#there were at least three or four for some chapters

[javierpena-inatacvest]

Chapter 4- The Chase

Summary: You can only keep running from Frankie Morales for so long. At some point, he'll catch up to you, whether you like it, or not.

Word Count: 3.5K

Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)

Warnings: Do I spy a hint of... ✨feelings✨??? Yearning, a hint of teenage violence (Santi deserves it, it's okay), the appearance of the Miller Brothers, Frankie basically looking like this 🥺 for the last half of this chapter, banter because I live for it

A/N: I'm convinced that teenage Frankie and the Frontier Boys are the best characters to write for, period 😭 I never thought I would live to see the day where my chapters are less than 5K (?!?) but I'm really trying to be better about posting on a schedule- If you would rather have them be longer and wait two weeks between chapters instead of once a week, let ya girl know 🤷🏼‍♀️ Thank you for all of your kind words about this story, your kind comments literally fuel me and make my heart explode, ily 🥹💛

All The Things We Never Said Masterlist

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Frankie, Fall of 2005, Age 16

For as much as he hates school, there will be two classes Frankie knows he’ll always pass with flying colors- Gym and Math. 

When he and Santi went to pick up their 11th grade class schedules before the start of the school year, you would have thought they’d won the lottery when they looked down on the crinkled half sheets of paper to find they were both in the same 6th period gym class. 

Five weeks into the start of Junior year, Frankie’s now convinced that Santi and his new friends, Will and Benny Miller, are in on some sort of scheme to make him fail the one class he’s guaranteed an “A” in. 

“Jesus Christ, Frankie, for the love of God, will you please slow down?!” 

Santi’s all but huffing at the pace Frankie had set for the four of them to run the two miles they’re supposed to finish by the end of class, only three of the eight laps they need to run around the track completed. 

“We’re not even going that fast, Santi, you’re fine.” 

Frankie can’t help but laugh at the way his friend is laboring behind him. Sure, Santi’s got football to thank for keeping him looking less like a gangly string bean than Frankie does, but even at 16, the boyish satisfaction of knowing he’ll always be faster than his friend is undeniable.

“Do you do like, cross country or somethin’, Frankie?” 

“Yeah man, I thought Santi said you swam not ran.” 

The Miller Brothers were a new addition to his and Santi’s long standing friendship duo. Will and Benny moved from North Carolina over the summer and had befriended Santi after a few weeks of preseason football camp that the high school held before the start of the school year. Of course, that meant Frankie became friends by proxy shortly after. 

Frankie was fond enough of the two, but the group was still stuck in the awkward dating phase of friendship where everything was just enough of a pissing match to prove that they were worthy enough of each other’s company. 

“Yeah, I’m on the swim team, I don’t do cross country or anything like that.” Frankie shrugs, rounding the curve of the track with ease as he leads the pack to their halfway point. 

“Then how the hell did you get so fast?” Benny pants, the straw blonde hair matted to his forehead with sweat scrunching as he pinches his brows in a mixture of confusion and unadmitted pain. 

“‘Cause he likes to go running with MacKenzie.” 

Santi’s lips curl to a devious smile as he watches Frankie’s face grow red from his sing-songy taunting. At least with the Millers, Frankie could pretend to chalk the hot, pink sting in his cheeks to the mile he’s been running. Unfortunately, he can’t assume the same with Santi. 

“Shut up, Santi.” Frankie grumbles, picking up his pace to the point he knows it’ll make Santi’s lungs strain just enough to keep him from rambling. 

“Oh shit, like, MacKenzie Anderson, MacKenzie?” Will’s face lights up, his less than lengthy friendship making him blissfully unaware of the history between you and Frankie, “She’s hot.” 

“Ew, n- no, she’s not. That’s weird.” 

The other three are surprised Frankie’s pants have yet to set on fire after such a bold lie. 

“They go run together every weekend.” 

At this point, it’s pure mockery the way Santi is teasing him, pushing Frankie to his limits to see how much he can get away with before his friend breaks. 

“So like, are you guys, dating or something?” 

“What?! No! No- She’s like, my best friend. I just- She plays soccer, so I go run with her to help her train and stuff. It’s good cardio, anyways.” 

Frankie doesn’t mean to snap at Benny for his question. It’s a secondary response to the way his chest is tightening and heart is racing as the eyes of all his friends stay peeled to him, like a guilty suspect in a courtroom everyone is waiting to catch in the midst of their lie. 

“Running’s not the only kind of cardio he wishes he was doing with MacKenzie, huh Frankie?” 

The boys are too busy snickering at each other to realize that Frankie’s completely stopped in his tracks ahead of them, turning around with arms outstretched to greet Santi with a brute shove to the ground as they collide. 

“I said shut UP, Santi!”

Frankie doesn’t intend for it to draw as much attention as it does, how the way he’s practically screaming at his friend he’s pushed to the ground has garnered the attention of everyone else in his gym class.

“Jesus, Frankie, it was just a joke! Chill out!” 

Will and Benny help Santi off the rubber of the track, leaving him and Frankie in a silent stare down of flared nostrils and gritted teeth, bodies boiling with teenage testosterone. 

Despite his rage, Frankie has enough self control to keep from saying (or doing) anything else he’ll regret, forcing himself to take off running in a frustrated huff of silence, heart in his throat and fists clenched, leaving behind his group of friends.�� 

“Shit. Is he always like that when you talk about her?” Will asks, still slightly stunned by the altercation he’s just witnessed, considering Frankie’s usual calm and quiet demeanor. 

“Yup.” Santi replies, popping the “p” at the end of his answer, “Well, not always this bad, but still,  ya know?”  

“Why?” Benny chimes in, the three of them slowly beginning their trot back around the track, lengths behind their fuming friend. 

“‘Cause they’re like, secretly in love with each other. They say they’re just friends, but they act like they’re fucking married.” Santi pretends to gag as he forces his eyes to roll as far back in his head as they possibly can. “He’s been extra pissy because yesterday he found out this guy, Nick Walsh, who’s some senior on the boy’s soccer team, tried to ask her to Homecoming.” 

“Did she say yes?” 

“No! That’s the thing! I don’t know why he’s got his fucking granny panties in a knot about it. Whatever, man. Not my problem.” 

The Miller brothers exchange intrigued glances, wondering how much more they can pry out of Santi as they mope around the track, hoping they can at least make the second half of their two miles entertaining. 

“If he’s mad about it, why didn’t he just ask her?” Will shrugs, offering up what seems like a reasonable solution to his new friend’s problem. 

“Ask him, dude. I have no fucking clue. They’re going with the same group of friends, so they’re gonna spend the whole night together, anyways. Honestly, if you want my opinion, I think he knows he doesn’t have the balls to nut up and ask her himself ‘cause he’s worried she’s gonna say no.” 

Despite the 23 other kids in the class who are also being forced to run circles around the track, there’s only one who makes the three of them freeze as he passes by, feeling the hole he’s burning through the back of their heads. Santi knows he’s too loudmouthed for his own good, and that there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that Frankie didn’t make out what he had to say as he snuck up behind him. 

And he's right. Frankie hears every word.

If he wasn’t at school, he wouldn’t think twice about punching Santi so hard in the gut it would knock the wind right out of him. But right now, all he can do is keep running, faster and faster, one foot in front of the other. 

Maybe if he runs fast enough, no one will be able to see the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, or the disappointment that’s drained every ounce of color he’s got left in his face. 

Maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the cold, hard truth of the way Santi’s words ring in his ears and put bricks in his chest. 

Maybe, just maybe, if he runs fast enough, somewhere along the worn high school track he’ll find the courage to prove himself wrong. 

You, Present 

You’re convinced he’s following you. He has to be. 

All you wanted to do this morning was to go for a run to clear your head, to blow off some steam after the shit show that had been yesterday’s first interaction with Frankie in the past three years. You were confined to your room for the better half of the day, your dad keeping Frankie hostage in your home far too long for your liking. 

Unfortunately, it’s hard to deny a dying man whatever he wants, even if it’s Frankie Morales’s unwelcome presence in your living room. It also meant having to listen to your dad ramble about Frankie for the next several hours after he’d left, politely nodding at all the compliments and praise your father had to give him while your blood boiled in silence. 

Now, all you wanted to do was to run until your head was free of Frankie for just a little while.

It seemed like Frankie had other plans. 

You gave him the benefit of the doubt the first quarter mile, hell, you even tried to just play it off as unlucky timing at the half mile point. But now, you’re a mile into your run, turning on to Fuller Street with Frankie still trotting behind you. It’s clearly not an accident he’s chosen the same path for his morning jog. 

“There are other ways you can go run, you know.” You shout at Frankie without even turning your head over your shoulder, thinking that maybe he’s assumed you hadn’t noticed him and your not so subtle suggestion will get him to turn around. 

“It’s a free country. I can run where I want.” 

Part of you wishes you would have turned to look back at him so he could see the way your eyes met the back of your skull from rolling them so hard, but you keep your gaze glued to the pavement in front of you. You won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence.  

“Can you please just go run somewhere else? I’m just trying to enjoy my morning and you’re not helping, Frankie.” 

“Not trying to bother you, just trying to run. I didn’t have anything to say until you started talking to me.” 

You know if you turned around right now, he’d have that stupid little smug grin hiding in the corner of his cheeks. A battle of wits is his favorite game to play. He’s learned how to strategize, to stay calm, cool and collected in the midst of your chaos, waiting until you hit the breaking point of his crazy you can’t bear to tolerate anymore. Your jaw tenses with the long exhale you take as you prepare to go head to head. 

“I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t been following me the past mile.” 

“How do you know I’m following you?” 

“You’ve literally been running ten feet behind me for the past twelve minutes.” 

“Who says I wasn’t planning on running this way to begin with but you just got a head start?” 

“Jesus Christ, Frankie, please just go pick a different way to run.” 

“Who put you in charge of the running police? Do I have to sign a permit before I go jog now?” 

“Go. Run. Somewhere. Else.” 

“No. You don’t get to tell me where to run. This is the way I wanna go, so I’m gonna keep going until-” 

“No! I know you don’t want to go this way!” You’ve accepted defeat, swinging around to storm towards Frankie, stopping dead in his tracks as he realizes the ferocity you’re approaching him with, “I know for a fact you don’t wanna run this way. You know how I know? Because you hate running down Fuller Street. You would run five miles out of your way before you even considered running down this street on your own free will. There hasn’t been a single time we’ve ever run down this street where you haven’t complained the entire way because of how much you hate the hill at the end of the road before we turn onto Wilson way! That’s how I know, Frankie! So stop pretending like you just happened to choose the same way as me by accident, and just leave me alone! Ugh!” 

You’re positive there’s a trail of steam streaming behind you with the way you’re absolutely fuming, turning back around to take off as fast as your body will let you. You can’t bring yourself to look anywhere but straight ahead, too afraid that if you turn around, those stupid, sad brown eyes will make you feel guilty enough to give him the last word he doesn’t deserve. 

Your feet are flying so fast across the pavement, you’re convinced he’s given up, shocked into submission by your anger that he’ll at least let you finish the rest of your run in peace. Your eyes are still locked on the horizon ahead. It’s the arrogance of your self-reassurance that doesn’t even let you contemplate the thought that several yards behind you, Frankie lets out a quiet “fuck me” before letting his hands drop from their place on his hips to chase behind you at full speed. 

“What the fuck are you doing!?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” 

It’s a stupid question. It’s obvious Frankie has said a prayer to hope his knees don’t give out on him as he runs as fast as possible to try and catch up to you. The rhythmic thump of his sneakers pounding against the concrete catches your attention enough to see how quickly he’s gaining on you. It only makes you run faster. 

“Jesus- fuck this hill- MacKenzie, will you fucking slow down?” 

You won’t admit you’re probably just as exhausted as Frankie from the way you’ve been sprinting up the steep incline at the end of the road, but his exasperated huffs are enough to keep you pushing through the pain, mental and physical. 

“No. Run faster.” 

You’re hopeful it’s early enough that no one is awake to see the comedic game of cat and mouse you and Frankie are playing in the middle of the road, chasing each other like you’re on the playground in a childish round of tag. You’d never admit to his face that you know he’s stronger, even faster than you, but the grip he settles around your arm as he finally catches up to you lets you know you’ve lost. 

“Let go of me, Frankie!” 

If the street wasn’t already awake from your wild game of chase, your scream certainly would have gotten their attention. 

“Jesus Christ, MacKenzie, will you just let me talk to you for two fucking seconds?! Please, just- fuck- please just let me fucking talk to you, okay? Please.” 

Even if you wanted to keep running, there was no use. Truth be told, it wasn’t the grasp he had around your arm that was the thing keeping you from sprinting off into the distance. What had you frozen in place was that pathetic pout you knew was splayed across his face, burning a hole in the back of your head. What’s worse, was that you could feel it burning a hole through your chest, too. 

The all too familiar pain that came with holding onto the same, shriveled shred of hope that maybe this time, he’d prove you wrong. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t let you down. 

“Fine.” You barely mutter the word loud enough to hear as you turn around to face him, eyes still looking everywhere but directly at him. 

“I’m sorry, Kenz. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up.” 

Somehow, his second apology stings worse than the first. It still doesn’t mean you won’t deny how much it hurts. 

“Yeah, no shit.” 

You let your gaze lift just enough to see the way he’s gnawing at his bottom lip, chewing at it like he’s trying to digest his own thoughts before they come out of his mouth. 

“What I said that night at Santi’s wedding, I just-” He pauses, knowing you can hear it clear as day in your head too.

“Fuck you, MacKenzie. Fuck you for ruining my life. It’ll be better off without you fucking in it.” 

“I- I- Fuck. I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I regret ever saying it. I think all the time about how much I regret it. I just, I was in a bad place.” 

You’re not sure what to say. Fuck, you’re not even sure what to feel. Part of you wants to scream at him, kick him in the crotch and berate him for how badly the past three years have hurt you. Part of you just wants to stand there and cry, to say nothing and let your tears flow and spill your emotions down your cheeks. Part of you wants to hug him, to believe him, to have him hold you so tightly against his chest that his apology seeps into your skin until you’ve forgiven him. 

But none of those parts are strong enough to win out alone. Instead, they’ve formed together to create a strange sort of storm that brews in your belly, swirling it so violently, it makes you want to vomit. 

“But you still said it, Frankie. You still said it. If my dad weren’t dying, would you even be here? Would you have ever apologized? Or are you just choosing to apologize now because it’s convenient and you feel like you have to?” 

It’s the first time you can bring yourself to look him in the face. You can see how his brain is churning with the same type of vicious waves that are in the pit of your stomach, drowning out the brown of his eyes. You both are lost in the midst of the storm, but you’ve got a lifeboat. He’s sinking below the thrashing tides, looking for you to let him board your ship. You won’t let him on unless he fights his way through the current to get to you. 

“I should have apologized a long time ago.” 

“Then why didn’t you?” 

“I don’t- I don’t know. I was scared you’d never forgive me.” 

You swear you feel the grip he still has on your forearm tighten just for a moment. Now that he has you, he’s too scared to let you go. 

“Just- Jesus- Just because you apologized doesn’t mean I have to forgive you now, Frankie.” 

“Will you ever?” 

“Ever, what?” 

“Forgive me?” 

Your brain wants to say no. God, with everything in you does it want to say no. But that same stupid pain in your chest that lives and dies by that stupid shred of hope you’ll always hold onto just won’t let you. 

“I don’t know. I- I don’t know, Frankie.” 

You can’t ignore the way he’s still holding your arm. The shred of hope doesn’t want him to let go, even when you scowl at the way his fingers wrap around your skin. You scowl because of how his touch burns your skin, the way it ignites a fire in your gut from how tenderly he touches you. It makes you scrunch your face in frustration and confusion, trying to block out all the times he’s touched you like this before, fingers grazing against your skin in a desperate plea for affection, not forgiveness. He’s holding onto your arm to see if you’ll let him in the lifeboat- if you’ll offer him a chance to save himself. 

“I get it. I’m sorry, Kenz. I hope you at least know I mean it.” 

“I do.” 

You’re not sure what makes you want to offer him a last chance at survival. You’ve been separated by different sides of the same storm for so long- You can’t attest to the way he’s had to fight through it to stay alive, but if it’s anything like the side of the squall you’ve been stuck on, there’s a strange relief in finding in finding someone who knows the hell you’ve faced to keep from drowning in the undertow. You can’t seem to bear letting him drown right in front of you without even trying to help. 

“I still hate you, ya know.” You sigh, a defiant cry to prove to him you’re not happy about the path you’ve chosen. 

“Yeah, that’s fair. I deserve that.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh in so long. Even though it’s a muffled huff, trying to hide behind the raise of his eyebrows and nod of his head at the ground, you know it’s there, in that same corner of his smirk he gets when he knows there’s no point in arguing with you- there’s no denying it’s there. 

There’s no denying it makes you do the same. 

“You gonna let me finish the rest of my run in peace, Morales?” 

“Yeah, I guess. Only ‘cause I still hate this fucking hill.” 

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[thehereticdiaries]

A (Not So) Meet Cute: Chapter Three

Chapter Summary: You're beginning to fall into a new routine with the members of Stray Kids. A phone call from the police stops you dead in your tracks.

Warnings: Descriptions of stalking, reader has a ton of anxiety (rightfully so), cops

Series Masterlist

A/N: will my MCs ever find peace? probably not.

When you woke up the next morning, you doubted that Seungmin would actually walk you to work. After all, why would he wake up early just to be your escort? You went through your routine as usual, making sure to double and triple check that your phone was charged and the charger was in your bag before heading out.

“Morning.” You jumped as you exited your apartment building. Holy shit, Seungmin was really waiting for you. He leaned against the back of a bench across from the entrance, eyebrow quirked in amusement. He wore a mask again today, but went without a hat.

“Oh my god, Seungmin, you didn’t have to get up early just to walk me to work.” You held your elbow in your hand, feeling guilty for burdening the idol. 

“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.” The corners of Seungmin’s eyes crinkled and he stood properly to brush his knuckles across your cheek. You gaped at him, suddenly feeling warm despite the cool autumn breeze. 

“Oh, um, okay. If you’re sure. The bus stop is this way.” You led the way to your usual stop, the bus arriving not long after you. The commute honestly wasn’t bad, yesterday had been a fluke. 

“I haven’t been on a public bus in years,” Seungmin mentioned as you found open seats. You raised your eyebrows.

“Really? I guess that makes sense, though. It’s safer for you to have a driver.” You could only assume that being on public transport had too much risk of being recognized.

“Technically, I’m not allowed to use buses.” 

“Are you going to get in trouble because of this?!” You scolded with a glare. Seungmin shrugged in response, completely unbothered with his little act of rebellion. You shook your head, turning back to your phone to scroll on Instagram for a bit. You angled your phone toward Seungmin when you noticed him looking over your shoulder. Fifteen minutes and four stops later, you stepped off the bus and made the final ten minute walk to the bookstore.

“I’ll be back later to walk you home,” Seungmin said as he held the door open for you.

“But-”

“No ‘buts’, see you later.” He nudged you into the store and went back the way you had come from. You were left baffled once again, but pushed it aside to focus on your shift.

Over the next week, every member of Stray Kids walked with you to and from work. Seungmin showed up the most out of everyone. It felt like overkill, but they wouldn’t accept any arguments from you. Today’s shift dragged on with how little there was to do. Everything was clean and stocked, there were hardly ten customers in the 3 hours since your shift started, and you’ve closed and reopened TikTok at least five times. The soft classical music playing over the store radio threatened to lull you to sleep. You were jolted out of your stupor by your phone buzzing on the counter.

“Hello?”

“Good afternoon, this is Officer Jeong. May I speak to Ms. Y/N L/N?” A serious-sounding man asked curtly.

“This is she.”

“Ah, hello Ms. L/N. I am calling on behalf of Detective Keng. She has some new information regarding your case and would like to call you today to discuss,” Officer Jeong explained. 

“Oh! Of course, I finish work at 3pm and should be home around 3:30,” you told the officer. He hummed, keys clicking swiftly in the background.

“That should work perfectly. Detective Keng will be finished with a meeting at 4pm, so she will be able to call shortly afterward.” You quickly wrote down the detective’s name and the time she’d be calling on a sticky note.

“Okay, thank you for letting me know, Officer.” You exchanged polite goodbyes and hung up. Cool, now that you were incredibly anxious, the next three hours of your shift should go by much more quickly.

You predicted correctly. After finishing the call with Officer Jeong, the afternoon flew by in a blur and soon enough Seungmin appeared to walk you home. You told him about the upcoming phone call and your subsequent anxiety while you sat on the bus.

“Do you want me to stay for the call?” Seungmin offered, albeit a little hesitantly.

“Honestly, that would be really nice. Are you sure, though? You sounded kinda nervous.”

“I’m sure. I just haven’t been in your apartment yet and I didn’t want to invite myself in, y’know?” He assured with a smile hidden behind his mask. Back at your apartment, Seungmin sat on your loveseat, watching you pace around your kitchen. He tried to get you to sit down and relax while you waited for the detective’s call, but you needed to do something to release your pent-up anxiety. Why didn’t Officer Jeong tell you if it was good news or bad news?! Finally, finally your phone rang. You rushed to sit next to Seungmin as you put the call on speaker.

“Hi, is this Y/N L/N?” A woman’s voice asked.

“Yes, I’m assuming this is Detective Keng?” 

“It is, I see Officer Jeong was able to talk to you earlier. I’ve been looking into Cho Siwoo, the man that harassed you, and I’ve found some information that may be disturbing to you,” Detective Keng stated. A pit of worry gnawed at your stomach.

“Before you continue, I have a friend with me. Is it okay if he listens to our conversation?” You were terrified of having to deal with this alone.

“That’s quite alright.” You sighed quietly in relief. “Now, Mr. Cho has been living with a friend for several months. We interviewed his friend, and searched the apartment. Ms. L/N, it appears that he has been following you far longer than we expected.”

“What?” An icy chill creeped its way into your bloodstream. Seungmin scooted slightly closer to you, resting a hand on your knee. 

“He has photos printed of you in a Ziploc bag amongst his other belongings. Some of these photos date back to April.” 

“Bu-but it’s October now,” you stammered. Seungmin tightened his grip on your knee, but you moved his hand to hold in your own. 

“I’m very sorry to tell you this, Ms. L/N, but he’s been watching for a very long time. There aren’t any photos of the inside of your apartment, nor any of you in compromising positions. But we’ve found that Mr. Cho has a reputation, and with that comes respect from others on the street.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Seungmin interrupted. Detective Keng sighed tiredly, which only made you more nervous.

“It means that he has access to information. Ms. L/N, do you have somewhere you can stay for the time being? I’m afraid your apartment isn’t safe at the moment, not until we’re able to confirm who all of Mr. Cho’s associates are.” Panicked tears fell down your cheeks. You didn’t have anywhere else to go, all you had was this apartment. The closest family member to you was still at least three hours away. You couldn’t just leave.

“Yes, ma’am, she does,” Seungmin answered in your silence. You stared at him, wide-eyed, but he kept his gaze fixed on your phone. 

“Good. I’ll need the address. I would advise against walking anywhere alone for now. I promise you, I will make sure you and your home are safe again,” Detective Keng assured. The sharp edge to her voice confirmed her commitment. She gave you the number for her work phone, should you need anything, then ended the call. A sob wracked your body. Seungmin pulled you so you sat between his legs, both legs over one of his knees, and wrapped you tightly in his arms. You trembled violently in his hold.

“Why did you tell her I have somewhere to stay?! I hardly have friends in this city and my family is hours away, and I can’t afford–”

“Y/N,” Seungmin cut off your rambling, holding your face in his hands and forcing your eyes to meet his. “You’re staying with us.”

“What? No, Seungmin, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Good thing you’re not asking. I’m telling you, you can stay with us,” he insisted. 

“Have you even asked the others about this? Even if you say I can, what if they say no?” Seungmin rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone and starting a call on speaker.

“Hey, is everything alright? You’re normally back by now,” Chan answered after a few rings. 

“No, actually, a detective called Y/N about her case. That guy’s been stalking her for months, Chan. Her apartment isn’t safe.” You bit your lip, tears still streaming silently down your face. Seungmin guided your head to rest on his shoulder and exhaustion washed over you.

“Holy shit, are you serious?” You could hear the others shouting in the background. “Guys, please, I need you to be quiet. This is important.”

“I wish I was joking. The detective said she should stay somewhere else while they continue their investigation. Thing is, she doesn’t have any family close by.” He was baiting Chan and he only felt slightly guilty about it.

“She can stay with us,” the leader offered without hesitation. 

“That’s what I told her. You believe me now?” Seungmin directed the question at you. 

“Wait, am I on speaker? Y/N, I promise no one would have an issue with you staying here,” Chan confirmed. You hated that you were being such a burden to them. They have enough on their plate as-is. But you didn’t have much of a choice.

“Okay,” you whimpered in a voice so tiny, it squeezed at the hearts of both Chan and Seungmin.

“We’re gonna get some stuff packed for her, then head over. I’ll call for a car.” 

“Good, I’ll see you both soon.” Chan hummed in acknowledgement. “And Y/N? I know what you’re thinking. You are not a burden.” You inhaled sharply, digging yourself further into Seungmin’s neck. He ended the call after another hasty goodbye.

For the next few minutes, you sat in silence to stave off your impending panic attack. Seungmin's chest vibrated as he quietly hummed the melody to Stars and Raindrops. You repeated the grounding exercise that Jisung showed you several times in your head. Now, with your panic dampened down to a nagging anxiety, you were suddenly very aware of the position of Seungmin’s hands. With the thumb of his left hand, he rubbed soothing circles on the nape of your neck, and his right sat patiently on your thigh. 

“I’ll grab a suitcase,” you muttered, hoping your hair hid your reddened face as you moved to your room. Unfortunately for you, Seungmin was a very observant man. He smirked, but chose not to say anything. He offered to help you pack and you immediately refused. Your soul would have literally left your body if he accidentally caught a glimpse of your underwear. You rolled your suitcase and duffle bag into the living room once you finished, pausing to sling your bag across your shoulder.

“I called Dohyun, he should be here soon.” Seungmin stood and plucked your duffle bag from your hand. “Let’s get down to the garage.” The car pulled up right as you stepped out of the elevator. Dohyun tossed you a sympathetic smile after you slid into the backseat. Seungmin sat next to you and nodded to Dohyun, who promptly began the drive back to the dorm.

All of the Stray Kids members have seen your apartment, but this was the first time you’ve been to their dorm. Honestly? It was much cleaner than you anticipated, considering eight young men lived here. Actually, the furniture and decor were really stylish. Jisung and Chan were the only ones in the living room. The leader stood to help with your luggage but paused when he noticed your red, puffy eyes. 

“I’m so sorry this is happening to you.” Chan wrapped you in a firm, comforting hug. You gripped the back of his t-shirt to ground yourself and fight back a fresh onslaught of tears. “Is there anything you need right now?”

“I just really want to take a nap.” You reluctantly pulled back so he could guide you to the couch. You allowed Jisung to bring your head to lay on his lap. He carded his fingers through your hair and the tension slowly melted from your body. You vaguely felt a second pair of hands tuck a fluffy blanket around you before succumbing to sleep.

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[buckets-and-trees]

Red, White & True: Fort Wayne, Toledo, Detroit [4/?]

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes Word Count: 4.2k Summary: A campaign day with stops in three cities in three states ends up being a game-changer you weren't expecting, and not only for the campaign.

Content/Warnings: marriage of political convenience, slow burn

Notes: This takes place in a post-Endgame scenario where Steve stays and generally most of TFATWS happened.

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[SEPTEMBER 21 - MORNING - FORT WAYNE, INDIANA]

After your first and only attempt at a private, non-business breakfast between you and Steve in the dining area next to the hotel lobby the morning after dinner at the Santos house, your staff and the Secret Service detail on Steve forbade you from trying anything like that ever again. Six a.m. was early, but there were far too many early bird guests showing up for breakfast as well, only to find a presidential candidate and former Avenger amongst the self-serve breakfast buffet and excited chaos had ensued. Even if the personnel around you hadn’t forbidden it, it had been immediately clear the privacy you used to expect in in a public setting was gone.

Since then, you and Steve have found other ways to carve out moments together amid the whirlwind of the campaign. Usually it’s quick conversations in the back of the campaign bus or on the plane. It's not ideal, but it's something, and you find yourself looking forward to these small pockets of time more than you'd care to admit.

Some of the key staffers silently hate it because every minute of strategy time is invaluable, so you and Steve pledged to only steal up to thirty minutes, and Bucky and Sophia take it in stride as one of their new duties to help protect that time because if the Roger and Rogers happy couple campaign approach is the M.O. now, then they argue that the happy couple needs alone time to stay a happy couple. Sophia only thinks it’s tending to the needs you have as newlyweds embedded in the campaign circus to have normalcy as a couple. It’s only Bucky who knows the truth (and Sam).

A single day on the presidential campaign trail always felt like at least two days of a regular life, but it often feels more like three or four days, especially on multi-city days, which were starting to become more and more common as it got closer to the first Tuesday in November. But this highly saturated time flow makes it so that the time you and Steve have started intentionally spending time together is having a marked effect on your relationship.

You enjoy the more serious conversations as much as you enjoy the more superficial topics because both ends of the spectrum allow you to simply engage and learn each others’ personalities and histories and opinions. Sitting in the back of the bus on your way to a rally, you’re exchanging takes on Star Wars (you had grown up watching them in very distinct trilogy stages where Steve had seen the first two trilogies in his initial pop culture catch up phase), when there’s a surge of noise and activity at the front of the bus.

You and Steve both glance towards the front of the bus, where a commotion has erupted. The noise level rises as staffers huddle around someone's phone, their voices intense, but strangely you can’t tell if it’s leaning more towards excitement or concern. You strain to hear what's being said, catching snippets of "breaking news" and "can't believe it."

Bucky's voice cuts through the clamor, slightly louder than the rest. "It can wait," he insists firmly. "We're almost at the venue."

Your heart rate quickens, anxiety creeping in at the edges of your mind.

You start to rise, but Steve places a hand on your arm. "Let's give it a minute," he says softly. "If it's urgent, they'll tell us."

You nod, settling back into your seat, but you can see the tense energy now in Steve’s body. You can almost see the gears turning in his mind, trying to anticipate what the clamor could be about.

After another moment, you arch your eyebrow at Steve. “The anticipation is going to kill both of us back here,” you say earnestly. “If we’re nearly at the venue anyway, we can table this and get back to more Star Wars at lunch.”

Steve huffs a laugh and agrees, and you pop up out of your seat again, and Steve follows as you quickly make your way to the front.

“What’s happening?” you ask, drawing the attention of the staff to you and Steve.

“Santos endorsed Steve!” Elsa trills. You’ve never seen her this happy.

You feel a surge of excitement and pride. The Santos endorsement is huge - you know it is without question a game-changer for the campaign. You turn around to look at Steve, a massive smile beaming from your face, enthusiasm you see mirrored right back from him. You don’t know if you reach for him or he reaches for you because it’s so quick, but your lips crash together, your stomach flips, and the staff cheers around you. It ends as quickly as it began, and the two of you turn back to the others, eager for more details.

"When did this happen?" Steve asks, his voice steady but tinged with excitement.

Sam, who'd gone back to scrolling through his phone, looks up. "Just now. Santos made the announcement over his Instagram, and it's already dominating the news cycle."

"What exactly did he say?" Steve asks, placing a hand on your shoulder as he moves in closer behind you, leaning over to look at Sam's phone.

Sam clears his throat and begins to read: "After careful consideration and having had the opportunity to speak with Captain Rogers, I believe he is the right person to lead our nation forward. His integrity, vision, and commitment to public service are exactly what we need in these challenging times. I am proud to endorse Steve Rogers for President of the United States."

Another collective cheer goes up from the staff. You feel Steve's hand tighten slightly on your shoulder, and when you look up at him, you see a mix of emotions playing across his face - pride, excitement, and a touch of humility.

"This is huge," seasoned campaign mastermind Jake finally weighs in, his usual stoic demeanor cracking slightly to reveal a hint of a smile. "Santos's endorsement would carry a lot of weight for any candidate, especially with moderates and independents, but it not only brings your first major endorsement, it’s a resounding statement for a former president to break from his party to endorse an independent."

You nod in agreement, your mind already racing with the implications. The Santos administration is still widely respected, and their endorsement could sway a significant number of voters.

Steve nods, his expression a mix of gratitude and determination. "It is," he agrees. "But we can't let it go to our heads. We still have a lot of work to do."

"Of course," you say, admiring his level-headedness even in this moment of triumph. "But we should take a moment to celebrate this moment."

You imagine it was always on Jake’s mind that an endorsement would be the best case scenario from a private dinner at the Santos home, but Steve had been very vocal to everyone involved - from the campaign side to Santos and his people - that for him the opportunity was only to be able to spend time with a former president. You had certainly gone into it without any agenda, grateful, even, for one night where you weren’t politic-ing.

The bus slows to turn into the loading bay area of the venue, and Jake calls everyone to attention to get the staff focused back on the rally only minutes away. You listen to his directives and reminders, but while you do so, you realize the kiss you just shared is the first lip lock between you and your husband since the wedding, and there’s a bit of warmth that pools in your chest. You resist the pull you feel to look at him.

[SEPTEMBER 21 - AFTERNOON - TOLEDO, OHIO]

The energy in Toledo's Huntington Center is electric as you and Steve make your way through the bustling backstage area for the second major campaign event of the day. The arena, usually home to hockey games and concerts, has been transformed into a political rally venue, with red, white, and blue banners adorning every available surface. The air is thick with anticipation, and you can hear the growing roar of the crowd beyond the curtain.

Staffers rush past, clipboards in hand, headsets firmly in place. You catch snippets of conversations about crowd size, security measures, and last-minute speech adjustments. The Santos endorsement has injected a new level of excitement into an already charged atmosphere.

As you approach the holding area, you spot Bucky conferring with the head of security, his expression serious as he nods along to whatever information he's receiving. Sam is nearby, phone to his ear, likely coordinating with media outlets eager for comments on the endorsement.

You can hear the low rumble of the crowd, punctuated by occasional cheers and chants of "Rogers! Rogers!" The excitement is palpable, and you can feel your own adrenaline starting to surge.

Steve turns to you, his eyes bright with excitement but also a hint of nervousness. "Ready?" he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You take a deep breath, smoothing down your blazer. "Let’s do this," your reply and this simple exchange is becoming tradition every time the two of you are about to step out in public now. It’s nice starting to have things like this, things that are yours. "How about you? Feeling the pressure after that endorsement?"

He chuckles softly. "A little," he admits. "But it's a good pressure. Motivating."

You nod in understanding. The weight of expectation has grown even heavier with Santos's support even though it’s only been a matter of hours, but you can see the determination in Steve's eyes. He's ready for this part of the challenge.

Suddenly, Jake appears at your side, clipboard in hand. "Two minutes," he says briskly. "Steve, they've added a few lines to your speech to address the endorsement. The changes are on the monitor.”

Steve nods, quickly scanning the teleprompter nearby. You watch as his eyes move rapidly across the screen, absorbing the new information. His ability to process and adapt on the fly never ceases to amaze you.

"Got it," he says, turning back to Jake. "Anything else?"

"Hit the key points as you always do," Jake replies. "And maybe throw in a line about unity, given the cross-party nature of the endorsement."

As Jake steps away to confer with another staffer, you feel a gentle touch on your arm. You turn to see Sophia standing beside you, a reassuring smile on her face.

"You've got this," she says softly. "Both of you. Just be yourselves out there."

You return her smile, grateful for her steady presence. "Thanks, Sophia. We'll do our best."

The stage manager approaches. “Thirty seconds,” she announces.

This is it. Another pivotal moment in the campaign, perhaps even more significant than you'd initially realized. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself.

Steve turns to you one last time, his eyes soft. He reaches out and squeezes your hand briefly, a gesture of solidarity and support that sends a flutter through your chest. You squeeze back, drawing strength from his touch.

The stage manager starts counting down. "Ten seconds!"

You can hear the crowd's excitement building to a fever pitch. The announcer's voice booms through the arena, introducing you and Steve. Your heart races as the curtain begins to part.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your next President and First Lady…”

That’s the moment you and Steve step out onto the stage, hand in hand, and the deafening roar of the crowd drowns out your names entirely. The lights and the energy spike the excitement and adrenaline, and it’s another moment in this campaign - and the second one of the day - that you know you’ll remember for a lifetime.

[SEPTEMBER 21 - EVENING - DETROIT, MICHIGAN]

The clock on the wall of the dimly lit campaign office reads 11:47 PM, but the energy in the room belies the late hour. The makeshift headquarters, hastily set up in yet another hotel conference room, buzzes with activity. Staffers huddle around laptops, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of screens, while others engage in hushed conversations, gesticulating animatedly as they dissect the day's events.

You sink into a worn leather armchair, feeling the weight of the day settle into your bones. The town hall here in Detroit had gone well - better than well, actually. The momentum from Santos's endorsement earlier in the day had carried through, infusing the crowd with an infectious enthusiasm. They had been engaged, asking thoughtful questions that Steve had handled with his characteristic blend of sincerity and statesmanship. But now, in the quiet aftermath, exhaustion tugs at the edges of your consciousness.

Despite the strain of a three-location-day catching up with you and everyone else, you can’t deny that there’s a different, very palpable sense of possibility hanging in the air. The campaign has always been optimistic, but there was a bit of a silent agreement in the air to ignore the fact that Steve Rogers - no political background and no political party - was a dark horse swimming upstream. The first nod from outside camp Rogers wasn’t a golden ticket to victory, but the news media was already discussing Steve in a different tone - giving more legitimacy in coverage rather than curiosity in coverage. With only six weeks left, it is not enough to win 270 electoral votes, and although that was the dream, it was never the realistic target. The target from the beginning was to get enough votes to keep either of the other two candidates from taking the majority and be a major player in that battle, making a case to be seriously considered if you could get the election turned over to the Congress to decide.

A Santos backing was the serious foot hold to take this scenario from a possibility to a probability.

Steve sits across from you, his brow furrowed as he reviews the daily notes Jake’s deputy campaign chairman has prepared and distributed.

You watch Steve as he reads, marveling at his ability to maintain focus after such a long and eventful day. His eyes move methodically across the page, occasionally pausing as he considers a particular point. Even in this state of concentration, there's an aura of quiet strength about him that never seems to fade.

"Anything notable?" you ask, your voice slightly rough from the day's speeches and conversations.

Steve looks up, a tight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just the usual - poll numbers, upcoming events, media coverage. But there's definitely been a shift since this morning."

You nod, understanding the implication. “The Santos effect.”

"Jake's team is already planning how to capitalize on the momentum."

You get the same notes as well but prefer to read them once you’re back in your room. Steve hands you the page he’s been pouring over, and you lean forward to take and then study it. A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the muffled sounds of the staffers working. The new trends and polling numbers aren’t just good, they’re great.

Bucky takes a seat next to Steve, clocking you both looking into the daily report. “This kind of shift is good,” he says, “but now we just need to see it carry over and build from here on out.”

“Are you coming for my job, Mr. Barnes?” Jake asks, taking a seat at the table as well.

Bucky huffs a laugh, “No, sir. The last thing I would want is to be in charge of a circus like this.”

Jake smiles, and Steve and Bucky aren’t looking at him anymore, but you see the deeper look on Jake’s face. You’ve seen it on him before, it’s the look when he’s considering an idea - hisown or one suggested by the team - that he sees serious potential in. Even if he protests, Jake clearly sees potential in Bucky.

You would have to admit that you agree. Bucky understands Steve, and as he's stood shoulder to shoulder with him through this campaign, he's proven to be an invaluable asset. His strategic mind, honed by years of military experience, often provides insights that complement Jake's political savvy.

"Speaking of circuses," Jake says, voice louder, "let’s bring it in, folks.”

The rest of the key staffers all grab seats or press in around the table, and then Jake begins the end-of-day meeting. “We need to discuss tomorrow's schedule. The media's going to be on us far more seriously, and we need to be prepared for that shift in the tone of questions."

Steve nods, his expression serious. "What's the plan?"

"Engaging and not dry, but policy, policy, policy. We've got three major network interviews lined up for tomorrow morning. Steve, you'll be doing those. We want to capitalize on this momentum, but we also need to be careful not to appear too cocky."

"Understood," Steve replies.

"We've also got a strategy session scheduled for noon," Jake continues. "We’ve been reassessing our messaging in light of the Santos endorsement, but we want to see what it looks like after the burst from day one. We should have options for you to decide on then.”

You nod, understanding the delicate balance Jake is trying to strike. "What about the afternoon?"

Jake flips through his notes. "We've got a rally scheduled in Lansing at 3 PM. After that, we're heading to Chicago for a fundraiser in the evening."

Steve leans forward, his elbows on the table. "And what about the other candidates? Any word on their reactions to the endorsement?"

Sam speaks up. "Both camps have been relatively quiet so far. They're likely scrambling to adjust their strategies. We can expect some pushback tomorrow, though."

“I imagine we’ll see the Dems will be particularly cagey. They won’t want to look like a party divided,” Elsa explains, “but the reality is that one of their favored sons did just speak out and split where their support was supposed to go. The GOP-leaning media outlets are already gleefully stirring up chaos on their end, but nothing from their campaign yet.”

Jake nods in agreement. "What I wouldn’t give to have seen Johnson’s reaction to the news,” he says, referring to the other campaign manager, the rival that the DNC pushed over him for this presidential campaign cycle.

“After this initial new surge with policy,” Elsa takes over, “we want to redirect the narrative to you, Steve. We know America votes for people as much as they vote for policy. In about three days, we’re going to push heavily down the middle of the country and then make a swing across the southern states leading into the next debate. With that, we’re thinking about a series of casual, intimate interviews, more insight into your character, showing you’re not just the figure from history books or Avengers action over the last dozen years, but enough of a regular guy that they could have a beer with you.”

Steve nods, “All right.”

“You and Mrs. Rogers,” Jake tacks on.

Steve raises his eyebrows, but looks to you. This is the second time you’ve been brought in as a specific element to move the campaign forward.

You feel a flutter of nervousness at the mention of more intimate interviews, but you nod in agreement. "Of course, whatever helps the campaign."

Jake continues, "We're thinking of setting up some joint interviews, maybe even a day-in-the-life style piece. Show the public the real future First Couple, beyond the campaign speeches and rallies."

Steve reaches over and takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We can do that," he says, his voice steady and reassuring.

Jake clears his throat. "Excellent. Now, let's talk about debate prep. The next one is coming up fast, and we need to be ready for the next level of scrutiny."

The meeting continues for another hour, with strategies being discussed and assignments doled out. By the time Jake calls it a night, it's just past 1 AM. As the staffers begin to file out, you feel the full weight of exhaustion finally hit you. Luckily your room is only a few floors and a short walk above you.

Steve stands up, stretching slightly. "Ready to call it a night?" he asks, walking around the table and offering you his hand.

You nod gratefully, allowing him to pull you to your feet. As you gather your things, you can't help but feel a mix of excitement and apprehension about the days ahead.

As you and Steve make your way to the elevator, you can feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. The day's events replay in your mind - the unexpected endorsement, the electrifying rallies, the late-night strategy session. It's all a blur of excitement and intensity.

The elevator doors close, leaving you and Steve alone for the first time since this morning. In the quiet confines of the small space, you lean against the wall, letting out a long breath.

As the elevator ascends, you find yourself studying Steve's face. Despite the long hours and constant pressure, he still looks composed, though you can see the fatigue in the slight slump of his shoulders and the faint lines around his eyes.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you ask.

Steve turns to you, a tired smile playing at his lips. "Just thinking about how surreal this all is," he says softly. "A few months ago, I was trying to lay low in this century, keep out of the spotlight. Now..." He trails off, shaking his head slightly.

You nod, understanding. "Now you're vying to become the leader of the free world with every minute of your life under a microscope," you finish for him.

"Yeah," he breathes out. "But at least it’s not every minute."

The elevator dings, signaling your arrival at your floor. As you step out into the hallway, Steve places a gentle hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards your room. The touch, though light, sends a wave of warmth through you.

"How are you holding up?" he asks as you reach the door. "This can't be easy for you either."

You pause, key card in hand, considering his question. "It's... intense," you admit. "But I'm okay. Better than okay, actually. This whole experience, as crazy as it is, feels important. And I think we’re both getting stronger at this campaign thing every day."

Steve's eyes soften as he looks at you, a mix of admiration and concern in his gaze. "You've been amazing through all of this," he says quietly. "Now it’s hard to imagine doing it without you."

His words send a flutter through your chest. You're about to respond when you notice a slight shift in Steve's demeanor. He glances quickly down the hallway, then back at you, a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

"Listen," he says, his voice low. "I know we're both exhausted, but... do you want to come in for a bit? Just to talk, or... I don't know. It feels like we haven't had a real moment alone in-”

“Ever?” you finish for him.

Steve winces. “Yeah.”

You shift slightly. “I don’t know, it’s so late.”

Steve nods, understanding in his eyes. "You're right, it is late. We should both get some rest."

You feel a pang of regret at the slight disappointment you see flash across his face. "Maybe we can carve out some time tomorrow?" you suggest, not wanting to leave things on a down note.

"Definitely," Steve agrees with a soft smile. "We'll make it happen." But you see his expression is more closed off, and wonder if you’ve now taken two steps back.

There's a moment of awkward silence as you both stand there, neither quite ready to say goodnight.

Finally, Steve clears his throat. "Well, goodnight.”

"Goodnight," you reply.

As Steve turns to head to his own room, you slip your key card into the door and enter your suite. Once inside, you lean against the closed door, letting out a long sigh. The truth is, there is a big part of you that wanted nothing more than to spend more time with him, away from the prying eyes of staff and security. But you're also acutely aware of the need to maintain boundaries, especially given the unique nature of your arrangement.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to see there’s a message from Sophia with some questions she needs you to make decisions on for the morning. You send off your reply, then mindlessly fall into your nighttime routine, decompressing from the day, getting ready for bed, and tucking in with your tablet. You go over the daily debrief and ready notes for the campaign, and then move on to your Kindle app and fall asleep before finishing even two pages, alone.

next part: coming 11/22

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[neysaadept]

Prometheus Chapter 7

Emily Prentiss x Female CIA Reader

Chapter 7 - Excision Part One (Criminal Minds Case Time)

Tags: Limited use of y/n but established last name. Swearing, mentions of the pandemic and human and sex trafficking. Canon typical violence. Sexual innuendos. Drinking. Smoking. Slow Burn. Murder. Depictions of Flaying. Implied Rape. Mentions of Date Rape Drugs. Strangulation. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 4.4k

AO3

Chapter 6

Saturday night was supposed to be drinks with Tara and Rebecca as planned until Penelope heard about it. Then it evolved into you and Rebecca having your first BAU ladies’ night at the Fireside Lounge, the local bar the unit enjoyed socializing at. You were finding ways to politely say no at the end of the workday because the group was now too big for your comfort level. Getting to know one new person at a time was you’re your sweet spot, but now it was four. And were doomed to accept because Penelope’s pouting pulled too hard at your heart strings to further deny her.

Thankfully, two cases came in that Garcia’s law enforcement surveillance had flagged as interests. Though, it really wasn’t with gratitude that you felt having victims which cancelled the event. It was just a postponement. There was no way that Garcia was going to let you off the hook for drinking, dancing, and gossiping – as she had put it. At least this gives you time to formulate some excuses that can stick so Garcia isn’t too disappointed.

It was a problem for another time. The team arrived at Quantico Saturday afternoon and were briefed on the cases. One was in Germantown, MD where there was a break in. Two men with distorted faces had triggered the alarms to kidnap the security guard. They beat up and executed him on live feed while the homeowners watched. It’s quite possible the equipment and makeup they are using are from a Sicarius kill kit as the town is about ten miles away from Rockville, MD.

The other case comes in from Thermal, CA where a body was found at a plant nursery under shrubbery. The victim was male and strangulated to death. But that wasn’t what caught the BAU’s attention. It was a fact that the victim’s face had been precisely cut off and lain atop his chest. There was no blood at the crime scene either. The unsub appeared to be ritualistic in how they displayed the body per first impression with local law enforcement. The tools for this type of kill could also be one of Sicarius’ followers as Thermal, CA was about nine miles away from Indio, CA.

Prentiss split the team. JJ, Alvaz, and Lewis would remain in town and drive up to Germantown to investigate. She kept JJ close to home on purpose to be near her family. That meant Prentiss would take you and Rossi to California by jet. The trio remaining behind were so jealous that they all balled up paper sheets and threw them at you, making you laugh as you tried to dodge and bat them away.

Rossi was kind enough to remind the team that if not for you, there might not be a jet to use.

And that was where you were right now, being briefed in the air enroute to Jacqueline Cochran Regional Airport, right in Thermal. The local sheriff department secured a landing area for the private jet and would meet the unit there.

The three of you sat together on the four seaters – you were next to Rossi and had the window seat. Prentiss was across from you as Garcia spoke over face time. You hope you hide your excitement well since you were being trusted enough to be in the field. You brought a different kind of experience to the unit and understood there was a lot you could learn from Rossi and Prentiss.

“Since this place is in Bufu, California, they’re taking their sweet time sending me over the files. But I’ve gotten preliminary pictures from forensics.” Garcia shares her screen displaying the wounds of the neck and face. “For the record, I am NOT looking at this. La, la, la, la, la! This is all for your desensitized eyes! And I’m assuming your eyes are made that way too my CIA Cutie?”

“Unfortunately,” you answer, zooming in on the strangulation marks around the victim’s neck by garrote. The line was too thick to be wire or some sort of line. The pattern was uneven and did not cut into the flesh, just left a lot of yellow and purple bruising.

“Meet Cole McGarth, 24, who until recently, was a paralegal for a probate attorney near … oh, ho! Indio, CA!”

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” muses Rossi. “But it could be coincidence.”

You play around with the touchscreen some more and point out the marks on Cole’s wrists and above the ankles. “Looks like he was bound.”

“Indeed, he was per initial report,” Garcia says in confirmation. “Coroner is doing the work up as we speak. Or fly, in your guys’ case.”

“Any idea how the unsub removed the victim’s face?” asks Prentiss.

“Yes! Definitely meticulously excised but not sure what tool was used yet. It wasn’t sloppy work.”

“Probably not a disgruntled client then. This wasn’t done in anger, or in a fit of rage,” says Rossi.

You flip through files on the table and hum in agreement. “Too precise. Need a steady hand with how the unsub removed the skin.”

With a grimace, you look at McGarth’s eyeless face resting on his body and wonder, what did this guy do to deserve this?

“What we’re seeing here is a killer that knows what they’re doing,” adds Prentiss. “This isn’t new to the unsub.”

“You think there’s more bodies out there we don’t know about?” you ask, trying to understand Prentiss’ logic.

“Maybe. Just, this is too good. No one gets this good on the first try. Hey Garcia?” Prentiss looks to the screen to address her. “Check to see if there’s any cases that are similar to this one.”

“Will do! Anything else?”

“Any other prelim findings, send our way, but I’ve a feeling we won’t know more until we land with how slow local law enforcement’s processing this.”

“They have a major crimes unit, but this is far above their means,” explains Rossi. “They’d be calling us in eventually to assist.”

“Turtles run faster, yes,” Garcia confirms. “Oh! JJ is requesting my divine presence. I’ll keep you all up to speed on the home team, too. Tootles!”

Her face blinks out and you keep looking between the file in front of you and on the screen, not realizing Prentiss and Rossi were looking at you. Then they share a look that you were unaware of, eyes focusing with brows raising and motioning toward you with a slight shake of Prentiss’ head. They were wordlessly debating if they should chit chat with you.

Rossi shrugs. “So, Whitlock, what do you do for fun?” he asks suddenly as you look up with confusion.

“Uh …” Your brows pinch and you gesture to the files. “You don’t wanna talk about this?”

He chuckles. “We always talk about the case, but we talk about other things too. Besides, you owe me a conversation.”

You look lost, like a puppy with its head tilted trying to understand what was going to happen next. Prentiss thought it cute and made sure to down some water to hide it.

“About my work with the Gideons?” he supplies.

You lean back in the seat and smack your forehead. “Right. Yeah. Sorry! Been a hectic week and totally forgot about that.” You lower your hand and look at Prentiss. “Evil woman there’s working me hard.”

“Hey!” Prentiss sets the water bottle down with offense. “I am not evil.”

“The paperwork that you gave me is. Since you supplied the paper, it is your fault. Ergo evil paper, evil you.”

“That is the lamest logical argument I’ve heard in some time, Whitlock.”

You both then share a laugh as Rossi watches the banter curiously. He was very glad to see the two of you were finally getting along. “Well, to be fair, she did provide a valid argument. Won’t hold up in a court of her peers, but it is valid.” He smiles as Emily gives him a withering look. “But anyway, back to my question. What do you do for fun?

You close the file and set it aside as you consider this very difficult question. Rossi sees the hesitation and prods further. “Is it really that hard to answer?”

Grimacing, you nod and gesture around the jet. “Considering this my first vacation from work in, fuck, I don’t know how long?” You set your hand down and sigh. “Yeah.”

Emily thinks back on her career and yes, there were times that the ability to take a vacation dried up due to assignments, but she had vacations time – willingly and mandated by her superiors. “That doesn’t sound right.” But she knew you were serious by the solemn expression on your face, especially those exhausted eyes that had seen very little of the pleasures life could hold.

You really never take time off, do you? Prentiss thinks as she slowly begins to understand you. What are you running from that you don’t want downtime?

You shrug, offering that as answer. On the surface, you could be seen as a workaholic with no ties to anyone. Rossi picks up on that. “So, no special someone?”

You shake your head no.

“Kids?”

You laugh a little too hard. “No.”

“Family?”

Your eyes narrow briefly, the only indication that this question heightens your irritation which Emily spots. “I think that’s enough for now, Dave.”

Rossi holds up a hand apologetically. “Sorry, kid. Been awhile since we had someone new and got carried away.”

You nod as he gently squeezes your shoulder. Your eyes soften at Prentiss with thanks, but you start to worry. The section chief’s brown eyes turn mischievous. You frown as she grins. “Besides, I’m sure Penelope will continue the interrogation later.”

Rossi pulls his hand away. “Why’s that?”

“Girls’ night was cancelled. I’m sure when we have a free night, she’ll rectify that.”

You groan. “Please start finding another case right now.”

Rossi laughs. “Good luck trying to dodge her curiosity. Penelope’s tenacious. But also, sweet and easy to talk with.”

And that’s what you’re afraid of. Brian, too.

At least Rossi decided to shift gears to discuss his work with Jason and Jill Gideon. He found it precious you were taking notes …

The three of you eventually part ways for the rest of the flight to decompress until you land. As you disembark the jet, you slip on your sunglasses to stave off the bright sun and look at the one hangar that had a FedEx plane docked to be unloaded. The rest were small propellor plans that were used for lessons or crop dusting.

Wow, you think, not seeing anything like this on U.S. soil since… ever? Yeah, overseas a ton, but here? Never.

Waiting for the team at the end of the tarmac was a squad car and an SUV, with two officers waiting for you. One is a skinny fellow with a buzz cut that stood close to the other, looking restless as he paces. The other officer looks back and says something, making him stop.

As the three of you approach, the one seemingly in charge greets you with a curt nod. He wore thick glasses, dark hair kept neat and trimmed and carried a stocky build. “Chief Prentiss?” Emily nods. “I’m Captain Michael Robles and this is Deputy Aiden Miller.”

“This is Senior Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi and Special Agent Y/N Whitlock.” Both you and Dave nod as Emily introduces you. “Any updates on the investigation?” Garcia hadn’t received anything from Thermal or found any similar crimes thus far.

“Unfortunately, yeah. Another body turned up. Found in some bushes off of 62nd when a trucker pulled to the side to relieve himself.” He shook his head. “Poor bastard saw the arm hanging out. Thought it was a ringtail. Wasn’t expecting a dead body.”

“We have an ID on the victim?” Rossi asks.

Yeah,” says Miller. “His name’s Lee Sullivan. Head shrink out of Palm Desert. Both vics are with the Sheriff now and said we’re to bring y’all to him.”

“Oh, so he’s with the coroner?” you ask.

Robles chuckles. “The sheriff’s the coroner, too.”

Your eyes widen much to Prentiss’ amusement. “Welcome to small town Americana.”

To save time, Rossi went with Deputy Miller to speak with McGarth’s family and glean more information about last known locations and any potential individuals that may want to hurt him. All three of you found the initial interview lacking with local law enforcement because they didn’t want to push the grieving family too hard. While there is a need for compassion, time is precious and wasting it with no leads could get someone else killed. Look at Sullivan.

You and Prentiss went to see Sheriff Alex Grosch at the station. Yes, you were surprised that the sheriff’s station and the medical exam office were in the same location. Usually, they were separated to avoid any tampering or misuse of evidence that could impede an investigation. But since you had one guy playing M.E.* and cop? Sure! Why not have everything located in one place to make their job easier?

Sheriff Grosch was already grown and gloved by the bodies as you entered. His hair was covered with a cap, glasses secured around his head with a strap. Next to him was a tray of tools, some used, some sterile. Right now, he was taking notes. You were thankful he took off his gloves before doing that. Ew…

The room was far more cramped than you’d expect it to be, only have room for three examination tables, which were position directly in front of freezer lockers. One wall had supplies and equipment for examination on shelves and cabinets that were stuffed so much that they were slightly ajar. There were boxes of various sizes stacked against the wall haphazardly and leaning against that were various shipping boxes and envelopes in various states to be mailed out. There was a half open door with a glass panel on top that led to what was presumably Grosch’s office.

The place was chaos and probably violated many OSHA’ laws.

He took a break from scribbling and looks at you both. “Agents.”

“She’s a chief,” you quickly correct, pointing to Prentiss. Then to yourself. “I’m the agent. Special Agent actually.”

His slate blue eyes narrow. “Sure.”

You didn’t like this self-righteous fuck at all. His tone drips with condemnation and you felt it was more than just the correction of Prentiss’ title.

Sensing that this could go bad quickly, Prentiss jumps into facts. It was the best equalizer. “Catch us up.”

He sets down the clipboard and offers gloves to both of you. “Nothing new. Second vic died the same. Strangulation.” You and Prentiss put on examination gloves as he does too. “Has the same mark around the neck.”

Both you and Prentiss move around the table to get a good look at the second victim. “Yeah. Matches the pictures,” you confirm as Prentiss looks at the wrists and feet.

“And the same signs of being bound. Same indentations, too. Whatever it is,” she says, squinting, “hard to make out.”

Now being up close with the body, it looked like a two-inch strap was used by how the indentation looks, but then it becomes not as deep as you look away from the point of contact. You gently stroke your finger along the victim’s wrist and find it not to be smooth but prickly. There were several smaller lines that dug into the skin as you roll the limb back and forth. “Yeah. This could be anything right now.”

But something in the back of your mind knew what this was, just out of reach. Right on the tip of your tongue. “Any other signs of trauma?”

“Nah. Just like the first,” confirms the sheriff.

Prentiss’ eyes slide up to the covered face of Sullivan. Without hesitation, she pulls back the sheet as the sheriff holds up his hand. “I really don’t think you need to see that. It’s pretty gruesome.”

She squints her face with the same parental that you recognize immediately. It was the same one she gave you when you were acting petulant in her office when you first met. She looks absolutely commanding with the etched scorn set on her face. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She looks at you and gestures over with her head to join you.

You take position on the opposite side and with a shared look, reveal Sullivan’s head. You both went immediately into silent investigation mode and compartmentalize what you feel. You both saw enough throughout your respective careers to get the job done, which caught the sheriff by surprise as there wasn’t even a gasp or flinch from either of you.

The unsub left a terrible work of art. They had removed the entire layer of skin leaving the muscles visible and unharmed, same with the eyes. You saw the entire glazed over orb staring right back at you. That should have been unsettling enough, but this isn’t the worse thing you’ve seen. As you look further down the face, the incisions were a clean angular pattern. A skilled hand as you thought.

With her free hand, Prentiss traces the cuts above the face. “Cauterized the wounds as they cut.”

You nod in agreement. “Yeah. Either skilled with both hands or ambidextrous.”

“Especially being able to remove the skin in one piece.”

“And there’s no trauma to muscle. They wanted the victims to be preserved like this.”

Prentiss bunches up her lips in thought and motions to cover the victim, which you did. She turns to address Grosch. “Have you identified what tools were used with the excision?”

“Nothing specific but definitely the high-grade surgical kind. I did figure based on the timeline of the excision and the strangulation, the vics loss their face before they were killed,” he admits soberly.

“The victim was alive?” Prentiss was shocked. Nothing indicated that there was a struggle, or the victim fought back while being flayed. The team had presumed the face was removed postmortem.

You were thinking it too. “That doesn’t add up. The bodies have nothing to indicate they tried to fight off their attacker. Fingernails and hands have no trauma.” You pull the second victim’s hand up and show there was no blood or skin under the fingernails. No bruising of the hands or knuckles.

The sheriff nods. “It’s like that with the other one, too.”

“And the unsub had time to complete their objective, without interruption,” explains Prentiss. “Was there a tox screen done?”

“Yeah. Just waiting on lab to send over the results. Should be ready any time now.”

“Make sure we get that ASAP so we can discuss and add to our profile.”

He mutters a non-committal, ‘Uh huh.’, as you and Prentiss take off your gloves to throw out and leave the exam room.

As the door closes behind you, you huff out a harsh breath of air. “What an asshole.”

Prentiss smiles. “Even if he somehow forgets to send the information over, Garcia’s already on it.” She chuckles at your look of surprise. “This isn’t the first time some male ego may try and cock block the ladies of the BAU.”

Now you snort laugh. “Yeah, I’ve dealt with it, too.”

You both enter the bullpen and head straight for the coffee. This shithole town didn’t have French Vanilla, so you were stuck with boring old creamer. Prentiss at least got her Splenda.

“The unsub had to have known our vics. Or at least caught them off guard. It doesn’t make any sense at all that our victims wouldn’t have tried to fight back - when they were taken, flayed, or even during the strangulation. Nothing,” muses Prentiss before she takes a sip of her coffee. She makes a face at how bitter it was and stirs in another packet.

“Yeah, there’s nothing substantial on those bodies to indicate anything. And the unsub didn’t take anything off the victims as far as we’re able to determine. Except their dignity, I suppose.” You lean against the counter and look at the snail’s pace of a station working. No one appears to be in a hurry. Like everything was business as usual and the only signs that something was amiss was the FBI presence. There was quiet chatter in the bullpen and eyes directed towards the two of you. Whether it was curiosity or genuine need to solve the case, who knew?

That got you thinking.

“One’s face is the first thing you really see. Physically, I mean. So why did the unsub want to remove it?”

“Stress and depression are psychological concerns that can trigger dermatological issues – even somatically perceived ones. Feeling like your skin is crawling. Pins and needles across the skin. So much so, someone might want to tear your skin off. So, to speak.”

“And medically, you’re looking at pain and hives. Psoriasis and eczema. A shit ton, actually.” You consider it but shrug. “None of our victims have it. Open for debate on our unsub. But …” you look to Prentiss, “there is something to be said about feeling like you want to crawl out one’s skin. Maybe there is a deeply rooted emotional need to remove someone’s face so the unsub can have a cathartic release of emotions they can’t normally feel?’

Prentiss raises a brow in consideration. “Not a bad theory.”

“There’s also the fun thought of a face mask. I mean, I’m not talking exfoliation, but we hide our true selves behind layers of walls we build up. It all depends on how we grow up. Who we have contact with. Family, friends, lovers, co-workers. The interconnections we pull from that we use to define ourselves, or equally knowing when to open up. Everything we’ve experienced creates the persona we want people to see. It’s all based on threat and trust.” You pause as you work your jaw in thought and come to a different conclusion. “What if the unsub’s flaying is symbolic. Removing a layer of that mask from the victim?”

She raises the other brow, impressed with your knowledge and focus. Yeah, your humor edges through a little but it’s a blip in the conversation. You had a work ethic that hadn’t been able to be appreciated since she had sidelined you on day one. Out in the field, you are able to shine and show how intelligent you are. You ask all the right questions and didn’t discount anything too small or too big. You home in on small details and carry the conversation without any prompting form her. It was a natural flow of ideas between the two of you. Regardless of what it is you actually do for the CIA, it clearly meshes up well with profiling with the BAU. And if she was honest, your style was meshing with her, too.

But what really bothers her with what you said is that she knows you were speaking from experience. You spoke with too much familiarity about walls being built for protection. Couple that with being dismissive of any personal connections in your life that Dave tried to ask about, Prentiss couldn’t help wonder how long have you lived such a lonely life…

Right then, Prentiss’ phone rings and she accepts it, putting it in on speaker so you can hear. “Tell me you got something, Dave.”

“I do. Last known whereabouts of our victim was at a bar called Coachella.”

You make the face. “What? Like the music festival?’

“Exactly. The festival’s in Indio. Bar’s named after it.”

“Did the family give any indication as to why he was there?” asks Prentiss.

“No. Just went for drinks after the long work week to wind down. McGarth texted his sister before he went over. Sometimes he does try for a hook up, but I’m doubting his situation had to do with anything like that.”

“You’re not kidding. Anything else? Trouble with any family, friends? Anything at work?”

“Nothing yet. I’m heading to his work now to speak with his boss. Maybe we’ll get something there. After that, I’m following up on Sullivan’s family. How are things on your end?”

“Not much that we didn’t already know, but Whitlock has a couple of good theories about our unsub. Either flaying for the emotional release or removing an emotional wall the victim has built up.”

There was a pause as you hold your breath and wonder what Rossi would think. “Not bad, Whitlock.”

You exhale slowly and preen with pride. “Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nah. Waiting on labs. Until then, we’re just throwing ideas around for the profile.”

“Then I leave you ladies to it. Talk later.”

The sheriff comes jogging into the bullpen a few minutes after you both hang up with Dave, flagging you down with paperwork in hand. “Report’s just came in off the first victim.”

You speak quietly behind your coffee cup so only Prentiss can hear. “Who knew snails could run?”

She fights a laugh, neck straining as her lips contort to squash away any visible humor. “What do the reports say?” Prentiss impresses you with her ability to go pro so fast.

“Couple things of note. Got flunitrazepam and midazolam in the system.” He turns the pages towards the two of you and you take it.

“Flunitrazepam?” Your confusion was palpable as you see it written plainly on the report. “That’s one of the date rape drugs.”

“And midazolam’s a sedative,” states Prentiss. She’s baffled, too. “You said there’s no indication of assault, but did you examine for one sexual in nature?”

Grosch frowns deeply and his eyes lack focus. You were quite happy to answer for him. “I’m gonna go with a no there, chief.”

He clears his throat. “With, ah, no signs of struggle, I didn’t see a reason to.”

“Well, you do now. Make sure you check both victims.” He nods and heads out as Prentiss sets aside her shitty coffee. “Honestly not his fault. He really had no reason to assess for it until now.”

“Yeah, but it was nice seeing him freak out for a sec there,” you say with a smile that fades thoughtfully. “Case keeps getting weirder, huh?”

“Oh, honey,” Prentiss smirks wistfully, “this is nothing but another day in the BAU ...”

… to be continued in Excision Part Two.

*Medical Examiner

*Occupational Safety and Health Administration

@unkonw00 @ara-a-bird @rayisaknight @sevyscoven

[starsfic]

The Week After, Chapter 5: Day 5

Summary: Things snap. Notes: There is smut on the AO3 version of this. There are warnings for the smut.

The show was going to be rigged.

Now that Morgan knew more about it and had sat in the office, listening to Frankie and the board rambling about the next season plans as they thought they were tuned out, it was absolutely fucking rigged. Now that they were here, they would be involved in it, making sure either them or that monster version of Frankie won for however many seasons. Until the show shut down or the audience got bored of one of them.

Morgan didn't need to train. But they wanted to, otherwise they would doom themself without the aid of anyone.

No, scratch that.

There was an itch deep in Morgan's systems. They couldn't get the proper hit without Monster Frankie, but apparently, the backup body wouldn't be turned on until a week before the show. It was fine. There were other ways to make the adrenaline rush through their systems, even if the parkour palace's systems weren't running.

They stepped inside Frankie's Crash Course from the hidden elevator, pressing the big red button next to it. As the elevator doors slid close and the saw blades began to dull whir, they headed to the STAND HERE mark. The long-sleeved leotard they had dug out in replacement of a shirt felt a touch too revealing, but it was the best parkour clothes they had. They needed to stock up. At least they had good sneakers.

The timer began to count down, unlike during the show, as the blades grew louder. The minute it hit zero, the two minutes began.

It started slow at first. Morgan side-stepped and jumped easily without a real sweat. They fought back a snicker as cardboard cutouts of Frankie joined. As one with his hand up zipped past, they high-fived it. The ground was soft but solid underneath their feet, kinda like the material the daycare at that one pizza place was made of, so there was no fear of injury, except from the stronger and stronger saw blades and the faster and faster stuff trying to push them into the saw blades. Still, they continued on, gritting their teeth and forcing their body to move faster and faster, even as an ache began to thrum through their body.

I should have stretched before . That was a note.

Five…four…three…two…one-

The timer stopped, leaving things half frozen. Morgan came to a stop, breathing and out, their throat dry and aching. They needed to bring a water bottle next time. During the show, they had nearly died from the amount of coughing from lack of water.

They headed to the elevator.

They first headed to their apartment to get the waterbottle they got from a college tour, back when they were still with their family. Next, they headed to the trampoline park.

They worked their way through the parkour palace. They had to head back again when they remembered Deputy Duck’s section and grab him. He had kinda been dropped with the rest of the show outfit and ended up propped on a counter, where he had sat silent. But after some poking around in his jail cell, they found a charging port and resisted a smile at the broken quack. Morgan didn’t know if Depity Duck was sentient, like the others, but that quack had sounded like a thanks.

Frankie spoke up when they entered Henry Hotline’s section.

“What are you doing?”

Morgan nearly walked into a wall from their jump. They couldn’t find the light switches for this section. When they had been cleaning up the bodies, they had relied on the flashlight on their phone. At least this gave them practice. “Practicing.”

“You’re going to break something,” Frankie said. They couldn’t tell, but he either sounded concerned or mocking. “Did you even wrap up your chest after that fall at the frosted peak?”

The fall in question had been high. Really high. Morgan’s chest did ache, but it wasn’t anything to worry about. The ache in their ribs from their first fall, back during the show, didn’t even bother them anymore! At least, not until they started training.

“I’m fine, Frankie.” Morgan reached out and allowed their right hand to press against the wall and started to walk. They needed to run this, but that would come second. “I want to give the viewers a show. I want to earn the victory.”

“Well, you can’t do that if you break an arm or something.” Frankie said, and he did sound annoyed. “Come back and let me look at it.”

“No, I’m fine.” Morgan’s pace began to speed up.

There was an annoyed groan. “You’re being stubborn for no reason. Let me help you keep us both active and alive here.”

“No.” For some reason, probably the tone he took- like he was babysitting a kindergartener, they refused. “I don’t need your help.”

He groaned again, this one longer and more annoyed. “Come. Here.”

“No!”

The wall suddenly yanked out in front of them. Several questions joined the pile, including the fact that the walls could move. Their plan to map out the maze was suddenly unavailable. The intercom crackled. “Come. Here. You’re putting both of us at risk.”

Well, now, they had to. “Fuck you too,” they called, still turning and heading back where they came, eventually seeing the phone that started the game. “I can get hurt if I want to!”

The intercom was silent now.

Morgan grumbled as they headed to the elevator, slamming the button for the utilidors. As the elevator headed down, they found their foot tapping against the floor. The repeated gesture didn’t help the anger boiling in their gut. They had just been preparing. They had been working on it all day, why was he suddenly pitching a fit?

A strange smell hit their nose as they drew closer to the office. Bafflement washed over them as they turned the corner and saw that the smell came from the cigar that Frankie was smoking as he glared at the cameras.

“You can smoke?”

“It’s new. It’s a better method of hurting myself than whatever you were doing.” he snarked back, pulling the cigar out and stamping it out in the ashtray that had popped up. He turned and, yep, that was a glare, even if his face couldn’t make a glare. “If you get hurt, there’s no guarantee you’ll be fine before the show, which hurts your chances and mine.”

“So?” Morgan said with a huff, crossing their arms and ignoring the spike of pain. He had made them angry, there was no way they were admitting weakness. “I need to practice. You can’t stop me.” On a dare that popped up, they leaned forward and grinned. “I’m not yours.”

[spaceroadtrip]

I am absolutely terrible when it comes to writing anything about my own WIPs on this blog despite making a specific writing side blog for this purpose. So I thought I'd share a list of some of my favourite quotes from Spes Super Sydera--out of context, of course! Spes Super Sydera is my sci-fi WIP centring on the main character, Eloise, and her struggle to unravel what exactly happened to her dad after he went missing on a deep-space mission about a year before the book starts. It involves heists, kidnapping, potential aliens, and adventures on spaceships.

Here beginth part one of the quotes:

(They were all going to go here but I started reading the earlier chapters and discovering more and more bits that I enjoyed so I'm splitting it up. I've currently got 42 chapters and counting. Don't know how that happened!)

Ch. 5: “Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t done anything illegal—personally, anyway."

Ch. 6: “I vote for breaking the door down.” Charlie bounces on the balls of her feet and rubs her hands together far too gleefully for Eloise’s tastes. “I’ve always wanted to have a go with an axe.”

Ch. 7: Not that she expects to find many vases down here. It’s not the sort of thing that a space exploration company tends to keep in their important archives that are off-limits to most people. Unless it’s a vase from space, perhaps. An alien vase would be worth keeping.

Ch. 7: “I’m delegating like any good leader does. Hop to it, peasant.”

Ch. 10: Eloise gives up on thinking and climbs onto her bed so she can scream into the pillows. It’s cathartic.

Ch. 12: With a sigh, Eloise kicks her heels against the desk drawers from her position atop the desk. “Am I supposed to do all the talking now? I’m not sure I like the sound of my own voice enough for that sort of commitment.”

“I’m thinking,” Rebecca snarls, catching one of Eloise’s feet in an iron grip. “Something that would be easier if you could sit still. We’re not children anymore.”

“Don’t I know it. I never had to deal with international security secrets or conspiracies when I was a kid. It was usually just low-level bureaucratic bribery and incompetency.”

“My, aren’t you hilarious.”

“One of us has to be.”

Ch. 16: Charlie kicks one of her feet up to bop Eloise on the nose and she scowls, batting the offending foot away before the smell of sweaty feet overwhelms her. “Give over, Eloise. My feet smell of daises and lavender if they smell of anything at all because I actually remember to shower regularly, unlike some people.” She glances around the circle and everyone stares right back, utterly unbothered by her accusations.

Ch. 18: "For someone who’s supposed to be our leader, you don’t seem to be paying much attention,” Dom drawls, reaching around the back of Charlie’s chair he can jab Eloise’s shoulder—hard.

Rebecca scowls. “I contest that. Eloise is not our leader.”

“Seconded.” Eloise sticks her hand in the air and reaches for her coffee mug. Someone pushes it out of the way. “Hey! Seriously, I don’t want to be in charge of you lot. I can barely stay in charge of myself.”

Ch. 18: Benedict folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair, managing to look remarkedly intimidating for a short and rather gangly man wearing a fluffy dressing gown and dog-shaped slippers. It’s a skill Eloise would pay to learn.

Ch. 19: Not, of course, that Eloise is actively planning to try. But if the opportunity presents itself? Well, who is she to stand in the way of the universe?

Ch. 20: A sudden crackle in Eloise’s ear makes her jump. She almost claps her hand over the earpiece, barely managing to turn the gesture into smoothing other a non-existent errant strand of hair.

“Are we going for full-on lies now, Eloise? Careful it doesn’t come back to bite you on the ass,” Rebecca says in a sing-song voice, sounding strangely chirpy. It’s disconcerting.

“Oh, we’re being a proper peanut gallery then, are we?” That’s Charlie and her words are fainter, as though she’s further away from the microphone.

Muffled rustling fills Eloise’s ear. “No. We’re here to listen. And provide useful comments.”

“Useful. As if anyone has ever had any of those.” A burst of bright laughter fills Eloise’s ear after Benedict’s grumbly words and she winces again, cringing at the too-loud noise.

Ch. 22: “The hell is wrong with you? Not everything requires a kidnapping.” Charlie shrugs as Dom cards both hands through his hair, restyling his artfully tousled curls into something resembling a particularly unkempt bird nest.

[buginateacup]

.

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - ONE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: none (angst) chapter two┆ chapter three ┆ chapter four

The bass from the speakers rattled the glass in your hand as you leaned against the porch railing, eyes scanning the backyard for him—Rafe.

It had been a long month.

Longer than you thought it would be. Usually, when you and Rafe had your little “breaks,” they lasted about a week, maybe two at most. It was always something stupid, a screaming match that ended with slammed doors and his truck peeling out of your driveway. But it never lasted. It couldn’t. You’d known each other too long, been through too much, and deep down, there was this unspoken truth—he’d always come back. Or, you would.

But this time was different.

This time, he wasn’t calling or showing up at your window in the middle of the night, eyes tired and sorry, pulling you into his arms. The space between you had been growing wider since his dad died. And sure, maybe it was your fault for what you said after Ward’s death—But it was the truth.

Still, you hadn’t expected him to shut you out completely. Two months. Two months of silence. And the only thing you’d heard about him since was through Ruthie, Topper’s new girlfriend, of all people. A random comment at Mase’s place—something about how Rafe had been hanging around some pogue girl named Sofia.

You’d rolled your eyes at that. Rafe? With some Pogue? Yeah, right. You’d pretended not to care when she tossed it out like it was nothing

You weren’t stupid.

You’d always known Rafe wasn’t the easiest guy to love. He was complicated, angry, reckless—but so were you. And in some messed-up way, that’s why you two worked. Or at least, why you thought you did. You were just as stubborn, just as damaged. But now, as you sipped your drink and looked around, something felt off. Your gut was tight, and that nagging feeling that’d been growing restless under your skin since the breakup only grew stronger the longer you stood there.

You pushed yourself off the railing, discarding your drink on a table before moving through the crowd, past people you knew but didn’t bother with. Your mind was set on one thing—Rafe. You were done with the break. You had your space. It’s time to get back together. It was never even really a question. It was just the way things worked with you two.

But then there was Ruthie—blocking your path, her wide smile dripping with the kind of smugness that set your teeth on edge. She looked like she was reveling in your misery and that little giggle she let out only made it worse.

"So glad you could make it!" she sang out, her voice too sweet, too bright. Her eyes flickered over you like she was sizing you up, taking stock of every inch of your perfectly put-together outfit.

You forced a smile, “Yeah, well, wouldn’t miss a party like this,” you said, keeping your tone casual.

You weren’t in the mood for whatever game she was playing.

“Oh, I just bet,” she replied, her smile growing wider. She stepped closer, her breath reeking of cheap wine, and you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes. Ruthie always drank too much at these things.

What the hell was her problem? She always acted like she knew something you didn’t, like she held the keys to all the dirty little secrets in Kildare, and she loved dangling them in front of people just to watch them squirm.

“Ruthie, I swear to God—” you began, but she cut you off, her grin widening.

“Oh, honey,” she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sympathy, “don’t get mad at me. I’m just the messenger. You should really be talking to Rafe about this.” She took a step back, still smiling, and glanced over her shoulder. “He’s around, you know. You can go find him yourself. See how cozy he’s gotten with her.”

You bit your tongue, jaw, forcing yourself to stay calm. She was trying to get under your skin, like the snake she’d always been. You couldn’t believe Top was lonely and horny enough to finally fall into her claws.

“Thanks for the tip,” you gave her a tight lipped grimace, brushing past her, didn’t try and wait for her reply.

You only caught glimpses of empty rooms along the way. You hadn’t seen him since the break, and part of you didn’t want to admit how much that messed you up. How much he messed you up. Your steps slowed as you neared the hall that led to the back of the house, the sound of voices filtering through the air. You recognized some, laughed at the drunken ramblings, until one voice cut through the noise. Rafe’s.

And then you heard hers. No fucking way.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You told yourself you just needed to see him, just talk to him, tell him this break had gone on long enough, that you were done with the games. That’s when you heard it again—her laugh. It was light, flirtatious, the kind of laugh that made your stomach turn into a million different directions because you knew exactly what it meant.

She was there, with him.

You moved forward, the hallway barely lit as you reached the half-closed bathroom door. Your breath hitched, hands trembling as you peeked through the small crack, unable to stop yourself from looking.

There they were.

She was smiling, laughing softly at something he’d said, her fingers brushing through her hair as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched his hands move, tying the knot in her bikini with such gentle precision like he’d done it a thousand times. The kind of softness he used to have with you. And then he said it, his voice teasing, amused like this was some kind of inside joke between them.

"God, this is just landing right in my lap, isn’t it?"

You froze.

He laughed quietly, his lips brushing against Sofia’s shoulder as he tied the last knot, and the way he touched her—like she was something to be savored—sent a rush of pure, burning humiliation straight through your chest.

You stumbled back, your heart pounding in your ears as Rafe’s words repeated over and over in your head. Landing right in my lap. What the fuck was this?

Your heart clenched, vision blurring as what you were seeing slammed right into you. You backed away, your hand flying to your mouth to stop the sob from escaping. But it didn’t help. Not even à little. The tears burned, and you turned quickly, practically running back through the house and out the door before anyone could see the humiliating mess you were becoming.

It was real. He moved on. In two fucking months.

That’s all it had taken for him to replace you. To be done with you. He was over you. Just like that.

After everything you’d been through together, after all the times you had to pull him out of his own darkness, after the nights spent in his arms when you thought you couldn’t breathe because your whole family was gone—after years of being his and him being yours—how the fuck could he move on when you’d been rotting away in self loathing for pushing him away?

Your head spun as you stumbled down the steps, out to the street where your car was parked. You couldn’t breathe. Your breaths were coming out too fast, too shallow, and your hands were shaking so hard you had to press them against your knees to hold yourself up.

What the hell was wrong with you? You hadn’t even had anything to drink.

But your stomach was rolling, twisting in knots so tight you could barely stand straight. You leaned against the side of your car, the cool metal grounding you to reality for a second before a wave of nausea hit, forcing you to double over and retch onto the pavement. Tears stung your eyes as you coughed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You felt dizzy, disgusted even, everything you thought you knew, everything you thought was yours, had been ripped out from under you.

Without a single warning. Not a text, not a stupid call, just pure indifference. No respect or regard for you. None of them. Everything you’d just seen replayed in your mind—Rafe, her, the way he touched her like she meant something to him.

“Look who’s still standing!” Topper’s voice. He was laughing as he strolled over, hands shoved in his pockets, that same carefree grin on his face that he always had at parties. “Jesus, what did you have to drink? You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

Normally, you might have had something to say back, maybe a fiery insult or a roll of your eyes. But right now, everything felt like too much. You couldn’t say a word. You could barely breathe.

Your cousin stopped beside you, his grin dropping as he finally looked at you. “Hey, what’s wrong?” He leaned down, trying to catch your eyes. “You good? You look kinda—"

You cut him off, the question was heavy, like a lump lodged in your throat. “Did you know?”

He blinked, the confusion spreading across his face. “Know what?”

You swallowed, your heart hammering in your chest as you forced the words out, your voice shaking. “About Rafe and Sofia.”

You hated saying her name.

Hated that you’d been forced to know it by heart. Topper’s smile dropped, his expression changing.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to, you knew him well enough to read his micro expressions. You clenched your fists, it felt like you were the only one in the island who’d been let out of the secret.

Surely, your friends, your only family would’ve told you something right? It’s not like you were on a remote island away from them. You’d spent the last month in New York, not in the fucking jungle. You visited occasionally. You were a call away.

“Did everyone fucking know?”

Topper exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, we didn’t think it was serious. You know how it is with you two—you’ve done this before. Played with other people…”

Played with other people. Like you and Rafe were just some game, a revolving door of heartbreak and hookups. It didn’t make sense. You’d always known how it worked, understood how these things went—sure, you’d had your minor flings, and he’d had his, but it was never real.

You stumbled back, feeling like you might collapse. “Oh my God, I’m going to be sick again.”

He reached out, obviously concerned since he hadn’t seen you in this desperate state in years, “Hey, hey, calm down. Look, it’s not like it means anything. Rafe’s just—he’s going through a lot with his dad dying, and he… he’s just messing around. You know how he gets.”

But the words did nothing to soothe you. They only made it worse—how everyone knew. How they’d all watched Rafe move on, while you were stuck, still reeling from the breakup, thinking he’d come back like he always did. And he was just out there, with her.

With someone else. You pressed a hand to your stomach, your head hurting. The idea of Sofia, of Rafe being with someone else in ways that only you knew—ways that had always been yours—made you feel like you were being torn apart.

Topper was still talking, still trying to rationalize it, but his words were like static now, blending into the noise of the party behind you. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he was saying. “You know how it goes. You always end up back together. He’s just doing whatever to distract himself.”

That word. Distract himself. Like your entire relationship could be boiled down to that—a series of distractions until you decided to come back to each other, to pick up the pieces and pretend everything was okay.

You could still remember the night your life changed—the phone call, the horrible, gut-wrenching moment when you learned that your family’s private plane had gone down. Your parents. Your sister. Gone. Just like that. And Rafe had been the one to pull you through it. He was the one who had held you as you cried so hard you thought you were going to die, who sat with you in silence when you couldn’t bring yourself to speak, who stayed with you every single night because you were terrified to be alone in a haunted mansion that now felt like a mausoleum.

You had been seventeen, and losing them all at once had killed something inside of you. But he was there. He wasn’t perfect—far from it—but he knew what it was like to grieve.

He knew loss. He understood. Because you’d been there for him two years earlier, when his mom lost her battle to cancer. You could still see the look in his eyes that day—fourteen years old and already drowning in so much anger and sadness, like the world had ripped something essential out of him.

The way he cried at her funeral when he thought no one was watching, and you’d found him, sat beside him in the cold, letting him cry without saying a word. You hadn’t started dating yet, hadn’t crossed that line, but something had changed between you two in those moments.

A connection, a bond forged in shared pain, in the kind of trauma that no one else really got. Maybe that was why you were so obsessed with each other. Maybe it was fucked up, but you couldn’t imagine anyone else understanding you the way Rafe did.

How could it all come down to this? To you standing here, feeling like the world was ending while he moved on, laughing and touching someone else like nothing you had ever been through mattered?

Was that it? Did that one moment, that one argument about Ward, erase everything you’d done for him?

All the times you’d been there, the way you had comforted him when he felt like his life was spiraling? You remembered exactly what you’d said a month after the funeral, when your boyfriend blamed everyone but Ward for his own death. "He wasn’t a good person, baby. I know he was your dad, but you can’t pretend like he didn’t fuck you up."

You hadn’t even said it to hurt him, not really. It was just the truth. Ward had been a terrible father, controlling and manipulative, and you’d spent years watching Rafe try to live up to some impossible standard, chasing his father’s approval like it would ever be enough. But that didn’t make it easier for him to hear. You should have known better. You should have known how raw he was after losing his dad, how complicated his feelings were.

But instead, you’d been brutal. Honest, but brutal.

And now, two months later, here you were—staring at the empty street, wondering if you’d pushed him too far. If that one moment of honesty was enough to make him forget everything else. Now you were just the ex, the crazy one who didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.

“Fuck, why did I say that?” you whispered to yourself, voice shaking. Why couldn’t you have just let it go?

But then another clarity of anger took over you, pushing away the guilt that had been building inside. So you’d been too harsh about Ward. So you’d said what everyone else had been too scared to say. It wasn’t like you’d been wrong. Ward had messed Rafe up.

Everyone knew it. He knew it, deep down.

You gritted your teeth, staring out at the dark street, the low hum of the party still buzzing faintly behind you. You were never going to get that picture out of your head. Like they hadn’t just met, like you hadn’t spent years learning how to calm Rafe when he spiraled, how to hold him together when he couldn’t hold himself.

Your chest tightened again, a bitter taste rising in your throat.

You could still feel the weight of his head on your shoulder that night, years ago, when his mom passed. The silent sobs that shook his body, the way he’d held onto you. That was the real Rafe—the one he hid from everyone else. The one who was lost and broken underneath all the anger. And you’d seen him, really seen him in ways no one else ever could. Not Sofia. Not anyone.

"Look, you're emotional, okay? I get it. Maybe it's that time of the month or something. You know how you always get when your hormones go crazy."

The words got to you, but not in the way he probably thought they would. At first, it pissed you off, like it always did when people tried to downplay your emotions. Everyone always said you felt too much. That you were out of control.

But then…

You stopped moving, blinking rapidly as his words spiraled around in your brain. ‘Time of the month’, he'd said.

Your heart started doing summersaults, your stomach dropping as the idea settled in. You grabbed your phone, hands trembling like leaves as you opened the calendar app. You scrolled, trying to think, trying to remember when you’d last…fuck.

You hadn’t had your period in… so long.

Almost two months. No. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be some kind of fucked up joke.

You felt light-headed as you reached for your car again, your body shaking so badly you could barely stand against the door. "Shit."

How could you not have noticed?

Topper noticed the change in you instantly, his brow furrowing. "What’s wrong with you?" he asked, his tone softening a little. "You okay?"

You couldn’t even form a sentence. Your brain was too full of what-ifs. Two months late.

You hadn't even thought about it until now—everything had taken so much space in your head that you hadn't noticed the most obvious sign. This wasn’t possible. Your hand flew to your stomach, almost instinctively. You had no idea what to do with the panic creeping up your throat.

“Shit,” You hissed, this time louder, trying to push the growing dread down. But it wouldn't go away.

He was still staring at you, “What? What’s going on? You’re freaking me out.”

But you were already backing away, shaking your head, “I—I need to go,” You mumbled, barely hearing yourself.

Your cousin moved quickly to block your path as you tried to make your way toward the door. That kind of protective streak only made you want to shove past him even more.

"You’re not driving in this state." he warned you, voice firm, his hands up like he was trying to physically stop you.

You just glared at him, “Fucking watch me.”

He didn’t budge. "You get in that car and I'm calling Rafe," he said, sounding dead serious.

You couldn’t believe it. Your head was already spinning, and he was trying to guilt-trip you like this was some kind of helpful thing to do? You threw your hands up in frustration, voice rising, cracking. "He’s too busy fucking Sofia. Knock yourself out."

The words felt like venom in your mouth, the bitterness rolling off your tongue. You didn’t care how harsh they sounded. You didn’t care about anything anymore except getting away from this suffocating stupid place. Before he could say anything else, you made your move. You pushed past him with all your strength, chest hurting with the urge to feel something other than this suffocating mess of emotions and confusion.

Your hands shook as you fumbled for your keys. You managed to unlock the door, sliding into the driver’s seat, the cool leather biting into your skin.

You needed to think. But all you could think about was that one, terrifying realization: you might be pregnant.

Your breath hitched, terror swirling around your chest. The calendar app was still open on your phone, the dates staring back at you like a flashing red warning sign, daring you to confront the truth you’d been ignoring. Two months. Two months without a period. And you hadn’t even noticed. You pressed a hand to your stomach again, heart pounding as if it was trying to escape your chest. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not like this.

You weren’t thinking clearly—shit, you weren’t thinking at all, but you couldn’t stay here. Not with Topper trying to baby you, not with him out there, living his best life like you didn’t even exist.

You turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and just as you gripped the wheel, ready to peel out of the driveway, Topper bolted in front of the car, planting himself right there like some kind of human roadblock. Fucking idiot. His arms were stretched out wide, like he could somehow stop you by sheer willpower.

“You’re not doing this, I swear to God, you’re not!” he yelled, his voice frantic, echoing off the dark street. He looked panicked, pleading even, like he was convinced you’d actually go through with it.

You gritted your teeth, eyes narrowing on him through the windshield. “Top, I swear, you have three seconds before I run you over.”

“Are you serious right now?” he yelled, his voice cracking with disbelief. But he didn’t move. “You think I’m letting you drive like this? You’re out of your fuckin’ mind!”

Your fingers gripping the wheel so hard it hurt. You weren’t bluffing. You were too wound up, too out of control. The only thing keeping you from flooring him was the fact that, deep down, you knew your cousin didn’t deserve it.

You just needed to get out of here.

“Move!” you screamed, “I’m not joking’, Topper. Get the fuck out of my way!”

His face twisted with frustration as he looked over his shoulder, something catching his attention. He started waving, yelling at someone, his voice cutting through the night, “Rafe! Dude, get over here!”

Your brain stopped. It was like everything had been sucked out of you. Your hands froze on the wheel, your entire body locking up as you looked to your right and saw him—Rafe. Right there in the yard.

And she was with him. He had his arm draped around her casually, like she belonged there.

Like he belonged there, just standing in the open, so stupidly comfortable in his new life. His head turned when he heard Topper call out, and your eyes locked for a less than a second. A moment too long. A moment that broke something inside you.

While Topper was distracted, his attention on Rafe, you made your move. You slammed your foot on the gas, tires screeching as the car lurched forward, swerving just enough to dodge Topper’s stunned figure. You heard him yell after you, but his voice faded into the background noise as you sped away.

You didn’t look back. Not at Top, not at Rafe.

The only thing you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, drowning out everything else. You hated this. Hated that you were crying. Hated that you’d let yourself get to this point.

“God, what is wrong with me?” you muttered, your voice quavering as the words tumbled out. “Why the fuck am I crying over him? I shouldn’t be crying over him.” You slammed your palm against the steering wheel, angry, disgusted with yourself.

You’d told yourself you were stronger than this—that after everything you’d been through, you didn’t need him or anyone else. But here you were, falling apart like some pathetic excuse of a mess because of him. Because he had always been there, hadn’t he? After the crash, after you lost everything, he was the one constant, the one person who kept you from completely losing it. You’d relied on him so much. Too much.

“Fuck,” you hissed, tears streaming down your face. Your throat burned as the memories came flooding back, memories of all the nights you’d spent together, of him holding you while you cried yourself to sleep, of the way he’d pulled you out of the gloom when you thought you’d never get back up again. You thought he’d always be that person for you, the one who understood your broken pieces because he had his own. You’d always fit together perfectly.

You pulled into the parking lot of the nearest drugstore, your hands still shaking as you put the car in park. The tears had dried up on the drive over, replaced by a cold determination. You didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to even think about what you were about to do.

The moment you stepped out of your car and into the harsh fluorescent lighting of the drugstore, you felt completely out of place—like a stranger in your own skin. You hadn’t even thought about how ridiculous you must’ve looked until you caught your reflection in one of the store’s glass windows. Your hair, still perfect from earlier, framed your face in soft waves, and your makeup was flawless, despite the crying. The designer dress you were wearing—sleek, red, and worth more than half the shit in this store—with its sticky floors and white lights, it made you feel like an alien. Like you didn’t belong.

You caught the eyes of a couple of people loitering outside the entrance as you walked in, their stares lingering a little too long, murmuring to each other behind smirks. You knew they were talking about you. They always did, kook queen, overdressed, out of touch, bitch, whatever they wanted to call you.

The sliding doors let out a grating beep as you entered, and the air inside was stale and heavy, reeking of floor cleaner and cheap perfume. You adjusted your grip on your purse, strutting past the aisles with your head high even though everything inside you felt like it was falling apart.

You always did this—dressed to kill, head up, like armor. But there was no real glamour in buying pregnancy tests from some random pharmacy in the middle of the night. No way to mask the deep, growing hysteria in your bones.

The girl behind the register clocked you the second you stepped up to the counter, her eyes dragging over your like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. You could almost hear her thoughts: What the hell is someone like you doing here?

You didn’t even look at her. You just wanted to pay and leave without a scene. But of course, people always found a way to make things worse. She hesitated before scanning the tests, looking like she might say something. For her own good, you prayed she didn’t.

You threw the money on the counter before she could open her mouth, two crisp hundreds on top of the total. The cash hit the counter with a sharp thwap and you gave her the bitchiest look you could muster. “Take it. Keep your fucking mouth shut.”

She swallowed hard, her hand trembling as she slid the bills into the register. You didn’t care that she was young or nervous. You weren’t here to make friends. You weren’t here for anyone’s sympathy. The extra money would make sure she didn’t talk, that was all that mattered.

You walked out, your heels clicking against the linoleum, head high, even though every nerve in your body screamed for you to disappear. You slid into your truck, slamming the door shut, the silence finally hitting you. For all the designer clothes, the makeup, the money—none of it meant shit right now. You felt so small. So scared. Terribly lonely.

You sat there for what felt like forever, staring at the stupid bag in the passenger seat like it had the power to ruin your whole life—which, to be fair, it kind of did. You didn’t know what the fuck you were going to do. Not about any of it.

Your foot tapped nervously against the floor mat, the sound too loud in the quiet car. The bag crinkled as you glanced at it again, your stomach twisting all over again. A bunch of pregnancy tests. How had it come to this?

Rafe. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself not to think about him, not to picture his face when he found out. If he found out. Shit, what the hell was he going to do? He was with Sofia now, right? So was this going to ruin his life too? Did he even deserve to know?

It was probably nothing, you told yourself. Maybe the separation anxiety had gotten to you. Maybe your body was just fucked up from all the stress. Maybe your period was just late because you’d been so all over the place lately. There could be a million reasons. You didn’t even want to think about what would happen if it wasn’t nothing.

You didn’t want to cry anymore. Not after all of this. Not over Rafe. Not over your life turning into some fucking soap opera you didn’t even want to be a part of.

The second you were inside your house, the walls closed in around you. Your perfectly decorated place—the one you’d spent so much time making into a refuge, an escape—it didn’t feel like that anymore. Every designer pillow, every carefully chosen piece of art, mocking you.

Your phone buzzed in your bag, you reached for it. Of course, it was Rafe.

“I don’t know what the fuck that was but save the fucking dramatics, okay?”

The nerve. The fucking nerve of him to act like he was the center of your universe, acting like you were some inconvenience. Months of silence and this was the first thing he decided to text you? Knowing how much you despised when people called you a drama queen? Fucking piece of shit.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, a thousand different responses running through your mind. You wanted to tell him to shove something up his ass. But you did the only thing that felt right in that moment.

You blocked him. You stared at your phone, half expecting it to buzz again, half dreading that it wouldn’t. It was done. You cut him off, at least in that tiny, virtual way. You sat there for a minute, gripping the phone, trying to remember how to breathe.

This was supposed to feel empowering, right? You told yourself it would. That cutting him out would help you get back some control. But your mind wouldn’t settle. Those damn pregnancy tests were sitting in the bag next to you.

You were tired.

Exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with how late it was or how emotionally spent you were. You kicked off your heels, letting them clatter against the hardwood floor as you sank into the plush couch. Your house felt cold and unwelcoming tonight. Like a showroom. No comfort to be found. Not here, not in the muted tones of beige and white. Not in the sleek lines of furniture that were supposed to exude elegance and sophistication.

Maybe tomorrow you’d feel differently.

Maybe you’d wake up with a clear head, ready to take the stupid tests. Maybe you’d be strong again like you’d been so many times before.

Tonight, you were just tired. You leaned back against the cushions, closing your eyes for a moment, willing the noise in your head to quiet down. Sleep. That’s what you needed. Just a few hours to clear your mind, and in the morning, you’d deal with everything.

All of this would go away.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige @rafebb

@rafesbbyy @whytheylosttheirminds @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron @serrendiipty @sunny1616

@yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog @psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2 @starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols

@icaqttt

[revasserium]

roronoa zoro; 21,051 words (not including epilogue), fluff and angst, ENEMIES!!! to lovers, the slowest of slow burns, canon-normal violence, on-page description of injury, excessive use of flashbacks, some banter, healing from trauma, baroque works!reader to strawhat!reader, no "y/n", emotionally constipated!zoro, hurt and comfort, angst with a happy ending; (epilogue tags will be posted separately)

summary: in which neither you nor zoro are the children you remember each other to be.

update: new chapters will be posted on @shouyuus!!!

a/n: IT'S FINALLY HERE!!! i honestly cannot believe i actually finished writing this lmfao. but anyway, this post will act as a table of contents/masterlist of sorts, and i will update links to the separate chapters as they go up. chapters will be posted every few days (but they are all done! except for the epilogue LOL). i've tagged everyone who has req-ed to be tagged in this series so far on this prologue post, but if you wish to be tagged for the upcoming chapters and you're not already on this fics specific taglist, please comment below to be added! and without further ado -- here we go!

TABLE OF CONTENTS ━

prologue: someone, somewhere

chapter one: a shadow of the past

chapter two: tell no tales

chapter three: sleep of the living, dreams of the dead

chapter four: another life

chapter five: true love's kiss

epilogue: la petite mort (nsfw)

prologue: someone, somewhere

He remembers you most as a child, in halcyon images and gold-limned flashes of his own childhood memories, the edges blurring watercolor soft, but the center (always you) carved in knife-sharp relief.

You were one of the few children that lived in Shimotsuki Village who hadn’t come from the doujou — one of the few children he knew that (at least to the best of his knowledge) had a thing called family. A mother to braid your hair, a father to chase the darkness away, a warm bed and a kitchen that always smelled of freshly made rice. And perhaps it was jealousy, or some other more complicated emotion that had been then too big to name with one single word, but he’d never gone out of his way to befriend you like the other kids from the doujou did — fascinated as they were by your soft hands and round cheeks and the bright, glittering array of homemade sweets you’d bring with you once every couple of weeks.

He’d learn later on that it was because Shimotsuki-sensei had saved your father’s life at some point in time; the story now lost to the annals of legend and withering memory, but back then, he’d only assumed it was the natural way of things. Of waking up for kata practice and then settling in for lunch, and then maybe, if it was to be a good day, you, with your basket of sweets and your blue-bell laughter.

And perhaps this is why, years later, when he meets you again in a dark, nameless village tavern, he doesn’t recognize you — not at first. Because you’d looked so different. Gone was the roundness in your cheeks, or the natural star-bright light in your eyes. Gone, too, were the bright braids that your hair had always been set in — he remembers so clearly, watching the other boys from the doujou jab their fingers into the rings of your pinned up braids, pulling down just to hear you squeak. He hadn’t said anything then, stupidly thinking him above it all, watching as you tried to jerk away, but laughing when the boys finally relented with half-hearted apologies.

You always threatened to take their sweets away; you never did, in the end.

But there, then, in that tiny tavern, you’d been thin, your hair dark as an oil spill, loose and inky as it cascades over your shoulders, your eyes lightless as the windows to an abandoned house — the hollowness made all the more visceral by the light he knew once inhabited them. The way loneliness is always more potent when coming back to it, the second time around.

He wanders up to the bar, slates you a glance before rapping his knuckles on the worn wood to catch the bartender’s attention.

“I’ll have beer and a refill of whatever the lady’s having.”

You shift slightly, shoulders hunching towards your ears.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you say, shifting to shield your face from his gaze.

Zoro cocks his head, tossing a few Berry towards the bartender as they set down a stein of beer and a champagne flute to replace the one in front of you.

“Can’t a guy buy a girl a drink?” Zoro asks, rolling his shoulders as he reaches out for his beer. You eye him warily.

“Not for a guy that’s been tracking me for three weeks straight.”

Zoro hums, thumb poised on the hilt of his swords.

“We just happened to be going in the same direction.”

You reach out to run a forefinger along the rim of the thin champagne flute before swirling it once by the base. You watch the bubbles fizzle before leaning in to take a dainty sip.

“And they say chivalry is dead…” you murmur, almost too softly for him to hear. Zoro scoffs, allowing himself a twinge of a smirk before his mouth falls flat.

“You let me track you for three whole weeks.”

There’s no question in his words, only a harsh, accusatory certainty.

You lick your lips, leaning back in your stool, tugging your glass of champagne with you.

“Maybe I wanted the company.”

“Or maybe… you wanted me to follow you here.”

Every muscle in his body is tense, drawn taut as a tightrope, coiled tight as a spring.

You sigh, twisting a single lock of your hair around a finger, examining the ends as if looking for split hairs.

Then, quick as a flash, you’re at each other’s throats — him with a sword poised at your jugular, you with a knife pressed against his stomach.

“One move —” you warn, digging the knife slightly further into his skin. Distinctly, Zoro feels the pressure slice through his thick linen shirt, the cool kiss of the blade against his abdomen. And he’s killed enough by now to know that you’ve picked a major artery — one that would hurt, and take minutes for him bleed out. Just long enough for him to suffer, but not enough to get help.

The edge of his mouth ticks upward — not bad.

It’s then, in the infinitesimal flicker of your eyes meeting his, that he realizes who you are.

He nearly topples back, jerking away slightly with the revelation. Your eyes go wide, jolted by his sudden movement. But he’s quick enough to evade the sharp jab of your knife and a second later, you’re on either ends of the tavern, drawn blades and bared teeth.

“Y-you!” the word rips from Zoro like an unripe scab, thick and hard and still bloody underneath.

You lick your lips, eyes narrowing to slits beneath your long, lanky hair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“Oi! No fighting in the bar!” the barkeep’s voice is gruff and loud, and for a second, Zoro wonders if you’ll listen. The next, the sharp clang of metal on metal stuns him backwards a few steps as you wrest your knives from between two of his katanas, snarling.

“If you’re so much of a gentleman — let’s take this outside.”

“Ladies first,” Zoro spits out as he whips both swords through the air before sheathing them. He makes a show of holding the tavern door for you as you stalk out in front of him, your hackles raised, your knives jutting out from your belt like so many pairs of sharpened claws.

“What do you want?” you ask, as soon as you’re both out of the bar and standing in the moonlit street outside, the wharf to your left, the strip of small, rundown taverns to your right.

The air twangs with the metallic smell of fish and the thick, oppressive sweetness of rotting wood.

“An explanation,” Zoro says, crossing his arms and planting his feet.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

Zoro nods, “Sure. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna know.”

You lick your lips, glaring at him for a second longer before turning and marching down the rickety boardwalk. A moment later, Zoro levels himself with you as you round a corner onto a small stretch of beach, pillowed against a backdrop of sharp, unrelenting rocks, the tips bleached white by the round, silver moon.

“There was a beach just like this,” you say, stepping onto the tide-soaked sand, leaning down to pick up a fragment of a broken seashell, washed ashore by an errant wave.

It takes Zoro a second to realize you’re talking about Shimotsuki village, and the tiny little beach on the other side of the dense, cedar wood.

“Yeah. A bunch of us used to play there — see who can throw rocks out the furthest.”

“You were always the best at that,” you say, your voice softer than he’d heard all night.

“Yeah, well…” Zoro shrugs, leaning down to pick up a piece of rock, weighing it in his palm a few times before whipping his arm back to snap it into the gentle, shushing waves. You both watch as the rock skids out over the water before plunking into the sea, “Guess I’ve always been kind of a show-off.”

The sound of your laughter sends summertime sparklers racing up his spine.

The quiet pools between you like spilt blood, rank and dripping.

“So. You go by Ms. Double Nines now, I heard,” Zoro says, in a flagging attempt to be casual as he turns to glance at you, both his hands resting on the hilt of his swords.

You stand next to him, your eyes focused on a point far out on the horizon, still as statue.

“What’s it to you?”

Zoro sighs, looking down. In the pale, cool moonlight, his earrings glint like baring teeth.

“What happened?”

You suck in a breath.

"Life happened,” you say, turning back towards him with a steely glint in your eyes. Zoro stiffens, his grip tightening on his swords as he sizes you up. He does the mental calculations — you’re just far enough for him to defend against an attack, but close enough where if things were to go south entirely, he’d have a hard time getting back to safety.

You grin, seemingly noticing his rough internal calculations.

“Do yourself a favor, Roronoa — and don’t ask questions you don’t wanna know the answers to,” you say, flicking out one of your blades and tossing it up into the air, only to catch it around your finger, swinging it round and round, the sharp edge of the blade nicking the air just shy of your cheekbone.

“Who said I didn’t want to know?” Zoro presses, bracing himself for a fight.

You chuckle, the sound harsh and mirthless.

“If you’d wanted to fight me properly, you wouldn’t have waited till I got you onto this stretch of deserted beach.”

“Maybe I just wanted a quiet place to kill you.”

“Or maybe…” your voice is so low Zoro almost doesn’t catch the stomach-wrenching longing in your words, “I just wanted a quiet place to die.”

The sharp shink of blades being drawn is heart-rendingly familiar, but the bone-rattling clash of metal on metal still shakes him to the roots of his teeth. Zoro grunts as he parries a blow from either side, before crossing his swords to catch your assault down the center.

You’re fast, he’ll give you that, your body smaller and quicker. You slip through the shadows with the comfort of a person who knows nothing but and he can’t help wondering at the life you’ve led that had pushed you to this point.

To having a mark on your back, a bounty on your head.

You’re a good fighter — this much, he acknowledges. But good isn’t usually good enough to best him. This much, he also knows. Yet somehow, you’re keeping up, somehow, you’re pushing him back, forcing him to retreat one step and then another. It’s not until you duck beneath one of his pin-wheeling blades and force yourself into a knife’s-breath of his space that he realizes — it isn’t that you’re good, it’s that you’re reckless.

Reckless with your own body in a way that makes him stumble back at the realization. Reckless, in the way you charge forward and thrust your body into spaces where he’d easily be able to slip a blade between your ribs — and later, when he’s wiping his swords clean of your oxidizing blood, he’d wonder why he didn’t.

Still, there’s something terrifying in the way you barely flinch when he knicks your arm, drawing a dark line of blood through your clothes, or how you jerk yourself forward when the tip of his sword catches your stomach, almost as if daring him to impale you in one fell swoop.

“You — you used to be… someone else,” he says, panting as he steadies himself against a sharp jut of moonlit rocks. Behind you, the ocean churns, dark and foaming as it throws itself onto the jagged reefs.

You lick your lips, wiping a smear of blood from your cheek. Your chest heaves with the exertion, but there’s a pale, flickering ache behind your eyes that sets Zoro’s whole body on edge.

He shivers as you grin, savage and unrecognizable as the tiny girl with mochi-round cheeks who had once upon a time offered him sweets in a hand-woven basket.

“Yeah? Well — so did you.”

TAGLIST: @brairslair @msheds0519 @yunabelless @lynndt-chocolate @lostonthrillerbark @stunies @tsumu-senpai @phroggii @ssailormoonnn @breathinginyoursmoke @guridoodles @kyllium @naomihatake @itoshiexx @mythicallystupid @mars-mizuko @astroniii @crispynutella @enhastolemyheart @fanficwriter101 @jamesbparker @dira333 @weirdowithaphone @ink-perfect

[poisonf0rest]

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐜*𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 2

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈𝐈

love and deepspace: zayne x fem!reader

tags: smut, teasing, oral, cunnilingus, road head, car sex woohoo, pwp

word count: 6.6K

synopsis: Between being in the midst of your medical residency and being an up-and-coming author, it’s safe to say your personal life has been placed on stand-still. That is, until your editor decided that your next novel needed explicit smut scenes. That is, until your mentor and boss ends up striking a deal for you to help with “inspiration” for said novel. That is, until you fuck Zayne four times and your life changes forever. - partially inspired by manga of the same name by Nae Awaji

original ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57209872/chapters/145519015

art credit: @/kaito_aii

This is the last time you have sex on a weekday.

When Zayne left your apartment last night, you tried to write while the aftereffects of everything he did to you- everything he watched you do- still lingered. But you were beyond distracted, unable to even sit still without being assaulted with vivid flashbacks, a mix of mortification and lust coursing anew. 

You shut your laptop and scream into your pillow. 

Only after feeling sufficiently lightheaded do you shut off the lights and try to sleep, but the damned thing avoids you like the plague, and you stare at the ceiling for an untimed eternity. Everything feels wrong. Your blanket feels too thick, your skin too tight, the entire room too warm, too empty.

You don’t get more than three hours of sleep that night.

But it should be common knowledge that hospitals rest for no one, and you jolt out of bed to the sound of your pager beeping, rushing in while the sky is still dark.

The ambulance pulls in at the same time you do and the paramedics are already yelling out the status to everyone at the bay: forty-three-year-old male, chest trauma, performing CPR. It’s a race, a rush and rhythm you know well. You’re scrubbed down and entering the operating room alongside two other surgeons. The patient is intubated and they give the countdown before cutting him open.

It took two and a half hours to perform the surgery and stop all the internal bleeding, and by the end of it, you were exhausted, both physically and mentally. 

But this was the most in control you’ve felt for a while. A sharp sort of stress that forced your hands into a trained precision and your mind into a rigorous sort of calm. It was almost as though you became a different person entirely, one you both admire and hate. 

She’s calm and collected, only speaking when needed in commands to the operating room. She demands respect. She is who your mother is proud of, who you were supposed to be.

You’ve only just washed your hands and finished debriefing when you feel that half of you begin to slip away once more. And as the stress leaves, your mind wanders back to last night. To Zayne.

Thoughts that haunt you for the rest of the morning.

Finally, the clock hits eight and the ER is busy with the morning crowd. You do what you can until the other residents clock in, leaving to finally eat breakfast and get some sort of caffeine before your headache gets any worse. 

Luckily, the vending machine has your favorite melonpan and green tea, and you get two of each. Sitting down, open your laptop and begin eating in the hallway outside the surgery bay, your manuscript staring right back at you, mocking.

Your eyes burn holes through the cursor blinking at the top of the page, and you try to will yourself to just type something, anything, but it doesn't work, and you end up slamming the computer shut with a sigh.

Unintentionally, your male lead has begun to resemble Zayne more and more- not physically, at least- but in his little mannerisms, his overly formal speech habit, and even his uncharacteristic love of sweets. Your lips quirk up at the memory.

But speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Zayne comes from the other end of the hallway, looking like he also might be coming out from a surgery. He’s only meters away when his eyes lock onto yours.

You straighten against the chair, a shiver of heat racing down your spine as his mere presence sends an onslaught of flashbacks that are nothing short of sinful.

Stop. What happened last night is part of a professional, mutually beneficial deal. Zayne is still your mentor— your boss too, in some contexts— and you refuse to have these thoughts about him in your place of work.

Smiling, your fingers still against the keyboard as you hope the whole thing doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

Zayne looks the opposite of amused. If anything, he appears pissed.

His gaze narrows on you, and for a second, you think you spot something else behind the cold indifference. But the look passes as quickly as it appeared, his face back to its usual stony expression, and you must have imagined it.

“Good morning, Dr. Zayne,” you say.

Zayne stalls, shoulders tensing for a moment before he nods and continues walking. He doesn’t spare you another glance as he passes, doesn’t say another word, the awkward tension so thick it almost makes you choke on your melonpan.

Your eyes trail after him until he rounds the corner.

Well, that went splendidly.

You try to type again, but it turns out your brain is a useless lump of flesh because no matter how many times you read over the paragraph, the words fail to register. You huff out an exasperated breath, slam the laptop shut, and drag yourself to your office to prepare for rounds.

Even so, you go through your morning routine with a strained smile, a newfound weight pulling against your chest, a sharp sort of pain between guilt and longing you’ve never felt before. 

—----

Zayne is going to lose his fucking mind. 

He is an adult, he reminds himself. A well-mannered, respectful, professional adult. 

So why can’t he stop imagining your face underneath him as you come undone? Why can’t he get the memory of every sound you made, the overly sweet way you said his name, the very cadence of your voice out of his head? 

And the way you said please. 

Zayne grinds his teeth hard enough that something clicks in the back of his jawbone, his usual flat expression twisted with a scowl that sends other doctors and residents scrambling out from his path. His clipboard groans under the pressure from his grip, and Zayne can’t make it to his private office fast enough before he slams the door shut and drags his palm down his face. 

He sees you every time he closes his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Zayne swore to himself that helping you would change nothing in the workplace, and yet clearly, only one of you was mature enough to hold that part of your deal up.

This must be a new level of depravity Zayne never assumed he would stoop to.

But it had been torture to only watch you last night. A beautiful, painful torture he would subject himself to again and again and again just for the chance to have you writhing against him like that once more. 

The way your doe eyes had practically begged for him to fuck you all on their own when he forced you to look up nearly made him come in his trousers. And thank god you were too far gone to notice how desperate he was, grinding insistently against your bedsheets while you came around his fingers. And now… 

And now Zayne was fucking hard again in his office of all places. 

It was a wonder he got anything done anymore.

Zayne hasn't had a lover in years and it's beginning to wear him thin. And yet, the idea of finding someone else to satiate his needs doesn’t appeal to him in the slightest. Not when his mind is so consumed with the thought of you, and the sounds you made, the way you looked at him, the way your eyes would roll to the back of your head every time he curled his fingers into that spot inside of you.

God, he should have just asked you out on a date first. 

Restraint had come easy to him. Zayne was practically raised on it, his very life dependent on his ability to restrain his Evol, the lives of others dependent on his patience and restraint in the operating room. 

But no, when it came to you, everything failed him. 

Maybe he had been a little harsh this morning. Zayne doesn’t know. He doesn't want to think about it.

Running a hand through his hair, Zayne imagines bumping into you again. Would you still be happy to see him, smiling as you did this morning, or would you ignore him just as he did you? 

“About this morning,” Zayne stops, restarts. “I’m sorry for avoiding conversation earlier today.” A groan, “No, I can’t begin like that. This morning I wasn’t myself, there was a patient who required percutaneous coronary intervention and the stress must have gotten to me.” 

He tries again, and again, gesturing to his empty office before dragging a palm down his face. “I must be going insane.”

Zayne has never felt more foolish in his life.

He doesn't even have the excuse of a lack of experience in this field. In his previous relationships, he was always the one to initiate dates and intimacy, and it was the same with any relation that had lasted longer than one night.

But you are different.

The thought of taking his time with you makes him weak. To finally have your legs wrapped around his waist, to finally hear his name on your lips, to finally have your body pressed flush against his and hear you beg for him once more.

He wants to do so much more for you, wants you to use him as you need, to take and take everything he has to give. Wants to surrender to your every whim and every outrageous idea you’ve ever had floating around in that unpredictable head of yours. Wants to taste you, and see if you taste as sweet as you sound when you beg.

Wants to know how your cunt feels and what face you would make when he finally, finally fucks you.

God, Zayne wants to ruin you.

He wants so badly it drives him mad.

Zayne can't avoid you, and he shouldn’t. There are still matters to discuss for your novel and a deal to hold up. He is a man of his word.

A date.

That could work. Just a way to get closer, as colleagues, as partners. 

You would have to spend time together outside the hospital, where the air is clear of any distractions and expectations and Zayne can get his head on straight. Even moreso, it should be something nice, something that will hopefully take your mind off your impending deadline. 

Right, that would be perfect. An opportunity to simply be providing you with the proper inspiration and guidance, as a good mentor should, and keep his end of the deal should you ask for another inspiration session.

Turning back in his chair, Zayne begins filtering through his email and paper files, until something slips from the growing stack. 

The annual charity gala.

As a resident yourself, you were likely already invited, so proposing the two of you go together shouldn’t be too ostentatious, right?

Zayne stares down at the gilded gold lettering.

No. It was definitely out of line in so many ways. But the only other option was to continue down this path, to continue fooling himself that he only agreed to be your fuck buddy out of courtesy and care, and not these wretched thoughts that plauge his every waking moment. 

It would mean he’d be completely at your mercy for seeing you next, whenever you needed him. Or his body, at least.

Zayne doesn’t have the willpower to last that long. Besides, this is more efficient.

So, Zayne opens the letter, pulls the invitation card from its envelope, and begins drafting an email to you in hopes of preserving a little bit of his dignity. 

He didn’t even have to wait an hour to get your response: you said yes. 

______

Zayne opens the car door for you, ever the gentleman. 

Sliding into the passenger seat, you take extra care not to snag the hem of your cocktail dress on your heels or the door. By the time you buckle your seat belt, and the car roars to life, dashboard glowing a soft orange.

"Ready?" Zayne asks, adjusting his cuff as he begins to reverse out of the parking spot.

It’s the first time Zayne has formally invited you to be his plus one, and the thought of being seen beside him like this- at such a formal gala, no less- is all at once thrilling and nauseating.

Zayne steals another glance at you, and where your hands lay clenched in your lap. "It’s just a hospital event, you may very well see other residents there."

A laugh. "I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse."

Even without the extra stress from attending this gala, your stomach has been in knots all day long-- your manuscript is due in less than a week. You’ve written a lot, and Zayne’s hands-on “experience” helped you get ample inspiration for most of the main scenes. Yet you can feel the deadline creeping up, the sense of impending doom looming over you.

Of course Zayne notices. "We'll try and have fun, it's just a couple of hours. I heard they also have billiard tables, if you’re interested?” A tap on the steering wheel, then he adds, a little quieter, “Your dress is nice. The color suits you.”

You smile, but your eyes don’t leave the road. Instead, you seem to zone out on the row of streetlights, shadows cast over your face as they pass by, one by one. 

“You clean up pretty well yourself, doctor.”

Zayne continues. “Tell me more about your novel’s progress, then. If you need any more assistance…” he trails off, and you feel a prickling heat creep up the back of your neck. Finally, you look away from the window, and Zayne relaxes against his seat. 

So you begin to tell him about the newest trope your editor wants you to include, a classic in enemies-to-lovers books: forced proximity. “The concept is great. Who doesn’t love it when the two characters who swear they hate each other accidentally get stuck together and turned on at the worst possible time?” 

You ramble, propping your arm against the car armrest as you turn to face Zayne. "So,” you say, ”I'm trying to think of ways they could find themselves in such a situation. Maybe they're cornered by guards or captured by a mutual enemy, or we combine the classic injury trope so they can’t move.” 

"That is one option," he says, eyes still on the road. A turn, and Zayne shifts gears as the car speeds ahead. 

“A classic my mind says no, but my body says yes dilemma.” You debate telling Zayne about the premise around aphrodisiacs and sex pollen, but you think that really might be pushing him too far. You are in a car, after all, and an accident is the last thing you want. 

Instead, you ask, "Have you read any enemy-to-lover books?"

He shrugs. "I've had some experience."

"I'm sure you have."

Zayne shoots you a sharp look. Your smile grows, slow and wicked. 

"And I've done a bit of research," he clarifies, voice flat just to prove a point.

"Right, research."

"Well, to best help you, I thought…” Zayne’s brows furrow as he merges lanes, letting the blinking of the indicator fill the silence before clearing his throat. “I thought reading a book or two in the same field would help me understand your own book better. I must say yours is far better written than some of these popular novels.” 

The mental image of Zayne sneaking a read at some filthy romantasy book has you giggling.

"And you’re sure that's the reason?”

"Of course," he says, though his face is slightly pink.

You feign suspicion, poking at Zayne’s arm. "What if this whole time, you’ve been hunting me down as a means to read my unreleased books?  Then the only reason you agreed to this arrangement is because you're secretly a stalker fan."

"Interesting theory,” a smirk, one you see pull at the corner of Zayne’s lips. “But not the only reason."

"Oh? What’s the other then?"

Zayne smiles, the dim light from the dashboard sharpening his features. Another turn, you spare a glance at the GPS only to see you’re nearly at the gala venue. But still, no answer came, not as Zayne seemed to refocus on the road, shifting gears as the light turns green. 

You groan, “You’re not even listening anymore.” 

“I am.” Zayne shoots you a look from the corner of his eye, one hand leaving the wheel to rest against your thigh. “There is, however, a difference between listening and answering.” 

But now it’s your turn to stop listening. You can’t, not when his thumb does that thing again, tracing mindless circles against your inner thigh while he looks back at the road. 

It does something, to have his hand there, warm and heavy. Something that has your thighs pressing together, heat creeping down your neck.

Zayne catches the motion. Of course, he does. And he squeezes, just a little.

And then a brilliantly wretched idea hits you.

"Do you have any suggestions?" You ask, trying to keep your tone innocent, even as you part your thighs just a little further. "I mean, you did research and all. Surely, you remember something useful about the plots. Or the sex scenes."

"The sex scenes," Zayne echoes, his voice tight.

"Well, yes. They're kind of important. They're why people buy the books." You lick your lips. "For example, surely one of those books you read for research had interesting forbidden tropes?"

"It's likely." His jaw ticks. "You'll have to be more specific.”

"Well..." you draw the word out, shifting in your seat. “You know where else would be a really inappropriate place for a character to get a boner?” Reaching over, you glide your hand up Zayne’s thigh, mirroring his placement on your own. “In a car, doctor.”

Zayne thanked every god for their mercy the moment he got to a red light, car jolting to a halt as he eyed you with a frown.

“Behave," he scolds. "This is beyond reckless."

The genuine frustration edged into Zayne’s voice makes you hesitate, and you move to sit up, retreating your hand from his thigh when it brushes past something unmistakably hard. 

You feel Zayne tense beneath you, the car jerking forward before speeding along as though nothing had happened. Oh, but your lips cracked into a vicious grin as you stretched your way fully over the center console, wriggling your ass in the air on the far side of the seat. 

Really, you should have realized that the stern, self-deprived Zayne gets off on scolding you as much as you did. 

You watch him closely, but despite his harsh words, he never moves to actually stop you. So you continue, scraping your nails up his trousers as your mouth follows, hot breath leaving damp spots against the expensive cotton as Zayne’s thigh jumps under your touch. 

God, the click of his belt coming undone elicited a nearly Pavlovian response at this point, the sound of metal on metal making something in your core flutter. You waste no time going for his zipper, palming at the bulge straining into your touch as it pushes out from between the metal all on its own.

Zayne laments all the trust you placed in him as a driver. Despite being only minutes from the venue, he swore he was gripping the steering wheel hard enough for it to snap. A car behind him honks and Zayne swears under his breath, thoughts clouding over as your hands finish sliding his zipper down, gently palming at his cock as he inhales sharply at the feeling of your hot breath over clothed skin.

And the moan Zayne lets out when you lick the head of his cock is enough to have you gushing. But you never take him any deeper, blocked by your position over the passenger seat, settling with unsatisfactory kitten licks up and down his length, leaving sloppy marks without ever speeding up. 

Zayne shudders, huffing in frustration and restraint as he unconsciously tries to buck himself into your mouth, failing due to the awkward side angle you placed yourself in. Instead, you splay your hands over his lower belly, untucking his shirt as your fingers rub against his v-line, as you begin to suck just barely over this throbbing head. 

“You shouldn’t– fuck." His jaw flexes, and his fingers are white-knuckled, the veins in his forearms standing out with the strain.

The shock of hearing Zayne curse was almost a physical blow. The word was spoken more like a prayer than a profanity, something desperate and violent caught in his throat, a warning and plea all at once. It made something hot coil deep in your gut.

It made you want to push him further.

You must have made some type of sound muffled over his cock because Zayne hisses, his hand coming down from the steering wheel to grab at your hair, fingers threading into your scalp and pulling, just enough to hurt. 

"You are absolutely insufferable." Zayne's voice breaks into a moan. "Stop teasing me."

You pull off of him with a wet pop, sitting up and wiping the drool from your chin. "But I’m hardly doing anything. Don’t tell me you’re getting so hard just from a few kisses."

"Reckless. Lack of foresight. Do I need to teach you how to behave like an adult?" Zayne's grip on the steering wheel tightens, his jaw clenching. You can practically feel the heat radiating off him.

"No," you lean forward and kiss the head, lips wrapping around it as you swirl your tongue. Zayne's foot presses down on the gas and the car jerks forward. "But maybe I could use some help learning my lesson."

You swallow him down, and his hips jump. Humming around him, Zayne’s cock twitches, and before you can stabilize yourself he’s pushing your head down further. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it, not with the way his hips stutter upwards, thickly corded muscles of his thighs tensing as you nearly choke. 

Another broken moan fills the car alongside the wet sounds of your mouth, drool leaking from the corners of your lips as his cock bumps the back of your throat. You gag, and Zayne’s grip on your head finally loosens, the wheels spinning over loose gravel as you pull off just to breathe.

You can't see him, not with the angle, but the feeling of his eyes on you, burning into the side of your face, and the heavy throb of his cock against your tongue was enough to know just how close he is. 

You're so distracted, tears blurring your vision, that you don't notice the car has stopped, not until Zayne's other hand is reaching over to cup your jaw, forcing your mouth off his cock and forcing your head up to look at him.

The moment your eyes meet, he frowns, thumb rubbing across your bottom lip, cleaning your smeared lipstick and spit from your ministrations. "Look at you," he hums. "What a mess."

The nearby spots in the lot are empty, but you’ve arrived early, and you can see cars parking close enough to send your heart racing. 

You glance at the clock- seven forty-six- and you know despite how Zayne’s windows are tinted, it would take someone looking over from a meter or so away to see the two of you, to see the way Zayne's hands are fisted in your hair, to see you arched over the middle console, to see how hard he was and hear the slick, wet noises you made around his cock.

You nearly yelp as Zayne pushes you off his lap, messily tucking himself back into his trousers before climbing out the door. It shuts with a bang and you’re about to scramble up when you hear the passenger door open and are roughly hauled out of the car and slung over Zayne’s shoulder.

You don’t even have time to scream. The next thing you know, you're being tossed on your back into the back seat, barely having time to right yourself before Zayne follows you, door slamming shut. He's pulling at your dress, bunching the fabric up and around your waist before dragging you under him.

“Did I not satisfy you thoroughly enough last time?” Zayne scolds between breaths, teeth scraping over your pulse point before he bites down. “Or perhaps what I should have realized is that you’re simply a filthy little girl who gets off on being punished?”

The sound you let out is obscene, a whiny moan that has Zayne groaning as he pulls away, his mouth slick and shiny with spit. He grinds his cock against your stomach, his hand coming around your throat and forcing you to face him.

It’s almost effortless, the way he holds you against him, folding your thighs to your chest as he bends to avoid hitting the roof of his car. His cock is still rock hard and pressed against the back of your thighs, only the thin slip of your dress shielding you from his greedy eyes.

"Zayne- fuck, we're gonna be late." You choke out, a gasp following as his hips grind into yours.

“Answer the question.”

Another bite to the plush above your breast and you cry, fearing more for the possibility that he leaves a permanent mark more than anything else. As if hearing that, Zayne bites again. Harder. 

“Yes!” You thrash, trying to kick him off you but there’s little room in the back seats and the leather sticks to your sweat-slick back as Zayne works to pin your hips. “Yes, I’m sorry. I only— I wanted to see how long you’d last.”

A laugh, short and cruel. “How long I’d last?” 

Zayne grabs your wrists and holds them over your head. He leans close, so his lips brush yours when he speaks, and the words are low and soft. Dangerous.

"Well, then. Allow me to return the favor.” Zayne lifts your leg, pressing a kiss to your calf as your foot hits the window, one heel falling off with a thud. “If memory serves me right, isn’t this a trope too?” 

It’s almost effortless, the way he lifts your hips all the way up, your legs kicking helplessly over his shoulders as they’re forced up against the roof of the car. Shifting his weight around in the tight space, Zayne coaxes your calves to cross behind his neck, giving a small grunt as his face is pressed into your inner thighs, one arm straining against the leather of the car seats. 

“Where they’re stuck in a small space, right?” Zayne’s eyes never leave yours.  “Maybe a cave,” his tongue trails up the bare skin of your quivering thigh, “Under a desk,” licking his way up, “in a car?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, not when the heat of his mouth presses directly onto your clothed clit, licking over the lace of your panties as you arch off the leather seats.

You’re already a dripping mess, writhing against the leather of the seats and the hard muscle of Zayne's shoulders, the sensation of his hot tongue pushing against your clit through the lace a painful sort of pleasure. Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Zayne pulls off and stares at the string of his spit and your arousal, warm and sticky, against the soaked patch of cotton between your legs connecting to his lips. Involuntarily, he bucks into the cold emptiness underneath you.

Fuck, he’s so hard he might come from this alone.

You hardly notice, not with the way every muscle and nerve quivers and begs for release, jaw falling slack as Zayne’s lips are quick to tease you again, this time pressing his tongue flat against the crotch of your panties and laving across the entire seam. The gorgeous arch of his nose presses up into your clit, and you moan, one hand flailing backways as it slides against the fogged-up window. 

"Zayne, fucking hell, just eat me out properly!" The curses tumble out of your mouth before you can think of the repercussions, but there was no way he could keep eating you out through the material, no matter how good it felt.

"So desperate." Zayne mumbles between open-mouthed kisses to your cunt, "So needy."

"Fuck- please," You draw one hand through his hair, pulling his face closer. "Please, please, please-"

"Poor thing. I suppose it would be against my oath to leave my patient in such pain." And he roughly presses his thumb up against the hood of your clit.

You sob, hands scrambling for something- anything- to hold on to as they slip down the window and dig into the leather of the seats. But Zayne was nothing if not observant from your last night together, and it doesn't take long for you to cum as soon as his mouth latches onto your poor neglected cunt through your panties. 

Still riding out each trembling wave of your orgasm, Zayne doesn’t fight the way your thighs clench around his head, kissing you through it until he readjusts your legs against his shoulders, forcing you higher onto your upper back. His fingers toy with the edge of the fabric, pleased with the way it sticks to your skin. 

All you can focus on is his breathing, heavy and fast, as he stares down at your cunt so intensely it makes you blush, helplessly exposed with your thighs pinned across his broad shoulders. Spread for him like every inch of the offering he intended on devouring you as. His goddess, his sacrificial lamb. Gods, he wants to know how every part of you tastes.

Zayne’s cock twitches again, and he shudders violently, a fat glob of precum falling onto the leather seats below, mixing with your slick that has already slid down his chin and your thighs.

If left alone, no doubt it’ll stain. 

“Look at the mess you made.” Zayne scolds, forcing your jaw to the side so you can see the puddle staining the seats. You whimper, and Zayne shakes his head.  “Well, we can’t just leave it. I suppose I’ll have to teach you to take responsibility for your actions.” 

Your hips jump. It's so hard to focus when he's talking like that, and the only coherent thought you can muster is that Zayne would be a fantastic writer if he ever decided to switch professions.

But he begins to shift you around, and your brows furrow as Zayne’s hand dips between the two of you, down to the leather, sweeping across the splattered mix of cum with two fingers before forcing your jaw towards him again. 

“Clean up your mess.” 

You think something is permanently fucked in your brain with the way your cunt flutters at that. 

Zayne’s unyielding face stares down at you, his dripping fingers pressed against your lips as you wrap around them and suck. It’s heady, the scent of sex overwhelming as Zayne practically fucks the digits into your mouth, sliding them against your tongue until you gag, thumb tracing loving circles against your bottom lip as though coaxing you to take them deeper. 

Only after gagging twice more does Zayne take mercy on you, withdrawing his fingers from your mouth. Instead, the pads of his fingers press against your tongue, and you take the hint, beginning to suck at them until the taste of you disappears. 

His fingers slip from your mouth, a trail of spit connecting his fingers and your mouth before Zayne breaks it. Your tongue flicks out to swipe at the excess drool, and he wipes your bottom lip. 

“Good girl, tasting just how desperate you are.” Every word of praise Zayne whispers goes straight to your cunt, nearly making you dizzy until he finally sits back. 

“And now…” he finally moves to push the ruined fabric to the side, “I get to taste, too.”

The feeling of his hot tongue directly on your slit nearly has you in tears, and your hand lurches into Zayne’s hair to force him closer. 

“No pulling. Behave,” Zayne warns. “This is still meant to be discipline for your earlier stunt on the road.”

Whimpering, you nod, parted lips swollen and shiny from the abuse Zayne put them under with his fingers. Satisfied, Zayne finally gives you what you need, kissing the swollen flesh of your clit directly before curling two fingers into your aching cunt. 

“Zayne-”

He’s addicted to the way you say his name. He’s addicted, and he’s going to come in his pants if you don’t stop. 

You begin begging again before Zayne covers your mouth with the palm of his hand, muffled cries still enough to drive him insane as he focuses on getting you past that high. 

Despite his threats, you can’t help but tug at Zayne’s hair, needing him against you as your hips began moving or their own accord, bucking and grinding senselessly against his face until you were practically riding his tongue. Chest heaving, you looked up to see him staring directly at you, silhouetted from the car window, green eyes nearly aglow with wretched desire.

Just like that, you’re coming, hard, thighs clenching down around Zayne’s head until he’s certain you’re trying to kill him. But gods, he never wants you to stop.

Addicted, Zayne presses open mouthed kisses to your cunt, swallowing everything you give him as his eyes roll back.

Desperate, you try to crawl away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. Your head hits the car door before Zayne drags you right back, forcing your hips up higher as your back is arched into the air, nearly perpendicular as you sob, legs kicking over his shoulders. 

But still, Zayne continues, and he knows. He feels it the moment your thighs lock up, the way your stomach goes tight and the way your senseless pleading still muffled by his palm reaches a higher pitch. And he takes advantage, not letting up as he curls his fingers until your cunt clenches down on his digits and tongue, squirting into his mouth.  

Almost in apology, Zayne finally withdraws his fingers as he opts to instead clean you directly with his tongue, nose accidentally overstimulating your swollen clit as you weakly fight to push his head away.

Zayne takes the hint this time, lowering your sore legs onto the seats below, finally set on a solid surface after being held in the air for so long. The slit of your dress is askew across your stomach instead of thigh, and Zayne gently tugs it back into place.

Leaning down, he picks up your forgotten heel before slipping it back into your foot, buckling it as you shiver every time his fingers brush your ankle. 

When Zayne finally faces you again, the lower half of his face is a complete mess, and you should be mortified never having squirted before let alone on your mentor’s face. 

But Zayne merely wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smiling like the slick dripping down his chin was won in victory and not debauchery. “Well then, shall we?”

[hgfictionwriter]

Discovery - Part Four

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Jessie's feeling the lowest she has in a long time. Things are at the tipping point and she needs to choose to either confront things head on or lose you forever.

Warnings: G!P content. Heavy angst. Body image issues or even dysphoria; mental and emotional anxiety; internal conflicts; themes of rejection and self-loathing; self-sabotaging behaviours. Language.

A/N: Chapters one, two and three.

“I can’t believe you. I’ve waited all day to hear from you - and nothing. After everything that happened, you just leave in the middle of the night and just dead silence. Are you kidding me, Jess?”

“First you give me the cold shoulder all evening without any explanation as to why. Started by a conversation you began, might I add. I tell you I love you. We kiss and you literally throw me off of you.”

“Yes, I was upset and I didn’t want to talk. But you just ghost me all day? I know you withdraw when you’re upset or overwhelmed, but you don’t even have the decency to check in with me or give me some kind of an explanation?”

Jessie sunk into her seat on the couch as she read your messages again. She’d been staring at them on and off for the past hour and felt paralyzed, unable to act.

She’d managed to make it to training this morning, but she was certainly worse for wear. Her eyes were bloodshot and she had dark circles under them from a mix of sleep deprivation and the time she’d spent crying. Her teammates immediately clocked her upset and some fawned over her trying to suss things out and help, but she was largely unresponsive.

She just wanted to do her drills to keep her mind off of you and the absolute disaster she’d created.

Coach recommended she talk to the sports therapist, and while she nodded her agreement, she had no intention of rushing. She already knew what they’d say and she wasn’t interested right now. If she was willing to do those things, guess what, she wouldn’t be in the fucking predicament in the first place.

So here she sat at home this evening, in self-imposed solitude and catatonic. The apartment was dead quiet as she flipped between scrolling distractedly through her phone and re-reading messages with you and looking at pictures of the two of you.

She needed to respond. But it seemed no matter how much she thought about it, she couldn’t figure out what to say. Nothing was remotely adequate. She let out a shuddering breath as she continued to remain inert.

Her heart raced as another message came in from you.

“I’d like to think we’d built enough of a connection and you have enough respect for me to at least acknowledge me and respond. I’ve been sitting here making up excuses in my head for you all day, but reality is, you just choose not to talk to me.”

She let her head fall heavily back against the wall with a dull thud. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists as she felt herself start to tear up yet again.

The end felt inevitable, but underneath all of her fear and anxiety it isn’t what she wanted. It would be easier perhaps. Just close herself off again. Be single again for god knows how long. She was exceptional at pushing people away and pretending it didn’t matter.

Then, maybe, when it felt safe again and the hardship she was currently experiencing was just a distant memory, she would hope to meet someone as incredible as you again. But for what? So she could compare them to you? Miss you? To fuck it all up again?

She released a slow, steady breath and brought her phone back up to reply.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. I was at training earlier and I guess I just didn’t know what to say.”

“She lives. Well, thank you for replying... So. Do you know what you want to say now?”

She sighed in frustration.

“No.”

She shouldn’t be so curt.

“I wish I did.”

“Well. That’s very helpful.”

“I have some things I want to say. But if you’re not interested in hearing them or trying to resolve anything, I suppose there’s no point.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek.

“I want to know.”

“Do you actually? Because, frankly, even if I told you how I feel last night, I’m not that interested in humiliating myself further or wasting my time if we’re not on the same page.”

Jessie’s chest constricted painfully as she read your message. She never used to consider herself a selfish person, but seeing the toll she’d taken on you, she couldn’t deny it. She wiped angrily at a stray tear at the corner of her eye.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. You shouldn’t have to feel that way and I’m sorry I’ve caused it. I do want to hear what you have to say.”

“I don’t want to do this through text. It’s going to fucking suck but I want to talk in person.”

Jessie sat forward to the edge of the couch and leaned her forearms heavily against her thighs as she studied your message.

She was scared. She didn’t want to do that. Still, she owed you that, the truth, and so much more. And even if you left hating her, she had to make sure you knew it really was all her - you’d been perfect and all of this rot branched from her.

And if it really was the end, she couldn’t resist seeing you one more time.

“Okay. Where and when?”

—————

Jessie’s hands were cold and clammy as she walked down the hall to your apartment. She breathed heavily before catching herself and steadying them. She compulsively opened and closed her fists as she waited for you to answer.

When you opened the door, your expression was a far cry from the one she was used to seeing greet her. Instead of seeing a bright or warm smile, you looked tired and weary.

Guilt radiated through Jessie; she caused this single-handedly. She was supposed to make you happy, bring you comfort, make you feel safe and loved. Instead, she left you looking like a shell of yourself. Slowly at first, small nicks here and there, before a catastrophic and now lingering blow.

“Come in,” you said with only the slightest inflection in your voice. You stepped aside but didn’t make eye contact as Jessie entered.

“I, um, got you this,” Jessie said after she set her shoes aside and took off her backpack. She pulled a vinyl record out of it and handed it to you. She met your discerning gaze briefly before dropping it to the record in her hand. “I know you’ve been looking for it, so…”

You tentatively took it from her, a frown on your face as you examined it.

“Thanks,” you said flatly.

She knew it wouldn’t fix things or make things up to you - not by a long shot - but she had the faintest hope you would be more receptive.

When she forced herself to look up at you again, she saw you still studying the record. Eventually, your frown deepened and you looked at her almost accusingly.

“I don’t get you,” you said. “You barely talk to me these past couple of days and you act all cagey but then you do this? It doesn’t make sense.”

Your face faltered briefly before you grew stoic once more. “Some days you seem to really like me. Really care for me and understand me and we connect so well. And then others it feels like you can hardly stand to look at me.” A flash of emotion appeared on your face and disappeared just as fast. Your voice strained vaguely before you steadied it. “Never mind touch me.”

Jessie swallowed and dropped her gaze in shame. You went on, your voice cracking.

“I’ve tried to be really patient. But after the other night…I’ve done a lot of thinking and I can’t help but admit how hard it’s been.”

You sighed heavily and set the record down on a nearby table before returning and folding your arms tightly against yourself and leaning back against the wall. Your brow was heavy with a frown.

“And I know you've been trying." Your voice grew taut. "Prior anyway. And that's probably what makes it the worst. It's been hard for you, too - to be with me." Your face fell and your lip trembled briefly as you looked away.

Jessie's heart ached as she watched you battle with your emotions. All of the fear and worry she'd let dominate her fell away, replaced with an overwhelming need to hold you and make you feel better.

"It hasn't been," Jessie beseeched, taking a step forward but stopping when your gaze flicked back to her, warning.

"Do you think I’m stupid?" You said sharply. "I know you can’t stand to touch me. At first, I kept trying to give myself, and you, the benefit of the doubt - but the other night really proved that not only do you most definitely not find me attractive,” you laughed acerbically, “I think I might actually even repulse you.” You stared at her a moment, letting your words hang in the air and feigning amusement before choking back a sob. You visibly clenched your jaw before you forced another empty laugh. “That’s a fun one. My therapist’s about to get a ton of business from me.”

You took a shuddering breath and your voice cracked as you spoke. "I already know how this ends.”

“That’s not at all what’s happening or how I feel,” Jessie protested. She pressed the heels of her palms firmly into her eyes and grit her teeth. Her voice strained with burgeoning emotion. “Jesus Christ. That’s not it at all."

Your face screwed up and you gave a sad shake of your head as you stared her down.

“Stop. Just stop with the vague excuses. Just be honest with me. I don’t need you to confirm it, but don’t lie and tell me otherwise. I can tell,” voice breaking at the end. “Every time you pull away. How uncomfortable you can be when we’re even remotely physical. You can’t stand to kiss me for any length of time. I can feel you just waiting to pull away, like you’re fucking counting down the seconds until it’s over.” You started sobbing. “It’s horrible. Knowing you don’t want me like I want you.”

Jessie took a step toward you and you recoiled. She couldn’t help but think - maybe much like how she had with you times before.

“And don’t give me this whole ‘you’re shy’ or ‘you’re awkward’ thing again. I deserve more than your excuses.” Your voice grew softer. “And it’s not your fault you feel the way you do. You can’t control who you’re attracted to. Sometimes there can be an emotional connection and the physical just isn’t there. I don’t blame you. But I do blame you for dragging this out." You sniffled, wiping agitatedly at a tear that rolled down your cheek before giving her a defiant stare. "So just do what you should’ve done from the beginning.”

“It’s not you,” Jessie started and immediately saw the way you tensed up, ready to argue. She spoke quickly and urgently, her voice pleading for mercy and understanding. “It’s not you. I promise. It’s me - and I know how that sounds. But you were never the problem. I need you to know that.”

You looked ready to explode and Jessie knew it was now or never.

"It's me. I-it's my body. And I've been terrified that you won't accept me," she stammered through, hands to her chest as her gaze remained rooted to the floor. Her lips parted and her shoulders rose and fell as her breathing began to quicken. She swallowed and found the courage to look up at you to see a scrutinizing, but perplexed expression on your face.

"I'm not like you," Jessie said softly, "or most girls. Physically." She held your gaze for a second, to let you begin to process, but to give her time to think as well. She could see you were confused, but you waited quietly for her to go on. "I-I," she started, before stopping to take a steadying breath, her shoulders relaxing as she did so. "I've always been different."

She was slow to proceed and you spoke tentatively, all accusations and harshness now gone.

"What do you mean? How so?"

Jessie swallowed, eyes transfixed on the floor once more. She scratched at the back of her neck so harshly that it hurt.

"The reason I can't be physical with you is because what you would see, and feel," she looked up at you as she exhaled, "isn't what you would expect." She studied you as you processed her words. "That's why I asked you if you'd slept with guys," she finished timidly, embarrassment and shame creeping in despite her efforts.

Your mouth fell open to speak, but nothing came out. You frowned and visibly struggled with what to say next. Jessie's mouth was dry, but she had to take the next step.

"Even though I'm a girl, I have...what a guy has," she said quietly.

Your mouth opened wider to speak, but still nothing came out. You held up a poised finger, cuing her to wait. Eventually you found your words. Jessie held your gaze despite how difficult it was.

"Are you telling me that you have...," you trailed off, your gaze settling on her crotch momentarily before looking up at her, a tinge of pink already on your cheeks, "...a cock?"

Jessie released a slow, shuddering breath through her nose as she continued to hold your gaze. She nodded.

"Yes."

She saw your eyebrows raise as you looked away and her words and emotions just came out in a torrent.

"So if you think I've been struggling, you're right, but that's why," she said bitterly, tears in her eyes already. "It really had nothing to do with you. You've been so perfect. And it's been killing me to lie to you. And to hurt you. But I've been so scared - and I just," she took a shaky breath, "I know I'm not what you signed up for. You didn't deserve any of this, but I was being selfish. I wanted you. And I didn't want to risk losing you, so I just kept lying and the longer I waited, the more impossible it felt to tell you." Jessie's voice broke and she wiped her nose before pulling her arms in tightly against herself.

"And in the end I fucked it all up. And I hate myself for hurting you the way I have. Hearing how I...," she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at you before clenching her jaw tightly. "Hurting you is probably the worst thing I've ever done." Her voice grew high as she fought through her emotions. "And I don't deserve your forgiveness. I would gladly take it, but I know I don't deserve it. You deserve far better than someone who would hurt someone they love the way I've hurt you."

Your brow furrowed as she finished and Jessie swallowed once more, clearing her throat before speaking. "I'm sorry I couldn't say it back the other night. I really wanted to." She gave you a desperate look. "I know it must seem like I have zero integrity, but, I couldn't tell you I love you without telling you," she paused, gaze falling briefly, "all of this." She looked back at you, taking in a slow breath. "I really do love you. And I want so much more for us, but I realize now that even if you were okay...with me...well, with the way I've gone about everything, I've probably ruined any chance for us."

Her face fell as more tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I just need you to know that you shouldn't feel badly about yourself, because you were never the problem. It was always me."

"This is a lot for me to process," you said slowly, thumb grazing idly along your arm. You glanced over at the couch for a moment before glancing back at her. "Um, why don't we sit down."

Jessie sniffled, overcome with surprise that you'd invite her in further. It took her a moment to comprehend it, but soon nodded eagerly. She followed you wordlessly to the couch, remaining standing as you took a seat. You looked at her expectantly before gesturing to the spot next to you.

She was mindful of the space between you. She didn't want to sit too close and inadvertently imply that things were suddenly fine. She sat stiffly, back straight, hands on the tops of her thighs as she deferred to you on how to proceed. She glanced at you in trepidation, waiting, but when you didn't say anything for several moments she spoke again.

"I completely understand that this is a lot to process," she validated with a fleeting glance. "While I've been thinking about nothing but this for months, this is all new to you."

"Yeah," you said quietly, still very much in your thoughts.

"And I want you to know that you don't owe me anything," she said. "I completely understand if this is too much for you or not what you want. No hard feelings." She almost laughed at the last statement as she sat here, congested and teary-eyed. There would be a lot of feelings, but not hard feelings. She rubbed her forehead. "And I understand if there are hard feelings towards me. I'm sorry I was such a coward. I just-" she shook her head quickly, dismissing the thought. "Never mind."

She heard you exhale gently and she peeked over at you. You were initially still, but soon shifted, surprising Jessie as you turned subtly towards her.

"Don't get me wrong. I have a lot of questions. And I still have a lot of confusing feelings and hurt. But - I meant it when I said I love you. So it's hard to see you hurting like this." You scratched at your temple before looking up at her. "Did I do something to make it harder for you to tell me?"

Jessie turned to you fully, a stern look on her face. "No," she said adamantly. "You were," she shrugged listlessly, "you really were - are - amazing. I guess I just let old fears and baggage control me."

"What do you mean?" You asked tentatively before holding up your hands and speaking quickly. "And if I ask something that's too much - just say so. I don't want to make you more uncomfortable."

Jessie frowned deeper. "You're too good for me," she said simply. "You shouldn't give a shit about whether I'm uncomfortable or not. But, let me be clear - for once - I will answer any question you have for me. Some will be easier to answer than others, but I want you to know everything. If you want. That's what I wanted all along, but I was just too scared."

"Well, if you love someone - you care about their boundaries and how they feel," you said plainly. Jessie looked at you and you looked away nervously, clearing your throat before turning back. "And. Backtracking. You...love me?"

Jessie smiled for the first time today. It was an emotional, watery, sad smile. But it was a smile. "Yes. I really do. And it's been absolute torture the past couple of days not talking to you - I know it's all my fault though."

You frowned, thoughts almost visibly churning before you set your gaze on her again.

"Wait. But I'm not your first girlfriend. So...was it like this every time?"

Jessie's posture slumped slightly at your question; more-so, the reminder it triggered. That you were the best and she'd treated you the worst.

"No. No, it hasn't been," she admitted as she picked at the fabric of her pants. "I, um, was more open before. And, uh, I guess it backfired. And I've been pretty reserved and nervous about it since."

"Oh," you said quietly, still deep in thought. "But your teammates know, right?"

"Yeah, they all do. Hard for them not to. And they're cool with it, thank God. But otherwise I keep it quiet. It doesn't seem like it, but I'm actually pretty comfortable with that aspect of myself these days. It caused a lot of angst for me for years, but I'm happy with who I am. Relationships though...that's a different matter altogether."

"I'm sorry, Jess," you said gently, pulling a confused look out of her. Again, you shouldn't be worried about her. "That sounds really difficult. That said, do you mind telling me more?"

Jessie turned to you more fully, your knees nearly brushing now. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. You were right that I was far from an open book, but I don't want to be like that anymore. I want you to know everything, if you'd like." She shrunk into herself a bit and waved a hand aimlessly. "And just because I tell you these things, it doesn't mean that I think you'll forgive me or something. I understand that, you know, things could end. But I still want you to know."

Surprise flooded Jessie's system as you took her hand and gave it the faintest squeeze, continuing to hold it after.

"Jess. It's okay. I want to know."

She mustered up a tight smile for you and squeezed your hand.

She proceeded to tell you her story. Filling the gaps she'd craftily navigated during previous conversations. The embarrassment she'd felt. The otherness. The ridicule she'd experienced over the years. The rejection. The objectification. And the eventual defeat; of feeling like no one would get her or love her the way she wanted to be loved.

By the time she finished, a new set of tears had finished falling, but what she noted most of all was how you now held her hand in both of yours.

"Baby," you said softly, as you lifted her hand and kissed it tenderly. Jessie looked at you in surprise as she sniffled.

She'd expected the worst, so when you looked at her with warmth and compassion, it caught her off-guard to not see disgust or rejection.

"I'm so sorry you were made to feel like that. You didn't deserve that at all. Some people are so fucking close-minded and terrible. I'm so sorry you had to experience that," you told her.

Her shoulders hitched as she rode out the dying waves of her emotion.

"Thanks," she managed, her voice still congested and strained. "Now you know how hypocritical and truly horrible it was of me to make you feel the way those girls made me feel."

You tilted your head slightly and gave it a slow shake. "No. It's not the same. I mean, yes, I felt terrible, but you weren't trying to hurt me. And now I can understand where you were coming from."

Jessie shook her head in return. "It doesn't make it right though. So...if you let me, I'll do everything I can to try to make it up to you and try to rebuild the trust I've broken. Totally understand if that's off the table though."

"I," you started, chest rising as you took a large breath before relaxing once more, "still love you. So...no, it's not off the table. I still have to process a lot of this and reconcile some things. And, yes, reality is you hurt me, but everything makes so much more sense now. So. Thank you. For finally telling me."

Jessie nodded. "Thank you for hearing me out."

You fidgeted slightly and she watched you carefully. You felt her eyes on you and spoke hesitantly.

"We, um. Didn't exactly address my initial issue though. I mean, I understand now why you've been so closed off and flighty. But, you know, none of this necessarily means that you, um, find me attractive. Because that could still be a problem."

Jessie gave you a disbelieving look. "Of course I find you attractive. Well, okay," she slowed herself down, "I understand why you thought I didn't. But, now that you know everything else, my attraction to you is exactly why I couldn't be remotely physical with you. It was...a bit too much for me. Let's put it that way," Jessie finished as she looked away sheepishly. When she braved a look back your face was tinged pink.

"Oh. Okay. Well..., um. That's nice to know, I guess," you responded awkwardly.

"I'm sorry. That was probably too much information," Jessie mumbled. She cleared her throat before speaking more confidently. "So, no, you have nothing - at all - to worry about there. I think the bigger question now is if you would find me attractive. Now that you know that my, um, anatomy is different."

You blushed deeper and cleared your throat as well.

"Oh. I mean, you're still you. And, I'm curious-" you held up your hands quickly in defense, eyes closing as you corrected yourself, "-not like those other girls. No. I would never use you like that." You opened your eyes once again, calming yourself. "What I mean is. I'm still interested."

Jessie felt an ember of hope flickering in her chest. You were still blushing, giving her fleeting glances until you fully faced her, now serious and prim.

"You get one more chance," you told her firmly, holding up a finger. "I know a lot will be new and there'll be things to navigate, but I won't put up with you being distant and cagey again. Do not lie to me again."

Jessie nearly beamed. She straightened up eagerly and nodded her head rapidly in agreement.

"I won't," she promised before she took a second look at you. "Are you sure you want to try again?"

Your face scrunched up adorably as you shot her a look.

"Are you trying to talk me out of it?" You asked, affronted.

"No," she refuted, shaking her head adamantly. "I just want to make sure this is what you truly want. I know I dumped a lot on you just now, so...you are more than welcome to take your time to think. And I definitely don't want you to feel guilty in any way."

"I don't feel guilty," you told her. "And," you exhaled quickly, "as you were telling me about all of your experiences and how you've been treated, all I could really think throughout all of it is that I wished there was some way I or someone could go back and protect you from all of that." You picked at your nails idly. "And, I don't know, that I just wanted to hold you. And kiss you." You gave her another stern look, but it was mild at best. "You're not entirely forgiven yet. But I understand you so much better now. So, I do want to try again."

That heavy, horrible ache in her chest she'd been carrying with her the past while was replaced with a sensation of warmth and lightness.

"You're the most incredible woman I've ever met," she told you unwaveringly. "I promise I'll do everything in my power to make things up to you. I'll make sure you never have a doubt about me, or you, or us, again."

"That's a bold promise," you warned with a hint of a smirk.

Jessie smiled at you undeterred. She gently cupped the side of your face and leaned in, stopping momentarily to speak before giving you a soft, slow kiss.

"And it's one I intend to keep."

A/N: Next up…smut.

Tag requests: @multifandomlesbianic @marvelwomen-simp @kathleenmikaelson

[novemberheart]

{overview} You meet someone from Johnny’s past. A worst case scenario becomes a reality

{warnings} fem reader, poly 141, very Johnny-heavy chapter, cursing, mentions of drug use and alcohol, abandonment, abusive parents

Chapter 26 <- Chapter 27 -> Chapter 28

It had been more than a week since Kyle and John had left. A week and three days to be exact. You peered over at the clock on Johnny’s nightstand.

Make that four days. You had been having a hard time sleeping. Since your nightmare about Kyle, you've had two more. At least they were about you dying. That was easier to think about than a member of your pack passing. To make matters worse Simon had to leave last night to do some vague solo mission. Well, every mission to you was vague. Still, there was a heaviness in the air and Johnny felt jittery. Simon was going somewhere dangerous by himself. He seemed to prefer that though. Not that it offered you any comfort.

You wished you hadn't turned down a sleeping pill. It was too late to take one now. You sighed, rolling over, wrapping your arms tightly around Johnny’s middle.

At least you weren't alone.

“Come on, Bon,” you jumped as Johnny patted your bottom. He grabbed a few things out of the cabinet- specifically your favorite snacks. “Grab Vernie and change- casual. We’re going on a little trip,” he winked, throwing the snacks into a backpack and beginning to fill up your water bottle. You grinned, heading over to your room to change. It was officially summer, much to your dismay. You decided on a pair of shorts, a tank top, one of John’s flannels, and Kyle’s baseball hat. Johnny made a mental note to snap a picture for them.

You didn't bother to ask where you were going because you knew he wouldn't tell you anyway. The man loved his surprises. Wherever it was it was off base- making you even more eager. You and Johnny had similar music tastes, which made making you DJ less hard for him. You didn't make it too far before he pulled over at a store.

Your giddiness increased as he led you over to the swimsuits.

“Are we going swimming?” you questioned, already digging through the rack. He said nothing, a familiar glint in his eyes.

John and Johnny were more similar than people ever gave them credit for. It was easy to compare the betas and say they were the most similar, but the more you got to know them the more you recognized the similarities between John and Johnny and between Simon and Kyle. John and Johnny took charge. They were providers and made it known to everyone around them. They were both reactive. While John was a captain and had a higher expectation of controlling his emotions- when he was unhappy, everyone knew. Johnny operated the same way. The bark before the bite so to speak. You could easily imagine Johnny being a Captain one day. Kyle and Simon were both the bite after the bark. There was something mysterious about both of them that made people want to get to know them- for different reasons. They were both quick-witted and spent more time observing than speaking.

“How ‘bout this?” Johnny smirked holding up a bikini you weren't even sure could cover a nipple. You rolled your eyes, a smile etched onto your face at his antics. The perfect swimsuit finally caught your eye. A low whistle sent a shiver up your spine. “Quite like that, peaches,” Johnny hummed. It was decided.

You had figured you were going to a pool, so when you started seeing signs for a beach you couldn't help but shriek. You leaned over into the driver's seat, pressing rapid-fire kisses against his cheek.

“I’m so excited!” you cheered.

Johnny unloaded the car, a large duffle and a backpack. The sand was chilly but you didn't care. You and Vernie ran along the sand dunes. You came back to help Johnny set up a large towel and umbrella. You weren't even sure where he had gotten all this stuff. He even packed a few empty containers for sand castles. There was a breeze that reminded you of your childhood- and for the first time in a long time, they weren't bad memories. The beach was fairly empty, with just a few joggers and random families on holiday. Johnny grabbed a spare towel, tying the two ends and placing it around his neck so Vernie had somewhere to rest. You wrapped your arms around his neck, Vernie crushed between the two of you.

“Thank you for doing this,” you smiled, pressing your lips against his. He moved forward to deepen this kiss, until you pulled away racing towards the water.

“Ya’ Mommy’s naughty,” he chuckled to Vernie, racing after you.

You yawned, your eyes slowly opening. You could feel hands against your skin and you slowly lifted the baseball cap away from your eyes, chuckling as Johnny was rubbing your third coat of sunscreen into your skin.

“I’m going to get cancer from all the chemicals before I do the sun,” you stretched. Hours had flown by before you had known it, your stomach wanting more than just snacks. You and Johnny packed up the car (the worst part of the beach) and went on the hunt to find a restaurant for an early dinner. It would be a crime if you didn't order the fish and chips. Vernie was happy chewing on her puppy chow underneath the table.

“What are you doing?” you questioned, peeking next to you at Johnny’s phone. “No those look terrible,” you whined watching as he sent practically a whole new photo album full of pictures to their group chat.

“The only thing that's terrible is your eyesight, Bon,” Johnny shot back, his lips pressing against your hairline.

“Can you at least send me the ones with you, me and Vernie?” you pleaded. You felt your phone chime a few seconds later.

“Johnny?” a voice questioned from behind you. He stiffened, his body instinctively moving closer to you. Even Vernie could sense a shift as she drifted closer to Johnny’s feet.

“Fia,” Johnny greeted coldly. His hand gripped your knee. You weren't sure if it was to ease you or him. Your fingers wrapped around his arm in solace. They were related. They had to be. Her eyes were identical, and you suspected they had the same hair color before she dyed hers red. They stared at each other. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something. He remained silent.

“How have you been?” She asked slowly. She was Scottish.

“Why, so you can fill Dad in?” he shot back. They were related. Your eyes widened at the iciness in his tone. She swallowed, drifting from foot to foot.

“I’m Sofia. Johnny's older sister,” She offered you a polite smile. You started to introduce yourself but Johnny cleared his throat. “We didn’t know you were here. Shannon thought about texting you but”- she trailed off. Johnny slid out of the booth, urging you to follow. You quickly did, his hand reaching out to grip yours. Sofia followed behind the two of you, pleading for Johnny to stop. He opened the door for you, plopping Vernie in your lap.

“There’s nothing we have to say to each other,” Johnny growled, slamming the driver's door shut. He didn't bother putting his seatbelt on, pulling out of the parking lot. You sat in your seat nervously, his normal soothing scent of cinnamon turning spicy enough to make your throat burn. He rolled a window down. His hand reached for yours, holding it up to his mouth. His nose pressing against the pressure point of your wrist. He breathed you in like it was the only thing keeping him from losing it- it may be.

“I’m sorry, Bonnie,” he whispered against you. You quickly shushed him.

“There are people that would get that reaction out of me too, Mac,” you soothed. You pulled your hand away, your fingers scratching at his scalp. “Do you wanna talk about it?” you whispered, his head pressing against your hand.

He had picked up some fast food. Despite him being shaken to his core he still had to make sure you were taken care of.

“I haven't seen her in seven years,” he said finally. “My parents are purebreds. When I presented as a beta it caused quite the shock. One in a million chance that’ll happen. My father kicked me out and that was that,” he sighed, making you gasp. Your throat tightened, your hands gripping onto his shirt sleeve. His own eyes welled- against his will, as he offered you a slight smile. “Don’t be sad for me, pretty girl. It’s fine now.”

“No it’s not,” you gasped. “How old were you?”

“I was thirteen when I presented but I was able to hide it for a little over a year,” he cleared his throat. He couldn’t look you in the eyes, knowing he would break under their caring glint.

“Where did you go?” you asked finally. You didn't want to know the answer.

“Everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Got roped into a crowd that wasn't the best, but it was my safest chance at the time,” he explained. His knuckles brushed under your chin, his thumb rubbing against your cheek. You pressed a kiss against his hand, holding it in yours.

“Tell me, please. I want to hear,” you whispered. He sighed heavily and you wondered if you had pushed your luck.

“We would crash in barns,” he nearly chuckled. His face fell. “There were drugs and drinking- all of which I did. When I was fifteen I overdosed, they were at least kind enough to call the police before fleeing. I was put into rehab and they put me back with my parents. My dad made my life hell until I left again. I ended back with the same crowd and when I was seventeen I got caught with a bag full of opioids. I was thrown back into rehab. It was good for me though. I was able to finish secondary school and I showed enough promise that they wiped it off my record. By then I was eighteen and joined the military when I got out,” he explained. His chest felt light, his shoulders relaxed against the seat. He knew you wouldn't judge him, but the silence was making him uneasy.

“No one in your family helped you?” you mumbled sadly. Your grip on his arm was tight, your cheek resting against his knuckles. He shook his head.

“They all sided with my dad. Can't say I blame them- but I do,” he grumbled. “My eldest sister Shannon reached out to me a few times the past few years. I just couldn't bring myself to answer,”

“You know I just see you as stronger now,” you spoke softly. “I’m proud of you.”

His jaw clenched, his head turning to face the window as he shoved back the tears. He took a deep breath, his fingers pawing at his eyes.

“Thank you, beautiful.”

Something wasn't right.

You could feel it deep within your chest, a heavy uneasiness. You stayed tight-lipped. It was just you and Johnny and you didn't want to seem like you were feeling into every thought you had. Simon had called this morning. You had been asleep. John and Kyle being gone is what worried you. They have been gone for two weeks now. They were only supposed to be gone for one.

Even though you didn't voice it- Johnny could tell you were feeling it.

It was your first night of peaceful sleep.

The phone blaring on the nightstand changed that.

Johnny groaned, his hand patting your back like he was already trying to lull you back to sleep.

“What happened?” he groaned as soon as he answered. He rolled you off of him and sat up quickly. “Where are you?” he questioned. You sat up abruptly, your body moving faster than your mind. It was like your body had already prepared for this. The other line was quiet. You couldn't even make out anyone's voice. Johnny reached under his bed, grabbed a bag, and shoved a few of his shirts in. He made his way to your room, your legs moving on their own accord after them. “Pick out a few comfortable things. I'll get your stuff from the bathroom,” he whispered to you.

Tears fell from your eyes. You couldn't help it.

There was only one reason you would be pulled out of bed in the middle of the night.

Someone from your pack was hurt.

Hi friends! This chapter was a bit of a doozy, but hopefully you enjoyed it! See you in three days for chapter 28!!! 🧡

[moonlight-prose]

RIGHT WHERE YOU LEFT ME

➛ 04. FELLED BY YOU

a/n: i've served three chapters of angst and teasing and almosts that never came to fruition. but today is the day! today logan howlett gets fucked. i mean...does the fucking. you know what i mean. there's gonna be some hints of pain, but really he's starting to focus more on getting it right this time around. so be prepared for the filth to come.

summary: the importance of you slammed into him during your two weeks spent apart. yet when he's forced to confront the truth, he finds himself stuck between having you or hurting you.

word count: 9.7k+

pairing: logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, wade continues to be the worlds worst wingman, yearning, angst, fluff, flirting heavily, nasty sex, p in v sex, logan gets flashed in a good way, oral (f receiving), reverence and romance, logan is an idiot until he's not, exhibitionsim (kinda if you squint really hard), pain play cause he's a whore, he lifts you cause he's strong like that.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

Time didn't exist in a linear line for him. Never a single point that drew his life from one spot to another. His constant loss of memories and different universes left him numb to the concept as a whole. He found it better to ignore the thought—move past the tragedies that came next quicker than what already happened.

What was time to an immortal man who'd lived through too much already?

What did he have left to lose?

He never found himself counting the minutes, hours, and days before you. To him, they were a jumble of things that only shifted to become one solid fact. A year he'd never get back. Moments he might one day lose. Faces he would one day come to outlive—to see grow old and pass. People he'd never meet again.

He didn't bother with it.

Until he spent a night wrapped around you and fell asleep with no nightmares. He woke up long before you ever would—dawn barely cracking across the night's darkened armor. The clock on your nightstand read five a.m., but his body shouted something different. He wasn't fatigued like every other morning coupled with endless nights of no sleep, dreading the next time he had no choice but to close his eyes.

Logan almost wished he crawled back into the bed in order to watch you be roused from sleep with the beep of your alarm. He should have. At least then he'd be counted as a smart man for not sneaking out and heading home. Even thinking of what came to your mind when you woke up sent pain down his chest.

"Punch buggy!" A gloved fist slammed into his shoulder with enough weight behind it to cause the car to jerk left.

"Fuck!" he growled, slamming his foot on the brake and whipping around to embed his claws in Wade's leg. "Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!"

"Rules of the highway Log–"

Red splattered against his makeshift yellow suit as he dug his other set of claws into Wade's chest with a roar. In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a small red car whizzing by. The driver laying on the horn with an anger Logan felt at the base of his stomach. Wade pointed to it with a smile in a meager attempt to lighten the mood.

He wouldn't say he was on edge. That would be a pathetic attempt at lying.

He passed edge one week and six days ago. Twenty-four hours after leaving your apartment Logan met the edge of his anger, and flew right off without bothering to keep himself in check. Two weeks without your presence. The sound of your voice, the warmth of your scent. Two weeks of a fucking mission Wade convinced him to go on; with the claim that they'd be back before Friday.

Which wound up extending to yet another five days of being stuck in the back fucking woods of Virginia—stuffed into an already small truck. The rhythmic clunk of the shovels in the bed slamming against the side already had him gritting his teeth. An hour of driving with Wade's game of spotting cars caused him to almost crack his molars.

Logan wasn't a patient man.

He swung first and asked questions later. That was his way of living. Two weeks of counting the seconds as they passed by like molasses only seemed to reaffirm that fact. He knew irony lingered in the truth; an immortal man who held less than an ounce of patience in his body.

There had to be a joke in there somewhere that Wade would no doubt yank out before the end of this trip.

Retracting his claws, he settled back in his seat to glare at the deserted long road ahead of them that seemed to lead nowhere. The car became a prison he couldn't escape an hour ago. And the appeal of trying to kill the man beside him only grew the longer he sat there. Logan already felt like a piece of shit for leaving with no explanation. He didn't need Wade's blood to make it worse.

With a huff he slammed open the car door and got out. The air was hot, stale, and left him choking in the leather suit that already clung to his skin. He tugged at the collar, sucking in air to get his heart to stop racing.

It proved to be difficult when your face distraught with tears began to morph, take shape into the you he couldn't save.

"Something tells me this has nothing to do with not getting to visit pound town before we left." When he was met with a wall of silence, Wade's head fell back with a groan. "Please hold while we deal with another existential crisis guys. He'll get there eventually."

Logan's fingers curled into fists. Wade—relentless as he was—refused to be pushed away this time. He leaned against the car, twirling his baby knife as Logan tried to hold back every ounce of fucking anger that needed an outlet. None of it was pointed at the Merc with a Mouth. Not even the nonsensical comments could penetrate Logan's otherwise silent exterior.

No, Logan knew exactly where the anger was directed. He knew that all of this rage stemmed from his own self loathing. For doing to you what he knew would hurt the most. For doing...exactly what the other you did.

Leaving wouldn't give him the opportunity to run from his pain. Fuck he figured that out a long time ago, but that never stopped him from trying.

He was an old dog with one singular trick. Hurting the ones he loved.

"Just call sweet angel up, say that you're with your old pal Wade, and explain in extreme detail how you'd love to bend her over every surface in that apartment you stare longingly at like you're waiting for her to return from war."

Telling him to shut the fuck up would only incur more bullshit to leave his mouth. Logan chose the easier route and stared into space; focused on the way his heart began to slow the more he thought about that night. How you slept against him without fear. Your hands pressed to his chest, face tucked into his shoulder. Somehow in the span of a few hours you were able to make him feel normal again.

"How much longer do I have to deal with your fuckin' bullshit?"

"One day give or take who drives."

"You're not driving."

Wade shrugged. "Your mistake." With a swift turn, he leapt into the bed of the truck and grabbed the two shovels. "Now give me a smile with those Tony award winning teeth of yours cause we've got work to do."

The endless nothingness of fields and flat ground would eventually drive him insane. One more day didn't sound awful if he knew that you were waiting for him at the end of all this. But that remained the problem he couldn't solve—the nightmare that followed him in his waking world. What if you weren't there? What if that was his final chance and you made the choice for him?

He sighed, squinting his eyes against the sun. "Alright. Give me the damn shovel."

The constant tapping of your boss's pen was going to drive you insane. Although if someone were to ask you, this wasn't the first time in the past two weeks that you were holding onto your temper by the skin of your teeth. In fact, you couldn't recall a time where your body and mind had been this on edge. As if you were a rubber band pulled tight, ready to snap at a moment's notice.

"Three days off?" Her voice remained monotone—grating against your already racing mind.

"Yes," you replied.

The request would go through without issue; you'd been here before, asking the same routine questions. Only this time you felt the unease from that morning begin to work its way through your body. Doubt lay heavy on your heart the more you ran each minute in your mind. Combing over where you might have gone wrong—what would have made him want to leave.

Waking up without Logan wasn't what set you on a path to self-destruction. At first, you were logical enough to assume that he was a busy man; being a superhero and all. He must have a good reason as to why he slipped out of your bed before the sun could fully rise, leaving behind nothing but flowers that now sat dead in a vase, and a brand new door.

Two weeks without a single word—without an explanation or a reason—began to grate on your mind. Pulling at each worry with an intensity that left you winded. Until you were forced to confront the idea that this whole thing...what you and Logan intended to start...wasn't what he had in mind to begin with.

"I'll grant you the days." The slow build of relief flooded your nerves that were already shot to shit. "Just next time you decide to sneak a guest in, please make sure he signs for a visitor's pass."

A familiar wave of discomfort spilled in your chest. Getting caught wasn't on your schedule of things to happen when it came to your job. Then again, having Logan in your life wasn't a part of your plan either. Yet somehow that happened as naturally as taking a deep breath of fresh air.

He didn't step into your life with a stoic aura of peace.

Logan crashed into it head first without a choice.

You remained a gravitational pull, an orbit he couldn't escape from, and without warning he'd been pulled to you. Where he'd exist until it was time for him to be set free.

What remained of your fear—the one thing that kept you from falling wholeheartedly—was that one day Logan might come to the decision all on his own. Without bothering to tell you, or let you in on the secret. That after all that happened...he might want to be set free. If he didn't already.

The walk back to your apartment dragged longer than it should. Your steps were slower, mind entirely distracted from the task at hand, and body aching from lack of sleep. Two weeks without Logan left you questioning why you bothered to pursue him at all. Why had you given him so much freedom to roam in and out of your life? Especially when you'd never done that with any other person before.

You knew the answer.

Logan offered you a chance to live in a way you never thought of before. Fear of the unknown kept you complacent; stuck in your ways. In such a short time he managed to slowly peel away what still remained. The anxiety that lingered in your heart at the thought of being loved—of falling in love.

He shattered your walls without even trying.

Accepting that is what left you struggling to breathe after drowning in what he gave. You were supposed to be the one to lead him out of the dark waters, back to a shore of safety, yet somehow he pulled you right in with him.

That is what kept you right on the edge of whatever this could possibly become.

You wanted to ask him why he left. Dig into his thoughts and pull free your answers. He might give you a fight—knowing what Wade told you about him having a tough exterior—but this wasn't nothing to you. All you wanted was to know that he held the same belief. That this meant something.

Calling his phone never worked—going directly to a voicemail box he never set up. Texting him wasn't an option, and you couldn't exactly write him a handwritten letter to send off without an address of where to go. Which left you here. Stuck in the radio silence and waiting for a response to crack through all the static.

Digging for your keys at the bottom of your work bag nearly caused you to miss the woman standing by your door. Her hair was tied into a messy updo, showcasing the familiar white streaks you'd seen before. Something akin to joy flushed through your body as Vanessa pushed away from the wall—two coffees held in her hands and a paper bag that smelled eerily like bagels tucked into her arm.

"I wonder when I'd see you again," you said, catching her smile as you slid the key into your new lock with ease.

"Blame Wade. He's been keeping me hostage for weeks."

You snorted, tossing your bag and coat on the table. The flowers—now dried and falling to pieces—still remained the centerpiece of your apartment. Petals were scattered along the wood, some now on the floor. But you couldn't find it in yourself to throw them out. You still held out hope that they might bring him back to you, even if he didn't want to return.

"I don't need to know the gory details," you sighed, accepting the tepid coffee and cold bagel. "How long did you wait?"

"Thirty minutes." She fell to your couch with a groan, kicking off her heeled boots. "I figured you were well into the first stage of wallowing and might need someone to drag you out of it."

"I'm not–"

Her eyes fell to the bouquet, lips pursed as if fighting a smile. "And those are from who again?"

"Just because I kept them doesn't mean I'm wallowing." You collapsed beside her, exhaustion withering your body quicker than the sun did with those flowers. "I just haven't cleaned yet."

"Right."

Vanessa had been your friend since Wade moved in across the street and accidentally almost killed you in the middle of the street. She wound up apologizing for him with two bottles of wine and hours of conversation. Even in the midst of their breakup, she still solidified herself in your life with nights of movies and days out in the city. You never thought you'd get a friend out of living here, but somehow life without Ness in it felt bleak.

Which gave her the ability to read you like an open book. She'd seen what you looked like after a breakup—she’d endured countless talking stages with you—and was able to pick out the signs of what your pain looked like.

"He's coming back, you know."

Your heart fluttered at the mere mention of his existence; you silently cursed yourself for it. "Did Wade tell you that?"

She nodded, taking a sip of the shitty cold coffee with a grimace. "I love the man, but he has the worst timing."

"Timing?" You sat up, alert for the first time since waking up alone. "What are you talking about?"

"I figured you didn't know," she sighed. "Logan didn't leave because he wanted to. Trust me I'm pretty sure if given the choice he'd lock both of you in here until we had to call the police." She didn't give you room to interject—even as you started to speak. "He's an X-Man babe. And well Wade—dipshit that he is—decided to drag him on a mission at the worst fucking second."

The words hung in the air for longer than either of you wanted, but your mind was racing a mile a minute. Mission. A fucking mission. How could you have been so quick to jump to conclusions?

You knew who Logan was the second you met. Understood the importance he held. Yet you never pieced together that two weeks of no contact might have meant something entirely different than a breakup.

"He's..."

"On a mission," she replied—lazily biting into her bagel.

"With Wade?"

She spoke around a mouthful of cream cheese. "If he could die, he'd be a goner."

Already the picture was starting to form. Logan stuck for two weeks with a shitty phone that didn't work, constantly bugged by a man who had a mouth that shit talked faster than he could think. He left to try and be the man he wanted people to see him as. The man that still held a legacy in this universe.

You simply forgot to contend with the fact that you weren't just opening your life up to James Howlett...you were making space for the Wolverine too.

"A year's worth of panic just crossed your face. Wanna talk about it?"

What was there left to say? That you'd been an idiot for believing Logan would leave you high and dry? For letting your doubts get the better of you yet again? Or should you explain that for two weeks you felt an emptiness that scared the absolute shit out of you? As if he ripped a hole in your chest with his claws and had no intention of patching it back up.

"Wade told you this himself?"

She stood, heading straight for the vintage cabinet in your living room that held whatever liquor you kept in stock. "More or less. It was hard to hear him over all the screaming in the background."

Somehow her words didn't phase you—even as she continued to speak about the possibility of what they were up to. You caught the words shovel and stole a truck but nothing beyond that. You took the glass of wine without question—mind focused entirely on the man who managed to turn your word on its head in such a short time.

"When do they get back?"

Her lips curved into a smile that told you one thing: I got you right where I want you.

It took no time at all for you to be thinking of the next time you saw him and hiding it from her felt like trying to build a wall with space on the sides. Enough room for her to sneak into your mind and tug out the truth.

"Tomorrow." She took a sip, settled back down beside you, and reached for the remote. "Wade's throwing a party. Your attendance is mandatory."

A second barely passed before your response was spilling free. Excitement now replacing the doubt that willed itself to stay.

"I'll be there."

"Who had money on the great honey badger expedition?" Wade called out to the rather full living room.

You sat curled on the couch beside Vanessa—a red solo cup filled with shitty beer perched on your knee, condensation spilling across your hand. Dopinder was halfway into a story about his first solo job, Colossus was crammed into a small seat, and Logan sat at the table—his eyes a searing burn against the side of your face.

"Shit," Vaness sighed, digging into her front pocket—a twenty slapped into Wade's hand with a kiss.

You gasped. "Traitor."

"I really thought we were gonna win."

"Who did you bet against?" Your eyes caught sight of the cash getting slipped in Althea's hand—her smile cocky enough to give Wade a run for his money. "Of course."

"If it makes you feel better, Wade is done trying to play matchmaker between you two."

You wondered if you said the word bullshit loud enough it would penetrate through Wade's wall of not listening. The temptation was there. Though you decided to remain silent...for Logan's sake.

Since they returned, he barely said more than a few words to you. Them being hello and I tried to call. You both knew the second part was purely fictional, but figured it was easier to remain silent about it. Arguing wasn't something you were keen on doing—given that he had more than enough time to offer an explanation.

Yet he chose to put distance between the two of you. Sitting in sullen silence, a glass of whiskey nursed slowly and eyes latched onto the way you laughed.

He wanted to speak to you. Tell you how often he thought of you—how many times he made a note of something interesting or funny to regale you with once he returned. But the knowledge that you might very well hate him for leaving silently and without a promise of return, put everything to the back of his mind.

Reconciling with you was the first thing he planned to do.

Yet like he did in his own universe, he chose to keep you at arms length. Away from the insanity of his volatile emotions and dangerous demeanor. You were too good; too breakable.

"Fox and friends!" Wade's voice dragged his attention away from you. Even mere feet away Logan felt you right down to his fucking bones. "I have a special surprise for you heathens. Yeah that's right I'm looking at you Sugar Bear."

A hand gripped Logan's shirt, dragging him up from the chair as he struggled not to slam his fist into Wade's throat. "We're gonna play a little game I like to call Forty Five Minutes In The Closet. I'll pick two people and they'll have to hide the two hundred and seventh bone in the human body."

"It's called seven minutes in heaven. Dumbass," Al muttered.

"No. No, that's something else."

Logan felt the hair rise on the back of his neck at the sight of your smile. How you lit up at Wade's humor. You wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, yet he couldn't place a time where you looked more beautiful. If it weren't for the grip Wade had on his shoulder, he'd be asking you to meet him in the hallway—an apology already set on the tip of his tongue.

"Anyways!" Wade shook him violently—knowing that if Logan met his irritation with violence he'd have another problem to worry about. "I nominate this broad shouldered—thick muscled—thunder cunt from down under cunt to be our first contestant."

His eyes flicked to the side, lips curving into a smirk that could only be categorized as diabolical. "Drink some water girls cause things are about to get good."

Vanessa smiled, yanking your arm into the air without warning. "I nominate her to go with him."

"That's right you do baby!" Wade shouted.

"No," Logan growled, yanking his arm away from Wade.

Only to catch how your face fell. You tried to mask it with a laugh, but he could see the damage was done. All the doubts that you fought against began to slowly rise to the surface; each moment spent with him now a time you wanted to get back. But like a trooper, you stood with a glare in Vanessa's direction, and walked towards the hall closet barely big enough for two coats and a broom.

"Go go," Wade shoved him (violently) in your direction, and held the door for Logan to squeeze in beside you. "Now some ground rules. The walls are paper thin so if you end up dancing the Devil's Tango, we'll be making popcorn to go along with the show. Oh and any procreations that come out of this automatically get named Wade."

"You're disgusting," Logan snarled.

"Wade I don't think–"

You heard a loud have fun from everyone outside before the door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the both of you whole. Yet you felt how close he stood even with your eyes still trained on the door. Heat radiated off his body in waves, soaking into yours with ease. His breath came in quick but released slowly as if he was trying his best to keep his temper steady.

At this point blaming him for losing it wasn't an option. Not when you never expected the night to wind up like this.

You sucked in a deep breath, hands shaking when your heart began to race. You tried to appease every improper thought that entered your mind, but failed spectacularly as they kept on coming. Another sharp inhale echoed mere inches away—his body tensing as your scent deepened. Calling to him like a siren song he needed to answer.

"Stop that," he ground out, fingers curling into fists to keep himself apart from you.

Your eyes met his searing gaze even in the pitch black. "I'm not doing anything."

"You're not. But your body is." He huffed, feeling his willpower begin to splinter when your heart jumped. "How long do we have to...ya know..."

It took you a minute to realize that Logan was suddenly bashful. The urge to reach for a flashlight to see the red that most likely tinted the top of his ears reared its head. You would have done it if it weren't for the way his entire body flinched. His back now pushed against the wall furthest from you.

"Seven minutes," you murmured. "Are you okay?"

"'M fine."

You'd never seen him this on edge before. So close to snapping.

Perhaps it was the way he reacted whilst in your vicinity, or the fact that this was the most he'd said to you in twenty four hours. But the doubt you harbored for two weeks slowly began to shift into a wave of anger. One that demanded at least one final answer as to what you were doing here. What this meant to him.

You wouldn't continue pining after a man who couldn't give it to you straight; not after you gave him so much.

"At least now I can ask you what's going on."

He stiffened, his head snapping up to see your face begin to shift—your tone sharper than before. "What?"

"You heard me Howlett." His lips twitched at the sound of his last name. You fought the urge to land a punch to his jaw he'd barely. "Two weeks of no contact. You gave me nothing. And I was fine with it because I knew you were with Wade, but this? Avoiding me so you don't have to give me a reason as to why?"

"Honey–"

Your eyes narrowed, shutting him up quicker than he expected. "I'm not done talking." Another deep breath set off the last of your rant. "If you don't want to continue whatever this is then that's fine. I've moved on from guys like you before. I can do it again. But now you don't even want to be near me. I don't know what I did to make you–"

The step he took came unexpectedly. As did the next and the next until you were pinned to the wall behind you—his hands on either side of your head. Whatever fight you had left in your system fizzled out when his head dipped and lips slid down the side of your neck. Kissing gently at the vein he longed to sink his teeth into.

"Logan," you gasped, tilting your entire body his way. The reaction was involuntary. As if he possessed you in ways you never expected.

The smile he pressed to your cheek told you he liked it.

"That's what you think huh bub? That I don't wanna be near you?"

"Y-Yes..."

He chuckled. "I just spent two fuckin' weeks in a car with that walking mouth. You think I went of my own free will?" The breath that ghosted along your cheek caused your whole body to shiver. "'M stayin' away honey cause if I get too close I'm gonna do things to you that you aren't ready for."

A fire began to unfurl in the base of your stomach, rapidly coursing through your body without a single warning. He let it happen. He held you there, lips so close you could taste his whiskey on the tip of your tongue, and waited for you to speak. Waited for you to make your final choice about him.

"And if I am?" Your fingers curled into his shirt, chin lifting in a show of defiance. "Ready?"

He groaned at the sight of your fire coming back, his forehead falling to press against yours. "Don't say shit you don't mean."

"I do mean it."

Logan felt his entire body crumple as the familiar sound of his claws echoed in the small space—dust from the now split wall dropping onto your clothes. He could hear Wade's shout of disdain through the already thin walls. But his sole focus was on the way your breath quickened, how your fingers dug beneath his flannel and onto his thin beater.

"What do you want from me honey? Say it. I'll fuckin’ do anything."

The echo of your breathy whine fucked him up for good; ruined any chance of sanity for the rest of the night. If the closet wasn't so damn small he'd grind you along his thigh to watch your mouth go slack. He'd drop to his knees to taste you and drag you over the edge again and again without any intention of stopping.

"I want an apology," you replied, shaking him loose from the haze of lust he found himself stuck in.

His lips curled into a smile. "That right?"

You nodded, fighting against everything in you that screamed to keep this going. To let him kiss you senseless and fuck you against the wall. You didn't care that you were still in Wade's apartment, you didn't care that you were probably down to four minutes and a handful of seconds.

This felt pivotal to the shaky ground you both balanced on. And you were desperate to see what became of the mess that would no doubt come crashing down around you.

"You left." The words were a high gasp as his hand splayed against your stomach. "I-I missed you."

A rumble echoed from the bottom of his chest. "Yeah bub? Ya missed me?"

The words were on the back of your tongue, an explanation on just how much you ached for him. How nights without hearing his voice left you battling demons you usually kept at bay. But his hand was rucking up the bottom of your shirt and the heat of his calloused palm was against bare skin. Dipping lower as your mouth dropped open.

"You got no idea," he growled, lips so close to yours it caused your heart to scream. "How much I fuckin' thought of you. Of this." Fingers slipped beneath the top of your jeans and your head fell back against the wall. "Thought about how sweet you'd taste for me."

"L-Logan–"

He smiled. "Let me give you a proper fuckin' apology."

Echoes of laughter filtered through the already thin door as someone (most likely Wade) told yet another joke. At any other time you would dig up the last strand of your common sense and put an end to Logan's movements. Any other time you'd have enough coherency to understand that if you got caught neither of you would live this down.

Any other time that would have been the first thing on your mind.

But Logan's fingers brushed the edge of your navy blue laced underwear, effectively killing every thought in your head before it could fully form. Your hips canted up into his touch, fingers burying in his hair to tug his face closer. He felt too far even as he pressed you against the cold wall—his body emanating enough heat to have you gasping for air.

"I can smell it," he rasped. "Drivin' me insane honey."

A moan climbed up your throat, but he silenced you easily. His lips found yours in the darkness and you felt your heart cry at knowing he was back. That he wanted you.

You clung to him, tongue meeting his in a messy reunion. All teeth and quick stunted breaths and spit you felt cling to your joined lips. You swallowed his groan with a soft whine of your own. His hand dipped one inch further, fingers prodding against your patch of hair, and you felt your stomach clench.

"Oh–" Your gasp was sharp, loud enough for Logan to cringe as it echoed in the small space.

That didn't stop his fingers from sliding through your slick with a stunted moan. His lips a hot press against your cheek—body caging you into the drywall.

"Gotta be quiet," he whispered.

"S-Sorry–" You dug your teeth into your lip hard enough to taste copper. All in the hopes that it would silence every sound that was desperate to be set free. With the curl of his fingers he struck against your clit in rough strokes, dooming you to the shame that would no doubt come once the both of you stepped out of this closet. "Ah!"

His lips slammed against yours, tongue plunging into your already gaping mouth. He tasted like whiskey. Like everything you longed for in the past two weeks.

Your heart clenched in your chest as he upped the pace of his fingers—the wet echo of your slick now bouncing off the walls. A tremble began to form in your legs and you tugged on his hair to signal what was about to come. But Logan remained one step ahead of you.

He smiled, ignoring the aching throb of his cock as he coaxed you towards a quick and blinding release. One he would replay in his mind for the rest of the night. He knew Wade probably stood outside the door with his ear pressed to the wood, but found he didn't mind. Because you were in his arms, with your lips against his in a dazed kiss, and he had never felt such bliss before.

"C'mon honey. Lemme see you."

"'M almost there," you breathed, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted.

He wanted to eat you alive.

"I know you are. Can feel you leakin' on my hand." His teeth scraped against the shell of your ear, hips grinding along your thigh for some relief. "Let go so I can fuckin' taste you."

A blinding heat began to build faster than you had time to latch onto it; his fingers now tapping roughly against your pulsing clit. You reached for it, let that feeling begin to consume you. Only for something heavy to slam against the closet door—startling the both of you.

Logan ripped his hand away, his body stumbling to the opposite wall. He looked flushed. As if you were the one about to rip a mind numbing orgasm out of his body. Not the other way around.

You coughed, fixing your shirt and jeans as the door swung open. Wade's cocky smile told you everything you needed to know. Being subtle and playing this off was no longer an option, because he knew what you were up to. He could read it on your face.

"What ya thinkin' about?"

"Wilson–" Logan growled, moving to stand in front of you—his claws itching to slide free and dig into Wade's super-healing flesh.

"Wasn't talking to you peanut." He peeked over Logan's shoulder, his smile big and bright and glaringly obvious. "Don't tell me. You two were also debating the logistics of bringing back Robert Downey Jr. to the MCU."

"Shut your goddamn–"

"Because I think it's a money grab. I mean come on Iron Man? Again?"

Logan began to reach for his neck, but your hands pressing to his waist forced him to freeze. You pressed a kiss to his shoulder with a laugh as you squeezed past the both of them. He felt his heart twist in his chest tight enough to send pain down his spine.

Wade still smiled like an all knowing asshole, but the sight of you joining Vanessa on the couch with a sheepish smile eased the nerves that still jumped under his skin.

"Not another word," he spit, shoving a finger into Wade's chest to force him back a few feet.

The man merely smiled—eyes flicking down to the glaringly obvious bulge in Logan's jeans. "Don't tell me. Whiskey dick again? I've told you it's common–"

His claws came free with a roar. Wade's familiar shriek now echoing through the apartment as he sprinted towards your spot on the couch. In the hopes that you might be able to tame the animal intent on ripping him to shreds.

He could count on one hand how often silence echoed throughout the apartment at night. Each time being when Wade disappeared to Vanessa's place with the intent of returning well past the afternoon. Trash still lingered here and there after the small party, but he ignored it in favor of pouring another glass of whiskey.

Falling to the couch with a groan, he felt the weariness of two weeks with Wade on the road resurface in his body. Eventually he'd will himself to sleep. Still plagued by nightmare after nightmare. Except his mind was stuck on the thought of the closet. How you arched into his body with a whine, how wet you were for him in such a short span of time.

There was something addicting about seeing you confront him with your anger. All the fire you kept locked away suddenly became the sole focus of your energy and Logan found he couldn't get enough.

An hour after you were walked home by Vanessa (Wade in tow behind her), he still could smell you on his fingers. The way your scent clung to his shirt when you were up against him. How you moaned for him. So pretty and willing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd sported a hardon for longer than an hour; yet in your presence they always seemed to fucking happen.

The whiskey kept his mind settled on the present moment. On Althea's snores in the background and the city noise that spilled in through the open window. If he was lucky, he'd get twenty minutes in a hot shower with his hand wrapped around his throbbing cock.

That alone kept him from passing out on the shitty couch—his mind hazy and drunk on lust.

A beep from his now charged phone drew his attention to your window across the street. The light was on. So he knew you were awake. But the sight of you walking out into your living room—a black robe wrapped around your body—had him sitting up straight. He reached for the device, flipping it open to see your name flash across the small screen.

Logan couldn't even remember pressing answer. All he knew was that your voice filled his ear seconds later.

"Hi," you said, tone breathy and high. Flashes of you from earlier began to enter his mind.

"Thought you went to sleep honey."

You smiled, pushing the window open—your phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder. "I tried."

"Nightmares?"

"No," you sighed. "Something else."

The feeling from earlier began to lick at his veins again, smoldering beneath the surface of his skin. "Yeah?" You nodded. "What is it?"

The sharp inhale of breath gave him a clear and straight answer. One that had him spreading his legs a bit wider on the couch—eyes fixed on the way you fidgeted with your hands. He wasn't able to get you off earlier; just barely on the precipice of an orgasm before you were rudely interrupted. And though you wouldn't say it out loud, he knew you still felt the remnant of an ongoing fire.

"Wade was kind of an asshole earlier about it," you mumbled.

Logan had never seen you this shy before. He wanted to sear the sight into his mind.

He chuckled, low and raspy; you felt it in your stomach. "He's usually that way."

"He got in the middle of us," you sighed.

"He did." Logan leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, and watched as you stepped a bit closer to the window. "What about it honey?"

"Well–" Your fingers toyed with the tie of your robe, eyes glued to the way he got to his feet and moved towards the glass. "My door is unlocked."

The robe dropped to the ground with a soft flutter and Logan's mouth went dry. You stood bare before him, the phone clutched in your hand—determination on your face. He felt every part of his body scream at the sight of your skin—your breasts and cunt—presented to him this way. You were a marble statue straight out of a museum and he wasn't worthy of even getting a mere glimpse.

Your heart hammered in your chest at the sight of his claws coming free—a growl ripping through the phone line. He looked starving. Practically feral at the sight of you like this. You'd never wanted a man to devour you this way before; as if you were the meal to be served up on a silver platter.

Cold air seeped in through your open window, tightening your nipples, and Logan clutched the side of his window frame hard enough for the wood to crack. Your scent lingered in his nose—driving him past the brink of sanity.

"Don't fuckin' move," he snarled, slamming the phone shut in his large palm and heading straight for his door.

Counting the seconds, you remained stuck on the sight of his now empty apartment. People milled along the street down below—the late night goers that headed towards the subway entrance. You only hoped that no one bothered to look up. Or else they'd see you naked and standing before an open window.

Five minutes barely passed before your door was being shoved open, his boots a loud echo in the stark silence of your apartment. You turned—gasping at the sight of him disheveled and panting. His claws slid back as he shut the door with a soft thud that felt like a gun going off. Whatever words you wanted to say—explanations you longed to give for your behavior—died the second he walked towards you. Intent painted blatantly on his face.

Meeting him halfway, you collided against his body with a breathless kiss. Your fingers clung to his back as his hands gripped your bare thighs and hoisted you up. He stumbled forward, slamming you softly against the nearest wall, and took your mouth with a possession you'd never experienced before.

Logan kissed you with a heady fervor that left you dizzy. After so long, the aching need for you began to ebb into a madness that swallowed him whole.

One that demanded to be felt in its entirety.

"I'm sorry," he gasped against your lips, tongue licking along your teeth. "For leaving."

"Logan–"

He shook his head, gripping the back of your neck to draw you in for another kiss. "'M never leaving you again honey. Got that?"

With a nod, you pulled him back—tasting the remnants of whiskey and a cigar he must have smoked after you left. He growled into you, hips chasing your dripping cunt as it slid along the crotch of his jeans. Soaking him before he could even get a chance to taste.

There was no denying what this would lead towards. What those days of conversations and quick glances would amount to when the tension finally broke. Logan expected to be left with the fragments of a broken relationship that never was. You were adamant on making it become more.

"I want–" You pulled away with a sharp gasp, his lips slotting against your neck—working down the skin with gentle bites. "Want you inside me."

His forehead pressed to your shoulder, a groan ripping from his chest. "Fuck."

Your lips connected to his neck when he began to walk, teeth sinking into the veins that ran down into his shirt. Logan had to struggle to keep his feet straight—his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass. He couldn't figure out how he managed to have such a stroke of luck. What occurred for him to have you in his arms, naked and wanton and grinding against his leaking cock that smeared inside his jeans.

A soft moan was pressed to his ear when he dragged your hips along his. The final steps into your bedroom now turning into a race to get you spread beneath him. To finally have you in ways that left him worried for his own psyche.

"Driving me fuckin' insane honey," he bit out against your ear, dropping you onto the soft mattress.

You smiled—eyes dark and shining with a cloud of lust. "So are you." Your fingers tugged at the bottom of his shirt. "I've been wanting you to touch me for weeks."

He wasn't going to fucking last.

Yanking off his shirt, he let both of them fall to your floor—giving you free reign to drink in the sight of him above you. The soft touch of your fingers trailed down his arms, tracing the veins in fascination. Your lips parted, chest rising and falling with each quick breath, and Logan felt the strings holding his self control in place snap.

He dipped down, sucking your peaked nipple into his mouth with a groan.

"F-Fuck," you sighed, nails digging into his shoulders so hard he felt his skin rip before it healed over. His cock jumped with the pain—hands fisting your soft comforter to keep himself stable.

"Do that again."

He caught a glimpse of your fucked out smile before your fingers were digging into his back, scratching lines across his skin. A loud moan slipped past his lips as he worked his way down your body. Lips trailing along your stomach—teeth sinking into your hips so hard it would hurt tomorrow. And you scratched line after line into his skin.

Adamant on leaving a mark that might stay till the morning.

"I didn't get to taste you," he murmured, hands moving to spread your soft and supple thighs.

"The closet was too small—oh–"

His nose pressed to your mound, inhaling the scent that drove him feral for weeks on end. Logan was fully aware how animalistic he turned the second his eyes landed on your glistening cunt. He wouldn't be surprised if drool began to slip from his mouth at such a pretty sight.

"Fuckin' gorgeous."

Hazel eyes darkened at the sight of you clenching around nothing—your hand delving into his already mussed hair. No response existed when he looked at you like this. When his thumbs spread you obscenely with a hoarse groan.

"Logan," you mewled.

Trying to form a coherent word flew out of your mind, his touch all you could focus on. A sharp cry fell past your lips when his mouth sealed over your cunt. Tongue flicking your clit and thumb sliding between your dripping folds.

Your legs were hitched to his shoulders, body bent upwards as he ate you like his last meal. His eyes fluttered shut with a moan and he sucked at your clit, rolling it along the tip of his tongue. Sounds you'd never heard before ripped from your chest, your fingers scrambling to grab onto his arms. To find an anchor in the dizzying pleasure he dragged you towards.

The simmering heat from hours before rose up in your body quicker than you expected. Reminding you that he'd already brought you to the edge once.

This time wouldn't take long at all.

He groaned, two fingers prodding at your entrance, and buried his tongue between your folds. The wet sound of his mouth sent a flare of need through your chest—drawing your lungs tight and near the precipice of pain. Breath became nonexistent as he lapped at you—his fingers sinking right down to the knuckle. You clawed at his skin, mouth open and chest heaving.

"Fuck–" Rough pads curled along your walls, striking against a spot you'd never reached on your own. It tore a cry from you, your legs now a trembling mess over his shoulders.

But he kept going. Ate you without stopping. As if breathing was secondary to the taste of you spread on his tongue.

"I-I'm gonna—fuck Logan!"

A growl was mumbled into your cunt, eyes now sharp and focused on your face as it screwed up in pleasure. The echo of your slick filled your ears, his fingers pumping into you and mouth drinking down everything you gave him. It all became too much. Until something bright and searing began to unfold in your body.

His teeth scraped your clit with another rumbled sound, and whatever remained to hold you together snapped. A sob of his name was yanked from your throat, fingers gripping at his hair to keep him still as you grinded against his tongue. And he collapsed onto the mattress, hips pushing into the bed while you used him.

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes when the final dregs of your release began to seep from your body. Even while his tongue continued to lap at you—roughly moaning at the taste of you leaking into his eager mouth.

"Wait," you sucked in a breath, hand pressed to his head to keep him at bay when pain sparked through your body. "T-Too much."

His lips curled into a smile, canines on display and mouth shiny with your slick. "'M gonna do that again." Your eyes widened in protest, only for him to get to his feet. "But first honey. I'm gonna fuck you."

The flame sparked to life again, slowly simmering at the base of your stomach. You met him halfway, crawling to your knees to reach for his belt buckle. Lips sliding against his in a messy kiss as he shared your taste, licked it into your mouth with a sigh. It wasn't until your hand dipped into his jeans that he stopped you—his eyebrows pulled together and lips swollen.

"Hold on."

"What's wrong?" you murmured, kissing his chest and biting at the muscle.

"Not—ha—" His hand gripped your ass at the feeling of you tugging at his jeans; your fingers slipping down to cup him gently. "Not gonna last very long if you do that bub."

You grinned. "It's only fair. After you got to taste me...James."

"Shit." A hand on your throat dragged you back to his lips, to the hot slide of his tongue along yours. "Later. I'll let ya do whatever the fuck you want with me later."

Oh how you liked the sound of that. Images of getting him beneath you, of his head tipped back in pleasure, filled your mind. They begged you to make it reality.

Logan however had other plans.

"But I want to suck you off," you pouted.

He felt his cock leak down your hand, the pearly precum now spread along your thumb that rubbed at his vein. Weeks of starving for you left him an impatient man. Yet something told him you saw it clearly in the way his whole body tensed. His fingers digging sharply into any part of you he could reach.

Reaching for your leg he hooked it around his waist and knelt on the bed—his jeans and boots in a heap on the floor. Your lips never strayed far from his, fingers dancing along his bare back—feeling the muscles shift beneath hot skin. He wanted to lay you out beneath him, but the need for more began to eat at both your hearts.

This wasn't a quick and fast fuck. He wouldn't leave in the morning with no notice. No, Logan knew that when it came time for the sun to rise in the sky, he'd be back between your thighs with a sated smile on his face.

"Gimme a second honey," he panted, gently removing your hand from his cock. "Don't want to fuck this up."

You laughed, nuzzling his cheek as he dragged his head through your folds. "You won't baby."

The word slipped off your tongue with ease, but he felt like a shot had just gone through his chest. Somewhere between the two weeks spent apart and getting you like this—wrapped around him entirely at peace—Logan made a choice. He understood what this meant. He knew that you weren't temporary.

Perhaps it was stupid of him to dive in so quickly. Perhaps you’d regret this choice in a month or two. But he was tired of hiding from a past version of himself that continued to haunt his waking life.

He wasn't going to be the man who ran.

He would forever remain the man who stayed.

Your face contorted the second he began to slip into your dripping cunt—fingers sharply digging into his shoulders as he stretched you slowly. Teeth sunk into your bottom lip before your head fell back—a guttural moan pulling from your throat at the feel of him.

"Big," you rasped, hips canting down to help him.

White flashed behind his eyes when you clenched, a broken grunt pressed to your chest. "You can take it for me."

"I–" Another short thrust had him slipping into you with a sigh of your name. "O-Oh fuck."

He felt his claws bite at the skin of his knuckles, his teeth now a sharp prick at the top of your breast, as you settled into his lap. Sitting on his cock with a garbled shout of his name. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face back to his, and Logan could feel the pull of his orgasm draw tight in his body at the sight of you entirely fucked out.

"You with me?"

Lips curled into a soft smile, your eyes fluttering open. "Feels like you're in my chest," you mumbled.

Pride bloomed in his stomach, mixing with the heat that ate him alive. "Yeah?"

No answer was given because you'd decided it was time to move with a shift of your hips. He let you take the lead, giving what you could take and pulling back when your face screwed up in pain. He wasn't a small man—that he understood plainly. But the sight of you grinding along his lap, fucking yourself on his cock, had him nearly begging for more.

You gripped his shoulders, clambered to your knees, and sunk down on him again in one swift plunge. Logan choked on his spit the second you started to ride him in earnest. Sinking down on him in short repeated thrusts, you found his lips in a kiss that melted away into a mess of teeth.

"So fuckin' perfect." He gripped at your hips, pulling you down on his red and aching cock. "Takin' me like you were made for it honey."

A whimper met his ears at the slight shift in angle—the head of his cock now pounding against the spongy part of your walls. He grinned at the sound, helping you move just a bit quicker in order to chase the high that built rapidly in your body.

"You were made to fuckin' take it huh?"

You nodded, eyes bleary with tears. "Uh huh," you sighed.

"Made to fuck my cock," he growled. "To cum on it."

"L-Logan–" you whined, thighs shaking with the effort of riding him. He noticed seconds before you did.

"I know baby," he cooed, pushing you back onto the bed and sinking into you with a sharp thrust that sent his name careening from your mouth. "'S too much for you."

Hooking your legs over his shoulders, he claimed your lips in a final kiss before setting a pace that had you clawing at his shoulders. It was almost punishing how good he fucked you. His hips pounded into yours, the repetitive slap of skin against skin now louder than your combined moans.

You felt the string begin to draw tight again, pulling at each muscle and tendon in your body. The walls of your cunt clamped down tight, drawing him in as your hands braced against his chest—your eyes rolling back at the feel of his body dragging against yours.

"There we go," he grunted, fingers sliding through your slickened mess to rub at your clit in small rough circles. "C'mon bub. Fuckin' cum on it yeah?"

"Ah!" Fighting for breath, you felt your entire body break as bliss flooded your system.

The scream of his name pierced his eardrums and Logan swore he felt his soul snap in half at the sight of you so lost in your pleasure. Chasing his own high, he bracketed his arms against your head, his claws now scratching at the wood of your headboard as he fucked into your pulsing cunt. The feel of your hand on his back, your lips against his jaw, sent him flying off behind you.

A rough snarl tore from his mouth as he came, burying himself deep enough to send pain down your thighs. The warmth of him spurting into you sent another flare of heat down your spine, sating whatever unconscious need you harbored to have him this way.

His head dropped to your chest, claws embedded in your now ruined pillow, as his cock began to soften. Your bodies reaching a level of comfort that hadn't been there before.

You ran a hand through his hair, toying with the locks as your eyes fell shut and legs moved to wrap around his hips. It shocked you how much you longed to remain like this. Pressed against his naked body with sleep lingering on the edges of your mind. You nearly asked if he felt the same, but the contented sigh that brushed against your breast gave you the answer you wanted.

"We're doing that again," he mumbled, kissing at your still hard nipple.

"Soon hopefully," you smiled.

"Mm." His cock stirred to life slowly, sending a wave of surprise down your spine. "Careful what you wish for bub."

"At least let me get some water," you mumbled, drawing his face back to yours—thumb running along his cheek. "Then you can–"

Your eyes flew open at the sound of something blasting from across the street. Logan turned with an irritated grunt as a song began to filter through your open living room window. One that you recognized instantly as WHAM!. Careless Whisper if you were shooting for accuracy.

Logan groaned, dropped his face to the crook of your neck. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill him."

A shout bounced off the buildings, Wade's voice suddenly louder than the song. "That's what I'm talking about honey badger! Al give me back my fucking twenty!"

You laughed, trying to listen to what else he said, even as Logan began to kiss a trail down your shoulder. His mind focused on far more important things than his fucking roommate. The song continued to play, Wade singing along horribly, and you suddenly felt your future encompass you with a warm smile.

A life of joy, of passion, of family.

Sinking into his touch with a sigh, you let the worry fall from you in layers. The promise of this, no longer a fantasy.

note: they finally fucked y'all! if you finished all of this then i love you. drink some water per wade's words from earlier.

[oddinary4bts]

Chasing Cars | ch 14 (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, this chapter contains mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: mentions of alcohol, a creep at the gym, mentions of Lisa and what happened in the last chapter, cursing, oc and jk finally talk and it hurts, jk gets punched in the face, explicit content: hickey, breast/nipple play, jerking off, oral sex (male and female receiving), hair pulling, ass slapping, unprotected sex (please don't be stupid), big dick!Jungkook, creampie

☆word count: 12.2k

☆a/n: someone said more angst? but this time with a true side of hope (maybe). Hope you guys like it <3 and thank you to @moonleeai for beta-ing, you're the best <3

☆series masterpost

☆add yourself to the taglist here!

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

Wednesday, October 7th

Days have gone by. Weeks, actually - September giving way to October. You’ve been in a daze, going through the first month of the semester in slow motion. You’ve been focusing on classes more, studying in all the free time that you have, when you’re not going to the gym.

You’ve started going to the gym on a regular schedule. Three to four times a week, most of the time accompanied by Yoongi. It’s easy to know why - Yoongi’s got a crush on the guy who works at the reception of the gym. You think it’s good. Yoongi’s allowed to move on from Hoseok, to finally find someone else who is worth his love. 

It gives you hope that one day you’ll get that for you too. But you’re not there yet - far from it. You’re still feeling the repercussions of that Friday evening when you foolishly believed you and Jungkook were fixable.

Now you think the whole world lies between you and him, and you doubt anything will ever fix that. 

He’s texted you once, since that Friday evening. A few days later, he asked if you wanted to talk. You ignored the message - it was the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but it had to be done. Too much pain stands between you and him for you to be able to be with him.

At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself. Like a mantra - you’ve been repeating to yourself that you can’t be with him because he’s Taehyung’s best friend, because it would ruin his friendship. And Jungkook deserves his friends, deserves to move on with Lisa if that’s what he wants to be doing.

You know he’s not. You know that night was the last time he saw Lisa outside of their friend group gatherings. You know because last week you were at the bar with Ria, and you’d somehow ended up at Taehyung’s table. You’d felt Lisa’s scalding gaze on you the whole time, yet she’d remained nice to you, polite like she’d always been.

Jungkook has broken more hearts than just yours after all.

You know they have stopped hanging out because Sera asked Lisa where Jungkook was that night. She answered that she didn’t know, that they’d stopped seeing each other. She’d said so looking at you, as if trying to throw the blame on you, but it’d gone unnoticed to the table.

Perhaps because they were drunk. You wouldn’t know - you’ve stopped drinking since that first party of the semester when everything came crashing down.

You take a long sip from the water bottle you always carry to the gym. You’ve been stretching on the black mats, in the smaller room in the corner that some people also use for yoga. Right now it’s just you and some guy you’ve seen around a couple of times before, and you’ve been trying to ignore the way he keeps looking at you.

You wish there was a gym nearby for women only, but there unfortunately isn’t, so you suffer the stares once in a while, though they aren’t as frequent as you initially thought they would be. Maybe because most of the time you aren’t alone - you think maybe you shouldn’t have come alone today.

Luckily enough you’re almost done, so you just move on to the last stretch, the muscles in your back straining for a few seconds before they relax as you take a deep breath. Once you’re done you stand up, heading to the cleaning station to get some paper that you spray with the cleaning spray, and then you walk back to the mat you used to clean it. 

A second later you’re out the door, walking quickly to the women’s locker room. 

A glance to your left makes your heart clench in your chest, so hard you think you might be about to go into cardiac arrest. 

Jungkook is standing by a squat rack, gaze lowered, yet it’s like he senses you watching. His head immediately raises, and he meets your gaze for half a heartbeat before you look away, walking even faster just so that you don’t have to be in his presence anymore.

You could have chosen another gym. But this one is the cheapest and nearest option from your college, so you decided to still come here, even though you knew you’d see Jungkook once in a while. Luckily enough for you, you’ve been able to figure out his approximate gym schedule, and you’ve avoided the hours that he usually comes here.

Hell, he usually comes in the morning, and it’s almost nine pm.

Though you know the true reason why you’ve chosen this gym. Not that you would admit it to anyone - it just feels reassuring to see Jungkook once in a while, to know that he’s doing okay.

Even if the dark circles under his eyes tell you he might not be doing all that good at all. But you’re not close enough to him anymore to be allowed to care, so each time you just disappear the second you catch sight of him, hoping he doesn’t see you. 

Your heart beats out of your chest the whole time you change in the locker room, and you tell yourself you’ll make a beeline for the front doors as soon as you’re out. It’s not as reassuring as you wish it was, and you have to take a few deep breaths before you walk out of the locker room.

A saccharine smile welcomes you outside, and you startle at the sight of the man who had been in the yoga room with you. He’s leaning against the wall, but the second he sees you walking out he pushes up from the wall, folding his arms on his chest.

You hear the distinct sound of alarm bells at the back of your mind as he says, “Hey.”

You swallow, searching for salvation as you glance around the gym, but there’s none to be found.

Jungkook’s not even by the squat racks anymore.

“Hey,” you reply, trying to sound polite.

“I see you here all the time,” the man adds.

You almost gag - you’ve never noticed him before, and the thought that he might have been staring at you multiple times makes you shudder.

“Oh,” you let out.

He smirks, and this time you gulp as you once again scan the gym.

“What’s your name?” the man asks.

Hell, he has to be in his early forties - aren’t there any women his age he could be hitting on instead?

“Sophie,” you reply as quickly as you can, saying the first name that comes to your mind.

“Well, Sophie, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink with me?”

You gulp. There’s something in the way he’s looking at you that makes you feel small, like he’s undressing you with his gaze, and you feel infinitely vulnerable in front of him.

“Huh, sorry, I’m busy tonight,” you say.

You make to walk past him, but he steps to the side, blocking your way. “Come on. I promise we’ll have fun.”

Ew.

“I am busy,” you insist as adrenaline flushes through you.

“Clearly,” the man drawls. “Come on, doll, I promise I’m a good time.”

“Excuse me?” you say, unable to help yourself.

The man laughs, but before he has time to say anything, an arm wraps around your shoulder, and you’re pulled into someone’s side. Your first reaction is to punch, but your hand stops midway as you meet Jungkook’s gaze, and everything fades away until it’s just you and him.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

Your eyes dip to his mouth. Fuck… He’s so close, and you’ve missed him so much, and your heart is reaching out for him, searching for him like it’s been doing for weeks.

“Yes,” you answer, and you don’t dare look at the man as Jungkook pulls you even closer.

“Hey, I was busy here,” the man comments, once again blocking your way.

“Well, this is my girlfriend, and we have plans tonight,” Jungkook says, levelling a glare at the man that you wish to never be on the receiving end of. “So respectfully fuck off.”

You wince, thinking that might aggravate the man. But when Jungkook tilts his head to the side with murder in his gaze, the man rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath that awfully sounds like ‘Fucking bitch’. You have half a thought to punch him for it, but Jungkook steers you away, and despite the weeks and months between you, you feel yourself leaning against him.

The early fall night is warm outside, summer days clinging to October like you’re clinging to Jungkook’s waist right now. You don’t even know when you snaked your arm around his waist. You just know you’re holding him just as much as he’s holding you, and though you don’t talk, you hear thousands of confessions lingering in the air.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks softly when you’ve walked away from the gym, towards where you assumed he must have parked his car.

You surprise yourself by blinking back tears at his words, at this revelation that he still cares for you like you care for him.

“Shit,” you let out.

Jungkook lets go of you like he’s the one hurting you, and your arm falls at your side aimlessly as he steps in front of you.

“I’ll make a complaint against him,” he softly reassures you. “So that he can’t work out at this gym anymore.”

You nod, blinking away the tears. You succeed, and you take a deep breath before you meet Jungkook’s gaze.

You don’t think you were ready for the softness, for the yearning that his gaze holds right now. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He smiles, infinitely sadly. “Of course, Y/n. Do you want me to drive you home?”

You’re almost foolish enough to tell him that you already are home, here with him.

“Please,” you say.

He nods. “I’m parked this way.”

You follow him, clutching the straps of the duffel bag you’ve been using for your gym clothes. He’s parked closer than you thought he was, and just a minute later, you’re sitting in his car, and he’s driving you towards the dorms.

The silence is heavy in the car - filled with memories of you and him, and of the breaking that followed. You look at his profile as he drives, and he’s careful not to glance your way, like doing so is admitting maybe you both are still vulnerable for the other.

And you want to speak, want to voice the words haunting you. But you can’t. Not when you chose to not reply to him when he texted you weeks ago. Not when all you can picture is Lisa coming out of the bathroom wearing his shirt, while he stood there, mute, his head hanging low.

So you remain silent, as does he, up until he parks in front of the dorms. You swallow a lump in your throat as you lay a hand on the knob, ready to open the car, but he clears his throat, and your eyes snap to him.

“Do you…” he trails off, toying with his piercings. “Do you think you’ll ever move back home?”

The question is treacherous, a dagger that stabs right through your beating heart. 

“I don’t think I can,” you answer in a whisper.

He nods once, not glancing at you. “Okay.” He wets his lips as he takes a deep breath, and then he finally shoots you a quick look. “I’m sorry.”

He truly does look sorry, apologetic, his big doe eyes once again filled with sadness and yearning and so many regrets you think he might be drowning in them.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, and you offer him a tentative smile. “It’s fun to experience the dorm life a little.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Ria is a fun roommate.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I’m glad she is.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds longer, and you see he means so much more. You see the longing - it’s reflected in your own eyes. But you can’t be with him, not after all that happened. So you open the door, looking away from him even though it costs your soul to do so.

“Thank you for driving me,” you whisper.

“Of course,” he answers, voice heavy with emotions you don’t want to interpret.

Not when they might crush you with no chance of survival.

“I’ll see you around,” you add as you pick up your duffel bag from where you’d left it at your feet.

“See you around,” he echoes.

You take a deep breath, offer him one last tight-lipped smile, and then you shut the door, turning away from him before he can see the tears pooling in your eyes. Before you can let your heart break again, before you decide to go home with him after all.

Before you can accept that there were tears pooling in his gaze, too.

Thursday, October 10th 

You like your Thursdays. You only have a class in the afternoon, and it’s your easiest class this semester, with a professor who genuinely loves what she’s doing and who teaches it grandly. It’s an engaging class, where she makes everyone participate, and though you usually hate those, she always manages to make everyone feel comfortable enough to actually participate.

You wish all your classes were like this, but alas, most of them suck.

But yes, you like your Thursdays. Maybe the sun shining bright on your walk home through campus contributes to it, the slowly-changing leaves in the trees beautiful in their multitudes of colours - some still green, others red, yellow, orange and brown. It makes for a pretty picture, and the warmth from yesterday still lingers around, so much so that numerous students are lounging on the lawn in front of the college, sharing snacks or studying or just taking in the sun while they still can.

Your heart was heavy all night yesterday, keeping you up almost till dawn, but the sun rays are healing today, so much so that the thought of Jungkook doesn’t hurt quite as much.

You get to the dorms with a smile tickling the corner of your lips. You usually head home with Nabi, but she said she wanted to go see Namjoon first, and so she went to his office after your class. So you’re alone when you push the door open, and you’re convinced you’re alone when you close the door behind you, kicking off your shoes.

You only realize Ria is hiding under a pile of blankets when she peeks through, startling you. You jump, ready to throw a punch if needed, and she starts laughing as she pushes the blankets off.

You laugh with her as your heart races in your chest, and you lay a hand on the beating organ to try and calm it.

“You scared the shit out of me!” you let out, and you put your backpack down next to Nabi’s bed - your bed for the last month.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, but you doubt she really is. “I needed this though.” 

You slightly furrow your brows, and you only then make out her red nose and puffy, blood-shot eyes. It’s evident that she’s been crying, and your heart sinks in your chest at the sight.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, immediately moving closer to her, sitting on her bed close enough that your thigh touches hers through the many blankets.

She shifts to give you more space, and you climb on the bed properly.

“I don’t know, man,” she says, and her voice wobbles as tears fill her eyes again.

You tug her into a hug, and she cries against your chest. You’re mortified - you’ve never seen Ria cry, and there’s something wrong about it, like the sun just rose in the west instead of the east, or like it’s raining upwards. You hate it, and you rub her back soothingly, holding her closer as sobs rock through her.

“I just,” she lets out between two sobs. “He started seeing someone else.”

Oh.

You had an inkling it had to do with Seokjin, but now the confirmation breaks your heart for your friend, for the feelings she refused to admit to herself.

And now she’s too late, much like you were that Friday night when you ran home to Jungkook, hoping you’d be able to confess your love for him.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you whisper.

She raises her head long enough to wipe her cheeks and meet your gaze. “You said this would happen.”

And then she’s sobbing again, and you hold her close, not caring that she’s currently staining your shirt with her tears. 

“And the worst part is that she’s so pretty,” Ria continues. “Clearly super smart too. Like obviously she’d be his type, you know.” 

She pulls her phone out of the pile of blankets, and the screen turns to life as she angles towards her face. She then hands you her phone, and you see that she’s on a girl’s profile.

“Look at the story,” Ria says.

You click on it, and the picture that comes up is one of Seokjin looking to the side, laughing at something. He looks annoyingly perfect like that, his eye crinkling at the corner in joy.

The picture was also posted only twenty minutes ago, so you know this is fresh.

 “How did you find this?” you ask.

Ria plops on her back, sighing dramatically as she looks up at the ceiling and at the glued fluorescent stars that you placed there the week after you moved in. 

“He told me he was going on a date,” she admits, her lips jutting out in the hint of a pout.

“Oh?” you press.

“I know,” she grumbles. “Yes, we’ve started talking again.”

You think it’s progress, but you don’t mention it, not wanting to scare her when she’s finally admitting her feelings to herself.

“And he just told you he was going on a date?” you ask.

She nods, and tears well up in her eyes again, though this time she successfully blinks them again. “Yeah, we said we’d be friends? And yesterday he told me about the date, and about who he was going to go with.” Ria pulls one of the blankets over her face, shielding herself from the world. “Fuck, I even helped him pick out what to wear.”

You wince, and you’re glad she can’t see it. “You want to be just friends with him?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I just know that I’ve been stalking the girl obsessively since yesterday, and I saw the story as soon as she posted it.”

“Yikes,” you let out.

“I know,” Ria whines. “I’m such a mess.”

You pat the top of her head that still sticks out from underneath the blanket. “I think this is good.”

She pulls the blanket off her features, glaring at you. “How can you say that?”

“Because you’re finally realizing you have feelings for him, no?”

Her mouth falls open, but she doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you as her waterline increasingly becomes wet, and then tears fall onto her cheeks again. You quickly grab a tissue on her bedside table, and then you gently wipe her cheeks as she just keeps staring at you, clearly realizing that you are right.

That she’s in love with Kim Seokjin.

“Shit,” she lets out after a while. “What am I supposed to do?”

You offer her a gentle smile. “You tell him. You tell him before it’s too late and things go any further with the girl.”

“He did say he wasn’t going to stay with her late”, Ria says. “He’s got work at six.”

“So then text him at six, and ask him if he wants to hang out.”

She widens her gaze. “I can’t just do that,” she says.

You tilt your head to the side. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Because I am a fucking mess right now,” she grumbles.

You laugh, patting her head again. And though you agree she does look a mess, you know it’s fixable. Ria is easily the most beautiful person you know - even when she’s crying.

“Then let’s get you ready. Let’s eat something good, do your makeup and all that shit.”

She scrunches up her nose, yet a smile slowly tickles the corners of her lips. “And what do I tell him?”

“You tell him how you feel,” you say, and the parallel between your situation with Jungkook hits you so deep you think you almost fall off the bed. “You tell him how you feel before it’s too late.”

“What if it’s already too late?”

What if you get there and he’s already with someone else?

“Then at least you’ll have tried,” you say. “And I’ll be here to comfort you if needed.”

She takes a deep breath, like she’s amassing all the courage in this world, and then she nods once curtly as she sits up. “Then at least I’ll have tried,” she echoes. She smiles, a smile that starts with her eyes and then trickles down to her lips. It’s a smile of hope, of sun after the storm, and you can’t help but reciprocate it even though your circumstances are so much more dire.

Even though you were too late.

“Let’s do it.”

*****

You sit outside, the last of the warmth of the day clinging to the edges of campus. The early fall smells of wet leaves and dirt and lingering sun rays, and you take it all in. It’s relaxing, calming, even though you’re aware you likely shouldn’t be out at this hour of the evening alone.

But Seokjin told Ria he’d come over, and you weren’t going to be the cockblock to their conversation.

You don’t know what you’re doing here. You’re in the park you had to go through last year to get to your apartment, the one where you’d fallen in a puddle of mud on Valentine’s Day, before you’d gotten home and Jungkook saved your pants from the stain.

Before your very first kiss with Jeon Jungkook, the first of a long chain that was only leading up to catastrophe.

Your conversation with Ria keeps replaying in your head. You’re aware her situation with Seokjin isn’t exactly the same as that of you and Jungkook, yet the parallels strike deep tonight, as you sit there in the park that saw the beginning of whatever it is that you and Jungkook were.

You were too late. At least that’s what you’ve been repeating to yourself for hours. Indeed, when you’d gone home that Friday night, he’d been with Lisa. It’d been proof that he was moving on, that he might have liked you one day but doesn’t anymore.

But then again, you’ve seen him wither - from a distance, obviously. You’ve heard what his friends say about him. How he’s been isolating himself, playing video games and just focusing on college. Because he has to live up to his father’s expectations - at least that’s what Jimin said when you were at the bar, and you learned that Jungkook and Lisa were over.

But you’ve seen him wither like a flower in the fall. His eyes growing heavier, his back never fully straight anymore like he can’t bear the weight that was placed on his shoulders. Or maybe that’s the effect that you have on him, and when you’re not around, he’s okay.

You really hope he is. At least then one of you wouldn’t be dying, breaking and breaking all over again whenever you think about everything that went down between you and him.

You wish he’d told you about Gabrielle. You wish he hadn’t held that promise, but then again it shows that Jungkook will do anything for those he cares about.

Like intervene when some creep is harassing you at the gym. Like driving you home to the dorms even though the atmosphere was tinted with bittersweet pain, with the memories of when you’d laughed in that same car on the way to New York.

Memories of when you’d given him a blow job after that party because you couldn’t keep your hands off him.

Then again, you reckon the memories of you and Jungkook aren’t confined to his car. They’re everywhere, because for months he’d followed you around everywhere, always in your heart.

Not that he’s left your heart. There’s still a hole shaped like him where he used to be, and nothing you’ve done has been able to do anything about it.

No, everything always leads back to him - even your friends falling in love anew leads you back to him, to the memories of when he’d whispered sweet nothings against your skin in the middle of the night. Of when he’d told you to sleep in his bed if you missed him - did he ever notice that you did? That you slept in his clothes, that you clung to him even though you’d told him that you were over?

Your heart breaks anew, always. It shatters like you’ve barely repaired it, and you know you haven’t. Hell, he’s always haunting you, like he’s the ghost haunting the hallways of your life. 

You know he is. Because everything always leads back to him. Every conversation that you have reminds you of him, and you wish you could be Ria. Wish it wasn’t too late for you, wish Jungkook wasn’t Taehyung’s friend.

You wish that you didn’t care about all of that, that you could just go back to your apartment right now and tell Jungkook every secret you’ve carried in the nights you spent with him. You wish you could just say everything without holding anything back. Not because you wish that he was yours - no, only because you don’t think you’ll ever be able to move on if you don’t get the closure you never got with him.

Because there always were more words lingering in the air, more truths untold that hid in the deepest corners of your hearts, both yours and his.

There always were, but should there still be?

Can you just go up to him tonight and say everything, not caring about the consequences?

Isn’t that the advice you just gave to Ria?

You’re up before you’ve fully registered the thought. Before you realize that you’ve come to a certain catharsis sitting there tonight, as your friend confesses her love to the one she might be too late to have.

Your feet know the way, following that same trail you’ve walked a hundred times before, if not more. And your steps are sure, confident, like you haven’t spent months breaking yourself over him.

But you’re done breaking. You want healing, you want the sun to pierce the clouds that have been covering the land of your mind. You want some happiness, you want, like Yoongi, to be able to move on. You foolishly want, like Ria, to be able to tell Jungkook how you feel.

And so what if it impacts his friendship with Taehyung? You have a feeling the friendship’s already been impacted by Jungkook’s shattered heart.

You owe him to be able to heal, too.

You’re in front of the apartment, standing at the bottom of the short flight of stairs, all of ten minutes later. Looking up at the door, remembering when a paradise of you and Jungkook awaited you behind it.

Now, you think it’s hell on Earth awaiting you, but maybe there’s solace to be found in confronting the reason for the jagged pieces of your heart.

It occurs to you then that Taehyung and Ariane might be home, that they might end up being witnesses to something you so wish could be just yours and Jungkook’s. 

You’ve had enough of Taehyung being at the back of your mind whenever it comes to Jungkook.

“Y/n?”

You startle for the second time that day, though this time you jump so high you think you might have jumped out of your skin. 

Jungkook is standing to your left, gym bag in hand, and he looks at you with questions in his eyes, like he too can’t believe he gets to speak to you again in just a few days.

“Hey,” you let out.

He chews on his piercings, big doe eyes not leaving you. He doesn’t even blink, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he does so.

“What are you doing here so late?” he asks.

You smile softly, and your heartbeats don’t hurt as much as they usually do. Like this is where you were supposed to be tonight, after the gentleness of the afternoon.

Before your conversation with Ria, that is.

“Are Tae and Ari home?” you ask, not replying to his question.

He takes it in stride, taking a few steps towards you, though he stops at a safe distance from you. “No. Everyone’s out to the movie theatre right now.”

“Right now?” you echo. 

He nods once. “They’re going to the ten pm show because Sera was working at the library until nine.”

Which means you have hours of blessed alone time with Jungkook to talk to him. You can’t help it - you look up to the sky, and watch the blindingly bright moon that reigns up there. 

“Good,” you say.

He takes another step towards you, and you meet his gaze again, offering him another smile. He looks at it like it’s foreign, like he hasn’t spent months tangled up with you in his bed or yours, in New York City or here.

“Why are you here?” he asks again, his voice lower this time. Softer, gentler, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you away.

“Can we talk?”

His gaze widens almost unnoticeably, and his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what to say. He closes his mouth, gulps, and then says, “Sure, let’s go in.”

You end up following behind him, as he already had the keys in one hand. The apartment hasn’t changed at all since the last time you were here - since that Friday night Lisa walked out of the bathroom - and it’s just as warm and homey as you remember it to be.

Even more so as Jungkook kicks off his shoes, putting his gym bag down by the door as he eyes you carefully.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asks.

You reckon you could be fully honest right now. You could tell him how you feel, you could say you fell in love all those months ago despite the odds working against you. You could say everything, yet you don’t want to jump into it right away. You want to enjoy this moment with him - it might be your very last after all.

“How have you been?” you query as you take your shoes off.

He pulls on his piercings and then glances to his right. “Do you want to sit while we talk?”

You nod, and a moment later you’ve moved to the kitchen, and you’re pouring a glass of water for you and him from the filtered pitcher in the fridge.

You put his glass down in front of him, and he looks at it like it too is foreign to him. Like your kindness is a stranger, and you think maybe it is.

Maybe after telling him you were over in Paris, your kindness died in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, and he takes a long sip of water as you sit down next to him.

In the chair to his right, much like you’d been on Valentine’s Day.

“So?” you ask, and he cocks an eyebrow in question.

Gosh… the circles underneath his eyes seem darker, and there’s a hollowness to his cheeks that you didn’t really notice before. Maybe he hasn’t been eating enough, the heartbreak stealing his appetite much like it’d stolen yours.

Did he really care this much about you?

“So what?” he lets out.

“How have you been?” 

He doesn’t like the question. You can see it in the way he tenses, in the way his shoulders hunch forward even more like he’s trying to protect himself.

“I’ve been okay,” he replies.

You get it. You don’t deserve the truth, not after all the distance between the two of you.

“You?” he adds after a few seconds.

You take a deep breath, looking away from him to glance down at the glass on the table between your hands. “I haven’t been doing all that great,” you admit. “Not too bad, but not too great, you know?”

He looks apologetic when you meet his gaze, yet he nods his head in understanding. “Yeah.”

There’s a silence, like maybe the crevice really is too large for him to hear you from your side. But you don’t want it to be that way - you’ll leap over the crevice if you have to, but you want to tell Jungkook everything.

You need it, or you’ll never be able to heal.

“I…” you trail off, and you take another deep breath, trying to find the courage that invaded you while you were at the park.

It seems like it left you empty now that you’re sitting next to Jungkook, and you hate it.

You hate everything that made it so that it’s now awkward between you and Jeon Jungkook.

“You what?” he presses gently.

You take a sip of water. “I wanted to talk about us.”

Your words fall between you and him, so loud you think they might have pierced your eardrums.

Jungkook just looks at you in silence and then looks around himself. “What if Tae comes home?”

“Jungkook, I don’t care if Taehyung comes home right now,” you say, and you find yourself fighting sudden tears. “I’m so tired.”

He murmurs your name, and some part of you yearns for the way he’d used to call you peach, teasingly yet softly like it was the most beautiful word in his dictionary. 

“We never told each other how we felt,” you continue, realizing that you maybe should have rehearsed something before deciding to come here, if only so that you wouldn’t look stupid right now. “We spent months together and yet…” You pause, and he too remains silent, like he’s so startled by the conversation that he’s entirely mute now.

“Yet we never said anything about how we felt,” you add. “That’s why I came home that night.”

You hope he knows which one you’re referring to, and it seems like he does. His big doe eyes fill with the same sorrow you know is in yours, and he says, “I’m so sorry.”

It hurts. It hurts far too much for you to be able to breathe, and you look up to the ceiling, furiously blinking away tears. “For what?” you ask.

“For not telling you about Gabrielle,” he says. “For thinking that my promise to her was more important than what you and I had.”

“It destroyed my trust in you…” you admit, voice smaller than the drop of condensation rolling down your glass right now.

“I know,” he answers. “I’ve been hating myself for it for months.”

You hadn’t expected this much truth from him, so quickly. Not when months have passed without you exchanging more than just a few surface-level sentences.

Not when just a moment ago, he’d lied and told you he’s been doing okay.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Don’t tell me what I should do or not do,” he fires back, so softly you barely hear him. “I’ve been going insane, Y/n.”

“Jungkook…”

“You want to know how I felt?” he asks, and there’s sudden anger in his tone, dripping from his every syllable. “You want to know how it felt when I was in Paris and had to pretend that I wasn’t in love with you so that your brother didn’t get upset?” You barely register the confession - he barely leaves you time to register it as he adds, “I was fucking ruined. I hate lying, and I had to lie about you to my best friend because you asked me to.”

“Jungkook…” you trail off. “I just wanted us to tell him together.”

“And it led to that fucking shitshow with Gabrielle,” he says, ignoring your intervention. “If I’d been able to tell her we were together, she would have never kissed me. And she only did it because she didn’t want people to know that she’s gay.” He scoffs. “Which is frankly stupid because we’re in 2024 and if her parents don’t approve of her then they can fuck right off.”

You don’t say anything to that, mostly because you think that’s a conversation he has to have with her, and not with you.

“And then you dumped me, you refused to trust me, and I fucking got lost in Paris until I had to call Gaby for help. And I told her everything then, because what was the point of holding back?”

It’s like there was a dam inside of Jungkook, and you coming here tonight burst it open, words cascading out of his mouth like they can’t be stopped.

Like he took the time to rehearse what he wanted to tell you if he ever got the chance to.

“I didn’t dump you,” you say when the silence stretches for a few seconds. “We were never together.”

“Right.” Jungkook chuckles so dryly that you think you might have just fallen into the Sahara desert. “Because of your brother, right?”

“Why are you so mad?” you ask, feeling your own temper flaring despite the fact that you’d meant to come here and tell him about the love that bears his name in your chest.

“Because, Y/n, I’ve been fucking miserable for months,” Jungkook says, voice raising. “Because I went back to New York to have my whole family laugh at me when they realized we weren’t together anymore. Because I was forced to officially become the heir of JJS because my brother chose to open his own company. Because the one time I thought maybe I should try to move on you decided to come barging in and you saw everything.”

“You’re blaming me for coming here that Friday?” you ask in disbelief. “Fuck, Jungkook, I lived here.”

“You were already out,” he points out. 

“So that gave you the right to just fuck another girl?”

He rolls his eyes, sighing deeply. “See, it pissed me off when you ignored the text I sent you after that, but now I realize that it might have been for the best.”

You don’t answer anything, not when your heart aches so fiercely. You don’t think there’s any fight left in you - there barely had any to begin with. You didn’t think you’d fight with him tonight, didn’t plan for it to lead here, yet here you sit, watching his features contorted in rage he must have kept bottled up for weeks.

It occurs to you then that Jungkook doesn’t love you anymore. That the feelings festered, turned to a much uglier feeling you don’t want to name right now.

“Why?” you ask. “Why was it for the best?”

“Because we can’t fucking be together, Y/n. Because it never was about Paris, it never was about Gaby and Lisa.” He pauses as silver lines his gaze, but he blinks it away. “Because it’s always been about Taehyung, right? You never would have dated me because of Taehyung.”

“You know,” you let out, and you scoff, shaking your head. “I was coming here tonight to tell you that I fell in love with you last semester. But shit was I fucking wrong for that.” Your voice becomes louder as you keep going until you’re practically screaming in his face. “Yes, because of Taehyung. Yes, you’re right. What happened in Paris never mattered. It was always about how we couldn’t be together because of Tae.”

He’s stunned silent, and he just looks at you as you clench your jaw, taking a deep breath. You’re trying to staunch the flow of your anger, of the tears that threaten to spill on your cheeks, but it quickly occurs to you that you’re not going to win the fight.

You get up so quickly the chair almost falls behind you, and you storm out of the kitchen as the first tear falls.

“Y/n,” Jungkook says behind you, and he’s up and out of the kitchen a second later.

You try to put your shoes on, yet they blur behind the tears in your gaze.

“Y/n,” Jungkook says again, louder this time.

Maybe because he’s closer, or because he actually spoke louder. You don’t know, don’t care.

All you want is to flee the scene before he sees the ugliness of your broken heart.

You manage to put your first shoe on, but Jungkook bends down and picks up the other one before you can put it on.

“Give that back,” you say, and you angrily dry the tears on your face with the back of a hand.

“No,” he says.

“I fucking hate you,” you practically scream, and Jungkook drops the shoe.

He smiles softly. 

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t know who makes the first move. Don’t know how or why or when, but Jungkook cradles your face as you grab a handful of his sweater to hold him close. His lips hit yours so hard you think you taste blood, and he pushes you back against the door to deepen the kiss.

Your tongue darts out of your mouth to play with his piercings once, and he grunts as he drives his knee between your legs, then thinks better of it and picks you up. He holds you up against the door, his mouth moving in time with yours, languidly. It’s soul-destroying, like he’s wiping everything you were clean so that you can start anew.

You want it to be that. You want this kiss to be born of feelings and not anger, of the love you both had for each other.

You want it to be born out of the love you were so afraid of that you kept finding reasons to keep it locked away. Because he is right - you always used Taehyung as an excuse to keep Jungkook a safe distance away. 

Not that he was any better. He was doing the same thing, up until he wasn’t. Up until he told you he’d tell Taehyung everything in Paris, and suffer the consequences. You were the one then to tell him to wait, and today you know it was a mistake.

Today, you know you shouldn’t have waited before calling Jeon Jungkook yours. Because it allowed him to slip through your fingers, and you don’t think you’ll ever forgive yourself for it.

Jungkook’s tongue meets yours, and you let out a breathy sound as his hands rove your body, up and down your sides like he can’t choose a spot to linger on. Yours are lost in his hair - you’re already pulling at the strands just the way you know he likes. And he’s quick to react, to suck on your tongue, teeth teasing it. It steals a moan from the confines of your chest, and Jungkook grunts as he pulls away.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers as he leans his forehead against yours. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll let you leave, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

Your hands move down until they cup his cheeks, and you gently swipe your thumb on his soft skin. “Kiss me again,” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he curses and then adds your name at the end.

His mouth is ravishing yours again a second later, and this time, you know nothing will stop you. Nothing can stop you - not when you’ve been craving his touch for so long.

Jungkook carries you towards his bedroom, disconnecting from your lips so that he can look where he’s going over your shoulder. He’s about to push the door open when you have a flash of Lisa here, and you tense in his hold.

He immediately stops moving, glancing at you to meet your gaze.

“Can we go in my room?”

He nods yes, and you peck his lips once before he starts walking again.

Your room is dark and cold when he pushes the door open, yet he drops you on the bed all the same. You watch as he bends down to plug the string of fairy lights into the outlet, and a second later the room is bathed in a soft glow that reminds you of nights with him, of falling in love until you didn’t make sense without him anymore.

You don’t. You don’t make sense without Jungkook.

He takes off his sweater, revealing planes of honey skin you’ve missed far too much, his tiny dark nipples perked from the cold. That reminds you of the power outage, of the first time you’d been with Jungkook like this, right in this room.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, yet you know that he missed you too. It’s in his eyes, in the way he looks at you so adoringly, and in the way he climbs on top of you so that he can kiss you again, slower this time.

Like tonight, time has stopped, and you can enjoy him eternally.

You kiss him back, putting all the feelings in your chest in the motion of your lips against the softness of his. Your hands find his warm skin, and you caress his back as you kiss and kiss, as his tongue gently traces your mouth and finds your own tongue.

He pulls away a few seconds later, only to move down until he’s sucking a mark on your neck. It takes you by surprise, and you moan as you pull at his hair. He resists for a few seconds, keeps sucking on your skin until he’s sure to have left a hickey behind, and then he finally meets your gaze.

The darkness in his eyes hints at barely concealed lust, which you reciprocate as you wrap your legs around his dainty waist, forcing him to grind on you.

You’re not surprised in the slightest to find him already hard.

“I don’t think I can be gentle with you tonight,” Jungkook says, voice low. “You’ve driven me crazy.”

“Don’t be gentle,” you challenge. 

He doesn’t need to hear more before he’s crashing his mouth on yours again, with none of the previous softness. It’s rough, claiming, like he wants you to know that you’re his, and that you’ve always been his. He pulls at your bottom lip, sucks on it as he runs a hand down your side and under your shirt, and he brings it up until he cups your breast, searching your nipple through your bra.

He lets out a frustrated sound when he doesn’t manage to find it right away, and he pushes your bra up until it lies over your breasts and his digits finally find the sensitive nipple.

He pinches it, hard enough to earn a pained moan from you, and he moves his head to your neck, lapping at the mark he already put there.

“Tell me to stop anytime and I’ll stop,” he says, voice gravelly and husky and so unlike the softness that clung to him earlier.

It turns you on far more than you thought it would.

“Okay,” you say.

He smirks against your neck, and then he nibbles at your earlobe before kneeling between your legs. “Take off your shirt.”

You nod, sitting up as much as you can. He helps you get rid of the fabric - it’s a college sweater you got last fall - and he throws it to the floor.

Your bra follows soon - you think he’s about to kiss you again when he stills, eyes going wide as he looks at your exposed breasts, and then up at your face.

“You’ve been wearing the necklace?” he asks, and the softness is back in full force, making you think that it might have actually never left.

“I haven’t taken it off once,” you admit with a small, vulnerable voice.

“Fuck…” he trails off. “Fuck, Y/n.”

You wish he’d called you peach, but you think there might be another moment for it, a better moment.

You think this might not be goodbye.

He kisses you again, soft for a few seconds before he claims your mouth again. A few more seconds later he’s moving down your frame, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples while he plays with the other. You moan softly, hands looking for purchase on your bed until you decide better and lose them in his silk-soft hair again.

He circles your nipple with his tongue, flicks it once before sucking, and then moves to the other one, giving it the same treatment. He teases your breasts like that for a little longer, like he’s trying to remember every curve of you, and then he goes even lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your abdomen up until he reaches the band of your pants.

He hooks his thumbs in your pants as if he might try to rip them off your body, but he lets go instead, kneeling between your legs.

“You know,” he lets out, and he palms himself through his pants. “I want to feel you tonight.”

You reach between the two of you as you prop yourself up on an elbow. “I want to feel you too.”

His fingers run up your side, finding your bird tattoo. He traces it lightly, then meets your gaze and says, “You got a new tattoo.”

You nod.

“I love it.”

You don’t have time to say thank you before he’s crashing his lips on yours once more, stealing the words from your mouth. He doesn’t linger there for long - a second later he’s kneeling between your legs again, unbuttoning your pants. He helps you out of the fabric, dropping it on the floor with your sweater. He leaves your panties on - his eyes darken with lust at the wet spot you know already stains the lilac fabric between your legs.

“Shit,” he curses lowly, and he runs a thumb over the wet spot. “You’re so wet.”

You gulp, holding his gaze as you nod once. “Do something about it.”

He smirks, tilting his head to the side. “Oh, don’t worry, I will.”

You watch him as he gets up, taking off the rest of his clothes. Soon, he stands in all his glory, fisting his dick a couple of times as you take in the sight.

“Come here,” Jungkook says, motioning for you to sit on the side of your bed.

Your bed is low enough so that his dick is almost at eye level, and he taps it on your lips as you look up at him.

You know what he wants. Yet you resist, your hands gripping his thighs hard enough for your nails to dig into his skin just a little. He winces, tapping your mouth again, and you feel some of his precum on your lips.

You lick it clean, and then you give a tentative lick to the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Actually, I don’t even think you should-”

You interrupt his sentence by taking his dick in your mouth, sucking hard as you tease it with your tongue. Jungkook moans out a curse, and you don’t give him time to say anything else before you grab the base of his dick so that you can jerk him off in time with the back and forth of your head.

It’s sloppy, drool slipping out of your mouth and dripping from your chin. You don’t care - you use it to jerk him off better, faster, and Jungkook throws his head back, the muscles on his abdomen shifting under his skin.

You cup his balls, massaging them with a light touch as you keep on sucking him, your eyes slowly watering every time he hits the back of your throat. Jungkook just lets you do it, doesn’t take control, and your pussy drips and drips, soaking your panties.

You’re so horny for him, even with all the history between you.

Even though you’re not sure if this is goodbye.

Jungkook suddenly pulls your head back by the hair, hard enough for your scalp to burn. A string of spit still connects his dick to your mouth, and you lick it clean as he looks down on you, breathing heavily.

“Get on all fours,” he orders, and he lets go of your hair so that you can move.

Though you’re usually a brat, you don’t dare disobey right now, so you move until you’re positioned like he asked you to. He slaps your ass, and your skin tingles as he massages the spot, bending down to press a kiss on your spine.

He moves between your legs now, pushing your panties to the side so he can lick a long stripe from your clit to your entrance, dipping his tongue inside once before he straightens.

“Think you can already take me?” he asks, and he rubs his tip on your clit.

You moan unabashedly loudly, hiding your face in a pillow. He keeps rubbing his dick on you, never sliding it in, and you eventually look back towards him.

“Just be slow at first,” you tell him, heart beating out of your chest with all your desire for him.

He massages your ass again. “Don’t think you can take it?” he teases.

You swallow, letting out a breathy sound as he rubs on your clit again. “I just…” you trail off, and you grip the sheets as if that’ll help you concentrate. “I haven’t had sex since April.”

Jungkook freezes behind you, his cock still pressed on you. You meet his gaze and fall in the depths of his eyes.

You’ve always been falling for him anyway.

He bends down, finding your mouth despite the awkwardness of the position. You kiss softly, yet you’re painfully aware of his tip nudging your entrance, yet never sliding in. And though you’re also painfully aware he hasn’t put a condom on yet, you reach behind you, grabbing his dick to hold it in place as you push back, until he’s finally sliding in.

He’s huge. You think he’s even bigger than before, and you moan out his name as he slips in slowly, one inch at a time. You feel every vein, every ridge, his dick spearing you open until you’re full with him, stretched so wide open you see stars.

You both don’t move once he’s fully embedded inside of you, your walls clenching around him by instinct. His breathing is ragged, and he leans his forehead on the side of your face, pecking your cheek once as he gives you time to adjust to the impressive size of him.

“Let’s stay here forever, mmh?” he murmurs.

“Kook…”

“You know,” he whispers softly, and he slowly pulls back only to push back in roughly, his balls slapping on your clit. “I’ve been imagining fucking you raw.” He pulls back, pushes back in. “A whole fucking lot.” Another back and forth of his hips, and he hits so hard you move forward on the bed. “And I gotta admit -” skin slaps against skin - “that the real thing doesn’t compare to my imagination.”

He straightens, and then he starts pounding into you so hard all you can do is hold onto the sheets and moan his name.

He’s right though - you feel him a thousand times more than you’ve ever felt him before, the lack of a condom rendering the act oh so sinful. And though you’re aware it might be a dumb idea, you too just want to feel all of him. To be just one - your bodies linked in the most intimate of ways.

Jungkook pulls out, flipping you on your back. You’re dizzy for half a second, but then you meet his gaze, right as he thrusts forward in one swift motion, impaling you on his cock. You moan as he grunts, his eyebrows bunched together over his eyes in what you know is pleasure. He’s sucking on his piercings, and he looks so hot you just want more of him.

“Harder,” you beg.

He laughs lightly, sounding out of breath. “Fuck.”

But he gives in to your desire, fucking you hard enough so that he’s the only thing you can think of. Your room is filled with the squelching sounds that your pussy makes each time he thrusts forward and with the slapping of his skin against yours; his grunts and your breathy sounds form a melody meant for your ears only, and you feel a knot slowly tightening in your core. Your hands have shifted to his muscular thighs at some point, and your nails dig into his skin, making him hiss.

He leans forward, locking you between his arms as he slows down the rhythm, yet keeps it just as rough. His lips find yours, and you taste the light sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he kisses you languidly, his tongue easily finding yours.

You think the kiss slows time. It slows time until every moment feels like forever, until each of his thrusts last a light year. You feel infinite - you are infinite, as long as he’s with you. It’s a beautiful feeling, one that swells in your chest gently until your heart bursts with warmth for him, with all the feelings you’ve been trying to repress for months.

With all the feelings you’ve been trying to repress since that first time you saw him, running into him outside of the apartment. Since that first time he called you peach - and all the times following that.

You’ve been in love with Jeon Jungkook for a lot longer than you ever wished to admit to yourself, but there’s nothing scary about it. Not when you know he feels the same. And if this is goodbye, if this moment is to be your last, you know it will always be your favourite ending.

Because if the world was ending now, you know you’d die happy.

Jungkook pulls away from the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. Your nails trace idle forms on his back, digging in whenever he thrusts forward, and you’re full of him, oh so full of him.

“I missed you,” he whispers. “I missed you so fucking much.”

The revelation steals your breath, as does the rapid rhythm he establishes next. The new angle feels sinfully good, the weight of his body on yours is entrancing, and the knot that was slowly forming in your core tightens to a breaking point.

“I’m going to come,” you whimper.

“Come for me, peach,” Jungkook urges you on, and you moan, hiding your face in his neck.

You come the second he reaches between you to press circles on your clit. And you come hard, vision flashing white as you let out a broken moan, clinging to Jungkook for dear life. He’s a grunting mess, cursing under his breath.

“That’s it, peach, you’re doing so good,” he praises, and his voice is breathy, whiny, the only indication that he’s about to follow you and climax too.

Your pussy clenches hard around his dick, and Jungkook stills deep inside of you, his dick twitching. But he’s not coming yet, like he’s trying to keep it in.

“Where do you want me to come?” he asks.

Your hands climb up his side, nails scratching him, and then you lose them in his hair again, lightly tugging on the strands. Your orgasm steals your thoughts, your words from your brain, bliss sweeping through you and leaving you on a cloud of ecstasy. “In,” you breathe out.

“I don’t think -” his words are cut off by a soft moan as your walls clench around him, your orgasm not fully done yet. “That’s a good idea,” he finishes.

“I have an IUD,” you remind him, even though it’s hard to form sentences when your mind is swimming in such bliss.

You bite at his neck, lightly, and then suck on the spot. Jungkook doesn’t need more to resume his hard thrusts, and you think you’re insane.

You and him. Both of you have gone insane, and he’s coming a second later as he pushes all the way in, moaning in your ear as you praise him softly. He paints your insides white, shooting spurts and spurts of cum deep inside of you as he clings to you and you cling to him. His climax lasts for a long time, and he’s shaking by the time he’s done.

“Holy fuck,” he lets out, and he chuckles lightly as he pecks your neck.

“Felt good?” you ask, your arms tightening around him.

“Fuck yeah.” He sucks on your neck lazily, earning a breathy sound from you. “You?”

“It always feels good with you, Kook,” you whisper.

He doesn’t reply anything, but he nuzzles his face in your neck, the proximity and the intimacy of the action meaning more than words. You gently caress his back, feeling his muscles shifting under his skin as he takes a deep breath, and then he lifts his head to meet your gaze.

“I think we still need to talk,” he says with a gentle voice. “But thank you for this.”

You swallow a sudden lump in your throat, nodding once. “We do.”

He seems conflicted for a time, like he doesn’t want to move but knows he has to, and you cup his cheek, swiping your thumb over the small scar he has there. It brings a soft smile to his lips, though you aren’t fooled.

It doesn’t meet his eyes.

He sighs, and then he glances at your night table, clearly looking for some tissues. There’s none in sight, and he meets your gaze again.

“Huh…” He chuckles again. “What should we do…” he trails off, his eyes dipping downwards between your two bodies.

“Right,” you let out, and your cheeks burn. “I can try to put my hand?”

He nods. “I’ll go get toilet paper.”

Once you’ve both agreed to the plan, Jungkook slowly pulls out of you. You immediately feel his cum dripping out of you, staining your sheets even though you try to stop the flow with your hand. Jungkook just looks at the sight, the tip of his ears reddening, and then he quickly puts his pants on so that he can go get something to clean you up with.

He comes back a moment later with toilet paper, and he starts cleaning you up, eyes solely focused on the task at hand. His moves are sweet and caring, and your heart feels far too warm for your own good. Indeed, his shoulders are too tense to mean anything good.

Or maybe he’s regretting blowing up in your face earlier. You don’t mind it - you’re glad he was able to get the words out, as they’ve clearly been weighing on him.

Jungkook finishes by wiping your hand as clean as possible with the toilet paper, and then he throws it away in the bin near your desk. He sits back down on the side of your bed, glancing at you as you remain lying down, not truly processing everything that happened yet.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Jungkook asks.

You prop yourself up on your elbows. “What time is it?”

“Ten forty-five.”

Which means you definitely still have plenty of time left before Taehyung and Ariane come home.

“Yes, I’d love to take a shower,” you say, accepting his offer with a soft smile.

He reciprocates it, but it still doesn’t meet his eyes.

Have any of his smiles reached his eyes in the last few months?

The question spins in your head incessantly as you shower, Jungkook next to you. There’s heaviness surrounding him - it’s in the way his motions are slow, subdued, and in the way he doesn’t look you in the eyes, fully. It’s in the lines on his forehead, between his eyes, and the sadness that lingers on his features.

You haven’t been doing too good in the last few months either, but you had your friends. And you realize then and there that Jungkook isolated himself from everyone, some part of him likely always feeling like Taehyung was responsible for your falling out.

You can imagine the resentment he feels towards Taehyung for it, and how difficult it was to remain friends with him.

Jungkook wraps you in a thick towel once you both finally step out of the shower, and you take a moment to dry yourself, enjoying the silence preceding the conversation you know you need to have. Jungkook doesn’t seem to mind it, like he too wants a moment of calm before the storm.

And you know the storm is about to hit hard. It’ll likely break you, throw all remaining pieces of you to the four corners of the Earth.

But you don’t care - the storm can hit as hard as it wants, as long as you’re with Jungkook when it does.

“I can’t believe you’ve been wearing the necklace,” Jungkook whispers.

He was quicker than you - he’s all dry, dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants. He hasn’t put a shirt on, and your eyes travel the planes of his body, heating up your cheeks.

“I haven’t taken it off once,” you admit. “I’ve kept the letter, too.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps. “I was embarrassed about it for a while,” he admits, and his gaze drops to the floor. 

You’re done drying yourself, and you hang the towel behind the door, before facing Jungkook again. He hands his shirt - a white flag waved between the two of you - and the familiarity of the act makes tears pool in your eyes.

You hesitate for a few seconds, but then you grab his shirt, putting it on. It’s just as comfortable as it was months ago when you’d worn it to sleep every night, and you want to reach for Jungkook, to hold him close and never let go.

“Thank you,” you say, words choked by the lump you force down with a swallow. “Why were you embarrassed?” you ask.

Jungkook pulls at his piercings, meeting your gaze for a few seconds. “Because I thought you might text me. I hoped you would, honestly. But you never did.”

Your heart aches, and you have to shut your eyes to prevent it from burning into ashes. “I’m sorry.”

You are. You truly are - you’d just believed then that the letter meant goodbye. That you had to let Jungkook go at all costs, even if it meant shattering your heart and his in the process.

“Ah,” he lets out, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s okay.”

But you know he’s lying. It’s written in every defeated angle of his body, and you want to take all of the months back, to save your relationship before it went up in flames.

He sighs, meeting your gaze. “Do you want to sit in your room to talk?”

You reckon it’s a good idea - you don’t think you want the bathroom to be the scene of this conversation. So you nod your head, and Jungkook reaches for the doorknob, pushing the door open.

Pushing the door open to reveal a wide-eyed Taehyung, who looks between Jungkook and you a couple of times while you just stand there, the shirt you’re wearing way too incriminating.

You watch the storm as it hits in real-time. And it hits harder than you ever imagined it could, Taehyung’s fist colliding with Jungkook’s face before you’ve even truly had time to register that he was about to punch Jungkook.

Jungkook staggers back as you shriek, “Tae!”, but Taehyung’s already readying for his next punch. You immediately pull Jungkook behind you, standing between him and your brother as Taehyung’s cheeks turn red with rage.

“You’re fucking my sister,” Taehyung hisses, and it’s a statement, the dots irreparably connected in his head.

Jungkook touches his cheek, and you look over your shoulder just long enough to see that it tore from the force of the blow, and blood is slowly seeping out.

“I’m not fucking your sister,” Jungkook replies, his voice flat.

Taehyung chuckles bitterly, but you speak before he can, “I’m an adult, Tae, I can fuck whoever I want.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Taehyung drawls. “So you had to fuck my best friend, huh?”

“We’re not fucking,” Jungkook says again, and you slightly frown as you glance at him over your shoulder.

But he isn’t looking at you, eyes fully focused on Taehyung. And then you understand, pain crashing all of your nerves like lightning just struck you.

Jungkook is choosing Taehyung over you.

“Is that why she’s wearing your shirt?” Taehyung asks, and he shakes his hand, the only indication that his knuckles likely hurt from the blow to Jungkook’s face. “You really think I’m fucking stupid or something.”

This time Jungkook remains entirely silent.

“Tae, it started last semester,” you say, scrambling for words to tame the storm before it destroys everything. 

That makes Taehyung laugh, though the sound is scary, dangerous. “Last semester? So I ask you to take care of my sister, and you start fucking her?”

“I was taking care of her,” Jungkook replies in a similar icy tone, putting emphasis on the ‘was’.

Because you are a construct of the past now, aren’t you?

You shudder with the realization, the pain overtaking everything. You barely hear Taehyung as he tells Jungkook to fuck off, that he can’t believe he ever called him his friend. All you feel is your heart as it shatters, all over again. As Jungkook tells Taehyung to calm down, that they can talk it out.

But Taehyung is having none of it, his face mottled with red from his anger.

“Stop!” you scream as they just keep going on and on, and they both surprisingly fall silent. “Fucking stop, will you? Who cares if Jungkook and I slept together?”

You. You do, but you can’t say it.

“Jimin knew,” Taehyung says, voice low. “Jimin knew and you fucking gaslit him.”

“I did what your sister asked of me, and clearly she was right if that’s how you’re reacting,” Jungkook fires back.

“Stop,” you add, though this time it’s more of a beg. “Stop, the two of you.” You face Taehyung, nails digging into your palms as you clench your fists. “I fell in love with Jungkook. I just did, and it happened naturally, and it was reciprocated.” You don’t dare use the present tense. Not when you’re coming to the conclusion that the story truly ended last semester.

What happened tonight doesn’t change that. Because Taehyung is here now, proving every insecurity that you ever had. 

“And yes, we had something, but it ended last semester too,” you add, and you hope you won’t shatter too much of Jungkook when you conclude, “Tonight was a lapse of judgment.”

You feel the cold radiating from Jungkook behind you the second the words are out. You don’t even dare look at him as Taehyung says, “Jungkook, I think you should find somewhere else to stay for a couple of days.”

“Tae, come on,” you let out. “Can we just be adults?”

“Sounds good,” Jungkook replies, ignoring you.

He walks around you, and you try to grab his wrist, but he’s quick to shrug off your touch.

“Jungkook,” you say, tears pricking at your eyes. 

He doesn’t look back on his way to his bedroom, and you follow after him, knocking your shoulder with Taehyung’s on the way.

“Jungkook,” you repeat, and he disappears into his bedroom, though you’re quick to walk in as well. “Jungkook, stop.”

He doesn’t glance your way. Just grabs his school bag from where it was on the floor, and puts it on his bed before heading to the drawer you know houses his underwear and socks. 

“Jungkook, you don’t have to go, you live here,” you add, and a tear slips free, spilling on your cheek.

Now he does spare you a glance, and you watch the silver lining his gaze. But it’s the look in his eyes that silences you, until all you can do is watch him as he packs some clothes. He’s done in no time, and he throws a sweatshirt on before brushing past you to head to the front door, next to which Taehyung is still standing.

“Jungkook,” you let out, and it sounds more like a sob than anything else.

It’s the sound of breaking hearts, something you and Jungkook have grown far too familiar with.

He grabs his keys from the table by the door, puts his shoes on quickly, head hanging low like he doesn’t want Taehyung to see the tears on his cheeks. But you see them - you know them. 

You’re the reason behind them after all.

Jungkook finishes putting his shoes on, and he lays a hand on the doorknob, yet he hesitates before turning. Long enough for you to try again, “Jungkook, please.”

He meets your gaze, and his eyes clear of the tears as he blinks a few times. “I’ll see you around,” he says in a whisper, and you know it for the lie that it is.

He’s not planning to ever see you again, is he?

Prev | Chapter 14.5 | Next

☆☆☆☆☆

I promise the angst is nearing its end :') I hope you guys liked this chapter! Let me know what you think!:)

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[cressidagrey]

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 7

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings: 

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Magical Help with Dyslexia, Rhys is a good big brother, Azriel finally is less of an idiot and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

"I am supposed to...read all of these?" Eira asked Rhys with a grimace. He had dropped a stack of books in front of her at breakfast the next day...after Azriel and she had...come to an understanding of sorts. After…

She didn’t want to think of it. Not right now. She needed something else…something to take her mind off it. Of all of it.  

And Rhys sufficed.

Rhys chuckled, his shoulders shaking with silent amused laughter.

“It's just three books,” he replied with a wide smile. “Magical Primers of sorts. They’ll help you understand how magic works. I recommend starting with the one at the bottom of the pile. That’ll probably be the easiest to digest.”

“How long do I have?” She asked weakly. 

“You’ve got a week,” Rhys said, and the horror dawned on her face. A week. She could never read that in a week. Maybe one book. Maybe if she did nothing else and didn't sleep. Maybe then. "Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice growing gentle. "I know it probably is....overwhelming...."

"I can't read that." Eira blurted out.

"You can't read these books or you can't read at all?" Rhys asked her, no judgement in his voice.

"I can read," she assured him weakly. "I just..." she hesitated. "Promise not to laugh?" she asked him, her voice trembling.

The look on Rhys’ face became instantly serious, the gentle look in his gaze became even more gentle as he took in her expression. "Of course I promise," he assured her, and his voice was so sincere, it almost made her feel like crying.

"The letters change positions," she admitted, her voice tiny.  "I know it sounds insane, but I swear it's what happens."

Rhys was silent, his expression thoughtful. He didn't call out her insanity or brush her off or call her a liar. He just nodded and asked calmly, "What, exactly, do you mean by that? How exactly do they change positions?"

Her shoulders drew up to her ears, her chin drooping in shame. "They...when I'm looking at a word, the letters move around. Switch places. So that the word I'm looking at isn't always the word I'm reading," she explained.

His expression was still calm, like he wasn't shocked or disgusted or horrified by her admission. But a strange look had come to his face, like something she had just said had...clicked in his mind, like he had just figured something out.

"Have you always had this issue with letters?" he asked quietly.

She bit her lip, her face going red with humiliation. "Yes," she admitted quietly. "It first started happening when I learned to read...some of the letters changed around, and I started saying other words, the wrong words. I...Our Grandmother wasn't...she  yelled at me for 'not paying attention'..." Though that was the least she had done. She nearly flinched when she remembered the ruler to the top of her hands.

A muscle ticked in Rhysand's jaw, and for a moment, Eira swore she saw the hint of anger flare on his face. "How old were you?" he asked, almost growling out the words.

"Four," she said quietly, and for a moment, she could have sworn she saw a flash of fury on his face. But it was gone so quickly, she couldn’t be sure.

"So your grandmother punished you for this?" he asked, his voice almost too calm. Like he was holding in some very strong emotions

"Yes," she admitted quietly. "She...she would yell at me and hit me with a ruler. On the fingers." She could still feel that stinging pain, the white-hot sharpness of it. How it had felt when…

"And your parents knew about this?" he asked, his voice low and careful. Like he was trying desperately to keep from letting whatever anger or fury he was feeling slip out.

"No, I...I didn't tell them," Eira confessed. "I was afraid they'd be angry at me for being stupid, because I kept getting words wrong and couldn't read right....and I was afraid Grandmama would get really angry...and I was afraid that I deserved it. Because I can't read like I should."

Rhys was quiet for a long moment, his eyes staring off into space. His hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. The muscles in his jaw were jumping, like he was trying very hard to keep in the anger that was burning under his skin.

"The letters...the letters that keep changing places...that's a common learning disability, Eira," he finally said quietly. "It's...if you had been born Fae, it would have been caught when you began your lessons and it would have been managed."

Eira’s head jerked up, a small, almost desperate hope flaring in her chest. "Y-you mean...that’s normal? You…you’ve seen others with that issue before?"

Rhys nodded, and there was a grim anger in his eyes as he said, "Yes. And there are ways to help with it, spells to manage it...and it never, never involves a child being yelled at and hit with a ruler."

Something tightened in her throat, and her eyes were suddenly hot. But she fought back the tears...she was not going to cry about this. She would not cry.

Rhys took a deep breath, his hands unfurling from the tight fists he had clenched them into.

He took one of the book, opened it and then did a complicated-looking hand movement over it. He handed it to her. She blinked.

The letters were...different. The script was different. The script was so crystal clear, the lines further apart...for the first time in her life it didn't feel like trying to swim upstream as she read the first few lines. It felt...nearly easy.

"There are different ways to transfigure the spell...different fonts, different colours...spacing. If this doesn't work, we'll try another one."

A shuddering breath left her, and the tears that she had been trying to hold back spilt down her cheeks. In only a few moments, he had done what her entire life of trying and struggling and praying to make sense of the words hadn't, making the script so clear like it was just suddenly easy when it had never been easy in her life.

"Thank you," she whispered to him, her hands trembling slightly as she held the book. "Thank you." She didn't know how else to say it, because it felt like he had given her something priceless...something she had always longed for, something so wonderful, that she didn't even have words for it, had no way of describing the depth of gratitude she felt. And Rhys’s gaze was so gentle as he looked at her.

"I’m just sorry that you've had to go your whole life without that," he murmured gently to her. "No one should struggle that much for something that should come so easily."

And it was that easy suddenly. 

The practical part of learning to control her magic…well that was another thing entirely. They were out in the garden, mostly because Eira was terrified of the idea of burning down the house. 

Rhys sat across from her, not looking worried in the slightest. "It's your magic. There is no need to be afraid," he told her seriously. "Don't be afraid. It will bend to your will. It will do what you want it to do."

She swallowed hard, trying to believe him. He was right....but it was so hard. She was so used to thinking of her magic as wild and uncontrollable, and the thought of letting loose the power that coursed through her veins, of letting it loose into the world...scared her.

"It killed four men," she disagreed quietly. "it burned down trees."

Rhys gently took her hand, his large calloused fingers wrapping around her smaller, paler ones. "I know," he murmured to her. "It did. But those men were trying to harm you, little one. That's why your magic acted as it did, because it was protecting you, because you were in danger. I’m here with you now, I’m not going anywhere. You won't hurt me. You have control. You have control."

Something tightened her chest, his words echoing through her like a soothing balm. He was right. She could control this, if she tried.

She exhaled slowly, breathing out the fear and doubt that was trying to wrap around her heart and soul. "I...I can do this."

A smile curved his lips, his fingers squeezing hers reassuringly. "Yes, you can," he told her, and let go of her hand. "Now, start simple. Don’t focus on anything specific. Just...let your magic flow."

She let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes and reaching for her magic. It was like a roaring flame under her skin, just waiting, aching to be let loose.

She let it flow, let the heat of it fill her, let it course through her veins.

She could feel it. Could feel it spark over her skin. Could...

Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw the tendrils of her magic swirling around her hands. Little sparks snapped along her fingertips, and she had to fight to keep the magic contained.

"Very good," Rhys praised her. "You are doing well." She wet her lips, carefully pulling and pushing...concentrating her magic on her hands. It reacted nearly...rushing. Like it wanted to please her. Like it wanted to help her.

It was nearly like it was alive, like a living thing under her skin...like it wanted to please her. Like it was aching, desperate, to be used, to be commanded. It took a moment to get used to the feel of it, like this wild, feral thing that obeyed her commands, that rushed to her skin at her merest whim.

The lightning crackled between her open hands...and then she pushed it away.

When she pushed, it went. Slid back. Coiled back under her skin, a roiling heat that still burned under her skin, but obeyed her command. It obeyed her. That thought sent a shock through her, that this fearsome, powerful force that had killed 4 faes...it obeyed her. It listened to her.

A quiet, ragged gasp left her, her breath leaving her in a whoosh.

Rhys grinned at her, pride and pleasure gleaming in his eyes. “Very good,” he praised her voice, and his hand squeezed her own. “That was very well done.”

Eira’s hands were trembling violently, her breath shuddering out of her mouth as the adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had done it. She had let loose that fearsome power, and she hadn't hurt anything, hadn't destroyed, hadn't killed. She had controlled it. She had controlled it.

"I didn't hurt you?"

Rhys just smiled at her, lifting a hand and gently running his fingers through her hair. "No," he assured her, his voice gentle. "You did very well. I knew you could do it."

A shuddering sigh left her, and even though she was shaking violently with the adrenaline, her heart was lighter than it had been in days. Because it had worked, she had done it, and she hadn't hurt him.

"The more you do it, the easier it will be," Rhys promised her. "Maybe you'll be able to light a candle with it even."

A small smile tugged at the edges of her lips, and she let out a watery laugh. "A candle?" she repeated, the words sounding almost absurd. The magic she had could burn down a forest. And he was talking about lighting a candle.

A chuckle left his lips, and he leaned over to press a comforting kiss to the top of her head. “Maybe in a few days,” he told her, and warmth blossomed in her chest. “When you get a bit more used to it. But you did well, Eira. You did verywell.”

She had never expected her lessons to be this… undramatic. She'd half-expected sparks, explosions, destruction.

What she hadn't expected was to feel something almost like peace once her magic was unleashed, like it was settling instead of trying to break free.

It was a strange, but almost comforting sensation. Like something had suddenly clicked inside of her, like a piece of her soul that she hadn't even known was missing had finally settled.

At least one thing in her life was…easy.

It was a novelty, she'd admit. To have something in her life that didn't feel like an endless struggle to understand, that didn't feel like everything was stacked against her.

She'd never had anything in her life that was effortless, that came easy to her. Something that made her feel...like she was good at it...like she was talented.

“There is something else that I wanted to talk to you about,” Rhys said quietly. “We received the formal invitation for Elain’s wedding.”

The mention of her sister's name made her blood go cold, and the little bubble of peace inside of her popped like a balloon, leaving her with nothing but a hollow, aching emptiness.

"Oh," she mumbled the word, the sound falling from her lips like a dead thing.

“If you don’t want to attend…neither of us will say a single thing against it,” Rhys said quietly.

The thought of going to this wedding, of seeing her sister walk down the isle, dressed all in white, her hair all done up, with a smile on her face...it was like someone had reached into her chest, wrapped their hands around her heart, and squeezed.

She had never imagined missing Elain’s wedding. But she wanted more than anything to stay far, far away from that stupid, awful event.

She never wanted to see her twin sister again. What did that say about her?

But even as she thought that, even as angry as she was...a part of her still loved her twin sister. A part of her still wanted to reconcile. And that thought made her chest ache with how badly she missed her, with how much she longed to just reach out and fix everything, to go back to how things had been before her sister had said those horrible, awful words to her.

Before she had tried to take her future from Eira. Her baby.

It was such a bitter thought, something that made her chest throb with remembered pain. Elain knew how much she had wanted a baby, how much she had dreamed of holding her own child in her arms...knew how desperately hopeful Eira had been.

And Elain had tried to take that from her.

“Eira,” Rhys said carefully, a look at her hands and she saw the lightning sparking at her fingertips. She willed it away. It disappeared.

She swallowed hard, her hands shaking as she clenched them tightly together, willing the sparks to quell. But the anger, the pain, they burned in her chest, like a flame inside of her, and she couldn't keep the words from coming out, from tumbling past her lips in a rush."All my life, all I ever wanted was to be a mother," she managed to force out, her voice shaking with unshed tears and pain. "All I ever wanted--all I longed for ...was to be a mother, and she, she..."

Her breath came out in a shuddering gasp, and she took a few deep breaths before saying, "She tried to take that from me. I...I would have had that baby by now, Rhys...I would have. And she was just going to...she wanted to take that from me."

“I know,” Rhys said softly. “I know.”

She closed her eyes tightly and took a few deep, shuddering breaths, fighting back the burning pain in her chest, the hot tears that were pricking at her eyes.

"Why would she do that?” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. “Why...why would she want to take them from me...?"

Take her babies…and take Azriel too. Because that’s what it felt like. 

Elain had wrapped him around her little finger so that Eira didn’t even have a chance.

“Jealousy,” Rhys answered with a sigh. “Her mind was a wasteland of jealousy, Eira. She was so used to having every male fall all over himself for her…and suddenly there was this vision that showed her twin sister with a male she herself found handsome. And Elain couldn’t have him…nobody could.”

It was an answer she had almost expected, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. It didn’t make the pain any less real.

"She's my sister," Eira whispered. "How...how could she be so selfish? So cruel?"

And it hurt, it burned to even think, to wonder how her sister could have done that to her, had been willing to do that to her.

"I've miss her so much," Eira mumbled, the words like broken blades in her chest. "Every day, I miss her more than I can even put into words ...but how could I ever face her, after what she did...? How could I?"

It was like a storm in her chest, the pain and uncertainty, anger and anguish warring inside of her, and she fought to hold it all in, to keep it behind locked doors inside of her. So much anger...and it was warring with her grief. The two were at odds, at war inside her heart.

“Azriel said that he would come along if you wanted to go,” Rhys said quietly. “We would be there to…you wouldn’t need to face her alone. I am sure Cassian would even borrow you a sword if you wanted one.”

The thought of walking into that wedding, of being on display with the rest of her family...it sent a cold shudder through her. But if her friends were with her, if they were there...maybe she could do it.

Maybe she could go, just this once. Not to celebrate her sister, but to mourn her. Mourn the sister who had been, even if she was gone.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I think I….maybe I’d like that.”

She swallowed hard and looked up to meet Rhys’ eyes. “If I was to attend...if I was to go to the wedding...would you and Azriel be there with me?”

Rhys nodded immediately, his jaw clenching, a hardness in his eyes. "Of course," he assured her, his voice firm and brooking no discussion.

"Azriel will be there, and I'll be there, and Cassian will be there and your sisters damn well better be there too."

She swallowed hard, her heart beating a little bit faster at his words. The thought of walking into that wedding, knowing all eyes would be on her...but Rhys would be there. Azriel would be there. Nesta and Feyre.

Maybe she could do it. Maybe she could.

Even if she wasn’t quite sure that Azriel at Elaine’s wedding was a good idea.

But she pushed that jealousy down. She couldn't...she couldn't...she couldn't keep bringing that up. There must be a day someday in the future where she forgave him for...that. Where she was willing to move on.

She drew in a slow breath, but she couldn't keep the words inside of her. "How...how is Azriel doing?" she asked, her words quiet. "With...Elain, and the wedding...?"

Rhys stared at her. "Eira, I can honestly say, that I don't think that has even crossed his mind," he said quietly.

Her chest went a bit warm at that, at that knowledge. At the thought that Azriel was...fine. That Azriel didn’t...care about Elain's wedding in the slightest.

But a small part of her, a part of her that almost frightened her, couldn't help but wonder....

"It hasn't?" she repeated, and she cursed the thread of hope in her voice.

Rhys studied her for a second or two, as if he, too, could hear the hope in her voice, the need. “No,” he said simply. “It seems that all my spymaster cares about is Elain's twin sister."

***

Azriel should probably consider himself lucky that Nesta hadn't used Ataraxia to cut his throat. Granted, as she had said, the only reason why she didn't was because Eira would be upset if he died.

No, he supposed that was a pretty good reason not to kill him. "And if you ever treat my sister like that again, I'll wring your neck," Nesta hissed.

He didn't doubt that she would.

"Noted," he said, and he was pretty sure he heard Cassian snicker behind them

But what he didn't add was the fact that, if he had that horrible conversation with Eira again, he'd wring himself by the neck. For being such an idiot, such a stupid bastard.

If he ever saw her cry like she had, shake like a leaf because he had broken her heart, shattered it. 

"What are you going to do now?" Cassian asked him. "Anything new on your...wall?"

Ah, the wall.

The wall of doom, as the others had taken to calling it. Or more accurately, 'Azriel's obsessive chart of Eira's life'. 

He had taken the whole thing down. And then put it back up. Put it back up with everything else the shadows could tell him. 

"No," he said. How did he go forward with Eira? How did he...do this? How did he mend things, make things better? He was a Shadowsinger, a spymaster, a warrior and a killer. He had absolutely no idea how to deal with something like this.

"I would suggest you actually try to talk to her this time," Nesta said frostily. "And you owe her an apology as well, Cassian," she hissed.

Cassian let out a long sigh. "Alright," he said, before raising his hands in supplication at the look on Nesta's face. "Alright, I'll talk to her. Jeez, I said I would."

Azriel just suppressed a smile. He had a feeling Cassian had learned to tread very carefully around his mate, not wanting to spark a war between himself and the very, very scary Lady Death of the Night Court.

"That's usually my speciality though," he drawled. "Saying idiotic things. I think it's actually one of my gifts, really."

"Yeah, you've already displayed that gift for Eira, and it was quite a wonderful performance," she said dryly. "Perhaps you could try to make it up to her, hmm?"

"I'll...do my best," he mumbled, and he would, damnit. He would do his absolute best to make this right.

“So where are you going to take her next?” Cassian asked. “I would suggest somewhere you could actually talk to her.”

He'd thought a lot about it, for longer than he really should admit, and he had a few ideas.

"I was actually...thinking of a picnic," he confessed.

"A picnic?" Cassian asked, his voice almost disbelieving. "You and a picnic. Those two words...I never thought I'd hear them in the same sentence, Az."

Azriel just scowled. "What's wrong with a picnic?" he asked, his voice a bit defensive.

"Picnics are for romance," Cassian said, his voice almost gleeful with how teasing it was. "You're going to have a romantic picnic? Is there going to be wine, and roses, and candlelight?"

Azriel felt his heart skip a beat at that...and he had to admit, some of those things actually sounded rather nice...but that didn't mean he was going to admit that.

"Eira doesn't drink wine," Nesta said drily..

Azriel nearly cursed, but caught himself. Right, Eira didn't drink. At all.

Damnit. There went the wine.

"No wine, then," Azriel grumbled. "No wine, but it's still going to be a very romantic picnic, trust me."

"And where do you want to have your very romantic picnic?" Cassian drawled.

"I thought the River Bank at the House," Azriel admitted. She would be comfortable there...If she wanted to get away from him...she easily could.

Cassian actually looked a bit surprised at that. "Huh," he said, sounding a bit impressed against his will. "Didn't think of that. She'll...feel safe there. Plus, there are a few beautiful spots there..."

He swallowed back a bit of the anxiety that he felt. "So...you're saying it's a not completely idiotic idea?"

"It's...definitely a good idea," Cassian conceded. "As long as you actually talk to her this time.  “

"What are you thinking for food?" Nesta asked him pointedly.

She was asking him that question as if he actually knew how to cook anything other than a piece of meat over the fire. He was a court-trained, highly skilled warrior, a Carynthian. He could fight, intimidate, and kill. Asking him to cook? That was a completely different thing…

“I’ll have the shadows pick up some things from a restaurant in the city…that way it will actually be edible,” he answered. 

"I feel like that's probably a very good idea," Cassian said, and Azriel could hear the poorly concealed laughter in his voice.

"Shut up," he growled, but there wasn't enough actual heat in his words. 

“She likes raspberries,” Nesta told him graciously. “She once nearly made herself sick by eating so many of them…If you can get any, she will be delighted,” she promised him. 

Raspberries. He could do raspberries. 

The shadows procured raspberry tarts. He also had them pass Eira a note, asking for her company that evening, receiving her agreement quickly. 

She was giving him a chance. 

Which was how he ended up in the River House with a Picnic Basket, a blanket and a dream.

He chose a place on the bank of the river, a place that was secluded and quiet. A place where he could show Eira that he hadn’t come here to ambush or intimidate her, but to talk to her, to listen.

And then he found her. Waiting for him on the back porch, a book in her hand. 

She hadn't heard him yet, hadn't even noticed him.

He paused, for a moment, taking her in like this.

Beautiful. Even when she was just sitting there, reading and unaware that he was there, she was so damn beautiful that it made him ache inside.

Azriel found his heart catching at the sight of her, the sunlight dappling down through the trees, and the look of near serenity on her face as she read.

He almost didn’t want to disturb her, wanted to just let her remain there as she was, but he pushed down the urge and slowly stepped towards her.

"Eira?" he asked quietly, and it was almost a crime how lovely she looked in the sunlight as she lifted her head from her book, her blue eyes widening in surprise to the sight of him.

"Azriel," she said, her voice soft, and something in his heart twisted as he saw her hands tighten almost imperceptibly on the cover of her book. He swallowed hard, his heart clenching tight at the sight of it.

"I, um," he mumbled, forcing the words from his stupid, clumsy tongue. "I..." He swallowed hard, "I...brought a few things," he finished lamely, setting the picnic basket down at the foot of the porch.

"A picnic," she said, and he could hear the almost faint wonder in her voice. He dared to look up towards her, and saw her watching him, her eyes slightly wide, her lips parted.

"Yes," he said quietly, forcing words past the lump in his throat. "A...picnic," he repeated. "I, um...I thought...If you were willing…"

She was watching him, her blue eyes wide with surprise, the sunlight dappling down across her head, making parts of her braid gleam in gold.

He swallowed once more, his heart clenching in his chest. "I...I wanted to talk to you," he finally managed to confess. "If that’s...if that’s okay."

There was a moment of silence, and he felt like he was going to choke as he watched the different emotions flicker across her eyes.

Surprise, trepidation, hope, and more surprise...and there was a hint of vulnerability in her eyes, as if his words made her scared. Terrified. And he couldn’t blame her, really, not when he had royally messed up last time.

But she slowly nodded, her lips barely curving in the ghost of a smile. “Y—yes,” she said quietly. “I’d like that. Talking, I mean.”

"WIll you come with me?" he asked her, holding out his hand and her smile widened.

He caught a flash of something in her eyes before she slowly stood up, setting her book aside and lifting her own hand to meet his.

He fought the urge to let out a long sigh of relief or to clutch her hand too tightly as she slowly stepped down off the porch, and he gently led her over to the blanket that he had already laid out by the river.

He let go of her hand and watched as she slowly sat down on the blanket, tucking her legs underneath her. Her blue skirts puddled around her and he wondered how she managed to look elegantly while doing it. He stayed standing for a moment, just watching her, taking in the sight of her sitting there on the blanket that he had laid out for her.

Slowly, he also sank down into a sitting position, careful to keep some space between them. He didn’t want to...to startle her, overwhelm her, make her run.

He busied herself with unpacking the food.  

"I love a picnic," Eira said quietly. "When we were still at the cottage, sometimes we ate outside just for a change of scenery. Don't get me wrong, it was...the winters were horrible. But not everything was," Eira whispered. "When we were glamoured...I missed it sometimes. I didn't know what to do with my time when we had staff again. When I didn't need cook, didn't need to harvest vegetables and we could just buy them..."

He had to swallow at that confession. He hadn’t...he hadn’t even realized that she would miss those days, even though of course she would. She’d had...had a life at that cottage, a family, a home.

Even when they had struggled…she still had those things. 

"What do you miss the most?" he asked her curiously, handing her a plate and cutlery, and she thanked him with a smile. 

She went quiet for a moment as she thought about that question, her head tilting faintly to the side before she spoke again.

“I think…” she began, her voice a mere murmur. “I think I miss the animals the most. We were at the edge of a forest...you could see deers sometimes...sometimes stray cats...I loved the stray cats. There was this one...it was ancient. Only had half a tail," she recounted with a laugh. "It used to come visit me when I was gardening...Sun itself in a spot and keep me company, listen to me singing...let me pet it however much I wanted."

He could almost picture that image. Could picture her, singing a soft, quiet song, as a cat sat in a patch of sunlight, enjoying her music.

He found himself wondering...he found himself wondering what other secrets Eira was hiding. How many more things he didn’t know about her. How many things he had never realized, never even thought about before...

"Do you actually enjoy gardening?" he asked her, unable to help himself.

She blinked at that question, looking...surprised he had asked. Then she nodded, a small smile on her lips. "Yes," she confessed. "It was a part of my chores, a part of survival, but I enjoyed it. It was..." She paused as if she almost wasn’t sure how to explain herself. "It was soothing," she confessed quietly. "Gardening...it keeps my hands preoccupied. Busy. And you get a result at the end of it... It...it was good."

"I couldn't hunt...I have absolutely no talent for that...so when Feyre started hunting...I made sure that she didn't need to worry about anything else," she explained.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat as she explained more about how their lives had been at the cottage, at how they had divided their tasks and...how they had survived.

How she had kept Feyre from having even more weight on her shoulders. Had taken that weight onto her own.

He wanted to ask her, wanted to ask her if it had been hard. If the weight of surviving had been too heavy for her.

But he...he didn’t want to push her. Didn’t want to bring up unpleasant memories, not when they finally had a chance to talk to each other.

"And you?" she suddenly asked, jolting him from his thoughts.

"You...you train and fight," she said quietly. “Is...is that soothing for you? Can you just...turn off your brain that way?"

It was a quiet, direct question, and it sent a shard of a shiver down his spine.

He wanted to lie to her about it. Wanted to say that yes, hunting and killing creatures and people was soothing, that he could turn off all of his mind and become the living, breathing blade that he was.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie to her. He found his throat bobbing as he swallowed once more, trying to find the right words to explain himself that wasn’t just excuses.

"Not always," he confessed quietly. "There are nights...there are nights when I can sleep, when I can just let go. When the killing is necessary to keep the people I care about safe," he said.

He was about to go on when his throat was dry, and he had to swallow hard before continuing. "But...there are nights when I can’t," he continued, his voice a painful whisper. "There are nights when the killing is not necessary, and I can’t…I can’t just forget after it."

It was the most open he had ever been with anyone, including his brothers, about the truth of what was inside him.

But with Eira...he wanted to be open. Wanted to be honest. He wanted her to finally know how broken he was, how damaged he was, and see if she would still look at him with those beautiful, wide blue eyes of her and not turn away.

To his surprise, she didn’t. Instead, she...she slowly nodded, that quiet understanding in her gaze.

The expression in her eyes...she understood. She understood how broken he was. How he was nothing more than a weapon. A killing machine in the shape of a male. She understood that brokenness and she wasn’t running.

“You should have a hobby,” she said finally, and there was a soft, teasing lilt in her voice. Surprising him. He expected hesitation, coldness maybe…but she was clearly serious about giving him a chance. 

“A hobby,” she repeated, her voice still so very teasing. “Something to help you wind down, to relax, and to...to keep your mind occupied. Instead of just going to the training rings all the time like Cassian always says you do. It's why I garden, why I sew...why I embroider," she answered honestly. "It calms me. Feyre paints...I do that." He nodded, feeling the lump in his throat growing even larger. 

She sewed and embroidered and gardened. And she did them all to try and calm her mind and heart, to distract herself even a little from how broken the world really was, to try and make something beautiful.

"I like listening to music," he said quietly.

"Like the symphony," Eira recounted and he nodded.

Which reminded him of the harp he had given her...

"I am sorry about the harp," he blurted out.

"Why?" Eira asked him, shock evident on her face. "Why would you be sorry about..."

"I didn't even think about that fact that giving you the same thing that you lost to keep your family from starving was maybe not...the kindest thing to do."

Eira froze for a moment, something like shock flickering across her face before she let out a quiet, somewhat shaky laugh, and he felt a cold ball of fear form in his stomach. She was…she was upset. Surely she had to be upset. But her voice was level and soft when she spoke.

“You really think that it…that it bothers me?” she asked, incredulity in her voice. “That I care that you gave me the same instrument that I had to sell?”

He opened his mouth, ready to tell her that yes, that was exactly what he thought, and that he had hurt her, but she cut him off.

“Azriel,” she said quietly, and the way she said it, the way his name rolled over her tongue, was like a gentle caress. His thoughts stuttered to a halt and he stared at her.

“I…I didn't think twice about that,” Eira confessed quietly. “I am so happy about the harp. About the fact that you gave it to me, and the fact that I can play again, do something that I loved...”

That confession...it was shattering him. He had worried over that harp, over the fact that he had probably reminded her of the worst parts of her life without even realizing it, but here she was, telling him that it hadn't even crossed her mind.

“I…" Azriel swallowed hard, his throat painfully tight, but he forced himself to speak anyway. "Then…you’re not…you’re not upset with me about it?" he asked again, his heart clenching in hope, in terror, in prayer, and she simply shook her head, her eyes still filled with that quiet wonder.

“No,” she murmured to him, her voice so soft and gentle. “No, I am not. How could I be? How could I be upset about the fact that you gave me something that I love, when you did it out of kindness, out of some attempt to make me happy?”

"I went about it wrong," he said quietly. "I should have...I should have actually talked to you. Asked you what you wanted...what you liked to do."

"We can talk. I like talking to you like this," Eira admitted quietly. "Getting to know you...I..."

He felt something in his heart tug at her admission, at her quiet confession. She…she liked talking to him. She wanted to get to know him better, to have him get to know her better.

He couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips as he nodded, hope swelling in his chest.

He felt something in his heart tug at her admission, at her quiet confession. She…she liked talking to him. She wanted to get to know him better, to have him get to know her better.

"I wrote a list of questions," he admitted and she started laughing.

"Is that how the spymaster gets information?" she teased him.

He groaned in embarrassment, feeling the back of his neck starting to flush hotly as she just kept laughing. “Hush,” he muttered, his voice almost pleading. “Please, just hush."

Her laughter was like music, that was all there was to it. It sent something warm and golden through his heart, made him almost dizzy with how lovely it was, and he found himself wanting to hear more of it.

To hear her laugh just like that all the time, for the rest of his life...that would be Heaven.

"What's your favourite colour?" he asked her, and the amusement glinted in her eyes.

“Blue,” Eira answered, honestly, a blush rising on her cheeks. 

Blue.

He hadn’t known that. 

"And yours?" she asked him.

For just a moment he came up empty. What was his favourite colour? Black? "Blue," he answered, honestly. Blue. Blue because it meant coming home. The colour of the sky...of his siphons...of Eira's eyes.

"Favourite Food?" he asked her, clearing his throat.

She had to bite down on her lower lip before answering, trying and failing to keep her amusement from overwhelming her completely. “Favourite food?” she echoed faintly. “You really…a question like that is on your list?”

To his mortification, he was blushing now. He had made that list, trying to come up with as many possible good questions as he could think of. And of course, he had also put some of the stupidest and most mundane questions he could think of on that list as well.

"It is,” he muttered awkwardly, and she outright laughed again, burying her face in her hands this time, but it was a fond sort of laughter. Like she thought the question was ridiculous but was amused and charmed by his effort anyway.

"I want to know you," he admitted quietly.

Her laughter stopped, like she’d suddenly been stunned into silence. She slowly pulled her hands down from her face, that blush on her cheeks still there as she met his eyes.

“I…you do?” she whispered in surprise, and there was a trace of…something in her voice. Hope, perhaps. A hope that he meant what he said.

“Yes,” he answered her quietly, the word coming out in a strangled whisper as a wave of heat washed through him. He meant it. He meant it more than anything.

"Mine is this Illyrian candy that involves nuts and honey," he admitted. "It's so sweet that your teeth get stuck together."

Her eyes widened at that, and her lips parted in surprise. He could practically see her trying to imagine just how sweet those nuts and honey had to be, to make your teeth stick together.

Then she let out a soft laugh, the sound like music to his ears. “Oh goodness,” she muttered. “That sounds like…that sounds like something that tastes amazing and gives you a stomach ache at the same time.”

“It is,” he confessed, and he found himself smiling as he did so. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten…and it makes me feel sick to my stomach if I eat too much of it.”

"Raspberries for me," Eira admitted to him. "I once nearly got myself sick with eating so many of them too."

"Look in the basket," he told her.

She squealed. Squealed as she saw the tarts, her eyes widening in surprise before a look like ecstasy washed over her face. His heart stopped in that moment, his breath catching in his throat as this beautiful female made such an adorable sound over pastries that he had brought, for her.

The shock and surprise on her face lasted for only a moment, before being replaced with absolute and childish joy, and he found a strangled chuckle tearing from his throat.

She’d…she’d squealed. Squealed and made an expression like a happy child on Solstice morning at the sight of raspberry tarts. All at something he had brought.

"How?!" she demanded.

He found himself grinning at her excitement, that childish reaction to seeing a gift in a basket. “I have my ways,” he told her with a hint of smugness in his voice, but he felt a strange rush of pride at the fact that he’d managed to surprise her like this. At the fact that he had given her something that would make her reaction so…adorable.

“In this case, the way was your sister.”

She laughed at that, the sound bright and happy.

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part i

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: later chapters get smutty. reader has some physical description: mentions of her having very curly hair and a more curvy body.

content warnings: a royal affair between queen reader and guard jisung. the king is a violently abusive man. this chapter contains a scene of physical violence and attempted sexual assault against the reader who later has a panicked reaction. reader also believes sex is not pleasurable (but learns different to say the least).

please proceed at your own discretion.

chapter word count: 5100 words.

-

There is no groom at your wedding.  Your betrothed is too hungover to attend the ceremony.

You are disappointed but not surprised.  Last night, your father hosted a welcome banquet but your husband-to-be ignored the lavish festivities in favour of drinking himself into a stupor.  It did not matter that banners were hung in the great hall, that a feast was prepared, that the palace glittered in anticipation of his arrival.  It did not matter that you were a vision, resplendent in ivory and pearl, prepared and perfected just for him. 

The house, the money, the bride.  It did not matter at all.     

Such insult would not have been tolerated in any other man, but he is not just another man.  He is a king.  Only the heavens can issue him orders, just as he commands common blood like yours. 

The king holds nothing but disdain for your union and last night it moved like a poisonous mist through your home.  There was nothing you could do.  You sat and watched your royal betrothed make a crude mockery of your arranged marriage.  He travelled to your lands with a contingency of courtiers and they filled your house with his contempt.    

They all detest you.  Your family is wealthy but your father’s land sits at the border.  Many at court consider you foreigners in all but paperwork. 

Regardless of that status, your family owns the most prosperous land in the kingdom – a kingdom with coffers long since drained from an overseas war that reaped nothing but blood. 

This arrangement will save the kingdom and your betrothed knows that, but he is not happy to marry for money when his bloodline is better.  He spent the night belittling your family name, sneering at you, and pawing at the servant girls between drinks.   

The king drank.  The courtiers laughed. 

Only one group extended any civility towards you at all. 

“His Majesty sends his regards,” the leader of that group speaks to you now. 

He is in black robes, a sword at his hip.  He is the leader of the holy kingsguard, an ancient order sworn to defend heaven’s earthly sovereign.  There is nothing holy about the degenerate king, but his kingsguard is an ordained ministry nonetheless.  They surrender all earthly goods and fortunes, devoting themselves to service and soldiership.  That includes a vow of total chastity, so they are the only men permitted to perceive the future queen prior to the ceremony. 

What little remains of the ceremony.   

The soldier – Chan, you recall – informs you the ceremony will now be conducted by proxy.  The king is bedridden today, but the wedding cannot be delayed as he is needed back at court and the return journey is long. 

Chan is polite and respectful.  He does not mention that the marriage cannot be delayed because the king wants money now.  You are certain your betrothed’s condemnation of his otherwise worthless bride was rather more unkind.   

You remember the cold eyes of his courtiers, his even crueler sneer, and you blink back tears.    

“I understand,” you say.  You are practiced at maintaining grace in the greatest adversity.  “Thank you, soldier.” 

Chan wears a pitying expression.  It looks like he wants to say more but he knows his place.  The kingsguard is the strictest order in the kingdom.  Only the most devout are granted the black cloth and silver sword. 

“Your Majesty,” he says with a bow. 

You are not a majesty yet.  You have weddings vows to swear to a stranger first.

Until then, you are just another woman.

-

You made the wedding dress yourself.  You have always enjoyed the craft of needlework, even where certain jobs could be passed along to a seamstress.  Growing up, you spent more hours alongside the working women than at your mother’s table, a behaviour that was indulged until the war. 

You run your fingers along every familiar stitch, tracing the embroidered floral patterns down your forearm.  You always wanted a spring wedding, but it was not meant to be.  You enter the hall with the hot summer sun pouring over the crystal and marble. 

It is an ostentatious ceremony.  Not even the king could afford such a spectacle.  It makes you think he absconded on purpose.  What better way to wrestle back his dignity than to disregard the expensive ceremony?   

The king’s absence is felt more than your presence.  It turns the grandeur of the hall into a theatrical farce.  Courtiers giggle behind their hands, the traditionalists casting you withering looks of disapproval. 

Your own family smiles and you smile weakly back. 

For all their faults, you love your family.  They thought they were doing something good by arranging this marriage.  A small, childish part of you even hoped they were right, but that hope is gone now.  You have resigned yourself to the sad reality of the world.  Life is a dreary wash save what small bits of colour one dares sew into its seams. 

There are flashes of black cloth around the hall.  Chan is not among the present kingsguards as the leader stays close to the king, but a handful of the regiment has been spared to witness the proxy vows.

You recognize a soldier named Hyunjin, standing apart for his beauty as much as position.  Several of the ladies tittered about him last night, lamenting that such a handsome form was sworn to a chaste life. 

You do not recognize the other two.  One is short and stocky.  The other has silver hair and a freckled face, smiling at you from the far corner.  You stare back at him, taking the proffered comfort of that open sweetness. 

You finally reach the front of the hall.  You step onto the dais.  The minister rises and a hush cascades down the congregation. 

You worry your pounding heart can be heard in the highest arches of the hall. 

The first words of the ceremony are a name.  “Han Jisung,” the minister says.  It echoes with a swinging reverberation. “As an ordained soldier of the kingsguard, you have been called upon by His Holy Majesty to stand in proxy for the swearing of the vows.”

Footsteps break the silence, beat by beat.  Someone ascends the dais. 

At first, you do not look at him.  You cast your eyes up to the arches of the great hall, tracing the grandiose architecture.  It carries cultural traces of the borderlands.  The art of this place is home to you, though it draws ire from the courtiers behind you. 

You think that you may never feel so at home again, then you turn and catch the warmth of deep brown eyes.  You see the man who will receive your vows on behalf of the king. 

Your racing heart stumbles over itself. 

Han Jisung.  You recognize this soldier from the banquet last night.   

The strange man stands beside you.  His nails are painted black, stark where he rests his hand on the silver hilt of his sword.  His hair is as black as his midnight robes, his brown eyes darkly lined, but his intimidating shadows are softened by the gentler slopes of his face.  There is a raw and open tenderness, even where he tries to stifle it with appropriate solemnity. 

Your eyes are drawn to his lips and you remember his smile last night.  Jisung strode into the banquet with a sword at his hip and a guitar at his back.  It is not unusual for the kingsguard to have a bard of sorts, someone who can conjure a flattering song at whim, someone who can perform as if the gods speak through his guitar strings. 

Last night, while people danced and drank, you sank further and further into yourself.  You smiled prettily but all the spring blossoms in your heart rotted as the summer sunset turned to a miserable black gloaming.  Torches were lit and the cackling faces on spinning bodies looked like demons in the lamplight.  The king ignored you so everyone else did the same. 

Jisung, armed with a guitar, was enchanting a crowd of courtiers and some local palace residents.  You watched from a distant seat.  You could not help but stare, captivated by this stranger, this combination of soldier and musician and holy man.  His glowing face in the torchlight was a solitary beacon, his smile more intoxicating than the ever-flowing wine.  His laughter rang out like a symphonic chord, travelling the air to touch your ears where you sat alone. 

The man was no one to you, just another stranger in your home, but there such a simple, honest delight to him. 

He just seemed so alive.   

You were not prepared for the moment he met your gaze.  His black robes swished as he jumped, his dark hair bouncing. His eyes seemed to flash gold in the firelight.  He stood on a chair above the crowd and said, “A song for the future queen!” 

He could not know you loved the springtime but that is what he sang.  Perhaps the gods really did speak through his guitar string as he sang of new beginnings and hopeful seasons and cherry blossoms.  You smiled.

It was your first real smile all day. 

He looks at you now, a flicker of something kind in his dark eyes.  You see that twinkle only briefly because he dips into a respectful bow.

You unravel at the sight. 

You imagine truly marrying this man, swearing oaths to him and not some wretched figment he serves.  You imagine the promise of laughter.  You imagine those warm eyes seeking you across the room.  You imagine a song every spring. 

You know it is a fantasy.  This man is a stranger and that version of him is a fabrication.  But your heart breaks because that version of you – the girl who is happy for the rest of her life – is just as much an impossible fantasy. 

Jisung looks up while bowing.  He meets your gaze just as a tear trickles down your cheek.  No one else notices, just like one else noticed you last night.

His eye twitches, his polite smile faltering. 

He sees you.  He straightens slowly.  His brow furrows ever so slightly, his teeth tugging at his lip with thought. 

You jump when he waves, flicking his wrist like he is batting a fly.  The discreet sweep of his thumb across your cheek is so fast, you only know it happened because the tear track dries. 

“In the name of the gods,” the minister speaks, “the ancient and the almighty, we gather here today to unite in matrimony the holiest of subjects.  This couple has been brought together through heaven’s all-knowing divine intervention.”   

You bow your head.  There is nothing else you can do.  You listen to the recitations and make your oaths when prompted.  You swear before gods and men to serve your husband, to obey him, to always be pure and faithful to him. 

“The gods grant you to speak on behalf of the divine blood,” the minister says to Jisung. 

You look at Jisung.  He is already looking at you.  His gaze darts down your dress, across the floral embroidery, and lands at your feet. 

Your breath catches when he slowly gets down on one knee, keeping his head bowed and eyes down.  A gentle murmur disturbs the congregation, but there is no outrage.  The king would not have bowed before the queen, but perhaps the genuflection of a proxy is appropriate. 

“I swear,” Jisung says, his theatrical voice replaced with a gentler rasp that tingles up your spine, “I will honour you as a wife and a queen.  I will revere you as the gods’ chosen consort.”   He looks up, his lashes long and dark, his brown eyes so big and warm.  You think he is so beautiful; it almost makes you sick.  That dizziness worsens when he smiles and says,  “I will be your protector.  Until the day I die, no harm will ever come to you.”   

He stands.  Blessings are made.  The minister pronounces the union has been sanctified by the gods.  The congregation kneels in genuflection, respectful of the rituals even if they don’t like you.   You stand on the dais above them all, maintaining a stoic expression.  

You are a wife and a queen, though your husband is nowhere in sight, and your eyes stray to a head of dark hair, bowed with the rest of them. 

Jisung looks up, a bit of hair falling over his eyes.  He flashes a smile. 

Your heart picks itself up and starts running again. 

-

You cannot do this. 

You thought you could try for the sake of your family.  You thought you could try for the sake of the gods.  You thought you could try for the sake of the kingdom and all the innocent people within it. 

Then the king came to your chamber.  He did not attend the wedding feast, just as he did not attend the ceremony.  It was a fair excuse to make an early departure, returning to your room while the music played and wine flowed.  You were exhausted, emotionally weary, and your face was sore from so many false smiles. 

You discarded your elaborate gown.  You were in a shift, sitting at your vanity and removing jewelry, when the king arrived.  He did not announce himself or knock.  He threw open the door and marched inside like a conquering force.  He looked over your room with a scrunched face of displeasure, grimacing as if he was standing in a barnyard.  He looked at you with the same hateful distaste.     

Your throat closed up as if you inhaled poison.

You stood on shaking legs.  You had practiced a speech for this moment.  You thought perhaps you could convince the king to regard you as a decent friend if not a cherished wife.  You were willing to compromise on happiness. 

He backhanded you without hesitation.  No one had ever hit you so hard.  It felt as though he struck you with hot iron, your cheek a stinging welt.  Bells seemed to drown out the music downstairs.   

“Sire,” you said, your voice shaking worse than your legs. 

You found you could not look at him directly.  Your eyes burned just turning towards him. 

“Get on the bed,” he said.  “Wife.”  He might as well have said whore for all that the word was spat. 

You never expected to enjoy your wedding night.  All women know there is no pleasure in acts of copulation.  But this was something else entirely.  You approached the bed like a deer skirts the edge of the woods.  One wrong step and you knew it would be over. 

He grabbed you from behind before you could sit.  You slammed your eyes shut, curled your fists tighter.

In the darkness, you heard music, a distant voice belting some sweeter tune.  You recognized Jisung, his crystalline voice soaring above the bells. Your heart chased the sound, a desperate stampede up your body.  It seized control and before the king could do more harm, you blurted, “I’ve started my monthly bleeding.”

He stopped, the hem of your shift in his fists.

“Just – just so you know,” you said. 

It was a lie.  You braced yourself for the worst.  If he chose to disregard it, if he chose to take you anyway, he would quickly see there was no blood and you were trying to deceive him.  He had rights as a husband and it was sinful to deny him. 

He made a sound like gagging.  He shoved you forward.  You collapsed in a heap on the bed. 

He walked away. 

“I will not have you on the road,” he said.  You are not sure if he looked at you again because you hid your face in the blankets.  Hiding, as if you could will the world away by not seeing it.  “You’re filthy enough as is,” he continued.  “When we reach civilized society, you will be made as appropriate as you can be.  You will be cleaned, you will lose weight, you will be made to look halfway respectable, not like some borderland animal laying in its own filth. I will have you then without exception.  Wife.” 

You shuddered when the door slammed shut. 

The sun was still setting when he left.  It has long since vanished from the sky.  You have not moved.  You fear if you lift your head, he will be there, waiting to strike. 

After a long, long time, you surface.  Your room is empty.  The lavender light of sunset is gone and there is a darker puddle of moonlight, trickling between the curtains, pouring down your back.  You shiver.  You touch your cheek and find it is still tender. 

You try to pray but you are surrounded by silence.   Even the music has ended. 

In the ringing silence, you stand.  Your body is sore from laying curled up for so long.  It takes some pacing to straighten fully.  Back and forth, across your room.  Back and forth, in the silence. 

I cannot do this, you think.  Back and forth, the same thought, again and again. 

Disobeying the king is unlawful.  Abandoning him when you have sworn an oath is treasonous.  Even the kingsguards are bound to their vows for life.   If a soldier breaks his oath, he is put to death, swift and sure.  The punishment for a disobedient wife is the same. 

The silence is agonizing. 

You know what you have to do.   It will not be easy. 

You have to try for sake of yourself. 

-

The risks are great but you would rather die a swift death than suffer the slow poisoning of contempt. 

Your adrenaline pounds.  You pack all your jewelry in a sack to sell.  You bring some clean clothes.

There are servants clothes in a stack by the unlit fireplace.  You mend their worn garments during the busy seasons.  They are always appreciative and you like helping people. 

You don a pageboy’s garb and tuck your hair into a hat.  The king commented on your build and you grant it gives you away, built with your mother’s curves with a cascade of your father’s curly black hair.  You hide all your prominent features as best you can. You will be more inconspicuous as a roaming servant boy than as a notable queen. 

You tip-toe into the corridor, uncertain if the hallway is guarded.  The palace is usually safe but you are a queen now, so maybe the king sent guards.  Protecting you was in his oath, after all.

Kings are not beholden to their oaths.  The hallway is empty but you are hardly aggrieved.  You seize the opportunity and let your racing heart carry you away. 

Down the hall, down the winding stairs, through the kitchen, past the door.  You slow to a nonchalant canter when passing other servants, making sure to turn your face down and keep to the shadows.  Everyone is either busy, drunk, or tired, so you manage to slip past without notice. 

Once you are alone outside, you break into a run.  You do not leave yourself a moment to think.  If you begin to doubt, you will falter, and this will all be over. 

You are panting and sweating by the time you reach the stables.  You are not exactly in the habit of great exertion.  You take a moment to catch your breath while scanning for guards.  There must be some.  The courtiers have their animals in camps around the palace but the king’s horses are stabled.  The kingsguards have alternated shifts to keep an eye on the king’s property.  

There are no guards to be found.  You approach the stable with cautious steps.  No one appears and you slip into the stables unseen.  There is a lit lamp, swinging as though recently bumped, but there is no one in here.  Just the horses. 

You step to the first stall.  Your heartbeat is erratic and it pounds harder when you find a horse already bridled.  Did they forget to remove the saddle?  This is one of your father’s horses and that is unusual, but you do not question it. 

You lead the horse out of the stall and into the middle of the stable.  You speak gentle nothings to him.  You have not often ridden this horse as he is one of the faster animals, but you will need that speed tonight.   

Perhaps the gods are on your side after all. 

You take hold of the saddle.  You are about to hoist yourself onto the mount when a zing of metal slashes through the silent night.   The tip of a sword touches your shoulder.   

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

You recognize that voice. 

Of all the kingsguards to find you, of course it would be Han Jisung. 

You are so startled  that your adrenaline turns from fire to ice.  You freeze solid. 

“Hey! Little boy!” He lightly jabs you with the sword, just enough to scratch the material of your stolen shirt.  “A kingsguard asked you something.  Answer me!  Now!”

Your hands are still raised when you turn around.  It is a slow, begrudging reveal.  Your eyes are on the hay-spattered stable floor.  You look at his black boots, the silver sheath hanging at his hip.  Up, up, up, your eyes slowly lift. 

You meet his gaze.  His brow is furrowed with frustration but it uncrinkles when he recognizes you.  That irritation is smacked off his face, shock changing his whole disposition.  The sword wobbles and he takes a startled step back. 

“You—” he says.  He looks at you, jaw-slacked, then rubs his eye as if he cannot believe what he is seeing. 

Finally, the sword lowers to his side. His long black robes swish with the movement.  His shock gives way to panic.   

“What are you doing?” he demands, his voice breaking on a harsh whisper.  He swiftly sheaths the sword and takes several determined steps closer to you.  “Are you crazy?  Where are you going?  And what are you wearing?”

“I’m leaving,” you snap back.  The burgeoning panic in your chest begins to putter, making you indignant in your desperation.  “And I’m obviously in disguise.”

“Oh.  A disguise,” he says, utterly dry.  His face is theatrical by nature, brows jumping and eyes widening as he speaks.  “Yeah, no one could recognize you like this.  Except for, oh, I don’t know—”

Audaciously, Jisung snatches the hat off your head.  You yelp, throwing your hands up to grab it, but he pulls it away faster than a blink. 

Your hair tumbles free, curls even messier than before.  You slap your hands over your head, frantically smoothing them down.  Your arms start to shake, all that panic and adrenaline bubbling, needing somewhere to go.  You feel as though you are going to burst, a screaming firework shooting through the roof of this stable. 

“I would have been fine with the hat,” you snap.  “I made it this far.” 

“Only because half this house is drunk,” he replies with equal verve.  “Look at you, your hair, your woman’s face, your – your woman’s body.”  He stumbles over that one, eyes flicking down your form and up again.  He clears his throat and shakes his head.  “You would have been caught immediately.  You were caught immediately.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you say.  “I know my way.”

“There’s no way a girl like you has ever ridden anywhere past your family’s land,” he says.

You are flushed with heat and aggravation.  You want to argue but he is not wrong.  You know the general direction to the nearest town but you have never ridden there on horseback. 

“I know my way,” you say again. 

“Do you?”  He takes a step closer.  “You go north – do you know which trail is overrun with bandits?  And the east – do you know which path to take to avoid the mountain lions?  Or the west – if you go over the border and the men who live in those woods discover you alone—”

“Stop it!”  You throw your hands up over your ears.  All that panicked heat simmers and spills.  It turns to tears. 

You sob.     

He’s right.  You know he’s right.  You let your desperation and your adrenaline carry you this far, but you are not prepared for an arduous journey.  You have a sack of jewels that are a greater liability than asset on dangerous roads.  What would you have done if they were stolen?  What would you have done if someone hurt you?  You have nothing.  No map, no direction, and no hope.

Jisung’s shoulders drop as he watches you cry.  His own passion tempers itself, his frustration cooling in the face of your tears.  He let himself get carried away too, but you don’t blame him.  He is a kingsguard.  He is duty-bound to protect the king and the king’s property, which you are. 

He found you committing treason.  You are lucky he did not hold a sword to your throat and drag you to the king. 

His sword stays sheathed.  He looks at you, expression morose.   

“I’m sorry,” he says in a soft voice.  “You know I can’t let you go.” 

“I know,” you whisper, gasping through your tears. 

If you were not so miserable, you might have laughed at the look on his face.  You are certain this man has encountered many adversaries, but never a sobbing woman.  He would have been happier dealing with a real thief. 

His hand lifts and falls as he wars with himself, evidently debating whether he should touch you or not.  You stand there, sobbing into your hands while he watches helplessly. 

When he does touch you, it is careful.  First, just his fingertips, light on your shoulder, then the slow curving touch of his palm as he gently squeezes.   It is the first kind touch in days and it sends a shiver down your spine.  You look at him, eyes wet with tears, imploring with no words. 

His mouth opens but he doesn’t speak.  A breath stutters past his lips.  Slowly, he takes back his hand, curls his fingers into his palm.   He swallows. 

You stare at each other in the dim lamplight.  You are not sure how long you would have stood there, silent, staring, but you are interrupted before you can find out.  There is a soft knock at the stable door and Jisung jumps as if it was an explosion.  His head whips around, looking between you and the door. 

“Fuck,” he says.  His brows jump and he covers his mouth.  “You didn’t hear that.  Quick.” 

He does not stop to explain.  You have no opportunity to ask questions.  He swiftly ushers you into the empty stall, closing the door behind you.  He races to the stable door to greet whoever is there. 

You hold your breath, hiding in the shadows as someone enters the stable.  Jisung and the intruder speak in hushed tones that you cannot decipher.  You inch closer to the door, peeking through the slats between the wood.    

 It is another kingsguard.  You recognize him as one from the ceremony, the silver-haired one with the face full of freckles, who smiled at you so kindly.  You would recognize such a unique face anywhere, even though he is out of uniform.  For some reason, he is dressed in civilian garb, even though you know the kingsguard is not allowed to wear anything but their black robes. 

“Thank you again,” the silver-haired man says.  You can hear better as they step further inside. 

“Don’t thank me yet, Felix,” Jisung replies.  “I still think you’re crazy, man.”    

“Still,” the man, Felix, replies.  “Not everyone would have helped.  You didn’t have any problems?”

Jisung is adjusting the saddle on the horse.  His eyes briefly lift and meet yours.  You duck further into shadow. 

Jisung sighs and shakes his head.  He tightens the reigns then hands them to Felix.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Jisung says.

Another figure steps into view, one who has been silent this whole time.  You watch as the person draws back their hood, revealing a woman around your age.  By the style of her gown, you can tell she is a courtier from the capital.  She smiles at Jisung. 

“Thank you, Han Jisung,” she says.  “The gods will reward your courageous heart.”

“Ah-ha-ha.”  He giggles nervously, scratching the back of his neck.  “I already have everything I need.  Some of us—”  He casts a withering look at Felix, though his tone is light and teasing, “—can keep our chastity vows.  I don’t need anything more than service.” 

Felix chuckles, holding out his hand to the woman.  She hurries into his arms. 

“If that’s your path, I hope it will make you happy,” Felix says. 

You watch as they help the woman onto the horse.  Felix swings up behind her.  They both pull hoods over their heads. 

Jisung reaches up, offering Felix his hand.  Felix clasps it.

“Brother,” Felix says. 

“Crazy man,” Jisung replies. 

Felix smiles.  They drop hands and Felix takes the reigns.  With an expert click, he marches the horse into a swift canter and rides out the open stable door.  Jisung strides forward to watch them leave, craning his neck to see further. 

Now you know why there were no guards.  Now you know why the horse was prepared.  Felix and Jisung must have been posted as guards and took the opportunity to sneak Felix away.  Felix, who has evidently committed treason, breaking his vow as a kingsguard to literally ride off with a woman.  

You doubt this was a whim.  You wonder how long the trio has been planning this.  If there was ever a time for a guard to steal a horse and sneak away, it would be in the busy chaos of a wedding week.  Like Jisung said, most of the household is drunk.  Others are tired and resting.  A long journey back to the capital begins tomorrow. 

A journey you will have to make. 

You nudge the door open.  Jisung’s shoulders jump, eyes wide as he looks at you, as if he forgot you were there.  He regards you warily as you step forward. 

“So,” you say.  “It’s okay for some people to commit treason.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Jisung answers quickly.  “And Felix can handle himself out there.” 

You have both witnessed the other commit a treasonous act.  You could rat him out to the king, just as he could drag you back and do the same.   Instead, you stare at each other, your gazes measuring.  They meet in the middle. 

“Do you think we understand each other?” he asks. 

He holds out his hand in offering.  You remember his quick but substantial touch at the ceremony, that moment he wiped the tear from your cheek.  For all that darkness circles the periphery of him, there is something warm at the centre of his character.  It compels you to trust him. 

You take his hand. 

“I do,” you say.