#the second chapter is 4k and counting

[kannady]

Genuinely love the Ever, Ever After series. Reading every paragraph of it has me clutching to my pearls <3 I LOVE IT SO MUCHH SHIWJEIEJW

ever, ever after

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: sylus didn't love you. how could he when she was around? but would he come look for you if you willingly step into EVER's boundaries?

word count: 4k

a/n: okay so! an early update cus ill be super busy and tired tomorrow, then squid game s3 will be coming out AND a lads update is coming out on friday with fans heavily speculating we'll get a sneak peak of the sixth li. so im guessing we'll all be super busy. i really hope ur enjoying this series and TYSM ANON you literally made my day!! i hope you enjoy this chapter as well. lemme know your thoughts!

read rest of the chapters here!

III

Your heart sank like a stone in water as Dr. Voss’s expression shifted. A slow, chilling transformation from  curiosity to something far more dangerous. His cold eyes flicked from you to Sylus, still restrained behind the glass, then back to you, and in that split second, you knew. 

Oh, shit. I’m done for.

But survival instincts kicked in, sharp and automatic. You straightened your spine, forcing your voice into something resembling professionalism.

"I was just checking his vitals before lunch," you said, gesturing to the monitors with a steadiness you didn’t feel. "His levels plateaued. The serum isn’t affecting his Evol anymore. I thought-" A breath, calculated. "I should ask if he was experiencing any side effects. Protocol 9-D, right? Patient-reported data?"

The lie slithered out smoother than you expected. Voss’s eyebrow arched, his gaze lingering on you for a heartbeat too long before he stepped closer to the observation window. The silence stretched, suffocating, as he scrutinized the vitals himself. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head, the suspicion coiling tighter.

Then, miraculously, he nodded. "You’re right." His voice was clipped, but the tension in your shoulders eased a fraction. "We’ll halt administration. Clearly, this batch isn’t potent enough." He turned to you, and for the first time in your two years at EVER, something resembling approval flickered in his expression. "Good catch, Dr. (Y/N)."

The praise should’ve felt like a victory. Instead, it sat heavy in your chest. You nodded stiffly, avoiding Sylus’s gaze, but you could feel it, burning into you like a brand. Even now, even half-drugged and strapped to a chair, he was watching. Waiting.

You mumbled an excuse about lunch and all but bolted from the lab, the doors hissing shut behind you. The hallway was deserted, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. For a moment, you just stood there, pressing your palms to your eyes until stars burst behind your lids. 

What the hell am I doing?

Your phone was in your hand before you could second-guess it. Luke’s number rang once, twice, then disconnected. Kieran’s didn’t even go through. You stared at the screen, your reflection warped in the black glass. A new, ugly thought slithered into your mind. What if he didn’t come alone?

Sylus didn’t do anything without a plan. And if he was here, in EVER’s clutches, then where was she? The woman whose laughter had haunted you long after you’d left. The woman he’d loved in some other life, maybe even in this one.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. What if this was all part of some elaborate scheme, and you were just a pawn again? A distraction. What if she was waiting in the shadows, ready to step in the moment EVER’s defenses crumbled?

The idea should’ve infuriated you. Instead, it just made you tired. Two years of running, of building a life where you were finally someone else, and here you were, right back where you started. Caught between Sylus’s games and EVER’s cruelty, with no idea which side would destroy you first.

You shoved your phone back into your pocket and started walking, your heels clicking a sharp, staccato rhythm against the tile. It didn’t matter. None of it did. Because whether this was a trap or some twisted reunion, one thing was certain. You were already in too deep to walk away now.

Your lungs burned with the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The immediate crisis was over, Voss had bought your lie, at least for now. But the relief was temporary, fragile as glass. You knew what came next. A stronger serum. A more aggressive extraction. And Sylus, proud, untouchable Sylus, wouldn’t survive it.

The thought sent a fresh wave of panic crashing through you, your pulse hammering so loudly you were half-convinced the entire lab could hear it. What do I do?

Luke and Kieran weren’t answering. That left only one option.

Her.

Her very presence had been like a blade pressed to your ribs, a constant reminder that no matter how close you stood to him, you would never be the one he truly saw.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at your sides. She worked at the Hunters Association, you remembered that much. But you couldn’t go now. Not in broad daylight, not when you didn’t even know her name. The realization was a bitter pill. Two years of resentment, of stolen glances and silent comparisons, and you’d never even learned what her name was.

No, you’d have to wait. Slip away after hours, linger near the building’s exits like some kind of stalker, and hope to catch her leaving. The idea made your skin crawl, but what other choice did you have?

For now, you forced yourself to move, to slip back into the rhythm of your day like nothing was wrong. Mara had mentioned a new restaurant, some place with dumplings she’d been raving about. You went, more out of obligation than hunger, sliding into a seat just as the lunch rush began to thin.

The food arrived, steam curling off the plates in fragrant spirals. You picked up your chopsticks, took a single bite, and then just stopped. The flavors blurred together, tasteless as ash. Your mind was elsewhere, spinning in frantic circles.

What if she doesn’t help? What if she laughs in your face? What if she’s the reason he’s here in the first place?

You pushed the food around your plate, your appetite long gone. Around you, the restaurant buzzed with conversation, the clatter of dishes, the occasional burst of laughter. None of it reached you. You were trapped in your own head, drowning in scenarios that all ended the same way, with Sylus’s lifeless body on an exam table, and your hands stained with the consequences.

By the time you made it back to the facility, lunch had bled into the afternoon, the sky outside the windows already darkening toward evening. You barely had time to stash your bag at your workstation before the alert chimed on your tablet.

“Emergency meeting. Conference Room A. 5 minutes.”

Your stomach dropped.

You knew, even before you stepped through the doors, what this was about. The room was already half-full, researchers murmuring to each other in hushed, excited tones. Voss stood at the front, his expression unreadable as he tapped something into a holoscreen.

Then he looked up, and his gaze landed squarely on you.

“Now that we’re all here,” he said, his voice cool and precise, “let’s discuss Phase Two.”

The screen behind him flickered to life, revealing a new formula, twice as complex as the last, with a list of side effects that made your blood run cold.

Cardiac arrest. Cerebral hemorrhage. Ischemic stroke.

Voss’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “We begin testing tomorrow.”

Across the room, Mara caught your eye, her brows furrowed in concern. You realized, distantly, that your hands were shaking.

You curled them into fists.

The meeting passed in a blur of muffled voices and flickering holoscreens. Words like "enhanced serum" and "immediate testing" caught your attention once in a while, meaningless noises against the roaring in your skull. You sat stiff-backed in your chair, fingers clenched around your tablet hard enough to leave imprints, your mind a thousand miles away, trapped behind that observation glass, watching Sylus’s body convulse under the serum’s assault.

When the meeting ended, you stood mechanically, following the stream of researchers out the door like a robot rehearsing actions. Your footsteps echoed down the hallway, perfectly measured, your body moving on autopilot while your thoughts spiraled.

What were you going to do?

The question looped in your head, but there was no answer. No plan. Just the crushing weight of what was coming, the knowledge that tomorrow, they would strap Sylus back into that chair and pump him full of something even worse. And you would have to watch.

A hand closed around your wrist, yanking you sideways into a dim storage room. The door hissed shut behind you, and you blinked, momentarily disoriented, as Mara’s face swam into focus. Her usual playful smirk was gone, replaced by something sharp and searching.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded, voice low. “You’ve been zoning out all day. And in there?” She jerked her chin toward the conference room. “You looked like you were about to vomit.”

Your throat tightened. I can’t tell her. The truth was a grenade in your hands, pull the pin, and everything would blow apart. Mara was your friend, maybe the closest thing you had to one in this place, but this? This was too big. Too dangerous.

“It’s just…” You swallowed, scrambling for something, anything, that wasn’t a lie but wasn’t the whole truth either. “This is serious stuff we’re doing now. I can’t- I don’t know if I can take it.”

Mara’s eyebrow arched. “Excuse me?” She crossed her arms, leaning back against a shelf of sterile supplies. “What about the other experiments you performed? The neural overwrites? The memory wipes?” Her voice dropped, almost mocking. “Those didn’t bother you?”

The words hit like a slap.

She was right. You had done worse. Writen protocols that scraped a person’s mind clean, designed machines that could drain the blood out of the subjects with a few clicks. But those subjects had been monsters, rapists, murderers, traffickers from the N109 Zone’s darkest corners. You’d seen their files. Known what they’d done. It had been easy, then, to tell yourself you were making the world better.

But Sylus? Sylus was different.

What exactly was he to you?

The question lodged in your chest like a bullet.

Mara sighed when you didn’t answer, pushing off the shelf. “Look, I won’t push. But get it together.” Her gaze flicked to the door, then back to you, uncharacteristically serious. “I noticed first because we’re friends. The moment someone else does? You’re in trouble.”

She left without another word, the door clicking shut behind her, and just like that, you were alone.

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. You slumped against the wall, your legs suddenly unsteady, the cold metal biting through your lab coat. Your tablet slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor, but you didn’t bother picking it up.

You couldn’t walk away now. Couldn’t pretend you hadn’t seen him. Couldn’t let them kill him.

But helping him? That meant betraying EVER. Meant throwing away everything you’d built, your career, your safety, the fragile peace you’d carved out for yourself.

And for what?

For the man who’d watched you walk away two years ago and hadn’t followed?

Your hands trembled. You pressed them to your face, your breath coming too fast, too shallow.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, a voice whispered. You already know the answer.

You’d known it the moment you saw him behind that glass.

You were going to burn your life to the ground for him.

And the worst part was you didn’t even know why.

You slipped out of the storage room with measured steps. The hallway was empty, the hum of distant conversations and clicking keyboards the only sounds. Okay, you’ve got this. 

The plan formed in your mind like a lifeline. After work, you’d go to the Hunter’s Association. Even if Sylus had some grand scheme in motion, you needed to know. And then? Then you’d step away. Wash your hands of this mess.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before pushing open the lab doors. Inside, the scene was exactly as you’d left it, researchers hunched over glowing screens, fingers flying across tablets, the air thick with the sterile scent of ozone and disinfectant. No one looked up as you entered. No one except Mara.

Her gaze met yours for a brief moment before she deliberately turned back to her work. The unspoken "get it together" was evident on her face. You forced yourself to move, crossing the room to your workstation.

The observation window drew your attention like a magnet. Empty, of course. Sylus wasn’t there, why would he be? The serum testing was done for the day, and EVER had no reason to keep him in the lab when they could stash him in some high-security cell instead.

You sank into your chair, fingers hovering over the holoscreen as your thoughts churned. None of this made sense. If Sylus was here, it had to be part of a plan. That’s how he operated. So where was the cavalry? Where were Luke and Kieran, bursting through the doors with guns blazing? Where was the distraction, the sabotage, the anything that would explain why the most dangerous man you’d ever known was sitting in a cell instead of burning this place to the ground?

Unless he wanted to be here.

The thought sent a chill down your spine. You shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge it. No. That was a rabbit hole you couldn’t afford to go down right now.

You threw yourself into your work, losing hours to data streams and prototype schematics, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind raced. The second your shift ended, you were out the door, your coat barely shrugged on as you all but sprinted for the transit station.

The Hunter’s Association loomed ahead, its sleek facade lit by the dying light of the sunset. You hesitated at the entrance, suddenly unsure. Were you too late? Too early? Would she even still be here?

You planted yourself across the street, leaning against a lamppost like you had every right to be there, your pulse thundering in your ears. Minutes ticked by. Ten. Twenty. Just as you were about to give up, to turn and walk away, you saw her.

There she was.

She stepped out of the building beside a coworker, a tall man with silver hair and piercing blue eyes, his posture relaxed, his laugh carrying across the street. And her. Even now, after all this time, the sight of her hit like a punch to the gut.

She was beautiful. Effortlessly so, her hair catching the golden light, her smile easy as she listened to something the man said. You’d spent years trying to forget the exact curve of her lips, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed.

Your feet moved before you could stop yourself, carrying you across the street. The man noticed you first, his gaze sharpening as he subtly shifted his stance, one hand drifting toward his hip. A weapon. Of course. Hunters were never unarmed.

She followed his line of sight, and her eyes locked onto yours.

For a heartbeat, the world stopped. Her smile froze, her breath catching audibly. You saw the exact moment recognition dawned, the way her eyes widened, her lips parting in something like shock. Then she  turned to the man, murmuring something too low for you to hear. 

He hesitated, his gaze flicking between the two of you before nodding and walking away, though not without a final, lingering glance in your direction.

And then she was walking toward you, her steps measured, her expression unreadable. Up close, she was even more striking. The scent of her perfume hit you like a memory. The last time you’d been this close to her, you’d been standing in Sylus’s study, your hands clenched at your sides as they stood side by side. 

Now, she studied you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

"You," she said finally, her voice softer than you remembered. "I wondered if I’d ever see you again."

The words settled between you, heavy with unspoken questions.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

What the hell were you even supposed to say?

Your mouth went dry. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, awkward, stilted, painfully inadequate. "Um… hi?"

Her expression softened, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then, to your absolute shock, she stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.

You froze.

Her arms were warm, her perfume dizzyingly familiar, something floral and expensive, the same scent that had lingered in Sylus’s study long after she’d left. Your hands hovered uselessly at your sides, your brain short-circuiting. What the hell was happening?

She pulled back first, her smile small but genuine. "Where have you been?"

The question threw you. You blinked, scrambling for words. "I just… left. For work."

"Work?" Her brow furrowed. "You worked for Sylus."

"Well, yeah. And then I left."

She studied you for a long moment, her gaze sharp in a way that made your skin prickle. Then she gestured across the street to a dimly lit coffee shop. "Let’s talk there."

You followed her numbly. This wasn’t how you’d imagined this going. You’d braced for hostility, for cold indifference, not this. Not soft smiles and casual hugs and a conversation you had no idea how to navigate.

The coffee shop was nearly empty, the air thick with the scent of roasted beans and burnt sugar. You slid into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat creaking under your weight. Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You couldn’t stop staring at her, the way her fingers tapped absently against the table, the way the dim light caught on her hair.

Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. "Have you been in contact with Sylus?"

She raised an eyebrow and then laughed.

The sound was bright, effortless, just like you remembered. It sent a sharp pang through your chest. You frowned. "What’s funny?"

She wiped at her eyes, still grinning. "I haven’t talked to him in, let’s see, over a year now. And the last time we did talk?" She leaned forward, her voice dropping. "He called me in the middle of the night asking if I knew where you were."

Your heart stuttered.

The world narrowed to the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. He’d asked about you. Not just in passing, not just as an afterthought. He’d called her. In the middle of the night.

Your voice came out strangled. "What did he say?"

She shrugged, stirring her coffee idly. "Like I said, he wanted to know if I’d seen you. And honestly? We never talked, so I was no help. But I have contacts, so I tried looking for you anyway." A pause. Her expression shifted, something almost wistful creeping in. 

"It was like you’d vanished. The last I heard, Sylus ransacked the entire N109 Zone trying to find you."

Your stomach twisted. You’d known, on some level, that he’d searched. But hearing it out loud, hearing her say it, made it real in a way you weren’t prepared for.

"I’m sorry," you said automatically. "I had to go away."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Not my business. But what does catch my attention…" She tilted her head, studying you with renewed interest. "is why you’re asking if we’re in touch."

You stiffened. She laughed again, softer this time. "Why would we be? We’re hardly friends. He just helped me out when I needed assistance, and that was it."

Something fragile and hopeful fluttered in your chest. You crushed it immediately. "Aren’t you two…" You trailed off, gesturing vaguely. "A couple or something?"

This time, her laughter was outright delighted. "Oh, come on." She leaned back, shaking her head. "He’s a criminal. The most wanted man in Linkon City. Not exactly my type." A smirk. 

"Besides, why would we be a thing when he always had eyes for someone else?"

The words hit like a runaway train. Your breath caught.

Someone else.

The implication hung in the air between you, thick and undeniable. You opened your mouth to say something, but words were lost to you.

She took pity on you then, her expression softening. "You really didn’t know?"

You couldn’t answer. 

After all this time?

You sat there, stunned, the words "he always had eyes for someone else" ringing in your skull like a gunshot. The coffee in front of you had gone cold, untouched. She watched you with something between amusement and pity, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup.

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I have to go."

She didn’t stop you. Just arched a brow as you fumbled for your bag, your movements jerky and uncoordinated. "Sure," she said lightly. "But he did find you, didn’t he?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat had closed up, your pulse hammering so violently you were half-convinced she could hear it.

The walk home was a blur. The city lights smeared into streaks of gold and neon, the sounds of traffic and chatter fading into white noise. Your mind was a storm, thoughts crashing into each other with brutal, unrelenting force.

Sylus had eyes for you.

The idea was laughable. Absurd. And yet not so impossible to imagine.

Memories surfaced. The way he’d linger just a little too close when reviewing your work, his breath warm against your temple. The way he’d leave notes in his precise, elegant handwriting, notes you’d saved, tucked away like some pathetic secret. The way he’d asked you to live with him, for fuck’s sake, as if that was a normal thing a boss would do.

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.

There was a time, a time when you would’ve begged for this. When the mere possibility that he might feel the same would’ve sent you spiraling into dizzy, reckless hope. But now?

Now you didn’t know what to feel.

Because it didn’t matter. Not really.

You’d help him. Of course you would. You’d get him out of EVER’s clutches, and then you’d move on. Both of you. That was the plan. That was the only plan.

So why did that thought make your chest ache?

A gust of wind cut through you, sharp and biting. You barely felt it.

Why the hell is he even here?

The question gnawed at you. If Sylus had orchestrated this, if this was some elaborate scheme, why wasn’t he doing anything? Why wasn’t he fighting? Why weren’t Luke and Kieran kicking down doors? Why was he just sitting there, letting them pump him full of serums that would kill him?

You scoffed, raking a hand through your hair. Hypothetically speaking, if you didn’t help him, if you walked away and let EVER do what they did best, he’d die. Just like that. No grand escape. No last-minute rescue. Just a cold, clinical death on an exam table, his body discarded like faulty machinery.

The idea was so wrong it made your teeth hurt.

Sylus shouldn’t die quietly. Sylus shouldn't have to die at all. He was a force of nature, a storm given human form. He didn’t just let things happen to him.

Unless he was here for you.

But no. That was insane. That was pathetic.

You shook your head, but the idea stuck, stubborn and insidious.

Because if he had come for you, if he’d let himself get captured, knowing you worked here, knowing you’d see him, then he’d gambled everything on the hope that you’d help him. And that meant he’d gambled on you caring. Did he not think of the possibility that you might not? That you might walk away? That after two years of silence, you might look him in the eye and let them take everything from him?

A bitter laugh escaped you.

Of course he had. Sylus thought of everything. That was the problem. Which meant maybe this wasn’t a gamble at all. Maybe it was a test.

The realization settled over you like a cloud.

Tomorrow, they’d give him the stronger serum. Tomorrow, he’d die, unless you did something. And he’d known that. He’d known. But why was he putting you on the spot like that?

You stopped walking, your apartment building looming ahead, its windows dark and empty.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

She wasn’t involved. You couldn’t and wouldn’t drag her into this. But that left you with exactly zero allies, zero resources, and zero time.

You exhaled sharply, your breath fogging in the cold air.

Things weren’t any better than they’d been this morning. If anything, they were worse. Because now you knew and that changed everything.

Lemme know if you wanna be added to the taglist!

tags: @nm4565natty, @dysphxriaii, @animegamerfox, @floofycookie, @food4me-always, @dummiebunny, @starllight613, @natashahbarry, @hao-ming-8, @eve-rockin-blog, @sylusgirlie7, @babygirl-panda19, @chaoticfivesworld, @wakeupr41, @poptrim, @brailsthesmolgurl, @seung185, @mimiu3usoft, @theplaid-wearingmoose, @moonchildjae00, @pinksaiyans, @vintag3u, @peachystea, @69-gojos-wife-69, @harusansthings, @dyeinsomniadontwake, @perqbeth, @dramaticalsachan, @dana-nite, @blusterry-bomb, @miffysoo, @his-ocean-emissary, @totallytaurus4, @sleepykittyenergy, @terriblesoup, @mcdepressed290, @ikesimpleton, @meyline, @decaf-nosebleed, @ili6a, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @adeptustemptations, @sylussweetkitten, @roschea-arts, @blipblopblopblip, @eolivy, @coeurdeveea, @sylussplushie, @thestarsaboveme, @cordidy, @bxtchopolis, @sabage101

[lily-bisque]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

volume six — sympathy for the devil

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, mental health and depression struggles, more tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: please heed the warnings this chapter! plenty of talks of mental health struggles and depression so tread lightly and take care of yourselves :’) i’d also steer clear of comments until you finish the volume! enjoy 🫶

✦ ── word count: 4k

archive ─ playlist

series masterlist - previous volume - volume seven

art by outdmilk on twt

Your body jerked awake, eyelids flipping open, and not a remnant of sleep clinging to you as your alarm sounded—blaring and echoing off the walls of your apartment with no forgiveness.

Your blank stare bored into the old fan above your head as it rotated, feeling your body sink into your bedsheets, no sense of autonomy as you moved on autopilot. Your throat felt throttled, like a pair of hands had settled there and steadily squeezed—each passing second a threat on your breaths.

Days moved like you were waiting for old age to take you, but holding out for something you could not grasp in your mind.

A persistent and uneasy lump in your gut anchored before each shift, right after a night of tossing and turning, futile attempts of finally sleeping decently. 

It was routine now.

Wake up exhausted, get dressed, drag your feet to work, clean tirelessly, eat some bland frozen meal from the corner store, and resign to your prostration well before the sun retires.

That’s what consisted of your life before your hike, and two weeks well after your hike.

But for some reason you couldn’t place, it’d felt heavier than it had in the past.

You swayed softly before the mirror, lids hung low and jaw tense.

You slugged into work, eyeing Mei Mei as she counted cash at her desk, barely sneaking a peek at you as you rolled the ache in your shoulder. “Not surprised to see you here,” she spoke in an unimpressed tone.

You shoved your bag into your locker, rubbing the crease in your forehead. “You got any work for me?” You wasted no time cutting to the chase.

She hummed, undeterred. “My 7 AM isn't gonna be making it, stomach flu. Mind picking up for the both of you?”

She asked as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

You sighed heavily, before scanning for your work supplies to shove into the company van. “Sounds perfect.”

For all of the years you’d known Mei Mei, the sole thing she’d prioritize was how much she could fill her pockets. It’s what made her a wonderful business woman… and a shitty boss.

Your shoulders drooped far more than they normally did. You were constantly fatigued, your eyebags as evidence, and you had little to no appetite.

You threw yourself into work, telling yourself that it would pass, ignoring the calls you were receiving from your mother.

Her texts were proof enough of you not picking up—asking you for your dress measurements as she had found the perfect boutique to get you fitted for the wedding.

The thought of having to doll yourself up to see your ex-husband be remarried to the women he wet his dick with while the two of you were still betrothed was a sick joke.

Your trepidation slowly spiked with each passing day, a nauseating mass of mental ailment turned physical plaguing you that had you dry heaving on more than one occasion.

Your back ached regularly as Mei Mei accepted the amount of shifts you’d been picking up without protest.

You rarely spent time in your apartment, and when you were there you were knocked out.

Shoko offered to hang out far more than she normally did, but you’d dismiss it with a wave of your hand, ensuring her that you were fine. You could see the worry swimming in her hazel eyes, but you refused to acknowledge it.

You couldn’t acknowledge it. You shoved everything down into your stomach, because you knew that if you didn't, it’d begin to eat away at you more than it already was.

It had frayed the edges of your psyche, days blending into one thick and blurry montage of rest and work, a corroded hole the size of a softball in your chest endlessly leaking.

Sleep was your only escape.

“Hey, I brought those tuna sandwiches you like,” Shoko offered one afternoon, sliding you a lunchbox while the two of you sat plopped on a kitchen counter island, legs dangling off like school girls ditching class.

The owners were waiting on the contractors to finish the marble backsplash, so the two of you were in charge of last minute cleaning.

Your bleak gaze drifted over to the lunch bag she’d set next to you. 

Tuna sandwiches.

Your stomach grumbled at the thought.

You zipped it open and dug into the foil wrapped food, a thick sigh of relief leaving you while you shut your eyes.

“Thanks, Sho.”

You recognized this pattern of yours, allowing yourself to get so lost that you could hardly pick yourself back up—barely noticing how bad it was until others began to gather the scattered pieces you’d left behind on your account.

So when three weeks had passed of the same worrying behaviors and self-destruction, you called in for a sick day.

Your migraines only seemed to grow with each passing day until you couldn’t see out of your left eye.

Thank God for PTO.

You took the day to clean up your place that'd managed to become quite the mess. It was a little unfair that you were spending your one day off from cleaning like this, but it was dire.

And somewhat therapeutic.

You had to shuffle through your things, frowning at your lack of hygienic nature in your depressive state.

You needed to pull up a stool to wash your forgotten dirty dishes because of the blisters on your calloused feet.

You tossed most of your dirty laundry into a washer and dryer set that actually worked without leaving your clothes damp.

And you finally emptied out your rucksack that you’d stuck into the back of your closet, too exhausted to deal with it at the time.

You dumped the heap of your belongings onto the floor, sorting out what needed to be washed and what needed to be tossed.

Unfortunately, there was no way that you could bring all of the clothing that Sukuna had brought for you, but you did bring the METALLICA shirt. 

You couldn’t help but grin at the sight.

It smelled like pine trees and detergent.

You set it aside and continued sifting through.

Upon discovery of the water filter shoved into the recesses of your bag that went unused, you were irked that you even brought it in the first place.

Beside it, your fingers brushed against something hard. Uraume seemed to have stuck a bone into your backpack, making you quirk a brow.

You’d miss that mutt.

But as you sorted through, you couldn’t help the ache in your chest that seemed to spindle it.

Your finger grazed against your ankle subconsciously, the scarred skin making your body warm with just a touch.

You peered towards your window, eyeing the thick drapes that shielded the sun from filtering in. 

You missed having no routine. You missed the smell of wet dirt and smoke. You missed the steady and expectant banter followed with half-assed apologies. You missed the swaying and croaking of trees that kissed the sky, the sighs of wildlife, the sunlight glittering off grass-slicked with dew, the mist settling in the morning that clouded the patio and coated the glass windows. You missed being awoken by the tapping of woodpeckers, the whines of flies you’d let in when you tried to air out the place, the scent of wild mint and herbs.

The feel of his couch while you drifted into a slumber that rejuvenated you.

The feel of his clothes on you.

One taste of that life and you were forever unsatiated.

You inhaled sharply.

And in an incredibly idiotic and impulsive action, you picked up your phone and dialled your boss's phone number.

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

Wood chips and weeds crunched beneath your sandals that displayed your white-polished pedicure.

The sounds of sawing and muffled male voices intoned, the whistling wind in the afternoon sun making you fidget. 

There were giant logs of tree trunks being moved from one location to the next, manned by stocky men in massive forklifts and lumber racks. There were a few rusted pick-ups hauling workers in their truck beds, axes slung over their shoulders as they cackled mirthfully between each other.

You were envious.

Your gaze flitted across the scene. There had to be at least 50 people working, but you couldn’t recognize the one who’d drawn you here.

You adjusted the hem of your sundress, glancing back at your parked Honda Civic in the grass.

This was stupid.

This was really, really stupid.

“What’s a pretty little lady like you doing ‘round these parts?’

Your head swung back around, shielding your eyes from the unrelenting sun as a man peered down at you, tilting his head to give you a slow once-over. 

You really should’ve brought shades.

He had raven-black hair with a taper fade, the top swung to one side. There was a limp cigarette between his lips, his hands shoved into his jean pockets.

“Oh, uh. I’m looking for someone,” you spoke, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Really? Yer husband work at the sawmill?” He queried, pulling the cigarette from his lips to puff smoke into the sweltering afternoon air.

“No, a friend. But I think he works here. I’m not sure. I know he lives up in the forest and this is the closest sawmill so…” you trailed off, pursing your lips.

The man hummed, seemingly satisfied with your answer. “Ah. You here to drop off lunch or somethin’?” He continued, jutting his chin to the bag in your hand.

You furrowed your brows. “Uh, yes. I am…” You emphasized before shaking your head, interrupting yourself. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

The guy chuckled, giving you a soft smile. “The names’ Shiu.”

“Ah. Nice to meet you, Shiu,” you responded, reaching a hand out to shake his and introducing yourself.

“Likewise. Say, what’s your friend's name? Maybe I can point you in the right direction.” He offered, taking a slow drag of his cigarette.

You perked up at that, rolling on your heels. “Sukuna. Ryomen Sukuna, are you familiar with that name? He’s about, oh God I dunno, nearly seven feet and he’s got pink hair and—.”

“Sukuna,” he chuckled, cocking his head. “That bastard?” He tossed his head back with a boisterous laugh, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it. “What kinda business does a pretty girl like you have with a man like that?”

You frowned at his bluntness. A man like that? He is an ass, but he wasn’t an ass incapable of companionship. “I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

He shrugged, peering behind him to wave at a coworker who patted his shoulder and exchanging a greeting. “The guys’ fucking hostile, a beast. Not to mention his uh… moonlighting, for a lack of better wording.” He simpered at his own words.

…Moonlighting?

You shook your hands in front of you, a confused chuckle leaving your lips. “I’m sorry, I think we have the wrong person.”

“Oh, hon. I’m positive we don’t,” he spoke with finality, a lilt of knowing in his voice. “Only one Sukuna ‘round these parts.”

You opened your mouth to reply, mind swimming with confusion, before he interrupted you with a wave of his hand. “Listen. Today’s his day off, but he’ll be on stage tonight. I’ll take you on one condition.”

You took a reluctant step back. “Uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know—.”

“Just buy me a drink. Nothin’ else. You get to see your little creature, I get a free drink. A win-win.”

“Okay.”

He grinned at that, before the two of you exchanged contacts and he quickly got back to work, running a hand through his shortly-chopped hair.

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion, walking away with your eyes cast to the ground as your mind swam with questions.

You drove your car down to a motel nearby, tossing your things on the stiff bedspread and collapsing against it just to stare at the beige ceiling shittily decorated with cherubs. 

For the life of you, you could not decipher Shiu’s words.

Sukuna? On stage?

God, it made no sense.

You fiddled with your thumbs, anxious as time passed on, snacking on the turkey sandwich and barbeque chips you’d packed for Sukuna that nearly went to waste.

Maybe he was a poet. Liked to wrangle the stage with his brutish look but gentle tongue, a soft touch to juxtapose himself.

You don’t know if you’d like to see him croon a sonnet.

Maybe he sang. …No. That makes no sense. You’d heard him attempt to hum some tune in the shower and it was like nails on a chalkboard.

A dancer? Could those giant limbs be of contemporary servitude?

Nearly every explanation had you stuck at a crossroads, dragging your hands down your face in frustration.

But around eight o’clock, just before the sun went down, you received a call.

On the other line, Shiu was beckoning you to the edge of town. It was a whetted area, sharp and pretty crime-ridden, whatever could consist of a red-light district in the hick outback’s.

You drove your car up, windows up in case someone decided to throw a glass bottle through it.

You checked your makeup in the mirror for reasons you couldn’t explain.

You hopped out of your parallel parked car, locking it and checking your phone again for the address that Shiu had sent you as thick nimbus clouds settled in the sky.

It looked like it was going to rain.

You could feel your hands turn clammy, padding down the sidewalk and avoiding the despotic gazes tossed your way and picking at your freshly manicured nails.

You probably shouldn’t be here.

Nonetheless, you stopped in front of your destination, eyes bouncing between your phone screen and the sign in front of you.

A pawn shop.

You itched your scalp, wondering if Shiu was a jerk who was just messing with you.

A pawn shop did not have a stage, nor a bar—you could clearly see just peeking in. There were a variety of items lining dusty displays and shelves, incredibly disorganized and nearly filled to the brim with expensive, aged, and loved trinkets. Jewelry, musical instruments, firearms, you name it. They had it all.

Cupping your fingers to see through the somewhat frosted glass, you watched someone pass what looked to be a silver ring glinting beneath the fluorescent lighting to the heavyset cashier perusing a newspaper catalogue, and the cashier only nodded, handing him a wad of cash.

The next guy, who seemed to be a companion of the first guy, spoke to the cashier who just jutted a thumb to the curtain behind him.

The two guys chuckled, walking past him and stepping in, now shielded from the eyes of passersby.

You frowned, a sudden restiveness washing over you. But, you stepped away from the glass just to walk into a broad set of shoulders hitting your back and nearly trip over yourself.

“Oh! Sorry—.” You started in an octave too high and spun around, peering up at a man with a low rimmed hat, head tilting down towards you.

His heady and thick cologne made your nose scrunch.

Across the side of his face you could barely make out were jagged scars, as if he’d been attacked by a pack of wolves. But God, did he look incredibly familiar. 

If you didn’t know better—.

“Scuse me, ma’am,” he grinned kindly—though it only made you queasy—nodding his head and stepping past you. 

He strode into the pawn shop, the cashier folding his magazine after the strange man uttered a few words and allowed him behind the curtain.

What the hell was behind the curtain?

Did you really want to know…?

Bzzt.

You glanced down to your purse, shuffling through it to slip your phone out. You had an incoming text lighting up your screen.

Shiu: You shouldn’t have an issue getting in. As long as you let them know you’re here for the round. Shows starting soon.

Huh? 

You stared at the text for a moment, skimming your fingers through your hair and racking your brain.

Was this really something you wanted to go down to see?

Well, part of you was incredibly interested in seeing what was behind the curtain. Another part wanted to see a friend you hadn’t seen in nearly a month. And another part wasn’t sure if it was smart for a lady as dressed up as you to go to some obviously illegal underground club.

You huffed.

Adrenaline. This was the very first sense of pure adrenaline you’d felt since… Well, since you’d last seen Sukuna.

Would you die for a taste of adrenaline?

Maybe. If it was a quick, painless death.

But from the looks of these parts, that kind of demise didn’t look plausible. Besides the prostitutes shuffling around the sidewalks, there were no other women besides you.

And not any women in a white sundress with an expensive side bag you’d splurged on for today and dewy makeup.

“Shit,” you muttered, clasping your eyes shut.

This was a horrible idea.

𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

There was no issue getting past the cashier.

Though he did give you an odd look at your get-up—as if you were the first woman dressed up like you he'd ever seen step foot into this place.

Your fingers curled against the corduroy fabric of the curtain, steeling your nerves, before you pulled them to the side.

Before you was a set of winding stairs—shabby and steep.

You padded down them in your sandals, worrying your lip between your teeth, praying you wouldn’t somehow accidentally embarrass yourself but clumsily tripping and eating shit.

But as you descended, the sound of muffled music and a booming voice echoed, enough to spike a vibration in your veins.

Your heart rate only picked up from then on.

A group of men were close behind you, chuckling about something and barely taking notice of you shuffling faster.

“ARE… YOU… READY?”

An audience roared at what sounded to be an announcer, whistles and hoots sounding along with boisterous laughs.

There was no way this was a quiet jazz club like you’d hoped.

Light began to dwindle into darkness, fog swimming up the stairs as midnight nearly engulfed you.

And when you finally made your way down, you reached a massive archway with white lights strobing against the walls.

Your eyes narrowed as you stepped into the massive venue, scanning around and taking in your surroundings.

There was a large ring smack dab in the middle of the dark room with floodlights tethered high-strung wood beams flickering and a chanting audience, bodies pumping their fists over their heads and clinking bottles of beer that sloshed out and onto the concrete floors.

A firepit was nestled off to the side, old men in cowboy hats and blazers yelling across to each other though they were mere few feet between them.

Your fingers tightened around the clasp of your bag, biting the inside of your cheek.

A boxing ring? Had Shiu taken you to a boxing ring and expected you to believe that Sukuna of all people were in the throes of such an act?

You made your rounds across the back of the audience, wanting to perch yourself in a corner of the bar until you could spot Shiu, but it seemed that he had been waiting for you.

“Tryna’ worm your way out of paying for my drink?” He pressed with a smirk, stopping beside you with a short glass in his hand as he watched the stagehands set up a cage around the ring.

You frowned at his accusation, jutting your chin towards his hand. “Looks like you’ve got yourself covered,” you scoffed, folding your arms over your chest.

He clicked his tongue, glancing down at you from his shoulder. “You think this is enough to keep me down all night?”

You sighed and resigned to his nettles, turning behind you to wave at a bartender before glancing at Shiu. “What’s your usual?”

Shiu paused for a moment, before turning towards the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.”

You laughed at that, tossing a leg over a stool and seating yourself. “Nice. You’re quite the moocher, aren’t you?” You teased, resting your chin against your fist.

Shiu chuckled placidly, taking a seat beside you. “Hey, this is a win-win situation, is it not?”

You narrowed your eyes with a tug of your lips, before turning to rest both of your elbows on the counter, leaning back lazily. “Could say you’re winning more than I am. Where the hell did you bring me anyway?”

You shuffled through your bag to grab some cash to toss on the counter while you awaited Shiu’s response.

He opened his mouth to explain himself, but stopped short. “Ya know, I think it’s better if you see for yourself.”

You frowned at that, but before you could question his cryptic words, the lights began to dim.

The audience leveled to a quieter hush as a man in a suit walked into the cage, a smug grin on his lips as the cylindrical spotlight zeroed in on him.

Shiu leaned down to whisper into your ear as it began. “You’re in for a real treat, sweet thing.”

Loud clangs of metal grating metal rang throughout the room, the announcer grabbing hold of the cage walls and shaking it. “Ladies andddd gentlemen. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like this.”

A tall and shirtless man with a bald head followed close behind him, cracking his knuckles against his skull, a sly grin painting him.

He turned towards the audience, waving his hands and riling them up.

He was met with roars of excitement and a plethora of boo’s, only heightening the tensions and thrill in the venue.

“So the newcomer of the evening,” the ring announcer continued, placing a hand against the man’s bare shoulder. “Is a fellow lumberjack, like most of you lot. And I’ve gotta say, plenty of you have got faith in his victory with the wages betted tonight.”

The bald man flexed his biceps, yelling as his friends in the audience seemed to hype him up.

“Though, I do gotta let you know,” the announcer’s voice turned wistful into the microphone, peering up at the bald man. “This is your last chance at an out. Once the cage is locked…?”

He cupped a hand around his ear, turning his microphone towards the audience who only chanted loudly in response, Shiu joining in on it with curled fingers around his mouth. “THE CAGE IS LOCKED!” They bellowed.

“Mhm,” the announcer affirmed, redirecting his attention back to the newcomer. “You ready?”

He pointed the microphone at the man who only screamed into it. “Fucking ready to kill him!”

Your eyes shot open, spinning your head towards Shiu. “What the hell did you bring me to?” You yelled over the audience.

“Don’t worry. It won’t get too messy,” he chuckled drunkardly, taking a swig as he watched the bald man make rounds around the cage.

“Well, then,” the announcer beamed. “Bring him in.”

The audience chanted in response.

“BRING HIM IN. BRING HIM IN. BRING HIM IN.”

From the shadows, you could make out a massive form emerging, fists limp at his sides.

His unruly pink hair stuck out of the bleak and dull room, dressed in a wifebeater and blue jeans.

Arms and face decorated in thick black ink.

The same dog tag you’d found in his drawers dangled from his neck lackadaisical.

His bare feet padded onto the canvas floor made of vinyl, a scowl etching his face… but it was unlike anything you’d seen before.

“Sukuna…” you whispered out into the humid air, fingers curling against the edge of your seat as you leaned forward, orbs focused on his movements.

“It’s just getting started,” Shiu stated over the unified chants, eyeing you with a knowing glint in his eyes.

The starting bell rang and the audience only hailed louder.

“The human freak of nature…”

Your eyes washed over his form, basically radiating with such a nonchalance undeserved for a fight that it worried you.

“The surviving mutant…”

Your heart stalled as a familiar metallic sound rang in your ears and your gaze found his fists—spikes… or… sheers? protruding from them.

“THE ONE AND ONLY…

…WOLVERINE.”

continued thoughts & comments here

[cosmictheo]

𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐒 | feyd-rautha

( gif credits to @wondrousashes )

—summary: on a calm day back at your home, you shattered away the serenity as you decide to confront feyd about his alleged concubines and the little secrets he seemed so cautious to hide, pushing him further and further to the edge. —pairing: feyd-rautha harkonnen x female!atreides!reader —word count: 4k —warnings: arranged marriage, jealousy, a bit of implied smut (the actual smut is coming up in the next and last chapter !!!), mentions of sex, mentions of cannibalism, feyd being a slut for the reader (as he should), mentions of killing and death, hot and very passionate love confessions, definitely ooc!feyd.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

ᯓ★ part one ── part two ── part three (coming soon)

The week at Giedi Prime went by so fast that you hardly noticed any of it. The first day had been a bit slow and tedious, but the ones that followed turned out to be more than agreeable and enjoyable, Feyd-Rautha had been very concerned about keeping you entertained and as comfortable as possible, showing you every corner of the palace and walking you around the city.

But for now, you were back at your home for the last visit you would have there before becoming a Harkonnen. Feyd was staying close to you through all the reunion, naturally, diplomatically greeting your family.

“You met his cannibal lovers yet?” Paul's voice echoed inside your head between Feyd's conversations with Duke Leto, your gaze drifting to your brother in absolute alarm, horrified at the question and relieved that, so far, the answer was negative.

“There are rumors that tell how his concubines feed on the hearts of his dead opponents.” Your brother propelled you with the oh-so-cute information about your future husband. “The bastard has not one, but three. I guess you'll have to battle it out with them for his love, that was Duncan said.”

“Stop it, don't be an idiot.” You snapped back at him, averting your gaze from him to Feyd-Rautha, who was conversing ever so formally with Lady Jessica now.

You couldn't imagine him eating of human flesh, nor fucking three different women at the same time. Although, rumors always started from something and during the few times you had been able to get inside Feyd's head, you hadn't seen anything that was remotely pretty or light.

Paul's words managed to resonate in your head, lingering between the walls with a sense of suspicion.

Maybe that was why he never showed you the intimacy of his chambers... because on his bed lay three women compliantly awaiting for his attention and lust.

For some reason, the false image of him fucking them, bodies intertwined and interlinked, voices whimpering and moaning, made you feel respulsive, your guts twisting like a serpent.

You didn't want to believe it was jealousy, but again, your mind never wanted you to believe anything at all.

The palace of the Atreides stood majestically between rocky mountains, with the golden sunlight falling beautifully on the grayish stone walls, bringing in a warm afternoon. Rising magnificently behind your back, standing like a rocky guardian.

Your gaze was on Feyd-Rautha as you walked together along the outskirts balconies of the castle, your greenish dress swaying in the sea breeze, as did your hair, which you wore unusually loose that day, the sweet smell of it had him crazy.

“Do you like it?” You asked him after a few moments of silence, with a hint of a smile that Feyd noticed as he turned to look at you, noticing as well how you waited expectantly for his opinion of your home, which he knew you always held close to your heart.

After a second, he nodded his head, looking at you intently. “I do.”

His blue eyes, which looked as clear as ever under the natural glow of the place followed you as you walked beside him, keeping himself close to you, he could feel the natural warmth of your body and the sweet smell of your scent.

It was the first time you saw his eyes showing their true color, for back in his home, they rarely reflected so much brightness and his orbs glowed so beautifully in the sunlight. They possessed the most beautiful shade of blue, reminding you of the ocean, of home.

“It's nothing like my home.” Feyd-Rautha added in a more amused, lighter tone of voice, with a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, lowering his gaze to the ground, noting how the grass softened each of his steps on it.

“Obviously. Caladan is everything that Giedi Prime and Arrakis are not.” You answered him, snorting the words out with a soft chuckle that was carried away by the wind, turning your head to look at him once you stopped at the edge of a greenish cliff after descending one of the many rocky staircases that rose up through the hills.

The sea stretched into the immensity of the horizon and the water was uncommonly calm, waves lapping the shore relentlessly. It was a calm and peaceful scene out there, quite the opposite of what you felt inside, as you felt a tempest of emotions raging in your soul.

“Have you been with someone else like this?”

There was another one of your little questions again.

And he pondered the answer, dragging his eyes as blue as the ocean itself in front of them, back to you.

But Feyd-Rautha was rather certain that you already knew the answer, that you already had it, you could tell by the way he looked at you and the way he addressed you. Because it was enough to be clear that he had never been this way with anyone before, he had never spoken to anyone like this and he had never been so pleased to be in someone's company, basically in his entire life.

“The only people I've ever had this close to me are my family or my enemies, neither of whom I think entertain my presence very much.” Was his reply, honest and respectful. His husky voice, in contrast to the graceful sea breeze was a pleasant and comforting noise to you.

His words were masked with a touch of amusement, as he used to do in the last days when he spoke to you, it seemed as if you brought back that inner child he had, a stranger who felt increasingly closer.

But even using that tone, his eyes told you that he was not lying, that he was giving you the pure truth.

Yet, somehow you were not satisfied with his response. And he knew it.

“Have you been with other women?”

Feyd drew in a breath, half-opening his lips, air hissing between his teeth.

“So I'm assuming you've heard about the rumors about me?”

And there he was, answering you with another question to challenge you back, to play with your head as he had grown to love to do during the short time you had been in each other's company. Your conversations always ended up being a game of back and forth, a game of a tension that would be cut with the least sharp blade.

“My future wife likes to guide what she believes by mere rumors?” He pressed further.

And as always, you exhaled the air held inside you, twisting your head slightly, looking at him with incredulous eyes. “These are not rumors, Feyd —I've seen it.”

His blue eyes narrowed as he walked closer to you, expression both intrigued and yet defiant. “What do you mean you've seen it? Don't play games with me now, woman.”

“Don't threaten me, man,” You squinted your eyes as you pronounced the word like poison, almost coming out like an insult. “I'm not afraid of you.” With your own response to his defiance, this immediately silenced him, stopping him in his tracks right in front of you, as you stepped closer to him, your presence growing menacing now. You were really upset. “Do you think that when I marry you I will allow you to go on screwing around with them?”

“You met them and they threatened you?” Feyd asked in a low tone, maintaining a calm demeanor, though he wanted to know if any of his concubines had dared to even glance at you during your stay at Giedi Prime. His orbs reflected a sensation that ranged to a murderous, bloodthirsty urge, not at you, but at anyone who was stupid enough to threaten you. “Tell me, did they say anything to you?”

You crooked your head very slightly, looking genuinely offended by his questioning.

“Do you think I would allow any of your concubines —anyone at all— to threaten me and go on with their lives?” You replied instantly, looking him up and holding his gaze, as brave as ever. You seemed to be the only one in the whole universe who dared to answer him and put him in his place. And he was loving it, he felt the desire to be broken by you, to let you destroy all his walls and reach his soul. “They'd already be dead if they did.”

An amused grimace twisted his lips, gaze darkening with pride, desire even, approving of your words, feeling suddenly small under the vastness of your aura, dark and menacing now.

“Don't worry about them.” His words sounded humorous this time, just as his fingers laced between yours, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze, an attempt to reassure you. “Soon I'll be all yours, sweet girl.”

You frowned your brow slightly, as did your lips, still looking offended. He squinted his eyes, hissing as he realized he had said the wrong thing, yet again.

“I'm not sweet.” Your hand released his, your annoyance rising with the seconds. “I'm not one of your pets you can treat as sweet, Feyd-Rautha.”

He raised his brow, following you with his gaze, puzzled, as you turned around and began to walk back to the palace, turning your back on him and leaving him to talk alone.

“One of my pets?” He questioned, with that amused grimace plastered on his mouth again, as he began to follow your hurried footsteps, his pale face reflected a blend of frustration and irritation. “Do you think I would treat you like one of my pets?”

His voice sounded so husky and frustrated and delicious that you felt like just stopping and jumping on him right there. But your own self-respect and pride were more important, you wanted to believe.

Seeing that you weren't planning to stop, Feyd tried to stop you by grabbing your arm, but his hand remained over your smooth skin, with no major result in trying to calm you down, so he cleared his voice, making the attempt to be as cautious and reassuring with his words.

“I think you must understand that desire and lust is something we all possess, my lady, not just men.”

He was physically relieved when you stopped to be able to look at him, with his hand lingering on your forearm.

But your eyes were still dark with discomfort when they met his once again. “I won't be one of your girls, Feyd-Rautha.”

His lips parted, brow furrowing slightly, his voice kept low. “(Y/N)—”

He stood right there, utterly speechless, with his voice caught in his throat, watching you walk away from him, striding with steps that exuded pure anger up to your rocky palace. His hand dropped from your arm and returned to his side, now far from your warmth and heartbeat.

It took Feyd-Rautha a couple of minutes to pull himself together, sighing heavily, a small smirk curving his lips as he began to walk the path back to the Atreides' palace.

He was absolutely thrilled to discover this side of you that he hadn't previously seen. You were truly frightening and he was loving it.

By the time the moon was bright in the center of the dark sky, shining through the thickness of black, a pair of soft knocks sounded against your chamber door and you didn't have to use any hint of your skills to know who it was.

He looked at you with those now dark blue eyes from across the threshold, arm resting lightly against the grayish stone. He looked strangely troubled, look shadowed.

“Have you always been such a perfect seductress?”Feyd asked you just as you made a questioning gesture with your head. “How many men have you seduced like this?”

You looked him up with doubting eyes, frown slightly furrowed. “What are you talking about—”

He interrupted you in a scratchy voice, fearing somehow, that someone else might hear him, that someone else might witness how desperately vulnerable he was being, for you.

“You've broken me. All I can think about is you.”

Feyd took one step forward and you one step back, so you two moved as if you were in a kind of dance until he eventually entered your chambers, pulling the door shut behind him.

“I can't handle not touching you. It's a rule I'm on the brink of breaking for you.” He whispered and your breath caught in your throat, exhaling air in a stuttering gasp. “And I should— I'm expected to be a gentleman. I'm supposed to behave myself, keep my composure. But you… you are driving me crazy, woman, you play with my head, you've bewitched me.”

You could really see that he was trying to explain himself for you, attempting to articulate everything that was going through his head and you knew that it was very unusual for him to speak out loud about his feelings. And now, you were the one who couldn't say anything at all.

It was true, the most important rule your mother had emphasized to you was that you were not to get involved sexually, or in any way with your betrothed, until the very day of the actual wedding, as that particular night was meant to be consumed.

“Y—you shouldn't be here, my lord.” You managed to utter out after a few hesitant stutters, feeling your back brush against the wall and having him in front of you, trapping you against his body. He seemed to be struggling against his body, against his desire and instinct, hesitant hands twitching at his sides, nearly reaching out instinctively for your body.

“You were so bold back there talking back to me, what happened now? Aw, what happened, pretty?” He asked in a more teasing tone of voice, holding your gaze. “We could put that mouth of yours to good use then, hm?”

“My lord—”

“Call me by name.” He demanded, he begged you, whispering.

“Feyd...” You named him so obediently that it made him smile darkly to himself. “Someone might listen.”

“Are you afraid that someone will find out that two people who are getting married desired each other?” Feyd asked, half-closing his eyes and breathing out through his nose, as if trying to compose himself, trying to convince himself more than you. “There is nothing wrong for a husband to crave for his wife, right?”

You gulped, and his eyes instantly landed on your throat, watching as bone and muscle moved beneath the flesh, his tongue twitched, aching with all his will to be able to just lick the skin of your neck.

“I guess not.” Your voice trembled even when you were trying extra hard to sound confident and certain. “But we are not yet husband and wife.”

“Soon...” Feyd muttered, almost as if he was making a promise, uttering a vow.

His eyes closed as he finally rested his forehead against yours and suddenly, you were breathing from the same air. His trembling breath was warm against your lips and his scent was everything you could have ever craved... and it felt so familiar that your soul seemed to shudder, like something you had smelled all your life, something that had haunted you even in dreams, forever present but yet always so far distant.

“Can I touch you?” Feyd breathed out against your mouth after a few moments.

You didn't answer him verbally, instead you slowly took his hands between yours, fingers placing them in parallel against his, allowing you to feel every inch of the imprint drawn on his fingertips as you dragged yours across his palm, both feeling the size difference.

Then, you rested his big, calloused hands on your waist, allowing him to touch and hold you as much as he wanted and to permit him to do so, a single sight on your eyes was all it took.

He hissed as his hands molded the curve of your waist and instantly afterward drew you into his body, pulling you fully against the wall behind you. Your back arched instinctively and you gasped too, so softly, your chest pressed against his with the motion.

“Touch me.” Feyd-Rautha pleaded, he had never pleaded so... desperately for anything ever in his life.

That was your allowance for your hands reaching for his body, out of control, one making a slow path up through his strong arms while the other rested against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under your palm, beating echoing your own. Your fingertips gently patted his muscles, recognizing his skin and his body. You got the abrupt urge to claim it as yours. To claim him.

You felt yourself blushing at all the overly imaginative and lustful images of him invading your head.

His nose brushed against yours, nuzzling it affectionately, still without opening his eyes, as if he were in some kind of dream from which he didn't want to wake up. His fingers caressed your belly, tracing a slow caress across your entire abdomen upward, while his other hand gripped your waist, holding you against him.

His touch triggered an immediate reaction across your flesh, skin shivering under his fingers.

Feyd whispered your name like a prayer, like a thirsty man, crawling and screaming for water.

“I'm trying to be good...”

“Don't be.” You whispered back, almost begging, looking up at him, gaze meeting his once he opened his eyes. “Please, Feyd—”

Then finally his lips landed on yours, initiating a kiss that you both craved so much, maybe he more than you for the way he brought you close to him, almost possessively, like a mad man, almost as if he was imprinting his mark on you, marking you for whoever had the courage to look at you.

He let himself sink in the way your lips fit against yours, in the warmth your body offered him, in the all too familiar sensation he could sense in every single fiber of his core from the kiss, your kiss.

Feyd-Rautha felt like a roaring beast just unleashed, ruthless and insatiable, just like when he walked into the arena, eager to kill, rooting against his opponents —and now he was rooting for you, to be near you, to intertwine his soul with yours, to claim you as his own.

And claiming you he was, his scent covered you all over now, making you feel a burning sensation in the pit of your stomach, throbbing crotch, blood seething like an infernal flare. Anyone who came near you would not only smell you, but him too, on every inch of your body. His hands roamed just under your breasts, rubbing across your ribcage and sliding down your back, fingers just barely grazing your ass, pressing you tightly against him in desperation, grasping and squeezing as much of your tender flesh as they could.

Your own palms roamed up his chest, caressing his broad shoulders, all the way up to his neck, tugging him closer to you in desperate motions, impossibly close.

When your bodies begged for oxygen, you broke the passionate kiss, leaving you both breathless. He kissed you once more, allowing you to breathe just for a few seconds before all you breathed was him. He wanted to become your oxygen, something indispensable to you, something you needed to live with, a necessity.

“You're the only one.” Feyd-Rautha mumbled out as his hot and soft lips trailed down a wet path all the way to your neck, tracing the line of your jaw with sloppy kisses, each time his lips pulled back from your skin a wet noise echoed and filled the room, making you gasp.

You could feel the way his lips were modulating each word against your skin, as if using a language so intimate and so tight that it took your breath away. A language known and used just between the two of you.

With desirous eyes he looked at the dark crimson mark he'd left on your throat before raising them across your flushed face, his hands cradling your jaw, thumbs caressing your skin tenderly.

“When my uncle gave me the announcement that I was to marry you, I kicked them all out.” He continued to explain, pecking your lips a couple of times before kissing each cheek, your forehead, your eyelids, your nose, every single feature of your entire face, with the utmost care and adoration.

No one had ever looked at you the way he was looking at you right now.

Feyd rasped out a small chuckle, breath warm tickling against your nose. “And by kicking them out I mean I killed them.”

His comment didn't surprise you at all, in fact, it didn't even provoke a reaction in you. During the week you had been in his company, you had already gotten used to Feyd-Rautha's -almost cruel- honesty and sassy remarks, you were just starting to get used to his very eccentric and unique attitude. Because the na-Baron's personality was something that was most captivating to you, he was so different yet so similar to you.

“Of course.” You replied, trying to hold back that dark grin on your lips, an action that caused him to kiss you once more, his attention was on your mouth the whole time as you spoke to him in that tone of voice. “I would expect nothing less from the Feyd-Rautha and for my future husband.”

Again he rested his forehead against yours and you were the one who kissed his lips this time. It had become a reassuring habit in a span of less than five minutes for both of you.

“I can't do anything to you until we get married, my uncle would find out otherwise. I have —we have— to behave, my love.”

He seemed to read your mind this time, or maybe it was the way you were looking at him, biting your lower lip gently, eyes darkened with desire, silently begging him to just take you right there against the wall when he called like that.

Perhaps Feyd-Rautha was a hopeless romantic just like you or he simply desired you in ways that went beyond mere sex or plain lust.

“Are you afraid of him?” You softly asked him, your fingers stroking the back of his neck, feeling the smoothness of his skin. Your fingertips followed the trail of one of his veins marked on his neck, making him gasp lightly.

“Have you seen him?” Feyd responded with another question, a curved little smile on his lips, his tone of voice directed pure sarcasm. “I don't think I'm in such a position as to challenge the Baron.”

You nodded your head, fingers stroking his cheekbones now, tapping the moles that spread across his face affectionately. “He's terrifying.”

Your heart seemed to melt as you watched him close his eyes and lean against your hand, kissing the palm in action.

“Mhm...” Feyd hummed, watching you attentively, as if he was memorizing every inch of your face. Suddenly, his expression changed to one of amusement.

“Were you seriously jealous of my darlings?”

Your heart seemed to drop to your stomach and burn with your guts as you heard the nickname fall from his mouth.

“Call them that again and I'll cut your throat.” You murmured against his lips, kissing them slowly before pulling away from his body, looking up at him with dark, yet playful eyes, your hand roaming across his chest until it fell to your side as you stepped away. Then you made your way towards your bed with a very slow pace, under the attentive gaze of his azure eyes following every movement of your hips.

His heart —apparently non-existent until then— was pounding like crazy inside his chest as his lips parted, for once again you had left him speechless.

That was living proof that you were simply made for him. And he for you.

And maybe that just meant you were each other's weakness, people would say so.

But he felt just invincible in your presence, as if your company made him behold the whole universe, gave him the power of the all galaxy at hand, making him feel like the only man in existence. Your man.

Feyd-Rautha had never felt so desperate to make you his wife and finally call you his.

[capuccinodoll]

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter one ♡

Summary: It’s Joel’s birthday. As usual, you and Sarah are getting everything ready to celebrate, just like you have for years. However, while preparing dinner before Joel gets home from work, Sarah tells you that her dad has been seeing a mysterious woman for the past couple of weeks. This wouldn’t be an issue, except he’s been deliberately hiding it from you, even going out of his way to lie about it.

Though you try to keep your anger in check to avoid ruining his birthday, your emotions get the better of you later that night when it’s just the two of you. Joel doesn’t hold back either, sparking a heated argument that pushes you both further than ever before.

Word count: 9.4K

A/N: Okay, I was planning for the first chapter to be 4K words MAX, but my imagination went crazy with this lol I really hope you like it. I really enjoyed writing this <3 warning: ANGST! don't forget to leave feedback, tell me what you think!

If you want to be on the tag list, let me know too.

You met him on the night of your twenty-second birthday, at the small party Cassie had put together for you in her dimly lit apartment. You hadn’t wanted much of a celebration, nothing bigger than a few close friends, and certainly not a group of strangers. But when Brianna swept in, holding hands with a man you didn’t know, and introduced him as her boyfriend, you felt a vague flicker of annoyance, the kind that accompanies unmet expectations.

"I thought it was just going to be us," you mumbled to Cassie, catching her in the kitchen as she poured herself another glass of wine.

She looked at you, her cheeks already flushed, eyes bright. "They're a few of my friends, too; they’re nice—you’ll like them if you give it a chance." She smiled, urging you to relax, as though she could tease you out of your mood. "It’s your birthday; don’t be so sullen."

"I didn’t know Brianna was bringing her boyfriend," you said quietly, as Cassie started back to the living room.

She paused, giving you a half-smile over her shoulder. "Neither did I, actually," she admitted, lowering her voice. "Apparently, they've been together for about a month. She’s really into him."

And she was. Brianna clung to him all night, her laughter spilling out freely, unrestrained and buoyant from the wine. It wasn’t long before someone suggested karaoke, and as voices rang out in the next room, you slipped quietly back into the kitchen, craving a moment of solitude. You were surprised to find Brianna’s boyfriend there, leaning against the counter, scrolling absently through his phone with a glass of water in hand.

He looked up, straightened, and offered you a tentative smile. “Oh, hi. Happy birthday,” he said, his voice warm but reserved. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier…”

“No worries,” you replied, your tone reassuring. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, as though weighing what to say next. “Are you having a good time?”

You gave a slight shrug. “It’s…” but before you could finish, he cut in with a knowing smile.

“It’s okay. I don’t love my birthday either.” His eyes glinted in the soft kitchen light, and you felt a small smile tugging at your own lips.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, allowing yourself the indulgence. “I didn’t want to admit it,” you said, feeling the faintest hint of heat rising to your cheeks. “What was your name again?”

“Joel,” he answered, his gaze drifting briefly back to his phone. “Sorry, I’m a little on edge tonight. Left my daughter with a new babysitter. I think she’s having a rough time.”

Your eyebrows rose in mild surprise; you hadn’t pegged him as a dad. You moved closer, pouring yourself a glass of orange juice and asked, “How old is she?”

“Four. Her name’s Sarah.” He ran a hand through his hair, and you could tell he was tense. “It’s only the second time she’s been with this sitter, and apparently, she’s been crying all evening.”

“Oh, poor thing,” you murmured sympathetically. “She’s little. Changes like that must be hard on her.”

He sighed, his gaze drifting to the side as he typed something quickly on his phone. “I should probably get going. Brianna won’t love that idea; we’d planned to stay out…” He paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours, worry etched across his face. “You think she’ll be too mad?”

“No,” you assured him, though you knew Brianna wouldn’t be pleased. “Go be with your daughter. She’s little; she needs you. Brianna will understand.”

A grateful smile spread across Joel’s face, and for the first time, you noticed the faint dimple on his cheek. For a fleeting second, you wanted to reach out, trace it with your thumb.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on you in a way that felt unintentional, yet steady. “I hope your night gets better once karaoke is over,” he added with a quiet laugh. "Wish me luck."

You chuckled, meeting his gaze. “Good luck, Joel.”

He left with that same soft smile, and you watched him go, his warm brown eyes leaving an odd impression, like an unclaimed memory. And, as expected, Brianna didn’t understand. She spent the rest of the night sulking, casting sharp words at Joel through her bitterness.

“You knew he had a daughter when you got with him, this was bound to happen at some point,” Cassie told her, fed up with the other's complaints.

You didn't hear the answer, as you were distracted by watching the colorful pictures someone had put on the television.

You heard nothing more from Joel for a couple of weeks, until Cassie blurted out the gossip one morning while you were having lunch at her house.

“He broke up with her,” she began to tell you. “He told her she wasn't being empathetic and that he couldn't drop everything to party with her as if they had no responsibilities.”

It was no surprise. Brianna was a woman who lived at night; she was twenty-three years old and enjoyed it with the freedom that was rightfully hers. You couldn't blame her for wanting to have fun with her boyfriend. But Joel lived a very different reality than she did; at twenty-eight, he had a daughter to take care of, routines to follow, and a lot of work to do.

Although you thought it would take her longer to get over him, it wasn't long before she met a guy at her gym and got into it with him, outgrowing Joel in a matter of days. But for some reason, Joel’s warm, steady gaze stayed with you, like a whisper that hadn’t fully faded.

Years passed quietly, slipping through your fingers like sand until, suddenly, it was your twenty-sixth birthday. This time, the scene was different: you’d moved into your own place just two days earlier, and there was little thought of celebrating. Instead, the weekend found you alone, arranging your things and attempting to bring order to the chaos of a new home.

It was a crisp Saturday morning, and you stood in your front yard with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice in hand, humming along to some eighties tune drifting in from the living room. The song—one of those upbeat ones that made even housework feel light—had lifted your spirits, and you moved rhythmically as you pushed plastic flowers into the dirt along the front path, sending little puffs of air to make the petals flutter.

You were lost in your task when you heard soft footsteps behind you, instinctively making you turn.

“Oh, hello,” you said, quickly masking the slight surprise the girl’s sudden appearance had given you.

She looked at you with wide, curious eyes, seemingly unfazed by her solo adventure.

“Hi. What’s your name? Do you live here?” she asked, her gaze shifting from your face to the flowers in your hands.

Glancing around for any sign of her parents, you noted her relaxed stance, like she’d been coming here all her life. Smiling, you nodded and gave her your name. “Yep, I just moved in.”

She looked unimpressed. “This house was empty for a while. I didn’t like the kid who lived here before. He was a pain in the ass—”

“Sarah!” came a sharp voice from behind, making you jump slightly. Heavy footsteps approached, and you squinted against the sun to see a figure striding toward you, his features obscured by the bright morning light.

When he stepped closer, his face came into focus, and your breath caught. You knew him.

“Sarah, you can’t just leave the house like that,” he said sternly, a furrow in his brow, his tone more parental than reproachful.

He turned to you, and the scowl softened as recognition dawned.

“Joel,” you murmured, the name slipping out before you even meant to say it aloud.

His expression shifted into a surprised smile, and that was all it took to break the ice between you. You explained that you’d just moved in and were still settling. Joel offered to help with anything you needed, including taking a look around the house to ensure everything was in order. He formally introduced you to Sarah, now eight years old, who had nearly scared him to death by sneaking out. She had his same lively spark in her eyes, a brightness that seemed familiar.

That evening, Sarah invited you to dinner with them, leaving Joel with little choice but to agree. And one dinner became many, as evenings blurred into weekends, and you found Joel’s presence in your life weaving into something inseparable from your routine. He started popping by to help with small projects, fixing kitchen cabinets or adjusting the wobbly front steps, visits stretching into movie marathons or lazy conversations with cold beer in hand. Days flowed into evenings of chatting over the meals you cooked to share with Sarah, and sometimes her uncle Tommy. Though Joel claimed he was no cook, his barbecues were legendary, and you couldn’t deny you looked forward to them most of all. And soon enough, he was there for everything, from driving you to doctor’s appointments to accompanying you on those grocery runs he pretended to hate. He even started showing up early on days he knew you’d need a ride. Over time, he became the best friend you’d ever had, a safe place, someone who felt like family. With everyone else scattered—Cassie overseas, old friends moved away—Joel became your rock.

It wasn’t something you dared to admit to yourself often, but you couldn’t imagine your life without him. And maybe that’s why you never allowed yourself to voice those little fleeting thoughts, the ones that flitted through your mind every now and then: how safe you felt whenever he threw his arm around your shoulders, or how good he looked reclining on his couch after a long day. Or how perfect it felt when the three of you—Sarah dozing on his lap, you leaning into his shoulder—sat together in the warm silence of a Sunday afternoon. There was an ache, too, a quiet pang whenever he mentioned another woman. Thankfully, that was rare; Joel once told you, with a shrug, that he “wasn’t really looking for that sort of thing.”

Sometimes, you watched him carefully as you talked about your own dates, hoping to catch a glimmer of jealousy in his gaze, some subtle cue that maybe he felt the same way. But there was never anything you wanted to see, and you always felt silly for looking. So, you buried it all. The risk of ruining things with Joel wasn’t worth the confession.

One afternoon, however, your emotions almost escaped your eyes when, while preparing Joel's birthday cake, Sarah dropped a piece of news that caught you off guard. She told you, with her usual nonchalance, that Joel had gone out the night before with someone new.

“Yeah, it’s like… the third time they’ve gone out,” Sarah mentioned while spreading cream on the sponge cake. “I don’t know her name or anything, just that he met her in line at the bank,” a laugh choked in her throat, amused at imagining her father flirting with some woman in a public space.

You forced a smile, laughing along like it was funny.

"And who stayed with you last night?” you asked, trying to keep your tone casual.

Not that Sarah was necessarily a baby; she was already twelve and extremely independent. But Joel never left her alone if he went out for the night, he knew how much she loved spending time with you watching movies and eating junk food. Then, when he arrived, you would pester him with gossipy questions and he would pretend to get angry and then answer every one of them.

“Uncle Tommy," she said, eyeing her work with satisfaction. “We had fun, but I kinda wished you’d come too. Hey, what do you think?” she fingered the cream neatly arranged with the angled knife.

“It's perfect,” you smiled at her, not waiting too long to ask the question you wanted so badly. “Why didn't you call me then?”

Sarah started sprinkling colorful sprinkles on top of the cream and looked at you for a second when she noticed the tone in your voice at the last word. She didn't seem to think much of it.

“You were busy, weren't you? Dad said you had something to do.”

Her answer hit you like a small weight to the chest. Joel had purposefully left you out. He’d even made an excuse for Sarah’s benefit. So, there had been three dates—three times he’d kept this woman a secret. A small knot formed in your stomach as you forced yourself to smile, still watching Sarah as she concentrated on the last of the sprinkles.

In the kitchen, you were running your hand through the steam from the beef stew on the stove—Joel’s favorite—when the door opened. His footsteps grew louder, approaching, and you nervously adjusted the dress you’d chosen, one you knew he liked, though he’d never said it. It was your favorite too, a cream-colored sundress with delicate shoulder ties.

Sarah sprang forward, covering his eyes. “Don’t look, the table’s not ready.”

You hurried to set the glasses in their places, your hands a little shaky as you moved, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“I don’t need to see it—I can smell it, and it smells incredible,” Joel grinned beneath Sarah’s tiny hands, which she’d plastered over his eyes, half to keep him from sneaking a glance, half just because she could.

“Too bad you don’t smell incredible,” Sarah retorted with a smirk, wrinkling her nose. "Go take a shower!"

You laughed, catching Joel’s raised brow at her.

“You’ve got five minutes,” you said, placing the lid on the simmering pot.

Joel snorted, brushing Sarah’s hands away from his face.

“That’s the smell of a hardworking man,” he replied, feigning offense as he turned for the stairs. “Y’all oughtta know.”

*

Later, the three of you sat around the table, and Joel took his first bite of the stew, eyes widening, a kind of bliss washing over his face. He tossed his head back and groaned.

“Sweet Glory,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “Thank you for this.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, though part of you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something between irritation and flattery. “You say that every time I cook for you.”

He shook his head, smiling as he chewed, then spoke softly, his gaze slipping downward.

“I’m not exaggerating—I love everything you do.” A pause, and then a quick, awkward clarification. “I mean, everything you cook.”

The clarification was like a line drawn in the sand, a boundary etched by his voice alone.

You smiled weakly and inwardly thankful when Sarah spoke, telling you about something that had happened at her school that week and distracting you from the question that was spellbinding your tongue. You were dying to ask it, to look him in the eye and ask: who did you go out with last night? Why didn't you tell me? Is it someone I know? Is that it?... But you didn't, you stayed quiet and participated in the pleasant conversation, celebrating his birthday as he deserved. After all, no matter how much it angered you that he kept things from you, it was still his special day.

After dinner, Sarah forced Joel to sit in front of his cake, two lit number candles glowing in front of him. You turned out the lights, watching as the light from the flames reflected beautifully in your best friend's dark pupils.

Joel was wearing a black T-shirt and dark jeans, his hair was still barely damp from the shower he'd taken before, and his sun-kissed tan face looked smooth, decorated by the beard and mustache you loved so much. Behind him, his shadow vibrated and spread across the wall with grandeur.

“Make a wish!” Sarah cheered, bouncing with excitement as she placed her small hands on his shoulders.

Joel smiled, closed his eyes, and blew out the candles. In the dimness, you leaned in and kissed his cheek softly.

“Happy birthday, old man,” you whispered, your hand resting gently on his neck.

He reached for your hand, pressing a warm, lingering kiss into your palm. “I’m not that old,” he muttered with a mock frown.

Sarah giggled, holding a knife to cut the cake and licking a dab of frosting from her thumb. “You’ll be forty in four years,” she teased, catching your amused expression.

Joel scoffed, scratching his stomach as he stood back up, turning to you with a smile that made you forget, just for a moment, all the questions you were holding back. There was only Joel, his rumbling laugh, Sarah’s delighted giggles. It felt like home.

Sarah gave him his gift first: a copy of Curtis and Viper 2 with the deleted scenes and a mystery box. When he opened it, a smile formed on his lips.

He pulled out a weathered wristwatch, broken for months, now polished and repaired.

“I took it in to be fixed. Do you like it?” Sarah asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

Joel nodded, eyes softening as he extended his wrist for her to put it on. “It’s perfect, baby.”

“Let's watch the movie later,” Sarah said. “You can't fall asleep.”

“Let's see which one of us falls asleep first,” you joked, and you were right. Joel had been working all afternoon and Sarah had been yawning for hours.

You turned and picked up the box resting beside your feet, handing it to him. When he opened it, Joel pulled out a black cloth garment and a paper envelope. He tugged at the cloth, revealing a thick, soft jacket. He read the label and a smile appeared on his lips.

“I saw it and thought of you,” you said, mimicking his gesture.

“How much did you pay for this?”

“Don't worry about it, it had to be yours,” you noted as you stood up and took it from his hand. “Here, stand up. Let's see how it fits you.”

“And what if it doesn't fit? Do we have to travel to Rome to exchange it?”

You laughed, then helped him slide it over his shoulders, a comfortable, familiar movement.

“I know you by heart, I couldn't be wrong.”

“So?” he asked, smiling coquettishly. Your stomach tingled and you decided to ignore it.

“Lookin’ good, Dad,” Sarah chimed in, her innocent smile lighting up the moment. “Bet someone special will love it, too.”

Joel smiled weakly, as if he was trying to tell her something with his eyes, and for a second you hated the thought of your gift being enjoyed by someone else. You imagined him getting ready to go out with her -whoever she was-, running his hand through his hair and perfuming his neck as he did from time to time whenever he went out with someone. You knew that perfume perfectly, you'd recognize it anywhere, though you were sure it wouldn't smell the same on anyone else. Joel added his own scent to it, and you loved it.

“Okay, now, open the envelope,” you urged, your voice unintentionally sharper than you meant.

Joel sat back down and opened the blue paper envelope. He read the note carefully and when he looked up, you and Sarah were looking at him excitedly.

“Sunshine, did you pay for this?” he asked you, a soft disbelief in his tone.

Inside were three plane tickets. Sarah had helped you pick the destination—somewhere none of you had been but would love.

When you nodded, he let out a soft sigh. “Let me cover part of it.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes. “It’s my birthday gift to you, Joel. It’s all settled. You need a vacation, and we certainly do too, don't we?”

“That's right,” Sarah confirmed, smiling complicitly.

He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re too good to me.”

But he smiled, tucking the tickets back into the envelope.

Time with Joel and Sarah was easy. When you were with them, hours slipped away, and the heaviness of everything else seemed to dissolve. You felt at home, and sometimes it left you wondering about Sarah’s mother, about how anyone could have left them. Didn’t she see how extraordinary they were? Didn’t she realize what she’d lost?

You thought about this as you relaxed on the couch beside Joel, Sarah curled up with her head on your shoulder. Her breathing had slowed, and you smiled, realizing she’d fallen asleep. Three glasses sat on the coffee table: the wine Joel had opened just before dinner—a bottle you’d brought back from your last trip to Italy—and Sarah’s lemon soda. Joel snorted softly, glancing at his daughter with a smirk, then leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“Fallen soldier,” he whispered, smiling.

You laughed, brushing a hand over Sarah’s hair. “She’s tired. She was up all afternoon making your cake, you know? Tried the cream three times before she got it right.”

Joel sighed, an apologetic note in his voice. “I know, sorry I was late. I know she wanted me here sooner.”

Curtis and Viper 2 was halfway through on the TV, forgotten in the background. Joel straightened, signaling he’d take Sarah to bed, and you shifted to make room as he lifted her, carrying her toward the stairs. You watched him disappear down the hallway, and as the house fell into a quiet lull, that familiar disappointment stirred in your chest. Now, without Sarah’s chatter, you’d have to keep pretending that nothing was wrong.

You took a long sip of your wine, finishing off the glass just as Joel returned. He sat down heavily beside you, causing the cushions to sink as he let out a sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes before giving you a grateful look.

“Thanks for today, I had a great time. Sarah was very happy,” he said quietly, a warm smile appearing on his lips.

“I'm glad, hun. Although the credit goes to her, I just made dinner.”

“Doesn’t matter. You helped her, and I’m grateful. I mean that. For today, and for… all these years.” His voice softened, almost reverent.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you whispered, feeling your pulse pick up as he leaned closer, his brown eyes unreadable but soft. “You’re my family, both of you. Really, I’m the one who owes you thanks.”

He shook his head and leaned back, taking another sip of his wine.

“Not at all,” he replied, leaning back again.

You watched him for a moment, turning the weight of your question over in your mind. If you said something, he’d make an excuse. If you kept silent, the doubt would eat at you. You tried to fix your gaze on the TV, on anything other than his profile in the dim room. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

“So, what did you do last night?”

He tensed beside you, so subtly that only you could’ve noticed. “What?”

You tried to keep your tone even, hoping you didn’t sound like you’d spent all day thinking about it. “I just… didn’t see your truck out there, thought maybe you were gone or something.” It was a lie; you had fallen asleep on your couch last night, you hadn't even noticed Joel was gone.

Joel seemed to measure his words carefully. “Oh. Yeah… I just went out for a beer with Tommy,” he answered, his tone a little too casual.

Heat crept up your face, disbelief taking root. He really was holding out on you for some reason, wasn't he? The man was lying to you, and not very cleverly. Tommy had been with Sarah, what if you had seen him, hadn't he thought of that? Apparently not. 

It took a moment before you could bring yourself to say anything, watching as he glanced at you with an uneasy smile, waiting for you to believe him.

“Joel,” you murmured, not quite able to keep the accusation out of your voice. “You’re lying to me.”

He gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, but you didn’t let him off so easily. Before he could say anything, you spoke again.

“Tommy was with Sarah last night, here,” you pointed out, your voice firmer this time. His silence told you everything, his face drawn and uncertain as he realized you’d caught him.

After a long pause, he looked down, his voice unusually flat. “Alright, yeah. I know.”

The admission was so casual it took you by surprise, but you shook your head, feeling the ache of frustration and betrayal creep in.

“Why would you lie to me?” you pressed. “We’re friends. Why wouldn’t you tell me you’re seeing someone?”

Joel sighed, avoiding your gaze, his eyes instead locked somewhere in the distance. “It’s… it’s nothing serious,” he mumbled. “Just getting to know her. Don't make such a fuss out of it.”

“What? what you're saying doesn't make sense. You’ve kept it hidden, avoided every chance to be honest about it. Why?” you asked, trying not to let the hurt seep into your voice.

“It’s not like that,” he insisted, but his voice sounded unsure.

“So if I call Tommy right now, he’ll tell me the truth? Or did you ask him to keep this from me too?”

Finally, he met your gaze, his eyes scanning your face, reading the frustration and hurt you’d tried to keep buried. You could see it in his eyes, that familiar tug of defiance, a flash of something deeper than guilt or secrecy.

“What if I did?” His voice was almost philosophical, his gaze intense and challenging. “This is my private life. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, not even you. Do I?”

You drew in a sharp breath. His words struck like a slap, but you steadied yourself. “You’re right, Joel. You don’t owe me explanations. But you don’t have to lie to me, either.” You looked down, feeling your voice start to waver. “You’ve never hidden your relationships from me before.”

He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face and slumping back against the couch.

After a few seconds, he finally looked at you, a look of exasperation crossing his face.

“Because of this.” He gestured between you, his tone gentle but firm. “This reaction, right here, is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

What Joel was saying didn’t make sense. Your frustration wasn’t over him seeing someone else; it was something else entirely, something more fundamental.

“Oh, just stop,” you snapped, voice sharp. “I’m not mad because you’re dating someone, Joel. I’m mad that you lied to me. They’re two completely different things.”

He took a breath, settling back on the couch, and turned to face you, a guarded expression crossing his face. “No, it’s always the same thing. Remember the last time I was seeing someone?”

And you did, briefly. A year ago, one of his friends had introduced him to his cousin—a woman who had just moved to town. She was polite enough, but her smiles had a brittle quality to them, and when she met Sarah, her warmth never extended beyond a single, dismissive greeting. The indifference was obvious, at least to you, and maybe you’d let that show a little too openly. Joel had caught on quickly, and after that, things with her fizzled out.

“That was different,” you argued, exasperated. “She wasn’t nice, Joel. She had zero interest in Sarah.”

He gave a bitter, half-smile. “Maybe, but it wasn’t your job to manage that. I can handle my own relationships. But you always—” he paused, thumping his chest with a finger, “you always step in. Always get defensive.”

“That’s not true!” Your voice rose as anger crept in, heating your face. “You’re just making excuses. Date whoever you want, Joel, I don’t care. But don’t lie to me, don’t insult me with these flimsy excuses. Or if you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing.”

He clenched his jaw, his gaze hardening, something fierce sparking in his eyes. “Are you sure about that?” he asked, his voice low and measured, the words hanging between you like a dare.

“Sure about what?” Your brow creased in confusion, the pulse in your chest picking up, a flurry of anger and… something else you couldn’t place, mingling with the haze of the wine.

His eyes narrowed, holding yours, unflinching. “That you don’t care. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Because I know you, i know you to well to know you’re just jealous.”

Jealous. He thought you were jealous.

He had missed the point completely. Your feelings for him were complex, that much was true. But you had learned, or thought you had learned, to carry them quietly. Your friendship with him had come to feel like a sturdy house you could live inside without having to ask too much of it. Having him in your life was enough.

But now, you felt that house shift, cracks spreading through the walls. His inability to trust you hurt more deeply than you’d expected. The openness you’d once trusted was fracturing. You felt the sting of tears prick at your eyes, the words he’d thrown out so casually cutting to the quick.

“Fuck you, Joel,” you muttered, standing abruptly, storming to the door and slamming it shut behind you. You barely heard him call your name as you left, fury driving you down the front steps, the cool night air biting at your cheeks.

Honestly, he could go fuck himself.

Just as your hand reached your front door, his footsteps closed in behind you, his strides fast enough to catch up. You tried to close the door before he could reach you, but his hand caught it just in time, his voice heavy with irritation.

“Just go away, Joel,” you said, barely glancing at him. “I don’t want to see you again.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.” His voice was calm, almost pleading.

You stepped back, reluctantly letting him into the foyer. He’d have come in anyway.

“I mean it, God. Go home,” you insisted, your voice wavering, betraying the anger mixed with something else.

He shook his head, taking a few steps closer, his jaw tight. “Can we just talk?”

“Talk?” you repeated incredulously. “Talk about what? About how wrong you are?”

He didn’t flinch, but his eyes darkened. “Don’t act like what I said was crazy,” he said, voice steady but a little sharper now.

You scoffed, throwing your hands up. “Oh, so now I’m jealous, is that it? Then, by your logic, you must’ve been jealous too, right? Like last month, when Travis asked me out. Because if that’s the case, then we’re having the same conversation, aren’t we?”

Joel clicked his tongue, tilting his head with an exaggerated sigh. “No, Travis is just a jerk. And I don’t like him, plain and simple.”

Travis Dunn, your neighbor, had moved in a few months after you did. Handsome, tall, and friendly, everyone on the street adored him—everyone except Joel. He couldn’t seem to stand him, though Travis was always polite to him.

Last month, when Travis had asked you out, Joel had practically laughed in your face when you told him about it, muttering something dismissive as if the very idea was absurd. You’d told Travis you were busy, though deep down you knew the real reason you hadn’t accepted was because of Joel’s disapproval.

You shook your head, exasperated. “Travis isn’t a jerk, Joel, you just don’t like him. He’s nice, honestly, much nicer than some people, if we’re being honest here. Everyone loves him; you’re the only one who has a problem with him.”

“Then everyone’s as much of an idiot as he is, sunshine.”

“Oh, really? Or maybe… you’re jealous of him?” Your tone was teasing, but you felt the shift as soon as you said it.

Joel’s mouth twitched in a half-smile, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. He ran his tongue over his lips, shaking his head slowly, twice.

“Don’t turn this on me,” he said. “This isn’t about Travis or me.”

“No?” you shot back, voice edged with challenge. “So if I go tomorrow and say yes to him, that wouldn’t bother you at all, right?”

He stepped closer to you, his eyes dark with something you’d never seen in him before. The air seemed to thicken, his presence so intense it felt as though it wrapped around you. He leaned in, his face close enough that his words brushed your skin.

“You can do whatever you want, baby. It’s your fucking life.”

“And you can do whatever you want too, Joel. That’s the fucking point!” you nearly shouted, hands pushing against his shoulders, shoving him away. “I don’t care what you do! It’s already clear you don’t get it, you don’t get anything, ANYTHING!”

Joel staggered back for a split second, but it wasn’t long before he closed the distance again, though he didn’t get as close this time.

His voice was lower, a thread of something hard in his tone. “If you’re so insulted by the idea of being jealous, maybe that’s something for you to think about. Ever thought of doing a little introspection?”

“Are you drunk, Joel?” you asked, eyes narrowed, softening your voice a fraction. The argument was exhausting you, and the anger left you feeling hollow.

He laughed, an odd, choked sound. “Oh, c'mon, you know one bottle of wine ain't enough to get me drunk.”

“Yeah, but you’re tired, and you’re not exactly young, Joel,” you said, brushing past him, his gaze glued to you the entire time. “Alcohol hits you differently now. Just go home, leave me alone.”

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone, and maybe then you can run across the street and fuck Travis Dunn, if you want it so badly,” he shot back, impatience tinging his voice as he turned toward the still-open door.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze for a moment, the anger washing over you in a wave. Before you could think twice, you rushed up to him, gripping his arm tightly to force him to turn and look at you.

“What the hell did you just say, Joel?” you hissed, grabbing his shirt, fingers bunching in the fabric as you backed him up until his shoulders hit the wall by the door. “Go on, say it again!”

Your breaths came fast, chest rising and falling as the rush of anger pushed tears to your eyes. You couldn’t believe he’d actually spoken to you like that, cutting right through to something raw and vulnerable. He’d never spoken to you like that before. Maybe he was a little drunk, or maybe he was losing his mind.

But there was no softness in his gaze, no hint of the Joel you knew. His stare was sharp, almost wild with something simmering underneath, something you didn’t understand. To you, this whole argument made no sense, at least not his reaction.

Joel’s grip on your wrist was firm, almost grounding, as he pulled you closer, pressing your palm against his chest. “I can’t stand that asshole, but go ahead and fuck him if you want,” he spat, voice laced with frustration. “Go fuck the whole neighborhood while you’re at it. I really don’t care anymore.”

His words were harsh, designed to cut, but they only drew a laugh from you—sharp and derisive. A tear slipped down your cheek, uninvited.

“What, did you ever care?” you asked, your voice trembling on the last syllable, thick with emotion.

But Joel didn’t respond, and the silence ignited a fire in you, something that swirled beneath the surface, ready to boil over.

“Do you know why we’re friends, Joel?” Your pulse quickened, each beat like a drum in your ears. “Because it just works between us. There are no ulterior motives. You know why? Because I don’t like you like that. You’re not even my type, and you never will be. And no, I’m not jealous that you’re dating some woman you’ll probably dump in less than a month, so get the fuck over it and leave me the fuck alone!”

You watched as his gaze flickered between your eyes, uncertainty warring with something darker. Suddenly, with an unexpected strength, Joel tightened his grip on your wrist and pushed you back hard against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your back hit the unforgiving surface.

His expression had transformed, those deep, dark eyes piercing you like arrows. His breath quickened, crashing against your face, and you could feel your lower lip tremble as he pressed even closer, pinning you against the wall.

“You don’t know how to lie,” he murmured, his lips almost brushing against your cheek.

The sensation was unbearable; his body pressed against yours, heat radiating off him and melting you inside. You could feel the edge of something primal, something that could tip either way. But suddenly, clarity surged through you. With a burst of strength, you pushed him away, breaking free from his grasp, forcing him to pull back just enough for you to gasp for air.

But the distance felt worse. In his eyes, you recognized something you’d never seen before—desire, raw and unfiltered. It clawed at you, igniting an inexplicable need. A sigh escaped your lips, and like a match struck in a dark room, it was enough to set off an explosion. In an instant, Joel lunged at you, and you found yourself wrapped around him, mouths colliding in a desperate kiss filled with moans and the urgency of your racing hearts.

With a loud thud, Joel kicked the front door shut, his hands moving feverishly down your body, fingers skimming your thighs, slipping beneath your dress. He caressed your skin before squeezing your ass hard, drawing a moan from your lips that echoed in the small space between you. You clung to him tighter, his hands fitting around you as if they were made for this very moment.

He pulled back for a breath, the sound wet and chaotic against the walls of your home, and then his lips descended down your neck, unraveling what little sanity you had left. A moan rumbled in his throat as your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently to tilt your head back, giving him better access to the tender spot just below your ear, your blood pulsing beneath his hungry mouth.

Joel seemed to want to devour you whole; his hands roamed erratically, trembling as his mouth kissed and bit your jaw, pressing your bodies together in a way that felt impossibly intimate. When you lifted your right leg and wrapped it around his side, he was quick to respond, hands securing your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto his hips, burying his face against your chest.

Another moan escaped you, and he pulled you down just enough to find your lips again. “Joel,” you whispered, breathless as you parted from him, pressing your forehead against his, eyes searching his.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, his voice low, almost broken, each word laced with a vulnerability you’d never heard from him before. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you replied in a small, desperate cry, feeling the heat radiating from him, the thin fabric of your underwear igniting a fire deep within you.

You were dying of thirst, and he had just asked you if you would refuse a sip of water. Was he mad? You wanted to drink it all. 

No sooner had you answered than Joel pulled you off the wall, striding toward the stairs with a confident grace. You lowered your legs cautiously, meeting his lips again in a frantic, wet kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with urgency.

You walked to your room with the agility of one who knows where to step, and once inside, you grabbed the shirt you had angrily grabbed earlier and lifted it up his body in a desperate attempt to rip it off. Joel raised his arms, letting the fabric pass over both of you and then fall to the floor, and as quickly as your hands returned to his chest, he kissed your neck again, desperate, pressing his fingers into the tender flesh of your waist, seeking a physically impossible closeness. 

His hands found your thighs once more, fingers gripping and kneading with a measured intensity that sent electric shivers through you. As he moved lower, his fingertips brushed the thin fabric of your underwear, inching closer to where you ached for him, squeezing you tighter as if to draw you in.

In a single, decisive motion, he grasped the hem of your dress and pulled it upward, the fabric sliding along your skin as he lifted it away, tossing it aside with a casual disregard that only heightened the tension in the air. He took a step back, his gaze roaming over you, from the soft curve of your face down to the tips of your toes, a look of hunger that felt almost consuming.

You weren't wearing a bra (your dress didn't require it) and your breasts fell beautifully in front of him, hard nipples and soft skin. Your chest flushed with warmth, a rosy hue creeping into your cheeks as you swallowed hard, feeling vulnerable yet exhilarated when he stepped closer.

“I’ve always loved that dress,” he said, his voice trembling with an emotion that was both reverent and raw.

“I know,” you replied, a smile curling at the corners of your lips, the moment igniting an intimacy that made your heart race.

His eyes swept down your body again, glittering with an unmistakable lust, and when he closed the distance, standing right before you, your breath caught in your throat.

His hands slid around your waist, firm yet tender, pulling you into him with a deftness that sent a thrill coursing through you. In one seamless motion, he lifted you off the ground, your feet barely grazing the floor as you instinctively stood on your tiptoes, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

Joel’s eyes darkened with a hunger that left you breathless, and he leaned in, his lips finding one of your breasts with a soft kiss that felt both electrifying and reverent. The warmth of his mouth sent a rush of heat through your body, and before you could gather your thoughts, he nipped your nipple gently, a teasing bite that sent chills racing across your skin.

His teeth grazed you just enough to elicit a gasp, a shuddering reaction that echoed in the space between you. But he didn’t linger on the sharpness of that moment; he quickly replaced the sensation with the soothing warmth of his lips, enveloping you entirely.

He sank to one knee, lowering himself until his lips brushed your stomach, the warm sensation sending ripples of desire coursing through you. His face lingered dangerously close to where you needed him most.

Joel placed his hands on your hips, fingers gripping the elastic of your underwear, his gaze locking onto yours for a moment that stretched into eternity before he slowly began to lower it, the fabric sliding down your legs and pooling at your feet. You felt his breath hitch at the sight of your now bare center, the anticipation thickening the air between you as he inched closer, finally brushing his lips against your mons pubis.

“Precious,” he murmured, and the warmth of his breath washed over you like a caress, drawing a small, needy moan from your lips. His hands parted your legs slightly, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you firmly in place.

You cupped his face gently, as if afraid you might break him, and then, without warning, Joel licked his lips and plunged forward, his mouth connecting with you in a surprise that made your eyes flutter shut. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer as he devoured you, his tongue working its magic as he sucked and kissed you whole, with an urgency that left you breathless.

He growled into you, the sound reverberating through your body, and you felt weakness seep into your legs, trembling under the weight of his relentless attention. Joel was eating you like a hungry man, tasting you and soaking in your juices with a fervor that felt primal, kissing you as if his life depended on it.

“Fuck,” you gasped, feeling every muscle in your body tighten as a building pressure coiled inside you.

He pulled away for just a moment, his eyes darkened with lust, a playful smile creeping onto his lips before he returned to you, closing his mouth around your clit, sucking and licking with a skill that made your head spin.

“Ah—Joel, I’m going to—I’m going to—” You struggled to articulate the intensity of what was building within you, your words stumbling over the tide of pleasure washing over you.

His voice vibrated through you, trailing off into a soft, “Mhm.”

You pulled at his hair, tugging harder as a wrenching moan escaped your throat. The world around you faded as his movements grew more frantic, his tongue flicking at you with a desperate fervor. One of his hands released your thigh, and a low groan escaped his lips as his finger found your entrance, sliding inside with an ease that made you gasp.

“Fuck me, you’re so wet,” he murmured, pausing for a moment to take in the sight of you—your cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with lust. A satisfied smile broke across his face, and you thought he had never looked so gorgeous.

From your point of view, he looked beautiful. His bright eyes worshipped you intently, his mouth and mustache glistened bathed in you, his hair tossed by your hands mingled in all directions. Joel Miller had never looked so good.

Another finger joined the first, and you closed your eyes, surrendering to the sensation as he curled them just right, hitting that sweet spot that made you gasp for air. You gripped his hair again, pulling him closer, and he let out a throaty laugh, clearly reveling in the sight of you completely undone.

You felt his mouth on you again, the warmth of his lips kissing and sucking with an insatiable hunger that left you breathless. The sound of it was utterly obscene, echoing around the room like a carnal symphony, and it drove you to the brink of madness, your mind spinning in a dizzying haze of pleasure.

His movements grew more intense, a rhythm building that sent waves of ecstasy rippling through your body. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, your hips moving in desperate undulations, surrendering to the climax that Joel savored with unrelenting focus. Your fingers clenched around him, digging in perhaps a bit too hard, but he welcomed it, desperate to drink in every last drop of what you were offering, to savor you whole.

With a low grunt, he squeezed your hips before pulling away, the wet sound of his departure from you hanging heavy in the air. You barely registered his rise from the floor, lost in the aftershocks of pleasure, your eyes still closed as the vibrations coursed through you. It wasn’t until his hands gripped your waist that you finally blinked awake, lifting your eyelids to find him gazing down at you, his face mere inches from yours.

He leaned in, capturing your mouth again, a kiss that was both desperate and tender, igniting a fire deep within you. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer as you melted into the kiss. As the intensity built, you let your fingers drift down his chest, trailing lightly until they found the leather of his belt, the sensation sending shivers through you as you tugged him closer.

Joel vibrated against you, a low growl escaping as he nipped at your lower lip while you fumbled with his steel buckle, the sound of it being released becoming your new favorite melody. You unzipped his pants, your heart racing as you slipped your hand inside, finally touching him for the first time.

Your pulse quickened as you wrapped your fingers around him, feeling the heat radiating from his velvet soft skin; big, hot and throbbing in your palm. A rush of desire flooded you, and you pulled away from his lips, dropping to your knees before him, your eyes wide as you took in his form. 

There he stood, beautiful and swollen with need, and your mouth watered at the sight. You cupped him gently, drawing him closer to your lips, placing a soft kiss on the tip. Joel closed his eyes at the sensation, surrendering to the moment completely, and you traced your tongue over him, tasting the salty sweetness of his pre cum that made your insides tighten with longing.

With a hint of effort, you attempted to take him fully into your mouth, but he was too large, stretching you in ways you hadn’t expected. Joel lowered his gaze to you, his fingers caressing your jaw as you struggled to adjust.

“Slow, baby,” he urged, his voice silky yet strained, and it sent another rush of need through you. "I know you can do it."

You matched your hand to your mouth, stroking him where you couldn’t quite reach, while your other hand gently caressed his balls, moving in a synchronized rhythm. Joel tensed beneath your touch, his fingers shifting from your face to tangle in your hair, guiding you as he reveled in the pleasure you were giving him.

The sounds in the room became a symphony of pleasure, every moan and gasp echoing off the walls, and you watched as Joel's pleasure climbed. The image was enough to drive him over the edge; your pink, swollen lips covered him and his cock glistened with your saliva, dripping from your chin with every move you made. Your teary eyes looked up at him desirously, and he could take no more; his gaze was filled with a primal hunger that threatened to unravel him. He finally withdrew from your mouth with great reluctance when he felt his stomach tighten, a low complaint escaping your throat in protest.

His breathing was heavy, and a flush colored his cheeks as he lifted you effortlessly, holding you at the waist, his lips finding yours in a heated kiss. In one swift motion, he laid you back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he moved closer; Joel kneeling and settling between your legs which you instinctively opened for him. 

You needed him, you needed him to fill you whole. You had never needed anything as much as you needed him at that moment. And as if he was reading your thoughts - or maybe he needed you as much as you needed him - he leaned in, taking your mouth with his once more, his moans blending with yours as he lost himself in you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss, the taste of him igniting a fire in your veins. You felt him positioning himself at your entrance, his heat pulsing against you, and an intense sigh shot through your chest as Joel entered you in one thrust, burning and stretching you around him. 

“Oh God,” he groaned, burying his face into the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. His right hand traveled to your left leg, lifting it and resting it high on his shoulder, while without hesitation, his other hand mirrored the movement with your right leg, bringing you into a position that felt both intimate and vulnerable. You were completely folded under him.

A cry escaped your lips as Joel began to move on top of you, his face hovering just inches above yours, the heat between you palpable. No one had ever penetrated you so deeply; it felt as though he was everywhere, filling you completely, every inch of you alive with sensation.

Joel's right hand gently squeezed your neck, seeking your mouth for a kiss as his movements took on a more urgent pace. The rhythmic collision of his hips against your buttocks created a beautiful sound that echoed off the walls, each thrust punctuated by the soft, desperate gasps that slipped from his mouth. Your own cries mingled with his as your body tightened again, your hands moving frantically up and down his back, your nails digging into his flesh, leaving little marks that he would surely wear like badges of pleasure. 

A broken sound escaped from Joel, raw and primal, as he sank his face into the crook of your neck once more, increasing his thrusts with a fervor that felt animalistic, as if the world outside had fallen away and this moment was all that mattered. He fucked you into the mattress with an intensity that left you breathless, as though he were trying to ground you both in this fleeting reality, where nothing else existed except for the two of you entwined together.

You melted around him, your juices mixing with his as you enveloped him completely, and just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, he lifted his head, your forehead resting against yours, his wide eyes locking into yours. You had never seen them so dark, so filled with intensity and strength.

And then it hit you: It was Joel, your Joel, the one who had been your best friend for four years, and here he was, fucking the life out of you like no one ever had before. What could possibly come after an experience like this?

“I thought you didn't like me,” he said, his voice choppy, strained with effort. A smirk played at the corners of his swollen lips. “Such a bad liar, baby, look at you.”

You growled in response, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him towards you with a mix of force and anger. Your lips found his in a kiss that was anything but patient, igniting a spark between you. You felt him tense above you, one of his hands quickly moving to your center, exerting immense pressure as he leaned his weight on his other arm, holding you captive beneath him.

His fingers found your clit, tracing gentle circles that made your back arch involuntarily, another wave of pleasure building inside you. Your mouth was still on his, consuming him completely, when your second orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You felt your insides tighten around him, squeezing him with a ferocity that pulled him closer to his own climax.

Joel gasped into your mouth, and the intensity of it sent your vision spiraling into darkness for a brief moment, the sensation so strong it felt as if the world had collapsed around you. When your breathing finally steadied, you found his hot body pressed against yours, moving in tiny tremors, quickened breaths brushing against your jaw.

He stayed inside you for a few moments longer, savoring the closeness, your hands continuing to caress his back, each touch a silent promise. Then, slowly, he pulled out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty, his cum trickling from your entrance.

He fell limply beside you, his body slick with sweat, and pulled you close to him, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His breaths, still heaving, crashed against your damp skin, wrapping you in warmth. Unable to muster the energy to move, you let your eyes flutter closed, surrendering to a deep, exhausted sleep that you would not remember when you woke up...

No, you didn't remember any dream, Because when you opened your eyes the next morning, you stirred in place and your muscles ached pleasantly, reminding you of the night before. And as you stretched your arms across the bed, your fingers grazed the sheets, feeling an emptiness beside you.

When you looked to your sides, the realization hit you hard.

Joel was gone.

taglist: @orcasoul

[salem-s]

FINAL ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, flufffffffff, angst if you squint, smmmmmuuuutt (unprotected...everything so don't take after them please). 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 13k. legit do not say anything. this was originally 4k words but i obviously couldn't let that happen for the last chapter. so.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER the only exception by paramore

Rafe swears he hears pounding on his door.

He takes an ear bud out, trying to discern if the noise was real or a part of the song he’s currently listening to. After a moment’s silence, he moves to put the bud back in but one, two beats later, the knocks sound again, confirming someone is at his door so late into the night.

Irritation bubbles in his chest.

Rafe’s been at these stupid memorization cards for what feels like hours, getting nowhere close to being ready for his eight a.m. exam. His mind has – obviously – been elsewhere for the betterment of a week, and he'd be lying if he said the attempt in drowning himself in work has properly distracted him from the events of last week.

Spoiler alert: it hasn't, and it's only getting worse.

Especially now, as the handwriting on the paper started giving him a headache hours ago, so he begrudgingly put on his glasses that he refuses to let see the light of day. The specks, unfortunately, do assist in not making the letters blur together, especially when he’s so tired that his gaze falls in and out of focus.

However, he hates them so goddamn much that it only worsens his already sour mood.

But now they aren’t the only annoyance of his night.

The fact that someone is ferociously pounding on his door only augments his headache, his frustration, and his precariously bubbling temper. He glances at the time, nearing two in the morning, angry that someone has the audacity to not only interrupt his studying, but probably everyone’s sleep on his floor, careless to rhyme or reason or simple ethics. 

He wastes no time standing so quick his chair nearly falls over, stomping over, a long list of curses and horrific things to say are on the tip of his tongue, ready to viscerally berate this person until next Tuesday.

Rafe whips the door open. “The fuck is the–”

His words die in his throat when he sees you.

The air is momentarily knocked from his lungs.

Your hair and makeup are done, as if you've just come from somewhere, adorned in one of his favorite tank tops on you and jeans that hug you too tight to be anything holy. You peer up at him with wide eyes at his harsh words, hugging your basically bare frame in a feeble attempt to warm yourself from wherever you just came from.

God, you look beautiful.

He knows he’s supposed to be mad at you and giving you space and all that, but all of that fades in an instant when he notices your arms coated in goosebumps and your teeth slightly chattering.

Something ugly brews in his chest, discomforted by the thought of you bracing the cold all by yourself. Where is your jacket?

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” he grumbles, ushering you into his room without a second thought.

In an attempt to regain his cool, he frowns to keep up with his indifferent demeanor since he's supposed to be cordial and all, even though the mere thought of attempting small talk with you settles a kettlebell in the pit of his stomach. His heart aches looking at you, because you're simply a walking reminder of how he fucked it all up, said the wrong things and came on too strong with poor timing, a reminder of what he could've had if he was a little more patient, more calculated, less stupid in his endeavors.

Because the past week has been absolute torture for him.

He learned very quickly that almost everything around him reminds him of you: books with an aged spine and annotations adorning the wrinkled pages, simple parts of nature that resemble the color of your eyes, strangers hugging, the mere smell of eucalyptus, everything all at once. The day he got back, he went to the liquor store with Elliot in an attempt to distract himself, but it proved fruitless when he found himself wandering idly in the wine aisle, frozen in place when he found the same bottle that you snagged two of after that grueling dinner with your family.

From that point on, Rafe really only stayed in his room unless it was absolutely necessary to leave.

But it seems as though even the confinements of his room don't provide the solace he's been desperately seeking, as the knowledge of how your room shares a wall with his has been plaguing his conscience. There have been countless times where he's debated saying fuck it, knocking on your door, and begging on his knees to have you in his life again, but he knows he can't do that.

He needs to let you come to him, to not bombard you as he has before. That was what scared you off, his forwardness, so he's vowed to keep cool, keep a distance, and keep quiet as much as he can to give you the space you need.

So, he knows he needs to remain stoic, indifferent, guarded.

Reminding himself of this, Rafe hands you a hoodie off the back of his chair. “Did you lose your key again?”

The sound of his voice is so nice to hear, so refreshing, and you nearly sigh as you hug the hoodie close to your body before pulling it over your head, relishing in the way it smells like him, in its warmth as if he was just wearing it moments ago. Pathetically, you nearly sigh at how it feels adorning your body.

“I left my purse at Elliot’s,” you whisper, hugging your body. “Since when have you had glasses?”

Rafe freezes, forgetting he had them on. 

Ignoring his pink cheeks and ignoring your question, he moves on, putting his guard back up.

Quickly.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, so he reels it in. “Uh, it’s late. I have an exam.”

You frown at the considerable distance he’s put between you, but part of you really can't blame him since you were the one who orchestrated the falling out.

“I won’t…I won’t take too long. I just need to know if…” You trail off.

How on earth are you going to go about this? Especially when his stare is so piercing, as if he's looking right through your body and into your soul, brows pinched in what you assume is irritation at your stammering.

“Know what?” he drawls out.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, gaping to try and find the words. You shiver as you recover from the chilly walk, but also at his stare that you can’t quite make out the meaning behind. Is he mad? Irritated? Relieved to see you? You hate how you can’t tell.

But you take a deep breath.

You know how he feels about you, you know all of it, despite this front he’s wearing right now. If Elliot can confirm it, it must be true. 

And as if you needed the extra push, your gaze drifts slightly beyond him, fixated on his desk and noticing the sprawl of papers, his computer open to an online textbook, and notecards that have almost perfect handwriting etched onto them. What gets you, though, are the five almost professional looking photo prints laid out side by side across the top of his desk.

All of you.

You in the distance teetering your balance on a particularly precarious rock in your private cove. You walking up the dirt path to your nonna's cottage with the mountains behind you. You holding a hand up in an attempt to block the lens as your body adorns a hideous dress you only showed him for shits and giggles. You leaning forward to do your mascara in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall, wearing the perfect beaded dress. And, finally, you sitting alone in the garden chair in your nonna's yard, the moonlight hue behind you as you read your book, unknowing to his presence from the kitchen.

Just above his desk, just hovering over the photos, is his ceramic fish hanging on the wall, one of his only pieces of decor in his entire room.

Rafe follows your gaze with confusion, and his posture stiffens when he realizes what you're looking at, what you discovered. Instantly, he frowns as he side steps just enough to block your view of the photos, of the fish. But the damage has already been done, and your breath hitches as you immediately get the confirmation you need to open your heart up.

All of a sudden, you're blurting it out. 

“Elliot told me what you said to him.” The lack of clarification has Rafe raising a brow, to which you add, “About what happened with Yara.”

Rafe’s breath hitches. 

“Is it true?” Your voice is so small that it doesn’t sound like you. 

“Which part?”

“All of it.” You take a cautious step closer, the tequila running through your bloodstream giving you the confidence. 

Rafe doesn’t answer, instead he cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes trail down your body in calculation, gears working overtime in his head as he soaks in your words, the sliver of desperation coating your tone, the way you're playing with the hem of his hoodie, your brows etched in slight worry as you anticipate his response.

Then, it clicks with him, eyes slightly widening at the realization. The reasoning behind your acute coldness towards him wasn’t out of unrequited feelings, but rather the latter.

You cared too much, felt too much. 

The thought gives him whiplash. You must've seen him and Yara in that godforsaken closet and gotten the complete wrong impression on the matter. His heart fucking lurches at your wordless confession, and no wonder you were so apprehensive about his words, about his intentions, and pushed him away at every single opportunity that presented itself because of a stupid miscommunication, because of her stupid actions.

“Is that why you were upset?” He takes it further and steps closer. “At your nonna’s, you said you were upset about something that made you tell your mom about us. You saw us? In the closet?”

Suddenly, he’s standing right in front of you. 

“Is that why?”

You can’t speak, not while he’s practically caging you in, standing so broad and tall in front of you that it renders you speechless. He faintly smells of shampoo, an intoxicating scent, and you can almost see yourself in the reflection of his thinly wired glasses, only shielding his bright blue eyes through shiny glass. His hoodie swallows you whole, and you're grateful for the extra layer that feels like it’s warding off the vulnerability you're reeking of.

All you can manage is a small nod. 

Rafe clenches his jaw, and a part of you fears you've said the wrong thing. 

But then his eyes immediately soften as he brings a hand up to hover over your jaw, almost in muscle memory, as if he's been paining him to not do so, to not touch you.

For fuck's sake, he almost looks relieved.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You nearly snort at the simplicity. For a number of reasons, really, but the biggest one comes first.

“I was embarrassed. I thought you didn’t mean what you said in the ballroom.”

Your voice is so quiet that you almost think he doesn’t hear it, especially when he gives no reaction for a few seconds.

Then his palm is pressing harder, fully allowing himself to touch you. And, god, you can't help but lean into the embrace with a long sigh through your nose, not breaking eye contact with him as his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip, over the wound that’s practically all healed with little to no remnants of the disaster that occurred in that bathroom all that time ago. 

A flicker of pain etches over his face at the reminder of the cut, of what your own mother did, but then his eyes trail back up to meet yours, now glossing with certainty.

“Nothing happened with Yara,” he reassures firmly. 

You nod, sure of yourself now. “I know.”

“All I could think about was you.”

You can’t breathe. 

Cautiously, Rafe leans down to test the waters, and once you make no move to pull away from his touch, he indulges in his endeavors to brush his lips against your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss there.

“About your pretty smile.” He pulls back to move to your other cheek. “Your pretty laugh.” To your forehead. “About how being with someone else made me sick.”

The air escapes your lungs. 

“I meant what I said.” Rafe pulls back so he can meet your eye, a flicker of worry glossing over his pretty eyes, but nonetheless filled with determination. “Every word.”

You can’t help your second nature and let a sliver of panic let up. 

“I thought you didn’t want to date in college.”

The excuse is meek, you know that, he knows that. It’s a last ditch effort for him to truly understand what he’s getting himself into. 

But he's serious. Not a fraction of uncertainty glosses over his pretty features, or give you any shroud of doubt that he didn't mean what he said on that ballroom floor. With the firmness of his palm against your burning skin, the narrowed yet softness gaze in his blue eyes, and the way his other fingers on his other hand twitch in your direction tell you all that you need to know: that he's fucking missed you as much as you've missed him.

And – normally – that thought would scare you and send you running for the hills with a heartbeat too erratic and a mind too gone, but now it only solidifies you, grounds you, keeps you tethered to the boy standing in front of you. He's handing you a proverbial knife and hoping you don't stab him with it, and you have once before, but now you don't dream of letting it happen again.

“I didn’t,” he confirms cautiously. “Not until you showed me what it could be like.”

If it’s possible, you lean further into his touch, frowning in your overwhelming blossom of emotions. The thought of being wanted by someone settles a foreign feeling in your gut, wavering between pride and uncertainty. 

“I want you, too,” you whisper, nearly sighing at how he visibly relaxes at your words, but your voice remains shy. “But I’m scared.”

Rafe pinches his brows in the slightest at your tone. “Of what, baby?”

The words die in your throat.

The list is endless, really, piling with a million excuses that only grow by the second. Where can you begin? How the idea of someone wanting more than just your body is evidently unheard of? How the concept of more implies putting up with the ugly parts of life, the parts you push deep down and never let see the light of day?

Your hands find his unoccupied one, holding onto your lifeline as if it'll fucking kill you if you let go. 

“I don’t know how to be more than just…a body.”

That makes him frown. Immediately. 

Despite it, you continue.

"All my life, I've just been..." You try and find the right words, avoiding his eyes and looking down at your connected hands instead at the weight of your upcoming words. "I've never been wanted, or yearned for, or anyone's first choice. It's really hard for me to believe that someone...that you...would want me..."

Rafe reels.

Have you really thought this entire time that he’s only here for the sex? That that’s all you're good for? All you're worthy of being loved for? 

How can you not see how much more you are? How much you mean to him? Don't you know that you occupy his mind at every waking moment? That you're the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up in the morning to the last thing he sees at night, and how he shuts his eyes when he’s alone and pretends you're right there beside him, holding his hand or scratching his back or playing with his hair.

Don't you know how much he loves you?

“Sweet girl,” Rafe murmurs gently before leaning forward, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug that makes you oof against his chest, getting pulled taut against him. “How can you say that? How can you even think–? When I can’t even–” He grips you tighter. “Fuck.”

Your confusion is through the roof at his desperation. “Rafe, are you–”

“Do you even know how much you mean to me?”

That silences you. 

“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” he says in a wrangled breath. “Ever. I don’t know how to trust people. I don’t like to and I don’t know how. But with you, it’s never felt easier.”

A large hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and your heart lurches when you can feel a slight tremble. 

Especially when he murmurs your name so quietly, so ardently, that you can't help but just listen.

“You’re so much more than a body.” Rafe’s voice is quiet yet firm and it makes you fumble at the sincerity. “You’re smart. You remember things better than anyone I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t admit it, but you’re actually sweet. You take care of things and people you deeply appreciate. I’ve never seen someone so delicately handle a ceramic fish before.”

You shakily chuckle against his chest. 

“And the thought of not being around you anymore really scared me. And even if you...didn't feel the same," he says low, "I wouldn't have minded, as long as I could be in the same room or exist in the same friend group, it wouldn't...matter. As long as I could still see you.” 

Rafe finally relents on his grip, pulling back a fraction and taking his hand to gently grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him and face the ferocity of his words, as if they didn't just fucking crush you in a way you've never felt before. 

“I liked being with you.” His stare is piercing. “Existing together. Doing all of it.”

You hum. On instinct, you reach up to brush some hair out of his eyes.

Rafe’s heart pounds. “Tell me,” he says, voice dripping in desperation. “Tell me it was real to you.”

You nod instantly. “It was real. All of it.”

He sucks in a breath at the verity, and goes to say something else but you don't let him, instead pulling him down to kiss him. 

And, god, it’s exhilarating. 

All of your fears, all of your doubts, all of your uncertainties that plagues yours and his heart, mind, soul all fly out of the window. You can finally lean into one another without the steel weights cursing your shoulders or the cage locking in your hearts. The kiss is a wordless promise, an oath, a safety net. 

His hands are everywhere instantly: arms, waist, face. Not an inch goes unnoticed as he finally, finally can touch you again, feel you again, hear you again. Your hands trail up to the nape of his neck, holding yourself here in his arms as if to remind yourself this is real and happening. He’s here, right here, and he’s not going anywhere, nor is he letting you go anywhere. 

As much as it scares you, the tension in your shoulders slowly release. 

You slowly back him up until his knees hit his desk chair, Rafe taking the hint and sitting down and wasting no time to pull you into his lap. It's muscle memory at this point, molding yourself onto his body. You both sigh at the sensation of the familiarity.

Straddling him, you place your hands on his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles in his t-shirt as his hands trail up and down your side, settling under your – his – hoodie and skimpy tank top to feel the ridges of your ribcage, a connection he's been yearning to make ever since his hands left your body last. His palms are hot against your icy skin, sending a plethora of goosebumps up your spine.

Rafe simply stares at you, watching you admire the planes and grooves of his shoulder muscles, his biceps, anything you can get your hands on to make up for lost time spent pining in silence.

When you finally meet his eye, you shyly smile when you notice him already shamelessly looking right back at you. 

One of your hands cradles his jaw, fingers gently skimming over the lenses of his glasses. “I like these.”

Rafe groans, rolling his eyes and darting his gaze away. “I hate them.” 

“Why?” You nudge his cheek to force him to look at you. “I think they make you look handsome.”

“They make me look stupid.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. They're glasses."

"Still stupid."

"You should wear them more often,” you demand lightly.

Rafe frowns. “No.”

“Well, don’t they help you see?”

“Obviously, but–”

You smile, and he’s having trouble focusing. “Then case closed.”

His lips twitch. “Sweet girl,” Rafe warns.

There’s no backbone to it. 

“Don’t sweet girl me,” you warn right back at him. Then, quieter, “Why didn’t you bring them?”

Instead he cocks his head to the side with a teasing smile.

“Are you really that interested in my optical choices or is this your sweet little way of getting in my pants?”

You snort. “We both know I don’t have to be sweet to get into your pants.”

Rafe laughs boyishly and you love the sound. But he’s still avoiding your question. 

“Answer.”

“Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Okay,” he huffs playfully, “I didn't really have to bring them. I only need them when I’m reading or writing a lot. My eyes get tired.”

You pout endearingly. “That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard–”

“Fuck off.”

“No.” You lean forward and press a slow chaste kiss on his lips. 

Of course, he can’t even fathom pulling away and mmrphs low into your mouth, leaning up to chase your lips again for another kiss when you lean back. You hum at his neediness, but giving in anyway and slightly parting your lips to give him all the access he wants.

Rafe wastes no time in doing so, a hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck to guide your movements as he lazily makes out with you as if he has all the time in the world to do so. The warmth of his mouth, his body, his palm nearly make you melt in your very spot, a wave of relief washing over you.

You decide that you love this spot right here on his lap. Your favorite seat. Your throne. 

When you happily hum again, Rafe kisses you harder, squeezes a little harder. 

“God,” he mumbles against your lips, “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

The possessiveness makes your stomach pool with pride. All his. All yours. No one else's but each other's.

You can’t help but tease him. “I don’t remember you asking me officially.”

“You’re still mine.”

And Rafe kisses you again. Harder. A mark of his words. 

“Say it,” he demands quietly against your lips. 

And you just fucking beam. “I’m yours.” Your fingers splay through his hair. “All yours, Rafey.”

Scoffing, he turns his head away as you chuckle at his reddening cheeks, peppering kisses on his cheek, jaw, lips, anywhere available for you to coat in markings of you, you, you.

“Stop calling me that,” Rafe murmurs, but loses all the edge in his tone because the feeling of you pressing your lips all over him sends his mind for a loop.

You simply hum. “No. You have so many names for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you like those.” 

“Who says I do?”

“Be so fucking for real.”

The laugh that escapes your mouth is loud and boisterous, probably waking up someone on your floor. But Rafe can care less because the sound is music to his ears, despite you jesting at his expense. Shit, you can make fun of him all you want if this is how you're gonna react, smiling and sitting pretty in his lap whilst drowning in his clothes, kissing him like he hung the stars himself. 

You playfully slap his shoulder. “Whatever. But I’m still going to call you–”

“No.”

“Yes. When you’re least expecting it.”

Rafe hums low, a warning.

Shrugging, you suppress a smile. “What? I gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

“Shut up.” Then, softer. “C’mere.”

You laugh incredulously. “I’m already here.”

You nearly have the gall to laugh again when he ever-so-slightly pouts, but it all dies in your throat when he’s tugging you impossibly closer, resting your face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and broad on your back. It takes you one, two seconds to register his actions, and you find yourself melting at the notion of Rafe Cameron hugging you.

It feels so achingly familiar that you can’t help but sigh in contentment, letting your eyes shut for a few moments as you feel his chest heave in and out with his low syncopated breaths. 

Your heart lurches at the action, pressing yourself impossibly tight against him in fear he's going to disappear if you inch back even in the slightest. He takes a particularly deep breath, one of relief almost, your chests brushing together even closer than before. It makes you hum, pressing another kiss to the soft skin on his neck.

You speak before you register it. "Thank you."

His hands gently rub up and down your back. "For what, baby?"

"For..." You swallow the lump in your throat. "For not running."

Your words make him frown, and he eases you back so he can look you in the eye, confusion glosses over his features as one of his hands reaches up to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him when you turn your head away in embarrassment.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly. "Gonna take a cavalry to get rid of me."

A smile twitches at the end of your lips.

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, letting it linger there for a moment before moving back up to meet your eyes, but before he can do anything else, you're already leaning in and severing the distance.

Rafe's large hand holds you in place, reciprocating your kiss with more fervor than before that makes his breath hitch. Your hips barely – just barely – move in tandem with his that has his hand gripping your waist, stopping your moments immediately.

You lean back at his sudden apprehension, almost shy. "What?"

"Don't- Don't do that," he answers meekly.

Of course, you've never been one to listen.

You roll your hips again.

His other hand leaves your face to grab your waist, both of his palms and all of his fingers digging deep into your flesh to cease your movements. His face is uncharacteristically scrunched in pain at the reluctancy of initiating what he's been dreaming about since the last time you had him.

You notice immediately. "What's wrong?"

Rafe's eyes dart between yours, sucking in a breath as he looks at you. "I don't want to hurt you again."

The words confuse you. Tilting your head to the side, you try and rack your brain on where this sudden approach is coming from, where the sudden apprehension stems from. The expression on his face tells you that he's holding back, he's pained, haunted by something you can't conjecture.

"You haven't hurt me," you tell him earnestly, a little confused, but one-hundred percent honest.

He furrows his brows. "...The day of the wedding?"

What?

You only look at him in befuddlement, mind trailing off when you replay the course of events of the day in your head. The only thing that would pertain to his words was when he fucked you deep and rough that morning because you asked him to. It had felt good. Too good. It was when you realized you were in too deep and it scared the shit out of you.

"Rafe," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He looks pained even repeating it. "You cried. After we..." He shakes the thought away. "There were teardrops on your pillow."

The confession makes your heart skip.

That's why he was so weird with you for the entire day? Why he kept himself at an arm's length and could barely look you in the eye when you lounged together on the beach? Because he thought he'd hurt you? Made you cry? When you were upset for the complete opposite reason?

You frown at his anecdote, hurt that he's had to carry this miscommunicated guilt with him for a week, unknowing to the real reason, and under the complete wrong impression of your feelings.

Before you know it, your hands are reaching up to cradle each side of his face tenderly.

"That wasn't because of you," you whisper ardently, almost pained that he's been thinking that the whole time. "Not at all."

But Rafe doesn't seem to believe that. "I was too hard."

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head to emphasize your point. "No, you were too gentle."

That makes him furrow his brows.

At his silence, you continue with a deep breath.

"I thought that if I asked for it rough, it would let me get over my feelings for you, to remind me that it had to just be sex." Your voice is impossibly quiet yet firm. "But you didn't treat me like another fuck, you made sure I had what I needed, said all of these beautiful things, treated me impossibly gentle afterward."

The pad of your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.

"I cried because I was scared," you admit gently. "Not of you. Never of you. But of my feelings. You didn't make it easy for me to try and stop liking you."

A smile twitches at the end of his lips.

"So," he says quietly after a moment, "I didn't hurt you?"

You shake your head earnestly to confirm. "No. I'm sorry that I let you believe that you did."

His eyes blink, soaking in the weight of your words with a slow nod, the gears in his head turning as he gradually lets himself understand that it wasn't his hands that orchestrated your tears. He didn't hurt you. You are fine.

"You're okay," Rafe drawls out cautiously. "Right?"

Your nod is immediate. "Yes. Always with you."

That seems to make the tension in his shoulders release bit by bit, relaxing under your touch and allowing himself to believe you, believe that it wasn't what he thought it was, believe that he didn't hurt you.

"Okay?" You ask gently, confirming that he understands what you're saying.

Now he does, nodding against your touch and letting his hands experimentally skim your waist, easing up on his grip, and letting them venture over the smoothness of your skin. He waits a beat for you to pull back, to tell him to stop, but you don't.

Instead, you press yourself down onto him, making his breath catch.

It's out of clarity, certainty, especially when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss on his lips, a confirmation of your truth. He leans up to chase your mouth, and he's successful when you close the distance, allowing his tongue access to your mouth as teeth clashes against teeth, a wave of passion emerging like a tidal wave at the notion that he didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you.

"Fuck," Rafe mutters against your lips when you roll your hips once more. "You're going to fucking kill me. I swear."

Experimentally, he grips your waist and moves you back and forth against his already hardening dick, and when you don't pull back or voice your discomfort, he allows himself a deep exhale, allows himself to soak into the moment, allows himself to enjoy the feel of you, you, you.

"I missed you," you nearly whisper before you can stop it, the vulnerability feeling foreign on your tongue. "Missed this."

Rafe groans against your lips. "Me too, baby." He kisses you again as you moan quietly into his mouth as he continues guiding your movements against him. "Let me show you, mhm?"

Anticipation pools in your stomach, blossoming in your gut and sending warmth down to where your body touches his.

You're barely nodding before his hands venture down to your ass, holding you taut against him as he stands, your grip tightening around his neck like a koala and wrapping your legs around his middle. In seconds, your back hits the mattress, his knee is slotting between your thighs, and his lips are on yours again.

It's so familiar, so achingly familiar that you cannot believe you went so long without it, without him.

You arch into his chest, bodies molding together as puzzle pieces connect. A hand flies to his hair, tugging the strands gently that makes him omit a low groan into your mouth, one hand shamelessly groping one of your breasts under his hoodie and the other bracing himself over your body, barely hovering.

Rafe pulls back just slightly, a flicker of irritation coating his pretty face as he leans up to take his glasses off, ones that have slid down the bridge of his nose just enough to annoy him.

But you react before you realize it.

"Wait," you say, leaning up a tad for emphasis, a hand coming up to cradle his face and gingerly skim the metal as he freezes. "Keep them on."

A teasing smile twitches at his lips. "Seriously?"

You sheepishly nod, biting your lip.

Rafe stares at you for a moment, amused gaze darting between your eyes at the request.

"Please?" You add sweetly.

The scoff that leaves his mouth makes you suppress a grin, knowing how that one word makes him feel and using it to your advantage. He shakes his head in disbelief at you, but his faux irritation proves to be fruitless as a smirk can't help but grow on his lips.

"Can't say no to that, hm, sweet girl?" He murmurs, half in playfulness and the other half in adoration.

You shake your head slowly at him, your grin fading into something shy, as if asking for what you want proved to be difficult.

But he wouldn't dream of denying you that. Ever. Especially when you asked so nicely, so sweetly, just for him. Who is he to say no? Hell, you could've asked him for a car in that same tone and he wouldn't hesitate to ask what color, make, and model.

So Rafe indulges your request, pushing the glasses up further on the bridge of his nose and leaning down to connect your lips for the umpteenth time, nearly grinning when you let out a satisfied mmrph at him letting you get what you want. His hands are everywhere they can reach, groping and mapping out the curves of your body and nearly moaning at the softness of your skin.

"Can't believe you're mine," he murmurs against your lips, sending a shockwave down your spine as his thumb brushes over your nipple. "All mine."

"Yours," you whisper sultry, needy, desperately, nearly bucking up into him.

Rafe's eyes roll back at the sound of it, pushing the hem of your – his – hoodie to reveal your chest, and you sit up to aide him in taking it off. The act is deliberately thorough, as his calloused palms smooth over your skin, gingerly pushing it up over your head. Your tank top is next. Then, your bra. Then your jeans. Before you know it, you're almost completely nude, simply left in your light blue underwear and exposed in the cool air of his room.

All he can do is stare at your bareness, letting out an appreciative hum as one hand grabs a breast, his cool ring ghosting over your nipple that causes you to sigh deeply, eyes raking from your stomach, to your chest, and eventually back up to your face, where you peer up at him in anticipation. His hand gropes you meaningfully, as if he's studying the feel of the swell in his palm, relishing in your warmth.

"You're so beautiful," Rafe admires gently, almost to himself, before leaning down and taking the other breast in his mouth.

The words make your heart skip a beat, but you shove down the feeling as you arch into his mouth that licks and bites and sucks against the soft skin, a hand in his hair to keep yourself grounded, keep yourself tethered to him. No inch of your chest goes unnoticed, untouched, ignored.

Rafe is thorough in his appreciation, and as lovely as it is, you're growing impatient with need as you writhe underneath him.

"Want you," you whine under your breath, not like he can hear you anyway as it comes out as an incoherent babble, but figuring it's better than saying his name over and over like a mantra, but it proves fruitless when he albeit hums. "Rafe?"

"Yes, baby?" He asks lazily in between kisses as if he has all the time in the world.

"I want... I..."

He etches lower and lower on your body until his mouth is ghosting over your clothed cunt, a low hum emitted from his mouth as he presses a kiss against the wet patch on your underwear, greedily inhaling and exhaling hot breath that makes you squirm. By the looks of it, he's pleased at the sight of you eager for him, ready for him, squirming for him.

Instead of responding, he licks and sucks against the cotton of your panties, against the spot he knows makes you crumble all the same. You moan raggedly, almost embarrassed at the volume given the fact that you've just started, given that he's doing this over your clothes.

"Words," Rafe mumbles teasingly, the baritone of his voice vibrating your core with such fervor that it makes your back arch and your fingers grip a little harder in his hair. "What d'ya want, hm?"

"You," you manage to say, breathless and writhing. "Need you."

His nimble fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down achingly slow until they're fully off, discarded somewhere carelessly as he resumes his position between your legs, taking in the sight of you: so pretty looking down at him, cunt glistening with need, face flush with anticipation.

One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as his mouth ghosts over your core.

"You have me," is all he says before closing the distance.

You moan at the contact, as his tongue plunges deep where you need him and his nose brushes against your clit. The taste of you has him groaning into your heat, the rumble causing your eyes to roll back at the sensation. The sound is obscene, especially when he eats like a starved man, like he's been depraved of his favorite meal, like he's ravenous.

"Taste so good, princess," he practically moans into your heat.

It's almost unbearable. You've been so worked up this past week at the thought of him, the thought of never being able to make things right, the thought of losing something you can't help but love. The wave of relief that washes over you only augments your pleasure, because your worries dissipate and you allow yourself to enjoy this, enjoy him, enjoy what he can give you.

One of his hands venture up your body to grab a breast, as if he can't allow his hands to be unoccupied, to not feel and dote on you with every fiber of his being. The added pleasure makes your eyes roll back involuntarily.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you whisper so quietly that it's barely audible.

Your other hand covers his, gripping the back of his hand and squeezing tight to wordlessly reciprocate your want, your need, your appreciation.

His other hand comes to aide his mouth, maneuvering his body so he can both use his fingers as they glide in with ease, and his tongue that can't bear to separate just yet. It makes you whine so beautifully that his hips stutter forward against the mattress, groaning low into your cunt at the sudden sensation.

As Rafe sucks and laps and fingers you so brazenly, you let out a ragged breath at the plethora of pleasantries, suddenly hit with how nice everything feels, how the combination of his mouth, plunging fingers, and the hand fondling your breast start the familiar coil bubbling in your core.

"Fuck," you curse at the intensity, and how quickly it builds. "Please, I-I-"

Your hips writhe under his touch as you let out a particularly broken whine, chest heaving as you get closer and closer to your release.

"I know, baby," he murmurs low, almost strained.

Gasping, you momentarily lose breath at the speed of it, gripping his hand that's on your breast tighter, affirming how quickly you're approaching your high with your body language, one that he seems to understand quite well, something he's come to know better than a lot of other things in life. He's well versed in your tendencies, a pride he wears with his chest.

"Rafe," you whine as your orgasm comes closer, and closer, and closer. "I'm-"

You don't finish the sentence, and you don't even hear if he responds, because your orgasm hits you so quickly, so blindly, that your back arches off the mattress, a tidal wave of ecstasy flooding your veins and searing hot in your core. Your heartbeat is up to your ears, and he could be saying the secrets to the universe and you'd simply have no idea. It's pulsating, inebriating, because you don't hide behind a curtain of shame of how much you need him, not anymore, and that makes the release tenfold.

Despite your writhing hips, Rafe is able to lap up every drop, groaning deep into your cunt at the taste of you, of how nice you feel against his fingers, against his tongue, how pretty you sound as you let him hear you louder than ever.

Lazily, he licks and sucks you through the aftershock, nearly grinning at how your thighs tremble against his head and your ragged breaths ease from the intensity. Your thumb rubs absentminded circles on his hand, a gesture so fucking sweet that he reciprocates by placing a chaste kiss against your cunt, eyeing it for a moment as a brief goodbye before he sighs a hot breath against it.

"You did so well, sweet girl," he praises, trailing kisses up your body while turning his palm in your hand to gingerly lace his fingers through yours, squeezing once, twice, three times until his mouth is against your neck, sucking that sweet spot that makes you shiver.

You practically shake underneath him, still attempting to return to planet earth.

Rafe's nose nudges your jaw. "You okay?"

You exhale a noise that you think is affirmation, but frankly you're still trying to screw your head on straight after hearing your heartbeat in your ears, shuddering under his grounding touch that sends electricity through your already amplified veins.

"Yes," you start breathlessly, "I-I've just been– my brain– I couldn't... I need to..."

Rafe's face is suddenly inches from yours, practically beaming down at your incoherent babbling with a knowing glance, one that affirms just how nice he fucks you (your words, not his, as you've so graciously told him once). It's proving true now, as he takes in the sight of your gazed expression and bleary eyes, chest swelling with pride.

Watching you attempt to figure out your words all breathless and pouty, he can't help but let his gloating simmer into something more affectionate, something softer that he seems to only reserve for you. It's fascinating to see you like this, completely unguarded and fucked out and beautiful, nonetheless.

"Couldn't what?" He eggs on, heart blooming at the state of you.

"It doesn't matter," you mutter absentmindedly as you slip your hand out of his to paw at his chest, still recovering from the dizziness of your brain, movements sluggish as you reach down for the tent in his sweatpants while your eyesight slowly returns to normal. "C'mere, I–"

"Easy," he drawls out amusingly, taking the trembling hand that reaches for his dick and lacing his fingers through yours instead. "You're shaking."

You blink through your frustration, your vision returning (almost). "I'm not– I– You're being withholding."

His grin is impossibly wide. "I'm sorry, sweet girl." He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "I'll give you another, just catch your breath, yeah?"

Your struggle is obvious, and your desperation even more, because you've missed him so fucking bad and all you want to do is feel him irrevocably, completely, ardently. The realization is pathetic, you know, but you figure that you're past the point of being shy, especially with him, who has seen you at your all.

You frown, spluttering, utterly flustered at his nonchalance, especially when his unoccupied hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, running the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth. "Wh– No, I don't want another, I want–"

"You don't want another?"

Groaning, you flush under his piercing stare. "No, I– Ugh, Rafe. I want you."

"Me?" Rafe repeats in faux surprise, brows raised playfully. "Could've just asked."

You roll your eyes so hard it only makes you a little more dizzy, trying really hard to appear angry but it goes nowhere when a hint of a smile ghosts your lips. And it only grows when he leans in, placing a long, chaste kiss on you, and you melt into it when you taste yourself, lungs wound tight. You figure you can breathe later.

He notices immediately, pulling back with a boyish chuckle that makes your chest feel funny. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

"Do it again," you mumble shyly, eyelids heavy with desire. "Please."

And he does. Immediately.

You albeit whine into his mouth as he reciprocates the noise at the sound of it, squeezing your hand once more and the gesture nearly kills you as you practically pout into his mouth at the sweetness of it. With your mind airy and lungs breathless, all you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, how he kisses you, how he touches you, how his voice sounds reverberated against your body.

It's incriminatingly intoxicating to be surrounded by him in all of your senses: his hand laced in your own, his breathy whimpers against your lips when your hand trails to the hem of his shirt to brush against his bare abdomen, teasing the waistline of his sweats. You're caught in a whirlwind of him, drowning in his scent and caged in by his arms.

You realize quickly, as you've noted before, that Rafe Cameron should come with a warning.

He pulls back, and you're about to protest until you see he's moving to take his shirt off in one swift motion, sick of the cotton barrier between your chests. As he begins to take his sweats and boxers off, you sit up, idly waiting for him as you tuck your legs underneath you. The sight of his cock hard and aching, dripping pre-cum off the tip, has you shamelessly staring, as you let out a small breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Rafe notices your change in position, patiently waiting all pretty and breathless and brazenly looking at his dick, and he can't help but tilt his head and stare at you with an amused gleam in his eye.

When he makes no effort to move, your eyes travel back up to meet his to see that they're already staring at you, a piercing gaze that has you biting your lip at the notion of being caught.

"What?" He asks teasingly, searching your face for any indicator of what you want.

But you're apparently good with your words now, or at least better than before.

"Wanna ride you."

The sentence makes Rafe scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head at you as he runs a hand through his hair, practically in awe of you, of your words, of how good you're being for him tonight, how you're starting to ask for things. It makes his chest swell with pride, proud that you feel comfortable enough around him to start voicing your needs, your wants, things that he'll give to you in less than a heartbeat.

Nonetheless, once he's learned how to use his brain again, he leans forward, turning his body so he's sitting up against the headboard and extending an arm for you almost immediately.

Which you graciously take, gripping his forearm as you crawl onto his lap, sucking in a breath when his dick is the only thing in between your two stomachs. You can't help but stare down at it, bringing a hand to grip his length like you've been dreaming about for days, letting out a deep sigh that makes your hot breath fan over his tip.

Rafe lets out a low moan, gripping your hips impossibly tight as he watches you spread the pre-cum off his tip with your thumb, spreading it down his length and jerking him off at a painfully slow pace that nearly has his hips bucking at the sensation of it. The sight of your hand wrapped around him nearly makes his brain shut off, dumbifying him to the point where all he can do is pathetically whine as you hold his dignity in the palm of your hand.

A particular tight squeeze makes him tense underneath you, eyes screwing shut for a moment to compose himself as one of his hands leaves your hips to wrap around your wrist, stopping your movements altogether.

Your head whips up, pouting. "What?"

Rafe just shakes his head, almost pained as he can't even get the words out.

But you understand him, and you pout. "But I want to."

"Sweet girl."

You hum, looking back down as you feel his hand push your wrist down, down, down until, with some adjusting, his cock is sliding in between your folds.

The sensation makes you both moan shamelessly, your lashes fluttering as your eyes roll shut. Your stomach pools in warmth for the anticipation, especially when your hips rock back and forth against him to coat his cock with the remnants of your previous orgasm, mixing it with the pre-cum that you graciously spread on him. The feeling, almost on command, makes him practically shudder underneath you.

Rafe whines out a curse, and if you weren't so light-headed you'd think he's begging. "Feel so nice already, making me go crazy."

Frankly, the stubborn part of you wants to elongate this as much as possible, but as you feel your prior orgasm practically dripping onto his length, it's clear that you're in no position to withhold him from experiencing the same euphoria. All you want to do is give back what he did for you, how he made you feel, to wordlessly tell him how much you appreciate him, yearn for him, want him to be taken care of.

With shaky hands, you guide his cock to your entrance, not wasting another second before you're slowly sinking down onto his length.

"Shit," he murmurs shakily against your lips, his grip iron tight on your hips – borderline, your ass – as he feels you lower inch by inch. "Oh my fucking god, holy fuck. Taking me so goddamn well."

It isn't until you feel him fully bottom out when you're letting out a ragged breath, one that you were unaware you were holding at the intensity of the feeling, of the stretch, of how much more you can feel him in this position, his cock hitting places unknown as you still on his lap, soaking in the moment of simply being full of him, relishing in the notion of how nice it is to be in your favorite spot.

Your arms sling around his neck, draped over his shoulders to impossibly taut yourself to his chest as you place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he can't even reciprocate because he's still sharply breathing, still not over how well you're taking him and how perfect you feel around him. It's, understandably, making his brain all fuzzy, and all he can try and concentrate on is not coming in this given moment.

So, no, he doesn't kiss you back. He can't.

Instead, he shakily exhales against your lips, gently shaking his head when you cheshire-cat grin at him, attempting to roll your hips in retaliation but his grip on your hips is iron. Part of you relishes in the marks you're going to wake up to, imprinted by him, and greedily want to and move again to get him to dig deeper, to be able to feel the reminders of him in the morning.

You try. He holds you still even harder.

"Just- Fuck," Rafe groans. "Gimme a minute, wanna feel you."

You pout, ignoring the way your heart thumps at the simplicity of his words, yet find yourself obeying. Leaning back a fraction, you take a moment to take a selfish peek at him: blue eyes blown black with lust, hair falling onto his forehead in messy waves that you brush back gingerly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose that you fix silently, lips parted and swollen from all the activity he's been engaging in with them.

He looks unequivocally fucked out. You assume you look equally as such.

Without thinking, your arms retract from their position around his neck, slithering up the sides of his neck and letting your hands cradle each side of his jaw, holding his face in place as your thumbs absentmindedly trace circles, squares, triangles on the soft skin. You simply stare at him, admire him, wait for him to give you the green light to continue moving.

And Rafe doesn't think he's ever been held like this before.

It does something irreversible in his chest, a pang of an unknown emotion jolting through his skin like electricity as he simply sits under your touch, teetering between wanting to explode with admiration and shutting down altogether to sulk in the feeling. He's sure you have no idea what you're doing to him, and whether you mean to or not, he's sure there's nothing better on the planet than this, than the feel of you wrapped around him, holding him, grounding him.

His hands move up and down your spine, tracing vertebrae bone by bone in a delicacy he never knew he possessed. As his heart pounds in his chest, his mind morphs to mush, and the only thing he can conjecture is that he is, irrevocably, yours for the rest of his life. There's frankly no doubt about it, and the thought makes his lashes flutter shut to truly soak in the physicality of it all.

He feels you place a feather-light kiss on his lips, and before you can pull back to continue to give him the moment to gather himself, he's chasing the kiss and closing the distance again.

This time, Rafe's the one moaning into your mouth, especially as you accidentally shift your hips when kissing him back. At the slight movement, his impatience is suddenly through the roof as his hands venture down to your ass, slowly starting to guide your motions up and down, back and forth, taking him in ways that has his eyes rolling back.

Your thighs aide his movements for about a minute, but soon begin to tremble as your bounces get needier, kisses become breathless, sighs turn into whimpers. Calloused palms roam the entirety of your body, groping and rolling the flesh of your ass in tandem with your movements, slithering up your ribcage to squeeze and suck on your bouncing tits, down to where your bodies connect to press a firm thumb on your clit.

That right there makes you whine so gutturally deep where his hips unexpectedly jerk into you, his cock – somehow – burying deeper inside you to a spot unreached before.

Rafe moans your name like a mantra, like it's the only word he knows.

It makes your brain fuzzy, as your neediness takes over and your conscience is on autopilot. You say something, but it comes out like an incoherent babble, something insignificant and probably pertaining to how good he feels, as you continue to shift your hips up and down to take his full length, lift up to where his tip barely pokes out, only to sink back down onto him again. Over, and over, and over.

Your arms sling back over his shoulders, lazily linking behind his neck as one of his hands snakes around your back to pull you impossibly closer while the other works your clit, thumb pressing on it so firmly that you momentarily see stars at the ferocity of it all. Nails scratching the smooth skin of his back, you almost break skin at the attempt to pull him closer, as the need for more, more, more stems from the coil beginning to rumble in your stomach.

"Rafe," you gasp, sucking in a breath as you feel the familiar sensation bubbling. "Feel so full, feels so good."

"You feel like a dream," he mumbles shakily against your lips, hips jerking up into you as you recognize that he must be close. "Never gonna– fuck. Can't believe you were– and I was– oh my god, oh m– You feel so fucking nice– I'm gonna–"

Your chest is light, core on fire. "Something's– I feel– I–"

For a second, your eyes roll back as a searing hot sensation floods your lower half, and you momentarily only see white as you feel your body practically give out and lean forward onto his, gasping into the crevice of his neck as his hips slam into you from underneath. Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulder blades as firmly as you can muster with your little-to-no strength in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Your whines are loud and straight pornographic at the branding fire feeling in your cunt.

Did you just come?

Given the heat overwhelming your core and the bundle of nerves shooting electricity through your veins, you think you just did. With your heartbeat in your ears, the sound of Rafe's shameless moans feel like they're underwater as you're practically putty in his grasp, both of his arms bear-wrapped around you as he thruuuuusts up into you with such intensity, such fervor, that you think he just came, too.

Spots blur your vision as you moan into the hot skin of his neck as he fucks you through your orgasm, only now feeling the hot spurts of his cum gushing into you with every upwards thrust of his, and you can't deny how fucking good it feels to be full of him – to be really full of him – as the sensation is burning hot and tempestuous and everything you've needed.

Your chest heaves at the intensity, clawing at his upper back for some sort of leverage that you're not sure will do anything to aide your limp body. His hips grind up into your core, and once you gain some sort of semblance back from practically passing out from the orgasm he just gave you, you realize he's been speaking the entire time.

You happen to catch the tail end of his words.

"–ve you, I fucking– I– fuck-" Rafe whines, and the sound vibrates your lips that are pressed against his vocal cord. "It's like you're made for me, feel so fucking nice, so pretty on top of me, I– fuck. How could I– When you–? With the–? Oh my god, oh my fucking god."

All you can respond with is a low moan, overstimulated as you come down from your earth-shattering orgasm as he fucks himself using you through his, his cum leaking out of you and spilling down your thighs and onto his lower stomach. The sight of it makes your breath hitch, breathless at how much you both came at the same time.

His bucking gradually ceases, becoming less and less grandiose and eventually settling in stillness as his chest heaves against yours. You register his hands trailing up and down your back soothingly, lips pressed to your hairline and placing chaste kisses with sweet nothings riddled between them. Your eyes flutter shut, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck that makes goosebumps adorn his arms.

The two of you sit like this for a minute, mentally coming down from the daze your simultaneous orgasms put you through. Once your vision returns to normal (i.e. you're no longer seeing stars every time you open your eyes to try and look at him), you gently press the palm of your hands to his shoulders, pushing yourself up off his chest to sit up and find some semblance of independence.

Your brain is foggy, no doubt, as you hazardously sway as you blink at him, heart racing as you discover he's already looking at you.

"Holy shit," you murmur, dazed and fighting exhaustion.

He exhales shakily. "I know."

You manage a wry smile. "That was-"

"I know," he repeats bashfully, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to push his glasses further up his nose, letting your fingers dwell on the metal sides before bringing it down to cup his jaw. It's as if you're a ghost in your own body, feeling airy and light yet wrecked all the same, shaking as if you've been left in the freezing cold with no amenities, shaking as if he just gave you the best orgasm you've ever had.

Noticing your frailness, you laugh in a self deprecating way. "I think I passed out."

Rafe exhales a shaky chuckle, one of disbelief, as a hand travels up to the side of your neck, keeping your head in place from all the swaying. Though a flicker of concern coats over his eyes at the hazy smile you're flashing him, eyes blinking ferociously as if they're regaining sight.

It makes him frown. "Did you? Are you okay?"

You nod, lazy yet immediate. "Uhm, did you hear me? I think our neighbors are gonna kill us."

A boyish laugh escapes his lips, and he lets himself ease into the fact that you're fine, you're smiling, you're gazing at him like he hung the goddamn stars himself.

His thumb brushes a tear from the corner of your eye, one that you didn't know you had, humming low and sure as his eyes rake over the features of your pretty face. Now, you're left in the stilled silence of your own doing, basking in the aftermath of your actions, of the words that led you to this point. Your heart skips a beat at the vulnerability, knowing it's more than sex, knowing that what you're feeling right now – the gravitational pull towards him – is reciprocated, especially as his gaze softens. It's replaced by something deeper, more raw, cut open for you to do what you please.

The intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch, and, despite literally what just occurred, a wave of shyness overcomes you, averting your gaze down to his chest.

But in your bottom peripheral, you catch a glimpse of the fucking mess.

Your eyes widen, looking down to where your bodies connect. "Oh my god."

His gaze follows lazily, glancing at the sight with nonchalance for his soaked bedsheets, suppressing a shit eating grin as he continues to see small amounts of cum still dripping out of you, as if there's an endless supply of it inside you, continuously adding to the plethora of a mess on his (freshly washed, by the way) bedsheets.

You blink stupidly, attempting to fathom the sheer amount of mere sex all over your lower bodies, all over the sheets, some of it even grazing his abdomen. How did that even get there? How could the two of you produce that much? And – oh, god – is it ever going to come out of his sheets? Fuck, is it leaking through?

But he has no qualm with the matter, and instead beams at the fact.

"That was all you, sweet girl," he teases with a hand skimming the faint bruises starting to form on your hip. "You came so hard. You squir-"

Your hand comes up to cover his mouth.

Your face scrunches up in embarrassment at the word, because you fucking hate the term, and frankly assumed it was a myth for the longest time since you've never done it before, nor have any of your friends. Yet your heart thumps at the possibility that – most of – this mess is from you.

No, it couldn't be. It can't be.

Because if it is, he is never, ever going to let you live it down, and you can count on that for a fact.

Eyeing him quickly and feeling your face flush as he stares right at you, eyes twinkling with amusement, you remove your hand from his mouth and ring your fingers together, looking back down to the sheets with a dismissive scoff.

"I did not," you argue meekly because, frankly, you have no idea if you did or not. You don't even know what that was. "This is all yours."

Rafe's grin is blinding, teasing, fucking proud. "You totally did. Went everywhere, baby."

Face flushing, you groan and throw your hands up to cover your face, hating how hot your skin feels at his laugh and complete nonchalance over the matter.

"Fuck," you murmur as you take in the sight of it. "Are you serious? But I didn't– I don't even– How could I–?"

Instead of answering, he whistles low. "Holy shit, you really did pass out, didn't you?"

You refuse to answer, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth as guilt riddles your chest for ruining his sheets. Expensive ones, at that. You're assuming it has a crazy thread-count imported from god-knows-where, as he's the person to get the best of the best of material things as long as he has the means to obtain them. You've always liked sleeping in his room on the random occurrence it would happen, partly because his bed is always so damn comfortable, the sheets definitely having something to do with it.

"I'll wash them" you offer quietly, slight panic settling in now that you're – somewhat – back to normal and coherent enough to register that this is a problem. "I'll buy you new ones-"

But, of course, Rafe simply shakes his head, pressing his palms against your spine to lure you closer, letting the words die in your throat as he tugs you against his lips. He kisses you slow yet meaningful, a wordless promise that he's not mad about something like this, he's not even concerned, barely letting his beaming smile falter at the thought of having to clean it up. He's only thinking about you, you, you.

"No need," he murmurs against your mouth, still fucking grinning. "I'm framing and putting this shit on my wall."

You groan at his words, cheeks unabashedly hot.

"Gonna time-stamp it and everything," he adds just to be a prick. "Wave it around like a flag, and shit."

You want the ground to swallow you whole. "Stop."

"Wear it like armor."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're hot. I mean it, baby. I'm gonna get you to do that every time."

"Rafe."

"What?" He says incredulously as if it isn't the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. "You can't expect me not to go crazy over that, hm?"

You only shake your head at him, but you suppose if the roles were reversed, you'd definitely feel an inclination to drawl out the teasing to a T. After all, riling him up is one of your favorite past-times, as riling you up actually might be his number one.

Eventually, you secede. Especially when he threatens you with another orgasm.

After he cleans you up and delicately dresses you in his own clothes, with wobbly legs you attempt to help him strip the sheets (even though all he told you to do is sit at his desk and look pretty, which you wholeheartedly refused to do) and replace them with his spare set. In an effort to get your shit together, you use the communal restroom to wash up, taking one of his spare toothbrushes – because of course he has one – and using it. He goes into the restroom across the hall, stating he was bored of being alone, to freshen himself up.

When you return to his room with him hot on your tail, you slither back onto the clean sheets and settle under them as if you were made to lay there.

Getting comfortable, you quietly watch him resume his tasks of the night: organizing his notes, taking off his glasses and leaving them askew – to your utter dismay – as his shirt and sweatpants follow, leaving him in boxers, and finally turning off his desk lamp as he navigates through the dark and and climbs into bed beside you. 

It’s muscle memory the way you puzzle-piece your way into each other’s arms. Rafe tugs you impossibly close, placing a chaste kiss on your hairline as your hands splay across his bare chest, nearly sighing in relief at the familiarity. It's unfathomably inviting, it's cloud nine, it's home.

When he starts to lightly rub up and down your back, you sigh again.

“Tired?” Rafe murmurs gently. 

All you do is nod against his neck, placing a ginger kiss on his vocal cord.

He hums at your sweet gesture, nearly melting at the implication. “Okay, sweet girl. Go to sleep. I'll be up early tomorrow but you can sleep in, m'kay?”

Tomorrow. Early morning. Notes. Glasses.

Fuck. Exam.

Your eyes flutter open as you remember his night before you arrived, all the papers scattered on his desk, the reason he was wearing those godforsaken glasses in the first place, the open textbook on his computer, the entire reason he was up so late in the first place.

A kettlebell settles in your gut.

“Wait.” Rafe hums lazily in response. “What about your exam?”

With a chuckle, he nuzzles into your hair, unbothered.

“Baby, if I don’t know it by now, there’s no use.”

Part of you feels guilty. Guilty about plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a week and – no doubt – pulling his focus from his studies and all of the important shit going on in his life. Guilty about arriving at his door in the middle of the night and – again – pulling his concentration from what he needs to pay attention to in order to get the marks he needs to pass.

Guilty about everything you've put him through, him, Rafe, your Rafe, who's been so patient with you in your journey of self discovery or whatever bullshit.

“I can help,” you offer weakly, as he rubs soothing up and down your back. “I’m a good teacher.”

Rafe chuckles quietly and you nearly frown, unsure of his nonchalance. 

“Best teacher I know,” he murmurs. His voice is deep and baritone and it practically lulls you to sleep. 

Your eyes are already closed. “Let me help. Please.”

“Very sweet of you. Go to sleep.”

“‘M really smart. You said so.”

“I did.”

You yawn. “What’s the class?”

Rafe doesn’t answer for a minute, and you soon believe he falls asleep. But then, quietly, “Art history.”

Your heart flutters. “I know about that.”

A warm hand rubs up and down your back. “I’m sure you do, baby.” Then, it cradles the back of your head in brazen laziness. “Sleep.”

His voice emulates a lullaby, low and alluring and smooth. Impossibly, you nuzzle closer to him with a stupid smile on your face. Grinning against his neck, you press the lightest kiss you can muster as your hands gently skim over the hills and divots of his chest, grounding yourself, a reminder that this is real. He’s here, right here, holding you, reciprocating your love, your want, your need. 

“Stop smiling,” he says above you, but his tone is far from authoritative. Instead it’s softer, as if he’s suppressing a smile as well. “I can feel it.”

You squirm when he pinches your side, reciprocating the act and attempting to tickle him, but he doesn’t budge in the slightest.

Suddenly, Rafe grabs your wrists lightning fast and pins them high over your head, the motion forcing you on your back as he hovers over you. Despite the darkness, you can feel his face inches from yours, breath fanning over your lips. 

“I thought you wanted me to go to sleep,” you challenge. 

Rafe snorts. “You’re being a brat.”

Ah, that word. That sort of behavior has gotten you in trouble before, and the thought of annoying him makes you grin even harder. 

“Rafey, that’s hardly nice.”

The guttural groan he lets out makes you laugh quite unattractively, letting out an oof when he collapses against your body and therefore crushing you. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, he shakes his head and mumbles something incoherent against your soft skin that feels like a million pin pricks to each nerve.

His hand leaves your wrists and slowly drags down your arm, settling on the top of your ribcage just under the swell of your breast, lazily rubbing his thumb over the grooves and curves of the bone with little to no shame whatsoever. 

The act gives you goosebumps. “What? Nothing to say?”

“Go to bed.”

You hum, kneading your fingers through his hair and smiling when he lets out a content sigh. “Okay, fine.”

Rafe practically clings to you, breathing in your scent and unabashedly nestling into your embrace. Your fingers through his hair feel so achingly familiar, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until now. He feels your lips gently press on the crown of his head, his heart skipping a beat as he involuntarily lets out another sigh, a wordless thank you for trusting him, believing in him, and – most importantly – letting yourself have this. Trusting him. Trusting yourself.

Exhaustion seeps through his pores, eyelids heavily shutting as his body seems to sink deeper into the mattress, deeper against your body. Your nails lightly scraping his scalp and back quickly lure him to sleep, so gentle and adorning that he’s so close to–

"Hey."

"Sweet girl, I said go to bed."

You pause for a moment, elongated the silence in the darkness as he can practically hear you thinking. After a second, he frowns as he just now analyzed your tone, which was far from teasing.

He's about to prompt you to continue when you shift slightly above him, and his heart fucking melts when he feels your lips press a kiss against his hairline.

"Those photographs are beautiful."

Despite the complete darkness, and despite the fact that even if the light was on, you wouldn't be able to see his face anyway given his position, his face flushes hot.

Because you weren't really supposed to see those. They'd been the final prints he submitted for his photography class, tasked to photograph the pleasantries of life that may emulate beauty in everyday life. And, to him, he wanted you as his everyday muse since you already occupy almost every waking thought of his.

Rafe sat on the prompt for the entire semester, never once finding a muse meaningful enough to him to make him feel like he could complete the assignment. However, once Lorenza had given him the camera, the task seemed like the easiest thing he's ever done. Plus, you made it pretty simple. You emulated effortless beauty. All day. Everyday.

"I had a pretty model," is all he responds with.

And your thanks is translated enough when you press another kiss to his forehead, ticking his soft skin with your gentle breaths, and all he can think is sweet, sweet, sweet girl. It's concerning, really, how he really only thinks of you. He thinks of you when he wakes up, when he sees something funny, when he's scribbling down notes, when he goes to sleep.

So. Yeah. You are his everyday beauty. By a longshot.

He continues to think of your pretty, of how warm you feel pressed against him, how sweet you smell. He remembers how you looked in the moonlight, the candlelight, under the Sicilian sun with a glisten he could swoon over. It lulls him to sleep. Simply the image of you, you, y–

“Rafe?”

Rafe’s pulled from his slumber, barely lifting a finger and humming in response. He can’t even open his eyes, bloodshot and tired from all the studying. 

“Do you want me to come home with you for Christmas?”

Out of all the things he expected you to say, that has to be the last topic on the list. 

All exhaustion comes to a halt as his eyes blearily blink open, unsure if he’s heard you right, as the question is so out of left field that he doubts you actually said what he thinks you said. Despite his head feeling like a million pounds, he manages to lift it so he’s looking at you in the darkness.

Rafe can just make out the outline of your face. “What?”

He hates how small his voice is. 

But your fingers continue to massage his scalp and he feels you shrug underneath him.

“I dunno, I was thinking I could do for you what you did for me." Your voice is impossibly shy, almost as if you didn't mean to bring it up but now there's no going back. "Provide some moral support, I don’t know. Just a thought.”

Yes, he wants to scream. Of course he wants you to. 

It would make life incredibly easier, not to mention he’d get to spend more time with your undivided attention and shower you in a ridiculous amount of appreciation now that you're officially his. He can show you off to his friends and family and flaunt you around, shamelessly hold you and kiss you and not have to feel the slightest bit guilty about it. 

He'd tell you to bring that beaded dress he bought you, take you out to dinner on the mainland and fuck you for the whole island to hear. There's no doubt he's going to buy you anything under the sun that you express interest in, shower you with the kind of love you've been aching for for so long. He'd have to be assertive, though, because you're exactly the girl his sisters will immediately love, and there's no way he's going to be able to share you.

Rafe needs to relax.

Instead of saying all of that, he takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to Lorenza’s?”

“No,” you respond quietly. “I was supposed to go home so she’s already going on a trip with her girlfriends. But now I'm just...” You take a breath. "No, I'm not."

He frowns at the idea of you spending winter break alone, because there’s absolutely no way you're going to go home and face your family again, and the long haul across the Atlantic feels like a chore after just recovering from doing so. 

“You can say no,” you murmur playfully. “I have a sublet lined up for December, and I’ll come back to the dorm when they open on the new year.”

That makes Rafe scoff. “You’re not doing that.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he commands. “You’ll spend it with me.”

Suddenly you clear your throat, almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to, like, invite myself. You seriously can say no–”

Rafe is sitting up before he knows it, leaning on an elbow and finding your jaw with his other hand to navigate through the darkness, and kissing you firmly enough to let it do all the talking for him. 

You mmrph in surprise into his mouth, effectively shutting you up and assumingely shutting down any doubts you have about the entire idea. Rafe kisses you certainly yet deliberately slow, as if to reassure you of his answer, that you don't have to stress about being too much, especially around him. In fact, he wants you to be too much, yourself, unapologetically you. He craves it, utterly deprived every second you're acting shy as if he wouldn't give you anything you asked for.

Pulling away, Rafe resumes his previous position and lowers onto your body, his original position. His lips find the soft skin of your neck and place a kiss there, sucking ever so slightly to emphasize his point, to stake his claim, to wash away your doubts. 

“I want you to stay with me,” he murmurs quietly. “Okay?”

You hum shyly. “Okay.”

Rafe runs his hands over your ribcage. “I need you to know something, though."

"Yeah?"

Your tone is so fucking sweet that it makes his upcoming words difficult, understanding you can completely hold your own against a family full of narcissists yet wanting to shield you from it all anyway. He wants to hide you away from it all, but he knows you're tough, you're strong, you're too kind for your own good.

"My dad probably won’t be the friendliest.” Rafe figures that's the nicer term for Ward. "He'll be charming and inviting when you first meet him, but behind closed doors..."

He trails off, not necessarily wanting to get into the specifics of his father's tendencies right now with you, laying pretty beside him and body exhausted with earlier passion. To subject you to this all over again, it makes his chest pull, knowing that his father will probably say or do something to remind you of the obscenities of your own family, to remind you of the darkness that shrouded you a week ago.

Before he can continue, you gently massage his scalp. "I understand. I'll be alright."

It makes him nearly swoon. "You're too sweet for your own good, hm? You can be mean to him if you want."

You laugh and he swears he's never heard a prettier sound.

"I'm not doing that."

"If I asked you nicely?"

Chuckling again, your nails rake down to the nape of his neck and back up to his scalp, making him sigh low into the confinements of your hold. But it's much more than physicality, it's almost a promise, reaffirming your stance and wordlessly convincing him that you have his back. Now and always.

"Still no," you murmur, and by the tone of it he swears you're smiling. "You're the one who said I'm incapable of being evil."

Rafe snorts. "I did."

You hum happily, content with 'winning' the conversation as you continue to massage absentmindedly. "Besides, I’m great with parents.”

This conversation feels all too familiar, full circle, echoing his words that he spoke to you all the time ago when your mother stormed into your dorm room, the catalyst for all of this, the start of the spiral to where you lay now with limbs entangled and hearts out in the open.

Shaking his head slightly and allowing himself to shut his eyes, Rafe murmurs in agreement, almost tauntingly.

“I’m sure you are, sweet girl.” Then, quieter, “Sleep.”

The words are like a command, and despite every effort to not do so, you find yourself babbling something incoherently, words soon dying in your throat as you fall asleep, but not without being lulled by the sound of his syncopated breaths, and that, somehow, his hand has found yours in the darkness, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gentle enough for it to be a long lasting reminder: he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

You let yourself succumb to that. You let yourself deserve it.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni

notes holy shit???????? i have a few (more like a hundred) things to say. legit where do I begin.

thank you for 900 followers FIRST OF ALL i only started posting laaaaaate march (practically april) so this is absolutely incredible, thank you for all the support it's been so overwhelming in the best way. half of the comments genuinely make me lol and the other half make me legit spiral bc huh???? you like my stuff??? anyway.

for those who have sent me inbox messages: I SEE YOU!!! I APPRECIATE YOU!! I HAVE NOT IGNORED YOU!!! i'm gonna try to get around to answering them but trust i see y'all!!!!

on the topic of inbox messages, a few of you have been asking about if i'm open to blurbs, and i 100% am. i cannot guarantee i will be able to answer all of them (i started a full-time job??? crazy) but i would love to try and provide that.

okay i think that's it from me. again. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT i'm legit sad this is ending but, again, im open to blurbs about them so TRUST this def won't be the last time we read about them. GODSPEED!

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Blood Moon

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!niece!reader Warnings: Physical assault and injury detail. Mentions of blood. Angst. Mentions of death. Mentions of pregnancy. Explicit sexual content. Word count: ~4k

Summary: A confrontation with Alicent reveals devastating truths for Aemond, and he takes solace in the last place he expects to find it.

Author's note: Chapter three of Tear Down My Reason. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Darkness enveloped Aemond as he sank beneath the inky black surface. He struggled to pull free, arms and legs thrashing uselessly, feeling as though they moved through tar with the effort. His lungs burned, he could not breathe. Terror gripped his body, exhausting his senses as it lit every nerve ending aflame, his heart hammered against his ribs in sheer panic as his nervous system fought to keep alive a body too weakened to comply with its commands. Suddenly he was pulled free, opening his mouth in a silent scream as he gulped down air, choking and spluttering.

He woke with a start, body drenched in cold sweat as his chest heaved with his laboured breaths. Trembling and disorientated he took in his surroundings – no smouldering trees upon the horizon, no battle weary soldiers, no muddy bank of a lake, only the quiet calm of his bedchamber, and the gentle blue light of dawn that crept through the curtains. Not that any of it was a source of comfort. He glanced over at the curled up form of his niece turned wife, still sleeping at the furthest edge of the bed, and he collapsed back against the pillows with a sigh.

Out of habit, his hand drifted to his chest, placing the palm flat against where his heart slowly returned to a regular rhythmic beat. He could no longer feel it, had not felt it since the day he had been dragged from the God’s Eye, body broken and half drowned – the gentle tug of Vhagar that was ever present was gone, the connection that tied her to him was severed. He had emerged from the seemingly bottomless depths of the lake that bordered Harrenhal, but she had not. She had given her life for his as they had plummeted into the icy waters, the prince still chained to the great war beast’s saddle. The only consolation had been that his uncle, Daemon, and his blood wyrm, Caraxes, had perished alongside her. Her death had not been in vain.

Despite his weakened state as his men had freed him and dragged him onto drier land, he had still screamed, fighting to get back to the water, insisting they must try to save her. They had held him back as he had sobbed, telling him it was too late, Vhagar was gone. And once more, Aemond was a child, brought right back to the moment before he had claimed her, the loneliest boy in the world with an aching void in his chest that only the kinship of a dragon could fill. He had carried that ache every day since, like a hanging weight around his neck.

Two weeks had passed since Aemond had married his niece, two weeks since she had looked upon his naked form with such lust in her eyes that it had made him feel sick to his stomach. He did not want her to see him in that way, he was unworthy of it, and so he had done all he could to ensure that that desire was extinguished. He knew he had gone too far, crossed a boundary of cruelty from which there was no return, but cruelty had become second nature to him. War required despicable acts and, while there may no longer have been a physical battle to fight, turmoil still raged like an inferno in Aemond’s mind, never allowing him peace. The vile way in which he had chosen to defile her had worked; since that night she had not so much as looked in his direction, though she still slept curled in upon herself in the same bed as him each night. Not close enough that their bodies touched, but it was a tight enough proximity that he could still feel the gentle warmth that radiated from her body, could still smell the lavender oil that he noticed she liked to dab upon her pulse points. He did not understand why she did not ask to be moved to another room, why she continued to sleep beside him. It drove him to madness, each time his hand wandered to his hardened length while he reclined in the bathtub, furiously stroking himself to completion at the memory of her scent, her softness, how easily her body yielded to his. He was filled with self loathing afterwards, so overcome with shame that he could not bear the sight of his own reflection in the looking glass. It was torture, and perhaps he deserved it, but deep down he knew that she did not.

Upon seeing her rise from the bed on the morning of the fourteenth day of their marriage, her blue eyes downcast, her long, dark curls a curtain around her delicate features, Aemond decided he could take no more of it. It was unbearable to exist alongside this spectre of a woman, to see her face each day with her spirit snuffed out, existing but not really living. If it was his torment alone then he would bear the burden of it, but she had suffered enough, and he had contributed to more than his fair share of that. If he could grant her a single kindness then it would be her freedom from this wretched curse of an obligation.

Aemond’s boots echoed upon the stone floor of the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast, taking a route he was certain he could navigate without even the sight he still possessed in his right eye. His mother’s apartments – they were a place he once used to delight in visiting as a child, a haven of comfort and solace to which his feet would run on the days when he felt sad, angry or just needed the simple affection of being held. As he had grown older, his footsteps had grown slower, his eagerness to see the dowager queen waning as he had slowly come to dread seeing her. Where he used to find love, understanding, sometimes even pity in the deep, dark gaze of Alicent, he now saw only fear, disappointment and sorrow. In his mother’s eyes, Aemond had turned from her favourite child into a monster, and the bitter irony of it all was that he had done it all for her.

The heavy wooden double doors were ajar as Aemond approached, the shrill sound of children’s laughter drifting out into the hallway through the gap. He hovered upon the threshold, watching as Jaehaera, Viserys and Aegon all breathlessly chased each other around the sitting space of the solar, each waving a wooden sword. Seeing their innocent smiles, bright eyes and the way their silver hair streamed down and around their shoulders reminded him of when he, Helaena and Aegon were children and still fond enough of one another to find each other’s company enjoyable. The memory made his chest feel uncomfortably tight, to know how much had changed. Helaena, once so fond of chasing butterflies and counting the legs on centipedes, was driven mad by the deaths of her sons and had taken her own life. Aegon, always so robust and the loudest in every room, made frail by battle and taken by poison. It was never supposed to be this way, and seeing his niece and nephews play together was like watching the ghosts of what could have been, what should have been.

“Aemond,” his mother’s voice roused him from his reverie, and he watched as she rose from the couch she had been seated upon, setting her wine cup upon the table in front of her. “What is it?”

There was once a time when she would have moved to greet him, taking his hands in hers as she enquired after his wellbeing. Now her hands remained clasped in front of her, accompanied by the soft click of her picking at her nail beds. Her reception of him was frosty, and she kept the table between the two of them, as though she needed a barrier of protection from her own son. Aemond swallowed thickly, glancing from the children and back to Alicent, still in her dressing gown, her auburn curls loose and cascading down her back in russet waves. “I wish to speak with you,” he said softly, his single eyed gaze drifting back to the ruckus the children were making, “alone.”

“Brella, the children,” Alicent commanded gently, looking over at the nursemaid, who had been heaping toys back into a chest. She immediately rose to herd the young Targaryens from the room, her hands at the backs of Viserys and Aegon, with Jaehaera between the two. 

Once the doors had been pulled closed, Aemond walked further into the space and, as if fleeing from him, Alicent moved to sit behind the large, mahogany writing desk positioned off to the corner of the sitting area. Aemond now occupied the space in which his mother had previously stood, between the table and the couch, watching as she slouched back in her chair, her hands laced together across her middle. She looked tired, a subtle darkness had settled across the pallid skin beneath her eyes. They held no warmth as they regarded him, only expectancy as she waited for him to speak.

“Release her from me,” Aemond said quietly, his stare unwavering as he looked into his mother’s exhausted eyes, “put an end to this.”

Alicent’s eyes drifted closed momentarily as she heaved a deep sigh, lifting a hand to rub at her temple, as though the discussion pained her. When she opened her eyes again her expression was steely, her words conveying no emotion. “You know I cannot do that, Aemond. This marriage is for the good of the realm. A Targaryen must sit the throne until Rhaenyra’s sons come of age.”

“Do you know what I did to her? Before all of this? I told her I would marry her just so I could steal her virtue. I did it for no other reason than for wanting to be cruel.”

Aemond watched as Alicent’s eyes widened in horror, her shoulders sagging in disappointment as she regarded him with a look he had often seen directed at Aegon when they were younger. Emboldened, he continued.

“Do you know what I did to her on our wedding night? I–”

“Enough,” his mother held up a hand, silencing him, “I do not wish to hear it.”

She sounded so much like his grandsire that it enraged him. His nostrils flared as his voice grew dangerously low. “Of course you do not. All too happy to close your eyes to suffering, as long as we do our duty. Is that not what you and Otto inflicted upon Aegon and Hel–”

“It cannot be for nothing!” Alicent shouted, slamming her hands upon the table as she stood abruptly, the action sending parchment fluttering to the ground, a ceramic jug of wine toppled from the desk’s surface, shattering. Aemond watched as the ruby red liquid it had contained pooled and trickled along the cracks in the stone floor. His mother leaned forward, palms flat against the desk, eyes wild, hair spilling around her face like a shroud of flame. “This cannot all be for nothing. You must produce an heir–”

“I had an heir!” he shouted angrily, the edge of the couch bumping his knee, halting him as he moved to step forward, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I had an heir and you killed him!”

The anger deflated from him as quickly as it had erupted as he breathed heavily, watching his mother’s shocked expression. Sadness settled over him and he sat down heavily upon the low table placing his head in his hands, too weary to stand any longer.

He still remembered running a palm over the swell of her belly and kissing her fiercely, promising to return to her, their child, as soon as the battle was over. His Alys. His pretty Alys with her impossibly long, raven black hair and emerald green eyes. She had held him captivated from the moment he had looked upon her. Despite having put the rest of Harrenhal’s household to the sword, he had known as soon as he saw her that he would spare her. She had warmed his bed, loved him, guided him to victory, and given him the most precious gift of all – a son.

“It is a boy, I can tell,” she had purred, taking his hand and placing it against the bare skin of her belly as he had laid curled around her one morning in bed.

He had never felt such pride, not since he had claimed Vhagar, and his heart had clenched with affection for both her and their unborn child. She was a witch and a bastard, both traits he knew it would be frowned upon for a prince to entertain. However, her visions had guided him wisely and he was certain that when the war was over, her efforts to ensure he was victorious against his half sister would be recognised and rewarded by his family. No one but his mother had ever believed in him so unconditionally, however, unlike his mother, Alys did not shy away from the acts of barbarism that Aemond had to commit to ensure success.

When he had been pulled from the God’s Eye, once he had calmed enough to stop calling for Vhagar, he had asked after Alys, but she had not been brought to him. He had been returned to the capital, bedridden while he recovered from his injuries, and he had asked for her again, only to be told by his mother that she was gone, that she had made sure the witch would not darken their doorway ever again. Aemond had howled as he had for his dragon, the thought of his beloved and their unborn child both taken so barbarically from the world was more than he could stand. He did not ask for details, did not want to know. It was easier for him if he imagined that they had both simply ceased to exist.

He had fallen into melancholy, not having the strength to resist when his mother imposed upon him the marriage to his niece. All the fight had left him, the only spark of it returning upon the night that his new wife had dared to speak of the woman who held his heart.

Slowly, Aemond raised his head from his hands, his single eyed gaze filled with sorrow as he looked upon the concerned face of his mother, now seated once more and watching him as though observing a wild animal.

“What did you do to my child?” he asked, voice thick with emotion, “My Alys…please tell me they did not suffer.”

Alicent’s brows pinched together, her head shaking slightly as she stared at her son in confusion. “Aemond, what child? There was no child.”

“Yes, there was,” he insisted, a solitary tear rolling down his cheek, struggling to get the words out around the lump in his throat. “Alys was with child, at least eight moons, and you had her killed. You had them both killed.”

Bringing her hands in front of her, clasping them together as she rested her elbows upon the surface of the desk, his mother spoke softly. “She was not killed, and she certainly was not pregnant when she was apprehended.”

Aemond scoffed, barely able to contain his disbelief. Lies. Scandalous lies. “What are you talking about?”

“Alys had not intended for you to survive your fall into the God’s Eye,” Alicent explained, her voice the gentlest he had heard it in months, “when she heard that you still lived, she fled from Harrenhal. Our men apprehended her as she boarded a ship to the Free Cities. She told them she intended no trouble, simply wanted to be free, so they let her go. But she was not pregnant.”

He felt as though he was drowning all over again, his chest constricting as he battled to take in air, struggling to comprehend the words his mother spoke. “No…no, that is not possible. She loved me. She was going to give me a son.”

Alicent sighed, her features softening in sympathy for Aemond’s distress, as she brought her hands to rest upon the desktop, though she made no moves to comfort him. “Aemond, she was a witch. Whatever she had you believe, it was a trick, an illusion. She did not love you. She simply wanted to survive.”

“You are a liar,” he choked, standing once more, his vision blurred momentarily by tears. As much as he wanted to believe that his mother told him untruths, he could see the clarity in her dark eyes, there was no deceit, she spoke honestly and it ripped the bottom of his world away, his stomach in endless freefall.

“It is the truth. What did you expect? You put her entire household to the sword. She was your captive, not your lover. She lives, and if she had wanted to find her way back to you then she would have.”

Aemond turned, stumbling from the room, unable and unwilling to hear anymore. He clutched at his chest, the pain that throbbed beneath his ribs felt like it meant to tear its way from his flesh. A surge of white hot rage propelled his quickened steps as he made his way back towards his chambers, an anguished cry escaping him the moment the heavy wooden doors slammed behind him. Catching sight of his disfigured, tear streaked face in the looking glass nearest the door, he beat his fists against it, the glass shattering and exploding outwards as he brought his hands forcefully down upon its surface, the shards clattering loudly to the floor.

“Stop, stop!” The desperate plea came from behind him, as small, delicate hands tugged at his leather jerkin, pulling him away from his destructive rage. He turned, looking down into the worried face of his niece, her blue eyes wide and rosy lips slightly parted as she grasped at him, attempting to calm him.

Aemond snatched his dagger from the sheath held at his waist by his belt, taking the hilt and grasping her hands to wrap around it, before pointing the blade’s tip against his chest, pointed directly at his heart. “End this,” he pleaded desperately, “free us both from this.”

“Aemond, no!” she cried out, lurching back. The dagger fell to the floor with a clatter, and breathing heavily, he pressed forward, grabbing for her. A sharp crack of pain sent him reeling backwards as her palm made harsh contact with his cheek. The slap did not deter him, and he grabbed her again. This time, she sank her teeth into his bottom lip and he groaned as the discomfort exploded in the lower portion of his face, the coppery tang of blood blooming upon his tongue.

He kissed her deeply, allowing her to taste his blood as his tongue licked against hers, and she whined, the sound going straight to his groin, making his cock strain painfully against the lacings of his breeches. He fell to his knees, taking her to the floor with him, and she scrambled into his lap, tearing the clothes from his body. Her nails scored his pale flesh as she clawed at him, leaving raised, red scratches in their wake. He did not care, he would let her tear him to pieces if she so desired. He grunted, nuzzling into her neck, breathing in the sweet, heady scent of lavender oil as she sank down upon his manhood, enveloping him in her warmth. He clung to her, spurred on by the undulation of her hips as she used him for her pleasure, all the while nipping and scratching at his tender flesh, taking out her frustration on him just as he had done to her. Her climax was a violent, messy thing as her body gushed and convulsed around him, triggering his own release, his vision whiting out as burning hot tremors of pleasure seized all other thoughts.

When Aemond came to, he could feel a sting in his hand, an uncomfortable digging sensation, as he realised his arm was lifted above his head. He blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings, noticing he was laying upon the floor, the shattered remnants of the looking glass and his dagger still strewn across its stone surface. His head was laid in his niece’s lap, the rest of his body sprawled out flat upon the flagstones. A look of concentration graced her features, as she held his hand in her own, carefully digging out glass with a hair pin.

“I have managed to get most of it out,” she told him, noticing he was now conscious, “but you will need to see the maester for the wounds.”

He grunted quietly, uncaring. Let his hand rot and drop off for all he cared. His earlier pain and rage had subsided, an odd feeling of numbness had settled over him. “Do you think you could ever forgive me?” he murmured, so quietly he was not even sure she heard him.

She paused, lashes fluttering, clearly taken aback by his question as she glanced down at him, then back to his hand as she continued to dig out glass. “I think the horrors our families have inflicted upon each other transcend a need for simple forgiveness,” she uttered quietly.

He hummed in acknowledgement. She was right. No simple apology could fix this. He was not sure what would. Perhaps the legacy of House Targaryen was destined to remain fragmented, scattered to the winds. They were merely playing house upon its ashes. “For what it is worth,” he whispered, “I am sorry.”

He did not care if she forgave him, for her knew he could never forgive himself.

As the weeks passed, they continued to avoid each other, living as ghosts, merely occupying the same space. However, Aemond found that whenever he awoke from a nightmare – either being pulled from the God’s Eye, or tormented by vibrant green eyes – he reached for his niece’s curled up form, and she went eagerly to him, her body pliant beneath his as he settled between her spread thighs. He would bury his face in her neck, still unable to look at her, his thumb rubbing circles against her sensitive pearl in time with each thrust of his hips, until she came, shuddering and mewling softly, pulling him towards his own end and allowing him to fall back into blissfully dreamless oblivion.

Two moons had passed when she rose one morning, stretching languidly before climbing from the bed. As she made her way towards the vanity table, she stumbled, clinging to the poster at the foot of the bed to stop herself from falling.

Aemond threw back the covers, rushing to her side, holding her shoulders as she leaned her weight against him for support while he guided her back to bed.

“I feel funny,” she muttered weakly.

He watched as the maester examined her, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the lewd display of what appeared to be him fondling her breasts. Surely he did not need to touch her in such a place for a mere dizzy spell?

“When did you last bleed, your grace?” the maester asked softly.

His niece furrowed her brow at that, appearing lost in thought for a moment, before she spoke again. “I…I am not sure. Before the wedding, I think.”

The maester smiled softly, glancing up at Aemond, and then back to his wife. “Then I believe congratulations are in order,” he told her, “you are with child.”

Aemond inhaled sharply, his hand reaching out without forethought to rest upon her belly, ignoring the way his niece’s eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected contact. As his palm settled over the warmth of her soft flesh, the sensation travelled all the way up his arm, settling in the hollow that lay behind his ribcage. For the first time since Aemond had been dragged from the God’s Eye he felt whole again.

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[writesvani]

down low | 02

boxer! jungkook x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: cheating, drug use (weed), smoking, explicit sexual content, emotionally toxic relationship, manipulation, infidelity (jk and y/n are cheating on their partners with each other), unhealthy coping mechanisms, morally gray behavior, emotional detachment

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 4k // date: 25th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Inhaling You, Exhaling Guilt; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey besties. new “down low” chapter is here and it’s unwell, just like me. this was supposed to be a 15k word monster but i said absolutely not and chopped it into 3 parts—so yeah, this ends on a cliffhanger. no sex yet. i’m sorry. (i’m not.)

BUT the tension? the dynamic? it’s sizzling. they’re one touch away from absolute disaster and i love that for them.

left some easter eggs in there too, so if you catch ‘em, scream at me in the comments or my asks. i’m lurking.

note goal is 600 bc you’re all feral and i believe in peer pressure. hit it and you’ll get part 2 real fast.

read. suffer. tell me your thoughts. love u forever, even while emotionally tormenting you.

The shift is... just another day. The usual crowd of regulars is here, sipping their espressos and making small talk that you would rather skip entirely. The day has been routine too—classes, a quick lunch with Taehyung, then straight into work. It’s all repetitive. It’s boring. And the worst part? You’re counting down the minutes until you can sprint to Jungkook’s apartment the second your shift ends at 10pm. You hate it. You crave it. And Jungkook’s not making it any easier.

Because right now, you're standing there, phone in your clammy hands, staring at a picture he just had to send you. Jungkook, in the middle of his boxing practice, hair messy, tattoos peeking out from his oversized black shirt, a cigarette hanging from his lips like he owns the damn world. He’s standing outside—because Namjoon doesn’t let him smoke inside (honestly, who’s the athlete here?)—but Jungkook looks so fucking good you almost forget where you are.

He knows it too. He knows exactly what he’s doing. That picture isn’t just a tease; it’s a reminder. A reminder that you should be thinking about being in his bed, not focusing on perfecting lattes. But here you are, trying to breathe through the urge to drop everything and run to him.

You can’t focus anymore. Your brain is mush, your hands are clumsy, and the espresso machine might as well be a spaceship for how little you're processing. You accidentally make an espresso instead of a double one for Mark—the sweet old man who comes in daily and tips in coins like it’s 1993. He stares at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline. You apologize, mutter something about being tired, and shuffle back to your station.

But your hands are twitchy. Your eyes dart to your phone every two seconds. Still nothing. Jungkook hasn’t sent anything else—no texts, no pics, no emojis. Just that one, cursed, sinfully sexy picture of him looking like every wrong decision you’ve ever made and wanted to make again.

And now? Now you’re stuck. One hour left of your shift and your brain is spiraling. You’re mentally unwell. Not in a tragic, poetic way. In a feral, "why isn't he texting me back when I clearly need to ride his face into next week" kind of way. You're restless. Desperate. Left alone with your thoughts and an absolutely unhinged amount of need clawing its way through your body like a caffeine-craving demon.

Only your message stares back at you, mocking, lingering, and gnawing at the edges of your sanity. It’s there, like a cruel joke, one that you can’t stop laughing at even though it’s slowly driving you insane.

you: stop teasing me kook

And then, nothing. Not a single reply. Left on read. Just like always.

Jungkook has this game down to a science, doesn't he? The art of push and pull—never fails to leave you dangling on the edge of your patience, teetering on the line between wanting to strangle him and wanting him to do the same to you. You’re on the verge of losing it, fingertips hovering over your phone, waiting for the next message that might never come. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like a power play, a twisted form of control that drives you crazy in ways you can’t even put into words.

Every time you’re about to meet up with him, just when you think you’re close, he disappears. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t care. Leaves you with nothing but your own burning desire and a game you never agreed to play. It makes you want to scream.

And it makes you want him more.

But despite the shrill, maddening thrill of his little game, there's one thing you're sure of—Jungkook wants it. Wants you. And that’s what makes him predictable. Comfortably so. It’s the only thread of stability in this whole mess. Because no matter how long he leaves you on read, no matter how quiet he goes, as soon as the clock strikes 10PM and your shift ends, like clockwork, your phone pings.

JK: when will u be here?

You smirk, your fingers moving fast.

you: 20 minutes

He waits. Not long. Just enough to keep the suspense alive. Just enough to remind you that he’s still in control.

JK: kk, see u baby

And that’s all it takes. You're spiraling again—but this time, you're sprinting into it willingly.

Jungkook smirks as he opens the door, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to make you roll your eyes. He leans against the frame with that infuriating ease, one hand—the tattooed one—tucked into the pocket of his grey sweats. His hair’s still damp, messy in that way that makes you suspicious he’s doing it on purpose. He smells like wood, citrus, and a hundred bad decisions. His black oversized shirt hangs just right on his frame, clinging to his shoulders, draping like it has no idea it's breaking rules just by existing.

And fuck him. Fuck him for looking that good.

“You’re late,” he drawls, head tilted, eyes dragging down your body like he has all the time in the world.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t you say I should be here until 11pm? It’s only like, half past ten.”

He shrugs, lips curling. “I did say that. But you always come earlier. I know you wanna see me as soon as you can.”

You scoff, pushing past him. “Jesus, Jungkook. Knock it off and let me in.”

He laughs behind you. Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

You flop down onto his sofa like it’s your own personal throne. There are new pink pillows you don’t recognize. With a lazy smile, you say, “Cute pillows.”

“Thanks, baby. Eunji got them from IKEA the other day.”

You nod, lips curling. “Noted. I should tell Tae—these would totally match his softboy vibes.”

Jungkook drops down beside you, digging into his pocket like he’s searching for treasure. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, a small greenish bud peeks out from a crumpled tissue.

“Didn’t know we were smoking tonight,” you murmur, eyeing him.

He shrugs, effortlessly picking the bud apart with skilled fingers. The way he moves is distracting. Methodical. Confident. Hot.

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the tightening in your core.

“When are we not smoking?” he says with a smirk, not looking up.

“True,” you mumble, sinking back into the soft fluff of Eunji’s precious IKEA pillows. Silly girl. She has no idea the kind of things they’re about to witness.

You glance up—and Jungkook is watching you. Of course he is. Eyes hooded, a smirk ghosting his lips, like he’s waiting. Like he’s daring you to say or do something.

Then, slowly—so slowly—his tongue drags across the rolling paper.

He knows what he’s doing. And he does it anyway. On purpose.

You watch, helpless, skin prickling, heat curling low in your stomach. It’s obscene the way he licks it—like it’s not even about the joint anymore, like it’s about you. About this.

And the worst part? You’re not strong enough to look away.

You’ve never been strong when it comes to Jeon Jungkook.

“What?” Jungkook asks, one brow raised as he brings the freshly rolled joint to his lips like it’s second nature.

“Nothing,” you mutter, eyes tracking the flame as it flickers, kissing the end of the joint. He inhales deep, the ember glowing bright red before he exhales slowly, like it’s an artform. Smoke curls out of his mouth in slow, lazy tendrils, and you’re already annoyed at how sexy he looks doing the bare minimum.

He grins — cocky, annoying, knowing — and pats the cushion beside him like he owns the place. Like he owns you. You don’t even hesitate. You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you, pretending you don’t care that your thigh brushes his.

Jungkook takes another drag, then coughs lightly, voice raspy as he waves off the moment with a half-laugh. “Okay, don’t clown me. This shit’s stronger than I thought.” His eyes squint just slightly, like he’s studying you. “So… uh, how’re your friends? Lena and Bob, right?”

You stare at him flatly. “It’s Lara and Rob. Do you seriously not remember their names after all this time?”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but the smirk playing on his lips tells you he’s doing it on purpose. Just to get a rise out of you. “Close enough. They doing okay?”

You sigh. This is the worst part. The awkward five minutes of half-assed small talk before the inevitable. Before the high kicks in and his hands are on your skin. The two of you always dance around it — pretend like this isn’t transactional, like this isn’t just desire dressed up as casual banter.

“Lara just broke up with her boyfriend,” you say, grabbing the joint from him and taking a slow hit.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, one arm draped along the back of it, watching you. “Oh, the dude who studies Econ?”

You blink at him. “What? No. That was like… two years ago. This one studies Law.”

His mouth drops slightly. “Wait, hold up. Are you telling me we’ve been doing this for two years?”

You don’t say anything at first. Just pass the joint back and exhale a laugh, soft and a little bitter. “Yeah. Way before Taehyung and me.”

He tilts his head. “Shit. I forgot you even dated Kai.”

You chuckle. “Jungkook, we started hooking up way before Kai. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

He stares at you for a beat, the room quiet except for the faint buzz of the overhead light and the sound of the joint crackling in his hand.

“So,” he says slowly, lips quirking, “what I’m hearing is — you’ve basically cheated on everyone with me.”

There’s something infuriating about how pleased he looks with himself. You raise an eyebrow, snatch the joint from his fingers again and hold it between yours like a crown jewel.

“Wouldn’t you like that,” you say, lips curling into a lazy smile. Smoke drifts out from between your lips. You don’t break eye contact.

His smirk deepens. “I do like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway. Because God help you, so do you.

“So, what’s up with you?” you ask, tilting your head as you hold the joint between two fingers, eyes flickering toward his. The smoke rolls from your lips like a sigh, curling into the space between you like a secret.

Jungkook shrugs, leaning back deeper into the couch, his arm brushing yours just barely. “Nothing much. Just chilling. Boxing and all that.”

You hum, eyebrows raising with mild amusement. “Wow. Riveting stuff.”

He shoots you a lazy grin. “You asked.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that you’re emotionally unavailable until at least two joints in.”

He laughs, soft and warm, and it does something to you that you don’t want to look too closely at. You pass the joint back to him and try not to stare at the veins on his hand or the ink decorating his fingers like poetry you were never meant to read.

For someone whose body you know so intimately—every line, every scar, every sound he makes when you kiss the right places—you know next to nothing about his life. And that’s part of the deal. Or maybe the whole deal.

Jungkook takes a drag and blows it out slowly. “What about you?” he asks. “How’s the glamorous life of overworked and underpaid?”

You snort. “The usual. College, work, crying in coffee-scented bathrooms.”

He chuckles again, eyes crinkling, and it hits you how rare it is to see him smile like that when you're not on top of him.

You glance down at your nails, picking at a chipped corner of polish. “Tae and I are going on a small trip next weekend.”

That gets his attention. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Dunno yet. Probably something basic. Mountains or a lake house. Just wanna get out of the city for a bit.”

Jungkook nods slowly, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just lets silence settle between you again.

You don’t push him. You never do.

“This reminds me…” Jungkook says, plucking the joint from your fingers like he owns it—and in moments like these, he kind of does. He leans back, smoke curling around his face like it knows he’s trouble. “Eunji wants me to meet her mom next weekend.”

You scoff, tilting your head. “Damn, dude. How are you gonna survive that?”

He grins around the joint. “Bruh. I’m perfect meet-the-mother material.”

You snort. “Right. Because mothers love tattooed boxers who smell like weed and moral ambiguity.”

“Whatever,” he says, exhaling smoke like it offends him. “You’re such a hater.”

“Not a hater. Just realistic.”

He glances at you, amusement twitching at the corners of his lips. “You think I’m not charming enough?”

You deadpan, “I think you’re more lie-to-your-daughter’s-face material.”

He bursts out laughing, tipping his head back. “Shit, that’s fair.”

You smile, watching him. He’s still hot when he laughs. Annoying, infuriatingly hot.

“But yeah,” he adds, voice dropping a little, “that probably won’t be happening. I’ll have to lie my way out of that one.”

You give him a dry look. “Thank god you’re a good liar.”

He smirks, eyes flickering to yours. “You’d know.”

“God,” you say, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “can you imagine if Eunji actually found out?”

Jungkook exhales a puff of smoke, slow and smug. “She’d kill me. And probably come for you too.”

“She wouldn’t even get the chance. Tae would commit murder first.”

He hums, passing you the joint. “Tae’s scary when he’s mad.”

You take it, inhale deep. “He is indeed. Have you seen his stare? That’s not normal. That’s serial killer energy.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, and yet you still cozy up to him like he’s a weighted blanket.”

“You’re just jealous he takes me on cute brunch dates and actually remembers my birthday.”

“Wow,” he gasps dramatically. “Are you implying I’m not boyfriend material?”

You look him up and down, slow and deliberate. “I’m saying you’re situationship in denial material.”

He bites his lip to hide his grin. “That’s rich coming from you. Miss I’m loyal to my boyfriend except for every time I text you at 2 a.m.”

You groan. “Don’t act like you don’t eat it up.”

“Oh, I do,” he smirks, shifting closer, “especially when you come over all pouty, pretending this isn’t your favorite part of the week.”

You narrow your eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, flicking ash into the tray.

He leans in, voice soft and cocky, “Bet Tae doesn’t make you squirm with just words.”

You look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Bet Eunji doesn’t know you like being choked a little.”

He raises a brow, but doesn’t deny it. “Touché.”

“And for the record,” you whisper, fingers brushing his thigh, “you’re not boyfriend material. You’re just my favorite craving.”

He grins, low and dangerous. “That’s the sexiest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“You know,” Jungkook starts, tapping the ash off the joint, “sometimes I think Eunji likes the idea of me more than she likes me.”

You snort. “Well, you do post thirst traps and quote Nietzsche in your captions. Anyone would fall for the illusion.”

He gasps, mock-offended. “Are you saying I’m a fraud?”

“I’m saying you’re a curated experience.”

“Damn,” he laughs, nudging your thigh with his knee. “And yet here you are, front row, backstage pass, meet and greet.”

You shoot him a look, amused. “I never said I wasn’t a fan.”

He smirks. “You’re more than a fan. You’re the president of the Jungkook is a Bad Idea But God He’s Good in Bed club.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, even though your grin is impossible to hide. “I’m vice president, at best.”

“Oh really? Who’s president then?”

You take a long drag, pretending to think. “My vibrator. That one never leaves me on read.”

He laughs so hard he coughs, waving smoke out of his face. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in, eyes gleaming. “Bet Eunji doesn’t make you laugh like this.”

He quiets, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “She doesn’t make me laugh like this. Or moan like you do.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That was dangerously close to being sweet.”

“Don’t worry,” he teases, eyes dragging down your body, “I’ll say something trashy in two seconds.”

You chuckle. “You always do.”

“Maybe it’s a defense mechanism.”

“Maybe you’re emotionally constipated.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, watching you, “but you like me better that way, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but your silence is loud enough. And Jungkook hears every part of it.

He shifts closer. The joint is forgotten now, burning down between his fingers. His eyes drop to your mouth for a second too long, like he’s deciding if it’s worth it. Like kissing you is both a gamble and a given.

“You didn’t answer,” he says, voice lower, teasing, but almost careful.

You tilt your head. “About what?”

“Me being emotionally constipated. You liking me better that way.”

You smirk, but there’s a beat of honesty in your next words. “I don’t like you better that way. I just… like you.”

His gaze flickers—like the words hit somewhere deeper than you meant them to. And for a second, neither of you says anything. The tension isn’t new, but this feels… heavier. Messier.

“You’re dangerous when you say shit like that,” he murmurs.

You smile. “And you’re dangerous when you don’t.”

He drops the joint into the ashtray and leans in like gravity's pulling him toward you. His nose brushes yours. His breath smells like weed and cinnamon gum and something distinctly him.

“Last chance to stop me,” he says, voice so low it vibrates in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Last chance to kiss me before I change my mind.”

He chuckles—just a breath—and then closes the distance. His lips press to yours, soft but certain. There’s no hesitation this time. No teasing. Just warmth and the kind of familiarity that should scare you but doesn’t.

You kiss him back, one hand curling into the front of his shirt, the other finding his jaw. He tilts his head, deepens the kiss, sighs into your mouth like he’s been waiting all day for this exact moment.

And maybe he has.

When you pull back, slightly breathless, his eyes are still on yours. “So…” he whispers, “was that emotionally constipated, or…?”

You grin. “Still very much constipated. But in, like, a hot way.”

He groans. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” you say, tugging him back down, “you’re still kissing me.”

And he is. Again and again.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s messier. His hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you in like he can’t stand the space between you, like it’s a personal offense. Your mouths crash together, lips sliding, breath hitching. It’s not soft anymore—it’s hungry. The kind of kiss that bruises, that says everything neither of you will ever admit out loud.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, still damp, pulling just hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He kisses like he fights—like he needs to win, like he needs to ruin you a little just to feel okay again. His tongue grazes your bottom lip and you open for him without thinking, without hesitating.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth, “you taste so good.”

You don’t even respond—you’re too busy climbing into his lap, straddling him like it’s muscle memory. His hands find your hips, gripping hard. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he needs the pressure of your body against his or he’ll fall apart completely.

Your lips are swollen already, your breathing ragged, but neither of you stops. Teeth clash a little, tongues fighting, his hand sliding up under your shirt to find skin. It’s clumsy, intense, addictive. You break the kiss just to catch your breath, only to dive back in like you’re starving for him. Like you’ll die if he’s not kissing you.

“Fuck, baby,” Jungkook groans, lips trailing down to your jaw, your throat. “What are we even doing?”

You pant against his skin, fingers clawing at his shirt. “Being so bad.”

He laughs, breathless, mouth still on your neck. “The best kind.”

And then he kisses you again—hard, deep, messy like a confession neither of you dares to say out loud.

He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Like it’s not just a kiss—it’s survival.

Your mouths crash again, sloppy and desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that makes your teeth bump and your lips burn, the kind that leaves your head spinning. Jungkook’s hand is cradling your jaw now, thumb brushing your cheek as if that could balance out the chaos happening between your mouths. Spoiler: it can’t.

Your hands are roaming—up his chest, into his hair, pulling him closer when he’s already close enough to melt into. He shifts under you, groaning low in his throat when your hips accidentally roll forward. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and shiny, jaw clenched like he's trying to get a grip. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you whisper, yanking him back in.

This time, the kiss is slower—but not softer. It’s a drag of tongues, a teasing nip to his bottom lip, a moan you try to swallow when he licks into your mouth just right. Your nails scrape his neck and he shudders, pulling you tighter against him. Your chest presses flush with his and neither of you can tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t know how long it goes on. Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? You’re half in his lap, legs tangled, hair a mess, and breath coming in short, needy gasps. And yet he’s still kissing you like he doesn’t care about oxygen. Like nothing else matters.

And maybe right now, in this twisted little moment where everything is all heat and tongue and hands that won’t stop wandering—you believe him.

He kisses you between sentences—like the conversation is an afterthought, like talking about other people while kissing you is normal. Maybe for you two, it is.

"Does Eunji ever kiss you like this?" you mumble against his lips, barely giving him space to breathe.

He lets out a breathless laugh, teeth grazing your bottom lip before he tugs it. "No. She kisses like she's saying goodbye all the time."

You pause at that, then kiss him again—harder. His hands settle on your waist, dragging you closer.

"And Taehyung?" he whispers into your mouth. "He still hold your hand when you sleep?"

"Sometimes," you pant, mouth brushing the corner of his. "Only when he's not too tired."

Jungkook hums against your skin, mouth trailing down to your jaw, then your neck. "Do you miss it?"

You tilt your head, let him kiss down to your collarbone. "No," you whisper honestly, then pull him back up by the chin to kiss him again. It’s messier now. Hungrier. Your lips glide against each other like you’re both trying to erase the names you just said.

"She makes me breakfast, you know," he murmurs between kisses, "Packs fruit in little containers like a mom."

You lick into his mouth, teeth grazing his tongue just slightly. “You ever think about her when we do this?”

“Only when you’re being mean,” he teases, nipping at your lip. “You?”

"Only when I feel guilty," you admit, then kiss him deeper—because guilt can wait.

His hands are tracing foreign paths under your shirt, his mouth never leaving yours, like he’s punishing you for every moment you spend talking about anyone that isn’t him.

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to yours, lips still brushing yours with every word. “We’re the worst.”

You kiss him again. “I know.”

But neither of you stop.

taglist part 1: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily @justbelljust @gguk-lvr @gukkie7 @beomluvrr @iamworldwidehandsome

[wooyoungiewritings]

"A Familiar Kind of New" - Mingi x Reader Epilogue

Summary: You and Mingi are months deep into your relationship. You've never been happier and in love. Though you are going strong, your relationship is long distance, until he surprises you with something you hadn't seen coming. He's truly the best thing that's ever happened to you - so you decide to show him that. How, you may ask? Let me just say; it's not for the weak ones, and you might have to make sure no one can see your screen while reading...

Word count: 4K

Genre: Fluff, RIIICH Mingi, SMUT, Non-idol-fic

warnings: Rich Mingi with fem reader (fem pronouns). Fingering, oral (male/fem receiving), dirty talk (Mingi is NOT shy) unprotected sex, manhandling, lmk if I missed anything!

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Mingi in any way.

It had been 7 months since that night in his apartment, since swollen knuckles and confessions turned into kisses and love. Since you and Mingi stopped pretending to be anything less than completely, irrevocably in it together. Now, you were his. And he was yours. No doubts. No fear. Just a quiet, overwhelming kind of love that filled every second spent together. Or at least, every possible second spent together.. He had to go back home two months after you became official, and you’ve been living long-distance since then. 

He would travel back to you every chance he got, you would go to him or you would meet halfway at a hotel and spend a weekend together. It was not ideally how you imagined finally being his girlfriend, but if this meant that he was yours, it was all worth it. 

He is worth everything.

Things had been so incredibly easy these seven months despite the circumstances. Not a single time had you questioned his loyalty, having him constantly showering you with love. Random flowers appearing in front of your door, surprise visits, non-stop communication and just pure love every single second.

So when he told you to wear something “comfy but cute” and wouldn’t say where you were going, you figured it was one of his usual surprises. Mingi had become good at that lately, lavishing you in tiny, perfect moments that made you feel like the luckiest person on earth.

You hear the sound of elevator doors open and Mingi starting to guide you forwards with both of his hands covering your eyes. Your steps echo with every step you take and your hand find his in front of your eyes. 

“This is terrifying.” you state, your other hand out as you take tiny steps into something you have no idea what is. 

“We’re almost there” he has a smile on his lips, you hear it. You stop walking abruptly, second guessing what he is dragging you unknowingly into. He sighs behind you. “I promise it’s not a prank. I would never mess with you like that again after the haunted house incident.”

You snort. “That was one time.”

“It was enough times,” he mutters dramatically, then laughs shortly. “Come on. Trust me?”

You sigh but smile, letting your trust into him as he gently guides you forward, suddenly unlocking a door with a little metallic click.

“This way,” he says softly. You walk in, feeling a new type of floor beneath your feet, the subtle scent of fresh paint, and something like lavender in the air. “Are you ready?” 

You nod. “I’m ready.”

The light suddenly becomes brighter as he removes his hands and steps next to you. It takes a short moment for you to register where you are, but then it hits you.

You blink, and the breath leaves your lungs.

The apartment is massive, stunning, with glass windows that offer a panoramic view of the city skyline. The sun is setting, casting golds and pinks across the walls, and the inside is all warm neutrals and cool-toned touches that just scream Mingi. It’s brand new, a new building, a new chapter. And the best part? It's quiet. Peaceful. Like him.

“Mingi…” you breathe, turning to him. “This is insane. Did you-, wait, did you buy this?”

He nods sheepishly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I, uh… I signed the papers this morning.”

You look at him, heart squeezing in your chest. He looks almost nervous, like he’s waiting for you to be overwhelmed, or to back away. Instead, you throw your arms around him, and he immediately wraps himself around you, chuckling against your shoulder.

“Anything to be close to you,” he laughs. "I wanna make it easier to spend time together. Take you out on random Tuesday nights. Be here when you have a bad day.”

“You idiot,” you whisper affectionately. “You bought a whole penthouse to be closer to me?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What, you really think I was gonna keep letting you be three and a half hours away?"

You laugh, wiping at your eyes as he pulls back and grins.

“Okay, ready for the tour?”

He leads you through the space, showing off a dreamy open-plan kitchen (“You can paint while I make ramyeon. Domestic, right?”), the bedroom with a balcony overlooking the skyline (“So we can stargaze, obviously.”), and the massive bathroom (“Of course, the bathroom with a double sink, in case my girlfriend comes over and we’re getting ready in the morning together and… I might have gotten a bathtub big enough for two… just saying.”)

But the final stop takes your breath away.

He opens a door to a sunlit room. Blank white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a brand-new easel already set up. Canvases stacked in the corner. A cart of neatly organized paints. A stool. Your favorite brushes in a jar.

“Mingi…” your voice cracks, walking further into the space.

“It’s yours,” he says softly. “You always said you couldn’t paint at your place because you didn’t have the space or the light you liked, so… now you do. And it’s close. So if you want to paint something at 2am, or you just wanna be here, you can.”

You look around the room, speechless. Your hands shake a little as you turn back to him.

Then he pulls something out of his pocket.

A key.

“Also, this,” he says with a nervous smile. “No pressure. No expectations. Just… if you ever need to be here, if you ever want to, you can be.” He holds it out, resting it in the palm of your hand like he’s offering you something sacred. “I want you to feel like this is yours too.”

Your throat tightens as you stare down at the key, shiny and gold in the soft light. He’s watching you so carefully, like the world hangs on what you’ll say next. You close your fingers around it, then reach up and cup his cheek.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He grins, so full of emotion it nearly knocks you over. “Good. Because I’ve been kind of obsessed with you since you called me cute in eleventh grade.” 

You laugh through your tears, and he wraps his arms around you again, the city glowing around you, the future wide open. He cups your jaw, runs his thumb across your cheek, and then kisses you, soft, slow, adoring.

You melt into it, but something shifts in you. Gratitude blooms in your chest and spreads lower, warmer, into something else entirely. You kiss him again, deeper this time, and you feel him hum softly against your lips. You push him backwards until his back is straight against a wall. Before he can ask what you’re thinking, you sink to your knees.

Mingi blinks, startled, hands instinctively catching your shoulders. “Babe, what are you-?”

“Let me,” you whisper, fingers already trailing up under his shirt, grazing warm skin. “I’m thanking you for being the most thoughtful boyfriend in the world. Please.”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking toward the door. “Baby, the movers are gonna be here any minute and we have a dinner reservation in–”

You look up at him, eyes wide and certain. “I don’t care.”

A soft curse leaves him, like he’s already losing the battle. “Fuck, baby…”

Your hands move to the zipper of his pants, tugging gently. “Please.”

That word breaks him.

“Alright,” he breathes, voice lower now. His hands stroke through your hair as he exhales shakily. “You wanna thank me like this?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Then be good for me,” he says, soft but commanding. “Open your mouth.”

Your fingers curl into the waist of his pants, tugging them down just enough. He’s already hard, thick and heavy, flushed with heat, and you swear you hear the hitch in his breath when your fingers wrap around him.

“Shit,” he murmurs, head tipping back slightly. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I’m not trying to,” you say, voice sweet and teasing as you press a kiss to the underside of his length, just to hear him breathe your name like that again. He watches you from above, one hand in your hair now, the other trying to grip the wall like he needs grounding. His gaze is dark, nearly burning, but still soft at the edges when it’s on you.

“You always gonna drop to your knees for me like this?” he says lowly, thumb brushing along your jaw before settling at your lower lip. “Make me forget how to think?”

You open your mouth for him, tongue flicking against the tip of him in response, and the deep groan he lets out curls straight through your core.

“Fuck, that mouth,” he growls, hand tightening ever so slightly in your hair.

You hum around him, sinking lower, slower (intentionally so) and you feel the way his legs tense. His control holds, but it’s a tight line.

“That’s it. Nice and slow,” he rasps, voice thicker now. “Not too much, baby. Not yet.”

He’s guiding the rhythm without thrusting, letting you set the pace even as his tone deepens with every word. You feel the pull of it, how much he wants to take over, to lose himself in you. But he’s holding back, even as your tongue swirls, your lips glide.

“You trying to ruin dinner?” he says, half-laugh, half-growl. “Or just testing how long I can hold out?”

You release him with a soft pop, smiling up at him with damp lips and dazed eyes. “Maybe both.” Your lips are shining by the mix of spit and pre-cum.

His head tips down toward you, and he kisses you, deep, breathless, tasting himself on your tongue. “You’re dangerous,” he mutters against your lips, then gently pulls you to your feet. “You think you’ve won,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke, “but you’re not the one in control.” he manhandles you like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment, and maybe he has. One second you’re kissing him breathless, the next, he’s spinning you around and pressing your front against the floor-to-ceiling window. Your palms hit the cool glass with a gasp, your breath fogging the surface

“Mingi..-” the glass is cold against your chest, but the heat pouring off of him makes you forget it in seconds.

“I’m gonna fuck you in every room eventually, might as well get started.”

Mingi steps in behind you, one palm pressed flat to the window beside your head, the other trailing slowly, teasingly, down the curve of your spine. You can feel the tension in his breath as he leans in, his lips brushing your shoulder.

“Stay just like this,” he murmurs. “I want to taste you first.”

Your knees already feel weak, but you do as he says, arching your back slightly, offering yourself to him completely. You hear the low, appreciative groan he lets out, one that goes straight to your core. He lets your dress rest on your hips, giving him a full view of you. His fingers come first, two of them sliding between your thighs, parting you gently as he finds just how soaked you already are for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, dragging his fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate. “You’re dripping.”

You barely manage a breathy nod before he sinks to his knees behind you, his hand on your thigh pushing your legs just a little farther apart. The other hand sliding your pranties to the side. And then, his mouth.

He licks into you like he’s starving for it, his tongue tracing lazy, torturous circles over your clit while two fingers slide back inside you with a perfect curl. He holds your hips steady with his free hand as you moan into the window, the vibrations from your voice echoing back at you from the glass.

“Mingi, fuck… please-”

“Don’t run from it,” he mumbles against you, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs shake. “Let me take my time.”

And he does. He devours you like it’s sacred, alternating between sucking gently and flattening his tongue, his fingers never stopping their deep, slow thrusts. Every time you start to tremble, he eases up just a little, cruel with how much control he has, how he knows exactly when you’re about to fall. He loves it. Loves the way you whimper and grind back into his face. Loves the slick mess you’re leaving behind. Loves the way you can’t hold back for long.

And just when you're about to tip over the edge...

He pulls away.

Your body jolts from the loss, a broken gasp falling from your lips.

But then he’s standing again, pressing himself flush against your back, his hand cupping your chin to turn your head so he can kiss you - filthy and full of the taste of you on his tongue.

His voice is lower now, practically a growl in your ear. “I’ll take care of you, baby. But you’re not gonna walk out of this room steady. You know that, right?”

“The window-...” You begin.

“We’re too high up,” he growls, gripping your hips and pulling your ass back against him. “No one can see you. Just me.”

You moan at the possessiveness in his tone, at the way his fingers tighten on your hips like you might disappear if he lets go. He’s so hard, thick and heavy against your backside, and your whole body is already aching for him.

“You wanted to thank me, didn’t you?” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck as he slides your panties to the side again. “Then let me have you like this. Mine. Against the window. Let me fuck you like I’m showing the world who you belong to.”

You’re gone for him. And you let him, happily, breathlessly, desperately. He doesn’t tease for long. He slides his cock through your folds once, twice, then, without another word, he sinks into you in one smooth, brutal thrust. You cry out, forehead resting against the glass as your body takes him in.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice wrecked. “God, you feel so good. Like you were made for me.”

He starts to move, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that makes your knees buckle. His grip is bruising, his thrusts deep, dragging obscene moans from your throat as he fucks you harder, rougher, faster. Your breasts press into the glass, your breath fogs it up, and all you can think about is how good it feels to be his, to be taken like this.

“You hear that?” he pants against your ear, one hand trailing down to rub tight, slow circles over your clit. “You’re so fuckin’ wet. You love this, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, Mingi, fuck-”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls, voice thick with lust. “My good girl. Letting me fuck her against a damn window like she’s my favorite toy.”

Your legs start to shake and he knows, he can feel how close you are. He leans over you more, chest against your back, one hand gripping your throat lightly from behind to tilt your head up.

“Come for me,” he snarls. “Right here. While the whole world’s beneath your feet.”

And then…

Knock knock.

Your heart stops.

You freeze, panicked, but Mingi just smirks, cock still buried deep inside you, and presses a hand over your mouth.

“Don’t. Make. A sound.”

He rolls his hips, slowly this time, but just as deep. And your moan dies against his palm.

“Let them wait,” he whispers, voice dripping with hunger. “You’re not done. And neither am I.”

You’re clenching around him, your body still trembling, but Mingi’s not slowing down- not even a little. If anything, he gets rougher, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the tall windows as he chases his own release.

“Better be quiet or Yunho will hear how my cock is wrecking that pretty pussy of yours and we don’t want that, now do we?" he groans, watching the way your body shudders for him, how you take every inch like it’s exactly where it belongs. 

You whimper under your breath, shaking your head, overwhelmed and overstimulated, but you don’t want him to stop. His hand slides from your mouth down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, possessive. Gentle, even in his dominance. He leans in close, lips at your ear, hips still pounding against your ass.

“You want me to come inside you?” he pants, breath hot and desperate. “You want me to fill you up while you drip down this fuckin’ window?”

You nod frantically, moaning his name like a prayer.

"You're gonna keep that fucking cum in you while we go out, let it remind you who you belong to." He kisses your skin. "You’ve always been mine, baby. Always.” he claims.

And then it hits.

The orgasm hits you like lightning - white-hot and overwhelming. You cry out his name, nails scraping at the window, thighs trembling as he fucks you through it. Your body tightens around him, your voice breaking into a sob of pleasure, tears stinging your eyes from how intense it is.

Mingi loses it.

“Shit, fuck- oh my god-” he groans, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, hard and deep, filling you up with every pulse. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid he’ll fall if he lets go, his chest heaving, lips parted as he moans your name over and over again.

Time slows. Everything quiets.

The only sound left is your breathing, both of you breathless, spent, pressed together with the city glittering far beneath your feet. And then Mingi wraps his arms around you, pulling you back into his chest, still inside you, still catching his breath.

He kisses your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. Soft now. Reverent.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice cracking just a little as he buries his face in your hair. “God, I love you so much.”

You turn your head to look at him, still panting, still floating, and smile.

“I love you too, Mingi.”

He pulls out gently, helping you turn around in his arms. You’re a mess, sweaty, flushed, still trembling, but he cradles your face in his hands like you’re art. Like you’re a miracle. “Are you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your lip, his tone completely different now. Soft, warm, protective.

You nod, teary-eyed but glowing. “More than okay.”

He smiles, that shy, boyish grin that makes your heart ache. And then he kisses you, deep and slow, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth all over again.

The knock at the door comes again just seconds after Mingi helps you clean up, stealing one more kiss before he smooths your hair and grins like a man who’s never been happier - or more smug. You stay back for a moment, catching your breath, while he heads toward the door, perfectly composed in a sleek, all-black suit that hugs his frame too well. He looks expensive. He is expensive. And every inch of him screams confident, unbothered power.

When he opens the door, Yunho is the first to walk in, all smirking eyes and silent observations. He doesn’t say much… he doesn’t need to. One glance at Mingi’s mussed hair and satisfied smirk, and he huffs out a low chuckle.

“Uh huh,” he murmurs knowingly, brushing past. “You look like you own Seoul,” Yunho says by way of greeting.

Mingi smirks. “I do. In a few districts, at least.”

Yunho laughs as the moving crew begins to file into the penthouse behind him. Boxes, protective blankets, crates labeled with sleek handwriting. They move efficiently, all business.

But one voice cuts through the calm.

“Wow,” it says, over-enthusiastic. “This place is… wow. I mean-.. this is something else.”

Mingi doesn’t even have to look. That voice? He’d know it in a crowd of thousands.

Jae.

Jae, in a moving uniform, hat pulled low, eyes darting around the space like he’s just stepped into a billionaire’s showroom. “You got some really nice stuff.” 

Mingi doesn’t say a word. He just gives a tight nod, turning back to Yunho. “Media console goes against the north wall,” Mingi says. “Speakers are already wired in behind the panel.”

“Got it.” Yunho glances between the two men, catching the tension but not commenting.

Meanwhile, Jae keeps circling like he’s never seen wealth before. The clean, luxurious space. The high-rise view. The tasteful furniture that’s already arrived. The faint smell of expensive cologne lingering in the air. His eyes linger on Mingi a moment too long before he speaks. “Wow, this place is huge. No wonder you have so many things. This couch is beautiful. Custom, right?”

“It is.” Mingi answers. Short. Cold. No emotion showing on his face.

Jae hesitates. “Right. Well… this place is insane. Didn’t expect-”

“Don’t strain yourself thinking,” Mingi cuts in smoothly. “You’re here to carry things. So carry them. The studio boxes go by the back wall, by the windows. Don’t scratch the marble. If you do, you’re paying for it.”

Jae doesn’t answer. He just looks around him like he’s a puppy who got caught peeing on the carpet. Mingi lets the silence sit until Jae can do nothing but nod and accept. 

You finally step out of the room. Flushed but glowing, dressed to perfection, heels clicking softly on the floor. Your hair’s still slightly tousled from earlier, your lips kiss-bitten, trying to act casual even though you know you’ve still got that just-fucked glow. Mingi catches your eyes and gives you a look, hungry again, somehow- but he doesn’t say a word. Not yet.

Yunho clocks it instantly. His smirk widens.

Jae’s eyes flick to you and he gives a faint, familiar smile, like he’s about to say something.

But you walk right past him without a glance, straight to Mingi.

“Hey,” you say, walking toward him. Your fingers slide into his, and he squeezes back instantly, his body naturally angling toward you like a magnet. You grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek without noticing, or maybe not caring, that Jae is watching. You reach over to straighten the collar of his jacket with a knowing little smile. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, just making sure everything is the way it should be. Because it is. Right, Jae?” Mingi eyes dart to the man in the middle of the room, tail in between his legs. Whether or not he answers, you can’t hear. You just see him nodding and getting back to move the boxes to the right places. 

Yunho raises a brow with a soft laugh. “You two heading out?”

“Dinner,” Mingi softly replies, already leading you toward the door. “You’ve got this, right?”

“Obviously,” Yunho waves him off. “Enjoy your fancy rich people night.”

As the two of you walk towards the door, Mingi throws one last glance over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Jae?” His voice is pure steel. “Try not to scratch the floors. You can’t afford them.” Mingi sends him an impertinent smile before he opens the door for you with that same gentleman’s grace, like he didn’t just wreck you minutes ago against the glass, and once you’re through, he places a hand on the small of your back. 

You glance at him, smiling. “Was that necessary?”

He smirks. “Not at all.”

“But it was hot.”

“Exactly.” he smirks and you step into the elevator, the golden light catching on his watch, your fingers interlacing.

You giggle, feeling so insanely proud of Mingi. You stare up at him. His jaw sharp, hair ruffled to perfection and lips still a little swollen from your kisses earlier. He notices your stare, and once again, he falls in love with the sight next to him. Your dress, your smile, your eyes. You’re unreal. 

He leans in to whisper low in your ear, sending shivers down your entire body. “You look too good. Might have to skip dessert and come home early..”

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx

@lveegsoi  @vixensss  @yizhou-time @imgenieforyou-boy @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @ateezswonderland @cozypaint @blutiny @aerangi @arigakittyo @femaholicc @queenofdumbfuckery @mingiatz @hwaskookies @vent-stink @desanslogique @taestrwbrry

[jackabbotsfakeleg]

As Above, So Below I Chapter 4- Souvenir

Synopsis: You start the nightshift with Jack Abbot, and make good on that arrangement of yours, but not before learning just how much comfort you both find in darkness Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Fem!Reader and Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader   Word count: 4k Warnings: Discussion of mental illness, suicide attempt, self-harm, mania, trauma, the existential dread of being alive, our favorite sad boys, dark humor, and some trauma. Some explicit references. 18+, MDNI  A/N: This is the sad boy Jack Abbot intro and next chapter will be the explicit Jack Abbot smutfest. Work has been mentally exhausting this week, but if you want to get sad deep in your bones, read this while listening to “Souvenir” by Boygenius, and “Go Home” by Julien Baker. Thank you for reading, I appreciate every single one of you.  Chapter 3 I Chapter 5

Chapter 4: Souvenir

Pulling thorns out of my palm Work a midnight surgery When you cut a hole into my skull Do you hate what you see like I do?

"You should stay."  Robby extends the offer, words attached to an arm around your waist  lips to your collarbone, and the promise to make you breakfast.  Pancakes and coffee

“Next time.” You called an Uber, Pressed a kiss quickly to the corner of his mouth as he lingered in the doorway, and promised to text him that you got home safe. The decision to leave was fully rooted in fear. Not the fear that you’d want more, or that he’d change his mind. But the fear that if he looked at you long enough You’d tell him everything that makes it hard for you to be back here.

Didn’t get murdered by my uber driver. 

Good. Wish you would have stayed.

Gotta ice my back.

Don’t even start.

Don’t miss me too much.

Too late. 

The transition to the nightshift a few days later confirmed what you had known all along: This must be the place. A dark sense of humor; a group of misfits who prefer the moon over the sun; and a fast-paced, nothing-is-off-limits vibe.

You could have guessed, judging by the fact that John Shen was particularly fond of it. And you had been close friends for years. He had been shaped by 3am study sessions that ended in white castle burgers for breakfast, never met an emo night at Brillobox he didn't get dressed up for, and constantly argued about Kid A being a better Radiohead record than OK Computer. He was the poster-child for millennial purgatory - forced to exist in between Gen X and Gen Z, shoulder all the blame, and somehow look nonplussed while doing it. He had been in medical school at the same time you were doing your graduate program, lived in an apartment blocks from you, and had made it a point to be the guinea pig for any psychological assessment you needed to practice. He would volunteer in hopes that he could finally convince his conservative parents that he wasn't mentally ill for listening to My Chemical Romance, and he hoped that the assessments could "provide him papers" to explain his completely unbothered millennial personality. Neither of those two things happened, but he did make for a good wingman who could stitch up the gash in your knee after drunkenly parkouring over a fire hydrant in the Strip District. You kept in touch over the years, through trauma dumping and memes. He truly was one of the perks of returning--an actual no-bullshit platonic friend. 

On the day you started nights, he waited for you outside of the hospital with another mystery Dunkin’, he of all people appreciating the establishment for what it was – an absolute dumpster fire.

"My wife!" He calls out to you, in a perfect Borat voice, arms outstretched, "You ready for nights?" "I'm so glad to see you, even if I still cannot imagine you as an attending." you graciously take the Dunkin from his hand, your finger flipping the badge on his chest, "most of my mismatched scars are from your shitty stitch-jobs"  "First of all, how dare you" He laughs, swatting your hand away "you told me I did a great job. And second, I was drunk, and a medical student." “I really have missed you.” You smile, “And I really am looking forward to the change in scenery.” “The day shift is all suits and stiffs, and we’re absolutely unhinged.” "My kind of crowd. Any hot goss I should know?" You poke an elbow into his side, "Parker Ellis is our ride or die, and I’m still trying to assert dominance with Abbot, so if you see me giving him the cold shoulder, it's because I just want him to love and respect me."

Ellis was already at the nurses’ station when you both arrive, waiting on the day shift hand-off. You set your things down in your office before making your way back to the desk. “A welcome speech for our newest member?” Shen tips his drink towards Ellis. "Always remember the third rule of fight club," Ellis smiles, "just try your best and have fun." "I thought the third rule was that if it was your turn to bring snacks, bring enough for everyone" You correct her, “just happy to be here.” "I wouldn't jinx yourself" she adds, shaking her head, "the behavioral health beds are the star of the show on nights." "Honestly, I never met a five point bed restraint I didn't love" You shrug, "makes me nostalgic for prison." "Where's Abbot?" Shen asks "Haven’t seen him, but you know him, he'll probably just apparate out of a cauldron of bats." Ellis shrugs, rolling her eyes, "Still waiting on the hand off from Robby, but he's been swamped all day."

"Hey, one of you psych?" the charge nurse turns towards the three of you, phone to her ear, "Sounds like there's a patient on the roof.”

"Seriously?" your eyes wide, "how the fuck did a patient get on the roof?" You make your way towards the elevator. “Night shift starting off strong” Shen calls out after you ,”My money’s on Myrna” “Don’t worry she won’t jump” Ellis adds, like it’s comforting, “she just likes the wind in her hair.”

The elevator only goes so far before you’re forced to take the stairs. Three flights; 6 steps a piece. By the time you get to the door to the roof, you’re out of breath, a bolt of lightning shooting down your leg with each step.

You had seen someone jump one time.  The descent of a body from a bridge. You hadn’t gotten there in time,  hadn’t said the right thing,  hadn’t reached out quick enough to stop them. You'll never forget it.  and you still haven't found a way to squash the swell of emotions when you're reminded of it, Even now, tears burn your eyes as you shoulder the door to the roof open.

You expect to see something reminiscent of that traumatic memory a chance to make it right;  A do over;  a success story. And instead, you’re met with silence, the cool air against your cheeks, and Jack Abbot, standing too close to the edge.

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, this your idea of a joke?” You’re out of breath and annoyed. “Took you long enough” He doesn’t bother turning around to look at you, “although your bedside manner could use some work.”  “This isn’t funny,” he hears it in your voice, and you quickly wipe your eyes on the back of your hand. 

When he turns to face you, his expression has changed from amusement of landing a solid joke on your first night, to concern.

“Fuck, are you crying?” 

“You jumping or what?" you ask moving closer to him, so that you’re shoulder to shoulder, "no time like the present."

"Well, it's not funny anymore if you're going to cry."

"I'm not crying" 

"riiiigghhhtt" it's drawn out in disbelief

"I just have 'losing a patient to jumping off a roof' in my eye." you hit him in the shoulder, "thought maybe I’d get a do-over."

"ahh" he nods, "well fuck, I really fumbled that one. thought maybe I could get a laugh out of you, maybe a sarcastic plea not to do it, you know, some theatrics."

"Sorry I ruined your fun." 

"Sorry I made you cry."

"You didn't make me cry," You correct him, "and if you tell anyone that you did, I will absolutely make you cry in front of everyone downstairs."

"Promise?" he smirks, "I could use some public humiliation to keep me humble."

"Of course you could, Doctor Abbot," you shake your head, rolling your eyes, "With your prolonged eye contact and minimal startle response, I bet you haven’t been humbled in a while."

"And? That a problem?” "I find it endearing" you nod, turning on your heel to walk back towards the door, "I will see you downstairs after you're done brooding up here"

"Hey Wheeler?" He calls back to you, “You still good on our arrangement? It is nights after all"

"Come to my office and find out?" 

"We said not at work" he turns around to face you, eyes dark, voice low.

"You said not to let anyone at work find out," you correct him, smile on your face, opening the door, “I can be quiet.”

“With that mouth? Yeah, right.” he shakes his head

You close the door behind you and head back downstairs towards the elevator.

“I was just looking for you,” The elevator opens and Robby’s standing inside, “Jack up there?”

“Yes, just convinced him not to jump” You attempt to make a joke, wincing when you step inside.

“You okay?” He holds the door open.

“Yeah,” you lean your head back against the wall of the elevator, “rushed up here because a nurse said a patient was up here. I just need a minute.”

“You want me to take a look at it?” He steps back inside the elevator when you shake your head ‘no,’ the door closing behind him, and reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, “at least let me take a look at you.”

“You know the rules” You remind him, his face inches from yours.

“Fine,” he huffs, taking a step back from you, “I’ll be good.”

The elevator doors open again to reveal Abbot, standing with his arms folded across his chest.

“Really, Robinavitch?” He steps inside the elevator, in between the two of you, “not cool man.”

“I just happened to be in the elevator” Robby replies, hands up in front of him like he’s innocent, “she’s all yours.”

“I just love being objectified at 7pm in the evening, “you speak up, smirking

“I bet you fucking do” Abbot shakes his head, turning to Robby, “Was she this mouthy on day shift?”

“Worse” Robby adds, shrugging, “offered to blow me in her office”

“’Atta girl” Abbot looks to you and you roll your eyes, “I’ll be by for mine around 2am.” 

The elevator doors open before you’re able to get a word in, the two of them exiting to find the rest of the night shift for hand off.  You contemplate going after them, but instead, you watch the shift change play out, taking in the inside jokes between attendings and residents, trying to get a read on what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Ellis wasn’t lying when she said the behavioral health beds were the star of the show on nights.

The first consult came in less than an hour after your shift started

A 17-year-old boy, with a 7-inch laceration from wrist to elbow, reopened from over a week ago, deep enough to need stitches but not deep enough to accomplish his goal. He never stopped crying, not after the pain medications kicked in, not after his parents told him they loved him, not after his medications were adjusted, and not after you sat with him for over an hour reminding him that progress was not linear, and that engagement in self-harm is not a badge of weakness or failure.

The second consult came in fifteen minutes after that – a man initially thought to be unhoused, running naked through Schenley Park.

“Surprisingly not methamphetamines,” Abbot had noted, as you waited in the doorway, watching security staff strap him down into five-point restraints. He fought the entire way, the brute strength of mania alive and well, and you only got spit on once. Once he was down and treated to a cocktail of Haldol and Ativan, he informed you that he was Jesus Christ reincarnated and earned himself a ticket upstairs to the inpatient hospitalization, albeit not as far upstairs as he was hoping.

By the time the third, fourth, and fifth consults rolled around, you were on a first name basis with the security staff and night nurses. It was fast-paced but not unmanageable, nostalgic of the crisis contacts you were used to in prison, but with more reasonable and less manipulative patients. Here, the patients weren’t calling you nine kinds of bitch as you watch them insert a pen into their urethra just to get a trip to the hospital and some opiates. For the first time, since you left, it felt like you were actually addressing mental health concerns rather than attempting to manage behavior for secondary gain.

“You’re clearing psych beds faster than I can fill them,” Abbot barely looks up from the note he’s charting

“Just trying to up that patient satisfaction score,” You reply, “Not sure if any of them are lucid enough to fill out the survey but it’s the thought that counts.”

“Might just save my ass from another impromptu lecture from Gloria.” Abbot replies, a smile spreading across his face

“Is that a thank you?” You ask, raising an eyebrow, “wouldn’t hurt to hear you say it.”

“Thank you Doctor Wheeler” it’s drawn out and a little bit patronizing, but you’ll take the compliment.

You spend the next several hours rounding on the patients on the behavioral health unit, introducing yourself to the nursing staff and psychiatry resident covering nights—the medications to your therapy, and taking stock of the mental health resources on the unit. Everything is outdated, testing instruments, books—you name it, it’s likely from the 1980’s. And all of it was yours to manage, including the grant applications for research projects and the applications for additional budgeting for the fiscal year that had been piling up on your desk. 

It’s nearly 5am when you’re interrupted by Jack entering your office without knocking. He sets down a sandwich on your desk before taking a seat on your couch. You look up from the note you’re working on and watch him. He looks tired, more disheveled than he did on the roof, but still manages to crack a smile the longer you look at him.

“Now who’s got the prolonged eye contact” He chuckles, nodding to the sandwich on your desk, “Have you eaten?”

“I was able to eat one solitary granola bar, while the guy in four was getting strapped down.” You nod, “what did you bring me?”

“A grilled cheese” He replies, a smug look on his face, clearly pleased with himself, “Had to fight a nurse for that, by the way. Figured we could share it.”

“I’m honored,” you split the sandwich, handing him the other half, “Rough night out there?”

“Fuck yeah” he nods, looking down at his hands, “feels like we were drowning there for a minute. And now I’m taking a 20-minute break while the dust settles.”

“A well-deserved twenty minutes” You agree, standing up to shut the blinds of your office, trying to block some of the fluorescent light out of your office, switching on your desk lamp, “better?”

“Perfect” He nods, a smirk appearing, “Now, about that conversation in the elevator.”

“Sorry, all the blow job appointments are 30 minutes” You shrug, leaning against the door, “just missed the window.”

“Bummer” he shakes his head, standing up, “Although, you were the one who said come to your office and find out”

“I did say that” you acknowledge, watching him close the space between you, eyes locked on yours the whole way, “Although you questioned my ability to be quiet”

“You don’t strike me as the quiet type.” his face inches from yours, his hands on either side of your head on the door.

Got him right where you want him, eyes on you, waiting for your next move.

Time to humble the man in front of you.

“Ohhh Jack” you moan, just loud enough that anyone walking by can probably hear you, “Just like that” He clamps his hand over your mouth, pushing your head against the door, a soft thud, his eyes wide.

“Jesus Christ” he whispers through gritted teeth, “are you fucking insane?”

You shake your head against his hand, raising an eyebrow when he doesn’t immediately uncover your mouth.

“You gonna be good if I let go?” He asks, only uncovering your mouth after you nod. 

“That’s what you get” You poke your finger against his chest, “For making me run to the roof.”

The alarm on his watch beeps and he sighs in frustration –his 20 minutes are up 

“Don’t ruin this” He shakes his head, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips, “You want to get breakfast after work and then you can come to my place and be as loud as you want?”

“Perfect.” You duck under his arm, and open the door, “Pamela’s?”

“Fine, but the original location, not the shitty Oakland location.” He nods, exiting your office and back into the arms of the night shift. 

You make it through the last two hours and it feels like you’ve been hit by a truck. The change in sleep-wake cycles has not been kind and while you’re not necessarily physically tired, your brain feels like oatmeal. The handoff of information to the psychology and psychiatry residents is the last thing on your to-do list, and after you rattle off the last of the orders and updates, you make your way outside, away from the noise. Shen and Ellis are the first to head out, both offering a high-five to you for surviving your first night shift. Jack is the last out, keys in his hand as he spots you.

“You ready?” He asks, “I’ll drive.”

You accept his offer and follow him to his car.

Pamela’s Diner is a Pittsburgh tradition—an absolute legend. Sure, they’ve got the same shit as every other restaurant, but if you’re trying to do it right, there is only one right order: Stuffed strawberry hotcakes and lyonnaise potatoes. It’s cash only, the grill looks like it probably has never been cleaned, and it slaps every. fucking. Time.

Abbot is more than happy to oblige your millennial personality trait of ordering ahead, and your food is ready by the time you two leave work and cross the 16th Street Bridge into the Strip District. You wouldn’t have pegged him --the attending with an affinity for isolation and darkness, as someone who would live here, one of the busiest neighborhoods in the city.

His apartment is similar to Robby’s--an open concept with natural light. There's one huge window in the living room overlooking the river, revealing a perfect view and the ability to maintain privacy. The decorations are minimal, aside from a few well-placed, and somewhat hidden military photos. 

Something you had learned while working with veterans at the VA during practicum was that the celebratory photos and keepsakes rarely, if ever, existed without reminders of the trauma and destruction they had witnessed, and at times, had been a part of. 

Sometimes it felt like they kept them as proof that it wasn’t all for nothing—the beacon of light in the swell of darkness. 

His apartment felt relatively empty, enough furniture to give off the appearance someone lived here, but not enough to feel warm. This was a place to sleep, not a place to live.

You set the food down on the island in the kitchen, already tugging at the plastic knot at the top of the bag. 

“I haven’t had this since I’ve been back” You’re the first to speak since entering the apartment.

“Yeah?” He asks, watching you open the containers, “You one of those people who think Pamela’s Is the be-all end-all of breakfast?”

"We cannot go any further if you are a Deluca’s stan." You narrow your eyes at him, handing him the Styrofoam container, which he accepts graciously "don't malign the lyonnaise potatoes in my presence."

“Wasn't expecting you to be this defensive about breakfast,” He laughs, retreating to the couch, “It’s incredibly arousing.”

"Mostly the hunger talking, but this sleep-wake cycle reset is no joke" You add, joining him “Wasn’t expecting to crash so hard.”

He lets you eat in silence. It's not uncomfortable or awkward, especially after talking to patients all night, but here you are, alone with Jack Abbot in his living room, full of pancakes, and fading quickly.

“Come on,” He stands up and nods towards the hallway, “You need a nap, in an actual bed.”

“I’m fine” You shake your head, “I promise. I did not come here to nap”

“you’re exhausted, and I could also use a nap.” He insists, disappearing down the hallway towards his bedroom

"This where the nightmares happen?" By the time you reach the doorway, he's already laying down, hands behind his head, eyes closed.  He pats the spot next to him and you oblige. 

"You think I'm dark and broody" He comments, a smile on his face, "what other assumptions have you made about me?"

"Not an assumption" you correct him, "that was an observation."

"Oh, come on, humor me. I did just buy you breakfast" he replies, "and even though I’m the one with the prolonged eye contact, you've been trying to get a read on me this entire time”

"Fair," you agree, "I just think you and I are very similar."

"Go on." He states, waiting for you to continue

"Not if you want to keep this thing all surface level bullshit and fun."  you give him the opportunity for an out. 

"Come on, kid." 

"Trauma recognizes trauma" You add, “Why’d you get into emergency medicine?”

“Thought I’d be ready for a change after the years of trauma in the military,” he chuckles, “and instead I found comfort in running right back into the flames. It's a good distraction. It keeps my mind on the medicine and off some of the other stuff."

"Sure, surface level it seems like a commonsense decision to take your combat medic skills and apply them to a hospital," You agree, "but why the ER?"

"I like the fast pace, the comradery, and the distraction" He replies

"You're skirting around the big, bad, terrible thing" you counter, "It's deeper than that."

"I don't know." He’s quiet.

"You do know," you shake your head, "I'm guessing the thing that haunts you is the same thing that haunts me."

"You tell me then, if you've figured it out." 

"You need to take all of that pain and suffering and make it useful." You hear him exhale when you say it, like he's been holding his breath the entire time, "I'm sure over time you habituate to a lot of it, to death, to losing patients. But that pain sticks around, and the deep fucking sadness? that sticks around too. So, you turn it around into something useful"

"A second chance at saving everyone I couldn't" He rubs a hand over his face, "what do you know about pain?" 

"It didn't start when I was stabbed, it started long before that. And I still feel it. The pain, the sadness that's deep in my bones, the fear that nothing will ever change and the blind faith that it fucking has to. It's the pain and suffering of humanity. Of seeing the world for what it is and not being able to turn a blind eye to it. And it's the best fucking thing about me. And it's probably the best fucking thing about you too.”

“Like moths to a flame” he states, “you and I.”

Neither of you say anything else. Instead, he reaches for you,  Pulls you into his side, Your head on his chest. 

Sometimes you just need a person to be quiet with and sad next to

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Divider by @saradika-graphics

Last line is credited to Meg Fee, which has haunted me since the day that I read it on her blog

[bueckersbitch]

i stayed there, dust collected on my pinned up hair.

right where you left me. — chapter one.

characters: paige bueckers x anika malik

warnings : injury, alcohol

word count : 4k

authors note : chapter one!!! i hope u enjoy ;)

Paige's POV

My phone screen was bright, the picture of my lock screen - Coach Geno and I hugging after I checked out for the last time as a UConn player - glaring back at me. And at the bottom? A text from Dad, “Be you, Be great.” 

I’ve been playing in the WNBA for a bit, I was in my fourth year now, and while some would think I was grounded in the league, with myself, I wasn’t. 

I still remember the day like it was yesterday, the day I flew in from Connecticut for the first rookie presser. The nerves about what the future held for me, I told myself that I’d have it all figured out soon enough, that by year four I would have my footing, because that’s how it was at UConn, right? 

But then again, that’s what I repeated in my head when I toured UConn, an eighteen-year-old girl, the only thing on her mind was the four national championship titles she would bring. 

I wasn’t even thinking that there could be a possibility that I would get injured, again, and again, and again. 

So, I grip my phone a little tighter, and remember the one thing that has stayed consistent even through all the chaos surrounding me, my Dad’s words, “Be you, Be great.” 

.

It was the end of the third quarter now, I spotted Coach out of the corner of my eye, telling me to hold the play until the last moment. When the time was right, I crossed left, I saw an opening, so I took it. I plant my right foot and push off, staring straight at the basket.

I hear it before I feel it. Not the popping of my knee when it buckled inwards, or the sound of my groans of pain. 

But the crowd, the gasps, the silence. The blow of the whistle brings me back to reality. It’s automatic. My hands move to clutch my knee like magnets being drawn together like my body knew what happened before I comprehended it. 

The same thing I went through in college, the very thing I told myself I wouldn’t let happen again, the reason I took the extra time in the gym to strength train.

I snap my eyes shut, maybe the feeling of my nose being scrunched or my cheeks rising would be enough to shift my focus from the real issue. It wasn’t.

And God, the silence from the crowd only made it worse, only amplifying the ringing in my ears. The lights from the ceiling were blocked now, by my teammates trying to shield me, no doubt.

I knocked my head back against the floor, my five hair ties which held my ponytail digging into my scalp now. 

I should feel hurt, feel the pain to my core, feel saddened that the one thing I’ve known my whole life would be ripped away from me again. 

But I wasn’t any of those things, I was frustrated. 

I was frustrated because the only thing I could make out between Arike and Dijonai’s legs when I opened my eyes was Coach, taking his sweet ass time making his way over. 

I get flashbacks to my rookie year, when my body, my consciousness hoped for someone to realize that I wasn’t okay, after that hard hit to my head, for someone to force me to sit out. I waited and waited for someone to mention the idea to me, and before I knew it, the game was over.

“God, take longer would you.” Were the first words I muttered when Coach knelt down, he chuckled. 

Fucking laughed in my face like it was a joke. 

I look at my teammates' faces, the shock that took over their features at his response. 

Coach’s hand comes up to my shoulder, and I push it away harshly. 

I don’t wait for medical to carry me off the court, I just put my arms out in front of me, like what just happened was a normal contact basketball play, urging someone to bring me to my feet.

“Paige, just sit for a second.” Coach says. I lose it, it all comes crashing down like I can’t control my words. 

“I really don’t need advice from you right now.” 

Maybe I say it a little too loud, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“Paige we really shouldn’t.” Arike tells me, I scoff, “Help me up.” I spat.

And they do, not because they want to, but because they just want me to be comfortable right now, and I surely wasn’t sprawled out on the floor.

I’m brought to my feet, and take a deep breath, looking around at the crowd, an inkling feeling telling me I won’t play in front of one for some time.

Anika's POV

“Ani! Come take shots!” Courtney says to me, I grimace at the mispronunciation.

I recall the first time we met, not too long ago, “Uh-knee-kah” I had told everyone, everyone got the hang of it, except her.

Courtney made an extensive effort to try and get to know me better, by the end of our conversation, she told me she would call me Ani as a nickname.

I didn’t tell her that that’s what my family calls me, or that she was pronouncing the nickname wrong too, uh-knee, not aw-knee.

But I didn’t care enough to correct her.

I stood up from the barstool, pulled my skirt down, and walked over to where Courtney and the rest of my teammates were. We weren’t even celebrating anything, just a fun night out for the whole team.

“To an undefeated season?!” Courtney cheers, finding something to celebrate. Hoots and hollers come from the entire group.

We all raised our shot glasses, clinking them together, then on the table, before the warm shot went down my throat. This was my fifth in the last twenty minutes, but hey, if someone bought me a shot, I was going to take it.

There was a gnawing at my brain, I was well aware of the fact I was trying to let loose, let the real world fade away for a second.

The reality that the curse of cancer in my family had caught up to my Grandpa too, I got the call from my Mom just before I left.

The idea that another thing from my childhood could be ripped away made me numb, humming in acknowledgment to my Uber driver instead of my usual outgoing conversation starters.

“Shit.” For a second, I thought I had said it, something I was saying to myself about my life recently. 

But it was Phee, everyone looked at her, and she pointed up at the TV screen.

Paige. Hopping off the court, disappearing into the tunnel, Coach Chris hot on her tail, the arena was silent, which made it easy for the cameras to pick up her yelling at him, outbursts of how she shouldn’t have been playing while they were up by so much, things that would seem like something someone would say in the heat of the moment, but if you played basketball, you would understand from the longing, and the cracks in her voice that it was something more than that, that it was a confrontation she was thinking about for a while now.

“Damn. Didn’t you play her in high school, Ani?” Courtney said I was annoyed at her for even saying it, for bringing it back to me when it so obviously wasn’t about me.

But I replied. “Yeah.”

We drifted apart after high school, but every time I saw her get hurt, I didn’t see the trash-talking, sharp-minded person everyone else saw.

I saw her.

The Paige I knew in high school, the girl I shared dreams with, the promise we had made to each other to make it to the WNBA, sealed with our pinkies locking, and a kiss on the ends of our hands, and then sometimes, a kiss on the lips.

“Woah, you okay?” Someone says, noticing how my eyes are a little too glazed over to pass it off as the drinks.

I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol heightening my emotions or if that’s the real way I feel, regardless, I nod my head, eyes stuck on the screen above me.

Paige's POV

Tears finally rim my eyes, and I pick my phone up again. Now, the oldest notification is the text from my Dad, with numerous ones flooded in after that. Different texts of remorse, mostly expressing how I’m in their prayers, or how I’m strong. 

I shut my phone off, looking up at the nurse in front of me. “Okay Hon, we’re just going to take a look at it first before your MRI.” I nod, even though I know it’s my ACL.

.

I walked out to my Uber, well, walking was pushing it.

My hands gripped tighter on my crutches as I made my way to the Uber, the pain of them digging into my armpits reminding me why I put those funny looking unicorn stuffed animals on top of them all those years ago.

I try to hold both crutches under one arm while opening the car door, but it drops.

Clattering on the sidewalk, I feel embarrassed, helpless, like I’m some puppy needing to be tended to constantly.

“Let me help you.” A voice, kind, said to me.

The Uber driver had gotten out of the car, which meant he had seen the whole thing.

“I’m so so sorry.” I expressed, my head clearly not on my shoulders. He scoffed, like I was being silly.

“Don’t be sorry, here.” He said, opening the door and holding both crutches while I got in.

I buckled my seatbelt, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding in. “Mind if I ask what happened?” He said, turning up the old school rock music, reminding me of my Dad.

“Basketball game lost my footing I guess.” I wasn’t really sure what happened, I was trying not to dwell on the exact moment too much.

“Aw, I’m sorry kid, your friends didn’t want to come get you?” He questioned, curious.

I wiped my hands on my sweatpants, the clammy feeling on them subsiding. “Didn’t ask, just wanted to take a second before talking about all of it,” I responded, head hung low.

“Ah, I get it, but don’t forget about the people who care about you.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror, I looked out the window, avoiding his gaze like how I had been avoiding everyone the last couple of hours. 

I knew he was right, I tended to pull away, and start thinking that I was the only person who would ever understand what it was like, even though I knew it wasn’t true,

I liked seeing things in black and white, you either understood, or you didn't. But the thing about injuries is that there’s this fuzzy grey area, where people understand how you feel, mentally, and physically, to an extent, but they didn’t live the exact situation, therefore they wouldn’t understand.

And the worst part was, I knew. I know, that that’s how people tend to self-destruct, isolate themselves so they don’t have to confront reality, do all of that just to end up alone, having to confront reality anyway because it’s all you can think about because you don’t have anyone, anything to distract you.

But still, I know all of this and I know myself. I would and was going to do it anyway.

“You need help getting out?” He asked, but him asking me instead of just doing it was like a breath of fresh air, like I didn't look like my life and career fell apart in a fleeting moment.

I snapped my head back to him, suddenly realizing from the zinnia flowers decorating the outside of the entryway that we were already at my apartment complex.

I guess time tends to bend when I think too much.

Maybe it would bend enough to make me believe I’ll be back on the court soon.

“Nah, I’m good, thanks, man.” I smiled, opened the door, grabbed my crutches, “No problem, I hope you’ll reach out to your friends, it’s important to have good people around you.” He says, shifting the gear into drive, “Will do.” I say, closing the door, knowing I would let time slip before I did.

-

The first month always felt the longest, I mean shit, it was only the first hours after it happened, and I was staring at my clock from Costco, a basic white one I had gotten after I stepped foot into my apartment for the first time, ticking away, minutes turning into hours, and suddenly, it was 1 am.

I hadn’t moved since I got back from the hospital, and there was definitely an imprint on my couch from where I was sitting.

I told myself that I would replace it, the clock, get one more polished. I never did, never got around to it I guess.

But there was familiarity. A weird sense of it. It reminded me of when I was on concussion protocol, my doctor told me to stay off screens, stay inside, the usual things they tell you after your brain hits your skull.

But even then, that was only a couple of weeks. 

I laid my head back against the couch, the Love Island season I was watching faded into background noise, and I let out a loud groan of annoyance.

And then I let the tears I had been fighting to keep in, the ones that had turned my eyes glazed, made my throat close and my nose red, fall. Because if no one was there to witness it, it never happened, right?

Anika's POV

My night went by in a blur, like how it always goes when I have too much to drink, someone got me an Uber home, Courtney, I think? 

Koda greeted me upon entry, with her big blue eyes and a wagging tail you couldn’t help but gush over.

Anyway, I was now face down on my pillow, thinking about it. Because unfortunately for me, I sober up pretty quickly when I’m alone. I guess I can only avoid my problems for so long.

Problems. I felt selfish thinking like that because these things weren’t even happening to me, they were happening to people around me, and I felt like suddenly my life had gone to shit. 

It’s why I deal with things on my own. I don’t let people have the power of knowing that over me. What if they see selfishness too?

It’s why I try to be there for everyone, I didn’t let the call from my Mom about how my Grandpa might lose his life to cancer affect the way I acted tonight.

Because my team needed me there, not a shell of the person I am, or 50% of me. I wasn’t going to ruin something everyone had been talking about for weeks because my emotions got the best of me.

I let the drinks loosen me up, turn me into the girl who told everyone she loved them even if it might not be true, hugs and slow words of, “You look amazing tonight!”

But now I am here. Alone, thinking of how Paige -A girl I hadn’t talked to since senior year summer- felt. How it felt for her to have something that was her whole life ripped away from her again. 

Because sure, basketball was a big part of my life. But words can’t describe what it meant, means. To Paige.

We were similar, in more ways than just basketball, and yeah, to people on the outside it might’ve seemed like her life was amazing, but I saw all of it because there would always be someone with something to say.

I saw the way her face would drop when she overheard people talking about how she’s dressing is “Too masculine.” or the way she would look down when people she loved told her to “Act more proper.”

I saw all of it. 

But I also saw the way it fueled her, how she felt like someone would always have something to say, but at the end of the day, she could still go back to the gym. Work harder. Become better.

I would hope that the people around her became a little kinder to her, but I couldn’t be sure. I promised myself that night with her that I would be that kind person to her,

rivals or not.

I felt like a thread unraveling. If someone asked me why a girl I haven't spoken to in years is the cause of it, I wouldn’t be able to tell them, I think it’s because I cherish my childhood so much.

I lift my face up from my pillow just enough to see my phone and grab it, roll my eyes when I see a text from Courtney, telling me “Goodnight” God, I wish she’d realize, take a hint. But I can’t blame anyone but myself, maybe I seem too friendly.

I shove my face into my pillow even harder.

Koda jumps up beside me, and I can tell by her movement that she’s circling around for a moment before lying down and getting comfortable, eventually, she does. And I envy the way she can fall asleep so easily, soft snores coming out of her button nose.

I try to let the sound of her snores and the warmth of her pressed against my side lull me to sleep.

-

It doesn’t work. My eyes are closed but I’m restless, tossing and turning, trying to find comfort for just a moment. 

I haven’t had comfort in a long time, when you have basketball to focus on, you don’t have time to second guess feelings, or the “what ifs”

You just do.

So when things happen in my life that make me confront those feelings, I shut down.

Paige's POV

My eyes feel glued shut, and my hand feels detached from my body when I reach up to rub the sleep out of my eyes, I must’ve fallen asleep, bored of watching time waste away.

I glance up at the clock, 9 am.

My MRI results came back at 8.

Sure enough, I look at my phone, a missed call, and a voicemail from the hospital, but I don't listen to it. Just hit the green “Phone” app, tap the voicemail section, and look at the transcript.

“Hi Paige, It’s Dr. Hall with Dallas Medical Center, I was calling to let you know that the results of your MRI came back this morning, a tear is shown in your right anterior cruciate ligament. Now, I know this may be a lot to process, but I do want to discuss it with you further…”

I don’t bother tapping to see the rest of it.

Something about seeing it, even though I knew before anyone else did, the confirmation ripped at my gut, maybe part of me was hoping it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, the fact that I could hop off the court by myself and still have time to take a jab at Coach a way to convince myself it wasn’t bad.

I take a deep breath, like the one I take before nailing a free throw, but it’s to get ready, not because I’m going to the hospital to “Discuss my results” But to talk to my coaches, break the news, because something told me they were being optimistic too.

-

“It’s torn,” I say, you would think I would have more emotion while saying it. Like it was something that was going to eat me alive, like my whole world just came crashing down and I was losing it just thinking about what I was going to do the next day.

And I did feel that way, but this was basketball.

There’s always a risk of injury, I went through it before and saw damn near my whole team get injured at UConn.

I saw the way it broke them, how I couldn’t do anything but be there for them, I didn’t want people to feel for me, because I didn’t want to cause a disruption, so I said it with a straight face, eyes avoiding Curt and Coach like they would turn me to stone if I looked at them.

“Okay.” Curt sighs, I can see Coach rubbing his hand over his face, almost like he was annoyed with me rather than sorry for me.

“We were looking at all possibilities, what to do if these were the results you told us. The truth is, we think it’s best if you rehabbed in Minnesota-” I cut him off, whipped my head up to look at him, the eyes I avoided not long ago staring back at me through glasses, but I wasn’t frozen, I was furious.

“I am not leaving Dallas.” I state, like there was no negotiation, because, in my eyes, there wasn’t. I was injured, but I wasn’t going to leave my teammates. Fuck, I wasn’t going to leave the life I’ve built here, even if I felt like I didn’t belong.

“Paige, it’s not an option, we don't have the facilities or the proper people to deal with what you’re going through-” He said it. Said it like I wasn’t fixable, I couldn’t help myself, and I cut him off again.

“What am I going through? An ACL tear? We have the people here to help me!” My elbows are on the table now, hitting my funny bones and numbing my arms.

“Paige, it’s not right for you to be here, all the cameras and media will only make you feel worse, we care about you, and we’re afraid of jeopardizing your mental health.” He says, bringing his hand up, gesturing to me to calm down.

“Jeopardizing my mental health?” I raise my voice, I don’t mean to, and maybe I should comply, pack up, and go to Minnesota, I wanted my distance anyway, right? But I hated that I wasn’t in control of it, it scared me.

“Paige, I am going to be very honest with you, we have an image to uphold. Your outburst at Chris in the tunnel was picked up on camera, we’re uncomfortable with keeping you here right now, it looks bad for the organization when players lash out at their coaches, especially when it’s already being speculated that trust hasn’t been there.”

I scoff, because there wouldn’t be speculation if it wasn’t true. The truth? The players were the ones who kept this team together, not Coach, not Curt. Us. We knew from my first year here that it wasn’t going to change, that we had to do it ourselves, and we did that.

“We wish you the best Paige, really. We’ll always be in your corner. Your flight is Tuesday next week.”

I shove myself out of the seat, ignoring the pain that shoots up my leg while doing it, ignoring the way my arms were still numb from slamming my elbows down on the table. I grab my crutches, walk to the door, press the handicap button, and leave. 

Because it was easier for me, to just leave.

taglist : @pboogerswbb @sierrale8ne @lupinqs @vamptizm @thaatdigitaldiary @ohbueckers @ohmybueckers @flipthepaige

[pedgito]

ORBIT YOU ⋆⭒˚.⋆ CHAPTER FIVE: NEPTUNE

↝ series masterlist | joel miller masterlist | full masterlist

summary — your situation with joel progresses, bleeding into his work and a tense conversation leads to heated heart to heart.

author's note —hi, this one is a little shorter than the others! i'm sorry but i promise the last chapter will hopefully make up for it.

content warning — 18+ MDNI, dbf!joel, age gap (20s/40s), sex on the job site heyo, unprotected piv, praise kink through the goddamn roof, angst (not between joel and reader), a sprinkle of plot, playful reader and grumpy joel, finger sucking, mentions of public sex

word count — 4k

Joel doesn’t have any choice but to call you.

Unless, however, he felt like suffering the entire day on an empty stomach.

There’s some guilt that creeps in as he fishes into his pocket for his phone and sends you a quick text, almost immediately regretting it.

Joel

Tommy got a flat grabbing lunch.

It’s your day off so you can say no—

Joel doesn’t even finish the second half of his message before your notification dings at the top of his screen.

You

Send me what you want.

I’m wrapping up here with dad so I can swing by.

You were a goddamn lifesaver. Heaven sent.

Joel sends over a place close to his location for the day—it wasn’t too harsh of a distance, fifteen minutes there and fifteen back, you could manage that.

Joel also knows you had put forth an effort to smooth things over with your father, even if it seemed pointless.

So, on your shared days off you spend it at home, attempting to help your father with odd jobs around the house or even spend a quiet afternoon just…lingering, observing.

He doesn’t ask about school or how living at Joel’s for the summer had been, but he does ask how you’re doing, how you’re settling into the job you had managed to snag in the city—an easy job for a lovely old couple who sold homemade jewelry and trinkets.

You managed the storefront like a well-oiled machine while they worked the backend.

It was commendable how much they cared and while the pay wasn’t great, it was manageable. You only needed enough to hold you over, spending your free time searching out possible internships to fulfill the void that had been lingering for a while.

“I’m gonna grab lunch,” you tell your father casually, swiping your phone and keys off the counter, “do you want me to grab anything for you?”

“I’m alright, hon’,” he waves you off, “thanks for askin’,”

You nod and force a tight smile as you slip out the door, making a quick call to the location Joel had sent you, ordering his food to ensure it would be ready upon arrival.

–

You get another message as you approach a red light a turn away from the establishment.

Joel

Tommy’s fine btw. Called a towing company.

Told the fucker to change those tires three months ago.

Joel notices the read receipt and smiles, figuring that you’re still driving.

The light turns green and you accelerate toward the small diner.

A fluttering sensation dances in your stomach, grows and swells; it’s strange how a simple lunch run has become something to look forward to amidst the chaos of summer days and work.

When you were at college, schooling was your focus.

But here, back home, Joel has become a central point in your life.

If he didn’t exist around you, you existed around him.

However, with him back at work, things were trickier.

Having sent that order ahead of time, it was already waiting by the time you arrived.

Joel was working on-site today, a residential in a higher brow area that had you gawking as you rolled up the street, stopping at the house that had the Miller name plastered all over the vehicles.

He had already been anticipating your arrival, approaching your car as pull into the driveway, shoving his phone into his pocket as he opened your driver’s side door.

“I owe you one, sweetheart,” he tells you, trading the food for a gentle squeeze at your waist as you follow him inside, still assessing the houses in the neighborhood as Joel turns to look at you, noticing your awestruck gaze.

“It’s…a lot,” Joel excuses, guiding you inside with a hand hovering over your head to avoid the draping plastic as you ducked, noticing the strangely empty house despite the cars outside, “never understood why people need so much room, but,” he shrugs, placing the food onto the semi-finished kitchen counter, “we’re just doin’ the job,”

“Where is everybody?” you ask, admiring the finished bits of the house as you glance down an empty hall, the faint crinkle of styrofoam to your left as you watch Joel’s hand dive into the bag.

“Grabbin’ lunch,” Joel explains, “I think they all took a car together, somebody has to stay on site, though, so—”

“Oh, poor thing,” you frown, approaching with a little less nervousness as you knew you were alone and Joel reaches over your head as you move into his chest, bringing the fries back over your head to stuff into his mouth, “is it good?”

Joel smirks around a mouthful and raises a brow, offering his salt covered thumb and pointer finger which you take eagerly, your tongue flattening out against your chin as you suck them into your mouth.

“You did good,” Joel says softly, “thank you,”

You shrug with an air of nonchalance but Joel knows that look, a quick glance away as you smile before looking back at him, suddenly more shy than you’ve ever been.

“How are you going to survive without me when I go back to school?”

“Like I always have,” Joel answers truthfully, “but I can’t lie—havin’ you around, helpin’ me, bein’ so….good for me,” he nods with a fond smile, curling his clean hand around the side of your face as he leans in for a quick kiss, just a simple peck of his lips, “I’ll miss it,”

“You look out for everyone,” you tell him, “I think you deserve some of that back every once in a while,”

Joel’s gaze lingers on your lips and time seems to stretch, his gaze darkens momentarily, a flicker of desire sparking in the depths of his eyes. “That right? And you’re just the one to give it to me, aren’t you?”

“For now,” you tease before pushing away from his hold and turning, ducking your head as your fingers sprawl out against the counter and tap, looking around at the unfinished house, still covered with plastic and tools scattered around.

Joel peers at his watch out of your periphery before he wipes at his mouth with a napkin and pokes his tongue at the inside of his cheek, “Perfect,” he mumbles.

And then his fingers are tight around your arm and pulling you doing the hallway close by, clumsily attempting to keep up, “What’re you doing—”

He takes a quick turn, bringing you into a finished bathroom that definitely cost more than your collective dorm room, staring around dumbly before you hear the lock click and Joel’s splitting your legs open with his hands, fingers digging into your skin with need.

“Oh,” you note, your eyes dragging to his belt, his hands working quickly to pull the leather apart and unzip his jeans, “well—you’re two for two,”

Joel makes a face of confusion before he realizes what you’re implying, the moment in his truck at the observatory that seemed like a distant memory now.

Without hesitation, his hands slip under the fabric of your dress to wrap around your panties, pulling them down as you assist in raising your ass off the counter before he’s tucking the fabric away in his back pocket.

Your breath hitches in your throat as he steps closer, his hands smoothing around your neck, tilting your head up to meet his heated gaze.

You barely recognize this version of him, selfish and unwilling to sacrifice.

He wanted you, he was going to have you.

“I’ve got about fifteen minutes before the boys come back,” Joel explains, “I’m gonna fuck you, how’s that sound?”

You weren’t one to complain, helpless but willingly cornered. You nod.

But, your eyes beg curiosity. 

His eyes bore into yours too, only dark and hungry. “I can’t help myself,” he admits, his finger toying at the thin strap of your dress as it falls down your shoulder, “You’ve got me doin’ shit I shouldn’t,”

Before you can respond, he’s pressing you firmly against the cool tile of the wall, his hands shifting to grip your waist, fingers digging in deep. He leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that steals the air right from your lungs. You melt against him, responding eagerly as his tongue finds its way past your parted lips.

With a firm tug, he pulls you higher up against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he groans into the kiss, hands wrapping around his cock as he jerks himself against your increasingly slick folds, the head of his cock sliding against your clit with every thrust of his hips.

“I don’t think you gave a shit about lunch,” you giggle softly, the scratch of his beard against your skin as he moves toward your neck, your head lulling to the side to grant him access, “did you?”

“I did,” he reassures you, though you feel he isn’t finished explain, after a few lingering moments of silence, he continues, “just had a shit morning, figuring I could make the most of you comin’ to see me,”

With a subtle shift of your hips and his hand tight on your thigh, he pushes into you without warning but slowly, flipping the fabric of your dress up to give you a front row seat to watch his cock disappear inside of you, your cunt stretching around him.

“Do you—do you wanna talk about it?” You ask with a pause of breath, your fingers curling around the edge of the counter as he buries himself inside of you, his hand fisted into your dress, “I’m a good listener,”

“No,” he answers simply, distracted.

You hear the thud of his palm as it flattens against the tile beside your head, the other hand squeezing tight at your waist as he begins to thrust into you, slow at first but quickly building in intensity and speed.

He was eager, urgent.

Each movement sends you back against the wall, but you could care less for the bruises that would come later, your cunt clenching around him, drawing him deeper as he groans in satisfaction.

“Right here, look at me,” he commands, his breath hot against your mouth as he pulls back just enough to look at you, “shoulda took my time—”

“It’s—It’s fine,” you nod, mouth opening in a soft moan as his thumbs flicks over your clit, brows creasing at the sensation, “It’s okay,”

“Goddamn it,” he grunts through clenched teeth, his eyes drifting shut as his thrusts grow more urgent but with less rhythm, “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

“Hey,” you call out to him gently, one hand gripping the counter loosening to rest against his cheek, feeling the heat of it under your fingertips, “take it—I know you need it,”

He needs you—this moment where everything else disappeared, finding a strange comfort in your presence despite knowing how complicated all of this has become.

Joel’s eyes open slowly and lock onto yours, filled with a mix of lust, greed, and something else you can’t quite recognize. His grip on your waist tightens as he thrusts into you harder, angling his hips to hit that spot deep inside you that feels otherworldly.

You bite your bottom lip to stifle a moan, but it escapes in the form of a whimper nonetheless.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart” Joel breaths into your ear, pumping his hips one last time before he comes with a long, drawn-out groan as his thumb continues to move against you, bringing you over the edge quicker than you’re expecting, your hands slapping down against the counter as your hips rock against his hand until you both go still, panting into the quiet air.

“I can’t get enough of you.” 

His words are both an admission and a desperate plea.

But, also a heavy burden.

Your life wouldn’t exist the way it has without Joel.

–

He sends you back home pantyless, of course.

He fixed your dress, hair, and kissed the crown of your head before you left.

To his men that were walking up, it seemed nothing out of the ordinary.

A close friend, something like family. You were doing a favor.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says casually, offering a wink as he waves a polite goodbye, even though you know you would get a text from him the moment you reached the car.

And, sure enough.

Joel

Thanks for the dessert.

You find yourself typing out replies and erasing them, unsure what he meant initially.

Joel

I’m talking about you, sweetheart.

A second later.

Jesus.

You smile to yourself, shaking your head in amusement as you close your phone.

The drive back to Joel’s house is quiet, the afternoon creeping into the evening as you round the cul-de-sac leisurely, skeptical of the car that starts to pull away the same time you pull into Joel’s driveway, dark tinted windows giving nothing away.

But, the curtains in your father’s living room sway.

You felt your gut sink, turning off the ignition with a twist as you exited the car.

Your father exited the house simultaneously, throwing away a black bag of trash as you pretended to ignore him entirely, turning your key into the lock as you felt the full blast of Joel’s air conditioned home, thankful for a brief moment of the reprieve of Austin’s summer heat.

He had refused your offer for food, you had been cleaning up his house all morning and spending enough time with him that you knew there wouldn’t be any reason for him to throw his trash out. You had helped him sort through a box of things he wasn’t sure how to part with, listening to him ramble over football statistics that made no sense to you.

So, you wait.

It takes a couple hours, moving about restlessly until you can’t take it anymore.

It felt stupid—pointless, even.

But, you were curious. 

You dig, lucky that the back was still sitting on top, ripping the plastic open to spot the very obvious pair of fast foods bags that were more than enough to feed your father and a guest, hearing the roar of Joel’s truck as you look over your shoulder.

At the same time, your father’s door opens.

Fuck.

You quickly rush to the broken back gate of your father’s yard, hiding in the shadows as Joel’s truck quiets and your father approaches, item in hand.

“Goddamn, I haven’t seen that since my girls were in diapers,” Joel says,

“I never got around to learning or giving it to mine, so I thought I’d give it back,” your father decided, “it’s just been collectin’ dust, figured you’d want it back,”

Joel nods knowingly, taking the guitar in hand, but your father doesn’t let go immediately.

“She ain’t….” his words linger, “She ain’t mad at me, is she?”

“I dunno if this is really my place,” Joel counters, “That girl is—”

“She’s my daughter,” he interjects, “but you’re housin’ her,”

“I’m not doin’ that with some kind of intention, if that’s what you’re implying,”

You find your chest tightening and Joel spots you out of the corner of his eye, slipping down further in the shadows. He swallows and your dad chuckles suddenly, shaking his head.

“I’m just sayin’—I know she’ll talk to you, more than she will with me,” he didn’t have a clue—why would he?

“She’s always been hard to figure out,” Joel lies, “whatever you two are dealin’ with, I’m sure it’ll pass with time—she loves you,”

Even if it never felt fully returned.

You father’s grip on the guitar loosens as Joel allows it to hang near his waist.

“I know,” your father nods.

“Does she have any reason to be upset with you?” Joel asks suddenly, subtly prying.

Your father pauses for an extended amount of time, “Probably,” he decides weakly.

The conversation falls flat and they both offer tense goodbyes and Joel whistles softly when the coast is clear, letting out a slow breath you had been holding as you approach him quietly. 

“Do I wanna know?” he asks.

“No,” you answer without hesitation, though your eyes are reading differently.

You just look…sad.

Joel sniffs then, “You smell like trash, darlin’,”

“Thanks,” you remark like a smartass and that earns a look of annoyance from Joel.

“Well, you were diggin’ around,” Joel reminds you, “take a shower,”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“Telling,” he remarks but then adds, “and askin’—lord,”

You grin slightly, running your hand up his chest until it reaches few inches from his face before he snatches your wrist, “Knock it off,”

“You’re grumpy,” you decide, retching your hand away before you move past him, face set and hardened.

Joel sighs, long and slow, trading a glance between the two houses.

He’d found himself in the situation far too often—first, handling your mother’s deceit and comforting you when you seeked him out. But now, it is different.

Devastating.

He wasn’t keeping secrets solely your own, because he was fully complicit in every act he’s taken with you, some part of his selfishness that was laying dormant climbing out from the depths.

Joel didn’t see a way out and he wasn’t sure if he wanted one either.

–

Your hair was still damp, but you could hear the faint strumming of a guitar on the back porch, peering through kitchen blinds to find Joel rocking in a chair as he played mindlessly at the guitar as he attempted to tune it to his liking, still sounding slightly off despite his efforts.

He was freshly showered too, the dark skies lending to cooler night, his eyes only surfacing briefly to look at you as you slipped through the sliding door and approached with caution.

You sit down quietly in front of him, legs crossed.

He strums a song, something that sounds vaguely familiar and you watch closely, admiring his skill with a soft smile, but eventually the music falls dead.

He pats softly at the fretboard before setting it aside, clasping his hands between his knees as his elbows rest against his thighs.

“What did you find?” he asks and the guilt on your face is immediate. 

“I just have this feeling,” you explain, stammering over your words as you try to explain.

“I’m not judgin’ you, baby,” he reassures you and he sees your face soften instantly, looking over at him shyly before your eyes track to the floor.

“I offered to bring him lunch, I helped him clean out the house all morning,” you tell him, “and I drive up, a car was leaving, and I saw him throwing out some trash,”

“And you got curious?” Joel clarifies.

“Someone brought food over,” you tell him.

“You sure he isn’t just tryin’ to move on?” Joel asks.

“Joel,” you stress, finding the words to explain would be pointless.

“C’mere,” he motions with his finger and you move forward gently, fixing yourself between his legs as his hand smooths over your hair, move under your chin to cup it gently and angle it up to look at him, “they’re adults—but they’re also your parents. I’m sure whatever is going on, if something is going on, there’s good reason for it,”

“Don’t tell me you believe that,” you counter, gaze growing cold and distant, eyes boring into his own,

“I need you to believe that,” Joel admits, “ain’t no sense in worrying about something that is out of your control—you’ve got shit figured out, you’ve done good making up for their shortcomings, don’t get wrapped up in their bullshit,”

This feels oddly familiar, Joel thinks.

He clears his throat, looking up briefly at the peek of the city from his backyard, squeezing gently at your chin before he leans back and spreads his legs, beckoning you closer.

It feels so easy now—like it was routine.

You climb into his lap, big hands settling over your ass as your knees rest on either side of his hips, watching as he examines you with open eyes, unable to stare at him directly as your hands twisted into the fabric at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him.

“You’re so fuckin’ smart,” Joel reminds you, “I know I don’t need to tell you any of this, but I think you like hearin’ it, makes you feel less alone in that head of yours,”

You sigh, resting your forehead against his.

“What happens when I go back to school?” 

Joel shakes his head, “Whatever you want,”

“I don’t want to lose this,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper as you pull away just enough to meet his gaze before your bravery flickers away.

Joel’s fingers brush along your jawline suddenly, face cupped in his hands as he forced your gaze.

 “You won’t. We just gotta figure out how to make this work,” he tells you, eyes searching your face with a tender gaze.

A hand slides down to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. 

“Don’t think you can get rid of me?” you tease lightly, your eyes darting down to his lips.

“Who said I want to?” he challenges, and the sincerity in his tone rings true.

You kiss Joel soundly, a quick move that catches him by surprise.

For a moment he’s unmoving, but his brain quickly catches up, matching your urgency with his mouth as you tug him impossibly closer, moaning into his mouth as he pulls away, “You want honesty?” he asks suddenly.

You don’t hesitate when you nod.

“I think we both know we shouldn’t be doing this,” Joel knows you know, “but—I’m beyond feelin’ regret, I’m just makin’ sure you know this isn’t your only option,”

“Are you saying your okay with being a side piece?” you ask with a slight laugh.

“Good lord,” he says like a curse, rolling his eyes with amusement, “I’m trying to say that you’re allowed to change your mind—I’ve resigned myself a place in hell long before you, I should’ve put a stop to this, but we were both hurting, can’t help that we found some comfort in each other,”

“Give yourself some credit,” you chastise him, pushing at his chest playfully, “you’ve never made me feel anything but safe, that hasn’t changed, even if we’re…”

“Speakin’ of,” Joel remarks, a fond smile on his face, “I think I’m still a little hungry,”

“Oh?” your interest was piqued, leaning into the touch of his hand at the base of your spine.

“Yeah,” he nods, “been thinkin’ ‘bout you all day,”

“Tell me more,” your urge with a lust-filled tone, kissing at the corner of his mouth.

“Damn near nailed my hand to a wall picturin’ you on my cock,” Joel admits and you gasp in surprise, mixed with some serious concern, “hey—I didn’t, I didn’t,”

“You’ve gotta be more careful,” you urge him,

“Yeah," he nods knowingly, “but you take my cock so well, couldn’t stop thinkin’ about it,”

He can sense the way the praise makes you preen, letting out a soft sigh against his ear before you kiss his cheek, so he continues.

His finger rubs along your upper lip as you pull back to look at him for a brief moment.

“Or how pretty these look stretched around it,” 

His fingers press inside your mouth and you suck dutifully. 

He lets out a shallow breath as the heat envelops his finger.

Your eyes flutter shut as his other hand grips your ass, moving your hips forward and over his hardened length, resting heavy against the thin material of his sleep pants.

“Oh, I know, baby,” he soothes, “I’d fuck you right here if I had half the mind,”

And god did you want him too.

“Go on,” he urges, “upstairs,”

You weren’t sure why the universe had aligned things like this.

But, you were thankful—and truthfully, so was Joel.

-

previous chapter | next chapter

-

divider creds: @/saradika-graphics

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 42 || The Assumption

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language & heavy sexual tension.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 4k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——HOW LONG WERE HIS eyes on yours? Did he see you checking him out? Holy shit you're sweating now. Is this how Ino felt just a few moments ago because as you met Nanami's eyes, chills slithered down your spine and you swallowed hard due to the eye contact.

Nanami opens his mouth and you swear every second is killing you. "I've seen you before," He points out.

And boom, you're a mess already. His voice is so damn sexy you don't think you're going to be able to have a calm conversation like you planned to.

You just nod for a second and then you get the words out, "Y-Yeah, I've seen you before too."

Get yourself together woman.

Nanami narrows his eyes at you, "You were in Mr. Fushiguro's room that one time." He recalls.

Your brows furrow. Oh, that's what he remembers you from? Not the weeks you've been in the same building as him or even the times you bumped into him on 'accident'?

"U-Uh, yeah, I was." You nod again, the motion done slowly as you try to collect yourself.

The sound of Ino snickering nearby helps you snap out of your daze. "Not so confident now, hmmmm?" Ino teases, his words making you turn your head to him.

"Hush," You say with a playful glare.

Nanami raises a brow, his eyes yet to leave you. While you checked him out, he had long since done that from the moment he walked in and saw you chatting it up with Ino.

You then return your attention to Nanami after making back-and-forth silly faces to Ino before his attention is called elsewhere. Now you are alone with Nanami...

You swallow and take a deep breath. You swear you've been rehearsing this moment for months now, "Nanami Kento, right?"

He nods, just barely, "Mhm."

Is he even interested in anything you have to say? What's with the simple hum...?

Turning a decent portion of your body to him, you flash a kind smile, "I've been wanting to talk to you, y'know..."

"Have you?" Nanami asks, stern eyes boring into your own.

You nod your head, "Y-Yeah," God you need to stop stuttering. "I was just wondering if-"

"Sorry but," The man interrupts, almost as if he knew what your intentions were. "I don't sleep with women I've just met."

You blink. Oh, you're just baffled by his words. What the hell does he mean by that? And why did he say it so suddenly?? He can't just know you're talking to him because of Gojo... right?

"Uhm," You scoff, "Excuse me?"

Nanami's eyebrows raise for a moment, "Sorry, am I misinterpreting something?"

"Yeah, actually," Technically, no. But you were going to try to have an actual conversation with him before making any moves so it's almost rude of him to say such a thing to you, "You major in business, yes?"

He's almost thrown off by you and his head nods, now he's embarrassed he made a mistake. "Yeah-, yes, I do." Nanami stumbles over his words a bit.

"Right, well I'm a psychology major and I'm trying to land an internship at our university," You start explaining to him. Everything you're about to say is some bullshit you've come up with to have a conversation about but, you're sure it'll work out. "As of now, I was doing a personal study about which students in what majors experience more stress and I plan to use that data to get this position so,"

And that's when he realized he fucked up with his assumption. Nanami stares and his words come out very slowly, "...You're here to study me?"

"I prefer the term interview but, yes." You hum.

He grows a bit more serious, "I see. Well, I apologize for my earlier assumption, I just thought..." Nanami trails off a little and you watch the way he glances down.

You follow his gaze and look down at yourself. Then, you scoff again, the sound making him tense up in embarrassment and a bit of shame, "Did you assume I was some kinda' whore?" You ask bluntly.

His entire body freezes and he's visibly worried, his gaze flicking right back up to your own as he swallows, "I don't mean any offense by my assumption. It's just... Not that you look like a prostitute but, I get approached like that often and-"

"So, you thought I was a whore?" You repeat. Again, he's nervous and this time he avoids your eyes, the sight of him slightly fearful making you smirk.

"I'm sorry but, yes." Nanami says honestly, "That's my mistake, truly."

"Right..." You say dryly, your tone making him uneasy. "Well, it's a common mistake, unfortunately," You murmur, thinking back to Sukuna who previously joked about it to you, "But you can make it up to me."

Those stern eyes of his snapback over to you, "How uh, how so?" Nanami stammers, clearly again assuming you mean something else.

You chuckle and playfully hit his arm, "By letting me interview you, of course!" Your voice is suddenly cheerful and it makes him relax.

Nanami sighed heavily and then straightened up in his seat, visibly pulling himself together after the little mishap that occurred. "Right, of course." He says.

Your hand goes to your glass, "Did you assume I meant some other form of making it up to me?" You ask tauntingly.

"No," Nanami claims, his voice light, "Of course not."

You have one leg crossed over the other so you subtly move it and make light contact with his shin using the tip of your heel. Nanami's entire body goes rigid but he hopes you don't notice it.

"Of course not?" You repeat, chuckling a bit, "It's okay if you thought I meant something else, y'know."

He swallows, "I didn't." The man replies as he tears his eyes from you, glances down at your foot against him, ignores it, and then goes for his drink.

"I mean," You tip your head to the side and your confidence has returned to you, courtesy of your liquid courage coursing through you, "If you have another way to make up for mistaking me for a prostitute, I'm all ears, Mr. Nanami."

The title makes him swallow again, his Adam's apple seen moving down and then up in a slow manner. "I have no other way in mind, unfortunately." Nanami states simply, flicking his gaze to you for a moment, "Sorry to disappoint."

You grin, "Oh, I'm not disappointed at all. It just seemed like you had an idea in mind so," You shrug.

He stares for a second, thinking for a long moment before taking his eyes off you again, "Are you insinuating something right now?"

"No?" You laugh, "But, although I'm no whore, you are an attractive man so, naturally, I'm curious what you thought I meant when I said you could make it up to me."

Nanami sucks in a deep breath of air and then takes another sip of the drink he's had prepared for him. Then, as he places it down with a light tap to the bar, he turns his head to you, "Is this a part of your interview?" Nanami questions, raising a brow, "Is this some kind of reverse psychology question that'll help you get to know me?"

"There's no reverse psychology in my question at all," You giggle, "I'm being rather direct with you." The feeling of your heel slipping up his leg slightly makes him tense up, "First you assume I'm a whore, and then you think I'd want something naughty from you for doing so."

That statement causes the man to choke a bit, "N-Naughty?" He echoes, following the question with a hefty clearing of his throat and a turn of his head, "What-, I... I wasn't-"

You smile at the man and notice the tips of his ears are shaded the lightest bit of pink, "It's okay if you assumed that, y'know..."

Nanami keeps his gaze straight, "I did not-"

You move, leaning to his ear for a moment, "I'm no prostitute but, the more I talk to you, the more I think you'd prefer it if I was."

A sharp breath of air is sucked in and he doesn't dare to look at you. With a chuckle, you pull away, your eyes never leaving his face. It's so clear you have him nervous now, men like him are rather easy to work around. Show them you're not a whore but you wouldn't mind being treated like one and all of a sudden they don't know what to do with themselves.

The blond turns his head away completely, taking in the scenery of the rest of the bar before then turning back to you, "So what is it you want from me? Be honest. I can't tell if you're here for knowledge or..."

"Or?" You hum, raising a brow.

"Or if you're here to seduce me." Nanami finishes.

You shrug, "Maybe both."

It was like you could see the gears in his head turning, like he was in deep thought as his brown eyes met yours. Then, his brows tense slightly, "I didn't consider both..."

And just like that, you have an idea of where you can take this. "You should've." You reply.

"I am now." The blond responds, weighing his head to the side slightly as he maintains eye contact.

You pinch your brows together, "Mr. Nanami, have you ever slept with someone after meeting them at a bar?"

He freezes but you have him interested, so after a moment, "No, why?" He questions in return.

"Are you open to?" You proceed. And no, you're not trying to seduce him just yet. Instead, your plan here is to have him be the one to pine after you.

Nanami swallows and he's very careful with his words, "Typically no."

You pick up on it instantly, "Typically?"

"I may do something different tonight," Nanami explains, finally turning away from you. He glances past you a bit, watching Ino attend to others further down the bar.

"Yeah?" You grin, "And what's changed your mind?"

The male in front of you keeps his eyes away from your own but all his attention is still on you, "A woman who's intrigued me."

"And who might that be?" You quiz further.

He scoffs lightly, "Obviously, you."

And just like that, you've got him exactly where you wanted him. Now it was part of the next part of your plan where you reverse the flirting and force him into a situation where he reveals more of his thoughts and flirts with you.

You definitely have the alcohol in your system to thank for how smoothly this is going so far, "I'm flattered but, when I asked my question, I wasn't offering to do so."

Nanami grows embarrassed again, assuming he's made some kind of mistake as he shifts his gaze to you, "Oh, I-"

"I'm not a whore," You sigh, "But I do notice that sex-pertained questions always get the best answers out of men so," You shrug. "That was my first."

He catches on and nods his head, the slightest and simplest smirk spreading across his peach-tinted lips, "So... the interview has started now...?"

"It has," You say enthusiastically, "I'm glad you're keeping up with me."

Amusement sparks across the male's expression, "Cleaver woman you are."

"Mhm, I'm aware," You hum, smiling at him cheerfully.

With a sigh, Nanami places every ounce of his focus onto you, "Alright then, what's your next question for me?"

"Don't get too excited, not all of them are about sex." You say with a laugh, "Only the first one was. Y'know, to gain your attention since you already thought I was a hooker."

He swallows, "I really am sorry about that."

"You'll make up for it, relax," You brush off.

Then this 'interview' of yours proceeds and you ask him more mellow questions, questions that are rather simple and just help you get to know him. Such as asking about his age, whether or not he has a job, and what his day-to-day schedule looks like.

You continue the conversation, delving deeper into Nanami's personal life and interests. Asking him about his hobbies, interests, and goals for the future, all of which is done to make it seem like you're actually going to use this information. Nanami opens up more as the conversation flows, his stern demeanor softening ever so slightly.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

As you engage in the interview, there's this underlying look in his eyes. Perhaps it was the alcohol the two of you consumed but there were definitely some teasing touches and glances throughout all the talking.

Before you realized it, your questionnaire had transitioned into simply just two adults conversing. It was almost as if you'd approached the man naturally. He told you how his major in business was done with the intent of becoming the CEO of some famous company one day.

The surrounding nightclub is almost forgotten with how engaging the conversation carried on to be. Every time you made the stiff man laugh your heart would flutter a bit. You were beyond thankful for the drinking because it was clear that's what was opening him up to you.

Ino was to thank as well, as he had come to the two of you multiple times to offer another round, flashing you a cute smile and a taunting thumbs up to encourage you with Nanami.

Unbeknownst to you, your starting question weighed heavily on the man's mind. Your foot would constantly brush up against his leg and every time you giggled, he felt odd. Not to mention the sultry look in your eyes as you intently watched him speak.

Your eyes were on his lips at one point and your staring made him stammer for a moment before he decided to just point it out in hopes you would focus elsewhere. Nanami leaned in a bit and a gentle hand went to your chin, tipping your face up and trying to force your gaze to his.

"I understand you're interested in what I have to say but please," Nanami's voice is still as deep as ever but it's more relaxed and almost soft, "Keep your eyes on mine."

You're slow to drag your vision upward, "Can you handle that?"

The question throws him off and his brows push together, "I have been all this time, haven't I?"

You tilt your head and lean closer to the man, one of your hands suddenly going to his thigh to hold yourself up, "Not the whole time, no."

"Really?" He hums, ignoring how close your face is to his, "Where else have my eyes been? Hm?"

You giggle and pull your lower lip into your mouth. It's so obvious that you're slightly intoxicated, "Your eyes have been all over me," You say, your voice suddenly dropping into a whisper, "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He tenses as your hand starts caressing his thigh, trying to ignore the sensation. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about. I've kept my eyes on respectable areas at all times."

Another giggle slips out your lips, "I never said you didn't." Again, he freezes and this time you snicker, "You just told on yourself."

Nanami swallows and removes his hand from your chin, turning his head away from you, "You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

Your hand goes up without a second thought and you force his head to turn right back to you, "I wasn't," You murmur, inching closer, "But now I am."

The feeling of your thumb caressing his jaw makes the man's breathing pick up. He's not sure if it's the alcohol or just you in general but his body is suddenly so much more attentive to your touches. The sensation was so soft and small but it was steadily driving him crazy.

"Nanami," You murmur, breaking him from his thoughts.

His eyes dip down to your lips, "Kento," He corrects, "Just call me Kento."

Again, you have him exactly where you want him. "Earlier you said you don't sleep with women you've just met, nor have you ever slept with a woman you've met at a bar before..." You recall in a gentle tone.

He nods, unsure of where you're going with this, "Mhm..."

You bite your lips, "Perhaps we should change that tonight."

Nanami hums deeply, the sound vibrating against his throat as he struggles to lift his gaze from your lips. You're so close to him and your words and entire aura are intoxicating.

"How so?" He whispers in return.

"Take me home tonight..." You offer, soon shifting to the man's ear, "...and fuck me like a slut."

Those lewd words of yours went straight to the man's cock. Of all the things he could've expected from you, that was by far the last thing he expected to hear come out of your mouth. Sure, you flirted with him subtly here and there within the past few hours but...

That sudden offering of yours was entirely different.

There is no way you would've gotten this far without the alcohol in your system. As it is well known by now, you get horny when you're drunk so gradually throughout you and Nanami's conversation, you could feel your arousal building up.

Everything the man had done or said was noticed by you. From his large hand wrapping around the glass as he took a drink, to the way the smooth liquid flowed into his mouth, the way his voice got deeper and more relaxed, and even how he was looking at you now.

You could've never made such an offer if you didn't drink and Nanami would've never even considered it if he didn't either.

The stoic blond clears his throat and you pull away from his ear to meet his eyes, only to be met with a low and lustful gaze that makes your heart skip a beat. A careful brow is raised before you watch the man move out of his seat.

Standing at his feet, your head inclines up as nears you and that wonderful and dizzying scent of his cologne rushes into your nose. Nanami has the face of a young yet hardworking man and simply looking up at him as you are now gives you that urge to want to drop to your knees.

Perhaps the list truly has changed you. Maybe it wasn't the alcohol you drank tonight or the man in front of you. Maybe the problem here was you and your mind. Sure, you used to get horny before but to have the urge to suck someone off just because they've stood to their feet in front of you is...

Well, it makes you feel like the very thing Gojo tells you you're not; a whore.

Breaking you from your thoughts, Nanami leans down and places a hand on the bar beside you. You gulp as his face nears your own and then tense up when his other hand goes to cup your jaw, keeping your head angled up.

The man tilts his head and studies the look in your eyes closely, "You want me to take you home and... what?" He whispers.

You wished your confidence from moments ago had remained but as this man stood over you and held your face in his hands so delicately you could feel your thoughts turning to mush and your mouth going dry.

"Uh..." You mumble, staring back and forth between the man's eyes.

Nanami scoffs lightly, "Don't get all shy on me now," He says, "Tell me what it is you want me to do."

Your voice is small and barely even there, "Take me home..."

"And...?" He urges.

You swallow, "Fuck me..."

Nanami smirks, the reversal of roles here is driving him crazy. You were such a confident woman just moments ago, "Like...?" He murmurs, trying to get you to say the entirety of your initial statement.

You take your eyes off him and even try to turn your head away, "A uh-"

"Eyes on me, darling," Nanami voices out in that sweet yet husk tone of his.

You blink a few times before looking at him, taking a deep breath before speaking, "Like a slut."

He smiles just barely, "See? Was that so hard?" His voice and way of wording things are adding to your arousal for some reason.

"N-No..." You murmur.

Nanami's thumb moves to your bottom lip and his eyes sink to his actions as he swipes over it, "Exactly. And y'know what," He scoffs again, "You really aren't a whore." He says, almost as if he's surprised?

"I told you I wasn't," You whisper, pouting a little bit as he feels your lip against his thumb.

"Right, right," He hums, nodding a little, "Instead, you're one of those good girls who like to be treated like one, huh? Pinned against a wall, maybe with your hands tied up, and taking cock like it's the only thing you know how to do properly."

And just like that, you were soaked. Gulping, your breathing grows noticeably slower and Nanami could tell by your facial expression that you were aroused.

He chuckles, "We spent all this time talking, and yet I'm pretty sure the only thing you've been thinking about in that pretty little head of yours is how you're going to convince me to fuck you."

Your eyes widen and you genuinely don't understand how you let the dominance in the situation flip so quickly, "I-,"

"Don't worry," Nanami moves his thumb and he inches closer, his lips almost on yours as he whispers, "I'm convinced."

Your lips brush over his and your eyes threaten to close, "A-Are you?" Damnit, you need to pull yourself together.

The man nods ever so slightly but what he didn't expect was for you to move his hand away from your jaw and then stand up. You still have to incline your head up but as you stand, you don't miss the way his breath hitches when your chest presses into his.

Despite that, his head tips to the side again as he gazes down at you, "I am." He hums, shrugging a bit after, "I'll take you home and do just as you asked."

You hope he doesn't notice the way your eyes light up, "Yeah?"

"Mhm," His hands carefully go to your hips and you try your best not to tense up because his touch is so rough and yet oddly gentle at the same time, "Consider this my real way of making up for my assumption."

You chuckle, "You're gonna make up for thinking I'm a whore by-"

"Fucking you like one." Nanami finishes for you, even though that's not exactly what you were going to say.

The man suddenly spins you around and he begins to urge to to start walking away from the bar, moving to your ear as he does so, "This'll also help with your 'interview'." He claims.

You scoff and walk with him right behind you, his hands on your hips and his crotch bumping into yours briefly with every other step taken, "How so?" You ask in return.

Nanami stops the two of you from walking for just a second and pulls your body back into his. You can feel the large bulge in his pants pressing up against your ass and it makes your breathing stutter.

The man goes to your ear one last time and his voice is low but direct, "I'll show you just how 'stressed' I am."

GOJO SATORU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖��𝙮

GETO SUGURU ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

TOJI FUSHIGURO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢

KAMO CHOSO ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙈𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙪𝙢 / 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ZEN'IN NAOYA ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙀𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮

ITADORI SUKUNA ✔︎ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙎𝙚𝙢𝙞-𝙀𝙖𝙨𝙮???

NANAMI KENTO ☐ 𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘺: 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙙

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[gloomwitchwrites]

Second Act // Chapter Four

Metal Band Task Force 141 x Backup Singer Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): swearing, flirting, brief alcohol use, suggestive themes, brief dirty talk, Ghost x Reader dynamic

Word Count: 4k

After winning the bet, Simon orders you around. Lena and Olivia try to be supportive. You agree to go home with Simon.

Chapter Three // Chapter Five

ao3 // main masterlist // second act masterlist

NOW

Simon’s gaze is like filtered honey.

Sticky and slow. Lingering.

“You break,” he says, nodding toward the pool table.

It’s a command as much as it is a question. That’s how it’s always been between the two of you. A dare. A push. A fucking power struggle. Even though years separate you and him—separate that summer abroad—Simon is still on that same train.

Pushing. Always pushing.

The thing is, you don’t have to comply. You can always say no. The door is there, open and waiting for you to walk through it. But that’s the whole fun of the game, that you sometimes walk through, that you sometimes don’t do as you’re told.

“You sure about that?” you ask, hitting the ball into Simon’s court.

There’s a hint of a smile. A softening of the brow.

“I insist,” he purrs.

Don’t deny yourself.

For three days, you belong to me.

Lining up your shot, you briefly glance toward Simon. He casually leans against the pool table, his features neutral. Anyone looking at him might think he’s focused on the game, but you see it, the subtle daring smirk.

Go on, love.

Just beyond him—just over Simon’s shoulder—Johnny and Kyle watch with mute expressions. Kyle appears completely passive, as if this holds no interest to him. Johnny on the other hand has a little crease in the middle of his brow. The proposition came from Simon, but part of you knows that any wager involving Simon includes the other three.

But John is nowhere. He is absent from this spectacle, or simply observing from where you can’t see him.

Licking your lips, you return your gaze to the cue ball, trying to pretend that Simon’s confidence holds little weight, or that a lingering softness within you clings to memories of the past. It whispers—inviting in the idea of opportunity.

You breathe in. Out.

Strike true.

The cue ball shoots forward, cracking against the billiard balls, sending them in all directions. You watch them scatter, and then sigh, slowly straightening your spine, making sure that when you finally make eye contact with Simon again, it’s a dare of your own.

Simon doesn’t watch the billiard balls. He’s watching you, and in that look, a bit of your confidence is chipped away. He is a sculptor, and you are the marble in which he’ll make strike after strike, breaking off little pieces at a time until he brings forth what’s hiding underneath.

The rest of your confidence shatters completely when Simon takes position. With one shot, he knocks three balls into the pocket. Fucking three. Whatever chance you thought you had vanishes like cigarette smoke waved off by a wayward hand.

Simon is going to win this.

Easily.

The fact that you believed you had a chance is laughable. Hilarious. Fucking insane.

There is determination and yet complete ease to the way Simon finds his aim. It’s unnaturally good.

Doesn’t take more than a few turns. Simon sweeps the floor with you, never giving you a fair chance, and without ever gloating over it during the whole game.

Simon knew. He knew he’d fucking win.

The bastard. The fucking bastard.

Rage flares then quickly melts to anger, and then simmers down to frustration. Part of you wants to lash out at him, to tell him off even in a room full of your peers. It’s a trick, and you should be upset. But there is no animosity. Not really.

The two of you made a deal.

You agreed to this.

As the final ball rolls into the pocket, your gaze sweeps across the pool table. Simon is bent forward from his shot, not watching the ball at all, but watching you.

He smiles, victorious.

“Oh, fuck,” whispers Lena.

She’s standing to your left, eyes wide with surprise. Even she thought you had a fighting chance.

“I’ve never seen you lose this bad.” Olivia pops up from nowhere. “Oh, well. Best two of out three?” She nudges you playfully with her elbow.

“There is no best two out of three,” groans Lena, pressing her glass to her forehead like she has an oncoming headache.

“Okay,” says Olivia slowly. “It’s just a game. What’s the big deal?”

You and Lena say nothing.

Olivia nods. “Oh,” she says, the word clipped. “I missed something important. Didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You did.”

Without breaking eye contact with you, Simon holds his cue stick out and Johnny takes it, placing it back in its rack. As soon as the cue stick is out of his hand, Simon stalks toward you.

“I sure did,” whispers Olivia.

Lena leans in, head bent in your direction. “You don’t have to do anything,” she mutters, her eyes narrowing like daggers at the oncoming drummer of Lechery.

“I know,” you say out the corner of your mouth.

“It’s only a verbal agreement,” she continues, her tone more insistent. “Nonbinding.”

The three of you fall silent as Simon comes to a stop in front of you. He hardly gives Lena and Olivia a glance. Like a hawk circling its prey, all of Simon’s attention is focused in on you.

“Those three days start now, love.”

Bold. It’s the only way to describe it. The confidence in which Simon says those words wraps around you. Ensnaring.

“Listen here, pal,” growls Lena. She holds her drink away from her head, her stare a sharpened point. “She doesn’t have to do shit.”

You hold up your hand, but Simon answers her like he speaks for you. “We upped the stakes. Made an agreement.”

Lena blows raspberries. “What agreement? I didn’t hear shit.”

“Oh my god. Lena,” you murmur, resting your hand on her arm.

A few people have turned their heads, clearly distracted by Lena’s raised voice.

She goes all in anyway, showing fang and tooth. “I think you’re forgetting that she left you. She left all of you.”

Simon doesn’t blink. Doesn’t back down. “And now she’s walked right back to us.”

“Give me a fucking break,” snaps Lena. She turns on you, voice firm. “Remember, you don’t have to do anything.

“But she wants to,” says Simon.

Lena points at him with her drinking hand. “If you speak for her one more goddamn time I fucking swear—”

Oliva gasps and jumps forward, placing both hands over Lena’s mouth. Lena keeps talking but it’s completely muffled.

“Best two out of three?” suggests Olivia, her smile fake and forced as her gaze darts between the three of you.

Simon’s gaze shifts back to you. “That’s not the agreement.”

“No,” you agree. “It isn’t.”

Lena leans forward and Olivia goes with her, still hanging on and covering her mouth with both hands. She shoves at her, but Olivia shakes her head. “No! You’ll say something mean.” Lena continues to jabber behind Olivia’s hands, her eyes showing all her emotion.

Several more partygoers have turned their heads, curious. You’re not interested in causing a scene, or making issues that don’t need to be problems in the first place.

Simon, Johnny, Kyle, and John are Lechery.

You cannot change that, and breaking contracts just to save face isn’t optional. And you agreed to the three days. It’s easier to simply play along.

And Simon would never hurt you. Never.

“It’s fine,” you reassure, placing one hand on Olivia’s shoulder and the other on Lena’s. “It’s fine. Really.” You give Olivia a sidelong glance. Olivia grins sheepishly and drops her hands, clutching them to her chest.

Lena takes a dramatic inhale, and whirls on her. “I love you but I will fight you.” Olivia grimaces but Lena is already turning back to Simon. “And you.” You take a step to the left, cutting Lena off. “Bitch, move. I want to throw my drink on him.”

“No,” you correct, reaching for her drink. “You don’t.”

Lena scowls but she allows you to take the beverage.

“Everything is fine. Can I just…talk to him.” Olivia and Lena just stare at you. “Alone,” you emphasize.

Olivia shrugs and Lena purses her lips. “Fine.” She side-eyes Simon, giving him a onceover. “I’ll allow it.” She aggressively hooks her arm with Olivia’s. “I need a new drink.”

You watch them go, waiting until it’s just you and him next to the pool table.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, placing Lena’s old drink on the high-top table next to you. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Simon shrugs, unbothered. “That’s a good friend. She defended you.”

You lick your lips in nervous agitation. Glancing away from him, you look around the room, avoiding direct eye contact. Simon shifts into view, drawing you back to the one place you cannot bear to look. It’s a brief touch, just the tips of his fingers against your chin.

“There’s always a choice,” he says softly, fingers still lingering against your skin.

It sizzles where it touches, branding you like a tattoo. A little shiver rattles through you as Simon’s thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip.

“Three days?” you ask, and it almost comes out deflated, as if three days is not nearly enough.

“Only three,” he confirms.

Nearly everyone is back to minding their business. No one appears interested in you and Simon and your conversation. Johnny and Kyle have both disappeared, melting back into the party like they weren’t standing just behind Simon moments ago.

You lower your voice, and stare into Simon’s eyes. “It’s just three days. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Simon’s reply comes slowly. His gaze is assessing. For a brief flicker, you worry, but then he speaks, and you know you’ll comply.

“Then you’ll do as I say?”

No. Yes.

“Three days,” you repeat. “And it doesn’t mean anything.” Simon remains quiet, and you cannot help but fill the void. “We go back to our lives afterward. Nothing more.”

You aren’t sure why you’re insisting. If anything, it sounds like you’re begging—pleading with him to listen, to comply to what you think you desire. But when has Simon ever done that? The moment you walked up to him at The Foundry, he decided that he wanted you, and then he decided he wanted to share, and you agreed, falling into a passion-filled three months that only ended with you fleeing.

Simon’s head tilts to the side, his gaze falling to your lips. “Course, love,” he says. “Whatever you say.”

There is no agreement in it. Simon is placating.

With a smug smirk, Simon draws back, arms crossing over his chest. “Grab me a drink.”

You roll your eyes. “No please?”

“No.” He nods toward the bar. “A drink, love. I’m thirsty.”

You want to bite back—to give him attitude just because you know a punishment will come from it.

“Still drinking your usual?” you ask, going for the calmer route.

“What do you think?”

This time you groan, annoyed. “Just answer the fucking question, Simon.”

His answering smile bleeds victory and triumph. The game is in his favor. “Hasn’t changed.”

“Look how easy that was,” you murmur, batting your eyelashes.

“Careful,” warns Simon.

You shrug your shoulders and walk past him, purposefully bumping into him as you go. A little spike of adrenaline surges, seizing your chest and making your skin buzz.

As you walk up to the bar, you lean against the edge of the bar top, using it to steady yourself. There is a nervous itch that won’t go away, like excitement and lust all wrapped up together to the point of tangling.

You’re so focused on the bartender that you don’t notice Kyle standing next to you until he speaks.

“Obeying Simon’s every beck and call means you’re also at our command.”

Startled, you twist in his direction, eyes widening slightly at how close he is to you. With one arm leaning on the bar top, Kyle’s hand is just a breath away from your arm. Just a slight shift, and he’d be touching you.

“I made a deal with Simon,” you murmur.

Kyle’s gaze shifts “Make a deal with Simon and you make a deal with all of us.” Your lips part, a protest on your tongue, but Kyle chuckles, shaking his head. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Whatever you wanted to say dies on your tongue, snuffed out like a discarded cigarette. Kyle pushes off from the bar and passes by you without a second glance. You start to turn, to follow him.

“Your drink.”

A soft clink and the bartender has your attention again.

Whiskey double. Neat.

Simon loves Kentucky.

“Thank you,” you murmur, depositing a few pound notes into the tip jar.

With whiskey in hand, you make your way toward Simon. He’s moved away from the pool tables, and made his way back toward the large window that looks out on the street.

You hold out the beverage to him. “Here’s your whiskey, Master.”

With a bland expression, Simon takes the whiskey. “Funny.”

“Aren’t I to obey your every command?”

Simon lightly twirls his glass, the amber whiskey inside swirling slightly against the glass. “You can stop whenever you want.”

“We had an agreement.”

“Yes,” affirms Simon. “But I’m not forcing you to do anything. You’re playing along because you want to.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“It’s not?” muses Simon. He brings the glass to his lips, taking a small sip. The corner of his mouth quirks.

“Not to your liking?” you chide.

Simon’s gaze shifts to you, sweeping up and down your body in a slow caress. “I can think of a few things I’d prefer more.”

“Not happening,” you mutter, but your body betrays you. A warmth blooms low in your belly, and a slickness begins to form between your thighs.

Simon’s gaze continues to linger. “You’ll stay by my side the rest of the party.”

You blink and then laugh in disbelief. “What?”

“For the rest of the party—”

“I heard you,” you interrupt. “But I won’t.”

Simon appears unbothered. “You will.” He takes another sip of his whiskey. “Until I leave.”

“And what time will that be?”

Simon ignores the question. “Then you’ll come home with me.”

“You’re hilarious, Simon,” you mutter, quickly glancing away from him, that flustered feeling returning.

“Not joking, love. I said three days. And I meant three days.”

Don’t deny yourself.

For three days, you belong to me.

You turn back to him, situating yourself so you can still address him while keeping an eye on the rest of the room. “I can’t go home with you. Everyone here will know what’s going on if we do.”

“And you don’t think they’ll figure it out when you’re glued to my side the whole night?”

“You’re fucking impossible. I might have agreed to three days, but I didn’t agree to be paraded about in front of everyone.”

“Parading you?” jests Simon. “You want to be walked around like a dog?”

“I don’t know, Simon.” You cross your arms over your chest. “Are you going to have me walk around on all fours? Bark at people? Make me drink from a bowl?”

“Not a bad idea. Always found you more attractive when you’re a little worked up.”

“Bite me.” Simon dips his head, and nips your ear. “Simon,” you hiss, smacking at him, quickly glancing around to see if anyone noticed.

“Arguing feels like foreplay to me,” he whispers. “So please, love, keep going.”

The buzzing grows until every part of you tingles with tension. You want to smack him across the face as much as you want to fuck him. It’s ridiculous. Years apart and yet your body still responds to him like the separation never happened.

And this is just Simon.

Kyle’s words resurface, pressing down into your psyche.

Make a deal with Simon and you make a deal with all of us.

But you knew that, didn’t you?

“I need to let Lena and Olivia know. They’ll be worried if I just leave with you.”

“So you do want to leave with me?” he teases.

With a sigh, you start to walk away, to go seek your friends. You don’t make it far. Simon’s hand is around your wrist in seconds, pulling you right back to him.

“Don’t move.”

“Let go of me if you want me to go home with you. I need to talk to them.”

Simon’s hand remains clamped onto your wrist. “Didn’t give you permission.”

“Do I need your permission to breathe, too?”

“This attitude is only going to get you a punishment.”

You’re feeling bold now—fiery. “Please enlighten me.”

Simon’s grip refuses to ease. If anything, he pulls you even closer until you’re nearly flush with him. “I’d start by shutting you up. Give you something to choke on.”

All that heat fractures outward, going from bratty tension to wanting to do exactly as he says. It would be so easy to drop to your knees in front of him and open the front of his jeans.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur, the attitude deflating.

“Shouldn’t I?” counters Simon. “I’m no liar. Not to you.”

Where has all your strength gone? When did you so suddenly fold? Is it because you’ve missed him—missed them all this time?

“Let me go talk to them. Please.”

Simon’s thumb brushes against your pulse point. Back and forth it moves, almost smoothing in the way he caresses the spot.

“Later. Promise.”

His grip loosens, and then releases. Your arm drops to your side, and you suddenly miss his touch.

Simon downs the rest of his drink. “I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

He places his hand on your lower back, and you allow him to lead, to herd you away from the large, street-facing window and into the crowd. Simon plays it cool, easing into conversations by introducing you not as someone belonging to him but as a member of the team. With every face you meet, and every person you interact with, they all seem oblivious to how the two of you are inseparable.

And if they do notice, no one says a word.

Olivia and Lena stay away, but you find them periodically, watching from afar, chatting it up with others. Johnny and Kyle keep their distance too, but they watch just as much.

You feel torn open, like a wound that cannot be stitched up.

Or cracked, rather. An egg tapped against a countertop. Broken shell with the contents emptied into a bowl.

There is no mending. No glue. No stitch. No thread and needle. No contract tearing.

This is it. Three days. And then an entire fucking tour. You have to carry on, to pretend that you don’t feel the way you do, and that these men mean nothing.

But they don’t know. They don’t know why you ran. They don’t know what you did.

“Go talk to your friends.” Simon nods toward Olivia and Lena. “And then head outside. We’re leaving.”

He takes a step back, giving you space. Your legs move, heartbeat thunderous.

For three days, you belong to me.

Noticing you first, Olivia comes rushing up to your side, linking her arm in yours. Dragging you toward Lena, Olivia links her other arms with Lena’s, shepherding the two of you away to a quiet corner.

“Spill,” she whisper-giggles, nearly bouncing with excitement as she unlinks your arms and turns around to face you.

You open your mouth. Close it. Sigh.

“Out with it,” prompts Lena, lightly smacking your arm.

“I’m going home with him,” you say quickly.

“Right now?” asks Olivia.

You nod, and the women exchange a look.

“What?” you push. “We made a deal.”

Lena pops her hip, leaning into it. “You want to do this, don’t you?”

“A deal is a deal.”

“Sure it is,” giggles Olivia, nudging Lena with her elbow.

Lena shakes her head. “Oh my God, girl. Just admit you want to fuck him.”

“Lena,” you scold.

“I’ll be happy to yell,” she offers. “Make sure everyone knows.”

“Please don’t,” you mutter, holding up a hand.

“Listen, I still want to punch him in his stupid fucking face,” begins Lena.

“That’s not very nice, Len,” murmurs Olivia.

Without looking away from you, Lena places her hand on Olivia’s cheek and starts to push it to the side. Olivia licks her palm and Lena scowls.

“Like I was saying.” She side-eyes Olivia. “Maybe you need to just…bounce on him a bit. Unfuck some tension.”

I’d start by shutting you up. Give you something to choke on.

“You also haven’t had any closure,” adds Olivia. “Maybe this is an opportunity to talk to him. Talk to all of them. You know…communicate. Like a healthy adult.”

“Don’t listen to her,” says Lena. “I think you should fuck him. Angrily. And with passion.”

You sigh. “Neither of you are helping right now.”

They’re both trying to be supportive in their own way. You can’t fault them for it.

Lena drapes her arm over your shoulder, pulling you in for a hug. “We have location sharing and I know your phone number by heart. We’ll keep an eye on you, and if we notice anything suspicious, we’ll call.”

“Or you call us,” says Olivia. “If you decide you don’t want to spent all that time with him. Though,” she shrugs. “I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to spend time with him. He’s very attractive.”

“Exactly,” smiles Lena. “Fuck him and be done with it. Fuck all of them and then leave. Get it out of your system.”

“Or talk to them,” reminds Olivia. “You don’t have to do anything else.”

With your hands clasped in front of you, you take a deep breath. “So you’re not mad that I’m going with him?”

“No,” says Olivia just as Lena replies “A little bit.”

“But we have to work with them after,” you murmur. “There’s an entire fucking tour ahead of us.”

Olivia shrugs. “It’ll probably be awkward.”

Lena nods. “It would be awkward either way. Either you don’t acknowledge them and pretend they don’t exist, or you face them.” She downs her drink and sets it aside. “And even if you ignored them and just interacted on a professional level, they’d probably still confront you anyway. I don’t think you’ll be able to get around it.”

Whatever excitement you still hold starts to slip, becoming anxiety. Simon offered you the choice to leave, that you don’t have to come along at all. Every choice you’re making is entirely on you.

But you’re still making them.

You’re still following.

You want to know.

And maybe you can eventually speak the truth. Simon was the door all those years ago that led to the rest. He might just be that door again.

“Okay,” you relent. “Okay.”

Olivia grins and clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Have fun.”

Lena squeezes you into her side before dropping her arm. “Make naughty choices,” she sings, giving you a little wave as you walk away.

Each step is sludge and yet completely lightweight. It’s like you’re not moving at all but floating—simply existing with every forward movement. When you make it to the door and then the stairs, reality comes rushing forward to smash you over the head.

You step down. Down, again.

One at a time until you’re on solid ground, the outside air cool against your skin as you step into the night.

You look left, and see no one. You glance right, and find Simon leaning against the brick wall, lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, one booted foot kicked back.

The two of you stare at each other, a thousand silent words exchanging between the two of you in a matter of seconds.

All that running you did, and here you are, facing one of the men you fled from.

Will you understand, Simon? Will they?

Will you forgive me for what I did?

Simon pushes off, takes a long drag of his cigarette, and exhales slowly. The smoke rises and frames his face for a flicker of moment before rising in the air. It curls up and away, disappearing. Simon puts out the cigarette and tosses it into a nearby bin.

He offers you his hand, palm upward and open.

There is no hesitation when you raise your arm, and slide your hand into his.

[whosscruffylooking]

Militiae Species Amor Est III

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

a/n: just a reminder that this is a rewrite of Gladiator II. the timeline and events are different as well as the relationships of the characters.

warnings : // mentions of death. canon typical violence.

word count: 4k

chapter I & chapter II

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Over the next few weeks, you work closely with Lucilla and Acacius, carefully plotting Lucius’s escape. Lucilla looks at you with a knowing smile, her gaze soft with understanding. “My son seems much lighter, having been graced by your presence recently,” she says, her tone tinged with warmth.

 “Our visits are strictly for the purpose of aiding him, so I am certain he is filled with hope now, more than anything else.” 

Her smile deepens, the fondness for her son clear in her eyes, despite the years of separation. “He always was the type to draw strength from those he loved.”

“The final steps of our plan are in place,” Lucilla says, her tone steady but filled with a quiet urgency. “Please go to him tonight and share the news that tomorrow night will mark the beginning of our rescue mission.” She pauses, her gaze softening as she looks at you. “And give him my love.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

After sharing the plan with him, the two of you sit in silence, the weight of the moment pressing down on you both. The rest of the gladiators had been taken out for a night of feasting, yet Lucius was left behind as punishment, alone in the shadows of his confinement.

“It is unfair and cruel that they push you harder than anyone else in training and yet punish you for not having a broken spirit,” you say softly, kneeling before him.

Lucius smiles faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yet I do not mind,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm. “For I get to spend my evening in the solace of your presence. Without any onlookers to see when I do this…” He reaches up gently, brushing your hair back from your face, and then his lips find yours in a kiss that lingers, tender and full of longing.

The kiss begins slow, soft, tender, as though testing the waters, but there's an undeniable hunger beneath the surface. His hand finds the back of your neck, pulling you closer, urging you to deepen it. You respond instinctively, your own fingers threading into his hair, feeling the heat of his touch, the pressure of his lips against yours growing more insistent.

You can feel the way his body shifts, his chest pressing against yours, a quiet urgency seeping into the kiss as his hands roam down your back. His lips part just enough, and when you follow his lead, the kiss intensifies further. The world outside the two of you seems to disappear, and all that remains is the sensation of his warmth, his breath, his passion.

His touch becomes more desperate, as if he's fighting against the fleeting moment, and you find yourself responding in kind, your heart racing, every part of you aching for more. You rise, moving over him with a quiet urgency, your hands pressing him gently back onto the small cot. A soft, strangled moan escapes his lips as he trembles beneath your touch, and you feel the heat of his body against yours.

You trail your lips down his chest, the sound of his breath hitching with every kiss you leave behind. His hands find their way into your hair, fingers tugging, pulling you closer, a silent plea for more. With each movement, each kiss, his grip tightens, as if trying to pull you into him completely, and you can feel the tension between you, the need building higher with every second that passes.

He trembles beneath you, his body a mirror of your own desire, and you can feel the pull of his touch, the intensity of his need, wrapping around you like a wave. But even in this moment, there's a careful awareness-each kiss, each movement, is a step toward something both dangerous and inevitable.

But then, he stops you, his voice trembling as he whispers, “Please… do not allow me to agonize any further.” You glance up at him, his eyes filled with a quiet, almost unbearable pain. “Your kiss… has tortured me more than enough. Knowing that I have felt your lips against mine, and yet I am left longing for something I cannot fully have, it tears at me. Seldom do I get to embrace that feeling, that warmth of you so close, and now it haunts me more than it brings me solace.”

He shifts slightly, his breath unsteady, his hands still gripping your arm, but not pulling you closer. “I cannot have you grace me with your exquisite touch more intimately than we have already ventured, not without it becoming a cruel reminder of what I can’t fully possess. One night with you would exhaust me far more than twenty men in the arena… and for that, I must save my strength.”

His voice is low, thick with emotion, and there’s a desperate sincerity in his words. He’s trying to keep control, to remind himself of the responsibility he carries—but the ache in his eyes tells you that even his strength is faltering.

You look into his eyes, the weight of your words heavy with all the unspoken promises that have lingered between you for years. Gently, you cup his face in your hands, your thumb brushing over his skin as your voice trembles with quiet resolve.

“When you’re free, Lucius… when you’re finally free, I promise you, I will be all yours. I’ll give you every part of me, and we’ll spend the night together—without fear, without restraint. Just us.”

You lean in closer, your forehead touching his, as if sealing the promise between you with the intensity of the moment. “But until then… we have to wait. I have to wait, because I won’t have you broken—physically or emotionally—because of a single night. When you’re free, you’ll know it’s real, that it’s everything we’ve both longed for.”

Just as your words fall into the charged silence between you, the door to the room crashes open. Caius storms in, his face red with fury. His gaze locks onto the two of you, taking in the closeness, the tenderness in your exchange, and it’s clear he’s not fooled.

“Enough!” he shouts, his voice harsh, his chest heaving with anger.

You freeze, your heart sinking. You step back, trying to compose yourself as Caius’ eyes blaze with betrayal. “Caius… this isn’t what you think—”

“No!” he interrupts, his voice sharp, cutting through the air. “I know exactly what it is. The two of you have been playing me for a fool.” His gaze turns to Lucius, fury swirling in his eyes. “How long has this been going on? How long have you been toying with her?”

You take a step forward, trying to steady yourself, but your body trembles as you face Caius’ fury. “Caius, please listen to me,” you plead, your voice soft but filled with an undercurrent of desperation. “It’s not like that. You don’t understand—”

The air is thick with tension as Caius stands in the doorway, his face contorted with rage. “You’ve been lying to me,” he growls, stepping into the room, eyes flashing with fury. “All this time, I trusted you, and now I find you here, with him. You’ve betrayed me.”

Lucius remains calm, his body coiled like a spring, but his gaze is steady and unwavering. “You’ve done nothing but hold her captive with your lies, Caius,” he says, his voice low but sharp. “She deserves more than this.”

Caius’ eyes snap to Lucius, and without warning, he lunges toward him, swinging a fist through the air with the intention of hitting him. But Lucius is quicker. With a fluid motion, he steps aside, easily dodging the blow.

“You’re pathetic,” Lucius mutters, his tone cold as he stands back, letting Caius stumble forward in a failed attempt to land his punch. The sound of Caius’ fist slamming into the air rings in the room, and the frustration on his face is palpable.

Caius staggers, his balance momentarily lost, then he whirls back to face Lucius, breathing heavily. “You think you can humiliate me, gladiator?” His voice is strained, full of venom.

Lucius remains unfazed, his stance still relaxed, his hands at his sides. “You’re the one humiliating yourself, Caius. This isn’t about strength or power. It’s about respect—and you’ve lost hers.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch, knowing the inevitable confrontation has come, but seeing Caius lose his composure like this is almost more painful than you anticipated. You don’t want to see them fight—not like this.

Caius, enraged and humiliated by his failed attempt, glares at Lucius, his fists clenched tightly. “You think you’ve won? You think you’re the one who gets to decide what happens between us? Between her and me?”

The rage in his voice rises with every word. You step forward, your voice trembling but firm. “Caius, please. This isn’t helping anything. You’re only making it worse.”

He looks at you, eyes filled with fury and betrayal. “You’ve made your choice,” he spits, his voice low and guttural. “But don’t think this is over. I’ll make sure you regret this.”

With one final, disgusted glance at Lucius, he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force that the walls seem to shake.

You’re left standing in the silence that follows, your body still trembling from the confrontation. Lucius steps toward you slowly, his eyes softening as he looks at you.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says quietly, his voice gentle despite the heat of the moment.

You shake your head, your breath coming in uneven gasps. “It’s not your fault.”

Lucius reaches out, his hand gently cupping your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek.

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, the weight of everything that just happened crashing down on you all at once. 

Lucius pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if trying to offer you the comfort you’ve been denied for so long. “Soon, I will be free. And you will be safe in my arms. We will no longer be bound by our shackles.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The night of the escape plan arrives, but it unravels faster than anyone could have anticipated. The betrayal of the plan by one of Caius’s guards is the final blow, and Lucius is forced into the arena without the chance to escape. The gates open, and the roar of the crowd fills the air.

In the center of the arena stands Acacius—the man who had once married Lucius’ mother, who had tried to help him escape from this nightmare. Lucius stands frozen, his heart heavy with the weight of the moment. 

Acacius looks at him, his gaze filled with both sadness and resolve. Lucius can’t speak, can’t move, trapped between what’s right and what’s forced upon him.

“Lucius,” Acacius begins, his voice surprisingly calm. “I never wanted it to come to this. I tried to break you free. But now… this is the way we must meet.”

Lucius feels the weight of Acacius’s words, his sword feels heavier than ever, but his resolve is stronger.

The tension hangs between them, the roar of the crowd growing louder, urging them on. The announcer’s voice calls for the fight to begin, and the tension is unbearable.

Acacius steps forward, his sword flashing, and their weapons meet with a force that sends a shock through Lucius’s entire body. Steel clashes, but the force is more than physical; it is everything that’s been unspoken between them. Acacius’s strikes come swift, but there’s no deadly intention behind them. The fight is a dance—a struggle for something both of them already know they’ve lost.

After minutes that feel like an eternity, Acacius holds his hand up in surrender, a quiet resignation settling over him. The emperor, furious at the sudden turn of events, calls for his immediate death. But Lucius refuses to follow through. Instead, with a calm determination, he kneels in front of Acacius, his heart heavy, offering his own surrender as well.

"I loved your mother," Acacius says suddenly, his voice thick with emotion, the weight of his words pressing down on both of them. "And your father? I would have died for him."

Lucius's breath catches at the unexpected confession. 

But before Lucius can speak, the sound of arrows fills the air, sharp and unforgiving. From every direction, they pierce Acacius's chest and his armor, their deadly trajectory swift and accurate. Acacius's eyes go wide with shock as the first arrow sinks deep, followed by a barrage more, each one striking him with ruthless precision.

He falls to the ground, crumpling like a broken figure, his life draining from him in a matter of seconds. Lucius's hands tremble as he watches the blood spill, his heart torn between rage, sorrow, and helplessness.

"No!" Lucius cries out, reaching for him, but it's too late. The life has already left Acacius's eyes, his body lying still in the sand, soaked in blood.

The crowd erupts, but Lucius barely hears them. His world narrows to the man who had once tried to protect him, now lying lifeless before him. The emperor's command still rings in his ears, the pressure of it suffocating him, but all he can think of is the betrayal and the cruelty of it all.

With shaking hands, Lucius rises, his heart heavy with grief. The escape plan has failed.

The fight is over. And all he can do now is surrender-not just his body, but his spirit to a world that has taken everything from him.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Your feet move of their own accord, your heart hammering in your chest as you make your way toward Lucius’s cell. The weight of your guilt is unbearable, a constant ache pressing down on you. You’ve failed him—failed the plan—and now the consequences are all too clear. Acacius is dead, and Lucius is left to bear the burden of it all.

As you approach the cold stone walls of his prison, the distant sounds of the arena fade. You feel hollow, guilt consuming every step, yet you can’t turn back. You can’t leave him to suffer alone.

Reaching the door, you hesitate before pushing it open. The small, dimly lit space feels oppressive, the air heavy with unspoken words. Lucius stands near the far wall, his back to you, his form tense and still. His posture, always so commanding, now seems weighed down by exhaustion—by everything.

“I’m so sorry, Lucius,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your grief. “I never meant for this to happen. If it weren’t for me, for my mistakes, this plan—it would’ve worked. You wouldn’t have had to fight him. You wouldn’t have to bear this…”

Lucius glances at you, his expression unreadable, the mask of a gladiator concealing his thoughts. You step closer, your hands trembling at your sides. Guilt constricts your chest like a vice, and yet you press on. You can’t leave him like this—not again.

“I… I should never have let things go as far as they did,” you continue, your voice barely a whisper. “I should never have let my feelings for you grow while I was still bound to Caius. I’ve ruined everything, Lucius. Everything.”

The tears you’ve fought to hold back now spill freely. But Lucius doesn’t speak. The silence stretches thick between you, heavy with unspoken words and regrets. Tentatively, you reach out, your hand hovering inches from his arm before you let it fall back to your side in defeat.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” you say again, your voice small and broken. “For what I did. For what I didn’t do. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve been braver. But now, all I’ve done is ruin the only chance you had.”

Finally, Lucius moves, his gaze softening as he steps toward you. His hand brushes your tear-streaked cheek, the touch light but laden with everything left unsaid. He doesn’t speak immediately, but when he does, his voice is steady, though tinged with sorrow.

“This was always going to end this way. There were forces greater than us at play. But you… you were never the reason this failed. You gave me hope when I thought I had nothing left.”

A sob escapes you, your heart breaking at his words. The man who has every right to hate you instead offers comfort. His grace only deepens your guilt, making you feel even more unworthy of him.

“I wish I could have been stronger for you,” you whisper, your voice raw. “I wish I could’ve been what you needed.”

Lucius’s hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he lets it fall, his eyes searching yours. “You were,” he says softly. “You always have been.”

You close your eyes, your shoulders shaking as a sob tears free. “But we’ve lost so much, Lucius. The plan failed because of me. And now Acacius is dead because of me.”

He shakes his head gently, his fingers brushing against your face again, grounding you in his quiet strength. “None of this is your fault. What has happened is the work of pride and greed, not you.”

You nod, though the ache remains—a gnawing sorrow that won’t let go. You’ve lost so much—Acacius, the chance for freedom, and perhaps even the hope you’d clung to. But in the midst of your grief, one thing is clear: you cannot leave Lucius behind. Not now. Not ever.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You stand in the dimly lit chamber, the torches on the walls flickering with an unsteady light. Caius is pacing before you, his expression sharp, every movement a testament to his agitation. The weight of what he’s done crashes down on you, fueling the fire that’s been building inside since you learned the truth. Finally, you can’t hold it in any longer.

“You knew,” you say, your voice trembling with restrained anger. “You knew about the plan to help Lucius escape, and you deliberately sabotaged it.”

Caius stops in his tracks, his back stiffening as your words echo through the chamber. He turns slowly to face you, his face carefully blank, though his eyes betray the storm within. “I did what I had to do,” he says coldly. “Lucius was a threat—to everything we’ve built, to you.”

“To me?” you snap, stepping closer, your voice rising with fury. “You call this protecting me? Acacius is dead because of you, Caius! He died trying to give Lucius a chance—a chance you ripped away!”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “Acacius made his choice. He chose to betray the order, to risk everything for some foolish notion of freedom. Don’t put his blood on my hands.”

Your chest heaves as you struggle to control your emotions, the weight of grief and anger threatening to overwhelm you. “His blood is on your hands!” you shout, pointing at him. “You fed the guards information, didn’t you? You told them about the escape route, knowing full well what would happen.”

Caius’ expression hardens, and he takes a step closer, his voice lowering into a growl. “And what would you have me do? Stand by and let you throw everything away for a gladiator? For him?”

“For him,” you repeat, your voice steady now, though it cuts through the air like a blade. “Because he would have done the same for me. Because he deserves better than this twisted, hollow world you’ve tried to keep him in. And because Acacius believed in him, just like I do.”

Caius scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re blinded by your feelings. Lucius is nothing more than a fantasy you’ve clung to—a way to rebel against the life you were given. But in the real world, Iris, dreams like that get people killed. Acacius is proof of that.”

His words are meant to wound, and for a moment, they do. But then you remember the look in Acacius’ eyes—the unwavering conviction, the quiet strength of someone who knew the risks and still chose to fight for something greater.

“Acacius died a hero,” you say, your voice firm. “He died fighting for something he believed in, something worth risking everything for. What do you believe in, Caius? Power? Control? Yourself?”

He doesn’t answer, his silence louder than any defense he could offer.

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes as you stare at the man you once thought you knew. “I trusted you,” you whisper. “And you betrayed me, just like you betrayed them.”

For the first time, Caius falters. His mask slips, and for a fleeting moment, you see something—regret, perhaps, or the faintest trace of guilt. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the familiar coldness that has come to define him.

“Trust won’t save you, Iris,” he says, his tone flat, almost mechanical. “Neither will Lucius. All it will do is leave you broken, just like Acacius.”

Your heart twists at the cruelty of his words, but you refuse to let him see the pain he has caused. “You are wrong,” you say, your voice steady with unyielding resolve. “Lucius will taste freedom, and I shall see to it myself. When that day comes, Caius, you will know just how blind you have been.”

You take a breath, mustering up the courage to ask the question that has weighed on your mind since his betrayal was revealed. 

“Why did you not name me as a conspirator?” you ask, your tone sharp and unflinching.

Caius arches a brow, his expression a mix of arrogance and cold calculation. “Do not think I shielded your name out of affection or mercy,” he replies coolly. “I did so to preserve my family’s honor. Should you wish to repay this debt, you will abandon all notions of aiding Lucius. You will bind yourself to me as intended—without protest, without spectacle, and with dignity befitting your station.”

“I would sooner embrace the grave,” you spit, your words slicing the air like a blade.

Caius’ lip curls in disdain. “What a pity, for you would miss the glorious Rome that Macrinus envisions.”

The slip in his words is subtle, but it is enough. You narrow your eyes, sensing the truth behind his misstep. A bitter chuckle escapes your lips as understanding dawns. “Ah, so this is the endgame. Macrinus in power. And what follows, Caius? The blood of the emperors staining the Senate steps?”

He falters, the flicker of surprise betraying him before his mask of composure can return.

“It is, isn’t it?” you say, your voice rising, emboldened by his silence. “You plan to murder the twin emperors and enthrone a man consumed by hatred and vengeance. Macrinus, who would sooner condemn Rome to ashes than rule it wisely. Do you not see the madness in this?”

Caius remains silent, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with barely concealed frustration.

You take a step closer, your resolve hardening with each word. “You would hand Rome to a tyrant worse than the fools who rule it now. At least they are too dim-witted to bring swift ruin. But Macrinus? He would destroy Rome before the year is out.”

“Enough,” Caius growls, but you press on, undeterred.

“Stop this treachery, Caius. Call off your schemes, or I swear on the gods themselves—I will stop them for you.”

The room falls into a charged silence, your words echoing against the stone walls. Caius says nothing, his gaze fixed on you, sharp and calculating. But you see the hesitation, the cracks in his once-unshakable confidence.

For a moment, you think he might relent. But even if he doesn’t, your path is clear. Rome’s future—and Lucius’ freedom—depends on your strength. And you will not falter.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

taglist : @tsunchani @willowpains @beau-hawkins @987coley @mmkkzz @a-dizzle777 @allthingsimagines

[ch0llies]

REVIVAL | CHRISTOPHER STURNIOLO

A story in which a messy breakup lands you in your best friend's Boston apartment a year after high school, and you find yourself face-to-face again with Christopher Sturniolo-your first love. As your paths cross again, the bitterness of how you left him still lingers, fueling every hated glance. But with your best friend dating his brother, you know is there's no escaping Chris- or the tension that refuses to die. Is this revival destined to reignite, or will it crumble under the weight of your unresolved past?

story warning: this story includes very toxic and abusive behavior. none of the actions or words in this series are justified and are written exclusively for entertainment purposes only. under no circumstances are they personally associated with chris other than just using him as the main character. read at your own discretion. now that that is cleared up, there will be filthy smut, angst, swearing, underage drinking, underage drug use, abusive behavior, morally skewed choices, toxic relationships, and overall mature themes. if any of this upsets you... don't read!

word count: 4k

CHAPTER SIX:

Two Months Later

The cycle never ended. If anything it got worse. Chris pulled you in, made you believe you were something to him, only to push you away the second you got too close. And the worst part? You let him. Over and over and over again.

Some days, he was all over you- his hands on your waist, his lips ghosting over your skin, whispering things that made you forget everything except him. And then, the next day, he’d act like you barely existed. He’d brush past you without a word, act cold, distant, and cruel, as if the night before never happened. And every time you told yourself you wouldn’t fall for it again, that you’d shut him out, he’d find a way back in.

It was exhausting. It was toxic. And yet, you couldn’t stop.

To make matters worse, the triplets’ channel had blown up. In just two months, they’d gained over 20,000 subscribers, and their videos were pulling in thousands of views daily. With their rapid growth, filming had become their priority- meaning your apartment had basically turned into their second home.

Matt had even moved in with you and Ava, claiming he “practically lived here anyway.” He wasn’t wrong. He and Ava were inseparable, and while you loved having him around, it also meant dealing with the other side of their relationship- the constant sex, the loud giggles coming from her bedroom at ungodly hours, and the way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

Chris, of course, was around even more now because of it. Between filming, editing, and brainstorming video ideas, he was constantly in your space, constantly finding new ways to get under your skin.

Right now, the living room was a mess of cameras, lighting stands, and random props as the boys set up for another video.

“You’re sure this is okay?” Nick asked, adjusting the camera on its tripod. “We don’t wanna be in your way, Y/N.”

You scoffed, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Nick, you guys have basically been living here for weeks. I think we passed the ‘in my way’ phase a long time ago.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.”

Matt jogged into the room, wrapping an arm around Ava’s waist and spinning her in a quick circle before setting her down with a loud kiss. She giggled, slapping his chest playfully, and you rolled your eyes.

“You two make me sick,” you muttered.

“You’re just jealous,” Ava shot back, smirking.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, you felt it- Chris’s presence behind you. Close. Too close.

“You should be jealous,” he murmured in your ear, his voice just low enough for only you to hear. “They have their whole life planned out and you? You’re just my bitch.”

Your stomach twisted as his words sank in, a familiar frustration bubbling to the surface. You turned to face him, but he was already walking away, joining Matt and Nick by the camera, acting as if he hadn’t just whispered something that would sit in your head all night.

This was how it always was. He got under your skin, made sure you knew he was in control, and then left you stewing in it.

You clenched your jaw, exhaling sharply as you grabbed a pepsi from the fridge. If this was your life now- Chris everywhere, pushing and pulling, never letting you breathe- you were going to have to figure out how to survive it.

Even if it meant pretending he didn’t affect you. Even if it meant lying to yourself every single day.

The video wrapped up after another chaotic hour of filming, and soon enough, everyone collapsed onto the couch, exhausted but still buzzing with leftover energy. You sat wedged between Ava and Nick, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly as the boys talked about their next upload.

Chris was sprawled on the other end of the couch, legs stretched out, his fingers lazily tapping against his thigh. The air between you was already tense- it always was- but tonight, there was something different, something thicker and heavier lingering between you.

Then, out of nowhere, Chris scoffed loudly, his eyes dragging over you with an expression you couldn’t quite place-but you knew it wasn’t good.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, his tone dripping with amusement and something sharper, something meant to cut.

Your head snapped up, your stomach twisting immediately. “What?”

He gestured vaguely at your oversized hoodie and bike shorts, his smirk deepening. “Did you gain weight or something?”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and the room went still. Ava and Matt were still laughing about something, not fully tuned into the conversation yet, but Nick caught it. His head snapped toward Chris, his expression shifting into something wary.

You clenched your jaw, heat rising to your face. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Chris leaned back against the armrest, completely unfazed. “I mean, you just look… bigger. Maybe it’s the outfit.”

Something inside you snapped.

Before you could think, you were lunging over Ava, your hands flying toward him as pure rage overtook every rational thought. Ava yelped as you climbed over her, and before Chris could react, your palm connected with his cheek in a sharp slap that echoed through the apartment.

“What the fuck, Y/N?!” Matt barked, grabbing you before you could strike again.

Nick shot up from the couch, eyes wide. “What the hell is going on?”

Chris barely flinched from the slap, his jaw tightening as he wiped at his cheek. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel the anger radiating off of him. Matt still had his arms wrapped around you, keeping you from lunging again, but you shoved him off roughly, stepping back and breathing heavily.

“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s going on,” you spat, glaring down at Chris. “Your brother just called me fucking fat, that’s what’s fucking going on.”

Ava’s mouth dropped open, and Nick immediately turned to Chris, his face a mix of shock and disgust. “Dude, what?”

Chris just smirked, rubbing his jaw where you had slapped him. “You’re overreacting.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Overreacting? That’s real fucking funny, considering you were telling me how much you loved my body when you were inside it the other night.”

The entire room went silent.

Ava’s head whipped toward you so fast you thought she might get whiplash. Matt and Nick both froze, their faces morphing from confusion to complete shock.

Chris’s smirk immediately disappeared, his entire body tensing. His blue eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as he pushed himself off the couch.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped, his voice low, dangerous.

He took a step toward you, and you squared your shoulders, refusing to back down.

Matt and Nick immediately jumped up, stepping between the two of you as Ava stared in horror, trying to process what she had just heard.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Matt said, holding a hand out toward Chris. “What the fuck is happening right now?”

Nick’s eyes darted between the two of you, his face pinched in disbelief. “You guys have been sleeping together again?”

Chris didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes locked on you, his fists clenched at his sides. The anger rolling off him was palpable, but you weren’t scared. Not even a little. You were pissed.

You took a step closer, tilting your head up to meet his glare. “Nah,” you said, shaking your head. “Let him go. What’s he gonna do, huh?”

Chris took another step forward, getting right in your face, his chest barely brushing against yours.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. You just smirked up at him, pushing every ounce of anger and adrenaline into your words.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice dripping with venom. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

Chris’s hand shot out before you could react, gripping your jaw roughly and tilting your face up toward him. His fingers pressed into your skin, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of the control he he had. His blue eyes burned into yours, his expression a mixture of fury and amusement.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered, his voice low and threatening.

Ava gasped loudly from behind you. “Chris, what the fuck?”

Nick and Matt immediately moved forward, their faces twisting in anger.

“Whoa, dude,” Matt barked, pushing forward. “Fucking watch it.”

Before you could even react, Matt shoved him back roughly, breaking his hold on you. Chris stumbled, falling back onto the couch with a heavy thud. His smirk returned, but this time it was darker, more twisted.

“Nah,” Chris said, shaking his head as he adjusted his jaw, his eyes flicking back to you. “If we’re gonna go there…” He let his words hang in the air for a second before locking onto you with a look that sent your blood boiling. “Why don’t you tell them how much you like being manhandled by me?”

Your whole body tensed, your vision going red. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear Ava’s shocked gasp or Nick’s stunned, “What the fuck?”

Chris just smiled evilly, watching as the words settled over the room, as the weight of them crushed you under embarrassment and anger.

Your hands clenched into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

You lunged for him again.

Chris didn’t even flinch, just smirked wider, waiting for you to completely snap.

But before you could reach him, Ava stepped in front of you, pressing her hands against your shoulders. “Okay, that’s enough- let’s just go upstairs.”

You shoved her hands off roughly. “Nah,” you spat, shaking your head, eyes locked on Chris. “He’s fucking getting it. I’m sick of his shit.”

Chris just sat there, leaning back lazily on the couch like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it on a pile of gasoline. His smirk never faltered. If anything, he looked thrilled by your reaction, like this was exactly what he wanted.

Matt and Nick both moved in again, their faces set in frustration, trying to de-escalate, but you didn’t care.

Your blood was boiling, your hands shaking with rage.

You were done playing his game. And if Chris wanted a war, he was fucking getting one.

Chris stood back up, towering over you, his smirk now fully twisted into something cruel and enjoying this. His blue eyes glinted with satisfaction, like he wanted you to react, wanted to break you down in front of everyone.

“Yeah,” he taunted, his voice dripping with mockery. “Go ahead, Y/N. Tell them.” He took a step closer, tilting his head as his voice dropped into something even darker, something condescending. “Tell them how much you like me grabbing you like that. How you beg for me to be rougher. How you whine for me to touch you. How fucking pathetic you are for me.”

Your whole body went rigid, your breathing sharp and uneven as the words sank in, hot and humiliating.

Ava gasped again, but she didn’t step in this time.

Nick muttered, “Dude- what the actual fuck?”

Matt looked at you with a mixture of confusion and concern, but all you could hear was Chris. His words burned into your skin like fire, filling you with a rage so consuming you didn’t even think-

You lunged.

This time, no one was there to stop you.

Your hands collided with his chest as you shoved him back with everything you had. But Chris barely moved. He let out a low chuckle, his smirk deepening, enjoying your reaction.

Before you could strike again, his hands snatched your wrists, his grip strong and unyielding. In one swift movement, he twisted your arms together, locking them in place as you struggled.

“You never learn, do you?” he muttered, shaking his head as if he pitied you.

You thrashed against his grip, but he didn’t budge. His fingers tightened around your wrists, his hold completely inescapable. Your breathing was ragged, your chest rising and falling too fast, your anger consuming every rational thought.

Then, without another word, he started dragging you away.

“Chris, let go of me!” you yelled, twisting in his hold, but he didn’t stop.

“Woah- wait, wait, wait!” Matt’s voice rang out, his footsteps moving toward you both.

“Nah, what the fuck?” Nick snapped, his voice sharper now. “You can’t just take her like that!”

“Chris-” Ava started, stepping forward, her tone full of warning. “Bring my girl back- NOW!”

Chris ignored all of them. His grip on you stayed firm, his body radiating nothing but control as he dragged you toward the hallway, toward somewhere away from them. Somewhere just you and him.

Ava’s panicked voice cut through the tension. “Matt, do something!”

Matt didn’t hesitate. He surged forward and shoved Chris back- hard. Chris stumbled a step, his grip loosening on you just enough for you to break free.

Matt got right up in his face, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “Yo, you wanna put your hands on someone? Let’s go, kid.”

Chris let out a low, humorless laugh, rolling his shoulders like he was itching for a fight. “Are we really doing this right now?”

Matt didn’t back down. “Yeah, bud. Let’s do it.”

And then Matt swung.

His fist connected with Chris’s jaw in a clean, sharp hit that sent a crack through the room. Chris staggered back, his tongue swiping over the inside of his cheek where Matt had landed the punch.

But before he could retaliate, you moved.

“Matt, STOP!”

The words flew from your lips before you could even think. Without hesitation, you stepped between them, your hands pressing against Chris’s chest, keeping him from lunging forward.

Matt froze, his breathing ragged as he glared at you. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

Ava’s voice rang out next, full of disbelief. “Are you deadass? Y/N, what the fuck are you doing?!”

You weren’t listening. Your hands instinctively moved to Chris’s face, checking where Matt had hit him, your fingers lightly grazing his jaw. “Are you okay?” you asked breathlessly, your voice softer, concerned.

Chris’s smirk returned- but this one was different. He tilted his head slightly, soaking in the way you were touching him, the way you had stepped in for him instead of letting Matt beat his ass.

And then, before anyone could react, he cupped your face in both hands, his touch almost gentle in contrast to the chaos around you. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, his fingers curling into your hair as he pulled you closer.

Then he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

The action sent shockwaves through the room.

Matt’s fists clenched at his sides. Ava’s jaw dropped in pure disbelief. Nick looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Chris’s arms wrapped around your waist, securing you against him as he turned his head just enough to glance at Matt, smug satisfaction dripping from every inch of him.

“See?” Chris murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear. “She’s fine.”

Then, his grip on you tightened slightly, his lips brushing against your temple as he muttered the final nail in the coffin-

“We’re leaving.”

And he started guiding you toward the door, leaving nothing but silence, shock, and the unmistakable feeling that you had just chosen the wrong side. But you knew it would be the side you’d choose again and again and again.

Chris didn’t give anyone time to process what had just happened. He moved swiftly, his grip still firm on your wrist as he led you toward the front door. His eyes flicked toward the table near the entrance, and without hesitation, he grabbed your car keys.

“Chris, what the fuck-” you started, yanking at your arm, but he wasn’t letting go.

Ignoring your protests, he snatched a jacket from the coat rack- the first one he saw- before throwing it over your shoulders. It wasn’t yours. It was his- one of his dark, oversized hoodies, drowning your frame, completely swallowing up the little shorts and shirt you were wearing prior.

And you knew he did it on purpose.

Chris didn’t like other people seeing you like this. Even though he had no right to that opinion. Even though you weren’t his.

But he still covered you up like you were.

He pulled you outside without another word, walking straight toward your car. With one hand, he wrenched the passenger door open, and before you could fight back, he shoved you inside.

“Chris-”

SLAM.

He shut the door before you could finish, storming around the front of the car and sliding into the driver’s seat like it was his car. The second he turned the ignition, the engine roared to life, and his grip tightened around the steering wheel.

Then, without so much as a warning, he peeled out of the driveway, speeding down the street recklessly.

The anger in the air was suffocating.

The silence was short-lived.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” you screamed, whipping around to face him.

Chris’s jaw was locked, his knuckles white around the steering wheel as he refused to look at you. “Shut up.”

“NO!” you snapped, slamming your hands against the dashboard. “PULL THE FUCK OVER!”

Chris laughed. A cold, humorless laugh. “Not a fucking chance.”

Your nails dug into your palms, your rage blinding. “You do NOT get to do this to me, Chris! You do NOT get to fucking drag me out of there like I’m-”

“Like you’re what?” he interrupted sharply, finally cutting his eyes toward you. “Like you’re MINE?”

The car swerved slightly as he took a turn too fast, and your breath caught in your throat.

You weren’t scared.

You were fucking furious.

“I AM NOT YOURS!” you screamed. “I HAVEN’T BEEN YOURS SINCE HIGH SCHOOL, YOU FUCKING PSYCHO!”

Chris slammed his fist against the steering wheel so hard that the entire car shook. His breathing was ragged, his knuckles white, his face twisted in pure, unfiltered rage.

“YOU WERE NEVER MINE IN HIGH SCHOOL!” he shouted, his voice so raw and furious it sent a jolt through your body. “THAT WAS THE FUCKING PROBLEM, YOU CUNT! YOU’RE THE ONE WHO FUCKING LEFT ME!”

Your chest heaved as his words slammed into you like a bullet, but you didn’t back down.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING CALL ME THAT! I LEFT BECAUSE YOU WERE NEVER GONNA BE WHAT I NEEDED, CHRIS!” you screamed, your own voice just as raw. “You never fucking cared about me- not really! You cared about owning me! Controlling me!”

Chris’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle twitch. His grip on the wheel tightened, his breath coming out fast and uneven. “Oh, that’s rich,” he sneered. “You think I didn’t fucking care about you? You think I wasn’t fucking obsessed with you? I would’ve burned the entire fucking world down for you, Y/N, and you fucking left.”

His words felt like a slap.

For a second- just a second you saw it.

The real anger. The real pain. The Chris who had been left behind, the Chris you had ghosted, the Chris who had spent years turning that heartbreak into something uglier, something crueler. You did this to him.

But you weren’t about to let him rewrite history to make himself the victim.

“You pushed me away first,” you hissed, your voice shaking with rage. “You never told me what we were, you never let me in, and the second I started moving on, you decided I wasn’t allowed to!”

Chris let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, is that what you tell yourself? That I pushed you away? No, baby.” His voice lowered, his tone sharp as a blade. “You left because someone else gave you a little bit of attention. Because the second you saw an easier option, you fucking took it. You ran the moment things got complicated, because that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Your hands shook in your lap.

“Fuck you,” you whispered.

Chris smirked, but it wasn’t amused- it was mean. Cruel.

“Oh, I already do,” he murmured. “Over and over again.”

Your body burned with rage, with shame, with the unbearable truth in his words.

He leaned in again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “And that’s why we’re here. Because you’re mine now, Y/N. Maybe you weren’t back then. But you are now.”

“I AM NOT FUCKING YOURS YOU EVIL, MANIPULATIVE, PIECE OF SHIT! GET OUT OF MY FUCKING LIFE!” You screech, your entire body fighting between the urge to slap him again and the urge to fucking sob.

Chris slammed his fist against the steering wheel again, his knuckle busting open as the car swerved. “Oh, REALLY?” he shouted. “Then why the fuck did you just CHOOSE ME OVER THEM?”

Your mouth opened- but nothing came out.

Chris scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I fucking thought.”

Your blood was boiling. Your hands were shaking. “You are so fucking sick and twisted, Chris-”

“AND YOU FUCKING LOVE IT!” he yelled, voice raw with frustration.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your vision blurring with rage.

“You don’t know shit about what I love,” you spat.

Chris finally slammed the brakes, pulling the car onto the side of the road so fast that your body jerked forward against the seatbelt. His breathing was heavy, his hands still gripping the wheel like he was trying not to completely lose his mind, his knuckle bleeding down his hand but it was like he didn’t even notice.

Then, slowly, too slowly, he turned his head to look at you.

His eyes were burning.

“You’re right,” he murmured, his voice dangerous. “I don’t know shit about what you love.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your face as he tilted his head.

“But I do know you love me. That every time I touch you, you melt for me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“And I know that you can sit here and scream and curse at me all you want, but at the end of the day?” He licked his lips, eyes scanning your face. “You let me do this to you.”

Your breathing was ragged, your throat burning from all the screaming.

Chris smirked, leaning back against his seat. “So, tell me again, Y/N- who’s really the fucking psycho here?”

Your entire body burned with anger, with frustration, with pure, unfiltered rage. You clenched your fists so tight your nails dug into your palms, your breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“YOU’RE THE FUCKING PSYCHO!” you screamed, the words tearing out of you like a final, desperate attempt to shake him, to make him feel something real.

Chris just grinned.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, shaking his head like he pitied you. “You wanna see psycho?”

And then he closed his eyes.

He shifted into drive and peeled onto the main road without looking.

The tires screeched, the engine roared, and your stomach dropped as the car lurched forward, blindly, into traffic.

“CHRIS!” you shrieked, your hands flying toward him, shaking his arm. “OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES!”

But he didn’t.

He laughed.

And kept driving.

The headlights of another car came blaring toward you, horn blaring, tires screeching-

You screamed.

With shaking hands and tears streaming down your face, you yanked the emergency brake, the car swerving violently off the road, your body jerking forward against the seatbelt. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car skidded onto the shoulder, your heartbeat pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

And only then- when the world stopped spinning, when the car settled in the dark stillness of the roadside, when your whole body was shaking with terror- did Chris finally open his fucking eyes.

And the fucker was smiling.

A slow, lazy, utterly thrilled smile, like he had won.

You were still gasping for breath, tears spilling down your face as you tried to process what the fuck just happened, when he reached over and cupped your face in his hands.

“Shh,” he cooed, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his grip firm, inescapable. He leaned in, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him through your tears as blood dripped down his fist onto the hoodie you were wearing. “You’re okay, baby. See? I told you you’d be fine.”

And then he kissed you.

You were still crying, still shaking, your whole body running on pure adrenaline, and he fucking kissed you.

His lips moved against yours slowly, deliberately, his grip on your face owning you, holding you in place like you belonged to him. His tongue swiped against your lower lip, his breath hot and steady, like he wasn’t the one who just almost killed you both.

You didn’t kiss him back.

You didn’t fight him off, either.

Because you couldn’t breathe, because you were still trying to process, because you were so fucking scared- and he knew it.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, his smirk small, knowing.

“We’re gonna go back to my house,” he murmured, his hands still holding you like you were his. “I’m gonna tell my mom we’re together.”

Your blood ran cold.

“Chris-”

“And you’re gonna be my good girl, just like you always are.” His thumbs brushed your wet cheeks, smearing your tears away. “And you’re gonna play along, okay?”

Your stomach twisted, your throat closing up with a choked sob.

You tried to move, but his hands tightened around your face.

“Okay, baby?” he repeated, softer now, like he was gently coaxing you into insanity.

Your whole body trembled.

“Fuck you,” you whispered, your voice raw, broken.

Chris only grinned.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chided, pressing another slow, possessive kiss against your lips, barely letting you breathe. “That’s not very good manners.”

His smirk deepened.

“Mary Lou wouldn’t like that.”

Your stomach dropped, fear curling up your spine like a vice.

Chris let go of your face, his fingers trailing over your jaw as he finally pulled back, shifting his focus back to the road.

Then, without another word, he reached down, undid the emergency brake, and pulled back onto the road towards his family house.

And you just sat there.

—

A/N: long overdue part!! thank you for being patient!! i actually loved writing this and can’t wait to get back into this series now that earned it is over!!

MASTERLIST

tags: @mattsobvimyfav @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @violetstxrniolo777 @urfungi @jxst-Ixving-bxt-wxerd @chrispycremedonut @ranwa0y @princesspinkkk23 @madisonnxtdoor22 @sturniolohohoho @theboredknightcat-blog @hi-people-who-are-alive @middlepartmatt

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 1 - Where Winning Looks Like Losing

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This is story non-canon compliant, with the two main differences being; 1) Butcher doesn't have brain cancer, because I said so. 2) All of Gen V didn't take place, because I don't want to deal with the whole supe-plauge thing. Also that's too many characters to keep track of squad. Because of this, the story will start in a similar setting as s4e5, but with different events leading up to it, and will deal with similar themes and have similar events to the rest of s4, but at an inconsistent rate. If you have any questions about other, smaller changes I have made, feel free to ask! Enjoy!

Word Count: 4k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See the Masterlist for Summary. Contains usual tags.

Chapter title is from Growing Up by Fall Out Boy.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff.

Read on A03!

Chapter 2

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

You were not, and never had been, in the business of fighting your wars bloody. You fought them smart, and you fought them dirty. You wouldn’t call yourself callous; if anything, you could use a little more misanthropy in your life, but your moral compass was… subjective. You would steal bread to feed your family, you would cheat if you knew you wouldn’t get caught, and, as you had spent the last six months learning, you would quickly cover your hands in all the blood and grime in the world so that nobody else would have to.

Which was, unfortunately, not a figure of speech.

You let yourself lie in the mud, the cool texture soothing your always-warm skin, and fought the urge to sleep. You could hear someone shouting your name, strung together with an impressive array of obscenities and barely audible over whatever phase of the argument your companions were on, but god, you just could not bring yourself to give a fuck. Sure, the blood on your face was already dry, and the hay mixed into the mud itched and needled at your skin, but you’d live. You’d survived much worse, and at this point it was scientifically impossible for you to get sick, so everyone could just come back for you in a week or two. Maybe three. However long it took for the nightmare sheep to die and Vought’s stock prices to be lower in the mud than where you lay. Maybe a bit longer. Maybe until Homelander wasn’t a you problem anymore. Maybe they’d feed his corpse to the nightmare sheep when they came to get you.

You felt yourself smile a little at that thought. Dead Homelander, weak and pathetic; golden hair grimy; awful blue eyes milky and hollow. Dead Homelander, hands unable to hurt you, mouth unable to twist into that horrific smile. Dead Homelander, pretty face mauled and stupid outfit smelling like shit from being dragged in it to the barn. Dead Homelander, being torn to tiny pieces and eaten by sheep. Dead Homelander, the worst thing that ever happened to you, finishing his reign of terror shat out next to a creek somewhere.

Your smile covered your whole face at this point. It probably looked weird and creepy—the dire, life-or-death situation you were smack dab in the middle of not doing it any favors—but god, it was too perfect a daydream. You could live here forever, in the mud, with your fucked-up little fantasy on loop.

Tragically, you barely had twenty seconds in this ideal world when something hit you in the face.

“What the fuck?!" You sat up, ignoring the hand offering aid from Frenchie, glaring around the barn for your assailant.

“Bout time you join the land of the living, Love. We’ve got a fucking problem, and you don’t get to nap until it’s fixed.” Across the barn, Billy Butcher shot you a cocky grin that didn’t meet his eyes. To be fair, you weren’t sure it ever did.

“You didn’t have to hit me in the face, you ass.”

“That was me,” Frenchie cut in. “And you should thank me; Monsieur Butcher was going to shoot you.”

“You were going to shoot me?!”

“Would’ve felt the same either way, wouldn’t it?” Butcher shrugged.

“No! I’m not bulletproof, you dick!”

“You’d live.”

“So would MM if you shot him! I don’t see you gearing up for that!”

“Well, MM wasn’t sleeping in the middle of a crisis!”

You rolled your eyes, meeting Butcher’s glare from across the room. "Oh, please, you just wanted an excuse to try and kill me!”

“If I wanted to kill you, Sweetheart, it’d look more like this.” Butcher’s arms started to move behind him, where you knew he kept his gun, and you braced yourself, hands fisted at your side.

“Hey!” MM stepped forward, arms raised. “You, if you shoot anyone, I will throw you out to the sheep, I swear to God. And you,” he turned his gaze from Butcher, “turn it down; it’s the middle of winter in Maine, and I feel like I’m standing in the goddamn sun.”

You blinked, realizing that the room had rapidly become impossibly hot, and everyone had moved far as possible from where you stood. The new, alien feeling that sat under your skin was alight and sharp, almost buzzing through you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, stepping back. MM lowered his arms, a look of what might have been concern flashing across his face, but turned away as the conversation returned to the murder-sheep issue.

You took a few steps back; nobody stopping you or asking for your contribution, fully allowing you to shrink into the wall. You felt your hand move up to your throat, trying to slow the tense, short breaths passing in and out of your body.

“Try thinking of something that calmed you down before.”

You jumped, not having noticed Victoria Neuman move to your side, and gave her a small frown as you responded. “What?”

“Something familiar. Anything that takes the edge off. Trust me,” she gave you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. It won’t get easier on its own. And that,“ she gestured to your hand. “Won’t help it long-term.”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to drag your hand from your throat. Something happy. Something happy from before. What had been happy before?

Briefly, city lights flashed in your head, a song on a stereo accompanied by your own hum ringing silently in your ears. It vanished just as fast, but something in your chest loosened, and the feeling waned. Glancing over at Neuman, you saw a small nod of approval before she left your side, allowing you a second to steel yourself before following.

You found yourself standing next to Annie, who gave you a quick and, as far as you could tell, genuine smile before returning her attention to the tense conversation between Butcher and Stan Edgar. The former's voice had grown to a shout, somewhat ranting about a goose-chase for the bioweapon supposedly on this farm, the latter just watching with a cold, indifferent gaze.

“Are you done, Mr. Butcher?” Edgar’s voice betrayed no anger or fear; the only signs of emotion on his face his tightened lips and raised brows. “Because if you are, I would finally be able to share my plan to get us out of this hellhole you dug us.”

Butcher scoffed, but before he could call Edgar either a cunt or a twat—both seemed equally plausible at the moment—the stone-faced man continued.

“While I will be the first to admit that an error was made in regards to a possible weapon against Homelander, I could not call today a complete waste. After all, you introduced me to this… charming young woman. The Anomaly,” he turned to you, and a shiver ran up your spine as he used your supe name. “Is going to help us.”

“Uh,” you paled under the pressing eyes of your team. “No. I don’t, uh, I… no.”

“Yes. You will,” Edgar said. “The V variant you carry is Homelander’s attempt to duplicate the original, the one used on Soldier Boy. Most likely a good attempt. And though the original V was unstable and less than suitable in any practical means, it was potent. I do not think I would be wrong in guessing you are just as strong as Soldier Boy, and likely immortal as well.”

“No.” Annie cut it in. “If you’re going to suggest we use her as fucking bait, the answer is no.”

“I was not going to suggest that, Ms. January, why would I waste such a good product on sheep bait? I am proposing that she simply eliminate our issue. I hear sheep catch fire quite easily.”

Everyone was looking at you now. Waiting for you to step forward and say something, anything. But you were frozen, mouth slightly agape, a million scenarios playing out in your head. You saying yes, and failing to do anything but start a forest fire, the barn burning around you as everyone remained trapped inside. You saying no, and the sheep breaking in and eating everyone alive. You saying yes, but losing control and hitting someone, watching them burn to ash as they screamed. You saying no, and everyone just rotting away in the barn; you yourself unable to do the same. The silence hung in the room, taunt with the way breathing had become labored in your chest, and you thanked a god you didn’t believe in as Annie stepped forward.

“She can’t control it,” she told Edgar. “We’ve been working on it for months, and she’s gotten better, but she can’t. It’s more complicated than it usually is, and it’s new.”

“Well, then I guess we should start to pray she gets lucky. I simply will not die in a barn in Maine, and unless anyone else has a plan, I must insist we start moving. Before the structural integrity fails us, and we all become dinner.”

The room was quiet for another moment, Annie looking as if she wanted to argue, but MM spoke first, his voice laced with reluctance.

“He’s right. We don’t have time to come up with something better.” He sighed, turning to you. “You’re the best bet we’ve got.”

“Still a shit bet,” Butcher muttered.

You agreed.

But Edgar was right.

“Everyone will need to stay inside,” you said softly. “Even if it works, this could get… messy.”

Murmurs of agreement were made, and you turned to Kimiko. “You’re the strongest,” you told her. “You can open and close the door the fastest. Crack it open, I’ll run through, and slam it as fast as you fucking can.”

She nodded, moving to the barn's entrance. As she passed you, she paused, giving your arm a small squeeze and you a small smile before she continued. You smiled back, trying to ignore the flash of her anxiety running through you at the touch. Everyone else began to move to the opposite side, hiding pointlessly behind hay and barrels. Neuman paused, though, looking at you with an unreadable expression.

“Something calm,” was all she said before turning to follow Edgar.

Something calm.

City lights. Music. Cheap burgers and cheaper beer. Carefree smiles. Music.

You stood before the doors, giving Kimiko a small thumbs up. She raised her hand, fingers falling from five to four, from four to three.

Two.

One.

You sprinted forward, waited for the sound of a slam behind you, and let go.

The world lit up.

It felt like a hurricane was spilling out of you, like a part of you was being ripped out and launched away. You could see the fire, but not quite feel it. If anything a chill had set itself through your veins, your skin becoming flushed not from heat, but exhaustion. Already darkness was creeping into your eyes, the effort to control the flames splitting the sky taking a toll. It was like a volcano trying to control its eruption, if any of its magma was under the control of the mountain.

But you had to. You could pass out after; you could sleep for a hundred years, but right now you had to control it.

The blood and muck on your skin had been long seared off, the clothes on your back turning into foul-smelling smoke. Your job was long finished now, nothing but bone and sinew remaining of the sheep, but a new problem emerged.

You couldn’t stop. You were burning and burning and burning, and the feeling in your skin wasn’t dulling, but growing. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by pure adrenaline, yanking you up and up, away from relief.

Something calm, Neuman’s voice echoed in your head, and you closed your eyes, trying to hear that long-gone music and see those phantom lights.

It wasn’t working. And you were only getting closer to an edge, a drop into something you’d been so careful to avoid. It was eating you, pushing you further and further. You'd jump into the freezing water of the river but it would just evaporate. You’d bury yourself in the mud but it would just boil, feeding into itself.

Sing, a small part of you begged the rest. Just sing. No use hiding yourself if you’re dead.

You gave in, and began to hum. An empty tune, your voice on key but strained. Slowly, you felt yourself come to, your body returning to your control. You followed the song to the end, and as it ended, just before you collapsed on the ground, relief rushed through you. The fire had lingered, a saving grace from your song. You hadn’t felt any effects, with no hallucinations plaguing your vision before it went dark.

————

The first thing you realized when you woke up was that someone had moved you from the dirt to rest against a tree. The second was that you were no longer naked. Someone had apparently managed to find you clothes, and though they were itchy and a few sizes too big, you were still grateful. The third was that you smelled like shit. You had thought you were covered in blood before, but that now seemed as if it had been bubbles and floral perfume. One might have thought thoroughly barbecued sheep would’ve smelled at least tolerable. They would’ve been wrong. Because you were covered in what of it hadn’t dissipated into smoke, and you smelled like a dumpster full of rubber and fish.

The only person who would come near you was Frenchie, who had forsaken his sense of smell years ago, and had evidently dressed you and pulled you to where you currently sat. Everyone else stood closer to the fence, waiting for their ride back to New York to pull up on the dirt road. You sat alone, eyes still drooping, startled out of your own head as Edgar’s voice cut through the air.

“I must say, I am glad to see my faith in you was not misplaced.”

"Yeah, well,” you shrugged, looking up at where he stood, only a few feet away. “I wouldn’t ask for an encore.”

“I am afraid I may have to. In our prior introduction, it seems you deeply undersold your capabilities.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t have time for self-evaluation when I was being kept in a fucking dungeon.”

Edgar sighed. “I must apologize for that. Though I was not made aware of Homelander’s little escapade, I recognize that you might feel as though I hold some blame.”

“Not an apology,” you muttered. “And I find that hard to believe.”

“Unfortunate, but I cannot force you to accept the truth.” He looked you up and down once before continuing. “And regardless, it is not what I am here to say.”

“I was wrong only once today, and it was when I said you were just as strong as Soldier Boy. You are not. You are much, much stronger. Not physically, of course, but overall. Overall, your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. I know you wish him dead, I would imagine you prefer it to be painful, and very few deaths inflict the suffering felt when one is burned alive. I suggest you learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. You were looking for a weapon, and I am telling you that you are it. Do not waste yourself.”

And he walked away, leaving your mouth open and your eyes wide. You stood to follow him, painfully pulling yourself to your feet, but made only a few steps before you felt a rock hit your back, and you whipped around to find Frenchie behind you, holding a hose.

“Starlight suggests you take a shower before our drive back,” he said, gesturing to the hose.

You blinked, looking back at Edgar, only to watch him be loaded into an armed van. Your brow wrinkled, a part of you wanting to chase the car down and demand Edgar elaborate, but you just turned back to Frenchie with a sigh.

“Sure, just count down before you–“

You cut yourself off as the freezing water hit you in the face.

Thankfully, Frenchie had thought to bring a towel—a gross, possibly moldy towel—but a towel nonetheless, and he handed it to you the moment the hose-down was finished. As his arm stretched out, you noticed a deep gash poking out from his sleeve.

“I can fix that,” you gestured to him. “I mean, I’ll have to touch you, but I won’t tell anyone what I feel, and you won’t have to let MM give you stitches.”

Frenchies frowned, looking at his arm as if only he now noticing his injury. “Are you sure? You must be tired, and–“

“I’ll be fine. Won’t hurt me for more than a few seconds.”

He hesitated, but gave you a nod, rolling up his sleeve before offering his injury to you. You took a deep breath and placed your hand over the wound. It hit you fast, it always did, the onslaught of emotions. You were suddenly twice as tired, a powerful and painful guilt sitting on your shoulders and a self-loathing that was familiar, but not yours, carved itself into your chest. After a second to adjust, you started to work. Your own arm, mirror to Frenchies, began to sting as the skin turned raw and red. You bit your tongue, ignoring it and focusing on keeping yourself going until the cut was gone, the skin was healthy, and there were no signs of any issues in the first place.

“Huh,” Frenchie stated at his unmarked arm, glancing at your own, which was already fully healed itself. “Merci.”

“No problem,” you offered him a grin. “Just don’t tell Butcher you accepted my evil supe healing.”

“You do not,” he frowned slightly. “You do not feel everything, yes? Just, simple, children’s emotions?”

It was your turn to frown. “Children’s emotions?”

“Oui. Joy, fear, sadness. No more.”

Oh. You hesitated to answer, debating if it was worth the lie. It would make him feel better, you reasoned with yourself.

But he wouldn’t trust you, a little voice whispered. And he’ll hate you.

You settled on the truth. You didn’t think you could stand another person hating you.

“No, I feel… everything,” you admitted. “But I wasn’t lying before. I won’t tell anyone.” You paused, watching his face carefully as you continued. “I won’t tell Kimiko.”

A look of shock passed over his face, but Frenchie nodded. “Good. Good. Tres bien,” he gave you a grateful look. “Merci.”

“Anytime,” you gave him a close-lipped smile, and the two of you returned to your group just as your ride pulled up. As you loaded into the car and began the long, tense drive, Edgar’s words replayed on loop in your head.

Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. Learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. Do not waste yourself.

Do not waste yourself.

You thought back to the last time you saw Homelander. Though it had been from a distance, and he had not even known you were there, your body had frozen. Fear, white-hot and all consuming, had coursed through you. You had almost passed out from it. If you had been face-to-face with him, it might have killed you all on its own.

Do not waste yourself.

You couldn’t fight Homelander. You just couldn’t. You could be capable of overpowering him tenfold, and you still wouldn’t be able to fight him. You knew, in your heart, that his eyes would meet yours and you would be sent right back into that tiny white room, feel his hands holding you down, feel that hollow, empty hopelessness leak from you into the air.

But he needs to die, a small voice whispered in your head. And you’re the Anomaly. You could kill him. You’re the only one who could stop him forever, make sure he never hurts anyone, ever again.

No. No, you couldn’t be the only one. Yes, the biochem weapon had been a bust, and no one else could possibly rival Homelander and come out of it alive. But there had to be other options.

Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s.

Do not waste yourself.

An idea started to form in your head. A terrible idea. A reckless and dangerous idea. But an idea all the same. And as it became fully formed, you managed to convince yourself more and more that it might somehow work.

Now all you had to do was convince everyone else.

——-

“No. No fucking way.”

The air in the meeting room was tense, mouths hanging open in shock. MM was glaring at you with a disdain you had previously only seen directed at Butcher, Butcher watched at you with a reverence you hope to never see on his face again, Grace Mallory looked all at once disgusted, intrigued, and impressed, and President-Elect Singer frowned as he listened, but gave you a nod to continue regardless.

“I know it’s crazy, but the problem last time was that you couldn’t control him, right? And I could. You can have us isolated, making sure we're out of the public eye and away from any possible collateral until you need us. I’d keep an eye on him, keep him in line, and he wouldn’t be able to hurt me.”

“I, for one, think this is an amazing idea. Best one I ever heard,” Butcher grinned at you. “Worst case scenario, it goes sideways, he kills her, we knock him out, and everyone still wins.”

“What part of ‘he wouldn’t be able to hurt me’ don’t you understand?” You snapped back.

“What if he blasts you with his fucking reactor?” MM pushed. “Makes you just another human? What’s your plan then?”

“That wouldn’t work on me,” you responded dryly.

Butcher snorted, but Mallory raised an eyebrow.

“Really? What makes you so sure?”

“One of the tests that was run on me was putting me in a room and blasting it with nuclear energy. They dropped Hiroshima on me, and it did jack shit. Soldier Boy throwing a temper tantrum won’t be any different.”

“And how do you think you could control him?” Singer asked.

“I can burn up to 5500 degrees Celsius. That’s hotter than a bomb. Won’t kill him, will knock him the fuck out. And it’ll hurt.”

“I just can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner,” Butcher mused. “It’s fuckin' perfect.”

You glowered at him. “Stop helping me.”

MM looked at Mallory. “The fact that America’s number one unstable asshole,” he gestured to Butcher. “Is on board should be enough to tell you how stupid this is.”

“Number two unstable asshole,” you said under your breath.

“Thanks, Love,” Butcher winked at you.

“Yeah well, don’t be so pleased. You’re only just losing to Homelander.”

Butcher shrugged, and you returned your attention to Singer. “Sir, please trust me. I, more than almost anyone, know how dangerous this could be. But Homelander is more dangerous. We needed a weapon,” you echoed Edgar’s words. “This is it.”

Singer nodded slowly, and MM scoffed.

“You can’t be seriously considering this. He’s a fucking unstable asshole murderer and a goddamn liability. What if we wake him up, she can’t control him, and he gets free?”

“We said whatever it takes,” you snapped. “I wouldn’t be pitching this if I thought it wouldn’t work. I can control him, I promise.”

“You’d bet your life on it?” Mallory asked.

“My life?” You snorted. “In a heartbeat.”

Mallory sighed. “Then fine,” she shot a look to Singer. “I’ll sign off if you do.”

“Sir,” MM said, sounding almost desperate. “I am begging you, do not do this.”

Singer just shook his head slightly. “Desperate times, they make you do desperate things. If I saw another way, I’d take it, but for now we’ll have to make do. I approve the request.”

“Thank you, sir.” You gave Singer a grateful nod, ignoring the searing feeling of MM’s anger.

“Don’t thank me, girl. If this goes south, it’s your head. Grace, set up a safe house for them ASAP, if I’m signing off on this I want it moving fast.”

Mallory nodded. “It’ll take a few days. We’ll have to transport him there before we wake him up.”

“Do whatever you have to,” Singer said as he stood to leave. “If this is our only shot, we can’t afford to miss.”