to himself.

To Hyunjin’s question, you responded by extending your arms to him, revealing a white box in your palm. He took it, quickly recognizing it as a jewellery box. He’s received one of them after purchasing a Mother’s Day gift. Quietly, he examined the engravings on the box, and the pristine look of it. Honestly, he was impressed by how clean you have kept it. You had always been one to dirty your white clothes. 

“What’s this?” he asked, answering his own enquiry by opening the box with you sitting close, peering over his hands.

Hyunjin’s heart skipped a beat.

In the box laid two necklaces, black strings with Lego pieces as pendants. They were matching necklaces. The Lego piece of each necklace formed a heart when joined together. His brown eyes widened, in disbelief of the gift. He’s never received something like this — something matching. It made his heart flutter — no, it beat faster than it does while playing soccer. Hyunjin turned to look into your eyes, and it was as though he had found a new revelation in yours. The more Hyunjin looked at you, the more the realization seeped in, until it overtook his senses.

You’re a girl. 

You weren’t just the kid from next door, you weren’t like his other friends — you’re a girl. You like Disney princesses, you have a pretty face, you like Sanrio characters, you have soft hair, you like painting nails, you have pink lips from your strawberry lip balm, you like matching necklaces — you’re a girl. 

A very pretty girl.

It felt like a revelation after having been friends with you for over five years. As though the necklaces in the box held some sort of power to snap one from a trance. Hyunjin realized that you were different from his other friends. For one, you have softer hands. Moreover, you’re someone he can develop a crush on — or whatever girls call it. 

His finger traced the pendants, feeling the bumps of the Lego pieces. He smiled, one that reached his ears. You felt yourself releasing the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“I love it soooo much. Thank you.”

Unlike other boys (the stinky ones from your school), Hyunjin didn’t cringe at the gift. The way he gently examined the necklaces mirrored the appreciation he felt towards it. If he was any other boy, he would’ve probably laughed at the gift, then poked fun at you. 

Then again, Hyunjin had never been like the other boys you knew.

He was different in the way he spoke softly to you (softer than he would to his guy friends), and how he would let you change the TV channel from Snoopy to Totally Spies. He had always been different, that being the reason why you were so fond of him. 

“You like it? Really?” you queried, staring at him. You watched his expressions carefully, trying to sense for any lies.

“Really! Which one do you want?” he answered, absolutely no hesitations. He wasn’t lying.

Hyunjin panned the box towards you, prompting you to pick which necklace. One was in black, the other in white. As always, he gave in to you, letting you be the one to choose. 

“White!”

The sun was setting when you both swayed your legs, wearing the matching necklaces. Hyunjin was genuinely happy, one of his hands wouldn’t stop fiddling with the pendant. The party was still lively inside, but he much preferred sitting with you — his one and only best friend. 

“Yn,” your best friend’s voice broke you from your trance. “What do you want for your birthday?” 

“Hm,” you pondered, tapping your pointer on your chin in a cartoonish manner.

He was looking at you, an expectant expression on his face. You pulled up your legs to cross them as you thought. 

“I think…” your voice trailed, “I want to be the best ballerina in the world and move to Paris!” 

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, “at least make it something I could give you!”

You pouted, “but that’s what I want!” 

The boy sighed, laying back on the rough surface of the tree house. He looked up, observing the little glow-in-the-dark stars plastered onto the tree house ceiling. He recalled putting them up with you. You were impossible to deal with. Hyunjin desperately wanted to know your wish — something he could give you for your birthday. Your gift to him made him really happy, and he wished to return the favour. 

“Then, I’ll be the best artist in the world and move to Paris with you.” 

It was such an innocent, child-like answer — straight from a 10-year-old’s desire. Untainted by the boulevard of broken dreams. As if anything in the world was possible, and that the universe was kind all the time. 

“Really?” you chirped, looking at him with disbelief in your eyes. You giggled in glee and plopped yourself down beside him. “Really really? You really really really mean it, Hyunnie?” 

At that point, Hyunjin could only giggle and nod. “Of course! I’ll be wherever you are.”

The manner in which you hugged him expressed your excitement. You were practically suffocating him, wrapping your legs around his waist and squeezing tightly. 

“You’re my best friend in the world!” 

Hyunjin felt like he could die. 

His heart continued beating rapidly, worsened by you nuzzling your face into his neck. Hyunjin knew, it was just you being your usual self. However, the revelation he experienced minutes earlier made the tips of his ears turn red. 

“Hyunjin! Come down here! Your friends are about to leave!”

At that very moment, Hyunjin silently thanked his mother for saving him.

two.    

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

A question which had you staring into space — the walls of Hyunjin’s bedroom for a while. The blue walls were plastered with posters of numerous musicians and self-made artworks.

It wasn’t that you didn’t know the answer. You knew. Ballet had been a part of your life since small, it was your everything. It wasn’t that you were unsure if you wanted to do ballet, you were unsure if you should be doing ballet. 

Uneasiness settled into your stomach, but you tried to keep them in. You were in no mood to be going through an identity crisis.

“Ballerina,” you stated, matter-of-factly. Your eyebrows furrowed when Hyunjin chuckled.

“What?”

“Your answer hasn’t changed,” Hyunjin laughed, but not in a humorous way. Rather, it was in an expectant way, as if he knew that’s what you would answer. 

You straightened your posture and tilted your head. Hyunjin laughed even more, making a comment that you looked like Kkami.

“Have you asked me the same thing before?”

He nodded, “sort of? Kind of. On my tenth birthday, I asked you what you wanted.” Hyunjin cleared his throat and took a deep breath, mimicking the voice of younger you. “I want to be the best ballerina in the world and move to Paris!”

“Oh, shut up!” you rumbled, hitting him with his bolster repeatedly. “That’s not how I sounded like!”

“It so was!” 

Truthfully, you couldn’t quite recall the memory. You didn’t doubt Hyunjin though, it did sound like something you would’ve said. 

You queried again.

“What did you answer then?” 

Hyunjin turned silent. He didn’t like where this was going, not fond of recalling the cheesy answer he gave you. As he looked away from your gaze, you pressed him further. Even threatened to dog-nap Kkami.

“Fine. I said… I said I’ll be the best artist in the world and move to Paris too…” his voice trailed, getting smaller, “said I’ll be wherever you are…”

Your eyebrows raised, scooting closer to him in mock confusion. “Sorry? Didn’t hear you.” 

A pillow hit your head, and you burst out into peals of laughter. It was hilarious, the cheesy answer little Hyunjin gave, but what amused you even more was his face turning red. 

Touches of laughter echoed in the room, and Hyunjin found himself praying the moment would last forever. The conversation quickly escalated into a pillow fight, ending up in Hyunjin leaning against his headboard, exhausted, and you laying on his lap. 

You looked up at him, eyes fleeting to the stubble growing. Mindlessly, you grazed his cheek, feeling his sideburns prickling against your thumb. 

He was growing, you realized it then. You were growing too. Neither of you were little kids anymore.

A fact you didn't want to accept.

It’s the softness of your fingers that froze Hyunjin in his tracks. He held his breath, as if you would stop if he moved. He didn’t want you to, wanted to let your fingers linger, to etch the sensation into his memories. 

In a soft tone, you spoke, “Did you really mean it?”

“Hm?”

“Would you be wherever I am?”

Hyunjin’s breath hitched, a lump growing in his throat. If he spoke, he feared his feelings would become too real. For as long as he could, he wanted to bury his feelings deep down. Life was already risky as it is, he didn’t want to take any more.

It’s platonic. It’s platonic. It’s platonic.

They repeated in his brain like a mantra. Maybe if he chanted it, it’ll manifest to life.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin swallowed, “of course I will. You’re my best friend.” 

Like magic, your worries about the future disappeared into thin air. Would it be foolish to trust Hyunjin so much, that you believed life would be fine as long as he was with you? 

Dear universe, be good to me.

You smiled, one that Hyunjin swore could light up the entire sky. The stars must envy you, for the way you could brighten up darkness effortlessly. 

“I’ll be wherever you are too.”

Yeah, Hyunjin would love it if time froze.

three.  

Don’t be a coward. 

Four words Hyunjin told his reflection as he got ready. He was dressed in a basic tee and a pair of jeans, hair slicked back like the one time you told him it looked good. He spritzed his cologne behind his ears, on his neck, and on his wrist before repeating the four words again. This time, he whispered it, letting it soak into his brain, in hopes his heart would have courage. 

It’s been too long. The feelings he harboured for you piled overtime, the crush he once thought was temporary transforming into fondness. It was becoming too much for Hyunjin’s heart to bear, he needed to let it out. If he didn’t, he felt like his heart could burst. And if it did, it would be confetti-shaped memories of you. 

Chatters echoed outside your ballet academy, Hyunjin watched through the lowered window for your face among the sea of people. He had a plan in mind — he’d open the door for you, put the seatbelt on for you, and tell you about his feelings. In front of your academy wasn’t the most ideal place for a confession, he knew, but God — he couldn’t bear sitting in silence with you as a storm raged in his head. He couldn’t do it. He wanted to say it as soon as he could. 

Hyunjin’s eyes were still busy looking for you when suddenly, your face came in his peripheral vision, along with another face. The other person was lean, jet black hair with bangs and puppy-like eyes. The boy opened the door for you before Hyunjin could. 

Okay, step number one failed. 

“Hey, Hyunnie!” your voice chirped, getting into the car. Your hand moved to buckle your seatbelt before Hyunjin could. He was too busy analysing the stranger in front of the door.

“Hey,” Hyunjin replied nonchalantly, looking at the boy from head to toe. “And this is…?”

“Seungmin. And you?” the boy said, tilting his head. To Hyunjin, he was being challenged. Seungmin’s tone was more daring than he liked, so he felt an urge to one-up the guy.

“Hyunjin. Been friends with Yn since were in diapers.” he replied, the extra detail a pathetic attempt at one-upping Seungmin. 

Seungmin furrowed his eyebrows, nodding as he shut your door, “Uh. Cool? Bye, Yn. And the friend since diapers.” 

Oh, Hyunjin really didn’t like him. 

“Wait, Seungminnie!” you called out just as Seungmin was walking away. He looked back at the car, raising an eyebrow. You turned to Hyunjin with puppy eyes. “Can you give Seungminnie a ride? He takes the bus and I think the next one’s in an hour.”

Hyunjin clenched his jaw, eyes fluttering from your pleading eyes to Seungmin’s figure outside the car. If it was all up to him, he would probably run the guy over. But God knew how much he cherished you, how he would rather cut his tongue than tell you “no,” so he agreed.

“Mm. Sure,” he replied, swallowing back a scoff. 

Your eyes brightened, “Seungminnie! Come, we’ll give you a ride!” you yelled, tempting Hyunjin to mock the nickname you’d given him.

It was going to be a car ride straight out of hell. 

Hyunjin’s knuckles were white against the steering as he pulled up to Seungmin’s residence complex. The building standing in front of him definitely belonged in a gated community, ritzy and luxurious. Somehow, that pissed Hyunjin off even more. He glanced at the unwanted guest sitting in the back seat through the rear-view mirror.

“Want me to drive you to the lobby, or what?”

Seungmin looked back into the mirror, peering at the reflection through his bangs. “Nah. They don’t let random cars in. Here’s just fine,” he mumbled, unbuckling the seatbelt. “Thanks, dude. Appreciate it.” 

The car door closed behind Seungmin, leaving the two of you in the car. Hyunjin sighed, feeling the nerves creeping up him again. Now that it was only the two of you, it was time for Hyunjin to confess his feelings.

Before he could, you spoke, “Seungmin’s my friend in the academy. He’s really smart,” your eyes didn’t leave the crossroad before you, watching as Seungmin walked. 

Hyunjin had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He tapped on your thigh, trying to gain your attention. It worked as you looked at him, batting your eyelashes. “Hm?”

He licked his lower lip, mustering all the courage in him. It was now, or never. “Look, I have something to tell you.” 

“Yeah?”

You shuffled in your seat, tilting your body slightly towards his way. Now that you had your full attention on him, Hyunjin felt even more nervous. He scratched the skin around his thumb, tongue-tied as his brain tried to form coherent words. He’s never done this before, always made fun of his friends for struggling to express their feelings but now that he was in the same place, he wished he could take back all the insults. The brown eyes looking deeply (and anxiously) into yours were profusely blinking, as though he was at the brink of tears. You grew worried.

“Hyunjin, what’s up?”

He scratched at the back of his neck. Why did his tongue feel so numb? Why did his brain feel empty yet so full at the same time? His heartbeats were so fast, he couldn’t quite catch up. Hyunjin was on a rollercoaster — you were waiting at the end of the ride.

Finally, he managed to muster words. “Look, I’ve pondered over —”

Two knocks on the window at the back. They’re followed by the door opening, an exasperated Seungmin popping his head into the car. Immediately, you both looked back, utterly bewildered. 

“Sorry. I left my bag. Thank God you’re still here,” Seungmin said, grabbing his messenger bag and slipping it onto his shoulder. “Thanks and sorry!”

The door closed, thus silence blanketed the atmosphere once again. This time, with unresolved tension. You looked back at Hyunjin, tilting your head in curiosity.

“You were saying?” 

Dazed, the raven looked at you. His face was a mixture of exasperation and confusion. His head? There was a storm raging, along with curse words aimed at Seungmin. 

“Um…” He licked his lower lip, racking his brain to find back the words he wanted to say. They were all lost. He was already at the end of the rollercoaster, the bumps along the way forgotten, and the thrill subsided. All that’s left was the remnants of anxiety. He couldn’t do it anymore, not when he’s forgotten the things he wanted to say, and the moment disturbed by your dear friend Seungmin.

So, he put the gear on to drive. He shook his head and made up a white lie.

“I think I want to try a new ice cream place today.”

four.  

The taste of cookies and cream could not beat the bitterness on Hyunjin’s tongue. 

It may be because the bitterness has seeped into his head. 

“I’m going to your room,” you announced, swinging the front door of his house open. “Hi, Mrs Hwang!” you cheered, running up the stairs after. 

“I’m going to talk to my mom a little bit,” Hyunjin said, hanging both your coats on the coat hanger. 

Nothing could’ve prepared Hyunjin for what was to happen next. 

Both his parents were crowding the kitchen countertop when he walked in, skimming through a piece of paper. They were beaming, eyes crinkled as they smiled. A reminder that Hyunjin resembled both his parents. He blinked in confusion as to why his parents looked so happy. He didn’t think he'd seen them this happy before.

“What’s going on?” he questioned, peering over their figures to look at the paper. 

On the paper were words he’d only seen in his dreams. Never in a million years he would’ve thought it’d manifest to life. His heart skipped a beat as he read the words over, and over. 

“You made it, sweetheart,” his mother’s soft voice spoke, confirming his suspicion. “You got accepted. Beaux-Arts de Paris.”

“Eomma,” he mumbled, as if he was pleading. Pleading for this dream to stop. Somebody’s got to wake him up from this nightmare of a day. “There’s no way.” 

Hyunjin picked up the letter, inspecting it closer. As though if he looked any closer, the words on the pristine white paper would change. Reject him. Or maybe, the logo of the prestigious school would magically transform into a logo of a school in Seoul. Anything, anything, that would keep him here. In Seoul. With you. 

“You did it, sweetheart. Your dreams are coming true,” his mother keenly said, pulling him into a side hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

His dream? It was his dream, and, yours. No, scratch that — it wasn’t truly his dream. It was yours. His dream had always been to be wherever you are. 

He didn’t think he would be accepted. When you told him you were rejected from the Paris Ballet School, he told you that he was rejected, too. He didn’t tell you that he was waitlisted, under the impression that he was never getting out of the waitlist. What was he to tell you now? 

Hyunjin hid his sadness, wanting to make his parents proud, “Yeah. I did it. I’m so happy, eomma, appa.” 

A series of praises left his parents, and he allowed for them to engulf him in a hug. 

“Don’t tell Yn, ‘kay?” he muttered, before excusing himself to go upstairs. The acceptance letter was neatly folded, tucked into his pocket.  

When he swung his bedroom door open, you were standing in front of his full-length mirror. Clad in only his t-shirt, you inspected yourself. 

“Hey, Hwang Hyunjin,” you muttered, turning your body. “Your clothes are bigger than me now. You used to be so small.”

You looked at him, mock dismay in your face. “I was so much taller than you before. You were a dwarf.” 

How was he meant to tell you about Paris?

“I was never a dwarf. You were just too busy looking down on me.”

Giggles left both of you. Silently, he observed the way you were examining yourself. You had the mannerisms of a ballerina, each gesture as gracious as your dance. Hyunjin adored the curves of your body, but God knew he loved that of your smile even more. 

Later, you were both laying on his bed, you in a starfish position. Hyunjin was at the edge of his bed, trying his best to not fall. 

“Ballet was so hard today,” you sighed. You turned your body sideways, burying your face into Hyunjin’s chest. He could smell you in this closeness.

“Are you wearing my deodorant?” he queried, bowing to clasp his nose onto your shoulder. It felt like a kiss to him. “This is literally the smell of my deodorant.” 

You shrugged. “Yeah? What about it? You should’ve gotten used to me taking your things by now, Hwang Hyunjin. I’ve been doing this our whole lives.” 

Touché. The boy sighed, letting you fill in the silence with your babbles. Wordlessly, he listened to your words, letting it be the white noise to his thoughts. 

His head was clearly not there. Unbeknownst to him, you knew of this. He’d been off all day. You’ve picked up on each signal, knowing him like the back of your hand. As much as you wanted to know what was wrong, you knew not to pry. You resorted to comfort instead. 

Your fingertips met at the back of his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. He was never one for physical touch but sometimes, it helped. You leaned your head into his neck. 

Gingerly, you whispered the words you thought he would need. 

“You’re always here, around me. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

The exact words he did not need to hear that day.

How was he meant to tell you of his feelings now? 

Especially when he was leaving — oceans away. 

five.  

Hyunjin had always loved soccer.

Whether it be being in the bleachers, or playing in the field. He loved doing both. There was something about the thrill of watching people play, and the adrenaline as he chased around the field. 

Sitting in the bleachers, Hyunjin watched as his soccer team played. The sounds of his teammates laughing made the blazing sun a little more bearable. He lowered his cap to prevent the sunlight from getting in his eyes, chuckling when he saw Beomgyu falling face-first onto the grass.

He loved his soccer team. Every time he observed them play, Hyunjin’s heart always got overwhelmed with pride and joy. At that moment, he felt melancholy taking space too — the thought of not being able to play with them anymore hurting him more than he thought it would. 

Hyunjin allowed for the melancholy to take space, allowed himself to feel — so much so that he didn’t feel Minho’s presence. Not until the older cleared his throat. 

Minho sat beside him, “Why the long face, Hwang Hyunjin?” 

“Huh?” startled, he looked up, face softening when he saw Minho. “Oh. Nothing. You’re not playing?”

“Nah,” Minho replied curtly. He silently analyzed the younger’s facial expressions before speaking up again. “For someone who’s going to Paris in two weeks, you sure don’t look too happy.”

Of course, Minho out of all people would notice the change in his mannerisms. Always the analyzing one, quick to notice changes in demeanour. There was no point in lying, not with Minho — so he let out the sigh he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“It’s bittersweet, you know?” he mumbled, fiddling with his fingers.

“It’s Yn, isn’t it?” 

“Huh?”

“You don’t want to part ways with her. It’s what’s holding you back.” 

Right on. It was as though Minho was a mind-reader. A heavy weight pulled on Hyunjin’s heartstrings, made his heart even heavier than a few minutes prior.

“Yeah,” he didn’t lie, again. He looked at Minho, and the older could clearly see the uneasiness written all over his face. “If you were me… would you tell her about your feelings?”

“The fact that you like her?”

“Yeah.”

Minho fell silent. He pondered over the question, looking at the sight before him. The sun was setting, orange hues painting the sky. Hyunjin wondered if Paris sunsets would look the same.

“I think…” Minho turned towards the younger. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t tell her.” 

“Why?”

“Won’t benefit you, I don’t think.” Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “Listen. If you were to tell her, and she accepted, do you think you could get into a relationship with her?”

“I mean —”

Minho cut him, “Realistically, do you think the relationship would succeed? I mean, the time zone between Seoul and Paris is pretty big. The distance, too. I don’t think it would work out. And that’ll be bad, you know? You’ll both be left wondering what could have been.”

The truth hurt. The distance, the time — none of them were on Hyunjin’s side. 

“And, if, God forbid, if she were to reject you… do you really want your last memory with her to be the hurt you’ll feel?”

Hyunjin shook his head. The other sighed, and patted him on the back. 

“There are things better left unsaid. You should take her out. Spend your last time with her nicely.”

Despite Hyunjin’s stubbornness, he took Minho’s advice. It took him a lot of contemplating (and crying), but he followed it anyway. Whether he liked it or not, Minho’s advice had a lot of truth in it. 

Bitter truths, but true regardless.

six.

“Where are we going?” you whined, trailing behind your dear friend. The sun was setting in two hours, orange hues were beginning to paint the sky. “Hyunnie, if you don’t tell me where we’re —”

“Please, stay patient. Will you?”

Hyunjin looked behind. He was wearing a blue knitted vest. In one hand, he held a picnic basket. The other, is your handbag. You never have to carry your own with him.

“But we’re literally in the middle of nowhere!” 

“Please just trust me,” he pleaded. One hand was stretched towards you, a silent offer to hold his. “Come. If you’re too tired, I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”

Ever the opportunist, you took up on the offer. Alas, Hyunjin was left walking the remaining distance, you happily singing road trip songs while clinging onto his back. To butter him up, you told him that he must’ve been a blessing sent to you by God. Although he groaned at the remark, you couldn’t see the small smile on his face.

After a few minutes, you understood why Hyunjin was adamant about going out that day. Before you, green plains stretched as far as your eyes could see. Scattered across viridian shades were wildflowers. Some yellow, some pink. 

Hyunjin had brought you to a flower field.

The picnic basket, and the Polaroid camera finally made sense. 

Without any more words, you jumped off his back and ran into the field. The yellow sundress you wore matched that of the wildflowers. In Hyunjin’s eyes, you blended right in. 

You were as pretty as the flowers. 

“Careful, Yn! Don’t fall!” He called out, his voice echoing in the space. He watched you from afar. There was an urge to run among the flowers too, but he was much more content with watching you. 

From a distance, in silence, he observed your every move. He couldn’t help the giggles that left his lips. The smile that lingered on his lips. He wanted this memory to last, to be ingrained in his brain forever. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to witness your happiness. 

“Hyunnie, you need to come here! It’s so nice!”

Chuckling, he carefully placed the picnic basket on the ground. Hyunjin was done with setting up the picnic spot. He ran towards you, lifted you off the ground and twirled you around. You broke out into giggles and held onto his arms. 

Among the flowers, two silhouettes danced with each other. Swaying to the same melody as the peonies. Despite being a ballerina, you kept stumbling onto Hyunjin’s feet, giggling each time he elicited an “ow.” 

Like a scene from a movie.

Like he wasn’t going away soon.

Before the sun could set, Hyunjin convinced you to sit on the picnic blanket. He wished to dance with you longer, but alas, time awaits for no mortal. 

“How do you want me to pose?” you asked. You were facing him, legs tucked sideways.

Hyunjin scooted closer to you, and wiped breadcrumbs off your lips. He commented on you eating messily. “You can pose however you want.”

You nodded, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Okay. Make sure you get my good angles, yeah?”

“You look good from any angle.” 

Crimson crept up your face. You hadn’t expected that remark. You hoped he wouldn’t see you blush, you would just tell him it’s the sun then. 

“Okay…”

Two clicks, then a flash went off. Your eyes widened, caught off-guard.

“You didn’t even count to three!” 

Your whines were responded to with a giggle. The camera whirled, apprising you of a Polaroid developing. Hyunjin took it, fanning the Polaroid with a grin. He was excited to see it.

“I wasn’t ready!”

“Candid photos are better,” he sighed. “Don’t you know? Everything’s prettier when it’s genuine.”

“So you’re calling me pretty?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Have I ever said you’re ugly?”

Right. He has never. 

You prayed to God the heat on your face was from the sun and not from blushing.

Once the Polaroid fully developed, Hyunjin made sure he was the first to see it. To your dismay, he held it close to his face, shielding it from you. His cheeks dimpled, illustrating his happiness. You looked so pretty, the sunlight on your face giving you an angelic glow. If he looked closer, he was sure he’d see a halo. 

Hyunjin wanted to keep this forever. 

If he couldn’t freeze the time, he figured he’d trap the memories in photographs.

“Let me see!” you whined. “It’s a picture of me! I have the right to see it.”

Scampering towards him, you waved your hands, trying to get the photograph off his hand. To no avail, Hyunjin had quick reflexes much thanks to his soccer experience. 

“No! You can’t — it’s for my eyes only!”

“Ridiculous! That’s my face, Hyunnie!”

“It’s my camera film. So it’s mine!”

Neither one of you would let up, legs entangling against each other as you fought over the photograph. He was determined to not let you even see the picture. One of your palms pressed against the picnic blanket, the other reaching up towards his hand. Hyunjin used his free hand to push you gently but alas, he underestimated his own strength. In one swift move, you lost your balance, toppling over him. 

“Ow,” he fell back and winced in pain. He looked up, and all the back pain was suddenly replaced by shyness. There you were, on his lap — face just as flushed as his. 

Hyunjin didn’t know what to do now. 

Pathetically, he just stared into your eyes, finding himself getting caught in them. He could feel your hitched breaths against his chest, he was very aware of your trembling fingers on his arms. There was a strong urge to kiss you as his eyes fell onto your lips. He wondered how they’d feel on his lips. He imagined it in his head — missing the way your eyes stared at his lips too. 

If you were a flower, Hyunjin would be a bee. He desired you, eyes tracing the shape of your lips. Over, and over. If he kissed you, would your lips taste like honey? 

He ought to find out. Hesitantly, he inched his head closer to yours. The warmth of your breath against his skin marked the closeness between you.

Numerous scenarios flashed in Hyunjin’s mind. Of him kissing you senseless, then whispering a love confession in your ear. Of your cold fingers pressing into his skin as he tells you each perk of yours that he loved endlessly. The more he imagined, the closer he was. You shut your eyes, waiting for his lips to finally press onto yours. 

Paris. The one-way plane ticket to Paris.

Against his heart’s desire, his fingers cupped your chin instead. Subtly, he pulled back, eyes trailing back up to your eyes. He ignored the look of confusion in your eyes.

Reaching down, he pocketed the photograph. His heart clenched as he spoke, but he did anyway. 

“I win.”

The two words pulled you from your trance — they tore off your heart like paper. You blinked, watching the playful smirk that graced Hyunjin’s porcelain face. 

“Oh.”

The whole journey home, bitterness sat on Hyunjin’s tongue like the aftertaste of tangerine pulp. Did you want the kiss too, or had his libido fabricated things? 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t kiss you. Not when he had suitcases packed for Beaux-Art de Paris. Not when it’s all his parents could talk about. 

Minho’s words played in Hyunjin’s mind like a broken record. They served as a reminder of what could not be. For the sake of his heart, he told himself that it had all been a figment of his imagination.

Tension cloaked the front door of your house. Neither of you made a noise, save for the jingling keys in your carabiner. You observed Hyunjin, who was busy looking at his shoes. Once again, his mind wasn’t in his head. It had been that way for a few weeks. 

“See you soon?” you mumbled. 

Hyunjin looked up, nodding at your words. He pulled you into a hug, one that almost crushed your bones. Shakingly, he nuzzled his head into your neck, burying his face into the skin like you would dissolve if he didn't. It must’ve hurt his back but you made no comment, instead you wrapped your arms around his neck, in hopes it'll give him solace. By the front door you held him, so tight that it was as though the two of you were one, the curves of his fingers burning through your skin.

You didn’t know that it was a goodbye. It had to stay that way. 

Once more, his heart clenched in his chest. Two hands cupped your cheeks, as gentle as he could be, like you would break. He engraved this version of you into his memory — kind eyes boring into his with a soft smile plastered across the face he'd grown to adore. He vowed to always remember this face. 

Deeply, he inhaled his breath. Preparing the next words — lies to say to you, no matter how tight his chest felt.

“Yeah, see you soon.”

The last words Hwang Hyunjin muttered to you. 

seven.  

One day before your birthday. 

It had been two days since Hyunjin brought you to the meadow. You hadn’t seen him much, just glimpses of him as he played around with Kkami in his backyard. You figured that he was busy.

“Hello, I’m home!” you said in a sing-song voice as you stepped into the Hwang household. Kkami who’d usually greet you wasn’t in his usual spot, so you trudged straight to the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s mother was sitting. “Hi, Mrs Hwang.” 

She looked up, lips twitching into a smile, a cookie-cutter of Hyunjin’s. Under the kitchen light, you don’t miss the dried tears by her eyes. You pursed your lips, wondering if she was watching a sad drama. Hyunjin inherited his trait of easily crying from his mother, after all. 

“Hi, sweet girl,” she looked at your outfit from head to toe. “Why are you all dressed up?”

“Oh,” you muttered, giving her a little twirl. “My birthday outfit! Is it pretty?”

“Of course.”

You smiled at her, fiddling with the hem of your blouse. Keenly, you looked around the kitchen for any traces of Hyunjin. You realized that the house seemed much quieter than usual, emptier than normal. 

“Where’s Hyunjin?” you asked. The reason why you’d come over was to show your best friend your birthday outfit. Now that you were there, he was nowhere to be seen. “Is he home?”

Sympathy materialized in the mother’s old eyes. She tilted her head at you, lips pursing as she thought of the correct words to say. 

“My girl, did he not tell you?”

Confusion would be an understatement. Hyunjin told you everything, everything — from pointless thoughts to his deepest, darkest secrets. You were his secret keeper, his companion — there was nothing he wouldn’t tell you.

Was there? 

It had to be something unimportant, right? Perhaps he was off to an art workshop and forgot to tell you. But looking at his mother, it felt like something big. You grew anxious under her sympathetic gaze. 

“Tell me what?” you questioned, letting out a nervous chuckle.

“We just came back from Incheon Airport. He’s on a plane to Paris,” the lady replied. She stood up, inching closer towards your trembling figure. “Did he not tell you, Yn? I thought he did.”

“Paris?” you asked, blinking. “Like. For a vacation?”

“No, sweetheart. Beaux-Arts de Paris. He got into the school.”

The words felt like bullets on skin, penetrating and chagrining you deeply. It felt unreal — a hoax.

You scoffed, “What? He wouldn’t go without telling me.” Your eyes searched for humour in his mother’s eyes. “Is this like, a birthday prank?”

Her eyes saddened even more. “No, sweetheart. He really went.”

Another betrayal came in the form of tears cascading down your eyes without warning. The emotions hit you faster than your brain could process things. Speechless, you took steps back from his mother, before running up the staircase to his room. 

He had to be there. Sitting in his swivel chair and laughing at your face. He’ll tell you it was a prank and wipe away your tears. 

Hyunjin was your best friend of a lifetime. He wouldn’t do this to you. He had to be there.

When the door to his room swung open, a sob was knocked out of your mouth. 

All traces of life in the bedroom were gone, save for the soft purrs of Kkami sleeping on the bed. The bed was stripped of its bedsheets, and the towels hanging behind the door were gone. The laundry bag was empty. 

All traces of Hyunjin were gone. 

The realization hit harder than his mother’s words. If the words hurt like bullets on skin, the sight of Hyunjin’s lifeless room felt like a knife twisted in your gut. It felt like sanguine dripping from wounds, and Hyunjin’s holding the knife. It felt like a betrayal. 

“Hyunjin,” his name slipped from your lips like a plea. “Hyunjin.” 

More choked sobs escaped your windpipes as you searched around the room. First, it was his wardrobe. The oak material was practically empty, all that remained were a couple of sleep tees and the shirts you’ve left over the years. You rummaged through the hangers, finding that he had brought one of your sweatshirts along. 

The confirmation of his departure was the emptiness of his study table. Each nook and cranny of his table used to feel like Hyunjin, from the stacks of sketchbooks to eraser dust. Everything was Hyunjin — but at that moment, there was nothing. There was only a void — that of his desk and your heart. 

Your best friend was truly gone. 

“Hyunjin,” the name wrestled its way past your lips again. This time, it was out of longing. “Hyunjin.” 

The manner in which you walked to his bed echoed your feelings. Quivering, like a toddler’s first time walking. Your body fell onto the bed, earning a soft whine from Kkami. Gently, you held Kkami in your arms, letting a stream of tears cascade down your cheeks. For the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to cry, to feel, to mourn. 

If someone were to tell you that Hyunjin out of all people would make you cry that much, you would’ve laughed. Never in a million years, you’d say. The only times he had made you cry were from laughter. 

“Kkami,” you cried. The chihuahua nuzzled its head into your arms, as though it could feel your sorrow. Perhaps it could. “I miss Hyunjin.”

The dog whined. It looked up to you, placing its paw onto your arm. You cried even more. 

“I wanted to tell him about how I feel today,” through sobs, you managed to speak. “How could he make me feel so many things in one day and disappear the other? He didn't even say goodbye.”

It felt like the chihuahua was mourning with you — the way it nudged its head onto your arm, letting out soft whimpers. As though it was telling you that things will be okay. 

You weren’t sure that it would. You spent your whole life with Hyunjin by your side, you had never known life without him. Now that he was ripped from your grasp, you didn’t know how to go on. No — he voluntarily released himself from your grasp, without warning. It was worse. 

Physical traces of Hyunjin in his room were gone. There was only his scent — the smell of his shampoo, and his cologne. It lingered in the room, mocking you.

In your melancholic state of mind, you could only weep.

eight. 

“Coffee, or tea?”

A female voice broke Hyunjin from his trance. He looked up at the stewardess standing by his seat, the sweatshirt doused in your scent crumpling in his tight grip. 

“I want to get off this plane,” sat on his tongue and dissolved. He took a deep breath. 

“Um,” he looked at the cart, “Plain water, please?”

Coffee would only force Hyunjin to stay awake, forcing him to listen to his own brain’s torments for 14 hours straight. Tea reminded him too much of you, of the times when you were little and would make him play tea party with you. He’ll think about the times you’d cheekily kiss his cheek, an attempt to woo him into playing with you. It worked each time. 

The stewardess nodded, handing him a water bottle branded with the aeroplane’s logo. He muttered a thank you, yet the stewardess still didn’t walk away. She looked nice, her eyes analyzing Hyunjin told him that he must’ve looked like the epitome of a wreck.  

“First time flying?” she questioned. It wasn’t his first time, having gone on many vacations before yet he nodded. “I see. It’ll be fine, just sit back and relax.”

The woman, whose name tag said Chaewon flashed Hyunjin a hospitality smile — one he didn’t think he deserved — then walked away. Hyunjin pursed his lips, wishing that she hadn’t walked away. He didn’t want to be left alone with his thoughts, he didn’t want to be awake, he didn’t want to be in this plane — there were a lot of things he didn’t want to do, but had to do. 

Hyunjin wanted to turn back.

Silently, he looked out the window, watching as the landscapes of Seoul grew smaller, slowly becoming covered with clouds. He desperately wished to get out, praying to God that the plane would miraculously turn back and the tableau of Seoul would become bigger. Had he told the stewardess named Chaewon he wanted to get off, would they have let him? Had he told his parents he didn’t want to go to Paris, would they have understood?

If he tells you he’s sorry, would you forgive him? 

Regrets and memories clouded his mind, tears making their way down his cheeks. Each thought strangled his heart, and he could feel it physically aching. In a melancholic state of mind he sat, clinging onto your sweatshirt like it was his lifeline, allowing slumber to slowly take over. 

The break from his own thoughts did not last long enough.

Seven hours later, Hyunjin woke up to dried tears on his cheeks. He straightened his posture and glanced at the window, feeling a wave of emotions at the change of landscapes. Hyunjin wasn’t sure in which city they were flying over, but he could say with certainty that it did not look like Seoul. It did not feel like home, it did not feel like you. 

Unable to fall back to sleep, he couldn’t help the thoughts that poisoned his mind. Looking over the landscapes, he came to a realization much too painful for his heart to bear. 

You and him — you were the Sun, and he was the Moon. Two people of different circumstances, who’ll never meet, ripped away from the merciless hands of time. For your timezones were different — horizons even more. 

As a wave of new tears descended, Hyunjin wondered if he would ever forget about you.

The answer came to him one afternoon three years later, as he laid on the couch in his Parisian apartment. 

No, he’d never forget about you. At least not in three years. Maybe not even in five. 

Sunlight seeped in through the balcony, providing Hyunjin the warmth he wasn’t able to receive from a person. His roommate was a French guy who was always out and about, leaving Hyunjin to soak in his own company for hours on end. Sometimes, for days. Hyunjin loved and hated it at the same time. 

His limbs stretched across the burgundy couch, a yawn eliciting past his lips. Brown eyes stared at the canvas in front of him, black and white hues scattered on white, forming a half-finished painting of you. 

Years later, and you remained at the back of his mind — his muse.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

nine.  

There are five stages of grief. 

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, then acceptance. Denial was the hardest for you, having spent your entire birthday staring at the front door of your house, praying Hyunjin would walk in. When your friends sang you a Happy Birthday, it sounded like a morose ballad playing from a broken record. Without Hyunjin, gloom sat at the centre of even the happiest things. 

Then came a sixth stage — one that seemed to exist for you.

Motivation.

After coming to acceptance that your best friend had gone, without any farewell, you spent many hours a day in the ballet studio. Pirouette, arabesque, plié — you managed to polish each move with the amount of time you spent cooped up in the studio. You weren’t born with ballet feet, but the times spent in pointe shoes had somehow moulded you into having them. 

Perhaps, it was distraction, disguised as motivation.

Nevertheless, the tireless hours of practice granted you a position in the Paris Ballet School.

Paris felt bittersweet when you first landed. It was the city of your dreams, but the reminiscence of the person it took from you made you loathe it. 

Withal, life had to go on. To cope with the Parisian lifestyle, you managed to get a job at a cafe near your academy — Desir Cafe. You worked night shifts as a kitchen crew but if traffic was overwhelming in the afternoons, your shitty excuse of a boss would make you come in anyway.

Unfortunately for you, it was one of those days. Clinks and sizzles reverberated in the kitchen, the peg board overwhelmed with sticky notes of orders. You were everywhere in the kitchen, from piping icing on cupcakes to sprinkling chocolate rice on pastries. 

“Yn,” the main baker yelled, “Tell Double C’s we can’t stock up on macarons! We’re out of almond flour!” 

The Double C’s — Charlotte, and Colette. They were a duo who worked as waitresses, always gossiping. Birds of the same feather, attached by the hip. 

Exasperated, you headed to the front, swinging the kitchen door open to see the duo gossiping. Charlotte was leaning in towards Colette, whispering into her ear, earning giggles from the other. You sighed, wondering what the topic was that afternoon. Curious as to who they were gossiping about, you looked towards the direction they were looking. 

Seated alone at the corner of the cafe was a guy, blonde hair gleaming golden from the sunlight seeping through the big window. His utmost focus was on the sketchbook in front of him, frail fingers dancing across paper, entrancing any eyes which fell upon him. You couldn’t help but stare, your face gradually contorting into disbelief.

He resembled too much like Hyunjin — your Hyunjin. 

Your gaze lingered on the man, analyzing each crease of his face, matching it with the one you had in mind. He looked just like Hyunjin, from the shape of his nose to the mole under his eye. The only difference was the hair. Hyunjin’s hair was raven black, but the person in the cafe had golden blonde hair. You felt your throat tighten. If the man sitting at the corner was him, then time had done good on him. He was beautiful, face sculptured beautifully by time’s gentle hands.

“Ooh, look who’s ogling!” a high-pitched voice interrupted you. You looked up to see the Double C’s looking at you, wiggling their eyebrows mischievously. Charlotte smirked, “Think the guy’s cute?”

“Huh? What guy?” you lied, feeling your cheeks heat up. 

Colette rolled her eyes. “The dude over there! Don’t lie, you think he’s cute.” The brunette wiggled her eyebrows even more, subtly pointing at the man. 

You didn’t say anything else, but your eyes travelled back to the familiar silhouette. The sense of familiarity tugged on fragile heartstrings the more you looked at him. Colette could sense your curiosity, so she parted her lips to speak.

“That’s Hyunjin. He’s a student in Beaux-Arts de Paris,” she muttered, unbeknownst to her the mixed emotions that dawned upon you. “He comes here almost every afternoon. Maybe that’s why you’ve never seen him before. He’s cute, isn’t he?”

Excitedly, Charlotte nodded her head. “A total heart-throb, honestly.”

“I mean…” your voice trailed, “He’s quite alright.”

How were you supposed to react to finally seeing the one who got away? Were you supposed to feel excited, or upset? It was like the moon had suddenly dropped down onto your lap. 

You were confused.

Charlotte continued speaking, not realizing the mixture of emotions in your face. “Sometimes, the students have exhibitions about ten minutes from here. His artworks always make it to the exhibitions. I’ve seen them, and they’re really beautiful.”

You turned towards her, “Exhibitions?”

She nodded, still naive as to your shift in behaviour. “I think the school has an exhibition every three months or so.”

Unfaltering, your eyes bored holes in Hyunjin’s back. He was in his own little world, evidently absorbed in whatever piece he was working on. Just like that, the memories you spent years suppressing came rushing back. 

It was unfair, the impact he had on you. There he was, lounging in a corner while your heart grappled in your chest. He looked older, better — and you were still the little girl in the tree house. Swaying your feet as they dangled, as though you had all the time in the world.

Charlotte and Colette exchanged looks as you stared at him. To them, you were simply developing a crush on a stranger. They wouldn’t understand the conflict brewing in you, they wouldn’t be able to comprehend the ache that stirred in the depths of your heart.

“What? You’re interested in him?” Charlotte spoke, breaking you off your trance. You looked at her, blinking. “Don’t even try. I’ve tried. I think he’s gay.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“He’s not gay — oh my god, Lottie!” it was Colette’s turn to speak. Playfully, she smacked the other’s arm. “I asked that guy he’s always with, the songwriter — Felix. Cute guy, that one. Felix told me that he’s got a secret lover or something.”

“Secret lover?”

“Yeah. Apparently, he likes to draw this one girl. His sketchbook’s filled with her,” Colette murmured, glancing at Hyunjin. “Felix asked her who she was, and he said it’s a girl of his dreams.”

Your heart dropped. You weren’t sure to which news you should react first, either Charlotte hitting up on your Hyunjin, or that he has a secret lover. Either way, it made you pathetically jealous. Your heartstrings thrummed in anger as you imagined a beautiful French girl spread out on his bed, and Charlotte hitting up on your Hyunjin.

How could he go on with his life when you spent years mourning him?

Crimson tainted your lip as you bit on it hard, the taste of metal at the tip of your tongue. 

Perhaps, you never made it past the anger stage of your grief.

ten.

You truly tried to be happy for Hyunjin.

For days, weeks — you spent convincing yourself that you had to be happy for him. Sure, he hurt you three years ago. Sure, you spent years in agony, regretting not telling him how you felt earlier, wondering what could’ve been. Sure, you hoped that you’d see him in Paris and he’d tell you that he’s in love with you and kiss you senseless — but those were just desperate prayers, weren’t they? Those were simply hopeful scenarios. You hadn’t expected them to come true, had you?

Hyunjin was your best friend of years. He deserved happiness, even when you didn’t feel happy. You had to let things go. You had to be happy for him.

Clearly, you failed at convincing yourself.

In front of a building you stood, the sound of people walking past becoming white noise. You stared at the banner standing in front of you, the words Autumn Exhibition displayed, with the logo of Beaux-Arts de Paris at the top. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat.

A week ago, Charlotte told you that the university would be holding another exhibition, and Hyunjin’s artworks most likely made it into the exhibition. You knew then, that you had to go. If you didn’t get to see him, then you at least wanted to see his pieces. To not be a part of his life was devastating, you wished to at least witness glimpses of it. 

9:45 p.m. was displayed on your screen, people were beginning to leave the exhibition. There weren’t many people around, which was what you were hoping for. Visiting the exhibition in daylight meant potentially bumping into Hyunjin, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for that.

One day you ought to meet him, but not today. Not when the fragments of your heart have yet to be mended.

After taking a deep breath, you willed yourself to step into the exhibition. A gust of wind hit your face, and you shivered, clutching your coat tight. The art display seemed to be painting-themed, the way frames of canvases were scattered around the building. Baroque paintings were displayed all over, each piece as beautiful as skies at dusk.

The tapping of your heels against the ceramic tiles sounded as you walked, the romantic lighting of the room providing you with a sense of comfort. Wildly, your eyes observed each piece, letting your heart be swayed by the beauty. 

They were all beautiful — but they didn’t feel like Hyunjin. 

Until your eyes trailed to a certain piece.

It was the centrepiece, the piece — little bulbs of lights were installed above the frame, making the piece feel alive. The moment your gaze fell on the artwork, you couldn’t help but feel drawn in, taking hurried steps towards it. You stared, unable to take your eyes off the hues on the canvas.

There weren’t many hues, just black and white. It depicted two figures on swings. You couldn’t see the figures clearly but you could tell they looked happy. You could see through the strokes of paint that they were happy — though the artist not so. There was a certain sadness in the painting, one that screamed nostalgia. 

The longer you looked at the piece, the more you realized. 

It was a fragment of your memory. 

Your breath hitched. In came a memory of you and Hyunjin — running around the park before playing on swings. It was a particularly memorable day, you could recall falling off the swing and Hyunjin kneeling in front of you, kissing the bruises on your knees with the tenderness of a feather. It was the first time you felt so protected, and so loved. 

A rush of emotions overcame you, you wondered if that was how Hyunjin felt when he painted it. Had he thought of you, and wept by his easel? Had he stained his cheeks with charcoal as he wiped stray tears off his face? 

You wondered, so much so that you failed to realize a silhouette entering the display. 

Hyunjin didn’t enjoy art exhibitions in daylight. They felt pompous. The people who visited the exhibitions would usually walk around casually, and took photos. They didn’t harbour any sort of deep appreciation towards art, they didn’t sit and admire.

Therefore, Hyunjin loved revisiting exhibitions in the comfort of twilight. When the expositions were empty, he enjoyed revisiting them, taking his sweet time to admire each piece. 

When he spotted a figure standing before his piece — his most vulnerable piece, he felt his heart drop. He watched from afar as this person observed the artwork, body as still as a mannequin. He had never witnessed someone admire a piece this intensely, especially with it being one of his pieces. He felt flattered, his heart swelling in pride and joy. 

Silently, Hyunjin approached the figure. Usually, he was shy, not the type to approach people first but somehow, he felt the strong urge to this time. Fate was pulling him by his heartstrings.

“That’s my painting,” Hyunjin spoke, ensuring his voice was as soft as possible. 

The sudden voice startled you. You whipped your head towards the source of the noise, eyes widened in shock. They widened even more at the sight before you. 

Hyunjin’s breath hitched. His heartbeats escalated, taking in the figure standing in front of him. His fingers dug into the skin of his thumb, lips quivering. Brown doe eyes mirrored yours.

“Wh — what?” he spoke again, breathless. “Yn?”

A few steps were taken, inching closer towards you. His eyes scanned your face, lips quivering even more when he realized that it was you — you were real, and you were standing in front of him. You looked the same as you did three years ago, except more beautiful. How’d you get more beautiful? The passage of time had seemingly been good to you, the way it had carved your face into one Hyunjin could imagine himself filling his canvases with.

“Hyunjin,” you willed yourself to speak. You ignored the way your eyes watered. “It’s you.”

“It’s you, too. You’re here.”

Another few, brave steps were taken. You, on the other hand, didn’t move an inch. 

“I hate you,” the words spilt past sanguine mouth before you could stop them, its venom contrasting the hushed tone of your voice. They crushed Hyunjin’s heart, though he knew he deserved them. “But I missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” was all that he could say. Hyunjin meant it. He really was sorry. He was sorry as he sent you back from the meadow, too cowardly to bid you goodbye. He was sorry when he packed his bags, stealing one of your sweatshirts for solace. He was sorry when he was on the plane, wishing he could turn back time. He was sorry when he painted numerous portraits of you. He was sorry as he stood before you, watching tears flow down your cheeks because it was the least he could do — a form of punishment for what he had done to you.

You shook your head, palms rushing towards your face to wipe away tears. 

“It’s not enough, I know,” he mumbled, moving closer towards you to wipe your tears, like it was instinct, feeling his heart clench when you took steps back. “But I truly am sorry.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” you sobbed, vision blurry. “You didn’t even contact me.”

“I know, Yn, I know — I’m sorry. I wanted to call you, but I couldn’t,” he rambled, cupping your cheeks and rubbing on the skin. You allowed him to. “I swear, I wanted to write to you, but I was too embarrassed, and by the time I had enough courage it was already too late.”

Sobs wrestled their way past your lips, barely able to form coherent words. You kept shaking your head, blurting out the words you’ve kept for years.

“You just left me, Hyunjin — you left me. A day before my birthday,” your whimpers got louder, “I wanted to tell you I’m in love with you, on my birthday. Hell, three years later and I’m still in love with you.”

Hyunjin’s face paled. He had expected curses, and cries — but he hadn’t expected that. Anything, but that. His limbs moved before his brain could process things, lifting your chin to meet eyes. Your eyes were tinted with tears, but you were still beautiful. You’re always beautiful.

“What?” he squeezed your cheeks, “Yn, what?”

“You heard me. I’m not saying it again. It's fucking pathetic.”

“Fuck,” he exhaled. Hyunjin knew he was supposed to feel remorse, but God — his heart bloomed at the words you had whispered to him. You’re in love with him. You’re in love with him, the same way he was in love with you. “Fuck, Yn. You can't just say shit like that.”

Feather-like touches grazed your lips. There was a certain look in Hyunjin's eyes, one that you couldn't quite figure out — they were a look of longing. How could you know it was longing when you had never bear witness to them? You could feel his breath against your face, warm like his fingertips.

“You have no fucking idea how long I've been in love with you. You have no idea how much I missed you. Fuck, I think about you every fucking day,” he whispered, “You have no idea how much I regret getting on that plane.”

At that moment, all you could feel was Hyunjin. His deep, brown eyes staring into yours and his thumb pressing onto your lip.

“Kiss me,” you whispered back, “Kiss me, Hwang Hyunjin.”

And kiss you, he did. His lips crashed against yours with fervour, moving his lips to the same beat as his racing heart. You kissed back in the same manner, letting out the emotions you had bottled up. 

I love you, I love you — each movement of his lips was a love confession, etching his adoration onto the curves of your lips. You caressed his cheeks akin to holding stars in your palms — careful, precious.

Finally, you pulled apart to catch your breaths, bodies heaving against each other. 

“Please, give me a second chance.”

It’s odd the way human minds work, because at that very moment, you were reminded of Colette's words. Ones that mentioned a rumoured secret lover.

“But,” you felt silly for saying it, “Your secret lover?”

“My secret lover?” the boy's eyebrows furrowed. He then chuckled upon realization. The rumour must've spread to you. “Ah, that secret lover. It's you, idiot.” 

He smiled. You didn’t think anyone could look as beautiful as he did.

“It's always been you.”

eleven.  

“Careful — come on, get under here.”

Giggles echoed in the alleyways as two shadows lingered in the darkness of midnight. It was raining, the pavements darkening with wetness and the wind howling a sweet melody. At that particular hour, under the moonlight, Paris looked like the city of love. 

You rushed out of the exposition hall, getting under Hyunjin’s leather jacket. He’d promised you the date of your lifetime that night, and he wasn’t one to break his promises. 

Hyunjin’s back was damp from the rain, but it didn’t matter as long as not a droplet landed on your body. It only took a few minutes (and a lot of giggles in between) to reach Hyunjin’s so-called secret spot. 

Streetlights shone on a bench, and clusters of flowers surrounded a little pond. The spot overlooked the city, you could see the city lights from all the way up here. You gasped in awe, it’s no wonder Hyunjin insisted on coming here.

“So beautiful,” you whispered. Hyunjin smiled softly, moving closer towards you on the bench and wrapped an arm around your waist.

While fondly looking at your visage, he muttered. “Yeah, it’s pretty.”

“How’d you find this place?”

“I found it while I was walking one night,” he explained, resting his head on yours. You could smell his shampoo in this closeness. “I was sad. This garden reminded me of the one we used to go to when we were kids.”

Your heart swelled at the confession. 

“It does resemble that one a lot.”

The skies were still drizzling rain, but you were both a little sheltered much thanks to the oak tree above you. Only droplets dripped, falling onto your head but it was a nice sensation. Besides, you couldn’t feel the cold when you’re nuzzled in Hyunjin’s arm, blanketed in his familiar warmth. You allowed silence to third-wheel you, eyes busied with observing the sight. Silence was always comfortable with Hyunjin. The time spent apart hadn’t changed that. 

He wouldn’t leave you alone, his skin constantly touching yours. It burned against you. You didn’t mind it. Instead, you basked in his love, listening to the sounds of his heartbeats as your head rested on his chest. He intertwined your fingers together, his thumb rubbing against yours. He wouldn’t let go of you, not even when he bent down to pluck a flower, slipping the daffodil onto your ear. 

“I missed you,” he murmured. You weren’t sure how much he’d repeated that phrase but you liked it. “I truly did.”

For the thousandth time that night, you responded. “I missed you too.”

The conversation changed into one about your lives, catching up on each other’s shenanigans. It was comfortable, being with Hyunjin. Topics changed seamlessly. You didn’t have to put much effort into talking to him, you just had to be there.

Softly, his hands moved towards your feet, taking off one of your shoes. He held onto your ankle, tracing his pointer across your sole. You giggled, the feather-like touches tickled. 

“You still have the feet of a ballerina.”

“Of course, silly,” you scoffed, “I am one after all.”

“I’m so glad that your dreams came true,” he whispered, putting your leg down. He cupped your cheek, showcasing a fond smile that stretched to his ears. “I’m really happy that you’re here.”

“Of course,” you repeated. “You told me you’d be wherever I am. It’s only fair I returned the favour.”

The words knocked out Hyunjin’s breath, and it filled his soul with so much adoration, he felt like he could burst. A pleading expression was written all over his porcelain visage, the way in which he squeezed your hand expressing his feelings even more.

“Please,” he pleaded. “I need to be yours.”

You kissed him, for the second time that night.

“I’m already yours, Hyunnie.”

twelve.  

Things with Hyunjin had been going exceptionally well. 

After the fated night, you carried on with so much happiness that you practically beamed everywhere you went. One time when you clocked into work, the Double C’s made kissy noises at you, and Charlotte had whispered, “You must’ve had crazy good sex last night.”

You couldn’t deny it, of course.

Date nights with Hyunjin happened thrice a week, with coffee runs in between classes. The Paris Ballet School and Beaux-Arts de Paris weren’t that far from each other, allowing you to sneak lunches together almost daily. Though you had to admit that even if the universities were far, Hyunjin definitely wouldn’t mind spending extra time just to see you. Sometimes, he’d watch you dance, and sometimes, you’d watch him paint. 

It was like you were both making up for the lack of each other the past three years.

After just two weeks of your relationship, you were acquainted with the comfort of Hyunjin’s home. His roommate was barely home, so you felt comfortable with coming over often. Most weekends, you’d spend the night over. 

Morning birds chirped a jolly ballad, waking you from your slumber. You stretched, feeling the heat of Hyunjin’s skin against yours. You couldn’t help the smile that grazed your face when you looked at him, fast asleep under the duvets beside you. Sleepily, you pressed a kiss onto his bare shoulder, then traced the memories of last night, tattooed on his skin in the form of bruises. It pulled a whine from him, moving under the duvet to press himself impossibly closer towards you.

“Flower,” he mumbled, morning voice husky, “I'm cold.”

“Then come cuddle.”

He did as told, wrapping strong arms around you. You felt his fingers ghost against your naked spine, sending heat straight to your core. You couldn't help the whimper that left you, earning a playful grin from your boyfriend. 

“It's too early to get in the mood, no? Baby?”

Flushed, you smacked his arm. “Shut up.”

Hyunjin giggled, leaning towards you to press kisses onto your face. Mornings with him were often spent like this — limbs entangled, as if you were one. 

“Need to shower, baby,” he sighed, “Have an exhibition today.”

To your dismay, he slowly pulled away from you, missing the warmth of his body. 

“You coming to the exposition?”

“Of course,” you hummed. “Go shower. Can I borrow your laptop while you're in the shower?”

“Yeah, baby. The password's your birthday.”

He got up from the bed, and you flushed as you looked at his bare body. Unluckily for you, your boyfriend quickly noticed your flushed face, taking it as an opportunity to throw a pillow at you and call you a pervert. You rolled your eyes, watching him enter the bathroom before getting up, wrapping the duvet around your naked body. 

You walked towards his study to retrieve his laptop, smiling at the artworks displayed on his peg board. One was of you — a painting of the Polaroid he took of you back in the meadow. The Polaroid itself sat at the back of his phone case. He had never taken it out since the first time he put it in back then.

Whilst humming to a melody, you kicked in the digits of your birthday. The laptop unlocked, showcasing the unclosed tabs. 

Your eyes widened at the words written on the screen.

Congratulations, you've been chosen for a student exchange programme to Rome.

Your heart skipped a beat. Repeatedly, your eyes skimmed the words on the screen. You didn't mean to pry but you scrolled through the email, feeling your heart sink upon seeing the date it was sent.

Over a week ago. 

Yet Hyunjin hadn't told you anything. 

After all these years, he was still keeping secrets from you. You couldn't handle it, and so for the sake of your heart you exited the tab, and shut down the laptop. Careful as to not make much noise, you got dressed. 

“Hyunjin,” you knocked on the bathroom door. “Need to be at the academy now. Bye.”

You needed to be away from him — you needed to clear your head.

thirteen.

You hadn't seen Hyunjin for a week.

The texts from him you didn't avoid, responding each time he sent a message. However, you'd been dodging his requests of meeting, under the guise of practice when in truth, you hadn’t gone for classes in a week. You spent your days moping in your apartment. 

Perhaps it was a little childish of you to do, but you couldn't bear the thought of going through what you did before. You'd tasted a life without Hyunjin, and you were certain you didn't want to live through it again. This was your way of mentally preparing for that life again. 

Your limbs lazily stretched across the cotton duvet as a vinyl played in the background. A melodramatic song played, matching the current tune of your heart. You weren't entirely sure what time it was, but the sound of the apartment bell ringing hinted that it was afternoon. It must be the takeout your roommate ordered.

“Reine,” a familiar voice reverberated in your apartment. “Where's Yn?”

“In her bedroom,” your roommate, Reine replied in her thick French accent. “She's been in there moping all week.”

Damn you, Reine. 

Quickly, you buried yourself in your duvet, anticipating the footsteps which approached your room. Soon, your door swung open, and you could smell the white gardenia in his cologne.

“My flower,” his voice tempted you to look, “What’s going on, sweet girl?”

It didn’t help that each syllable that slipped past his lips felt like honey.

You felt his hands pull down your duvet before you came face to face with your boyfriend. He stood before you, hair slicked back and the white blouse he wore accentuated his shoulders. In his hands was a bouquet of flowers, patches of peonies and daffodils peeking from the wrapper. 

You didn’t utter any words, simply looking at him with watery doe eyes. He didn’t miss the glint of tears, immediately setting the bouquet on your nightstand to get onto the bed. Tenderly, he pulled you onto his lap.

“You look so sad,” he mumbled, “Can my sweet girl please tell me why she’s so sad?”

Damn, him. How were you supposed to stand a chance when he was so ridiculously handsome and sweet?

Trembling, you parted your lips to speak. 

“You’re hiding things from me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What things, baby?”

Your eyes shot daggers at him, bottom lip forming into a pout. Hyunjin had to stop himself from leaning in and biting it.

“You got offered to an exchange student programme,” you finally bit the bullet. “You’re planning on keeping it a secret and just leaving me again, aren’t you?”

Ah.

Hyunjin’s eyes softened. He sighed, caressing your cheek in his hand. He shook his head as his free hand rested on your thigh, massaging the supple skin.

“No, I’m rejecting it,” he answered. “I didn’t tell you because I thought there was no point in telling you if I didn’t even want to go.”

“What?” you responded, voice a little higher than you intended it to be. Your eyes scanned his for any lies. “Hyunjin — it’s a good opportunity.”

“What, you don’t want me here anymore?” he joked, raising an eyebrow at you. “Baby, Paris is already enough for me. I don’t really want to move again.”

You nodded at his words. A huge part of you felt relieved — and you felt awful for feeling that way. 

Love, sometimes, is about being selfish after all.

“Were you sad because you thought I was going?” your boyfriend queried, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You shrugged. “A little. I was more mad that you didn’t tell me.”

“Oh,” he nodded, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, I just didn’t mention it because it felt insignificant.”

“I want you to tell me things,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms around his neck. It left goosebumps in its wake. “I want to know these things.”

“Okay," he mumbled. Something about his compliance made you feel fonder of him. "I'll start telling you these things."

A sigh of relief left your lips. You had known Hyunjin for years, but being with him was different. A good kind of difference. It would take you a while to adjust to these changes — but it was the kind of changes you'd want to adjust to.

Hyunjin's fingers trailed to your hips, ghosting over your skin until they reached your thighs. He traced the stretch marks there, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You couldn't help the whine that left your mouth, and the heat that arose, tainting the tips of your ears in crimson. Hyunjin enjoyed this — flustering you with his ministrations. He allowed you to nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, whimpering as he felt your lips litter kisses on his most sensitive spots.

"I love you," he confessed, like honey dripping from lips. "Promise I'll be wherever you are."

disclaimer — © 2024 hyunverse on tumblr. all rights reserved. authors works are protected under the copyright law. do not plagiarize or translate my works. tumblr is my only platform.

taglist: @zoe8stay , @starlostseungmin , @starlostlaiba , @hwajin , @sleepyleeji , @skizzel-reblogs, @jdopes-recorder , @sherryblossom , @cb97whoree , @alyszaen , @aaliyahxsx , @jeonginsyoungestsibling , @hyunluvxo , @bokk-minnie , @ghostyycat7 , @fortunatelyhertragedy @yongbokkari @ameliesaysshoo @seoli-16 @jisungsdaydreamer @soobnny @seolboba @in2heartz @jehhskz @astraystayyh @mnwrld

[mydearlybeloathed]

── 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑! 𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑!

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your people have a legend: mermaids only ever fall in love once. you never put much thought into it, until you come across a band of human pirates.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: romance dawn trio x mermaid!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: sleep who's she? ~7k baby (1.7k intro, 1.4k luffy, 2k nami, 1.9k zoro)

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: my contribution to mermay... on the last day of may, it gets increasingly more unhinged, sanji kinda gets bullied, robin is carrying the last two relationships, my own made up mermaid courting rituals, biting, a bit of violence

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: i had this playlist on repeat while writing 🙆

The last island had warned the waters to come were infested with dark creatures of slithering scales and tempting voices. Creatures that pull you in deep and leave you out to dry a corpse. Born from seafoam, storms, and desire. Mermaids.

“Mermaids?” Zoro drawled. 

“I met a mermaid once,” said Usopp, and everyone groaned unanimously. “She tried to take me down, but my charms were just too much, so she let me go.”

Everyone surely believed him, of course. 

And of course the motley crew ignored every reservation and warning and sailed headfirst into the treacherous sea. At first, nothing at all was out of the ordinary. The morning fog hung tentatively over the water splashing at the ship's hull as it powered through. Sure, the sun could’ve shined a bit brighter through the thick clouds, but it was a lovely day for adventure.

Nami stood at the helm keeping an eye on the horizon, relishing in the breeze hitting her face, when you heard an odd buzzing in her ear. She swiped at the air and rubbed her ear on her shoulder, but the sound only grew louder. Puffing her cheeks, she turned to ask Sanji to get her the bug spray, when she noticed he too was messing with his ears. 

She laid eyes on each of the crew scattered around the deck, enjoying the cool weather. Everyone shifted uncomfortably, faces screwing up as though in pain. 

“Do you guys hear that?” she asked needlessly, gathering their attention.

Zoro cupped his ears, nodding. “Yeah, it’s like…”

“Buzzing,” Luffy finished. He kept swatting at the air, searching out for some fly assaulting him.

“No, it’s… it’s singing.” Sanji faced the waters, the words of the village folk coming back to him as his eyes widened. He whipped back around to lock eyes with Nami just as she put everything together too.

She gasped. “Mermaids.”

The ship rocked and the weather shifted drastically in seconds. Already thick clouds doubled in number, drawing close and creating a swirling mass in the sky. Waves rumbled and rose to crash over the deck, sending the crew into hysteria to grab their bearings. 

And on top of it all, the most beautiful melody rose above the chaos, filtering into the ears of the crew and blocking all else out. Usopp’s hands slackened around the rope he held steady, eyes glazing over as he leaned toward the far off sound. Sanji’s eyes flickered up to the sky, roamed over the gray clouds, and fell to the waters below, his mind dizzied by the beauty and lithe of the voices. Zoro stumbled drunkenly over his own two feet, desire furling in the pit of his stomach, legs carrying him to the edge of the ship to catch a glimpse of the one singing to him. Luffy froze midclimb up to the crowsnest, head darting this way and that, mind clouded. Nami gritted her teeth, resolve formed to not give in to the angelic, mystifying, amazing song sung just for her—she left the helm unguarded, leaping to join her friends in calling out to the seas. 

The crew’s voices overlapped in thier pleading for the woman to come near, to give them all that the song promised. Their every dream would come true, if only the mermaid would help them into the water. The pod of mermaids encircled the ship, their harmonies intertwining in one mind. The ship might have kept on drifting, guided by rough waters manipulated by the mermaids’ hand, and crashed right into the reef and all the crew would be scooped up by the she-beasts, thrust into the deep to drown,

If not for one voice which rose above the rest in a demanding, desperate order: “STOP!”

Instantly, the clouds parted and sun bled through. The song fell through to indignant shrieks, splashes dying down to ripples as shiny tails descended into the blue. Nami blinked awake, feeling hungover and headached, looking blearily out on the water. Vision clearing, she caught a sight she would never forget; a woman lain on the far rocks, a single beam of sun illuminating the vibrant scales running along her skin till they met at a tail dipping into the water. 

The fact that their ship was headed right for those jagged rocks was an afterthought. She lurched back and sped into motion, barking out furious orders and smacking the men upside the head to push them into gear. Sanji stood frozen at the ship’s rail, gripping the wood in a vice, eyes glued to the creature. “Nami, it’s—”

“I know!” She gripped his shirt and whipped him around, slapping the side of his face a few times. “We’re going to crash!”

Sanji blinked, shook his head, and raced to grab a flinging rope, jumping high and tying in down in one swoop. Nami bolted to the steer, an eye out the window as she pulled with all her might to change their course. Usopp soon joined her, guiding the ship bit by bit to the left’s clear passage. She fell backward when Zoro’s shout reached them, “We’re clear!”

Risking a moment of peace, the navigator cupped her hands over her face, allowing her body to calm all its flighting-fighting instincts. The calm lasted for all of five seconds before the screaming began.

“Luffy! What—Why—What?!”

Nami sprang upright, locking eyes with Usopp, and the two sighed in unison before heading above deck. Whatever Nami expected, it wasn’t the terrified, shivering form of a mermaid baring her two fangs at a looming Luffy. The others stood a ways away, unsure what to do with themselves, but certain they didn’t want to get involved with this.

“Luffy!” Nami cried. “Did you drag her up here?”

Given the mermaid’s following hiss, Nami assumed that was the case. Luffy inched closer still, and the mermaid lost all her gusto, face falling as she scrambled away form him, dragging her tail behind her. 

The mermaid was beautiful; that was the common thread of thought. Her damp hair hung all around her face, nearly covering her deep eyes. Scales creeped up her torso and faded into skin around her chest. Her every movement was caught by the sun, her scales shimmering rainbow reflections into the air around her. 

“Stay back,” she hissed out, eyes narrowing upon Luffy. “Demon.”

Usopp scoffed, grabbing the mermaid’s sharp attention. “What, long-nose?”

Ruffling, chuckled awkwardly, he looked around at his friends for help, receiving nothing but raised brows. “I just mean—you’re the mermaid.”

The mermaid blinked slowly. She seemed to have forgotten the threat before her, all attention directed at a quivering Usopp. “I’m the demon? I’m the one who saved you. You think my people decided to let you live on their own?” She laughed, and the sound had a pretty ring to it. “No. I commanded them.”

Her eyes darted back to Luffy as he took to sitting criss-crossed in front of her. “I should have let you and this demon-child die on the rocks.”

It soon became obvious she knew Luffy ate a devil-fruit just by one look at him, and she was not happy about it. Luffy only tilted his head at her hostility, a little frown on his face. “Are all mermaids this rude?”

You balked, gaping before snapping your mouth shut, not dignifying him with a reply. Luffy persisted. “I like your tail. What do you mean you saved us? Why?”

Curling your tail closer to yourself, hands holding your upper body up, you glanced from the pirate captain to each of his crew. They didn’t look too threatening, but you’d learned long ago to never trust a human’s looks. Many a mermaid died on the grounds of humans looking nice. So Luffy’s question begged an answer. Why did you save them?

You shrugged a shoulder, eyes drifting out to sea. “My people need to eat.”

Usopp gulped. “We’re very gamy. You wouldn’t like us—”

“I wasn’t done speaking,” she quipped back, a brow raised. “Mers are carnivores by nature. Normally, we steer clear of humans.” You sneered at the word. “We find your kind to be a predator, and we’re a peaceful people.” The swordsman scoffed and rolled his eyes at that. 

“But times have changed. The fish have fled this sea.” You took a deep breath, shakily letting it out. “My people are starving, and they look to me as their princess for guidance.” Quickly clearing your throat to hide how the topic gloomed you, you snapped, “All that is to say that I strictly forbade the hunting of humans despite the starvation. They disobeyed me. That is why I helped you.”

You faced them all as your tail began to glimmer even brighter, slowly but surely parting down the middle. Your face contorted slightly as your scales seemed to mold into your skin, leaving you bear before the crew of pirates. You shivered in the breeze, raising your gaze once more. “Any other questions?”

There seemed to be none, silence running around the deck, and you prepared to jump back into the water before your parents sent the guard to find you, when the demon-child spoke up.

“Yeah,” Luffy nodded, face taken by seriousness. “How do we bring the fish back?”

You blinked once, then twice, and then a third time for good measure, but nothing in his expression betrayed hilarity. He wasn’t pulling your fin. The devil-fruit eater meant to help you. 

Demon. That’s what he was. You knew this fully well. It’s what your parents taught you from a young age. Devil-fruit eaters are the enemy of the sea, and thus the enemy of the mers. You’d followed this rule all your life… but then you looked at the one they called Luffy, you really looked at him right in his face… and none of that made any sense anymore.

Sure enough, Luffy led the charge against the oil corporation mining near your peoples’ home, threatening convincing them to move elsewhere. Within a few days of the miners’ departure, some mers managed to coax schools of fish back to their reefs. With the ecosystem and chain of life restored, the Straw Hat Pirates had no reason to stay.

And really, neither did you. What you did have, however, was a reason to go with the pirates. Adventure, the life you’d always dreamed of, away from the reef you’d felt tethered to for so long… and a certain member of the crew who had caught your rapt, undying attention.

There’s a legend that mermaids only fall in love once, never to find another who would fill the gap in their hearts. You would always call it foolish romance… but really, there might be something to it.

LUFFY

You were a goner the moment he offered to help you with those big, genuine eyes of his. As much as you tried to deny it—and you did try to deny it—you were falling in love with a human. A devil-fruit eater at that. What had you been reduced to?

And yet, there was no denying it. Especially not when you couldn’t bear to go an hour without laying eyes on him. Your mother said it was normal for mers to feel… possessive over the one who holds their affection, and that fact was not lost on you as you slithered through the water, approaching the pirate lazed out on the rocks he’d dragged you from about a week before.

Your eyes rose above the water first, little grin still below the surface. Luffy looked so relaxed, eyes on the clouds, every once in a while glancing at his crew on the anchored ship nearby. You braced your hands on the cool stone and launched yourself upward, fanged smile gleaming as water splashed Luffy’s legs. His laugh had you keening closer, dragging your tail along the rocks. Luffy grinned for all of two seconds before the seawater sunk in. Instantly drowsy, he tried to offer up another smile as you winced.

“Sorry,” you giggled. “I always forget.”

He laughed it off, already recovering as he shifted to face you. Luffy’s eyes followed your tail to where your fins dipped into the sea. “If only I could swim with you. Bet it’s fun.”

“If only.” You shared a smile for a little too long, but it never grew uncomfortable. Lingering in the moment, you gazed over at his ship, melancholy taking over as your smile faltered. “So… you’re leaving soon?”

“In the morning.” You clicked your tongue and tried your best to act nonchalant, failing miserably as you pursed your lips and combed through your hair.

“Why not tonight?” you offered with a tight grin. “You should get away as fast as possible. I don’t know how one becomes pirate king but it's not by sticking around a boring reef and its boring princess. Ha! I’ll even help bring your anchor up faster! Then you can be out by sundown.”

The silence crept up your spine, getting you all antsy as you lowered your gaze to the rippling waters. Shoulders tense, you could feel Luffy’s eyes on your profile as you picked at the algae along the rocks. He probably thought you were an idiot, rambling like that. And if so, that was fine. It would make him leaving so much easier. 

Luffy inched toward you and ducked to meet your gaze. “Come with us.”

“What!” You hit an octave the best soprano would envy, losing your grip and slipping right off the rock back into the water. Your hands grabbed at the slippery stone, panic all over your face before you plunged under the surface. 

You drifted under the waves, unmoving as the words replayed over and over in your head, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Glancing up at Luffy’s bright laughter, you caught sight of him peering down into the sea, his face muddled by reflections and ripples. He couldn’t be serious. He just couldn’t. 

Luffy grew nervous when you didn’t resurface, leaning over the water to catch a glimpse of your shimmery tail, when as quick as lightning you broke the surface and came nose to nose with him. Blinking wide, you breathed deeply, so close you felt his every exhale on your skin. “You mean it?”

“‘Course!” Luffy offered you his hand despite the fact he’d lose all his strength the moment he touched your sea-soaked skin. “Wanna join my crew?”

Yes. You wanted nothing more than to follow him to the end s of the earth and then some. Part of you had been hoping he would ask. The rest of you longed to take his hand and smother him in hugs till he pried you off him. But… the water swirled around your tail, threatening to carry you off in a current, and your lips quivered down. 

“I… I can’t!” you cried, dipping underwater before he could catch you, darting off into the blue. Panic bubbled in your chest, strangled gasps sending pops of air into the water around you. No matter what you wanted, you were bound to this reef. Your home, your kingdom… and above all that, to ever think of running off with a human was foolish beyond measure! So you wasted away all night long, lamenting around the sea, hiding above the coral and sands. 

Luffy watched the water all morning, trusting you would show despite your disappearance implying otherwise. Nami set a hand on his shoulder. “Luffy, she’s not coming.”

He had to hope. You wanted to go, he saw it in your eyes, and he wanted you to go too. Luffy didn’t think he could bear leaving without you, and he wasn’t exactly sure why. He knew from the moment he met you that he needed you on his crew—but why? He searched his head for an answer, coming up short. Giving the sea one last hopeful glance, Luffy sighed and gave Nami the go-ahead. 

The ship had barely sailed off when a shimmery, sparkling thing leaped out of the water, shouted his name, and plunged back into the blue. Luffy raced to the ship’s edge, a smile creeping up his face. You raked a trail of seaspray behind you as you darted just below the surface. Again, you propelled yourself out of the water. “Wait!”

Luffy threw his head back laughing, holding down his hat on his head. He shot Nami an I told you so look, to which she rolled her eyes and turned, lest he catch her pleased smirk. A round of chuckles ran amongst the crew as they slowed the ship’s leave, not that it mattered; Luffy was already slingshotting his rubber arms out at you, and the next time you appeared arcing through the air, your shout turned into a yelp as his arms wrapped around you and pulled you in. Another panicked shout of his name left you before you collided with the rubber man, the pair of you rolling to the deck.

You worried your tail crushed him, the hefty weight of it landing on his legs, but all reservations fizzled out the moment his arms wrapped you up in a warm embrace. Luffy’s head found your shoulder, your hands hooking around his shoulders. “I’m covered in seawater…”

“Don’ care,” Luffy muttered into your skin even as he weakened and sank into you. “I knew you’d come with us.”

“With you,” you corrected instinctively, pulling away to stare right into his eyes. “I’ll follow you anywhere.”

He giggled softly. Luffy’s arms unraveled as he opted to instead cup your shoulders. “Good.”

From then on, where one went, you’d soon find the other. Not only on your end; Luffy quickly grew so accustomed to your presence that he began to wait for you to start eating, much to the amazement of his friends (Zoro almost admitted he was jealous before he saw the hints of puppy love in his captain’s eyes, and decided to let it go for now). 

You still had some things to wear off before you fully let yourself admit you were falling for a human. Luffy seemed to be completely comfortable just going around holding your hand, swinging them between your bodies as your cheeks warmed. Luffy never strayed far from your side, comfortably resting an arm on your shoulder or some other contact. You never completely told him off for it, somewhat liking how his warmth contrasted with the cold of your sea-ridden body.  

Now, it’s a given that Luffy cannot swim. He ate a devil fruit—everyone knew this fact very well. But now Luffy had his mermaid with him! All his faith went into knowing you would always swim to his rescue should he need it, so what’s the harm if he got a little bit more reckless surrounding the sea?

(The harm is to your stress. By God, he would be the end of you one way or another).

The number of times one of the crew has called your name, given you this tired and sorry look, and pointed out to sea. Luffy was likely to be flapping about in the distance. The most recent occurrence, Sanji set a hand on your shoulder and went to let down a rope ladder. “I’ll help you back up, lovely.”

Outwardly, you might gripe about holding his hand and having to save his devil-fruit ass from drowning every other week—but inwardly? You’d turn hell over before you let Luffy die. So you held his hand tightly in yours, wearing a smile so small only Luffy’s keen eye could see. 

NAMI

Without really realizing it, Nami had fallen headfirst for your awkward, waterlogged, fishy kind of charm (and she wasn’t at all going to complain). She first started feeling it when the freshly victorious crew met your mer royalty parents at the surface, your tail mesmerizing as it dipped just into the water, your upper body propped up onto some scattered rocks. Your eyes filled with hope the longer you spoke to them in words too far to reach. Majestic. That’s the only word to describe you.

Well, majestic and graceless. That second descriptor was added when you rolled off the rocks into the water, beaming up at your parents before doing a figure eight around the sea and vaulting into the air. You flipped tail over head, cackling as you hit the water with a splash. A tiny laugh left Nami, eyes shining.

She was the first to help haul you up a rope ladder, hands clutching your damp arms. Nami met your smile steadfastly. “What’d you tell them?”

You giggled, cheeks warm at how you practically laid across her legs, the rest of the crew gathered around. “I just told ‘em I found something worth leaving for.”

(You’d told them you found a pretty human girl and had to leave with her or else you would probably die).

You promised to return for your birthright throne one day, though that promise hurt you. You had a duty to your people after all, no matter how pretty Nami was. But until then, you had today, and you would make the most of it. 

Love wasn’t enough of a word to describe what you felt looking at Nami, and obsession was a bit too extreme (though Usopp would teasingly disagree). You simply… couldn’t help but gravitate toward her any chance there was, ever in her orbit. Where Nami was, you were soon to be found. Nami never told you to screw off or give her space; on the contrary, when your shoulder brushed hers, she pressed into you fervently, skin to skin and warm.

It only took a month for you to throw all caution to the wind and do the only thing you knew—go forth with the mer courting rituals (you were hopelessly at a loss, only doing what you’d seen the older mers do to beckon the attention of their intended).

Nami, clueless, accepted each gift of dazzling seashells and shimmery pearls with alighted smiles, taking you in her arms even when you smelled of the kelp forest you’d swam through to find the treasures. She laughed off the bites you gave her wrists, arms, and sometimes shoulders, snickering about how it tickled. And she sat and listened to every song you sat her down to listen to, closing her eyes as the melody calmed her, never needing any actual enchantment to draw her in. 

In turn, you assumed her habir of buying you things was some sort of human ritual. Why else would Nami’s cheeks be so rosy as she handed you a luxury hairbrush you’d raved about seeing in a shop window? 

“Did you see this new pearl she brought me?” Nami leaned toward Robin giddily, rolling the pearl in her palms. Her lip between her teeth, she stifled a too bright smile. “I’ll have enough to make a bracelet if hse keeps this up.”

“Then I’d say you’ll soon have a bracelet,” Robin mused, turning a page in her book. Nami tilted her head, eyes narrowed.

“What’s so funny?”

Robin’s lips curled up into a grin, eyes darting up to meet Nami’s. She barely contained her mirth as she flipped the book around and handed it over. “Nami, she’s been courting you.”

Jaw slack, Nami poured over the open page, heart stuttering. She slapped a hand to her temple, huffing a laugh. “So by giving her gifts, I’ve been courting her back?”

Humming, Robin took her book and closed it gently. She turned to face Nami entirely, brows raised. “You don’t seem upset.”

“I’m not,” Nami quipped, cheeks warming instantly. Robin chuckled behind her hand. “I—I mean—Uhm…”

The older woman stood and set a hand on Nami’s shoulder. “I’d expect an invite to swim fairly soon.”

Sure enough, not a day later, you shyly slinked up to Nami as she headed to the galley for dinner. Your hand found her wrist, tugging her aside as Zoro and Robin passed by wearing matching grins. You stared at your feet uncharacteristically, shuffling back and forth. Nami felt hot all over. She reached out a lissome finger to wrap around your pinky, whispering, “What is it?”

Swallowing thickly, you huffed a confident breath and snapped your head up. “Would-you-go-on-a-swim-with-me-tomorrow?”

A little smile worked its way up Nami’s face. Your eyes squeezed shut the second you finished your sentence, wincing like she might lash out. “I’d like that.”

Your whole face lit up, eyes wide as saucers. “O-Okay. At sunset. We’ll be docked at that island by then, right?”

Nami nodded and pulled you into the galley. Right as she passed through the door, before she could catch the teasing glances of the others, she turned and mumbled, “It’s a date.”

Nobody questioned it when you hissed your fangs at poor Usopp, booting him out of his seat right next to Nami, and promptly plopped down next to the grinning navigator.

Sunset came to slowly, in your opinion. All day you’d been tripping over nothing, nervous hands making your awkward legs even more coltish than usual. Around evening, the ship tipped too far left far too quickly, sending you careening right into Nami. You dragged the both of you down to the deck, face hidden in your hands as she laughed brightly.

And finally, the sun descended across the sky, shooting oranges and yellows and pinks into the clouds. 

The wind kissed your face as you leaned against the ship’d railing, eyes darting back and forth over the rippled waters below. Fish flittered at the surface, bubbling her and there, muttering awful curses at each other. Nami sidled up beside you, eyeing your profile before gazing down. 

You snickered, drawing her attention. “Fish hear all sorts of swears and insults from the sailors. I wish you could understand them because I will never be caught translating that mess.”

Your laugh trickled off as you looked at her, eyes trailing up and down her form. She wore one of her bikini tops and a pair of shorts, nothing too special, but something flared up in your chest at the sight of her. Skin prickling, you whipped around and found Sanji not too far away. The cook took a drag of his cigarette, admiring eyes set on Nami. Your fangs peeked out of your lips, trilling a low hiss. Sanji choked and nearly dropped his cig into the sea, catching it betwixt his fingers at the last second.

Nami’s laughed gently, taking your arm and swinging one leg over the ailing, then the other. You gazed into her eyes deeply. “C’mon,” she smiled. “I thought we were swimming?”

With that, she jumped off the ship and plunged into the sea. You jerked forward, watching bubbles fizzle up from the deep before Nami’s head popped back into sight. She kicked into deeper water, calling for you. Taking a moment to sike yourself up, you stood precariously on the ship’s railing, preparing to make a graceful dive after her—when your foot slipped.

Yelping, you tottered offbalance and fell face first off the ship, just barely flipping around to land feet first in the water. The water fizzled and bubbled all around you, the usual sting of scales surfacing from the depths of your skin causing you to squirm slightly. Your senses enhanced instantly, so Nami’s rich, boisterous laughter flowed down from the air to the sea, embarrassment flooding your body. Slowly, you swam upward, water parting over your head and dripping donw your face. 

Eyes hooded, you came to face to face with Nami’s state of hilarity, clutching her sides as she struggled to remain above water. You waded toward her, hands finding her sides and giving her a break from kicking even as your eyes avoided her own. She hooked her finger under your chin, grin cheeky. “I thought it was cute.”

“Wasn’t meant to be,” you grunted. 

Nami rolled her eyes and kicked away form you. “I thought we were swimming?”

“Not here,” you said, coming back to your sense. You reached for her hand and led her along the coast. “This way.”

You placed her arms around your neck and sped through the water, taking the pair of you far from the prying eyes of the crew and nearby sailors. Nami tucked her face into the crook of your neck, chuckling as seaspray stung her skin. Your tail propelled you toward a secluded cove you once visited with your aunt’s migrant pod, and you reached your destination in no time at all.

Now, Nami had done her research. She knew what to expect… But then you actually started to swim, your tail not making the usual constant up an down movements. You took a deep breath, eyed her hopefully, and parted the water by arcing your arms outward. Using a single, powerful thrust of your tail, you glided through the water like a piercing arrow, rotating in a spiral corkscrew. You circled Nami, who treaded water with a confused furrow in her brow. 

She had been picturing the Dance of Sea Hearts all day, and yet she hadn’t come close. 

Taking a breath, Nami gulped some air and ducked under the surface, flinging open her eyes. The salty water stung her eyes but she remained wide eyed, gaze trailing after your lithe curves and spirals. She caught your eye and the whole world seemed shifted all at once.

Suddenly pickiing up speed, you swam on your side round and round Nami, creating a current that spun Nami in a circle. Cheeks puffed of air, she went up for another bout of air and sank back down in one fluid motion. It was odd sort of dance, your fins brushing her skin and your hands tangling in her hair, taking her hands and spinning Nami in circles till the girl’s lack of oxygen and dizziness created a euphoric lightedheadness. But she trusted you, so she rose up for air and descended under the waves once more. 

When you finally started to sing, Nami wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to return to the surface. You were one person yet your voice sounded like a choir, echoes forming under the water and overwhelming every living creature in the vicinity with the beauty of your vocalizations. She remembered when she heard your people singing her crew to thier watery depths… and this was nothing like that. Their voices beckoned her forth with promises of jewels and safety of wealth… but you didn’t promise anything other than the safety of your love. 

Nami’s lips returned to the surface, sucking in as much air as she could. As the water closed around the crown of her head once more, you floated right in front of her, careful to not allow any enchantment into your voice. You wanted to do this right, not the way your people usually took the hearts of humans. Lips parted, you strung out your song—the song your father sang to your mother, and her mother to her father, and his father to his partner, and so on. 

The dazed look in Nami’s eyes was nearly concerning, and you nearly feared you’d let slip some magic, when her hands cupped your cheeks and her forehead collided with yours. Bubbles flew form your mouth, song halted instantly. Nami gave you a tilted grin, picking up the melody where you’d dropped it, and you were putty in her hands. 

Deeper the pair of you sank into the waves, your arms enveloping her body and holding her close, your tail curling around her legs. Noses brushing, your voices twinned together as your smiles rose to greet each other. Nami tapped your arm rapidly, on the brink of suffocation, and you swiftly swam the both of you back to the surface. 

Gasping in air, Nami curled her arms round your neck, lungs no longer straining under the power of the sea. “Are we, like, mermaid married now?”

You laughed awkwardly, nosing her cheek. “Not exactly… Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“I do.”

“And?”

She pecked your lips. “I like you too.”

Though your heart threatened to sink, you accepted her kiss wholeheartedly, vowing to someday make her understand the depth of what you felt for her. The night grew long and full of laughter, splashing water hitting your faces as you committed a dance of your own making: having fun.

ZORO

Zoro knew the moment he laid eyes on you that you were dangerous. 

With sharp fangs, fins that flared when angry, and the most hypnotizing eyes that made him feel things when he looked in them—you were close to the myths he heard growing up on his home island. Except, unlike the myths, you were kind, and maybe that’s what made it worse.

Zoro also knew something else the moment he saw you jump in the way of a sword strike from an oil miner and proceeded to tear him to shreds. With a mumbled curse and flushed face, he felt a thump in his heart as you heaved, dark eyes taking him in like you intended to devour him whole. But then you smiled, corners of your mouth curling to reveal shiny teeth that should have been threatening, and all he could think was a very firm shit.

He wasn’t getting a crush on a mermaid. 

Yet, he found his eyes always drifting to you one way or another. And that voice—you swore you never used your enchantments on anyone, finding it unethical, but you had to be doing something to him. Each morning you went up to the crows nest and sang a song. Zoro was able to name every single one by now, but he’d rather die than admit it. 

(But you knew, having a keen eye to catch his eyes fluttering closed whilst you spun your melodies).

You composed yourself far better despite feeling a similar tug in his direction. You were a princess, after all—albeit a feral sea princess, but you held poise nonetheless. Of course, that didn’t change the fact that every time you laid eyes on Zoro you had this innate desire to bite him. Maybe then the cook would get the message and stop staring.

Either way, it was really only a matter of time before the culmination of looks, touches, and songs took its final toll on you both. 

You sat with Robin on the steps leading up to the helm, you head propped in your hands, eyes unabashedly laid upon the swordsman training on the deck below. Robin’s eyes drifted up from her journal, flicking between you and the source of your admination, before shaking her head. “You could talk to him, you know.”

Blinking, you glanced her way. “I do talk to him.”

“I mean,” Robin laughed. “Talk to him. About you and him.”

“Oh no, I can’t do that. It would complicate things.”

“And constantly undressing him with your eyes doesn’t?”

You cast her a little glare. “Don’t test me.”

Rolling her eyes, Robin shoved your shoulder, nearly sending you falling donw the stairs. “I’m sick of watching you two. It’s sickening. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of your own romantic customs?”

Cheeks burning, you stammered over incoherent words and wobbled to your feet. Pausing to breathe, you peered over your shoulder, losing yourself for a moment as you caught sight of the grace with which he moved. He moved on from lifting weights, instead going over his katas and form with sword, the Wado Ichimonji. 

Robin’s chuckles brought you back to reality. Pouting, you gritted out, “Shut up.” You whirled around and meant to march right up to Zoro—what you were going to say was the issue of future you—but you walked head first into a broad chest and fell in a heap of limbs on the ground. 

Zoro’s eyes went wide, motionless as you glared up at him only for your eyes to soften instantly. Zoro huffed a laugh and reached out his hand. You eagerly accepted his help, jumping back to your feet and falling right into your habit of admiring every detail in his face. Your surprisingly strong grip remained on his wrist, your eyes darting between the flesh of his arm to his chesnut eyes. Zoro frowned deeply, confused, trying to tug his hand away and reeling at how strong your vice was. 

Blinking quickly out of your trance, you released him, stared blankly, and bolted below deck. Zoro watched carefully, having half a mind to call you back; he’d walked over to talk to you, after all. He liked talking to you (it was a shocking revelation he was still having trouble accepting).

Robin felt like an intruder on such moments, yet always found herself in the middle. She snapped shit her journal and Zoro’s head snapped in her direction, quickly darting his attention elsewhere. Robin let loose a sigh of exasperation. 

“Ridiculous.” Before Zoro could process whatever that meant, Robin was gone, leaving Zoro clutching his hand ot his chest and wondering why his skin crawled with the lingering sensation of your touch. He really couldn’t take much more of this. And neither could the crew.

“Every time they speak I feel like I’m walking in on a hook up,” Nami complained to Sanji. “They make asking about the weather feel sensual.”

Sanji chuckled to that. “Patience. Not everyone is as emotionally aware as you, darling.”

A week passed, and the usual brief glances and looks of longing exchanged readily. And then came the night of your watch. Everyone always knew when you had watch because you made it everyone else’s problem the whole day. Groaning and grunting, you lamented your lost sleep, and the others usually chuckled behind their hands whilst you sighed.

Usually, you spent your watch alone, charting the stars to pass the time and singing old sea shanties to keep yourself awake. But tonight was different; tonight, someone joined you.

Zoro’s footsteps thunked against the deck, startling you from your daydream. Shoulders dropping, you sent him a smile and went back to leaning against the mast. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nope,” Zoro sighed. He followed you gaze to the night sky. “Have they moved?”

“Have they—?” You paused to stare at him, mirth glittering in your eyes. “Have the stars moved?”

He flushed from his neck to his nose, only worsening at the sight of your blue-moon smile. “You know—are there new ones? Constellations. Don’t new ones appear when we’re in different areas?”

His frantic explanations only humored you more, dragging tiny chuckles out of you even as you nodded. “I know what you mean. Sorry for laughing… There are new ones. See there?” You sidled up to him and pointed to the left side of the sky. “There’s the South Mother. I could never see her back at my reef.”

Zoro’s brows met. “South Mother?”

“I think you call her Ursa Major,” you explained. “To us, she’s our ancestor, banished to the stars for loving a human.” Realizing how close you’d drawn to him, you glanced at Zoro before swiftly clearing your throat and stepping away. The tranquil quiet filled the space between you, before the stories of your childhood rose to the surface of your memory.

“My mother always told that story as a warning. Never deal with humans. They get you cast among the stars.” A tiny scoff left you, smile forming. “But my father? He told me South Mother was a revolutionary. Why shouldn’t she have loved a human? If she found one worth her time, then that’s her choice.”

You chanced a look at Zoro, locking eyes with him. You found it in yourself to not look away. “I always liked my father’s version better.”

Zoro nodded tentatively, unsure what to say if he should say anything at all. He settled for sitting against the mast, motioning for you to join him. You dropped down quickly, taking a spot on his right and resting you head against the wood. Minutes went by in blissful silence.

“Can I bite you?”

The question caught him off guard, Zoro lurching up to stare at you. His jaw agape, he found your expression to be one of utter seriousness, blinking at him expectantly. His swallowed thickly. “I—In what context?”

You shifted around to face him, waiting for him to do the same. “In the context that I want to bite you so no one else does.”

Reeling, Zoro managed a laugh, lips curling upward. “I don’t think you have to worry about anyone else biting me.”

“So you don’t want me to?”

“I didn’t say that.” Gods, what was he doing? He lowered his gaze, watching your hands fidget nervously with your boot laces. You were nervous… Glancing up, he saw that same nervous energy swarming your face. “Can I ask why you’re worried someone else will bite me?”

You thought back to your conversation with Robin, and her advice, and regretted ever bringing any of this up in the first place. It was all so stupid. You’d done so well of pushing all of this down… but he was waiting for an answer, and you’re quite certain you’d give Zoro anything he wanted.

“In my culture,” you started, “we bite those we… feel things for. It lets others know they’re talking with someone.”

Zoro understood what you actually wanted to say, no matter how hidden in your words it was. “And you want to talk with me?”

You wanted so much more than that. Honestly, you were clinging to your composure. He’s lucky you even asked first. “Yes. I do. And I don’t want you… talking to anyone else.”

Squinting at the space over Zoro’s shoulder, you awaited the blow of rejection. Surely, Zoro had other options. He was a warrior—strong, wise under all that moss on his head, and kind. Yet slowly, Zoro moved into your line of sight. His heart thundered around in his ribcage, his next sentence feeling silly, yet true. 

“Humans do something similar,” he offered. “You bite me… and I’ll bite you.”

You hadn’t expected to get this far. Nodding gently, you threw caution to the wind along with all the pretense. “All that is to say… I… Well, I understand the South Mother because I met you.”

Zoro’s gaze softened, his hands drawing you closer till his exhale fanned your face. You knelt before each other, a single question in his eyes, to which you nod and lean in if only to be near him. His hand cradled the back of your head, lips dancing across the skin of your neck, finding the spot that made you squirm and biting. Zoro had no fangs to sink into your flesh but it hardly made a difference; the mark was there, along with several others littered along your shoulder.

Letting out a shaky breath you gripped Zoro’s jaw before he could go any further and brought his face level with yours. Running your tongue over your two jutting fangs, you muttered, “Where?”

Zoro craned his neck to the side, his breathing heavy and pupils consuming his irises. You gently traced the line of his jaw, completely enamored, before latching onto the skin where his neck met his collarbone. Careful to not wound him, you bit down just enough to leave your mark. Zoro’s slight hiss had you soothing your tongue over the mark, remembering the feel of his lips on your skin, and copied his earlier ministrations. Zoro would deny it over and over, but he whined, and you would take that knowledge to your watery grave.

Come morning, imagine the crew’s surprise walking into the galley expecting the usual dance of awkward feelings, only to find the pair of you thick as thieves showing off the fresh territorial markings splayed across your necks. 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭:

@100520s @murnsondock

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Chapter 2: I'll Never Let You Go Again Like I Did

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!Reader, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: With a birthday printed on your wrist that happened over a hundred years ago, you always thought that you were cursed to never meet your soulmate. But when you finally meet the man that's supposed to be the other half of your soul, you wonder if the stars were wrong, and wonder how this man was meant for you. Reader is Hughie's sister, is not a supe, and is a Literature Professor that gets dragged into the middle of things. This fic takes place in an AU set loosely after Season 3 and does deviate from the plot of The Boys

Tropes: Soulmate AU, Little bit of Grumpy and Sunshine, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Protective Ben/ Soldier Boy, Jealous Ben/Soldier Boy

Warnings: Little bit sad, DENIAL, Homophobic Comments (Soldier Boy), Cursing, Mentions of drinking, Mentions of using drugs, Sexism, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of torture (Soldier Boy's Time in Russia) Loneliness, Longing (I mean… as close as Soldier Boy can get to it), Reader wears glasses?, Soldier Boy might be a little OOC.

Word Count: 6.4K

Song Inspiration For This Chapter: Until I Found You (chapter title is lyric from this song) and Coming Back For You

Note: Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue Is in First Person And Is In Italics

Playlist for Series (Spotify)

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

A/N: Oh my goodness I'm so excited about this series and thank you so much to everyone for all the wonderful love and support so far! It really means the world to me 🥰

One Year Ago: Ben POV

Ben squinted his eyes as he stepped out into the brilliant sunshine of the early morning, shouldering the strap of his worn backpack with a huff. The people on the crowded, gum covered sidewalks shot him odd looks and gave him a wide birth as he made his way down the path, but he didn't care, in fact he didn't notice them. His mind was somewhere else.

He wasn't sure where he was going, just that something in the pit of his stomach was pointing him in this direction. Ben had started walking in what he thought was the way to Legend's apartment, but the streets looked so different than the last time he was in New York and he was a little turned around, but he wasn't going to admit that to anyone.

And there was something in the pit of his stomach, some instinct or gut feeling, that was telling him he needed to go this way.

It was an odd feeling that prickled on the back of his neck, as if he'd forgotten something. Ben wondered what exactly it was that he'd forgotten. He hadn’t spoken aloud to anyone other than the scientists who kept him locked in a cage so he didn’t exactly have a social calendar to follow up on.

I've been locked in a lab for forty fucking years, what is there to forget?

But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed just out of reach.

Ben raised his eyes from the sidewalk with a sigh to look at the people passing by, taking in their new clothing and different hairstyles to distract himself. He frowned at the bizarre groups of people to him that flit by on their merry way, muttering little things under his breath about how things used to be.

Ben had a feeling that he was going to be doing that a lot.

New York City was different, the same, but different. Even though Ben had been gone for forty years, it still felt like the center of the universe. There were still hot dog vendors on every street corner, still magazine stands with freshly printed newspapers that smelled like ink and were warm to the touch, still coffee shops that lined the streets and caffeinated the masses, and there were still cab drivers who wove through traffic as if they were unstoppable shouting at pedestrians as they went.

The memories he had of old New York City merged together with what he was seeing around him and felt himself slipping into the past only to be jolted back into reality by the strangeness of the future.

He didn't like feeling disoriented, but it was there, brimming just under the surface. His body was tense as he walked prepared for anything, unable to relax as he continued on his way to wherever the hell it was he was going.

The morning sunlight reflected off the glass windows of the skyscrapers that worshiped the rising sun and the sounds of the city vibrated against the brick and mortar. There was a buzz of electricity in the air, the low hum of power that Ben could always hear beneath it all. Cars honked sharply, people shouted in colorful language to one another, and the wind rustled through the long strands of Ben's hair crinkling against his ears and scratching against his neck.

He hadn't had time to cut it or his beard and it didn't seem to be as important as finding Legend and getting his affairs in order.

The smell of hotdogs, earth, cologne, and heavy perfume wafted up with the breeze that tugged and pulled at his sweatsuit. The same stained sweatsuit he had found in a rust covered locker before hiding in the cargo hold of a plane headed back to the U.S that was probably almost as old as him. The plane ride had been long, but when he'd been in a lab for the past forty years it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. He spent the whole time stewing in his thoughts. He'd slept enough and like hell he was going to drift off and let those Russian fucks take him again.

Ben sighed when he felt his memories begin to unravel on the edge of his mind, unfurling and asking to be relived. It wasn't unusual or unwelcome. Ben was using those memories to justify what he was going to do to his old team. As long as the rage continued to burn against his skin, Ben would have no problem breaking each of them down piece by piece.

Ben didn't understand how his team could have done that to him or why they'd done it to him. He thought that he'd been a good leader, a good American, a good soldier, a good hero, and yet they'd all stabbed him in the back. Sure, maybe he'd been a little rough on them, but Ben saw it as the only way to toughen them up. They needed thicker skin if they were going to survive in a world like this.

All I've done is give my fucking life to this country and what did they do? They gave me to the fucking reds.

His hand tightens on the strap of his backpack as he weaves through the crowds, trying his best to keep to himself when all he can feel is his anger and frustration building and burning hot under his rib cage. His new power stirred beneath the surface, energy beginning to travel through his body, tracing his veins and pulsing in the center of his chest.

I should have seen it coming. I should have killed that entire fucking bunch of pussies the second I had the chance. Especially that bitch.

His frowned at the thought of Countess.

Truthfully, when the two of them started messing around it was only because Countess's soulmate had died a few years before and Ben knew he wasn't going to meet his soon if anytime. He'd messed around with plenty of other women for the same reason and well…

Ben's frown deepened as he stepped around a couple that was walking arm and arm, the dates on their wrists flashing gold in the sunlight. He ignores the feeling that comes when he sees them, pushes it down into the deep recesses of his mind as he has done his whole life.

Since he was a kid, Ben wasn't sure that he believed the "soulmate thing." Sure he'd seen hundreds of other people around him find "the one," but Ben wasn't sure that he was made to be a soulmate. Especially not with a birthdate on his wrist so far in the future. He assumed that it meant he wasn't going to get a soulmate and he'd spent the better part of his life pretending that he didn't care about that. He was a man after all, and Ben didn't want to need anyone. At least, that was what he told himself.

Ben had lived long enough to see other soulmates find one another, witnessed the goofy looks on their faces when they locked eyes for the first time, and had the super hearing to listen to what came next.

But instead of focusing on the impossibility to meeting his own, Ben focused on the lie he told himself, that it seemed ridiculous to be intertwined with someone as soon as he was born. Not to mention that Ben wasn't sure that he wanted to be with someone, not when he didn't age and not when he'd have to watch whoever it was, if anyone turn to dust.

Yes, he could see himself settling down with someone, having a few kids, but Ben wasn't sure that whoever was supposed to be his other half was within reach anyway so why care? Ben knew that he didn't age, but he didn't actually think he'd ever get to meet you or that you would actually ever exist. Not when you were born so far away from him and not when he'd been trapped in that lab.

But that didn't stop a part of him from thinking about the possibility of meeting you. When things were quiet in the lab and he was left alone for a few precious moments, he felt his mind begin to slip into the question of what if?

What if you existed and what if you came for him?

He knew that it was a long shot. The only people that knew he was there were the people who stabbed him in the back. And Ben didn't want to cling to some fantasy, it felt feminine to fanaticize about the person who was supposedly meant for him breaking down the thick metal door and pulling him from the lab.

Again, Ben was trying not to believe in the "soulmate bullshit."

Countess had been a way of passing the time as had the numerous other women, but with them were moments when he'd feel something odd settle in his chest, something that he never could put a name to. In those moments he would raise his right arm and look at the birthdate printed on his wrist, the same one that Ben had kept hidden for most of his life, the one that when he was a boy people mocked him for, and the one his father chastised him for having as if it was Ben's fault that some celestial body had decided to single him out.

All of his childhood friends had found their soulmates and Ben had spent the better part of his life covering it up to avoid the conversation that always happened when someone saw the date. No ones soulmate was born so far in the future and Ben’s father had spent a lot of money making sure that word didn’t get out his son was a freak.

His father already made Ben feel like a disappointment and a fuck-up, but Ben was already thinking it himself every time he looked at the date printed on his wrist that seemed impossible. When his mother was alive she would try her best to make Ben feel better telling him that it wasn't impossible, that one day it would all make sense, but after her death Ben stopped feeling comfort, joy, and anything warm. All he felt was the cold shoulder from his father and the words that Ben pretended didn't hurt when his father was halfway through his second bottle of scotch with a third prepped and waiting on the kitchen table.

It made Ben feel like a pussy every time he looked at the mark and thought about his future soulmate, but he did it in private, usually after he'd had a few glasses of something and a few puffs or snuffs of something else to numb his mind. And he'd allow himself a single moment to think of you, wonder if he'd ever meet you, and wondered if you'd ever actually exist. In those few fleeting moments he believed in soulmates, but then he'd snap out of it and wake up the woman in bed next to him to distract him for another hour or so.

Ben's eyes flick to his right wrist covered by the gray and maroon tracksuit, his brow furrowing together. He was trying not to think about you or rather the possibility of you today. He didn't have time for that, not when all he wanted was to make his old team pay for everything they did to him.

But there was a little whisper of something in his ear, a small wisp of hope that he had finally made it to you, the one thing he didn’t think would ever happen, that he lived long enough to be alive the same year you were, and that you were out there somewhere waiting for him.

No. Ben tenses. I'm not going to think about her, not when those butt fucks need to be dealt with. I'm going to go to Legend's and then I'm going to-

He didn't see you in front of him until it was too late to move out of the way. Your body hits his full on in the chest, sending the bagel between your lips tumbling into the street, but Ben barely feels the hit, what he does feel is the dam he built forever ago burst open and warmth soaks into his body. Electricity skitters along his skin, crackling in the air as his eyes lock with yours only for a second. He feels like he's caught fire, as if the pieces of himself deep down inside are overheating and vibrating until there's nothing left, but you and him.

Any thoughts he had of his team and revenge are lost in the flood of emotions that fill the hole inside he tried so hard to ignore with the lie he continued to tell himself: “I don't believe in soulmates.”

And yet, there you were.

He can hear his heart and yours beating together as one, his own pounding so hard under his ribcage as if it wishes to break free and cross the space between your bodies. Seeing you for the first time feels like taking a bullet to the chest, the sharp jolt backwards when it lands and the pinch of flesh against Kevlar. It was worth the bruise if looking at you was the same way each time.

Ben can feel the world slipping away, going silent, and in that silence Ben is lost in you.

Holy Fuck.

You were the perfect amalgamation of every single beautiful woman that Ben had ever seen and fantasized about in his entire life. And yet you weren't what he was expecting. Over the years Ben had bedded many women, the ones who captured his attention for a night, but none of them were anything like you.

In all the ways those women were bold and dramatic you were confident, but not boisterous, beautiful but not haughty, respectful but not prude, and there was a kindness reflected in the warmth of your eyes that Ben had never seen before, but there it was staring back at him unblinkingly.

You reminded him of the women that came arm in arm with men to his parents lavish parties when he was a boy, the ones who were classically beautiful and reserved with the golden dates on their wrists catching in the light. The exact kind of woman he hadn’t seen for the better part of eighty years and the opposite of the women who had thrown themselves at his feet forty years ago.

Your hair falls forward into your face from the force of your body hitting his and Ben itches to push it back, to touch you, to feel his skin against yours to quench the burning that he can feel in his soul.

All of his instincts are telling him to pull you against him, that you're too far away even though you're standing only inches apart.  That he needs to breathe the same air and feel the warmth of your skin against his rough fingertips.

The birthmark on his right wrist sears his skin and he knows what it means, that you're the woman he's been looking for his whole life, the woman that always seemed just out of his grasp, the woman that was made just for him, and the woman he thought would never exist.

He watches your eyes widen with the same realization about him behind your round glasses, eyes that are the perfect color and eyes that Ben can imagine staring in to every day for the rest of his life. He'd never wanted to spend more than one night with a woman, never wanted more, but all of that fades into you.

The idea of a soulmate no longer seems ridiculous, no longer seems like something he’d never have, not when he’s looking into your eyes and nothing else seems to matter.

Not when looking at you is like seeing the sun sink into the earth at the end of the day and feeling the hope that it'll rise the next morning.

The lie he told himself for so long is slipping away the longer he stares at you, because although he never wanted to want anyone he knows that he needs you. It's an odd feeling for him. He's never once cared about anyone, told himself that it was weak to, that having a soulmate was a stupid idea and not for him, but all of the things he ever thought about soulmates is evaporating in the heat that is consuming his body by being in your presence.

Why now?

The thought makes the world come back into sharper focus.

I've lived decades without her and now the moment I come back to the U.S I just run into her?

It was laughable .

The moment of clarity allows the fantasies of his revenge to come creeping in and Ben feels the anger and rage ebbing on the edge of the wonderful feeling building in his chest when he looks at you.

You weren't a supe. Ben could tell that just by looking at you. He didn't think he'd ever seen someone so soft and yet someone that he wanted to possess so badly that it almost hurt to stand inches away from you.

I don't want her to be apart of this.

The thought is immediate, stirring some primal urge within to protect what's his. Because you were his. You were the missing piece that he pretended not to need and the woman who always seemed to slip into his mind when he was alone and all was quiet,.

The thoughts of what he's about to do to his teammates come surging up and he didn't want you involved in any of that. Not when he knew that he needed to protect you, that he'd drag you along, and you'd see all the ugly parts of him and see the horror of what he was about to do.

He didn't want that for you, he didn’t want the first time that he met you to be like this, him looking like he'd crawled out from under a rock and full of so much anger, rage, and frustration it felt like he was going to explode, him having a new uncontrollable power that meant he might hurt you, and him being unable to give you his full attention when all he could think about was the team that stabbed him in the back.

What he was, was selfish, he knew that about himself.

But I won't be this selfish.

Ben had made many mistakes his life, he knew that, had done some things that he wasn't proud of, but you wouldn’t be one of them. He didn't want to put you in danger and realized that there was only one way to protect you, because after all, he was the only one who knew that you existed.

His eyes trace your face one more time, memorizing it before he does what he thinks is right. Ben turns away from you and forces himself to keep walking. Each cell in his body is screaming at him to turn around, to run back to you, but he can't. He doesn't want it to be like this and he knows that you deserve better.

I won't do this to her.

“Wait-“ He hears you shout over the sounds of the street.

The sound of your voice is a soothing melody, a warm soak in a hot bath, a steady hand against his back, and a salve over the gaping hole where a piece of him was missing for so long, the hole that he tried to ignore  his whole life. He grits his teeth and continues to walk away from you, each step feeling like he's walking through tar the further he gets.

And deep down Ben is hoping that he did the right thing and makes a promise that he'll come back for you.

Present Day Ben POV

Why the fuck am I coming to this thing again?

Ben thought to himself standing outside the closed apartment door holding an expensive bottle of scotch. The same bottle of scotch that he was going to break open as soon as he crossed the threshold to get through this. He didn’t think that Hughie would appreciate it the way he would anyway.

Probably drinks those fucking fruity drinks with the umbrellas.

Ben didn’t understand why Hughie had invited him to this party or why Annie would let him invite Ben to it. Ben knew how much she hated him and the feeling was mutual.

Ben sighs as he stares at the door thinking about walking back to the elevator. 

Invited was a strong word. Ben had overheard Hughie talking about it in the break room with MM and when Ben walked in, Hughie felt the need to fill the awkward silence by inviting Ben to the housewarming party. 

Ben didn't know why anyone needed a housewarming party, but he chocked it up to another thing about the 21st century that he didn't quite understand.

He thought about all the people inside that he saw at work everyday, the ones that he tried to avoid all shoved in the apartment in front of him and groaned to himself.

Fuck, I should just go home.

Ben frowned at the thought of going back to his extravagant penthouse apartment downtown. The one that was two stories with a private balcony, six bedrooms, five bathrooms, a study, a media room, an exercise room, and overlooked Central Park with a view that would make anyone else salivate. His real estate agent had been surprised when Ben hadn't batted an eye at the price, but Ben didn't think about money the same way everyone else did.

He didn't have to, not with the money he'd earned over the years and not with the money his father, grandfather, and great grandfather in his accounts.

When he'd first bought the apartment he had been happy to get out from under Butcher's eye, who had a tendency to watch Ben like a hawk whenever he thought that Ben wasn't paying attention. But the apartment was large and cold, furnished with furniture that Ben had hired some twenty year old interior designer to buy, who charged him an outrageous amount of money to do absolutely nothing. She'd called it "minimalism," Ben called it "a fucking rip off."

Not one piece of furniture was comfortable to him and being there never felt like home. Then again, Ben didn't have a "home" to compare it to. His family mansion back in Philadelphia after his mother died had been cold and most of the rooms were closed off and the apartment he had in New York before he went to Russia was almost as big as his new one, but it never seemed like home. It always seemed like a way station, a place for Ben to entertain women for a short while before he went to a commercial shoot, a party, or on location for a film.

Even his cleaning lady and housekeeper would comment on the little things about his apartment that Ben tried to ignore. Honestly, Ben thought that she was fucking nosy, but she did her job well so he kept her on.

That and because he couldn't seem to remember her name no matter how many checks he wrote.

Ben didn’t like being in his apartment at all, but he knew that it wouldn't change if he moved. It wasn't where he lived that was the problem, it was that you weren't there with him.

It had been an entire year since he'd seen you and every day Ben walked the same path he had the day he met you for the first time hoping to run in to you. He didn’t have your name or your address or anything that he could have someone at work plug into a computer to find you. He'd tried to "google" you, but there was only so much he could do with the little information he had and he didn't understand how to find you other than the old fashioned way.

So he was back to sitting home alone every night trying his best not to notice how empty the apartment was, the one he bought that was more than big enough for two people. Sometimes he tried to stay out as long as he could to avoid going back to it, but each time he went through the front door it only emphasized how empty it was.

Ben's life was empty. He hadn't realized that before, but nowadays he was hyperaware of it. In the past he would have filled his life with women eager to warm his bed, but ever since he saw you Ben hadn't been able to think about anyone else.

Ben couldn't remember the last time he felt this frustrated and it only made everything harder for him. And as much as he tried to relieve the tension it never seemed like it was enough. He needed you.

And after he spent twelve months trying his best and he was tired of feeling restless he tried to pick up a woman in a bar.

Every cell in his body screamed wrong at the top of its lungs when he spoke to her, using lines that he'd perfected since he was a teenager. Ben knew he was good at that, but he fumbled the ball each time he opened his mouth. He tried to shake off the ghost of you, but when he spoke to the woman leaning against the aged wooden bar with a martini in her hand and wearing a dress that left little to the imagination, he got a flash in the corner of his eye of someone coming in through the door and he'd thought it was you.

He hadn't been expected to feel so ashamed, guilty, and embarrassed at the thought of you catching him with someone else. He'd been sleeping with women longer than you'd been alive and he'd never felt that way, but now that he knew you existed and knew there was a possibility of you running in to him, it was all different.

Ben's outlook on soulmates being "ridiculous" had evaporated on the spot the moment he locked eyes with you. He couldn't pretend that he didn't care anymore and couldn't pretend that you didn't exist.

How could he when you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen? How could he when a piece of him was with you? How could he when you were always on his mind?

He'd never had a woman have a hold on him so completely in his entire life, but you did.

She fucking does and I only saw her once.

It only made him feel worse. He wondered if he'd made the right decision when he turned his back on you.

Sometimes he liked to think back to the moment of when he first saw you when everything was quiet and he was sitting up in his bed staring down at the mark on his wrist that shone a brilliant gold. His mind would slip into those few moments of bliss and he would wonder what would have happened f he just said "fuck it" and didn't go after Payback, if he'd stopped and asked for your name, and allowed you to let him forget everything that happened in the past forty years so he could start his life with you.

Unfortunately, those moments were usually followed by the same self-deprecating thoughts that Ben had, the chauvinistic ones that he'd carried with him over the years, and the ones that his father had impressed on him from the moment he could walk and Ben couldn't seem to shake.

He'd berate himself about how it was stupid and pussy-like to pine over a woman.

Because that's what he was doing, he was pining over you and he didn't like it.

He didn't want to think of you as much as he did, but he couldn't help it. Now that Ben knew you existed he didn't want to miss out on another moment of your life.

Of course, he couldn't find you and that was the problem. Sometimes he wondered if you were looking for him as hard as he was looking for you, if you walked the same way each hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

The dreams didn't make it any better. He'd never heard of someone living the memories of their soulmate when they slept, but every night he was subjected to watching your life and it only made him want to find you more.

He'd never knew that someone could feel so lonely surrounded by people, never knew that someone could feel so out of place, and never knew that someone could be as sad as you were, but each time he relieved a memory of yours at night Ben could feel his heart twinge.

Ben watched the lonely birthdays you spent with a cupcake and a beer for him, saw the jeers of the people in your hometown and the pitying looks from your parents, felt your shoulders shake when you cried alone in your room and stared at the birthdate on your wrist, and he felt you losing hope as each year passed.

Ben didn't usually allow himself to feel emotion like that, but watching you go through it all hurt him more than anything those Russian fucks did to him. He wasn't used to that and he wasn't used to thinking about other people as much as he thought about you.

But something about him felt different after meeting you.

Ben had asked Legend about soulmates, specifically the dreams, but Legend had muttered something unintelligible under his breath and took another snort of cocaine from the mirror on the coffee table instead of answering. Their relationship had been a little awkward after Ben slept with Legend's soulmate forty years ago, but Legend didn’t seem to be too upset about it… anymore. Mostly because Legend's soulmate tried to pull a Lorena Bobbitt one night and Legend caught her before any permanent damage was done.

She was in prison, and Ben didn't understand why Legend still went to see her for conjugal visits, but he figured that she was as much of a freak as his old handler.

Just rip the bandaid off you fucking pussy.

Ben thought staring at the clean white door in front of him.

Truthfully, Ben was tired. He'd been running himself harder for the last month, throwing himself into his work because he was starting to believe that he was never going to meet you again, and it seemed like work was the only thing that could distract him long enough. But he couldn't escape sleep.

When he'd come back from Russia, Ben had avoided sleeping the best way he could and he got through a few days before he collapsed. The first dream he'd had of you had come on suddenly, but clear as day.

You reading on your bed in your apartment smiling down at the pages as if it the book was telling you a secret.

Ben wasn't a reader, didn't see any merit in it if it wasn't a western or a war book. The most he could tolerate was Ernest Hemingway, but he could have sat there and watched you read forever. You looked so peaceful, content, and happy that Ben was afraid to interrupt you even though it was just a dream.

But whenever he thought about you dreaming his memories, something dark settled in the back of his mind, because what were you seeing? He'd done a few things he wasn't proud of and Ben didn't want you to think that he wasn't a hero or that he was a bad guy.

Ben sighs and raises his hand to knock hard against the door with his free hand, trying not to open the bottle preemptively before entering the apartment.

"Ben?" Hughie says it like a question when he opens the door, eyes wide with the same stupid look on his face that always grates on Ben.

Ben forces his signature tight lipped smile that he flashes around the office. "Hey there sport."

"Hey. Wow, you're here." Hughie clears his throat and looks over his shoulder as if he's nervous about something.

Ben raises an eyebrow. "I was invited."

"Well yes but-"

"But?"

"Um-"

"Spit it out dipstick."

Hughie clears his throat. "I didn't think you would come."

Fuck I should have stayed home. He doesn't want me here, neither does his fucking beard.

Ben frowns listening to where Annie groans under her breath further inside the apartment and talks low under her breath to someone that Ben can't see.

"Well surprise and congratulations or whatever." Ben rolls his eyes holding out the bottle of scotch. He was hesitant to lose sight of it, not when talking to Hughie for less than five minutes made him want to down the whole bottle.

"Oh wow this is really," Hughie's eyes widen as he takes in the label and realize how much money Ben spent on the bottle. "Expensive stuff, thanks Ben."

"It'll put some hair on your chest." Ben claps Hughie hard on the shoulder as he pushes past him into the foyer of the apartment.

The entire apartment could have fit in Ben's living room and kitchen. It was made in a similar fashion to his, sleek white walls, sterling silver appliances, large glass windows that let in the light-

Ben stops so suddenly inside the area that leads into the kitchen that Hughie plows into his back, but Ben doesn't feel it.

He can't move, can't breathe, because he's noticed the person talking to Annie is you. This was the last place that he'd expected you to be, but he doesn't care, because you're here and you're more beautiful than he remembers.

You're standing there pouring ice from a large bag into a pink acrylic bucket with an adorable amount of concentration for such a simple task wearing the same sweater you were the day he first saw you. You're also wearing a little more makeup and your hair is longer, and not pulled back into the messy bun as it was that day, but you’re still you and you’re here.

His fingers twitch with the urge to run his hands through the tangled tresses, to feel if they're as soft as he imagined for so long.

Ben's body swells with emotion, goosebumps flicker over his skin, and all other sounds in the room vanish, because seeing you was like watching the sun rise and feeling the world hold it's breath as it basks in the early morning rays.

And Ben wanted to bask in everything you were, every day for the rest of his life. Now that he found you again he wasn't going to let you out of his sight.

Your soul sings to him as he nears you, the cells in his body vibrating so fast that he can feel every single one begging him to touch you.

You turn into him by accident, sending the bag of ice tumbling to the floor, but feeling your body against his sends him into overdrive and he can't hold back anymore. He reaches out to grab your shoulder as gently as he can without hurting you.

Hurting you was the last thing he wanted to do. And because you weren’t a supe he knew how fragile you were.

You gasp under your breath at the contact from his hand, but to Ben it sounds thunderous in his ears. Ben trails his hand across your shoulder, up your neck, to cup your chin and raise your face to look at him. He feels like his whole body is igniting as he makes contact with your skin.

He can feel an odd vibration in his chest as he does so, energy crackling and pulsing around the two of you, but the rest of the room falls silent. He can’t look away from you, not when seeing you again is like staring too long at the sun and he's left with the imprint of your light and beauty on the inside of his eyelids.

Ben can't focus on anything else, doesn’t hear the awkward chatter, doesn't feel the discomfort he had upon his arrival, doesn't notice the way everyone has turned to stare at the two of you, and doesn't feel the air conditioning turn on and blow cool air against his warm freckled skin.

All he knows is you.

Your eyes are wide and he suspects his are as well, pupils blown but still beautiful and hypnotic as they were one year ago. Ben feels a smile pulling at his lips and he lets it go, because standing in front of you, feeling like this, it’s impossible to do much else.

Your skin is warm to the touch beneath the roughness of his fingertips and he touches you with a reverence that he has never graced anyone else with, because you were his. Every part of you was made for him just as every part of him was made for you.

The your soul was calling out to him, weaving a golden cord of energy in his mind that snagged in the center of his chest and made him feel whole for the first time in life.

You reach out to touch him, the soft palm of your hand falling just over his heart and it makes something inside him break open to flood the space between the two of you.

Hope stirs in his chest with your gentle touch and your unblinking gaze, warmth trailing from where your hand lays against his shirt. His eyes drop to the wrist to see his birthdate, a glowing ember against your skin where the sleeve of your sweater has fallen down an inch.

Your eyes lock with his once more, full lips slightly parted, and breathless.

"I've been looking everywhere for you sweetheart." Ben murmurs, trailing his thumb across your cheek with a gentleness that he's never possessed.

Ben was not a gentle man, but for you he would try. He would be anything you wished him to be, for as long as he lived, because now that he found you, he was never going to let you go.

And he welcomed the challenge of anyone who tried to stand in his way.

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, comments, and likes are not required, but are always welcome and appreciated! I really love hearing what y'all think. ❤️ If you'd liked to be added to the taglist for this series please let me know :)

Taglist:

@reidtomewinchester @livya99 @pascal-rascal424 @xaviersgifted @zepskies

@bagpussjocken @bitchykittenconnoisseur @kamisobsessed @goldenmaknaes @ophennie

@infinityonhighhhhh @modiddys-blog @globetrotter28 @roseblue373 @tulipsvanilla

@annoyingrebelsoul @soldiergrimes @megara0224 @zpandaqueen @ladykitana90

@corruptedcruiser @podiumackles @criminalyetminimal

@deangirl96 @kr804573 @the-super-who-locked-wizard

@pamwritessometimes @roger-that-cap @my-obsession-spn

@52ndstreeet @mrsjenniferwinchester @impala67stellawinchester

@bookchik26 @anna6307

[sometimesanalice]

Leave a Light On {vol. i}

Summary: When Bradley had given you a key to his place, what he probably didn’t expect was to find you there at 2 am sitting at the piano you’d helped him find.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 7k

Warnings: lots of pining and yearning (Minors DNI)

(this was the story I was working on back in January, before the 'Like I Can' series and anything else on my masterlist. I'm so excited to share it with you all! This will be a 2-part series.)

When Bradley had given you a key to his place, you imagine he probably thought you’d check on his plants every now and then. That you’d pop by to give them a quick water and then be on your way.

Maybe that you’d take the Bronco out for a quick spin, so that his baby it didn’t sit there too long going unused. You were one of a very small handful of people he trusted to drive his most prized possession. There was something special about being behind the vintage wheel with the sun on your face as you cruised along the highway, even if it wasn’t the same without him sitting there smiling next to you.

He’d already put his mail on hold with the USPS, but you knew that he knew he could count on you to rescue any stray package that might slip through the cracks and make its way to the front door of his charming craftsman bungalow.

What he probably didn’t expect was for you to be there sometime past 2 AM sitting on the creaky bench of the old, but well-loved, piano that you had helped him to find.

You should be tucked away under the comforter of your own bed, in your own room, at your own place.

Instead, your fingers are navigating over the black and ivory keys trying, yet again, to make it through a tricky passage on a song that you’ve spent the better part of the last three months trying to perfect.

He was coming home soon and you couldn’t wait to hold him, to love him, to surprise him.

Each time he leaves, it gets a little easier to miss him. You wear your longing like a locket rather than an albatross around your neck, always there but easier to bear.

Rooster had a way of filling a space in a way you’ve never experienced before. His larger than life charisma was one of the first things that had caught your attention, followed by that damn smile of his.

He was always humming in the kitchen.

Or whistling in the car.

Or playing the piano to decompress after a long day.

Or listening to something on his mom’s refurbished record player.

His presence always so tangible and warm, like a blanket pulled fresh from the dryer. With Bradley around, you could wrap yourself up in the sheer comfort of him.

And when he was gone, it was the quiet that you struggled with the most. A constant reminder of just how far away he was. No texts or calls or voice memos throughout the day. No little everyday sweet somethings that let you know he was thinking of you.

The sound of silence followed you everywhere. Its heavy companionship making itself known regardless of how loudly you sang along to his favorite songs on the playlist he had made you or how many times you played through the song you were learning just for him.

You had grown up in the silence, you knew it well.

Parents who stayed together because it was easier than splitting the house and sharing the kid. And on the rare occasions it wasn’t quiet, it was loud. The kind that was inescapable regardless of how much you buried under the covers or how far you tucked yourself away in the corner of the backyard.

Until one day the glossy, satin walnut upright piano appeared along the wall in your barely used dining room. And then it soon became your favorite way to cover the quiet and to mask the loud.

Looking back on it now, maybe your parents had wanted something to fill the silence too.

The hours and hours of lessons you and Bradley had both been forced to sit through as children was something that the two of you had bonded over pretty early on. And while he had kept up with playing, it was something that had fallen to the wayside in your life. First with school, then with a career, and now with purposeful avoidance.

There was once a time when reading sheet music had come as easily to you as reading a book. And then one day, they were just a bunch of random dots scattered in between and across five lines on a piece of paper.

There was once a time when you didn’t even need to look down to know where your fingertips were flying to. And then one day, all your fingers could do was stumble and trip over the keys as you winced at the dissonance it created.

And when Rooster had learned about your mutual musical upbringing, he had made it his personal mission to try and get you to play something for him. He was so sweet, so sincere in the way he’d ask you, all big brown eyes and hopeful smiles.

It had always made your chest tight to brush him off. It was something he clearly wanted to share with you, but that part of you ached like a phantom limb. You didn’t know what would be worse embarrassing yourself or disappointing him with your lack of skill when it was something that you used to be so proud about.

It was easy to dodge him at first during nights out at the Hard Deck with your understandable Not with all these people here’s to your practical Mozart would just bring the vibes down’s to your evasive Maybe next time’s. 

And when his polite requests were met with empty answers, he took it a step further.

One night in his bed, the curtains fluttering as the sea breeze mingled with his sandalwood scent, he’d whispered into your heated skin, “I’ll get you to play something for me one of these days. Maybe I just need to find the right form of bribery.”

His teasing innuendo juxtaposed deliciously with the deliberate touch of his fingers and tongue as he’d played your body to a perfect crescendo.

It reached a point where you couldn’t stomach to see the dejection in his eyes, the hurt he tried so hard to hide when you’d deny him yet again, that you had to own up to your closely guarded secret.

The confession had whooshed out of you in one breath, leaving you feeling deflated and defeated afterwards.

When you eventually mustered the courage to look at him, he’d been wearing the softest look of understanding on his face, as if he could sense the toll it took to admit the loss of that part of yourself. Then he gathered you in his lap and held you, all while the tears of frustration simmered behind your tightly squeezed eyes.

And when he offered to help remind how to read that language without words, to help you remember the letters of the keys beneath your fingers, it had made your heart hurt a little less.

You weren’t ready then, not like you are now.

But nothing gave you as much pleasure as it did to watch Rooster seated in front of the well-worn and well-played upright piano of Penny’s at the Hard Deck. There was nothing more exhilarating than seeing him in his element so at home on the bench, scuffed and scratched from performers of the past, as he shared that part of himself with everyone in the bar.

He made it look so easy. So damn effortless. His thick fingers flying purposefully over the keys as he played from memory. His joyous enthusiasm electrifying and substantial enough to get the whole bar singing along with him.

It always drew him a lot of attention.

How could it not? He was magnetic on a bad day and captivating the rest of the time. And entirely too handsome for his own good.

Interested eyes, curious eyes, hungry eyes followed him around more often than not after an impromptu performance.

However, those brown eyes of his were always set on you.

Never wavering, never straying from you as he’d weave his way poco a poco, little by little, back through the packed bar. Handing out high-fives to people on autopilot as he passed by to return back to your side. Glistening with the sweat he worked up and grinning widely as he’d greet you with a How’d I do, sweetheart?. Those big, capable hands sliding around your waist, in the back pocket of your jeans, under your top to rest on your low back.

The two of you never stuck around for long after he wrapped up. You didn’t mind helping him find ways to put that excess adrenaline to good use. Usually in the backseat of the Bronco.

You’ll never forget the first time Bradley serenaded you. The song meant for you and you alone.

If someone were to cut into that soft, pink part of your brain, you’re pretty sure they would find that memory pressed there like flowers between the pages of a book. Forever apart of you.

It was the song that always took you right back to that little vinyl shop along the pier. And back to that date that had almost derailed it all.

When Rooster had picked you up to take you to dinner all those months ago, he had seemed a bit antsy and absentminded.

Sure, he had gotten out of the Bronco to come fetch you like a gentleman, instead of sending some half-assed Here text like your ex had been fond of doing. You thought for sure he’d be hustling you back inside after he caught a glimpse of what you were wearing once you opened your front door to greet him.

So you were surprised when he’d simply pressed a dry kiss to your cheek and escorted you to his car with a hand placed respectfully between your shoulder blades instead of cheekily in that space between your low back and ass.

That spot that toed the line between decent and indecent. That spot that made him smirk when you’d give him a pointed lift of the eyebrow, because the two of you knew exactly what he was doing. And better yet, liked it.

However, that night it was almost like he was going through the motions, like he was already somewhere else.

The car ride to the restaurant was silent except for the white noise of the highway as he drove. The circular knob for the radio set to the left.

Off.

Which in hindsight should have been your first warning, since Bradley was never not listening to the Oldies station. A vintage vibe for your vintage boy. 

When you were finally seated across from him at that new trendy Thai place you had been dying to go to, his fingers wouldn’t stop tapping out some unheard tune. On the tops his thighs. On the top of the table.

His eyes were landing everywhere else other than on you. On the large leaves of the potted palms, on the ornate pattern on the gold silk that was swathed across the ceiling, on the intricate hand-painted tiles on the floor.

You’d been trying to carry on a conversation for the past fifteen minutes and were feeling completely on edge when you had to repeat yet another question for him.

The anxious feeling growing in the pit of your stomach had been getting more and more difficult to ignore. You could tell he wasn’t really there, what you were trying to figure out was whether or not he just didn’t want to be there with you.

And god, the drinks hadn’t even come out yet. There wasn’t anything for you to distract yourself with other than your water glass, and even that was already empty except for a few melting ice cubes.

His half answers and noncommittal noises were rapidly clearing things up for you.

He’s breaking up with me.

It was at that crushing realization that the waitress had returned with your drink orders. The bright orange concoction that she set in front of you had been topped with a lovely purple orchid and glittery swizzle stick.

A happy looking cocktail for the girl who thought she was going to have another great date with the guy who was saved in her phone as “Golden Boy”.

“Have you two decided on what you want to eat? Or would you like to hear the chef’s specials again?” the waitress had asked, her gaze bouncing back and forth between you and Bradley.

You could tell that she was sensing the brewing tension between the two of you.

“I don’t think we’ll here much longer, maybe just the check--”

“Sorry, if we could have a few more minutes to decide--”

You’d both started speaking at the same time only to turn to the other wearing matching faces of absolute confusion. He’d gone ramrod straight in his chair, his fingers finally still on the tabletop. The shock in his eyes was apparent, and you could only assume it was there because you beat him to the punch.

The waitress had looked at you sympathetically before saying she’d come back in check in a few minutes and then quickly spun on her heel to take her hasty leave.

It was the look that she’d given you that had really sealed the deal for you, and wasn’t that just great? You wouldn’t have been surprised if the rest of the waitstaff was already hearing about the couple fighting at Table 12 and taking bets about whether or not they’d break up.

Lucky them, dinner and a show.

You’d reached the fruity drink in front of you, the condensation from the glass leaving a ring on the table and took a large sip for moral support. Feeling the weight his stare on you the whole time as you savored the tart taste of passionfruit as it burst across your tongue.

He’d just have to wait. It was your turn to ignore him.

As you’d swallowed it down, it had left you feeling more than a little angry that it tasted so good when you were feeling so shitty. He knew how much you liked an over the top cocktail, why couldn’t he have picked some dingy hole-in-the-wall to do this at rather than ruin this place for you? The hot prickling sensation of righteous indignation filled your chest.

You really didn’t want it to drag out any longer, setting your liquid courage back down you’d met his stare and got right down to it, “If you’re going to break up with me, Rooster, can you just do it now? I’d like to still be able to order Pad See Ew in the future without thinking about you and this moment.”

You removed the napkin from your lap, folding it up primly before placing it back upon the table as you waited for the final nail in the coffin to be pounded in on the remains of the happiest-and-easiest-and-clearly-too-good-to-be-true relationship you’ve ever had.

“Wait, what? I don’t want to break up.” His eyes were wide and searching, the hurt in his voice had been evident. And it was the first time all evening that he seemed to be present with you, like your Golden Boy had finally showed up to the date. “I thought things were going well. More than well, actually.”

“Yeah. I mean, I did too. Until tonight,” you’d agreed, defeatedly. “I’m really confused here. You’ve been completely distant tonight. Not to be vain, but look at me,” you gestured to the sexy lowcut dress you’d worn for the evening. It was something you’d been saving in your closet for the right occasion. And you’d thought it was going to drive him wild, but he hadn’t even given it a second glance.

You’d leaned in a bit, lowering your voice, “It’s a boob and leg dress, Bradley. I look really fucking hot, and frankly, I didn’t even think we were going to make it here once you saw this. It wouldn’t have been the first time we’ve missed a dinner reservation. And you haven’t said a single thing about it.”

It felt like a silly thing to be upset about in the grand scheme of things, but his inattentiveness that evening had stung more than you’d wanted to admit to.

“Trust me, sweetheart, I noticed,” he’d retorted hotly. His eyes had been heated as he’d matched your movement and leaned in further across the table. “Half the men in here noticed it too the second you walked in.”

You didn’t bother trying to hold back your scoff of frustration, the man was infuriating.

“Then I don’t understand why you’re making me feel like being here- with me- is the last place you want to be right now?” You’d given up on trying to sound unaffected, this was not the evening you had envisioned. It felt like being blindfolded on a rollercoaster, unable to see what exactly you were hurtling towards.

“I got my new orders today,” he’d blurted out, his eyes trying to read yours for the reaction. “I’m being send as aerial escort for a diplomatic mission. I ship out next Monday for six weeks.”

He’d told you later that he was grateful it wasn’t a longer one, he knew he was lucky because he could have just as easily been sent away for a deployment longer than you’d actually been together.

“Oh.”

You’d known that that moment would have happened eventually with his job, so you shouldn’t have been surprised. However, it was one thing thinking about it theoretically rather than looking at a ticking clock with a deadline.

“Cards on the table, sweetheart?” He’d waited for you to nod before continuing on, “I am really fucking into you. I’m trying not to put pressure on this, because I’m pretty sure you’re my dream girl. I wanted to take you out for a nice meal, get you a couple of those complicated fun drinks you like. I even looked at the menu in advance, they have one here that they light on fire and it seems like something you would love.”

He was right, it was something that you’d love. You had even eyed it when you first got the menu, but you hadn’t wanted to get anything that would draw you more attention when you already felt like you had too many pairs of eyes on you.

“Then I wanted to take you home with me and tell you after we had a great time out. I wanted to ask you to save that Sunday before I leave for me, so that we could spend the whole day together.” His fingers had started playing that unheard tune on the table again. “I wanted to show my girl the best time, to keep her wanting to come back and to stick around. So that someone else doesn’t catch her eye, so that I don’t lose her to someone better than me while I’m away.”

His confession had your heart taking up residence in your throat. Having him lay it out for you so clearly and knowing that he’d felt as serious about you as you did about him was everything you had wanted to hear. However, one thing nagged at you.

“Bradley, you make me happy. Like really, really happy. I’ve only got eyes for you. If I’m being honest, this stopped being casual to me around our third date. And I trust you enough to know you’d tell me if this”, you’d gestured between the two of you, “wasn’t what you wanted anymore before starting up with someone else. I hope I have that same trust in return, because if you’re worried about me stepping out on you while you’re away, I don’t know how this is going to work. And I really want it to work.”

“Shit, I’m really striking out here. Batting 0 for two,” he’d sighed out more to himself than to you, leaning back in his chair and running his hands through his hair. “Our third? Really? I thought for sure after that disaster that you were going to block my number.” He huffs a laugh, cheeks turning the same shade of pink that they had that chaotic evening on the beach.

“Bradley, it was comically bad.” You couldn’t help but crack a smile at the memory of it. “You were trying so hard and you were so flustered. It was so endearing.”

“Who would have guessed getting attacked by seagulls and coming home covered in sand flea bites could have been so appealing?” He joked self-deprecatingly.

“Me, I could have. Since I was with you,” you said sincerely, “No one I’ve dated has ever put half as much effort into trying to make me happy as you have.”

The two of you exchanged a soft, tentative smiles.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you had a wandering eye or anything, I promise.” His eyes pleaded with you as he reached for your hands and threaded his fingers through yours, his palms slightly sweaty. “This deployment is different for me. I’ve never had to ask someone to wait for me before, never had anyone who wanted to. And I’ve been really in my head because I was trying to find the right way to tell you, to ask you.”

You were still getting to know all of the expressions of his face, but the look of open insecurity he was wearing was new to you. And you’d felt something deep in your chest release and unlock.

For how easily he owned a room, for how confident he could be, getting to see these tender parts of him because he trusted you with them had made you ache in the most bittersweet of ways for the man who was in front of you.

You held his gaze, taking in his anxious expression. How anyone couldn’t want this man or didn’t think he was worth the wait was incomprehensible to you.

“So Sunday the seventeenth, huh?” you’d said with a grin.

His relief was palpable as he’d squeezed your hand a bit tighter, “Yeah, baby, you up for it?”

“A perfect day with my dream guy?” you mused, squeezing his hand back, “Yeah, I think I’d be up for that. I’m up for all of it.”

Not just the date. Not just the deployment. You already knew. With him, you wanted it all.

When the waitress returned a few moments later, Bradley ordered a green curry for himself and the Pad See Ew for you. Along with one of those complicated, fun drinks that arrived with fanfare and flames, all while he played with your fingers.

And after you were finished, she’d dropped off a fluffy looking coconut covered dessert that she’d stated was on the house as walked away with a wink.

You’d totally called it, dinner and a show.

As you’d left the restaurant, he tucked you in close under his arm pressing kiss after kiss to your temple as you made your way back to the Bronco.

And later, when he had taken you back to his place for the night, your boob-and-leg dress forgotten somewhere on the floor, he’d apologized again. This time with his mouth on your body.

Twice.

It had been a fluke, really, finding that record tucked away in that small, but well-kept shop on that Sunday before his deployment.

You’d surprised him with a certificate for a haircut and hot towel shave at an upscale barber for a little pre-deployment pampering. He’d gotten his hair trimmed the day before and he was somehow looking even more sunkissed than usual. His patterned shirt was mostly buttoned up and he had on your favorite pair of jeans- the ones that might have been a bit too snug, but did devastating things for his ass.

It was the outfit he’d been wearing when you had first met.

You and Bradley had spent a lazy, perfect morning at the beach reading and lounging and trading sea salt kisses before changing and to grab a bite to eat. He’d held up a towel up around you to slip into your sun warmed dress, behaving himself for the most part. But you’d still caught him sneaking a peek from over the top of the terry cloth.

After eating a late lunch at his favorite little café that served the best cioppino, you’d popped in and out of the various shops that dotted the boardwalk near the pier. It might have been the bottle of wine you shared, but he made sure to stop at every photobooth you passed along the way, collecting strip after strip of snapshots and tucking them into his shirt pocket.

His hand staying in yours the whole time.

When he’d spotted the tiny record store, he’d cheerily pulled you along with him wanting to look for new additions for his ever-growing collection. It was his newest hobby after getting his mom’s old record player restored. You had even helped him build the sideboard he had specially ordered for it to display his prized collection in the living room of his home.

You could hear him talking excitedly to an associate about some Jerry Lee Lewis albums, who offered to take a look in the backroom for him. You never had good luck when you tried to search for specific things, so you were happy to meander around a bit aimlessly and see what spoke to you.

Casually flipping through the stacks, you’d gasped when you landed on what appeared to be the holy grail of all vinyl records ever made.

“Bradley, look!” You’d held out the record for him like a prize. And he abandoned his own search to come join you on the other side of the store.

“Soldiers’ Sweethearts, huh?” He grinned at your find, his eyes crinkling around the edges. The navy colored jacket highlighted a trio of glamourous looking women, each of the three records featured a different performer and their covers of songs popularized during WWII.

“Mm-hmm,” you’d preened, feeling entirely too pleased with yourself. “You’re a soldier, I’m a sweetheart. I’ve never seen anything more perfect in my life. I have to get it.”

“Well I’m not a soldier, technically,” he’d chuckled, as you’d rolled your eyes at him. The joke had you scrunching your nose, and his mustache grazed you as he leaned in close to press a quick kiss to it. “But you’re definitely a sweetheart, sweetheart.”

You were still trying to learn the ins and outs of that part of his life. But you’d liked how he never made you feel stupid when you had questions. More often than not he seemed excited to answer them for you, that you were interested in what he did.

Rooster gently took your newest most prized possession into his big hands, “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” Flipping the album over, he’d scanned the tracks listed on the back for the three records. “Some classics, but a lot I don’t think I know. Definitely some intriguing titles, like ‘Daddy’,” he read aloud with a raised eyebrow and a grin that could only be described as lewd.

The man was a menace and had no problem finding new ways to make you blush. You were grateful that the shop was empty except for the two of you, as you felt the heat rise in your cheeks.

“What about ‘Who’s Taking You Home Tonight’? Have you heard that one before, sweetheart?” His large body moving in and crowding yours, the smell of his cologne making your thoughts go a bit fuzzy around the edges. Your heartbeat kicked up in tempo as he brushed a piece of hair off your forehead.

That find was definitely a jackpot.

Him and those records.

“Mm, or how about ‘Make Love To Me’?” He’d murmured into your ear, his free arm slid slowly against your waist, making a home for itself low on your back. The warmth from his hand seeping through your dress and into your skin.

It was heady being the target of all his heated words and teasing tone. The pull in your low stomach getting more intense with every moment you’d stayed pressed against his hard body. You could see how his pulse was pounding arditamente con forza, boldly with force, from how close your face was to that thick throat of his. And you had wanted to--

“I knew we had it somewhere!”

The associate’s cheery announcement as he returned from the backroom startled you back into yourself. Feeling flustered you’d tried to pull away, but Bradley just kept his arm locked around you as he’d made his way to the counter.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. We’ll take this one too,” he stated as he’d smoothly placed your Soldiers’ Sweethearts album on the top of the pile he had accumulated. Only letting go of you to pay.

Naturally, you’d wanted to play the record the second you made it back to Bradley’s place.

He set it up for you before giving you a lingering, deep kiss leaving you to your own devices as he worked on the final few things left on his to-do list before his deployment early the next morning.

You were happy to make yourself comfortable on his wide seat couch with an Old Fashioned listening to Jo Stafford’s soothing voice with your eyes closed, wanting to luxuriate in the moment.

One where Bradley was less than twenty feet away puttering around in his kitchen and humming and murmuring to himself.

One where you could call out to him and he would be in front of you in a few long strides.

You wanted to avoid thinking about the next day and the beginning of your new normal.

One where you couldn’t expect text messages from him throughout the day.

One where concern and uncertainty would follow you around like a dark cloud until he came back home to you.

But he was here for now. And you wanted to savor it all, to soak up all of its sweet, syrupy goodness like the expensive cherry in your glass.

He must have sensed the turn in your thoughts because his sandalwood scent gave his closeness away before his voice did, “What do you say, Miss Soldiers’ Sweetheart? Can you spare a dance for me?”

You opened your eyes to see him standing before you with his hand outreached for you. The smile so gentle and open on his face, made it impossible for you to do anything other than wordlessly nod your head in agreement as you’d let him pull you up from your comfy perch.

“Apologies in advance for any injuries caused by my two left feet,” you joked a bit bashfully as he wrapped his arm around you.

“Lucky for us, I was gifted with two right feet. Don’t worry, we’ll even out each other,” he murmured.

He pulled you into his gravity, pressing your joined hands against his chest where you could feel the steady beat of his heart. The hand on your lower back urging closer, closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between your bodies. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head where you had tucked it into that safe space where his neck meets his shoulder.

take me in your arms, and never let me go whisper to me softly while the moon is low

True to his word, he’d guided you in a smooth, easy rhythm. The confidence in his steps as you were held within his sturdy arms was enough to make you feel secure in your own movement. With him you were completely taken care of.

hold me close and tell me what I wanna know say it to me gently, let the sweet talk flow

Your other hand slid up slowly from where it was resting on his shoulder to wrap around his neck, fingers threading through the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as your thumb traced the thick column of his throat.

Come a little closer, make love to me

He held you tighter, held you closer, as the song came to an end. The easy rhythm turning into a gentle sway that continued as the next song began. And the one after that.

That night in his bed he moved against you with such purpose, such tenderness. The sex with Bradley was always stunningly good, he was never content to let himself come until he’d rendered you thoroughly boneless and breathless. He was easily the best you’ve ever had, but that night it was different between you two.

The mood weighty and intense, both of you exposed in a way you hadn’t been before. But there was no mistaking the deliberate way he touched you, the unwavering way he rolled his hips against yours, the unguarded way he held your gaze as if he was committing that moment to memory as he made love to you.

He’d held you close to his warm body, his fingertips leaving trails of goosebumps, as you shivered through your orgasm. His mouth pressed against your ear as he whispered soothing sweet somethings until he followed you over the edge.

For Bradley, you were up for it. For him, you’d be up for all of it.

yesyesyes

Things were a bit too quiet for you.

You heart clenched in a different way when you looked at Penny’s piano on those evenings you spent with the Dagger Squad without him. The ache was still there, but so was a new kind of longing. Part for him, but also for yourself.

But you’d made it through that deployment with the help of your three favorite sweethearts: Jo, Vera and Anne. Although you always queued up one song in particular anytime you found yourself missing him a bit more than normal.

And when Bradley returned back home to you six weeks later, it was easy to fall right back into him. That quiet period was almost too easily forgotten when he was around to fill a space.

That night at the Hard Deck when he serenaded you for the first time, it was normal for him to strut over to the old jukebox to unplug it. His timing impeccable as always, silencing whatever country song Jake had queued up.  

What wasn’t normal was the way he took you by the hand leading you directly to the old upright and pulled you right onto the bench next to him.

There was already some sheet music spread across the shelf, you’d noted as he’d wiped his hands on the outside of his jeans before settling his hands on the keys. It only took you a couple bars of the intro to realize what song he was playing, already completely enamored before he’d even opened his mouth to sing.

It was your song.

Nothing in the world could ever compete with Bradley Bradshaw’s deep, raspy voice singing just for you. The significance of the song meant for you and him alone.

You heart had swelled in your chest until you thought it might burst from happiness. Never in your life had you been so thoroughly swept off your feet. It was a gesture came from his heart that made a home in yours.

Ever the showman Rooster put on a full performance, his aviator sunglasses sliding down his nose as he really leaned into it.

Your wide grin had turned to laughter when a few members of the Dagger Squad jumped in as back-up vocals, singing into their beer bottles in a way that obviously had been rehearsed. You didn’t know how he managed to keep it a secret. While Rooster was a vault in his professional life, when it came to his personal life Bradley couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

The whole bar was having fun with the jaunty tune, some couples dancing along in smooth circles on the sticky wood floor as he crooned. He’d leaned over to place a kiss on your cheek every now and then in between verses, and you’d felt yourself fall for him even harder.

He’d pulled you into his lap once he was done playing, as the din of the resumed chatter softly cocooned you. You’d seen all you needed to know reflected in his eyes as you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him down for a kiss.

“Will you play it again?” you’d asked against his lips.

“Yes, ma’am.” And you rested your head on his shoulder watching his fingers get into position on the keys once more as he played the few opening notes.

Somewhere you heard a groan followed by a grumbled, “Not again.”

“Shut it, Bagman,” you bossed at him, not even bothering to look in his direction. You only had eyes for Bradley.

“You heard the lady,” he chuckled. “Shut it, Bagman.”

And then he played it again.

take me in your arms, and never let me go

You should be asleep in your own bed and not at his place with only the soft light of the lamp above his piano and a now cold cup of tea to keep you company.

Tired of tossing and turning, you’d given up on the idea of getting any sleep at your own place after the second hour of trying. Throwing on your slippers, you’d grabbed your keys and then drove over to his place, still in the oversized t-shirt you’d put on before bed, in hopes that scent of his sheets would help lull you to sleep.

But all it did was make you miss him more.

It was too quiet without his soft breathing next to you as he held you close and tucked against his chest.

Too quiet without his records.

Too quiet without his happy humming.

Too quiet without him.

The sound of the tea kettle on his gas range had helped fill the silence, but it was his piano that had called you as you had waited for the water to boil. The sheet music you had left there from the last time you were over beckoning like a siren’s song.

It was your secret.

Only for a few more days, only until he came home.

You wanted to surprise him, to sweep him off his feet the way that he always did with you when he played for you.

During that first deployment, for the first time in years, your fingers yearned for the feel of cool, smooth keys beneath your fingers.

You hadn’t even told Bradley, the one person who would understand it the most, that you’d been thinking about it. Let alone that you were actually taking classes again. Making up excuses about manicures or errands or spin classes for why you were busy for an hour every Tuesday at five PM.

The thing that had once hurt your heart the most, was now the only thing that helped soothe the ache of missing him. The only thing that made you feel close to him when you were thousands of miles apart.

You wanted that familiar comfort of making music. You wanted it because you missed him, but you also wanted it for yourself.

A co-worker had given you the name and number for her kids’ instructor, Mrs. McMullen, an elderly woman who started teaching after her husband passed away. It took you couple weeks to work up the courage to make the call, the sticky note burning a hole in the pocket of your purse you had tucked it into.

You had been an anxious mess the day of your first lesson, hands shaking like you’d had one too many shots of espresso. It felt strange, a little surreal sitting there in the body you’d grown into on the padded bench in her cozy living room. One of the walls filled with shelves and shelves of sheet music, her own personal library.

And for a brief moment, you were transported to a different year on a different bench in a different room. Now and Then. Older and Younger. Both versions of you there to learn. All too familiar, yet entirely new.

You started with the basics. A reintroduction to those lines on the page and the notes that spoke their own language for those who knew how to read it.

Your fingers wanting to move quicker than your sluggish mind, like an echo of a memory of how it used to be. You winced and apologized after every wrong note, until she put her hand on yours, her skin looked as delicate as her fingers did, and said gently, “We learn by doing, mistakes only mean that you are trying. Once more, once again.”

After that first lesson, you’d gone back to your car and promptly burst into tears. Overwhelmed tears, happy tears. That tender part of you still soft, however no longer aching.

You’d left feeling lighter as you pulled away from her house to go meet up with everyone at the Hard Deck, but also with a packet of sheet music to practice for your next lesson.

When Rooster had told you about getting his new orders, when he had asked you again if you were still up for it. You’d told him the same thing you had at that date, you were up for it all.

You would take the sadness with the sweet any day of the week for as long as he was yours.

You’d known how you would fill the space he left behind. And exactly how you wanted to welcome him home. You’d been excited to put that certain song just for him in your cart, and then tacking on one more song to your order, a song that would be just for you.

Both you and Mrs. McMullen had be surprised at how you’d been able to pick things back up over the months, you still weren’t anywhere as good as you were when you were younger, but it wasn’t nearly as daunting as it used to be. And when you showed up to your next lesson after your songs had been delivered, she was more than happy to help you figure out ways to simplify the songs a bit so that you’d be ready when he returned.

And now you’re bent over Bradley’s piano with a pencil tucked behind your ear as you played through the hardest bit of the song, you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve gone over it tonight. This morning? You were in that liminal space between yesterday and today. Where the time on the clock was just a suggestion because it felt neither here nor there.

You had practiced and practiced the song you had wanted to play for him once got home. You’re pretty sure Mav wasn’t supposed to tell you the significance of that particular song, but it had made your heart flutter wildly in your chest when he’d told you. And every time you’ve heard it since then.

It was polished, it was perfect, it was ready. All you needed was him.

The one you’re playing now con amore, with love, is the piece you pull out when you long for him the most.

The cover of the song had made you think of him from the moment you’d heard it. It was more lyrical and delicate than the original, and captured just how you felt about him. Just how much he meant to you. Sometimes you sing along with it, sometimes you just let the keys and pedals express the things you otherwise could not.  

It was the song of your heart.

Your fingers trip over one of the notes yet again, probably from the lack of sleep, but you weren’t ready to crawl back into Bradley’s comfy bed. Not just yet.

Sighing, you pull the pencil from behind your ear, muttering to yourself out loud as you note the spot on the page. It was already filled with little pencil marks, some older and some newer. All made because you were trying.

Once more, once again.

Breathing out slowly, you settle your hand back on the keys-

“Can you play it from the beginning this time, sweetheart?"

Read {vol. ii} here!

He's a sneaky one, friends! I have Part 2 in the works, not to worry! We have to see how it all plays out! (put intended)

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you would like to be added to my taglist for the grand finale!

Here's a link to the Soldiers' Sweethearts Album, if you're curious!

But this is their song, the one Bradley serenaded her with! Jo Stafford's version of 'Make Love to Me'

I ended up making two moodboards for this part!

Here's the more colorful one! And here's the more yearn-y one!

You can check out my other stories here!

And a big thank you to Jordan (@gretagerwigsmuse) for letting me spam you about this one!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[thegoogoomuckkk]

melodic -> what music do they play when you two get to it? -> choso kamo, kento nanami, kiyotaka ijichi, satoru gojo, shiu kong, suguru geto, sukuna ryomen, takuma ino, toji fushiguro

“music? you’d like me to play music while we have sex?” choso & his bluntness never ceases to embarrass you.

“well not if you don’t want to, it was just a suggestion. it might make things less awkward for you, you know?”

flash forward to that night, he’s got you sitting on his lap, he leans over to push play on his phone, & you burst out laughing.

“is something wrong? do you not like this song?”

“…cho, it’s shake it off by taylor swift.” he nods, so eager.

“i know, isn’t it such a good song?” & you just can’t say anything, not when he looks so excited, hopeful that you’re pleased with him for his song choice. so you spend the night orgasming to choso’s spotify pump you up playlist.

needless to say, you picked the music from then on.

if music is something you wanted, or that made you more comfortable, of course he’d play it, but nanami isn’t a big music listener. & ultimately, anything that takes away even an ounce of his attention from fucking you senseless isn’t ideal for him.

but if you requested, or he thought to try it, he’d probably find some lofi playlist on youtube, turn it on, & completely forget about it. something relaxing, so that after he’s content with how ruined you are, he can tickle your back & play with your hair until you fall asleep.

but sometimes an ad comes on because no way is nanami paying for youtube premium, even if he is loaded as hell, which frustrates him so thoroughly that he just shuts the laptop altogether & tosses it on the floor.

kiyotaka's so genuinely concerned about it the entire time. he’s done far too much research about this; he looked on multiple different music streaming services for the best playlists to listen to when having sex. after mulling through the hundreds of lists that include songs by megan thee stallion & xxx by kim petras, he finds something he thinks is…suitable. at least, it’s not too on the nose.

but he’s barely gotten your shirt off before a ke$ha song comes on, & kiyotaka turns beet red.

“I-I’m sorry, if you don’t like this song, I can ch-change it,” & he’s so flustered, so embarrassed.

“kiyo, we don’t have to play music, sweetie,” you coo, & he knows you’re teasing him, just a little bit, but he’s so grateful anyway.

“oh, thank god.”

gojo thinks he’s just soooo funny.

he’s three fingers deep, his spit dripping down your chin as he kisses you, humping your leg, when you push back against his shoulder & roll your eyes. “satoru, really? sexyback? justin timberlake?”

his grin is shit-eating. “what, princess? this song doesn’t get you going? your pretty girl’s telling me otherwise with how she’s clenching around my fingers.”

“fuck off.”

“no, no, if this isn’t doin’ for you, I'll change it.” you bite back a moan & smack a pillow across his face when all through the night by boyz ii men turns on.

shiu actually probably has pretty good music taste. he hates the term “indie,” but he’s also not into super mainstream stuff. & sure, maybe he wants to show off his music to you. . .just don’t say that.

he likes things with a heavy bass & not many lyrics, he doesn’t want anything distracting him from how good you feel. he controls the playlist, though, he never lets you pick the music.

“because last time you chose the music, I fucked you to the beat of the tarzan soundtrack by phil collins.” he’s scrolling through apple music, queuing up some of his favorites.

“but—“

“don’t even start with me, doll. I don’t care how much you like those songs, it was fucking gross, listening to a disney movie soundtrack with my dick in you.”

“well, you didn’t have to make it weird, shiu.” you folded your arms, pouting.

“it was weird to begin with!”

“you’re really aging yourself here, sugu,” you tease. you didn’t even recognize half the songs he played with how old they were. because, quote, “music was just better back then.” yeah, back before he was even alive. but try tellin’ that to van halen over here. 

“this is a great song, babe. sorry that you don’t have good taste.”

“coming from the man with the taste of a 50 year old divorced man.” it was cute, how he could have you moaning around his dick & then arguing about music within the same couple of minutes. had he even finished? you couldn’t remember, & you were busy now. 

“hey! divorced dad rock is a great genre of music.”

“not when I'm sucking you off, loser.” 

“well, when I'm giving you head, you can pick the song, how about that? but when you’re sucking my dick, I control the speaker.” at this point, it's simply an immaturity contest.

“no, sugu, I cannot deepthroat your cock to ac/dc ever again. or any song with an electric guitar solo.”

“‘kuna, what the fuck is this?” you mutter, leaning to squint at the screen of your laptop. “sounds of war & explosion, 10 hour asmr version?”

“you asked me to play something, woman, & now you’re complaining?” he drags you by your chin back to his lips.

“i meant something like music. . .but sure, make me seem like the weird one in this situation.” you shrug, & he hates this sarcasm you’re so fond of.

“weird? what is weird about this?” & you almost feel bad because he looks a little upset that you don’t like his creepy asmr.

“i genuinely cannot tell if you’re being serious. I'm not a kink shamer, ‘kuna, but this is fuckin’ weird.”

“shut up, woman, you will cease to care once I put my cock in you.”

you shrug. “fair enough.”

takuma's eating you out from behind, a personal favorite of his, when you’re turning your head at an uncomfortable angle as the first notes of a new song play.

“if you, if you could return. . .”

“t-takuma,” you attempt to speak. “why are playing linger?”

it takes him a moment to come out of it, too entranced by your cunt. “wh-what? I thought you loved this song,” & he looks so sincerely confused why you’d be bothered. frankly, he’d tuned the music out completely. how could he think about anything else but this?

“yeah, when we’re in the car or something, not when you’re eating me out. this song is so sad! it’s a breakup song.” he simply does not get it.

“well, I like it.”

“you’re not even listening to it!”

“are you? fuck, that means I'm doing a bad job then.” soon, you’re tuning out the music too.

toji puts on some shit by chase atlantic because he thinks that's what girls like & promptly forgets it’s even playing. he does not care, just wants to bone, no other thoughts, head empty. a couple minutes in, you turn off his godawful tik tok playlist & he doesn’t even notice. once he’s pulling out & shucking the condom somewhere, he looks blankly around for a second, then back at you.

“hey, did you turn the music off?”

“yeah, toji, nasty dog by sir-mix-a-lot wasn’t exactly getting me off,” you scoff, sneering at the name.

“hey, I got that from you, brat. it’s from that stupid hugh jackman edit you keep watching. . .I'm hotter than him by the way.”

“you’re both old enough to be my dad, but sure, toj’, you’re hotter.” 

I think I'm funny, sorry to everyone else who doesn't have good taste <3 did you like it? -> here's my masterlist -> want something more? ask me for it

[macfrog]

little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

[dinsbeskar]

The Number of the Beast (Sauron/F!Reader)

After his frankly embarrassing defeat at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Sauron seeks you out;

You discover his werewolf form and press him for the whole truth and nothing but

Sequel to Wicked Game // AO3 Link

Songs to listen to: Animals by Maroon 5, Closer by Nine Inch Nails (obviously Sauron's jam), Teeth by Lady Gaga

Special Mention to Home by Snow Ghosts, as recommended by @sansaorgana, immaculate vibes for this fic!!

Warnings: 18+! Werewolf!Sauron, smut (smh we cannot keep it clean for 5 minutes!!) werewolf sex (I'm sorry!! It's not a lot!! Idk!!!), P in V sex, oral sex (female receiving), dubcon (he is not in control of himself and even though you are up for it, you're still terrified of him and his uhhh size), size kink/size difference, hurt/comfort, manipulation (it's Sauron, he sucks guys idk), angst towards the end

A/N: y'know what, I warned you all this was going to happen. Sauron is a werewolf, and things get interesting weird. Idk I don't feel like it's overwhelmingly filthy, maybe y'all won't mind 😂🙈 there is actual plot to this one, and it will be fairly pertinent to the rest of the story, but you can skip the smut if it's not your cup of tea, I get it!! (Skip the section marked by ***)

Word Count: 4.9k!

Writing playlist here if so inclined 😅

Translation note: Amarië means 'goodness', Uthaessel means "tempting girl' as far as I can tell!

A nameless terror has been stalking your kin in these woods for years, and you are eager for your husband's embrace as you delve further into the woods, heart racing at every tiny rustle in the trees. He would never let anything happen to you, but he was not here, at least not as far as you could tell.

Usually when he drew close, you could feel a warmth deep in your soul, like embers stoked in a neglected fire, made to dance and blaze again with renewed vigour whenever he returned to you. But for the moment all you feel is an icy cold fear in the pit of your stomach; you should not be out here alone.

You think to turn back, to run back to the safety of your fledgling city, but you press on. He promised he would be here, and you cannot disappoint him, not after the long months he has spent in the north craving your touch.

The forest is so quiet as you make your way to the glade that has become so sacred to you and your husband. You keep as silent as you can, footsteps making no rustle in the leaves underfoot; the air is too still, the silence deafening where there should be sounds of birds and insects conducting their nightly business.

You are not far from your meeting place now as even the wind falls still. You breathe a sigh of relief as you catch sight of the rushing water that will lead you to safety. He will be there to assuage all your silly fears, the thought giving you the strength to keep moving.

A sharp howl, long and guttural, pierces the air, and you freeze. It sounded far off, or maybe closer than you think; your head is in a spin as you try to judge what could have possibly made such an unearthly sound. It didn't sound like any wolf you've ever heard; it had an almost sorrowful lilt that drew you to it. Shaking it off, you creep into the glade, expecting to see him there.

Disappointment washes through you; you are alone, and now you hear another howl, closer than before.

He will understand, you think, let's go home.

You start to take the winding path back to the thick treeline, but hear cracking branches, heavy footfall, ragged breath, from the dark undergrowth.

You back up, starting to shake and sweat. You are not made for this, never have you had to protect yourself from such a beast. You look around for anything with which to defend yourself, landing on a large broken branch that looks like it might be lethal in the right hands. Shame then, that your hands have never seen combat.

Dragging your makeshift weapon, you look for somewhere to hide, terrified that the beast might have already caught your scent.

~

He doesn't know why he's here, why he would put you through the horror of seeing him in his bestial glory; all he knows is that defeat has pushed him into your radiant embrace, to soothe the heavy losses he had suffered and prepare the fortitude of his mind to face his master's wrath.

His defeat at the hands of some Elf-Maia and her dog had shamed him; he could not go back to Angband now, not now Tol-in-Gaurhoth was lost, and all he craved was your touch, for you to wash away all his ills.

He pads through the forest, trailing a silent darkness in his wake, all birds and beasts fleeing before him. His black blood drips and pools in the undergrowth, scorching the earth.

His mind is clouded with pain and shame, something with which he is not familiar, and would not suffer again given the option, how it turns his stomach, and makes him crave nothing but your sweet embrace. Where are you? He can think of nothing else, having travelled so far in search of salvation.

The breeze betrays you, carrying the sweet scent of the berries you love to eat, the oils you use on your skin, and he groans, a deep visceral sound that would usually shake the foundations of Middle Earth, if only he were not so deeply tired.

He follows your scent, instinctively, unthinking as to how you might receive him. As he gets closer, his soul sings for you, his heart swells, and he can think of nothing else.

Exhausted, he reaches out to you, tendrils of his mind softly caressing yours. He hears your soft sigh and follows the sweet sound to your doom.

~

The forest around you turns deathly silent, the very air robbed of its oxygen in a split second. You hear only the crack of fallen branches and the heavy movement of something massive in the dark.

You should be terrified, why do you not run?

Quaking in your hiding spot, you find yourself rooted to the spot, crouching and unable to move, doomed to listen to the beast in the dark.

You feel it then; a darkness in your mind, touching your thoughts, and the terror grows. The scent of sweat dripping down your back only helps him find you sooner, and as you hear him approach, the tremor in your fingers grows.

If you can only stay quiet, perhaps it will ignore you, perhaps you will be blessed tonight. You screw your eyes shut and pray.

Alas, a hot huff of breath sweeps the side of your face, and you scream, you can't help but keep screaming, even after you've picked up your weapon and blindly struck the great beast, before you roll out from under it and run as fast as your legs can carry you.

He shakes his head, blind rage now overtaking him, even as he sees you, scents you, wants nothing more than to cover and embrace you.

The pair of you race through the forest; you know it as well as any of your people, all the shortcuts and secret places. But your quick light tread is vastly outmatched by his sheer ferocity, and in your panic, you take a wrong turn, meeting a sharp cliff face where you were sure there was a waterfall you might have lost the beast in. You curse your folly and spin around, awaiting your fate.

Two great paws come to rest either side of you, as its wolven face bears its teeth and snarls, black blood dripping from the gash you inflicted on its temple.

You can do nothing but shut your eyes, shaking in terror as the beast takes you in, sniffing at you and panting. Any moment now, this will all be over...

Amarië... love... need you...

The unspoken voice you hear is somehow familiar, deeper and more guttural, and yet...

You reach out your hand, offering your soothing touch freely. Baleful golden eyes watch you carefully as he closes the gap and leans in to your trembling touch. You should run.

"Mairon..." The beast's eyes soften as you look up at him, and you realise a terrible sorcery is at play here.

You feel his mind caress yours and you relax, easing into the unfamiliar feeling of fur beneath your fingers. You trace the sinewy muscle of his neck a while, assuring him in hushed tones that you've got him, that everything will be alright, that you're here, his horrors are over.

"Oh, my love..." You run your fingers over him, suddenly mindful of the wound you'd inflicted yourself only moments ago.

In your inspection, you find many more, deep gouges and bitemarks that have festered, and your heart aches for him. How could this have happened? Who did this to him?

"Come, love, I have you now," you grasp his fur on his neck and lead him back to the river, careful not to touch the open sores in his sides yet.

He staggers into the rushing current, clear water turning black as he submerges, washing off his defeat and returning little by little to you.

You wade in after him, ripping a strip off your hem; how times had changed since last you did this for him, having now ruined two dresses to tend his wounds.

You soak the fabric and begin to dab away the grime and viscera, so that you can start to heal him with every spell your people know for such injuries.

It doesn't take long before his whines of pain become pleasurable, enjoying your touch and the cool water on his skin. His mind is less fraught now, more present, and before long he begins to panic. His sweet wife, his innocent wife, had seen him for what he truly is, a Lord of Beasts, monstrous and terrifying to behold, and here she was, running her gentle fingers over him as if he was the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen.

You notice his panic and immediately go to soothe him, rubbing circles over his muzzle, trying not to overthink just how strange the situation had become.

"It's okay, love, I'm here, you're okay," you whisper softly, "who did this to you, love?"

Trying to soothe him was proving difficult as anger begins to bubble in the pit of your stomach; who was responsible for this sorcery? You would rip them limb from limb, your gentle nature be damned.

That blasted Elf-Maia hybrid and her brute of a dog, he thinks bitterly, reliving his utter defeat once more.

"My darling, you can tell me, who did this to you? Transformed you this way?" Surely it was a curse that could be broken, that you could face together.

Oh. Oh, no. His blood runs cold. Yes, of course, that's what you mean; how were you to know he could transform himself at will, that this was a form he liked to take in battle. Used to like. It might be a while before he chose a wolfish form again, given everything that had happened with Lúthien.

He goes to stand, to leave the river and avoid your questioning, but his legs give out from under him. Your heart wrenches at the sight of your beloved suffering so, how it pained you.

"I have you, don't move yet," you say softly with an encouraging smile. "I've got you."

More murmuring in Quenya, pressing your hands to his wounds, feeling your energy flow into him, all of your efforts were enough to finally restore him, and you both emerge from the river into the cool night air, sodden and freezing.

He collapses on the river bank, with you quick to follow; your healing had taken a lot out of you. Shivering, you lean into him for his furnace-like warmth, blessedly finding him already nearly dry.

You're so tired, your questions can wait until after you've rested, and so you do.

~

It is still hours before dawn when you wake to the unfamiliar sensation of warm silky fur on your cheek, lining your body, encompassing you in a blissful heat.

Fear jolts any sleepiness from your mind, and you try to stand. But his great limbs keep you from moving, and he rumbles his disapproval deep in his chest.

Suddenly you remember.

"Mairon?" You whisper, "darling, how do you feel?"

I was fine. His words are still unspoken, heard directly in your mind.

"Was? Can I help, love?" You worry that your work is not done, that perhaps there are ills that you have not yet healed.

Go back to sleep, your presence is soothing, my sweet.

"I can soothe you while awake!" Your tone is indignant and his chest quakes with what sounds like laughter, if you're not mistaken.

I didn't say you could not, but now you're awake, there are other urges I'd rather have you satisfy, Uthaessel.

Other urges... you blush as you realise what he means. He only calls you by that epithet when he craves you so particularly, that nothing else might sate him but hours between your thighs. 'Temptation', indeed.

"Well, you've recovered quickly." You laugh, brushing his side and finding his gaping wounds already healed over.

"And while you're like this, my darling, I'm not quite sure how that would work." You do have an idea, but it might be... uncomfortable.

He groans, deep in his chest, making your whole body vibrate with it; maybe a little discomfort wouldn't be so bad?

I have many ideas, precious one, all you need to do is lie there and relax for me...

He rolls you over, encircling you wholly with his powerful frame. He is so massive that he dwarfs you twice, thrice over. You look down and your eyes widen, blood rushing to your cheeks; how is that going to fit?

In an effort to slow him down, you ask him again, "how did this happen, love? You couldn't tell me before, would you tell me now?"

He sighs, a massive huff of breath that seems to scold you for disrupting his conquest of you.

It is no curse, that much you do not have to fear.

"If it is no curse, then what happened? Love, this is hardly natural, unless I am missing something important?" You laugh a little, nervously, wishing for him to assuage your anxiety.

He simply stares down at you with those bottomless golden eyes, concocting some explanation that will appease you.

How would you react, he wonders, if he told you he told you he is in fact Lord of Beasts and Werewolves, able to take on any form he wishes? Or would you prefer a simple lie, or the wiping of it from your mind altogether?

You are his wife, you are bound together in a way no force can sunder, you could not reject him if you tried. But he fears your disgust, would do anything to avoid it.

But the truth would set him free. No more lies, no more deception, he could truly be himself with you. The freedom that would afford, the burdens he would no longer have to carry alone.

So for once, he settles on the truth, mostly.

This is simply one of the forms I can take. You know I am no Elf, I can do things your kind could only dream of.

He nuzzles your neck, licking a long stripe up the sensitive flesh between your ear and your collarbone.

"I know that," you whimper, his rough tongue laving your throat, making your toes curl into the dirt. "But this is new, this is-" a whine escapes your lips as he nips at your neck- "unnatural."

You feel his song in the depths of your soul, how sweetly he pines for you. Your soul cannot help but answer, harmonising with his every touch, until you are squirming under his iron embrace, pupils blown, arousal overtaking you quicker than it ever has before.

*******

His massive limbs cage you in, and panic begins to set in again; surely your husband would never hurt you, but in this state you weren't sure he had the control to keep his nature at bay.

"I need to know-" You brace against him, trying with all your might to release yourself from his roaming tongue, rasping over your skin; sharp teeth snared in your dress pull in one fluid motion and you're left bare under his gaze.

Need to know what, my pet? His tone is adoring as ever, but impatient; he knows what plagues your thoughts and he still isn't sure he wants you to know.

"Need to know... need to know who you are." You force out the words as he seeks out where to lick, where to bite, trying to swallow your pleas; he cocks his head, as if your question is a mystery.

You know who I am, love. His length begins to prod at you insistently, and you clench your thighs together, nervous at the thought of him claiming you like this, stalling for time even as the melody of his fëa seduces you.

"No... no, I don't think I do," You pant, fingers clutching at his neck, drawing him in and pulling him away, your body betraying your mind as you become more and more unsure of what you want from him.

"How? How can you change your face like that? Your entire being? I don't understand..." You trail off with a whine as he begins to worship your body with his tongue, covering your breasts with a swipe, dragging slowly lower until he finds your mound, gods you smell divine.

The bestial part of his mind begins to take over, ignoring your questioning, wrapped in the scent of you, the soft flesh under his tongue that he could so easily ruin with a drag of his teeth if he desired, your panting lips forming words that fall on deaf ears; the only sounds he now listens for are your moans and pleas.

"Mairon... I need to know..." You realise far too late that this is no longer your husband, and that the beast before you is going to rut you into the earth without pity.

Terror grips you, hand in hand with arousal, and the fresh wetness between your legs spurs him on, groaning at the scent of you, all he can think of as you writhe beneath him. You try to get a better look at the flesh that is about to ravage you, but it is hidden in his fur. Perhaps that is for the best, you muse, far-off in your thoughts now, waiting for him to ruin you.

He sniffs at the dampness between your thighs, a groan rumbling through him as he bears his sharp canines, dangerous and gleaming even in the dark of the night; perhaps especially so. Even with the forest at your fingertips, all you can smell is him, musk and smoke and iron, he smells like himself but stronger, every inch of him reeking of the man you love but more pungent, inescapable; a heady mix that does nothing to dispel the coil in your abdomen that he will delight to spring.

"My love, darling, please, Mairon..." you try every which way to get his attention, to bring him back to you.

You shiver as he laps at you, tasting you every which way, your nipples peaking as he runs his tongue over them before letting them chill in the night's cool breeze. He lowers himself slightly to wrap himself around you more completely, your soft skin now pressed against his thick fur, the perfect companion to stave off the chill.

You feel him pant against your neck, his thick length weeping against your legs, firmly pressed shut as you rock slightly to relieve the terrible pressure he has built in your clit.

You bury your face in the green foliage under your head, still pressing your thighs together as if he will yet be denied. He noses at your jaw, demanding your attention; pressing his long teeth against your throat, demanding your obedience.

The inhuman face gazing down on you does nothing to dispel the visceral fear that grips you. This is your husband, the man you love, whose soul you share; but none of this seems to matter now, as empty golden eyes stare you down, awaiting the inevitable.

Tears of fear begin to fall unbidden as your heart hammers in your chest, as you realise that despite every instinct in you telling you to run, you still want him, and he knows it.

The second you loosen your thigh muscles, he is there with his tongue, licking and sucking and making your toes curl. He is too rough, too fast, and before long a tiny nip at your clit sends stars behind your eyes, warmth exploding and cascading through you.

With you distracted at your peak, he takes his opportunity.

Hot breath on your face, soft fur under your fingers, giving you purchase, grounding you, a white hot pain at your mound-

Your scream echoes through the forest as he buries himself within you, no gentleness, just brutal force.

He allows you a moment to accommodate him, but it would take many more to truly adjust to his monstrous size. He pulls back, your tiny sigh of relief cut short as he thrusts back in, deeper, longer, stroking every inch of you.

You feel a tendril of his mind caress yours, and you reach for it, cling to it, make his power your own as you channel every intelligible thought into not being spilt apart.

As his power and your healing magic do their work, the blazing pain lessens, relieved to a dull ache, that only invites him to do his worst.

He would tear you apart, put you back together, over and over if he could. As he reaches the height of his pleasure, he is merciless, rutting you like a mindless animal, emptying and filling you quicker than you can draw breath, gasping around the sheer inhuman size of him.

And you enjoy it.

As the pain recedes, all you can think is of his cock filling you over and over, tongue rasping everywhere he can reach, guttural groans punctuating every thrust, as you drag your nails down his forearms, desperate to ground yourself in any sensation not emanating from your heated core.

With an unearthly growl, his thick hot seed paints your insides, filling you to bursting, and the coil in your abdomen does indeed spring again; as he comes down from his own high, his mind returns to him piece by piece, and he realises what he has put you through. You quake around him, whimpering and clinging to him, nails deep in his heavily muscled back.

He licks the tears from your face gently, still engulfed in your wet heat, unwilling to be parted just yet. He rears up to get a look at how well you take him, to see how you stretch and mould for him.

That is all he wants after all, for you to be moulded by him, for him.

He nuzzles your neck as you lie exhausted underneath him.

Love... precious girl... my Uthaessel... did so well for me...

You give him a sleepy smile, idly running your fingers through the fur on his chest, suddenly overcome with the urge to sleep for a week.

When he can, he slips out of you, curling you into his side, as his seed drips between your thighs. He'll clean you up later, he thinks, but perhaps for now he'll just watch you sleep.

*******

When you wake, he has already transformed himself, smooth skin and golden hair that you love so much, but your sticky thighs remind you uncomfortably of what happened last night.

You crane your neck to look at him, to assure yourself it is really him. He gives you that same gentle adoring smile he always does; your heart melts as you can't help but return it, but your questions still plague you. He had never told you he could take the guise of a beast, and you worry that something wicked lies under that glorious visage.

"Mairon..." You try to keep your tone neutral, but he knows your heart too well.

"I know, love," he gathers you to him, resting his chin on your head. "Can we not? At least for now."

You do wonder whether to indulge him, but the suspicions gnawing at your gut will not cease.

"I want to know... I need to know what happened."

You expect him to fight you on it tooth and nail, but he vowed to himself last night, the truth would out. Mostly.

And so he tells you. His humiliation at the hands of Lúthien and Huan, his command over beasts and vampires, even where he really comes from. Your eyes widen and your breath shallows with each detail, reaching a crescendo as he tells you of Morgoth, his voice low as if his master could hear him even here.

"A servant of Morgoth?" You can't catch your breath, you've long stood up, pacing and wringing your hands more urgently the longer you let him speak.

"Why are you telling me this?" You stop still and ask sharply, making him wince at the tone you've never used on him before.

"You asked, my love," he looks confused, as if the truth weren't more horrifying than your husband simply liking to spend time in wolf's clothing.

"But why are you telling me now? You could have continued your vile deception? Kept me in the dark?" Your stomach drops as you wonder aloud his intentions.

"You've had everything you wanted from me, that must be it. And now you tell me you are a servant of the Enemy-" your thoughts are interrupted as he now stands and moves to take your hands in his.

A churning fear overtakes your anger as you realise he is the one your people only speak of in hushed whispers, his very name accursed to the tongue: Sauron.

"You... you are the terror my people fear in these woods. You have plagued them, stolen them, and then you come to me and ply me with your sweetness and lies?"

"You misjudge me, my love. I will never stop wanting you," he implores, as he takes your face in his hand, willing you to be silent and listen.

"My appetite for you will never be sated, such is my devotion. I could never cast you aside, could never let you leave me." He sounds so damn sincere, your heart pleads with you to listen while your head tells you to run.

"You wanted the truth, so I gave it to you. If I did not think you could handle it, I would not have troubled you with such evils." His eyes search yours for any sign you understand his plight. "I told you my name, I never lied to you. But I could not tell you about Melkor in the beginning, how could I, when you would have scorned me?"

"You don't know that," you mutter, still shell-shocked, world in pieces, but offended by the accusation all the same.

"If this is your reaction, then I am sure you would."

"Are you blaming me? Lies by omission are still lies!" Your indignation stirs you a little, your mind screaming at you to fight back.

He does you the courtesy to look mollified slightly, before grasping your hands once more, tracing circles in your palm with his thumb.

"Amarië, my sweet, even your name is too good for me, how could I have won you if you had known the company I am forced to keep?"

It's that imploring look, the gentle tone, and-

"Forced? What do you mean, forced?" Even in your shell-shocked anger, the notion of your husband forced to do anything hurts you deeply.

"I hardly serve Him willingly, my love, no one does. His will is..." he searches for the right word, the word that will convince you, "insurmountable."

You take a deep breath through your nose, finding nothing in your mind but the sweet scent of smoke and musk and iron, the scent of your husband that softens your heart once more.

Your deep exhale releases much of the tension within you; of course, he is but an unwilling participant in Morgoth's designs, of course.

"This is your one chance, Mairon, you have one chance to tell me everything, no lies, no deceit." You raise your eyebrows at him, daring him to argue, but he simply sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I have done, love, you know everything."

"No. Details, and lots of them, now."

It takes from sunrise to sunset, but he tells you everything. How Morgoth seduced him to his will; how He alone has the power to change Middle Earth in the way your lover has planned; how Sauron realised far too late that His destruction was not the balance he craved.

"And you cannot leave Him?" Your voice is hoarse after so much time spent listening, but you have to ask.

Sauron grimaces, an expression that twists his pretty face, makes it almost unrecognisable.

"One does not simply leave Melkor's service." His tongue picks over the words carefully, watching for your reaction.

"Morgoth." You interject, "his name is Morgoth." After all the heartbreak and destruction He has wrought on your kind, you cannot stand to hear his divine name spoken once more.

"Forgive me, love, it is... difficult to break the habit when He himself would flay me for even thinking the name your people have given him." He cannot help but smirk a moment when your face drops, and you reach for him as if to comfort him.

He takes you in his golden embrace, holding you tightly as if you'd leave him the moment you were free.

"I was so afeared that you would reject my affections, I could not possibly tell you, and as time passed, I could not bear to ruin what we share." He nuzzles your neck affectionately, as if he has already won you over.

You are so torn, your heart and head fighting a losing battle. If he truly is an unwilling accomplice, then he needs you now more than ever to face the darkness. But the darkness was a terror you never planned on witnessing in all its treachery.

It is a long time before you can forgive his lies, but the truth will indeed set you both free.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Something Rotten

Pairing: Dark!QZ Joel x afab!reader x Dark!QZ Tess

Words count: 4300 (more or less)

Rating: + 18, absolutely NSFW. This shit is triggering, read the tags carefully and please if your a minor don’t interact.

Warnings/Tags: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, smut, heavy degradation, kidnapping, reader is tied to the bed with a rope, mention of strong painkillers, depressing thoughts, both Joel and Tess are EVIL, mention of offering sex in exchange for protection, Dub-con/non-con (well, she’s into that and I made sure to say that she’s deeply aroused but still), no kindness whatsoever, face slapping, being threatened with a gun and knife, blood, wound (Tess writes a word on Reader's body with a knife), pussy slapping, tits slapping, oral (m receiving), deep throating, scissoring, slurs (whore, slut), pet names (honey, baby, pet, kitten), mention of Robert (you know that prick at the beginning of the series who makes Tess get beaten up? That's him. but anyway he is the least of the problems in this thing), ripped panties, orgasm denial, cum eating, hair pulling, reader has hair that can be pulled, no other description of her is given, I think it’s all but I will be sure to add anything I may have forgotten as soon as I can.

A/N: Happy Halloween! This is indeed a nightmare of a fic LOL

Ok, enough, I'm getting serious again. I know it’s a lot, please don't read if you don't feel comfortable with those kind of things. I've never written anything like this before, it was a test for me because those who read me know, I'm usually very soft. I've started writing the second part if anyone wants to read it, I preferred to publish this first because it was getting pretty long (And I honestly want to see how this one goes before I continue lol). Sorry if you find any errors, I hope there aren't too many. I don't have a beta, I reread it but my eyes are exhausted at this point 💀 (English is not my first language, you know that, right? lol)

Again, no one is obligated to read but I wanted to thank those who provided me with the songs I listened to while writing this: @magneticecstasy @hoelaris @lovely-vamp-princess @baronessvonglitter @whocaresstillthelouvre and @almostempty for having called together her trusted connoisseurs 😎, you all are truly amazing ♥️ (Something Rotten is a Placebo song I added between your amazing music advices).

Playlist can be found here.

(While we're at it, if anyone would like to be tagged on my fics in the future, let me know, thank you very much!)

Thanks to anyone who reads this!

Archive tags: @pedrostories ♥️

“Now what should we do with you?” Tess’s voice is sharp, with a smug undertone.

“Maybe we should get rid of her.” Joel is just as blunt, smiling wickedly as he watches you shake like a leaf.

There’s obvious disappointment painted on your face, as well as fear of what these two might do to you.

——————————————————-

You know Joel and Tess, everyone in the QZ knows them, at least everyone trying to make ends meet like you.

They’re the most skilled smugglers and also the most ruthless.

No one would want to have them as enemies, but you, due to circumstances beyond your control, just tried to steal some of their supplies. You heard they had just left the Qz to stock up, apparently they know someone outside.

You thought you were safe. Turned out you were wrong, they came back sooner than you expected.

You wouldn’t have made such a bold move if it weren’t for the fact that Robert died, killed by Tess, as far as you know.

You and Robert had a relationship, if you could call it that, he gave you protection in exchange for sex. You didn't like Robert, to be honest, guy was a piece of shit himself, but he was the lesser evil. He was generally stupid and driven by his dick rather than his brain so it was pretty easy for you to please him and make sure he kept you safe from the unrestrained FEDRA soldiers, who are anything but devoted to rules and discipline, and you never lacked food while you were with him, much more than some people in this seedy Qz had.

Batting your eyelashes and giving him head every now and then was enough to have what you needed.

Robert was a gun runner, people feared him, everyone except Joel and Tess who thought he was an incompetent and arrogant moron.

They weren't entirely wrong but everyone in this shithole of a place survives as best they can.

You should have relied on your own strength from the beginning but when you arrived here you were so tired, hurt, heartbroken from having lost all the people you cared about that leaning on someone seemed like an acceptable compromise.

You were desperate again after losing Robert, so hungry you barely remembered how food really tastes.

You snuck into their room, cursing your stomach that was growling loudly. You held your breath as the door creaked open to reveal a rather bare, makeshift mini-apartment. No one was there, so you tiptoed around looking for something edible. You noticed a floorboard that was a bit off. Bingo.

You lifted it up and found a stash of dried meat, along with several bags of pills and a gun.

You took some pills that you recognized as strong painkillers, just in case you might need them.

Your hand shook as you pulled out the plastic bag full of dried meat, your stomach giving you no respite.

And just as you were about to take a bite, you heard some noises.

Shit.

You looked around nervously for a place to hide but to no avail. The bed was resting on bricks and barely rose from the floor, too little room to slide under. There were no closets, no dressers or anything.

Shit.

You were screwed.

The footsteps you heard were getting closer and closer and in a total panic, not knowing what else to do, you cowered behind a couch, the dried meat still in your hand while the pills danced in your bra.

You were certain that you would be discovered in no time.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, a cold sweat was breaking out on your forehead. You squeezed your eyes shut in prayer even though you’ve never been a religious person.

Tess saw you first. “What do we have here?” she hissed. Joel caught sight of you next, your head awkwardly poking out from behind the couch.

Stupid stupid stupid.

“A thief,” he stated coldly, as he tugged at your jacket and pulled you out of your hiding place. Tess looked you up and down as you stared at the floor, terrified.

——————————————————-

“What the hell were you trying to do?” she asks you ironically, as if it makes her laugh. In fact, you feel ridiculous for even thinking you could get away with them, it would have been wiser to stay hungry while waiting to earn some cards.

Now you’re in troubles.

Big troubles.

You wanted to get the gun, but you couldn't and now you're standing in front of them, unarmed and scared as the barrel of Joel's gun is grazing at your cheek.

“I asked you a question,” Tess points out, “you better answer it.”

Joel hands the gun to Tess, tears the dried meat out of your hand and shove your arms behind your back, holding you tightly by your wrists, while Tess glares at you.

The gun is now before your eyes, shiny and threatening.

“I… was hungry” and then quickly add a “I’m sorry” that barely escapes your lips.

“So you’ve been working out this brilliant plan?” Joel teases, his deep voice giving you goosebumps.

After Joel suggests taking you out, Tess remains silent for a while, looking at you like a piece of meat “She’s pretty though,” and an even more chilling smile spread across her face, “fuck, you’re too pretty for being a rat”

“Yeah” Joel agrees “here’s a tip for you, honey, if you wanna screw someone try not to let your stupid ass show”

They exchange another knowing glance that doesn't bode well and Tess finally speaks “we could have some fun.”

Guided by self-preservation and fear, you widen your eyes and exclaim, “Oh no, please no!”

Tess places her hand under your chin, manipulating your face like a puppet, turning it left and right to inspect it. “You’re not sick, are you?”

You remain silent and after a few seconds you feel her open hand land on your cheek and an unbearable burning sensation spread across your skin.

What you feel immediately after is the cold steel of the gun under your chin.

“See, she doesn’t like it when people don’t answer her,” Joel whispers in your ear, adding more shivers to the ones already shaking your body.

You open your mouth, struggling to get out some sound. “No” is all you can say.

“Good,” Tess hisses. Joel’s grip on your wrists shows no sign of loosening and your cheek hurts like hell.

There’s no way out.

“Since you were stupid enough to try to sneak in, from now on you will stay here.” Tess announces to you, with a voice that does not allow protests “And you will be our little toy”

She runs a hand over your neck, goes down to your breast and squeezes it hard over your shirt “Do you understand?”

“Yes” you whisper immediately, fearing another blow.

You don’t have enough strength to rebel, you are weak while they are incredibly strong, your head is spinning and you are one against two.

To make sure you don’t get any weird ideas, Joel ties you to the bed. He runs a rope between one of the bricks and the frame of the bed, chuckling evilly, “I’m sorry honey, but I have to, your little head is too imaginative to let you loose in here.” The way he looks at you it’s disturbing, licking his lips in anticipation of what he’ll do to you that night.

He’s not sorry at all.

He can't wait to use you as he wants.

His gaze is intense and dark and you feel like he can get under your skin and read your every thought.

Tess controls Joel's moves, gun still in her hand and when you are completely at their mercy, lying on the bed, with the rope that at most allows you to turn on your back, she bends down to look at you, running the cold steel of gun on your face. You feel tears stinging your eyes as you look at her "oh come on don't do that, after all it's always better than breaking your delicate back with those shitty jobs, right?"

Her mellifluous voice makes you furious, does she think she did you a favor? You would like to spit in her face, on that cold and evil face of hers but you don't.

You can’t.

There's no point in trying to fight back, they'd kill you.

You know that.

They both go off to who knows where and you stay there, waiting, unable to do anything else.

________________________________

It’s the dead of night when the door creaks again and they come back in. Your wrists hurt, you feel stiff, exhausted even though you’ve done nothing but lie there, consumed by fear.

Tess is the first to approach “so kitten, have you been good today?” she coos wickedly and pats your head just like you’re her pet.

You feel a blind rage fill you as she calmly sits on the bed and takes off her boots.

Joel sits on the other side, takes off the dark blue denim shirt he is wearing and unlaces his combat boots.

You are lying on your back now and you crane your neck to watch them.

It’s incredibly frustrating for you to realize that both of your kidnappers are gorgeous.

Tess has a cold beauty, long dark blonde hair framing her face, her lean body reveals itself before your eyes as she takes off her clothes.

She has several scars scattered across her back and arms that make her look even more dangerous, adorning her skin like battle wounds. Battles that somehow she has always won. She’s feral as a lioness and as wicked as a demon.

You never knew you were into women but looking at her right now you can’t deny to find her attractive.

Joel on the other side is tense and nervous as a violin string, rippling muscles and large calloused hands, messy hair and a scruffy beard covering his cheeks.

Your eyes are drinking in his figure, glaring on his broad shoulders, strong neck and plush lips.

He’s definitely the most handsome man in the QZ.

He too has several wounds that blend into his olive skin, giving him the aspect of someone who cannot be argued with in the slightest.

In the little time you have already spent together, however, you have noticed how he bends to Tess's will, as if he were a guard dog always on alert to protect her.

Tess is the brains, Joel is the arm.

He's placed a large switchblade on his pillow, there to remind you that you have no escape.

They are both in their underwear, their clothes lying on the floor. Tess orders Joel to untie you, the rope slowly loose on your wrists as Joel warns you “you better not make a single move or you will regret it, slut”. His voice in your ear is terrifying, bouncing around in your head like a nightmare you can’t wake up from.

“Good girl” Tess praises you briefly while you remain still, before ordering “undress her”

Joel unceremoniously removes your jacket and shirt, throwing everything on the floor. He unhooks your bra, brushing his fingertips along your back, and you shiver imperceptibly.

As your bra comes off, the pills you’ve hidden inside fall onto the bed, rolling onto the blanket. Tess shakes her head, squinting “What are those? Didn’t you say you were hungry? Do you need pills to feed yourself, you little whore?” her voice is like ice and the blade of the knife abandoned on the bed is suddenly at your throat, held by Joel.

Your voice breaks into tears as you try to justify yourself. You try to say that they are only for you, just painkillers, you’re not a drug addict, you won’t sell them, you won’t try to ruin their business.

“Pfff and we should believe you?” Joel scoff, laughing from behind your back, tugging violently on your arm and sliding the blade on your skin.

“I-please”

You don't even know what to say anymore.

"Stop whining, it gets on my nerves” Joel warns you as he slightly dig the blade into your cheek, scratching you just a little, just to let you taste the flavor of iron.

“You'll be a very good pet for us, won't you?” Tess whispers leaning close to your ear and running her fingers along your arm.

Tears now roll freely down your cheeks. She wipes away a tear and licks its salty taste from her thumb, pleased.

“Yes, I’ll be good I - I promise” you sigh.

“You certainly will be, if you don't want to taste Joel's knife.” He grins behind you and leave the switchblade on the sheets.

Your bra joins the other clothes on the floor as Tess squeezes one of your nipples between her fingers. She isn't gentle, she isn't delicate, her hand is firm, demanding, her fingers calloused.

After all, she isn't one to back down from a fight and everything about her shows it.

She pulls, pinches and twists, treating your nipple as if it belongs to her and she can do whatever she wants with it, looking you straight in the eye, intimidatingly, without even flinching.

Joel is still behind your back, sitting on the bed and he reaches for your hips, his large hands enveloping them and his fingers pressing hard into your flesh. He leans down and runs his tongue all the way up your spine, going up your shoulder and biting hard where it joins your neck. You cry out. You know it will leave a mark on you, his teeth tattooed on your skin.

Tess slaps your tit when a moan slips through your lips at the sensation of having Joel sucking hard on your skin, leaving more marks on your neck, his beard scratching you.

“You fucking like it, don’t you, pet?” She teases.

You can’t say anything, a stinging pain spread across your chest and you wonder how strong she really is despite her slim figure.

Joel detaches from you and Tess makes you lying on the bed again, unbuttoning and tugging down at your jeans, leaving you in nothing more than your ridiculously worn panties, they’re so old they’re basically see through but it’s not like you can have something fancy in the QZ.

She spots a wet stain right in the front and she smiles fake sweetly, you can still see the evil in her ice cold eyes.

She takes the hem and just rip them off, exposing your bare cunt.

You gasp and try to gather your hands in front of you for covering your privates but you can’t, Joel is still holding your wrists in a dangerous grip.

She laughs at your clumsy attempt “darling, rebelling won't do you any good, I thought I was clear before”

“Please,” you whisper, “please let me go. I didn’t steal anything in the end, I’m never coming back.”

“No,” she says firmly, “no. Do you know why? You don’t mess with us, you don’t even try. You have a lesson to learn.”

Her fingers run over your leg cold. You don't have time to beg again as another slap hits you. "Poor little girl, didn't your mother teach you manners? We'll have to think about it ourselves." She says, pursing her lips.

She slaps your cunt.

You throb.

And you’re wet.

You hate every cell in your body that is getting sexually aroused by them.

Your brain says no, but your body isn't following suit and you can't really explain it.

What was once pain is turning into a creeping, crawling tingle that runs under your skin.

Back in the days you had a boyfriend that used to fuck you roughly and you liked that but you certainly never thought to be aroused by people holding you captive.

It’s insane.

She lifts one of your legs up high, holding it tightly by the ankle as Joel brings your arms above your head on the bed and his grip continues to secure your wrists.

“Um, look at you. What a delicious wet pussy.” Tess coos.

Joel grunts at the sight “such a needy slut”

Tess positions herself between your legs and begins to rub herself on your pussy.

She doesn’t care a bit about treating you like a person, making your joints ache for the unnatural position, one leg impossibly strained with her grip and the other one straight on the bed with your thigh hurting under her weight.

You’re their muppet now.

The friction between your pussies makes you feel ashamed at first, you've never done it before. With each thrust of Tess on you, however, you begin to feel a heat enveloping your lower abdomen, going straight down to your clit making it sensitive and swollen.

You’re excited, as much as you hate to admit it.

Tess is wild, she’s claiming your body like a predator does with its prey, her small and perfectly shaped tits are bouncing in the air, nipples pink and hard.

You're biting your lip hard, holding back the moans that try to escape from the back of your throat.

You don’t know what came over you but wouldn't mind sucking on them .

You look up at Joel who towers over you, his gaze glassy, ​​fixed on your pussies slamming together making the most obscene sounds you've ever heard, like a squish on loop, wet and slippery.

Tess looks at you, her face twisted into an evil grimace as she groans and curse.

You're trying to control yourself in every way but your body responds, you feel a rush of pleasure flooding you. Fuck. It's like your brain is leaking out of your cunt.

You’re gasping under Tess.

Your hips move trying to seek more friction.

Hot tears stream down your face as you moan. You can’t believe how fucked up this is.

“Oh yeah, baby, go ahead and cry, be a pathetic whining mess, we don't give a shit. Your whore pussy is ours now.” Joel growls.

He moves in front of your face, his large hand covers your cheek completely and squeezes it hard, pinching your skin mercilessly before giving you a slap. You feel an unbearable heat radiating on your skin, you haven't even moved your arms even though he has let go of his grip.

“You’re just a plaything,” Tess echoes, “and you’re enjoying it, aren’t you, little scammer?”

Tess grinds against you relentlessly, she reaches down and twists your clit with two fingers and a wail of pain breaks from your lips.

You feel delirious under her ministration, her body takes what it wants from you and there's nothing you can do to stop it, on the contrary. Your nipples are so pebbled they look like little rocks on your chest, your cunt so sloppy and wet that your cream is lasciviously trickling on your inner thighs, you don’t recognize yourself anymore.

Tess comes above you, callin names and stuttering angrily.

You whine again and Joel barks “it’s time for you to shut up, slut”

He pulls down his boxers with a dark look and an incredibly devious smile plastered on his face. His cock is right in front of your eyes, semi hard, he spits in his palm and starts fisting it, up and down his length. It’s thick and swollen, more big than you expected.

His angry red tip almost touches your lips, he reaches for your jaw and pulls it “open wide, slut” he orders. Your lips are pressed together, you try to resist, but Joel takes a handful of your hair, pulling hard.“I. Said. Open. Wide.” punctuating each word with a stronger tug.

You can’t help but doing it, he’s basically tearing off your hair while Tess is still having no mercy of your cunt. She moves on the sheets and she stick two of her fingers in your cunt, up to the knuckles “Jesus, you’re fucking soaked baby, such a good slut”

Joel forces his cock into your mouth and begins to push inside you until he reaches the back of your throat, not letting you get used to it, your cry is muffled by your lips tightening around his shaft. His taste spread across your tongue as he moves abruptly into you, in and out of your lips. Your mind is fuzzy, you try to breathe from your nose but all you can feel right now is the aching of your jaw and the way Tess is scissoring her fingers inside your hole. They have no mercy and you’re madly aroused with it.

It’s not like you’re expecting something good from life at this point. Life isn’t gentle anymore, you lost everything a long time ago, you’re just trying to stay afloat biting off what you can and expecting nothing but bites back until the day fate or destiny decides it's over for you.

You don't know if there's a hint of what they call Stockholm Syndrome in all this but here you are, willing to be free use, for them to ruin, right on the verge of losing your mind. You’re pliant and hungry now, sucking on Joel cock like a good meal after a whole month of starvation, you’re reaching his balls with your hand, massaging and squeezing it lightly. Tess is watching you and she doesn't seem happy with the way you're trying to be, her hand lands again on your pussy, heavy and cruel, right on your clit.

“Oh don’t be too much of an ass kisser, I never liked them. And don’t do anything until we tell you to”

Joel grunts deeply as you let go of his ball “fuck I liked that though” and he grabs your hand back “since you like it, touch it, you dirty whore”

Tess rolls her eyes and slaps your pussy again and again until you feel your skin burning and you know you're about to come, your muscles are tense and your legs start to tingle as well as the bottom of your belly.

Tess understands and stops. “Oh, one more thing, you come if and when we decide.” A moan rises from deep in your chest and vibrates on Joel’s cock.

“Keep sucking” Joel urges you groping and squeezing your tits.

You move painfully up and down his length, him holding the back of your skull. Tess watches you, studying your reactions, a hint of jealousy in her eyes as Joel continues to thrust into your mouth, urging you “like this, little bitch, keep going - OH FUCK”

You can feel your cunt throbbing, screaming for a release.

Tess is giving you occasional kitten lick, so soft and so evil at the same time ‘cause you’re right on the edge. It’s a torture, an unbearable struggle that you can take anymore. Your cunt is clenching around nothing, your clit swollen and sore, you’re feeling delirious and you’re not allowed to come.

Tess picks up the knife again and you feel it slide across your inner thigh, it’s cold on your sweat-beaded skin and it makes you shiver. It rises dangerously close to your center, her evil eyes obsessively following the path of the blade. A sharp smile spreads across her face as she begins to sink the tip into your flesh, just enough to scratch your skin. You’re choking your whines on Joel’s cock as you smell blood in the air. It feels like she’s writing something, her trajectory is meticulous and careful, she pulls the blade out smiling again, satisfied with her work.

“Here you go, now everyone will know what kind of whore you are. If you ever get out of here”

She runs her tongue over what she just branded into your skin, your body shakes, your back arches insanely seeking for that delicious line between pain and pleasure, it’s stinging and soothing at the same time.

Joel is spilling inside you, his cum invading your mouth, painting your tongue and sliding warm down your throat. His face is red and sweaty, he's gritting his teeth, his neck is tense, his merciless hand holds you still clinging to your neck, he looks like a wild animal ready to devour you.

“Swallow it all, bitch” And you do it, you have no other choice. And you like it. You like the feel of his vein pulsing against the roof of your mouth, the heat and weight of him on your tongue, his musky flavor. It distracts you from the pain spreading across your thigh.

Joel only pulls out of your mouth when you've licked it clean.

It’s softening but it’s still the biggest cock you’re ever had.

He whispers in a hoarse voice that you are a very good little pet, smiling at you nastily, his big hands filling with your breasts, calloused and heavy, your nipples still hard under his palms.

Tess chuckles “yeah, she’s not that bad. And she’s a real fucking slut, aren’t you, honey? Your pussy is hungrier than your stomach”

You don't answer her, you are enraptured by Joel's dark and lascivious eyes, naked and helpless on the bed, branded like a cow, stupid and drunk on sex.

Your mind is no longer thinking clearly.

They both lie down on the bed to catch their breath, leaving you naked and sore at the foot of it, like a rag doll.

You never imagined this would happen to you when you came in here. And then, when they found you, the first thing you thought was that they were going to kill you. You're still here. Exhausted, in pain as you stare at the ceiling, sweat cooling on your skin.

You wonder how long it will last, where they will dump you when they get tired.

You're still alive anyway, that's enough.

There is definitely something rotten in you. You want to get up and see the word Tess wrote on your thigh but you are not brave enough. You trace it with a finger, shivering with pain, feeling your skin pull and pinch where it is starting to heal. If your touch is right it says “pet”.

[itsgrimeytime]

I Told You Now || Rick Grimes (TWD) x gn!reader

rick grimes taglist: @golden-hoax @mgparker

Part 2

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Inspiration: I've Told You Now by Sam Smith or "But what the hell, why do you think I come 'round here on my free will? Wasting all my precious time... Oh, the truth spills out and oh I...I've told you now."

Summary: You were in love with Rick, not that he knew. You weren't sure you were ever going to tell him. What could you say, you loved the kids and didn't want to lose them too. It was too risky. But finding out he was chasing after some married woman was just the last straw.

TWs: angst, jealousy, yelling, anger, crying, cursing, mention of fainting, not really unrequited love (you just don't know that yet) and vague references to infidelity (Jessie to her husband).

[[A/N: This song came up on my old playlist, and let me tell ya... I had some thoughts. This might be a two-parter, we shall see. Enjoy <3]]

"Hey, Mags," you hummed -Judith bouncing on your hip, "-where's Rick? I've been trying to find him all da-"

Maggie froze for a second, and you stilled -tightening your grip on Judith. Was there danger? Was everything okay? Your eyes swung around to see if there was anything unusual, anything dangerous-

Your eyes caught on something.

It was Rick, wearing his constable uniform (which you blindly noted suited him really well), and talking to a woman. You knew her name, Jessie, he'd talked about her before -said her husband was a real piece of shit. Everyone within Alexandria apparently knew that, but Rick was the only one to do anything about it.

At the time, you thought it was heroic of him, something Rick would do.

But now...

Your eyes skimmed across his face, across the intent of his blue eyes. There was something there, something you knew. You're not sure if it's the way he stood, or the smooth smile slipped onto his lips, or the way he looked down when he laughed at her -whatever she said, but-

"Why don't you just come inside?"

You barely heard it, something in your chest sinking -heavy. Your heart was pounding in your chest, it felt like every breath took everything out of your lungs, like your whole world was teetering on an edge. And Rick Grimes held it in his hands.

And he was... he was throwing it around, he wasn't even careful-

"Y/N," she continued, and you could hear her but there was something in you that couldn't move.

How long had this been happening? A married woman, really?

You knew her husband was terrible, scum of the Earth-

"Y/N," she warned, gently.

But her?

Why hadn't he ever told you? Why did you ever think that it was different now?

What were you to him? Just a goddamn babysitter?

The hope that had gathered up in your chest was snuffed out, just like the crumbling of your heart. You'd always knew it would come to this, you just weren't ready.

"Y/N," she stressed -trying to gain your focus, "-come on-"

Something in your stomach twisted, sour.

Tossing like a tide, you swayed in place. Your head was getting fuzzy and your eyes were bleary. Your ears felt like they were stuffed, all the voices so far away-

You took a languid blink.

With a breath, you pushed Judith into Maggie's arms -ensuring her safety. And with that, your knees buckled underneath you.

You fell to the ground.

You remember hearing Maggie scream, hearing the rush of footsteps -slapping along the ground. You remember hearing him then too, but something in you soured -you tried so hard to block it out. Ignore it.

"What the hell happened?"

It made your head pound again, made your brain swim. You squeezed your eyes closed like it would bring you some relief, anything-

"Y/N?" A voice offered, you recognized it to be Maggie's, "-are you awake?"

You shifted ever so slightly, eyes blinking open. The first thing you noticed was the bandage along your head, had you hit your head? Your fingers shifted to touch it-

Maggie grabbed your wrist, stopping the motion, "That'll hurt. You hit your head when you... Doctor says it might give you some headaches for a while."

You realized then, you were in a bed -distinctly not yours. You knew the woody smell anywhere, your eyes darted along the nightstands, almost to confirm -an old picture of him, Lori, and Carl. Something in you winced, and not because of your head.

"Told 'im to give us a minute," she revealed, "-I said you'd want to be in your own house, but he insisted."

The apology went unsaid.

"'S okay," you slurred a little, you weren't sure if it was from the pain or the sleep, "-not your fault, Maggie."

"Still," she echoed -something in her protective, "-I won't leave 'im alone with you, I promise."

You laughed a little, "Grimes is gonna do it anyway, we both know that. Hell, maybe I'll finally tell him."

"Because of..."

It again went unsaid, you weren't sure you could say it out loud either.

"How-" you cleared your throat, "-Do you know how long...?"

Maggie sighed -picking at the white comforter, "A few weeks at most, me and Glenn only caught onto it that long. But I don't... I don't know."

"How can I be so pissed-" you cried -tears burning the backs of your eyes, "-I don't deserve to be pissed. How would he even know?"

"Y/N, you can be pissed," she interrupted, wrapped your hands into hers, "-It's not just you. Everyone thought- You aren't delusional. He was... There was something."

"Apparently not," you retorted -bluntly.

"Don't," she frowned, getting something to wipe at your eyes, "-Don't do that to yourself, you couldn't have known better."

"I should've known better," you echoed out -sniffling, "-I'm so stupid. I told myself to n-"

The door swung open.

Rick stood there -less composed than you saw him before. You inwardly flinched at the notion of... before. His hair was a bit unruly like he'd been running his hands through it -he did that when he was worried. You knew that. His jacket (constable jacket) was tossed off, a frown creased on his lips and worry on his brow. He looked at you -unflinchingly.

"I thought I 'eard ya cryin'," he spoke, seemingly to confirm to himself, "-does it hurt? Do I need to go get some medicine? Doc said-"

"No," you interrupted -plainly, wiping at your eyes, "-I'm fine, Rick. Actually-"

You pulled yourself out from under the comforter, sitting up and scooting to the edge of the bed. It felt like you were suffocating in here -all you could smell was him, all you could see was him, all you could feel was him. It wasn't fair.

You needed some air, like now.

"-I'm gonna go home," you finished, looking to Maggie to help you get onto your feet (you were still a little dizzy).

"You can't-" he seemed to respond, in disbelief, "-You ain't supposed to be alone, right now. Doc said-"

"I'll go to Maggie's then," you offered -grabbing your shoes which were placed neatly by the bed. Something in you stung that he had thought to do that for you.

"Why?" He asked -genuine.

You wordlessly walked through the door past him -Maggie trailing you. You padded down the hallway, cursing the familiar walls -the baby toys scattered in the corner, the picture frames hung up on the wall, and the little trinkets from his time on the road.

"You'll tell me if the kids need me, yeah?" You spoke, finally -hand turning the doorknob.

"Will ya just talk to me?"

You stuttered in your step, you could feel Maggie behind you. Your heart twisting in your chest, you just wanted to go. But something in you stopped; god, you loved him so much. It wasn't fair.

"Fine," you answered -clipped, "-Maggie, give us a minute? I'll be over in a few."

She looked at you a moment, trying to see if she should leave maybe. Eyes darting over your face, reading your eyes -she seemed to be satisfied, "Okay."

You spun to Rick, taking a deep breath in through your nose.

"What do you want to talk about, Rick?"

He laughed -in disbelief, you could tell, "What do I wanna talk 'bout? Seriously? Like you don't know?"

You stared at him -wordlessly.

"Y/N," he started -stepping toward you, you almost immediately stepped back and he noticed, "-you fuckin' fainted, you're hurt. We don't even know why and now-"

"I know why," you interrupted.

He seemed to look at you in curiosity, "Why?"

"Haven't been eating," you lied with the ease of the wind.

He seemed to process that a second -concern flitting through his face before settling somewhere else, "'At's bullshit."

"How do you know-"

"You ate dinner at mine last night," he explained, "-an' ya cleaned your plate."

Shit.

"Look Rick," you mended, "-I really don't want to talk about it."

"Why?" He offered, and he stepped forward -you stepped back, "-and now you're... you're avoidin' me? What the hell happened? You were fine, yesterday-"

"Can we not get into this right now?" You interrupted again, "-My head hurts like hell, and I just want to go and rest, like I imagine I was told to do."

Rick leveled a look at you, "Why not 'ere? Why Maggie's? You're always 'round 'ere anyway-"

It slipped out before you could think about it -venomous, "And why do you think that is?"

He stuttered to a stop, "What?"

Regret spilled into your stomach, "Rick, let's not get into this. Seriously. I'm tired-"

"No, no," he echoed, "-you brought it up. What do ya mean? What are you talkin' 'bout?"

"I can't," you swallowed, tears burning the backs of your eyes, "-Rick, not now, okay?"

He looked at you surfing over your eyes, insistent, "Why are you 'round 'ere so often?"

"Rick-"

"I thought it was 'cause ya loved the kids," he listed, "-or 'cause we were friends. But you... 'Ere's another reason."

"Rick, I don't want to."

"Want to what?" He asked, something in his voice teetering, "-Tell me? Talk to me? We used to know everythin' 'bout each other, and now you're sayin'-"

Something in you snapped. You don't know if it was his tone, or the words, or the implication that you had been lying to him while he was so truthful to you-

"God, Rick," you nearly shouted, "-I'm in fucking love with you!"

Rick froze -unmoving. You couldn't even tell if he was breathing.

"Are you happy now?"

He didn't say a word.

"So, yeah. I have been lying to you," you hissed, "-if you wanted to put it that way. If you wanted to say that I'm an asshole for protecting myself, then yeah, I am."

Rick was much different in his stance now -gentle like you'd run at his first motion toward you, eyes flickering between so many things, "Y/N..."

"No," you spoke -steely, "-I'm not. We're not doing this. I already know..."

Your words trailed off, and you swallowed -pushing down the tears. You weren't going to cry now.

"I saw you with Jessie, okay?" you explained -something in your voice softer, fragile, hurt, "-So I know. It's why I fainted. I just... I wasn't expecting it."

"Y/N, I never-"

"Seriously, Rick," you nearly begged -your voice cracking, "-I know. You don't need to drag this out longer. Did you not hear me the first time?"

His mouth snapped shut, even though he looked like he had a lot to say. Words urging to be uttered from his lips. But he didn't say anything, maybe out of respect to you. You were grateful.

"I'll be back by later to see the kids," you echoed out -something in your voice hollow.

"Will ya just let me-"

"Just let me know when Judith's up, okay?" You interrupted, deflecting, "-I said I'd watch her today."

And with a final look (maybe your last ever full look at him), you walked out the door.

[storiesabouteli]

Sugar Hits. // Elijah Hewson X Reader! (Fluff)

request: maybe you could write something like reader supporting Eli at a concert or something. Like, he's nervous about playing the new songs (your house, eddie in the Darkness) because he doesn’t know if the fans will like them and reader just comforts him before and after the show.

words: 2K.

That wasn’t your first gig of theirs. By the end of their last tour, you were already close with Eli and had really started to enjoy that "rockstar girlfriend" side of things. You managed to enjoy them more, and it felt good to have them back. As you walked down the hallway, Bobby spotted you, greeting you in his usual down-to-earth manner. He pulled you into a quick hug that made you feel a little guilty—it had been a while since you’d seen him, even though you didn’t live that far from each other. You exchanged a few words, catching up on your lives briefly, but then he noticed your eyes wandering around the room and shared something that had been on your mind.

 "Eli's with Josh, sorting out something about the soundcheck," he said with a smile. You returned it, but it was a shy, almost embarrassed grin, worried that Bobby might think you weren’t paying attention.

 "It's all good; I bet he's missing you too," he teased, bumping his shoulder against yours before letting you know he had to go meet up with the others. Your cheeks flushed, and it was funny how, even though almost a year had passed since the last gig you’d attended, you still felt like an outsider. Not because they treated you that way—in fact, it was quite the opposite. They always made you feel welcome, part of it all. But you understood this was their moment, their time together.

 You waved at a few familiar faces as you made your way to a quieter balcony, finding solace in the semi-isolation. Eli always knew how overwhelming those spaces could be for you, especially after a long time. He always made sure his hotel room was organized with thoughtful touches—handpicked playlists, your favorite snacks—so you could have a retreat when the chaos got too much. This time was no different. He’d texted you the room number and even let the front desk know you'd be stopping by. If you didn’t already know that Eli needed you more this time than you needed a quiet place to recharge, you would’ve gone straight there. Usually, you’d take a short nap, listen to some good music, and breathe in his scent that lingered on the pillows, comforting you before heading back to watch him perform.

  “I thought you'd take longer.” His tone was sharper than usual, the words fading into the atmosphere, his voice growing weaker. His eyes, tired yet still shining with a soft light, were fixed on you as you sat with a cigarette in hand. The night before, you’d stayed on the phone with him until he finally fell asleep—though it took a while. Eli masked it well, the calm tone in his voice, the gentle look on his face, and eyebrows that showed no sign of concern. But you knew his chest was heavy with worry.

 That phone call had mostly been filled with quiet, just the comfort of having each other there. But he had briefly confessed his anxiety about singing the new songs, how his mind kept spiraling into everything that could go wrong. You knew him well, knew you could remind him how amazing he was and offer rational solutions, but he’d already tortured himself enough over the past week. So, instead, you listened, letting him pour it all out, hoping it would make him feel lighter, even though it was painful to hear someone you loved, someone so capable, talk that way about themselves and their work.

 "You're doing great, El," you had whispered, your own throat tight, fighting the urge to cry, praying he'd understood you, even though your voice had come out so softly. And here you were again, saying the same thing, in the same quiet tone, after a six-hour flight because of your work, as he rested his forehead against your shoulder and melted into your arms.

 His body was cold, muscles tense, and you wished this would all pass soon so he could see how well everything was going to turn out.

 "I need you."

 "Well, here I am, huh?" His back was resting against the balcony railing, legs spread slightly with you standing in front of him so that you were at eye level, close. Your fingers combed through his hair, which still held defined curls, and you peppered soft kisses on his cheek. He wasn’t one to easily show his emotions, but just having you there, all your gentle touches, made him feel better. He nodded as your delicate hands cupped his face, helping you see him more clearly. His tired eyes met yours, and you gave him a light smile, trying to lift his spirits. 

 "You've done this before, haven't you?" you teased him gently. His hands rested on your waist, pulling you closer. He tilted his head, wearing a stern expression, clearly weighing the situation in his mind. "I know, I'm being an id—" you cut him off, pressing your lips to his. Surprised, he gripped you tighter, but gradually relaxed as you felt the tension ease from his muscles, bit by bit. He kissed you back, a soft, relieved sigh escaping into the kiss.

 You squeezed his shoulder through his black leather jacket—a piece he’d only wear for show since he always took it off mid-gig. He made more room for you to deepen the kiss. You could taste your lip gloss, and he had the familiar hint of mint candy on his lips, but nothing compared to the warmth that filled you as his scent wrapped around you, making you feel at home. You pulled back slightly to look at him. His eyes were still closed, and he gave you a few more soft kisses. Before he could speak, you murmured, “Only I can talk like that about my boyfriend. Anyone else? Not a chance.” He laughed, more relaxed now, his cheeks and lips red.

 "Everything’s gonna be okay, El. You’ve done this before, and it went fine. You’re not going to disappoint anyone. Your fans are here because they love your work. I’m not dismissing how you feel, just saying you’re worrying over nothing, love." He nodded, and while it didn’t completely lift the weight from his shoulders, it felt like having that so-called voice of reason gently soothe his mind.

 "Can you stay visible today?" The tip of his nose was pink, and his curls nearly covered his caramel eyes in supplication, but you didn’t mind. You usually stayed to the side of the stage, not wanting to be in the way, but this time it was different. "Of course, I’ll be there." He smiled, grateful, pulling you into his chest and holding you even tighter. You nestled into him, knowing you’d stay like that for a good while, arms wrapped around his waist. It felt even better than being in his hotel room—it was perfect.

…

 Your back ached slightly, the exhaustion of just standing was starting to catch up. It had been a long flight, and you hadn't slept, but it was worth it. The lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and the thrill of seeing them live again was unmistakable. It was busier than last time, and it felt so good to see them getting the recognition they deserved. As the first chords played, the atmosphere was electric. Eli glanced at you every now and then, a warm smile on his face. You found yourself jumping and cheering for him, just like you did when you were beside the stage, though you always felt a bit embarrassed doing it in front of him. But it was impossible not to.

 The first new song started, the silence filling with Eli’s steady voice, and he kept looking at you more frequently. You reassured him with your gaze. It was your first time hearing the new tracks in their entirety—the lyrics, the instrumentation—and you were so proud of him. As the next few songs, also new, played, you could see him loosening up, interacting with the crowd even though they weren’t singing along. Everything went smoothly.

 As the show ended, a few fans stopped you on your way out. You felt a bit bad for standing in front of people who had paid to be there, so you made an effort to talk to them. It was awkward because their excitement was meant for Eli, and you weren’t as natural in these moments as he was. But you didn’t want to seem rude. They were enthusiastic, and you ended up asking what they thought so you could pass it along to him. They shared their love for the performance, and you told them it was your first time hearing the new songs too. It was a brief exchange, though your nerves made it feel longer.

 As the fans thinned, Eli eventually stepped in, taking their attention off you. He placed a hand on your back, sharing in their excitement as he spoke to them. He knew you’d disappear from the conversation if given the chance, and it always amused him—he understood. You loved how attentive he and the band were in moments like this, always so considerate. You hated the thought of interrupting his time with fans, so you stood back, watching him chat and take photos, all smiles and joy.

 He had been so nervous he hadn’t slept, but seeing him like this, radiant and confident, you knew he was being ridiculous. He was perfect.

…

 You found yourself distracted, chatting with Lewis while waiting for the boys to come back so you could head to the hotel. The room filled with laughter as Eli's arms suddenly wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground and giving you a playful scare. You turned to face him, and there he was, beaming as if he had never been worried at all, and you threw your arms around him as he picked you up again.

 "I'm so proud of you. It was amazing," you whispered just for him. His eyes sparkled, hair now a mess. He was drenched in sweat, his white tank top almost transparent. "I love you so much, you know that?" he said, his voice softer than usual. You nodded, feeling the warmth rush to your cheeks. Then, he rubbed his damp hair against your face, making you laugh out loud, which made him laugh too. There was never any doubt he loved you—it wasn’t something he said all the time, but when he did, it filled you with buzzing bubbles.

 "Do I know this one?" he teased, running his fingers over the buttons of your brown vest that matched your boots. He’d noticed your outfit during the gig, appreciating that you always made an effort for their shows. It was something casual and routine for him, and now for you too. You could’ve easily shown up in something more comfortable, and he wouldn’t mind—he’d understand, especially since you’d come straight from the airport. But the fact that you took the time to choose something, thinking about what to wear and anticipating the gig, meant a lot to him. Even after seeing them live so many times, you still made it special.

 "I got it a few weeks ago," you replied, happy he noticed. "Saved it for tonight. Figured it deserved something special." He chuckled, resting his hand on your waist as he gave you a little twirl. "Your eyes too," he said, cupping your cheeks for a closer look. "You’re stunning." He stared at your black eyeliner.

 You smiled, closing your eyes as his thumb traced gentle circles on your jaw. "I told you," you whispered, bringing the conversation back to earlier. He kissed your nose, then your lips, finally accepting your words of wisdom. You let out a yawn, and he followed suit, making you laugh again. "You did, but it’s a good reason to have you here with me," he said, pulling you closer as you both made your way to the car.

 He couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel either, to shower with you, to crawl into bed, and fall asleep wrapped up in your arms. "I’ll always be here, El."

[writeyouin]

Hello, for holiday fics, can i request MTMTE Bots X Reader Headcanons where its Christmas time and there's a gift exchange? Thank you!

MTMTE Bots X Reader - Gift Exchange

A/N - A-All of them?! There's… That's a lot of bots. Imma just pick a few, then if anyone wants more you can just ask me for them.

Warnings - None

Rating - T

Swerve

Swerve is far too nervous for this.

It's your first Christmas aboard the ship, and he is determined to confess his love for you. Like, he has spent every last second planning this for months.

Now that it's time though, he thinks he might purge his tanks.

What if you don't like his gift? Worse, what if you reject him? He knows you won't be mean about it, but... he doesn't want to spend his life without you. He really loves you, and nothing terrifies him more than his own feelings.

Still, here is the moment. You've given him your gift.

It was a crocheted blanket, so he'll be comfy on movie nights. When did you have time to make this? Oh wow. He presses the material to his face. It's so soft, and if he takes in some air, it smells like you. Of course it does... You've clearly spent ages making it.

Swerve hugs you and he holds on for a few seconds too long. You laugh amiably, and make a joke about being Christmas crushed.

Finally, he lets you go and bashfully presents you with his gift. It isn't wrapped very well. It must have been difficult for him, since it's relatively small. You can see where the tape has come up a few times, stripping the paper of some of its colour. All this just makes you smile more.

You tear open the gift, and it's a datapad, specially made to be human-sized. You flick on the screen and find that it's filled with music, in a specially arranged playlist.

Admittedly, Swerve doesn't know a whole lot about Earth music. He's more into TV and movies, but he knows how much you love music, so he really tried with this.

Moreover, the first word of each song creates a message, and it is a long message. It's a confession. You might have missed it, had the first word of each song not been highlighted.

You take a while to read what's written. Meanwhile, Swerve is stuck in limbo, feeling entirely sick. Part of him wants to snatch the datapad back and laugh it off like it was all a mistake or a stupid joke. Instead, he waits, trying to stop his servos from shaking by resting them on his thighs.

When you've finished reading his confession, you let your thumb glide over the first song, hitting play.

You smile, get to your feet, and approach Swerve.

"I love it," You say quietly.

Then, you kiss him.

At first, Swerve is completely taken aback. Then, his hands find their way around your back and he's holding you close, your first kiss to Nat King Cole's 'The Very Thought of You.'

Rung

Rung didn't actually want gifts. The only thing he asked for was an evening alone with you.

Normally, he's so busy with his patients, and everyone always wants time with the ship's only human, usually so they can ask you questions and place bets on what the answer will be - Rodimus is still pissed that he lost 100 shanix when you were asked what a colander was (Sufficed to say, his answer wasn't kitchen utensil for draining water).

So, that's exactly how you spend Christmas Eve with Rung. You're sat in his lap, laid back on the sofa while he reads to you from a book you chose.

His fingers gently glide over your head - You feel safe with Rung - loved - and you know that he feels the same when he's with you.

Despite that, you did get him a gift, and little do you know, he's got you one too. They will both wait for tomorrow however, as you relax into one another, with no obligation to anyone else.

The next day, you wake up atop the berth, and realise that you must have fallen asleep when Rung was reading and that he has carried you to bed.

Yet, he isn't there with you. You're just getting up when you hear him humming. Your shared hab-suite isn't like the others on the ship - it's the only one wherein the rooms are separate as if to recreate a normal Earth apartment.

So, upon getting up to explore, you find Rung in the kitchen - He's never been in here before, except when he's looking for you.

This is his gift and his surprise. He knows how much time you always put into cooking, and unfortunately, there's nobody else who could ever cook for you, which he has been led to believe is a normal part of human relationships and something most humans are grateful for.

It took a while to research the recipes, and even more time to find out what ingredients could be substituted. Moreover, Rung has spent months practising this, between meetings, and now, he's rather good at it - he always was good at following instructions and handling delicate objects.

So, your Christmas brunch is courtesy of Rung, and you make sure to tell him how delicious everything is, kissing him afterwards so he might get a taste of the wonderful meal he's made as his arms wrap around you and he presses you against the dining table.

Later, after a long, and frankly heated make-out session, you present him with his gift. It's a model ship of the only one missing from his collection - the Lost Light itself. His eyes light up when he sees it, all ready to be put together.

That afternoon, the two of you sit together and start building the miniature, all while listening to Christmas music which plays serenely in the background.

Megatron

Megatron is staring at you quite intensely. If you weren't used to him, you might think he was glaring at you.

Still, you feel like you might have done something wrong or that he hates your gift to him. It was after all, rather personal, and Megatron isn't a huge fan of PDA.

The gift in question was a song. As it turned out, Nautica was something of a musical prodigy, so with her help, you had written a song about Megatron - She had composed the tune, while you wrote the lyrics.

You assumed that by involving another bot, Megatron felt exposed; it was entirely possible that he didn't like the idea of someone else singing about him or your relationship with him.

You couldn't be further from the truth.

The truth of the matter was that Megatron loved the song. You had poured your very soul into it, and it was so much more than he could have asked for.

... And in return, he had gotten you a gift basket. Soaps, shampoos, lotions - His research had led him to believe this was the social norm on Earth. He couldn't give you that now!

How would that look? You had given him a piece of your soul, and he got you L'oriel "because you're worth it."

No. It wasn't good enough.

"Excuse me a moment, I need to retrieve something from my hab-suite," Megatron said coolly, before leaving you.

You deflated, feeling that all was lost, especially since Megatron took a good thirty minutes to return.

Yet, when he came back, he held out a datapad for you, mumbling an apology that it wasn't wrapped.

You swallowed nervously when he wouldn't meet your eye, and then you took the present reverently.

You flicked on the screen and found it open in a folder - "(Y/N)'s Poetry."

There were well over a hundred entries, all of them dedicated to you.

'The Radiance of a Smile', 'Promises of Forever', and 'Forgiveness of the Past', were just a few at the top of the list. Even more surprising was the fact that a great many of them were written before the two of you began dating. When you looked at the earlier entries, you saw how Megatron's feelings towards you had come about and evolved into something more.

You were speechless, yet on your face, Megatron was pleased to see that you knew how he felt for you, and that your love for him was just as much of a weight, though it was one you were glad to bear.

[corviiids]

ok here is a playlist about light yagami

| light | no surprises - radiohead // | the death note | uprising - muse // boulevard of broken dreams - green day // | misa amane | starlight - muse // | ryuga hideki | do you want me (dead?) - all time low // | memory | i love you - woodkid // | the death note ii | NOSE BLEED - stand atlantic, sueco // you're gonna go far, kid - the offspring // when your heart stops beating - +44 // dead! - my chemical romance // wake me up when september ends - green day // | yagami | mama - my chemical romance // disarm - the smashing pumpkins // father and son - yusuf / cat stevens

also on youtube

(thoughts and context under the cut)

no surprises - light's nihilism and disillusionment pre-kira - without the death note i think light would have gone down this line faster.

A heart that's full up like a landfill A job that slowly kills you Bruises that won't heal You look so tired, unhappy Bring down the government

uprising; boulevard of broken dreams - self-explanatory i feel

Rise up and take the power back It's time the fat cats had a heart attack You know that their time's coming to an end

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me 'Til then I walk alone

starlight - misa towards light

Far away from the memories Of the people who care if I live or die ... My life You electrify my life Let's conspire to ignite All the souls that would die just to feel alive

do you want me (dead?) - light and L's early rivalry and interactions in college are largely exploratory, simultaneously more and less openly hostile, still cautious and uncertain where they stand with each other.

There's no such thing as a perfect crime Don't play that You've said it enough Cause you want me Or you want me dead

i love you - self-indulgent haha i couldn't resist. takes place in a similar continuity to my fic where light and L start a fake relationship for the investigation but when light briefly thinks it's real after he loses his memories. i think canonically light is too irritated with L's poor moral compass to develop true feelings for him even during this arc, but i do think it's reasonable to think light might develop a bit of a puppy crush and a desire for L's attention lol. simultaneously it's kinda a bit of L at kira.

Is there anything I could do Just to get some attention from you? In the waves I've lost every trace of you Where are you?

NOSE BLEED - i think this is the most lawlight song ever. (this also made me think of a couple of my fics.) after light gets his memories back i think his attachment to L transforms into a bit of disgust directed both at himself and L

I'd rather be lonely and hate myself Than someone you think about ... So this is what you get For messin' with my head Don't wanna end up dead (Dead) Six feet in the ground

you're gonna go far, kid - nobody wants to hear that this song is about light yagami but it is. lowkey this is L to light while those bells are ringing

There's something in your way And now someone is gonna pay And if you can't get what you want Well it's all because of me Now dance, fucker, dance Man, I never had a chance And no one even knew It was really only you

when your heart stops beating; dead! - self-explanatory and victorious in a hysterical about to start crying way

I'll be there when your heart stops beating I'll be there when your last breath's taken away In the dark when there's no one listening In the times when we both get carried away

Have you heard the news that you're dead? No one ever had much nice to say I think they never liked you anyway Oh, take me from the hospital bed Wouldn't it be grand? It ain't exactly what you planned

wake me up when september ends - listen i concede this one doesn't make a ton of sense but i've included it because the vibes work for me. something something a melancholy coming back to the self, a rude and painful awakening after a loss of innocence you cant run from. look over there, a distraction

The innocent can never last ... Here comes the rain again Falling from the stars Drenched in my pain again Becoming who we are

mama; disarm - light to his family, to the world, a manic little soliloquy

Stop asking me questions, I'd hate to see you cry Mama, we're all gonna die And when we go, don't blame us, yeah We'll let the fires just bathe us, yeah You made us oh, so famous ... You should've raised a baby girl, I should've been a better son

I used to be a little boy So old in my shoes And what I choose is my choice What's a boy supposed to do? The killer in me is the killer in you

father and son - are you ever just so god damn sad about the yagamis.

FATHER I was once like you are now, and I know that it's not easy To be calm when you've found something going on ... SON Keeping all the things I knew inside It's hard But it's harder to ignore it

[elliesflower]

i saw you in a dream [6]

chapter 5 here

summary; you get in your head about ellie and cat.

chapter; 6/? 2.5k words

cw (per chapter); language, light angst

an; SURPRISE SHAWTY

it's my birthday but i felt like giving y'all a gift. you all make my days so special and put a smile on my face with your sweet comments and messages. i love you all with my whole heart!

find this chapter on ao3 here, i also made a spotify playlist to go with this story, listen to it here :)

“Cat,” you repeated her name, with a smile. But it felt like poison rolling off your tongue. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she smiled back, and her teeth were fucking perfect, bleached white and practically sparkling in the soft ambient lighting in the theatre. It sounded insincere, somehow. 

“So, Ellie,” Cat was back to talking to Ellie as if you didn’t exist, turning away from you so that you could gaze at her super angular jawline and dreamy slick black hair as it gently brushed her shoulders. Ellie shot you a quick look that you couldn’t quite decipher—it’s not like Cat would have noticed though, she was too busy tugging at the hem of Ellie’s flannel. You quickly averted your eyes, backing away slowly, scanning the room for Dina. Wishing desperately that the earth would just open up and swallow you whole. Their conversation suddenly seemed…personal. 

“I was thinking tonight I’d take you out to dinner, my treat! Your set was amazing,” she was purring. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” and if she had a tail it would be sticking straight up in the air, curling at the tip and pulling Ellie in. You glanced back at Ellie, who didn’t look at you, and instead looked down and grabbed Cat’s hand from her flannel. You turned all the way around now, swallowing the lump in your throat. 

But Ellie sang your song. Your song? The two of you had hung out one time. You can’t have a song with someone after one hang out, can you? It’s a pretty popular song, and easy enough for a quick performance. Yeah. Your brain tried to piece it all together, drowning out Ellie and Cat’s voices behind you, maybe if you squeezed your eyes shut you could just pretend you were somewhere far, far away, not making a fool of yourself in front of a pretty girl you thought might like you too. 

“Dude, we gotta go, my chem professor just saw me and he’s gonna rip me a new one for missing my final,” Dina appeared practically out of thin air, like a goddamn angel, and grabbed your arm, tugging harshly. You opened your eyes, blinking at her. 

“Wait, you skipped your chemistry final?” 

“What? It’s not like I was gonna pass anyways,” she shook her head at you like it was obvious. 

“Oh. Yeah, okay, whatever,” you sounded dejected. You felt dejected. You probably looked it, too. Dina glanced behind you, presumably at whatever disgusting form of PDA was occurring between Ellie and Cat, based on the change in her expression.

“Who the fuck-” 

“It doesn’t matter,” you cut her off, starting towards the door. “Let’s just go.”

It was stupid. This was stupid. Of course Ellie would end up with a person like Cat. Girls like Ellie don’t go for people like…you. People like Cat always have the upperhand—their features the pinnacle of modern beauty standards, voices like a slow dripping faucet of saccharine honey, a presence that captivates the room in an instant. There was no competing with that. They always win. 

“Hey,” Dina’s voice was laced with concern, and she was by your side in an instant, matching your stride as you practically stomped towards the exit. You tried to blink away the tears that slightly clouded your vision. “What happened back there?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you said, not looking at her. You could feel her gaze piercing into the side of your head, and could envision her brows pinched together with worry. 

“C’mon, just tell me. Who was that?” 

“It was no one,” you grumbled, blinking rapidly now, fighting the burning behind your eyes. 

“Well ‘no one’ sure had some fucking audacity to-”

“Audacity to what, Dina?” You stopped dead in your tracks, turning to face her. She looked at you with wide eyes. “I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Your tone was harsh. You felt it, as it painted Dina’s face with dispirit, the corners of her mouth turning downward slightly. Instantly, you regretted it. 

“Okay. I’ll leave it,” she forced a smile, but you couldn’t say anything else, just stuck dead in your tracks as you looked at her, unmoving. Blinking. Why the fuck are you blinking so much?

“Seriously, it’s okay,” she said after a moment, but her voice sounded a little shaky, and you felt like shit. How did Ellie get into your head like this? 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you burst, the pressure behind your eyes turning into a waterfall, spilling from your eyes as you covered them with your hands, shaking your head. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just…a lot.” 

“Hey, I said it’s okay,” Dina assured, and her voice made you want to cry even harder—she was so good to you, grabbing your hands away from your face and leading you further down the hall, away from the people that were trickling out of the theater. “I’m sorry for pressuring you. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Ever.” 

“No, it’s not that,” you sniffed, letting her lead you out the main entrance. “I do want to tell you, it’s just…frustrating,” you sighed, exasperated as the cold hit your face and pricked your skin through the holes of your sweater. 

“I get it,” she nodded. 

“I can’t believe I thought I actually had a chance with her,” you moped, wiping the wetness from under your eyes. Dina was quiet next to you as you walked, though she looked deep in thought, watching the ground as the two of you walked. She led you all the way to a bench just outside of your dorm building without saying another word. You watched your breath turn to fog as you sat, instinctively pressing against Dina to share body heat. 

You felt shameful. Both for that terrible interaction with Ellie, and for snapping at Dina. You wished you had never even gone to that open mic, that you had just said you were sick like you’d proposed to Dina a few hours before when the nerves were settling in—you supposed you should have listened to your gut. 

“That was her roommate. Cat,” and yep, the name was still venomous. Dina looked at you, silently prodding you to continue. You looked down at your hands, rubbing them together in your lap. 

“Apparently, they ‘go way back,’” you made air quotes. “Wednesday, when she invited me to this, she mentioned something about a toxic ex. I have a feeling it’s her. Although she kind of acts more like they’re currently together.”

Dina watched you for another moment, before turning away, looking down at her feet. She was silent for a moment, and you wanted to scream. Even Dina, the queen of advice, had nothing to say to you. Lovely. 

“I’m sorry, but if Ellie doesn’t see what she could have with you then she’s fucking stupid,” she blurted suddenly, and she was no longer sad, but angry. You looked at her, and she was shaking her head, looking out into the empty courtyard.

“Dina, it’s really okay,” you said, but your voice was small and unconvincing. 

“No, I’m serious,” she said. “That was fucked up. And I’m sorry.”

You looked back down at your hands. 

“It’s okay,” it didn’t sound like it. “It was just a crush. I’ll get over it.” Dina kept her eyes on you, watching as you bounced your knee anxiously. 

Just a crush. Hah. Okay. 

“Do you want to go inside?” Dina asked after a beat. Yeah, you were fucked. 

“I think I’m gonna hang out down here for a minute. I could use the fresh air,” you said quietly. 

“Fresh air? Dude, it’s fucking freezing out here, you’re going to catch a cold or something,” Dina chided, before standing up. “God, you’re making me sound like a mom.”

“I’m really okay, Dee,” you tried to smile, but it felt awkward on your otherwise solemn face. “I’ll walk around a bit. I’ll be fine.” She looked at you for another moment with pursed lips, before nodding slightly. 

“Turn your ringer up, yeah?” 

You nodded, accepting her warm hug, gratefully. Ironically, you thought, she also kind of hugged like a mom. 

You regretted not going in with her about thirty seconds into your walk. It was kind of hard to think about anything but the bitter cold stinging your cheeks—though, you supposed, that was kind of a good thing. Maybe the freeze would seep into your brain and ruin the part of your brain responsible for holding onto memory of Ellie. Kind of pathetic, huh?

“Are you out here all alone?” 

You nearly stumbled over nothing, flinching when a voice startled you out of your thoughts, turning quickly to the sound. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

“Ellie,” you breathed, your eyes widening, your heart rate increasing by the second. She adorned a tan Carhartt coat now, her hands stuffed in her pockets, and she looked a whole lot warmer than you felt. You swallowed thickly, unsure of what else to say. So much for forgetting about her. 

“You disappeared,” she spoke for you, kicking her foot against the ground softly. Nervously.

“Yeah,” you said lamely. She nodded for a second, before looking down at her feet. You wanted to run away. 

“What are you-”

“I just wanted to-”

Both of you tried to speak at the same time. You immediately crossed your arms across your chest, partially for warmth, mostly because you felt really fucking awkward. 

“Uh, go ahead,” she gestured at you to continue speaking. 

“Oh, I, uh- was just going to ask…uh, what you were doing. Out here,” you stammered a bit, trying to gauge her expression. Fuck, she was hard to read. 

“Well, my house is that way,” she pointed behind you. “So, I gotta walk…this way…” she trailed off, scratching the back of her neck awkwardly. 

“Right,” you nodded, shivering slightly as a breeze swept between the two of you. You didn’t really want to hear what she was going to say. 

“Are you cold?” She asked, eyes suddenly soft. 

“Well I’m not exactly warm,” you quipped, but it didn’t have much weight to it. The corner of Ellie’s mouth twitched up slightly, but her face remained neutral. 

“Do you want to come over?” 

You felt faint. You felt like crying. You felt like saying no. You felt like saying yes. But you couldn’t say anything, so you just nodded instead. 

Ellie gave you her jacket, after weak protest. It smelled like how your tent does on a warm summer night in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the stars and the peaceful whisper of wind through the trees—also like weed, and that amber aroma that seemed to be trapped in her pores. 

She didn’t say a single word to you, after that. Just walked, wordlessly beside you on the familiar path to her house. You tried to regulate your breathing, tried to push aside the questions that ran through your brain like, why is Ellie here, walking me to her house when she could be having dinner with Cat? And also, where is Cat? 

Ellie’s house smelled exactly as you remembered it, though, the scent was mildly soured when you suddenly remembered that Cat lived here, too. The warm air against your cold skin made you shiver slightly as you shrugged off Ellie’s coat in the entryway—of course, she was by your side in an instant, grabbing it from you before throwing it over the rack. It was still silent as the two of you kicked off your shoes, before Ellie turned to look at you. 

“Do you want to go upstairs?” You weren’t sure why she was asking you. You were already shoe-less, in her entryway. 

“Lead the way,” you found yourself saying. Just like the first time. 

Ellie’s room still smelled the same, too. Earthy and rich, dreamy and intoxicating. You felt high already. Your brain was spinning, your heart racing, your hands slightly shaky. Ellie sat down on the edge of her bed, leaving plenty of room for you—if you ever stopped hovering near the door. 

“You can sit, you know,” Ellie said after a moment, smiling softly at you. An invitation. You swallowed. What the fuck are you doing here? 

But then you were sitting, next to her, just this close to touching her leg with your own. You didn’t look at her. It felt like middle school. It felt exciting. It felt so fucking confusing. 

“So, I thought you were going to dinner with Cat. What happened?” Your mouth was moving before your brain could stop you, and Ellie practically flinched at your words. She regained herself quickly, though.

“Oh, I didn’t really want to go out. I’m just a little tired,” she said, pulling her legs up onto the bed and crossing them beneath her.

“If you’re tired then what am I doing here?” You asked. Her eyes widened a bit.

“Well, I mean- I’m not that tired, I just- didn’t want to go out anywhere, you know?” 

No, you didn’t really. 

“Yeah,” you said instead. She was getting harder to read by the second. You shrunk back a bit, drawing your legs up onto the bed and leaning against the headboard opposite of Ellie. The pause hung heavy, nearly tangible between your bodies.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, looking down at her lap. You watched a loose strand of hair fall into her face, and her nose scrunched up. You wanted to brush it away, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath your palm as you caressed her face—

“For what?” You asked, even though you kind of knew. 

“For Cat,” she said quietly. 

“What about her?” 

“She can be kind of…a lot.”

“Is she your girlfriend?” You asked, like you were entitled to that information. Like you’d hung out more than once. 

“No, she’s not.” Ellie was quick to deny, looking back up at you now. Her eyes sparkled in the soft yellow lamplight cascading upon her face. Your throat felt tight. You nodded, pulling your knees into your chest. 

“She used to be.” Ah, there it is. 

“And now she’s your…”

“Roommate.”

“Right.”

Just the other day, Ellie had said she knows all about toxic exes. You didn’t think that meant she literally lived with one. What are you doing here?

“She’s just my roommate, I swear,” she was insistent, leaning forward, trapping you in her gaze. You nodded again. You weren’t sure why she was repeating herself. You glanced at the clock behind her on her desk, which read 10:32pm.

“It’s getting late,” you said weakly, knowing fully well you’d be up until three am. Ellie’s face fell, just slightly. 

“You just got here,” she said, though she wasn’t being much of a great host. 

“You said you were tired.”

“Yeah, but I- well-” she stuttered, picking at her cuticles. 

“It’s okay,” you were saying, though you didn’t know why. It didn’t feel very okay. As soon as your feet hit the ground she was standing up as well, one hand awkwardly snaking into her back pocket as she took a deep breath. 

“I’ll walk you back to your dorm?” She offered. 

“It’s okay. I’ll have Dina meet me somewhere.” You won’t even text her. Ellie didn’t say anything, but she nodded, giving you a smile. 

It didn’t reach her eyes.

[naomihatake]

In search of freedom (Ch. 7)

7. What do you wish for?

⠀⠀➺ fic masterlist

⠀⠀➺ Chapter 6 ; Chapter 7 ; Chapter 8

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's been searching for freedom her entire life and everytime she thought it was laying right in front of her eyes, she was mistaken. She was running around the East Blue, seeking herself and her dreams, meeting people she never forgot. No matter how much she traveled, she could only catch a glimpse of peace before realizing everything would crumble at her feet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe it was destiny that brought her on that ship with three strangers — foolishly, that's what she tried to believe when the moon shined beautifully and hope settled in her chest, squeezed by the same ribcage where feelings were blooming.

Pairing: female!reader x OPLA Zoro Roronoa

Warnings for this chapter: angst, graphic depictions of deaths and fatal wounds, self-harm, brief suicidal mention, canon-typical violence, tiny bit comfort at the end

Word count: 8,4 k

Theme song: fic spotify playlist (click on the link)

A/N: I'm glad I could finish the chapter so early and there are some scenes in here that I really loved writing. Also, I want you to pay close attention to the fight Witch has with the fishman. The anime watchers and manga readers that got far enough with One Piece will probably get it faster ;)

I'd be happy to hear your opinions on this chapter. Every interaction is appreciated and thank you so much for sticking to this story till now <3

The reader is referred to as "Witch" because I have no intentions of using "Y/N".

"What is your dream?"

While she would've rather expected that question to come from Luffy, the tipsy Zoro by her side, leaned against the mast, seemed to be rather intrigued by her reasons to remain with Luffy. 

When she turned her head towards him, one of her suppositions was proved to be right: the stars above shone beautifully, but nothing could compare to the swordsman's brown eyes. In the dark, his dark chocolate irises were swallowed by pupils dark as the depths of the oceans. No. Dark and beautiful as the night sky she teared her gaze away from. 

Her silence could've been interpreted in many ways and Zoro might become suspicious, but his already flushed state seemed to swallow everything in. He only looked back at her. 

The witch couldn't exactly spot the specific aura of his gaze. He wasn't only flushed because of the alcohol, no. He seemed… soft, even. His shoulders were relaxed and the grip on the empty bottle loosened up. 

His question was simply something she didn't expect, as he was always down to earth, similarly to Nami. However, there was a tiny difference — he proudly admitted he wanted to become the strongest swordsman in the world. 

"I—," the word left her lips like a mere whisper. 

Her determination faltered under the weight of the alcohol. Until that moment, after sharing some ugly parts of her past, his remarks made her laugh and chuckle happily. 

"I want to be free."

One simple wish that could have so many connotations. 

"I don't see any rope around your wrists."

His voice was like a low rumble coming from the depths of his chest, such a pleasant and soothing sound. 

Their eye contact didn't break. Their gazes were locked together and she couldn't bring herself to be mad about it, especially when she was drunk enough to let vulnerable sides of her poor soul see the light of the stars. 

Faint, shy, but it was there. 

"I want to be free from myself and the expectations everyone has of me," she clarified. "Free from the rules of the world, written or unwritten. Free from the Marines that are now on my tail."

"Why did you become a pirate if you wanted to be free from the Navy?" 

"The sea always looked like a place where I could be free," she admitted with a weak voice. The same tiny voice her younger self used to have when dreaming of a future. 

Zoro knitted his eyebrows together and blinked, staring at the small beauty mark on her face he just noticed. He seemed deep in thought or rather trying to figure out the meaning of her words. 

He was rarely so concentrated outside of critical situations like fights. 

"Are you free now, then?" 

With a gulp, she shook her head. 

"No." 

One word. One heavy weight on her soul. 

"How do you wanna be free?" came another question from the swordsman. 

"I have no clue."

The cage around her was a metaphor. She always felt like iron bars squeezed her tighter and tighter, until she broke down, a situation that occurred only a few times a year and was always hidden from prying eyes. 

Realistically, there was no free place in that world. The Marine wasn't by any means as righteous as they wanted to look like and they were certainly not saviors. Of course, there were plenty of pirates that did nothing else but harm everyone and everything they laid eyes on. Some of them had ugly souls, dark and dirtied by greed. 

However, there were plenty of people that were so-called pirates and yet never harmed unless they had to protect someone. Like Luffy or Usopp. They never took anyone's life. 

Like her father. 

She wasn't one of those pirates. The witch has killed people, even if never solely for blood thirst. Or, at least, not yet. She deserved to die, to never see the light of a new day. 

A personal justice system — that's what she's always had, that's what she grew to learn about from the crew she left barely a year ago. 

Deep down, she knew she would never be free. There was no liberty for a monster. 

When she looked at Zoro, she also wanted him to taste freedom on his tongue. Maybe he already knew what that felt like. 

If she couldn't find her own freedom, she could settle for protecting her friends' freedom. That would be more than enough, right? 

"Aren't you at fault for your own lack of freedom?" Zoro pulled her out of her thoughts. 

His question might've sounded as insensitive and accusing, but she was aware the swordsman didn't mean it that way. He always had his own way with words and, unfortunately, he got misinterpreted most of the time. 

He was simply stating a probable truth. 

Then I suppose I should get rid of my—

No. There was no time to think of such things, even if she was drunk and vulnerable. Admitting that to his face would be shameful of her. 

Maybe she wasn't that ready to share secrets yet, was she? 

"I most probably am," the witch whispered as she averted her eyes back to the sky splattered with stars. "At the end of the day, I'm the only one taking into account what others say and how they affect me." 

She didn't know exactly how to pursue freedom, but she was certain of something else: if that beautiful future stood in front of her, Zoro was probably one of the ways to find out. 

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

The witch wasn't able to find freedom if she died at that moment, with the blue hand of a fishman gripping at her throat. There was a lingering ache at the crown of her head from when he pushed her against the wall. 

Her eyes squeezed shut while life seemed to slip from her hold, the same way her fingers lost their force while clutching onto the fishman's forearm. She had to find a way to get out of there, to breathe, because her lungs were already begging for some oxygen. Her vision was getting blurry and the pain in her entire throat spread like fire through her body. 

Maybe it was because of her hyper-aware state, but she could swear the wound on her bicep was bloody again considering the sharp pain shooting through her arm. 

No. There was no time to die and beg for forgiveness — and whose forgiveness could she ask for if she stays alive? Exactly. No one's. 

The witch didn't know if she breathed in air or it just felt awfully familiar to that sensation, but her lungs suddenly swallowed something fresh and powerful. It ate the pain hungrily, destroying every doubt in her mind the more she thought of her promises, of the corpse of a father who still whispered in her dreams "go find your freedom".

The grip on the fishman's arm grew tighter, stronger, until her nails dug into the scales and penetrated them. Her fingers ached, the skin around her nails scratched harshly by the sharp broken scales. Fresh blood surfaced. 

Her eyes opened up slowly, burning with each one of her promises, this time including her own — If I can't find freedom, I'll make it. 

Every nerve in her body burnt and she tasted drugs on the tip of her tongue, an addiction threatening to clutch onto her and take control. 

Power. 

The witch has never been one to love power, to ache for it and yet, there she was, with a devil-like grin growing on her face. 

Power. 

It ate her alive and she loved that sensation. The steadiness of her heartbeats, the cage of ribs that broke to make place for that overwhelming feeling. 

Power will never take control of me. 

Her eyes bore holes through the fishman's entire being. There was no need for her revolver when two shining irises had the same effect. 

Her vision and mind has never been clearer. 

The fishman was struck. A weight settled on his shoulders, pulling him down, doubts flickering in his head. 

Claws sank into his eyes, into his face and throat, clutching at his heart, threatening to pull it out of his chest. 

The fishman stumbled and dropped her. 

His strong grip on her throat left blooming red marks. They were ugly and her neck felt tender, but her nerves didn't register the pain properly because of the adrenaline running through her veins. 

The witch immediately took the opportunity, despite the lack of air in her lungs. She crouched down to take her gun, but before she could shoot again, a loud sound got her attention. 

The door of the restaurant broke at the floor underneath her when Luffy got thrown right into it by Arlong.

On the side of the stairs where Usopp crawled down was Sanji struggling to get back up after he cracked his back at the harsh contact with a table. 

People were hiding under chairs and bars from the fishmen's wrath. 

Her anger was fueled by each single detail. One of her shoulders felt light, while the other was heavy. The monster lurking inside her had one eye open — the same one that pushed her to cuss out Mihawk back when Zoro got a cut through his chest. The same monster she wouldn't trade anything for, because wrath has always been her forte. 

The small flame of revenge started burning in the pits of her stomach. Steadily. Still vague, easy to control. 

She ran down the stairs and passed by Usopp, who was at that moment helping Sanji get on his feet. The witch got out of Baratie, suddenly stopping in her tracks when she saw Arlong standing a few meters in front of her. 

That fucker—

Luffy shouted something along the lines of Gum Gum and she knew that was his fight to deal with. 

However, it was a fight she didn't know if he would win at that time, considering the way Arlong only turned his head to the side when he got punched in the face by Luffy's fists. The fishman spat blood on the wooden floor while he stepped closer and closer to the Straw Hat. 

In a fraction, the punch Luffy received sent him flying in the sails of a boat and he fell down with a thud, grunting. It was stupid of him to provoke Arlong further, but Luffy has never been to give up or let his enemies feel the satisfaction of a victory without a proper fight. 

The witch wondered if her captain didn't break a rib or two after being punched and thrown around for so long. He still had the energy to throw his fists into Arlong's face with all he's got, using his rubber arms to attack from meters away. 

His Devil Fruit powers were definitely the only reason why he was alive. 

But not for much longer. 

Arlong muttered something with a growl and once he sank his hand in the water, the witch knew it wasn't going to end well. 

The fishman didn't just splash Luffy; no, he soaked the Straw Hat to the bone and the hit with both sea water and brute force got Luffy to the ground. It was his biggest weakness. 

The witch's eyes widened when she saw Arlong grabbing at Luffy's shirt and lifting him in the air, opening his mouth to reveal razor-sharp teeth. 

Her feet carried her for only a second and she almost shouted out for Luffy out of despair — she would rather be stabbed in the stomach countless times than feel helpless again. Out of instinct, the hand holding the gun raised, aiming at—

"Arlong, wait!" 

Nami. 

The witch snapped her head towards her friend. 

The orange-haired woman stomped her feet and came, leaving the Going Merry behind her. The tank-top she wore exposed a strange old tattoo on her left shoulder. She was clutching tightly onto a thin and long cylinder. 

"I have it," she addressed Arlong. "I have the map." 

The map. 

"I got it for you, just like I said I would."

The witch blinked away the confusion that almost made her hazy and stepped in front of Nami, stopping her from moving forward. 

"Nami," the witch knitted her eyebrows together. "What's going on?" 

Nami's eyes held no clear emotion besides a flicker of anger. 

"Exactly what you knew all along."

It was one of those times when the witch wished her tarot was wrong. 

She shook her head, one of her hands gripping at Nami's wrist. 

"Nami," the witch squeezed her friend's hand tighter, scared it would slip from between her fingers. 

"Let go."

Nami snatched her arm out of the witch's hold and her jaw ticked. She wasn't only annoyed, there had to be more in her eyes. 

"You cannot possibly tell me you want to do this," the witch insisted, stepping even closer, until she was one breath away from the navigator. 

Their intense gazes clashed together and none of them let the walls fall. 

"But here I am, ain't I?" Nami cocked an eyebrow. 

When the orange-haired passed by, her shoulder collided harshly with the witch's who was still stuck in place. 

No fucking way. 

The witch needed time to think, she had to search for some clarification with her tarot cards. She needed more time to read the energy, to figure out the situation, to understand what, where, why and when. Nothing made sense and time passed by so fast she couldn't even process it all. 

Luffy was so disoriented he didn't even pour enough force in his hands to get rid of Arlong's grip on the collar of his shirt. 

"Nami?" he firmly spoke. "What are you doing?"

"I tried to tell you, Luffy," Nami continued walking towards him. "I was never on Your crew. I only joined up with you so I could steal the map." 

"I don't believe that," Luffy denied. 

"That's because you only believe what you want to believe. Doesn't make it true."

Nami, for fuck's sake, we both know you're lying—

The witch opened her mouth, ready to argue, to yell from the top of her lungs, but with one glance thrown to Arlong, she stopped. Saying the wrong thing might get Nami in great danger and she might lose credibility in front of him. 

"Sister Nami's a loyal member of the Arlong Pirates," Arlong started speaking, pointing with his chin towards the one in question. "She has been for years."

The witch didn't know why she still protected Nami, but she was certainly not going to give up on her friend at that time. 

Nami shoved the map in Arlong's nose to get his attention to her — or maybe the witch has gotten to another level of delusion. 

"Why waste your time killing a Devil Fruit eater?" Nami reminded the fishman as if it wasn't a death sentence. "Let the sea do it for you."

"Nami, this is too far, cut the crap—" the witch revolted immediately. 

Before she could make any step towards Luffy, she was grabbed by the back of her neck and launched into the wall of Baratie with sheer force — it was one of Arlong's asshole crewmates. She groaned in pain and squeezed her eyes. The shoulder she fell on sent sharp spikes through the entire left side of her body. 

She cussed out, struggling to get back to her feet when Arlong let Luffy drown in the sea. The witch let out a shout of the Straw Hat's name and one of her knees betrayed her, resulting in another unceremonious fall to the ground. 

Lucky for her, an arm curled around her front to help her up, a silver ring resting on the finger of the man. 

"Luffy fell in the water, go now!" she didn't even wait to be properly raised to her feet to urge Sanji to jump. 

Her aching body and the lack of strength wouldn't help her get Luffy out of the sea. She didn't even clearly notice when the cook left her side and jumped into the sea, too caught up in the agitation inside of her. Events passed by her faster than light. All she saw was a discarded shirt. 

She wasn't sure because of what powers she managed to walk on the deck, at the edge where the other two should appear from under the water. Her head turned when she recognized Usopp from her peripherals.

"Luffy?" he asked, panic building up as his hands shook. 

The witch would have responded if not for the answer to appear right under their noses. Sanji held Luffy tightly by the collar and pushed him on the dock with Usopp's help who dragged him. 

The witch extended her hand to bring Sanji on the dock with them and since then, things turned blurry despite her open eyes. 

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

Now the only woman in the crew, the witch sat on the floor in the room that used to be Nami's, her back leaning back against the wooden wall. With eyes devoid of life, she stared up at the ceiling while pulling her knees closer to her chest, once again trying to hide herself from everyone. From everything. 

On Nami's bed there was still an inert swordsman and he didn't even flinch when she tentatively said his name after entering the room. 

"Fucking dammit," she squeezed her eyes shut. 

Nami left. Zoro was unconscious. Luffy almost drowned if not for Sanji. Usopp was bluffing about how "everything has to be alright". 

She didn't know if he was trying to convince himself or her. 

Because everything was wrong. It felt wrong. 

The witch took in a deep breath, but only half of the oxygen she inhaled got to her lungs and brain because of her constricted throat. Tears were sitting on her waterline for the fourth time that day. 

Too much happened since the crack of dawn and it wasn't even sunset. 

Exhaustion made her look years older than she was. Her head fell forward, forehead hitting her knees before the light sneaking through the windows could fall on her face. 

Tears filled with anguish ran down her cheeks and it was the first time she allowed herself to let at least an ounce of the weight on top of her body dissipate. The droplets of pain melted down her cheeks and sank into the material of her shirt. 

The witch sneaked her arms around the back of her thighs and squeezed herself tighter in a ball, lips trembling. Her breathing was ragged not only because of the lump in her throat, but also because of the firm grip that fishman had on her neck. The skin was sensitive to the touch and it hurt to swallow. 

Every event of that day got added one on top of another. Her fight with Zoro, the fact that he was unconscious after that dwell, Nami leaving just like the witch expected to.

Betrayal. Maybe I was a fool for trusting her. 

Or am I? 

Teeth sank so deeply into her lower lip it drew blood and she tasted copper on the tip of her tongue. 

Pain. That was right. 

The only right thing happening that day was the physical pain. Palpable, real, bringing her back to earth. 

Except that time it failed, because the tears didn't stop. She squeezed her eyes shut as sharp pain traveled through her body, from her chest into her limbs, puncturing each nerve, shaking her to the core. 

Her soul screamed, caged by sorrow, an ugly animal that sank its fangs into her flesh and ripped from the inside. Blood was pouring from her heart, soaking organs and bones, melting into the skin like acid. It burnt so fastly, yet it never seemed to end. With a throbbing head, she couldn't hold the pain back anymore. 

However, no sound ever left her lips parted in a silent scream. No whimper, no sob, no cry for help. The room was filled with silence as a heartbeat drummed in her ears in an agonizing rhythm. 

I shouldn't have come on this ship in the first place. Only if I had been wise enough to leave when I got the chance. Syrup Village was a perfect option, I could've gone on another ship and continued my mindless traveling. Why did I bother myself with this? Why did I suddenly decide it was a great idea to be part of another crew when this only has brought me suffering? 

With each second, she willingly aimed the gun at herself and every word was like a bullet. 

I should've left. I would've been happier. I should've left it all behind when I realized this won't go well. Fuck the premonitions, fuck the destiny, damned be the world. 

A body stripped of clothes and skin, only burnt flesh left behind the monster's bites. Broken ribs and a shattered heart pumping a meaningless life. 

As seconds passed by one after another and her tears came to an end, the gentle swinging of the ship pulled her into a half-asleep state.

She noticed when Luffy came into the room and she was aware of his position on Zoro's bed — the cracking of the wood gave him away. As the Straw Hat talked, she only heard the swordsman's name being spoken, some words here and there, but most of his monologue was muffled. 

He probably thought she was asleep because of her slow and steady breathing. 

Exhaustion was clawing at her muscles and brain, but something kept her aware of the surroundings for a few more minutes. 

Everything turned pitch black in her perspective. A husky and deep voice made her believe she was dreaming, the tips of her mouth curling shily upwards. 

Only if it would've been reality. 

"Zoro!" 

Her entire body flinched and she raised her head, wide eyed. If she didn't know any better, she would've said her soul jumped out of her. 

"Luffy?" she whispered, confused on why he yelled the swordsman's name—

"You're not dead!" Luffy shouted again, loud enough for everyone in Baratie to hear. 

He's alive? the witch thought to herself. I really heard his voice. 

Luffy crawled on top of Zoro and squeezed the life out of him. Literally. 

"Now I wish I was," she heard Zoro mumble between grunts. 

He was alive. 

The witch's lungs filled with fresh air for the first time that day. Relief washed over her and her body relaxed, shoulders deflating as some of the weight sitting on them fell into the sea below. 

While leaning her body against the wall, she managed to get up just to get a better view of the swordsman who was squinting his eyes at the ceiling. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, head falling forward. 

At least one thing went right, didn't it? 

After Luffy got up from above Zoro, the swordsman managed to take some deep gulps of air, chest raising up and falling rhythmically. 

"I had the strangest dream that Nami left," he said with a frown on his face as he closed his eyes. 

"She did," the witch responded faintly. 

There wasn't enough courage in her to look at him as she said that, instead choosing to glance at the window. 

Zoro looked again at the ceiling and realized her voice was too faint for all of that to be a mere joke, a prank thrown at him for staying unconscious for… for how long? 

"It's my fault," Luffy said with his chin lowered.

From the corner of his eye, Zoro saw the witch place a hand on their captain's shoulder. 

"We'll find a way."

There was a promise etched onto her fragile smile. As if a simple brush of air or one wrong world could make her crumble. 

But she didn't. Instead, she threw a knowing look to Zoro and silently told him to talk with Luffy. She knew the Straw Hat needed his first mate's support at that moment. 

What confused Zoro the most was watching the witch get out of the room without too much of a word. Her hair bounced as she stepped further away from him and their friends. Even as his ribs and body hurt at every inhale, he wanted to understand the real reason for her leaving. 

Last time they talked, she expressed worry. What happened in the meantime? What the fuck went wrong? 

There was a fat chance she was still mad at him for whatever reason. Sure, she was calm, collected, but he could swear he's seen fire burning in her eyes more than just once and a grin splayed on her face at the thrill and adrenaline of a fight. She snapped at him when they fought and he had to admit it would've been sadder if she treated him with silence. 

However, he didn't know if that was silence or something more. 

Weird, he concluded. 

His attention went back to Luffy. The swordsman couldn't manage watching the ever happy-go-lucky captain speak like a ghost. 

"You didn't do anything wrong." He seriously hoped he could find the right words to bring Luffy back to reality. 

There's no way that crew would fall apart without a proper fight. What has been was just the beginning. 

"You acted like a captain."

"But the crew is falling apart," Luffy pulled his lips in a tight line. 

"No, it's not," the green-haired firmly affirmed. 

Maybe a lot more than Zoro thought has happened, but that was definitely not the end. 

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

Before the sun could set and hide in the sea, they gathered some supplies for their new journey. They found out from the clown head — who they found out told Arlong where to find the Straw Hats — that Nami was most probably heading to Conomi Islands, specifically Cocoyashi Village. Sanji joined their crew, which made Luffy jump in excitement for the second time that day. 

Luffy's folded arms were resting over the railing of Going Merry while he stared down at the water splashing against the ship. 

"Does it always take so long?" Luffy spoke so softly. 

Sanji chuckled with the fishing rod in his hand as he waited for a fish to catch the bait. 

"We've only been here for two minutes, be patient," the cook reminded him. "Some days, they bite as soon as you drop the line and some days, it takes hours."

Then, he threw a knowing glance towards Luffy with an arch of his eyebrow. 

"But we're not talking about fishing, are we?" 

"I highly doubt it," the witch mumbled as she curled her fingers around her tarot deck. 

She didn't dare to shuffle through the cards again, a side of her afraid of what was waiting for them. It felt uneasy everytime she got the impulse of taking the cards out and finding out which one of them holds the truth. 

The witch was leaning with her back against the railing, not so far away from the Straw Hat, pressing her fingertips into the old box made of cardboard that fit perfectly in her hands. 

Luffy smiled towards Sanji before he stared into the horizon with hope. 

"I just want to know if Nami's okay."

"A beautiful, talented woman does not choose to ally herself with a pirate like Arlong," Sanji said firmly, convinced of his beliefs. "Nami clearly needs to be rescued." 

The witch breathed in deeply and widened her eyes, trying to find the right words to tell them what she knew. A pair of heavy steps caught her attention and she immediately recognized the chiming filling the air. 

Zoro. His hand was resting on his Wado Ichimoji — his only sword now. 

"Her tattoo says different," he said. 

The way he looked at the witch was bringing back to life some shattered pieces of her soul. He might look serene when sleeping, but he was better that way — wide awake and an asshole. 

Also, he noticed something she couldn't pinpoint. There must've been a scar on her face, most probably. At first, he only stared at her face, just to lower his gaze. Oh. She didn't sleep for two days and got in a fight with a fishman, which left some nasty bruises on her bare neck. 

"Well," Sanji argued, "tattoos don't tell the whole story. And like any woman, she's a mystery to be unraveled."

"Am I supposed to feel flattered?" the witch arched her eyebrow at the cook after she turned her head towards him. 

Right at that moment, Zoro stepped between her and Luffy, restricting her view. All she could see was his chest, bandaged and with a red patch in the center. 

"You should change your bandages," she looked up at him. 

However, the witch was hesitant when she did so. As if the man in front of her could vanish in thin air. 

Zoro turned to Sanji and decided to completely ignore her comment. 

"Nami made her choice." 

The cook immediately frowned, creases appearing on his forehead. His scowl was deeper than Zoro's.

"You don't know why," Sanji retorted. 

As if getting snapped by Usopp, Zoro scoffed: 

"The only thing I want to hear from you are dinner specials. You don't know Nami."

"Sounds like you don't know her either, Mosshead," Sanji spat with a taunting smile on his lips. 

"Oh God, stop, you two," the witch sighed heavily, annoyed. 

Just to get the swordsman's attention to her, she poked his back with the tip of her finger, digging deep enough to receive a light flinch. It seemed like she took him by surprise. She bent her back more as she continued resting her elbows on the railing to glance at Luffy over Zoro's shoulder. 

"I'm sure Nami has her reasons," their captain nodded. 

"I know Nami's reason."

All of their heads turned to the witch. 

Usopp was just walking up the stairs of the forecastle when his eyes sparkled curiously.

"What are you guys talking about?" 

"Nami," Zoro said quickly. "Why didn't you say anything until now?" that time, his sharp words were directed to the witch. 

The witch shot him a glare, displeased by his reaction. However, she would've acted the same if someone was to hide something so important. 

"It would've felt unfair to tell you before talking with her," the witch clarified. 

"You talked with her about it?" Usopp suddenly intervened, surprised by the news. 

The witch gripped at the tarot deck in between her hands tighter and clicked her tongue, trying to find the best words to explain. 

"I did. Somehow," uncertainty latched onto her voice. 

None of them rushed her anymore so she took her time. 

"Listen, this isn't as easy as it seems to be. Yes, Sanji, she didn't willingly get into Arlong's crew."

A snarky remark sat on the cook's tongue and he wanted to throw it Zoro's way. 

"But," the witch continued in order to stop an eventual argument, "she's fully aware of her actions. She was forced by the circumstances to do what she's doing, but it doesn't mean she likes acting like Arlong's crewmate. Nami certainly hates him from the bottom of her heart. He did something. Something that forced her to act like she's a friend just to protect something or someone. Or both. She's not only protecting herself, she's protecting what's most dear to her heart."

It wasn't the witch that spoke, but the gut feeling she had. Her thoughts didn't seem so clear in months, since her last successful tarot reading. Now, as the significance of each card sank into her brain, she knew what everything meant. 

It wasn't her that spoke, but her intuition. 

"She's keeping us away because she's scared we'd get hurt, not only because we would get in her way. Nami cares about us and that's exactly why she's pushing us away."

"Who does that?" Zoro wondered out loud. 

Maybe he should've kept that to himself. 

"You do that," the witch's head snapped towards him. "I do it. And Nami does. She said she tricked us — which was true. At the same time, she's tricking Arlong. He isn't her crewmate, he's an asshole that stole something from her—"

The witch got so carried away she didn't even realize what she just said. She suddenly furrowed her eyebrows into the void and received confused looks from her friends. 

"He stole something. Her freedom."

Those words were said as she actively figured the details out, staring into the void. 

"Witch?" Usopp nudged her. 

"Yes?" she turned towards him. 

"Did she tell you all these things?"

There was a light chuckle that left her lips at that question. 

"The cards did. Her reactions just gave her away and answered my doubts." 

The witch knew what games she was playing. She's been doing these things for years and not only — she trusted her gut feeling above everything else. 

She received an especially confused look from the cook, who had no clue why she was called a witch. He probably supposed it was because she was beautiful or maybe secretive. 

He should've taken that nickname literally. 

"What do we do then?" Zoro turned his head towards their captain. 

Luffy listened intently to everything the witch had to say and he made up his mind since long ago:

"I want to hear her decision for myself."

"That's for the best," the witch nodded. 

There was more she would've liked to say, but speaking from the gut was both easier than usual and harder when tired. Considering the last time she got some proper sleep was before they got attacked by the Marines, she could say it's been long enough for her mind to get clouded. 

Stuck in her thoughts as she was, the grip on her tarot deck loosened up and the object fell from her hold on the wooden floor. The witch's exhausted brain registered that too many seconds later. 

A deep frown appeared between her eyebrows, blinking in an attempt to clear her vision while she bent down to take the deck in her hand. 

Obviously, she failed. 

When her back was straight again, her vision went pitch black and a heavy throbbing settled in her temples. The ship swayed worse than a second ago. She groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closed. 

The witch has been in that situation before. She stood still, because attempting to walk would've ended in a passionate kiss with the floor. 

When the sensations dissipated little by little, tiredness was everything left behind. 

"I'm gonna get some rest," she mumbled, the words a little slurred. 

With her eyes now opened wide enough to see where she's heading, she walked towards the stairs and cussed them out one by one. 

Falling like an idiot wasn't on her to-do list for that day. 

By some miracle, she managed to walk all the way into the galley. The room she shared with Nami was hers, but it was too far away. Her feet barely carried her to the dark red sofa she let her body fall on like a sack. 

She didn't care about the clothes she hasn't changed from, too caught up with everything that has happened. There was enough time for a shower later, when exhaustion wasn't seeping into her bones. The only thing she had the decency to do was to take her boots off. 

She stretched her legs and put an arm under her head, resting on her side to face the room. Not the most comfortable place to sleep in, but after all of that tumult, nothing mattered anymore. 

The sweet sound of jingling disturbed her again. 

Oh, god dammit. 

She was one breath away from cussing Zoro's ass and his earrings — despite being in ecstasy that he woke up. The witch, as if expecting his next move, bent her knees to make space for him. The swordsman plopped himself down with a grunt at the other side of the sofa and her bare feet touched his thigh. 

She didn't dare mutter a word about his presence. Zoro could stay. Gosh, as she was thinkingln about it, she could only believe it was a blessing he wasn't only awake, but also throwing remarks her way. 

It was so much better than telling stories of her past to an unconscious Mosshead. 

Right. 

The edges of her mouth curled in a smile. 

"What?" 

"Mosshead," she chuckled, eyes still closed. 

Zoro let out a scoff and she could imagine him rolling his eyes to the ceiling. 

"Didn't you say you were going to rest?"

His voice was unusually low and even soft, pulling her towards the dreamland. 

"I'd say this place is perfect," she mumbled.

The witch didn't bother to explain she was tired out of her mind or that her feet would most likely betray her if she dared to get up. 

The silence was filled with their breathing and the sounds of the water splashing against their ship, the cracks of the wood. She remembered the times when she traveled with her father's crew and she would many times fall asleep curled next to a barrel while the vice-captain was still singing sea shanties in the middle of the night. 

"Zoro," the witch whispered. 

She was too weary to care about what left her mouth. It acted like alcohol — it clouded her mind and she felt shameless. 

"What if I wouldn't have stepped on this ship?" 

That question plagued her mind and she finally said it out loud. 

"So the last ship was more to your taste?" he snickered. "It almost sank in the sea." 

"You're such an ass," and while that phrase might've sounded harsh in the past, at that moment it was filled with fondness. 

"Been told that before." 

I really missed that voice. 

"For someone with a big ass bruise on your neck, you sound more like a coward than I thought."

Maybe she deserved that serious tone thrown her way. Was he right? Only halfway through. 

"No," she was stubborn enough to fight the sleep for a few more minutes. "What if I would've been happier? Y'know, less worries, no people to haunt my ass. No anxiety."

No crying over you for being almost dead. 

The continuation sat on the tip of her tongue and got swallowed back with a gulp. Was there really a need for an admission? Puffy eyelids and dark circles under her eyes, chapped lips and bandages around her forearm soaked in blood. Those details were enough proof. 

"Do you hate us that much?" his low voice sent shivers down her spine. 

"It's not about that. Just…" she gulped and curled her fingers around the tarot deck she was still holding onto. "I want some peace."

"I say you should get some sleep." 

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•

Standing on the deck felt right, even if the witch doesn't remember why she was there. She can't point out the weather clearly, it feels blurry. Seconds ago she was in the kitchen talking with Sanji about some unusual topic she couldn't remember. 

Then why was she suddenly on the deck, face to face with a kneeling Zoro who had two swords piercing through his upper body from behind? She didn't only know it was him, she felt like it was him, as if the pieces connecting in her head were just right. However, it horrified her. Everything around him was blurry except for him. 

Him, whose essence of life was pouring down his body, creating a puddle under him, sinking into the cracks of the wooden floor. The crimson liquid melted into his white t-shirt. Now that she was looking better at it, she noticed the sharp point of a sword penetrating all the way through his stomach to the front side of his body. 

He was looking up at her, despite the way his chin was tilted down. Those sharp brown eyes were boring holes through her. His beautiful irises painted with the warm nuances of chocolate and coffee were scary, like no other time. 

Was Luffy next to her? It feels like it was him, even if she can only distinguish a silhouette in the corner of her right eye. 

Why was Zoro looking at her like that? She couldn't move, as if her feet were stuck in place. She didn't know if she was breathing or if she was alive anymore. She didn't know why she was on the deck, why those swords took his life away. It barely made any sense that he had enough energy to stare at her. 

He didn't falter once. He didn't beg for help, her name didn't come out of his mouth, no groans, no nothing. 

She couldn't move. As she stood in the same place, her anxiety was rising up, up, up, until she felt like panicking despite the lack of reaction. She felt like exploding, but she couldn't express those horrific feelings. 

She couldn't help him. Her arms were stuck by the sides of her body, as if someone had put a spell on her. She had the will to move her legs, to get closer to him, she wanted to, but she remained glued in that spot. She couldn't feel her body. 

She had to do something, but she was trapped inside an unmoving object that was her own body. Why? 

Everything snapped. 

The smallest hope towards an escape woke her up. Her eyes opened instantly and she raised up in a sitting position, eyes frantically searching for more clues, for answers about the horrifying images she just saw before her eyelids. 

Her heart was beating so fast it made her wish she didn't have it at all, a deafening ba-dump repeating in her eardrums over and over again. 

Unfortunately, she was face to face with the swordsman she dreamt of. Instantly, as if she was shot, she looked at his upper abdomen. For no more than two seconds, she saw a big black patch on his bandages. 

She inhaled deeply and her heart was beating faster, suddenly unable to release that breath of air. Her eyes widened and her hands shook, chest tight. 

"Hey," she heard more of a background sound. 

She blinked countless times, until her tired brain figured out that it was just her imagination. It was so dark in the room and her nightmare was a shock, the reason why at some point the patch started blurring out, inviting her to blink until it turned to be one small spot. It has been there since he woke up from his slumber. 

When the realization sank in, she let go of that breath and let out a pitiful whimper. Deep inside, it felt like relief, her eyes now squeezed shut. 

This time, he clearly called her name after his fingers securely gripped at her shaking shoulders, avoiding her wound. Her hands were trembling, her entire being disturbed. 

Zoro said her name, not the nickname she got so used to hearing on that ship. Not the usual Witch, a word that sounded so endearing coming from her crewmates; no, it was her name and it was spoken so softly she could've confused him for someone else. 

She had a poor attempt at recalling those images in order to figure out the reality, but it backfired. The bloody scene stuck before her closed eyes pushed her to open them up again. 

Thankfully, his dark gaze was warm, filled with unspoken worry. For a brief moment she wondered how he woke up, since he slept like the dead sometimes. 

"I'm surprised I managed to wake you up," her voice trembled. 

He didn't joke back at her. Instead, his thumbs started rubbing slow circles into her shoulders in order to bring her back to earth. Or, better said, back to the ship that was peacefully sailing on the sea during the night. 

"I think you should correct your breathing," he pointed out. 

Once she changed from autopilot breathing, it felt like her throat was tight. 

"Breathe in."

Blindly, she trusted his instructions. That mere breath shook her again, feeling shivers when she allowed the oxygen to sink into her lungs, the same way his voice sank into her being, in the cracks of her soul. 

It took a few minutes until that normal bodily process didn't seem like an impossible task. Her muscles were tense until Zoro squeezed her shoulders again. 

She could distinguish more of his face than just the warmth she noticed not long ago. His expression seemed pained with worry and not from a wound that could kill him, even if there still were bandages wrapped around his torso. Maybe it was also fear that made him look so different from usual; or was it confusion? 

"I'm sorry for destroying your sleep."

It was half a lie. She wasn't sorry about the touch keeping her afloat, about how she managed to breathe again only because of his presence, because he was clearly awake and alive. At the same time, she knew he needed to rest so his wound could heal properly. 

"Be serious," he huffed in a lower voice, clearly displeased. 

"I am. You should sleep."

"Just like you should, but I doubt you will."

"I'd argue about that."

She was still tired, even if her shock from earlier struck her like thunder. Her eyes could close at any moment, which she feared, because another nightmare didn't sound good even for how stress resistant she became. 

Since he heard her soft whimper when she was still sleeping, he had no clue what to do, how to act. One thing was clear: it was better to wake her up, despite the possibility she might get defensive and attack. 

Alright, now what the heck do I do? He's had nightmares before, he's seen horrendous things during his sleep countless times, but he didn't have any idea about what to do for her. Was he even supposed to do something? She didn't like being pampered — maybe he should act like nothing happened. However, the fear coloring her face earlier shocked him as well. The witch has always been collected, she had such a firm grip on her reactions it was annoying sometimes. 

The swordsman shook his head, but didn't let go of her. Instead, he leaned against the cushions on his side, while his hands fell down to her forearms to get a comfortable position of his limbs and upper body. The wound on his chest sent daggers through him at each movement. Barely a day of consciously dealing with it and he's already got annoyed. 

The witch looked down at where their bodies were connected. His long calloused fingers were securely wrapped around her arms, close to her wrists. When did her legs end up in his lap she didn't know. Her bare knee tingled with warmth — why? 

"You had a weird reaction after you woke up," his whisper stirred something in her heart. 

"What do you mean? I had plenty of reactions."

Are you playing the idiot with me? Zoro thought. 

"You were more scared of seeing me than of the nightmare."

"Oh."

Why did the Mosshead have to be so observant? It was one of the reasons why she was attracted to him, evidently, but sometimes he exposed her too easily. 

She dropped her chin and looked down at her own hands. Admitting that she feared his role as the main character of a tragedy for the second time felt embarrassing for some unknown reason. She's been in enough humiliating situations and he never ridiculed her. 

Zoro was utterly stuck. Was he supposed to move away? His body felt too heavy to get off the sofa and go to his room. It wouldn't be alright leaving her alone with her crippling anxiety either, considering she was prone to overthinking. 

He wanted to do something, but what? 

He let out a long sigh and rested his head against the cushions, his fingers still curled around her wrists. Her pulse was fast, but as seconds passed by, it slowed down under the weight of his thumbs. 

The witch became hyper aware of the situation, but it felt too good to move away. Her tired brain entirely registered his presence and her eyes closed. She breathed in the chill air of the night and, while focusing so intently on Zoro's presence, she fell into a deeper state of mind, half asleep. 

He was disturbed from his own journey into the dream realm when he felt a light weight on his shoulder. Once his eyes opened, he saw the cause: she leaned in closer to him, clearly unaware. 

He smelled like the sea and the familiar scent of soap clung to the unbuttoned blue t-shirt he wore. With her forehead resting against his neck, the witch could vaguely point out his pulse. The safety of his embrace lulled her into a dreamless sleep while she focused on his slow breathing and the secure grip he had on her.

Zoro filled her senses so fiercely it was impossible not to melt into him, inhaling and exhaling in sync with him. 

The swordsman had different sentiments about this and they were all confusing. 

What am I doing? he scolded himself.

He moved his head and angled his face so he could look at the right side of her sleeping face. With long eyelashes resting over her soft cheeks, she looked like she didn't have a worry in the world, even if he knew better. Her shoulders would rise and fall rhythmically in such a slow pace, making him wonder what exactly exhausted her so much. 

Then, his gaze fell on the purple marks on her neck and his jaw clenched. If he would've been awake when Arlong appeared at Baratie, maybe none of them would be like that. Maybe he would've had enough stubbornness to get answers from Nami and maybe Luffy wouldn't have been so close to drowning. Maybe those marks on her neck wouldn't have been there in the first place. 

What the fuck am I doing? 

Giving up, he rested his head back against the cushions with a scowl. He didn't understand himself and it was even harder to understand the woman sleeping so peacefully, too close to him. 

Zoro let out a low displeased sound and closed his eyes, deciding to rest for a while. He didn't dare move away or wake her up either. 

First and foremost he was displeased about the fact that he liked the proximity. 

I wonder what that fishman's face looks like. It'll surely be a pleasure to slice him in half.  

Tag list: @emelia07 @dimplewonie @tfamidoingwithmylife @murnsondock @the-skys-musical-echo @conspiracy-crows @hallow33nz @ramae17 @gaslysainz @bunntsu @katt58 @katiemrty @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @freyademartel @boofy1998 @ponyboys-sunsets @melsunshine @loveyluv7 @waddlingwanderer @jesssssmaybankk @nadlx33333 @yoong1c0re @untoldshortsofthefandoms @mizzy-pop @zoromyluv

[runningfrom2am]

michigan cherry // part six

summary: walking into a saloon in a nowhere town, billy meets a singer who he just can't get off his mind after she slips through his fingers; onto another town, another show- following nothing but the stars in her path. until he sees her again. another nowhere town and equally dusty saloon, but this time, the band of kids who made up her family is nowhere to be found. he's running away from something, and she is storming full speed toward something else, and tangling into each other's lives may just get both of them exactly where they want to be.

pairing: william h. bonney x fem!reader

wc: 2.4k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: singer!reader (she’s giving very much lucy gray), probably a little bit ooc billy but hey i tried- anyway he’s a sweetheart, use of guns and violence, murder and violence but i try to keep it non-descript, oh also she’s an orphan sorry (once again, lucy gray vibes), strangers to friends to lovers trope eee. also not thoroughly proofread oops

the songs in this chapter are: "scared of my guitar" by Olivia Rodrigo, "Michigan Cherry" by River Whyless, "Traveling Song" by Ryn Weaver, "Slim Pickins" by Sabrina Carpenter, and "Adore You - Acoustic" by Maisie Peters !!

a/n: ahhh hi it's my birthday! super excited to share this with you guys even though it isn't all that special or exciting but i'm just happy to be back :). last year for my birthday i posted in this life or the next and i wanted to finally get part 3 of that up today but that just wasn't going to happen BUT for everyone asking i am working on it. i swear. i'm not giving up on it!!

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // pinterest board // playlist

You thought that you might have heard somewhere that music is to the soul as opium is to a stubborn cough.

Or, maybe you dreamt that. Regardless, you knew for certain now that it was bullshit. But, with nowhere else to place your heartache, you found yourself sitting by a fire nearly every night with your guitar in your lap, humming soft words under your breath and plucking the strings as gently as you could.

It was for work, yes, but like opium, you had long since become addicted to the routine. Billy had too.

"You can play a little louder, y'know." He hums, tossing a broken twig into the campfire that separates you. "I was promised music in exchange for my services."

"And you get your music." You chuckle, hand pressed over the strings to stop their hum. "You haven't missed a show in almost two months, that ain't enough?"

"Sure, I'm just sayin' don't hold back your practice on my account. I'm happy to listen again." He answers with a soft smile, the yellow glow from the flames warming his features and bathing him in light.

You can't help the matching twitch of your lips to return his, feeling the slight burn in your cheeks that you can't confidently attribute to either the fire or your own blushing. "Well, it ain't much to listen to yet. Not finished."

"Ah, somethin' new?" Billy asks, leaning back on his palms and watching you expectantly as you give him a slight nod.

You're leaning over your guitar to scribble in that little notebook of yours, the pencil almost nothing more than a little nub in your hands and the pages of the book almost filled to the brim with words and notes. The temptation he faces every day to just grab it while you're sleeping or out away from the camp on a little walk has become an almost unbearable curiosity.

Because yes, he loves the songs you do sing, but what he wouldn't give to hear the ones you don't.

Billy would dive at any opportunity to see just a little more into your beautiful mind.

"Yeah, kinda." You hum in response, distracted again by the strings of your guitar effectively wrapping around your heart and your fingers and dragging your attention back to it.

"Okay, then, let me hear what you have so far."

You hate doing that, normally. You would hardly even play incomplete songs for your family when they were around- that awkward moment where you just have to trail off and go "Um, that's all I have..." and try to laugh but not too awkwardly was something painful.

But, this was Billy. Something about him compelled you to agree.

The problem was, the song you were currently meddling with the idea of may or may not be about him. You'd like to confirm with yourself that no, it is not about Billy, but damnit- he's the only person in your life. What else were you meant to write about?

You look down at the pages next to you, narrowed eyes reading over your own writing.

'Perfect, easy, so good to me. So why's there a pit in my gut, in the shape of you'-

Nope, nope, no. He's not hearing that.

You could deny all you wanted that the unfinished song was about him, try and claim to yourself that it was about Max- but deep down you knew the direction it was going.

You flick through the most recent pages, trying to spark your memory of something safer.

'Tart and sweet like a wild berry Tart and sweet your words to me Dark and red like a Michigan cherry Dark and red as the Iliad sea Here we lie in the deep night ready Here we lie, our skin is bare'-

That's definitely not going to work either. Your cheeks get somehow hotter and you clear your throat, flipping the page again.

Okay, this is much better.

"Like I said, it ain't done, so... not much to it yet, but..." You say, clearing your throat and avoiding his eyes as you quickly scan the new page again and position your fingers over the guitar strings.

Billy gives you a steeled nod, sitting up a little straighter ready to listen as if he would be a judge of the quality of your music. It was a joke, you both knew it. He knew he couldn't come up with a critiquing word toward your music if he was held at gunpoint and forced to try.

"Nobody knows where they are going Oh, how we try to wrap our minds Over the edge of all our knowings Be it a bang or the divine Tip of my iceberg blues are showing I've never been one for goodbyes So, 'til I meet you there, I'm singing A traveling song to ease the ride And so you know, everywhere I roam I'll see you on the road."

Your voice is steady, focussed on getting it out rather than dwelling on the meaning of the words and Billy could tell.

"So farewell to my friend, He who taught me to love like a beast And to feast like the queen that he fed turtle soup Little boy from Paris to the States, check the facts That was Magical Max He was black sheep and mischief and love for his craft..."

His heart leaps at the little laugh that falls from your lips at the memory of your friend, your fingers slowing their strum to a steady halt. He doesn't expect you to continue, but you do, your smile quickly fading again back into an attempt at indifferent focus.

"Then he told me that I was starlights that shine On that very last day, he said "Shoot for your dreams, little girl, to the stars" Well, I'm taking you with me Now this one is ours and I know what you'd say you'd say "On with the show!" So on we go."

How embarrassing it is to almost cry singing a song that isn't done, for your best friend who would never live to hear it. Whose memory deserved to be shared. It wouldn't get very far if you couldn't even share it with one person; if you couldn't even stomach finishing it.

"Um, so... I'm not sure about chording for that last bit, or honestly the lyrics. I think it feels better without the guitar, but..." You say quickly, focussing yourself on your book and pretending to scribble something in it just so you wouldn't have to look at the boy sitting across the fire from you.

"I think it's perfect." Billy tells you, a softness to his tone you only had the pleasure of hearing once in a blue moon.

What he meant to say was that it's beautiful, that it's a flawlessly fitting tribute that he felt lucky to hear, that when sung by an angel's voice like yours he didn't doubt for a second that your friend Max had heard it from beyond the veil and loved it too. Even unfinished.

None of that was what came out though, essentially awestruck the way he always was at your shows- but this time he was able to actually speak to you after hearing it instead of just clapping, whistling, or if he was lucky, catching your gaze with a smile and a corny thumbs up that told you he thought you were doing great. Not that you needed it.

"Thanks." Your sweet voice replies, watching him for a moment you determine to be too long before your focus is back on the notebook next to you. "Anyway, um, if you want to hear something else unfinished, this one I think is going to be kind of funny."

"Show me what you've got, then."

Billy simply couldn't resist anymore.

Sitting absentmindedly on a hay bale in a barn where a local owner was gracious enough to let the two of you stay, that damned notebook seems to be glowing right in his face from the sunlight streaming through some bullet holes in the wood paneling that made up the side of the stable.

It's taunting him, he's sure of it.

This stare-down has been going on for about ten minutes since you left it out on the ground next to your guitar to go use the homeowner's washbasin to clean up when his wife offered- you weren't going to turn down a bath that wasn't in a creek.

That would probably take you a while though, you'd likely savour it, so he could just take a look. You'd sing him pretty much anything asked, and what could possibly be more vulnerable than that song you wrote about Max that you shared with him a couple of weeks ago? Surely you wouldn't mind all that much. On the off chance you ever found out. Which, of course, you wouldn't- because he would put it right back where it was after just skimming it.

It's not Billy's fault your handwriting just looks so pretty and you're a poet without publication privileges- it would just be a waste if no one ever read your pretty musings written oftentimes to no one.

And still, he convinces himself again, that you would never know.

He gets up and studies the book to make sure he could put it back down at the right angle before picking it up, hands gentler than they have ever been- like he was touching his mother's precious crystal vase, a wedding gift that had been long lost to time in several moves across the sea and then the country.

He opens the notebook and immediately he can see how you've grown since this book was first picked up by your delicate hands. How your print has changed from beginning to almost end, the pages all wrinkled from spills and humidity and time.

How lucky, he thinks, to be chosen by you for this journey of your life. Why does he feel so much camaraderie for a book?

He skims the pages, delighted to see that it isn't just full of words but drawings too; the sweetest most delicate doodles of little things like your guitar or a flower here and there squeezed in amongst the words on the pages. The amount of talent one young woman could possess astounded him, it's shocking that it doesn't drip out of your every pore in the very black ink that you use to write. 

He can't help smiling a little to himself as he reads the scrawled titles and lyrics to songs he recognizes and he can practically hear your beautiful voice singing every word he's already heard.

'A boy who's nice that breathes- I swear, he's nowhere to be seen.'

That was the funnier song you sang to him those odd weeks ago, and just remembering the small laugh that fell from your lips as you sang the words makes him chuckle too as he reads it.

You had told him you wrote it with Sarah, and he could tell- based on the two distinctive styles of handwriting squeezed onto the small page.

He begins to realize as he flips through the pages of the small tattered notebook resting in his lap, that you had been dating the pages. Finished songs had dates of beginning and completion going back a little over a year, and he figures this must not be the first one you've gone through.

Billy comes to the near back of the notebook, as much as he would love to spend all day reading every word you'd ever translated turning your life into poetry or ballads of melodic storytelling, he knew his time was limited.

One song in particular catches his attention, though.

'So high that I am floating, So good that I'm out of my head. So low baby I was hurting, you made it better again.

Oh, we got caught in a moment, and I'll lay with you all night. So good that now I'm hoping you'll hold me down for life.

I adore, I adore, I adore you.'

The corners of his lips twitch up in a smile as he reads the words, scribbled out and rewritten several times in some places.

It's unfinished, but dated to have been started a couple of weeks ago. He remembers you had asked him what the date was that day, and saw you write it down as he answered- your hair falling over your face and brushing your shoulders as it shielded the book from his view.

A couple weeks ago.

And the drawing- oh, how his heart flutters in his chest so quickly it feels like his ribs have transformed into a sparrow's cage.

To Billy, it looked like him. He knew he must be thinking crazy, after all, it had been a while since he had had a proper look in a mirror, but it sure felt like he was right now- down to the little feathers on his hat and the shape of his cupid's bow. You had given yourself away with the scope of your artistic faith.

"What are you doing?"

At the sound of your voice, slightly hesitant as you stand in the entrance to the barn, he slams the book shut and jumps just about a foot in the air; a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"N-nothing! I just, it just- um..." It was still clutched in his hands, already weary of parting with the precious object of your affections. "It, um... It fell, and I- I just picked it up, and-"

When he looks up at you, you look mildly horrified; cheeks burning the same way his are and eyes blown wide like you had been the one who was caught doing something wrong.

Neither of you move, both frozen on the spot, terrified of the next words that might fall from the lips of the other.

You weren't about to incriminate yourself by asking in a shaky voice if he had read or looked at any of it, knowing he did, and he wasn't going to ask if that song or any others he skimmed (and wish he took more care reading) were about him like he hoped they were.

After a moment of staring at each other like both of you were hostages with guns to your head respectively, you both decide to make the first move at the exact same time. He quickly holds the book out to you at the very moment you reach out to take it, and the awkward exchange makes you want to curl up under the hay bale you were meant to sleep on and rot there.

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!