#this is like the write up description of a fic but I don’t know how to write lmao

[imnez-daydreams]

yippee second remmick fic that i stumbled upon and i finally know what he looks like haha. yes i'm reading another remmick fic despite not having watched the movie. don't look at me like that. the warning tags already tell me i'm gonna EATTTT this up, lets dig innnn !!

"He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved."

okay i'm already SO seated. shirt unbuttoned, rolled up sleeves, tossled hair. hehehe.

“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”

ooo thats such an interesting description for how a voice sounds like ! also "sugar" pet name mmm.

"He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks."

as if reader is remmick's lifeline, or that he thinks reader will disappear if he takes his eyes off for even a second.

“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

soo weak for when the character says "you don't know what you do to me" ajshsjd. and the way you portray his hunger so well with just a few words ughh.

"Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin."

...

The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.

AAA im so feral over religious themes. like a prayer ?? reverent ?? worship ???? these scratch that itch so good.

“That’s my girl.”

bouncing around the walls of my room. need remmick and i've only known him for 5 minutes.

“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”

listen i'm exposing my depravity on main but omg remmick saying that reader tastes sweeter than sin PLEASEE vampire eating out reader thats bleeding i'm. i'm so normal.

Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.

“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”

heyy i called the lifeline thing :D ! the line about remmick feeding and worshipping umfff. like he's not doing this just to take, he's giving to reader. giving his devotion, doing it as an act of prayer. and the way remmick is drunk on lust mmmmmm.

"He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying."

"It’s fucking gorgeous."

reader jus like me fr because i love my men covered in blood.

“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”

so weak for this possessive, drunk on lust man. also i love the way remmick's speech is written by rosie. i have no movie/plot knowledge but it seems uhh southern ? and of the old world ? but his dialogue flows so naturally when i read it.

“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”

plsplspls. like i said i'm weak for this saying aaaaaaa.

“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

he's so hot. rosie's writing of him is so hot.

"He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even."

that passionate yet delicate reverence ughhh. remmick being so soft with reader, treating them like something holy, his intense acts of devotion towards them.

"The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens."

"Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat."

"Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again."

:"(( remmick being so soft and sweet with the aftercare, taking in every detail of reader to safekeep in his mind. the imagery of his vampire that harbours a violent nature, softening his gaze and touch for the only one that keeps his dead heart alive, his silent heartbeat pumping.

"He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth. And in a way, he is.

"Because Remmick never asked for salvation."

"He found it anyway."

"In you."

on the floor because of the religious imagery. this is sooooo so beautiful. wanna eat rosie's writing.

"He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships."

“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”

remmick barely being able to hold back his desires. him being oh so careful with reader because they are the source of his devotion.

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.

“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”

i don't even know how to expand on rosie's writing because its genuinely already so breathtakingly beautiful. the religious imagery goes crazy. baptizing reader in blood and roses ?? vengeance and salvation ???? gahh i'm gonna have rosie's writing still in my mind days from now.

"Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear."

"But it feels like it’s beating."

"Only for you."

i called this too !! hehe so giddy.

"Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for."

HELLOO ??? reader being something remmick would go to war for ????????

“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”

"sweet thing". i'm dead.

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.

“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”

rosie how about YOU have mercy on ME how am i supposed to be normal reading those paragraphs PLEASEEE. i'm so so weak in the knees with how you write remmick. how weak he is for reader.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”

on the floor. what. look at what you do to me ????? rosie how about look at what your writing does to meeEEeeeE.

im going INSANEEE over these last paragraphs my brain is literally mush i can't analyse anything anymore. rosie what have you done to me.

last meal. bleeding especially for him. divine. crawl up inside and live there. taste like heaven and sin. knows your body now. "good girl". still devouring, still worshipping. aching tenderness. sacred. "sweetheart". made for him. "thats my girl". "my perfect,  filthy little thing"

27 injured, 14 dead. i'm shaking the bars of my prison cell. i'm so feral over rosie's writing.

ROSIE !!! this was. so fucking fantastic i'm really sorry my rambles suck and aren't worthy of truly analysing your work. genuinely this was amazing !! like the smut was wonderful but the meaning and devotion beyond it all was soooo breathtaking. you've blessed my eyes. i'm gonna stalk your page now and devour the rest of your remmick fics !! thank you so so much for writing him, you are incredibly talented. giving you forehead kisses muaks !!

Upon the Scarlet Altar

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: On a night when the moon hangs low and your body bleeds for him, he worships you the only way he knows how: on his knees, mouth between your thighs, feasting like you’re the last taste of warmth in a world gone dark. But in his arms—cold as the grave—you find a different kind of fire. One that never dies.

wc: 4.1k

a/n: AHHH you guys—I’m seriously losing my mind right now. Mercy Made Flesh hit 1.7K notes in 72 hours and I’m just sitting here clutching my pearls and screaming into the void like !!! thank you SO much for all the love, thirst, and pure unhinged energy you’ve poured into my fic!! this fic is lovingly (and hornily) dedicated to @oc3anbxbyxoxo who requested remmick eating reader out while on her period!! and, as always, thanks to my number #1 pookie Nat @kayharrisons for beta reading!!

warnings: vampirism, bloodplay, oral sex (f!receiving), period sex, vampire x human, worship kink, possessive undead love interest, overstimulation, blood drinking, body worship, monsterfucking (soft), southern gothic setting, mild dubcon tones (power imbalance), religious/sacrilegious language, explicit sexual content, knife-edge tenderness, unholy devotion, mutual obsession, sex as ritual, canon-typical vampire violence (implied)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

The moonlight spills across the cold stone floor like spilled cream, pale and thick, stretching all the way to the foot of Remmick’s bed. You don’t knock when you enter. You never have to.

He already knows.

He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved.

His nose twitches before his lips curl.

“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”

You close the door behind you. You should be embarrassed. You’re not wearing anything underneath the long black slip you call a nightgown. Not tonight. The silk clings to your thighs, sticking just slightly with each step.

He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks.

By the time you reach him, he’s already reached for your hips, already dragging you between his legs. His hands are cold. They always are. But they warm quickly when they cup the back of your thighs and pull you forward until you’re straddling his lap.

“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

The mattress dips under your weight, the room heavy with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker now—something copper-sweet. His breathing doesn’t hitch, doesn’t falter. But it deepens. Slows. Like he’s savoring every second before he lets the hunger off its leash.

Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, thumbing the edge of your nightgown up, baring the soft heat of your core. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world tastes as good as you do when you bleed.”

The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.

“Y’ain’t scared, are you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease of your inner thigh. “’Cause I’m real hungry, darlin’. Real fuckin’ hungry.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No.”

His grin is all teeth.

“That’s my girl.”

And then his tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate, impossibly soft. He groans like he’s been starving, the sound deep in his throat, his arms locking around your hips to hold you still as he buries his face between your legs.

You cry out.

The first lick is hot and sinful, laced with something carnal and wrong, the wet glide of his tongue tasting the blood he craves, the slick that coats you. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build slow. He devours—growling against your cunt like it’s the only meal he’s ever needed.

“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”

Your fingers fist in his hair. You’re trembling. The sheets are damp beneath you from your own sweat, from the way your body shudders every time he moans into you like he lives for this.

And maybe he does.

Because Remmick doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.

“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”

You already have.

Your back arches, spine bowing off the bed as the wave crests—hot, thick, electric. His name spills out of your mouth in pieces, broken syllables caught between breathless moans, and he drinks it in like it’s part of the offering.

Remmick doesn’t let up.

Even as your hips buck, even as your thighs tremble violently around his head, he holds you down, strong hands keeping you spread and helpless beneath him. His tongue flicks against your clit with punishing precision now, coaxing you past the edge and straight into ruin.

Your vision whites out.

Pleasure burns—too much, too good, a drag across nerve endings that should’ve long gone numb but haven’t, not under him. Not under the mouth of a man who’s been alive for centuries and still claims you as the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

“Look at you,” he rasps, dragging his mouth up your body, a smear of crimson trailing from your inner thigh to your hip. “So damn pretty fallin’ apart like that.”

He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.

“Could stay between these thighs all night, baby. Might just do that.”

Your breath stutters when he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with lust, but there’s something else now—something dark. Territorial.

“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”

You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.

And Remmick smiles.

Because you're not scared.

You're in love. In lust. In ruin.

The room is quiet now, save for the rasp of your breath and the low hum of Remmick’s satisfaction as he lays against you, one arm heavy across your waist, his nose nuzzled into your neck like he can’t bear to be even an inch away from your pulse.

You’re boneless, ruined—your legs still trembling slightly as the aftermath rolls through you in warm, dizzy waves.

But he’s calm. Too calm.

Like a beast that’s fed and now lies curled around its prey, not because it’s lost interest—but because it’s claimed you.

His fingers trace idle circles over your belly, smearing faint streaks of blood he hasn't bothered to wipe away. He hums low in his chest, then murmurs against your throat:

“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s parted, your tongue dry, your body still fluttering in the places he touched and tasted.

He presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, lower—his lips dragging slow.

“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

“Darlin’, you ain’t just mine. You’re marked. Body knows it. Blood knows it. Every time you ache, every time you get that little twitch in your thighs thinkin’ ‘bout me…that’s me callin’ to you.”

You swallow hard.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, those crimson eyes soft now, almost tender—but still burning. Still dangerous.

“I ever catch somebody else smellin’ you like this…” he shakes his head slowly, almost pitying. “They won’t get the chance to learn from their mistake.”

He says it like a promise.

And then softer, almost lovingly:

“Gon’ take real good care of you. Keep you right here where it’s safe. Keep that sweet little body fed, fucked, and mine.”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even.

“Rest now, sugar,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “We got all night.”

Steam curls like spirits from the clawfoot tub as the water runs, hot and fragrant with crushed rose petals and herbs from the garden out back. The scent is earthy, grounding—lavender, rosemary, and something darker beneath it. Something that smells like Remmick.

He’s at your side, one hand steady on the small of your back as he helps you into the water like you’re made of spun glass.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet now. Slower. “Let me fix that.”

The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens.

Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

“Still can’t believe you walked into that church that night,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice, low and fond. “All that fire in you, all that fury. Lord, you had no idea what you were walkin’ into.”

You remember.

You’d been eighteen. Hungry. Lost. Sleeping in the loft of the abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest because the shelter was full and the weather had turned. You hadn’t known the stories were true—not until you’d come face-to-face with the man who didn’t cast a shadow, who stood at the altar after midnight like he’d been waiting for you.

Remmick had looked at you the way God might’ve looked at Eve: not with shame, but with curiosity.

And then with hunger.

“I should’ve run,” you whisper.

He hums. “You did. I let you.”

You’d run through the woods, blood pumping so loud in your ears you could hear your own pulse. He hadn’t chased you—not right away. He’d let the fear bloom, let it take root, let you come back on your own.

You hadn’t been able to stay away.

Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or the way he looked at you. Or maybe it was the way the nights weren’t so cold when he was near.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he says now, dipping the cloth to run it between your legs, slow and careful, like he’s cleaning a wound.

“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”

Remmick nods. He knows.

You’d been afraid of needing him.

And now look at you—body bare and pliant in his bath, flushed from orgasm and bleeding in his water, letting him touch you with those old, cold hands like they’ve got the right.

Because they do.

“You were too damn young,” he murmurs after a beat, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “But you looked me in the eye like you’d seen a thousand winters. Said you weren’t afraid of no man, no monster. Only the ones who pretend they ain’t.”

You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”

His eyes darken.

“I told you what I was. What I needed. And you still chose to stay.”

You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.

“I still do.”

He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth.

And in a way, he is.

Because Remmick never asked for salvation.

He found it anyway.

In you.

The water laps gently around you, soft and warm as skin, swirling faint pink around your hips. His kiss is slow—an ache, a promise, a tether. When he finally pulls back, your lips are damp, parted, breathless, and Remmick is just watching you.

Like he always does.

There’s something about the way he looks at you. Not just hunger. Not just obsession. It’s deeper than that—like he’s memorizing you, like the sight of you is the only thing anchoring him to this wretched earth. Like if he stopped looking, the centuries would catch up to him and pull him down to hell where he knows he belongs.

But not yet.

Not while you’re here. Not while your blood is still warm and your body still pliant and your soul still just out of reach.

He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships.

“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”

You swallow, your throat tight, heart tripping over itself in your chest.

“No I’m not.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.

“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”

He sets the cloth aside.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw my teeth. Didn’t cry when I told you what I was. You just looked at me with those big, tired eyes and asked if I was gonna kill you.”

You remember that night. You remember the way your voice hadn’t shaken, even though your knees did. The way his eyes had gone wide—startled, not by your fear, but by your lack of it.

He laughs softly now. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told you I don’t kill what I’m fixin’ to keep.”

Your breath catches.

“Remmick…”

“I meant it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your temple, to the crown of your head. “Meant it then. Mean it now. You’re mine. And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear.

But it feels like it’s beating.

Only for you.

Only here.

The water’s gone tepid by the time he speaks again.

“Time to get you outta there, sugar,” he drawls, voice velvet-thick. “Before I end up joinin’ you.”

He stands, boots echoing soft on the old tiles, and leans over the tub to scoop you into his arms. It’s effortless—like you weigh nothing at all. Your wet skin presses to his chest, and the chill of him—cold, corpse-cold—sinks straight into your bones.

But you don’t flinch.

You never do.

Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for.

You cling to him out of instinct, arms curling around his neck as your cheek rests against the hollow of his throat. It’s icy. Still. But it’s home.

“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”

He steps out of the bathroom and into the dark hallway of the house you’ve come to know like a second skin—your house now, though no one but the ghosts know it. The floorboards creak beneath his slow steps, the wallpaper is peeling, the chandeliers are draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The wind outside presses against the windows like a lonely thing begging to be let in.

But here, in his arms, even cold, you feel untouchable.

You bleed against his skin.

It’s not until you reach the bedroom—your shared bedroom, with the worn four-poster bed and the rotting wainscoting and the lace curtains yellowed with time—that he speaks on it.

You feel the pause in his chest before the low, filthy rasp leaves his lips.

“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”

You suck in a breath. The heat in your belly curls tight again.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed, your thighs parting on instinct, your slick skin sticking to his shirt, to the old quilt beneath you. The blood between your legs is thicker now, heavy. He watches it, eyes dark as pitch.

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.

“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”

You shiver.

Not from fear.

From need.

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it sinks into your skin like wine. “I’ll get you cleaned up again. Real slow. Real good. Might just make you bleed a little more while I’m at it.”

You tremble under his touch.

And Remmick smiles.

Because he knows you’re already his.

He kneels.

Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. You can feel it—what’s coming. The weight of his stare between your legs, the way his cold hands slip beneath your thighs and spread them wider, wider, until you’re completely exposed to him in the dim, flickering candlelight.

His fingers drag slow along the inner swell of your thighs, smearing blood and slick across skin like paint. His mouth parts.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”

He kisses the inside of one thigh—cold lips on burning skin—then the other. He doesn’t go for your pussy yet. He lingers. Worships. Drags his tongue along the seam of your thigh where the blood’s heaviest, groaning low and obscene as he tastes it.

He licks it up like it’s the finest thing he’s ever touched.

“Could spend hours down here,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. “Feastin’ like you’re my last goddamn meal.”

You whimper, hips twitching, your legs threatening to close—but he doesn’t let you.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, using his strength with ease to keep you open. “Don’t hide from me now. Not when you’re bleedin’ for me like this.”

His mouth finally descends on your cunt.

And this time, he takes his time.

The first pass of his tongue is so slow, so deep, it makes your eyes roll back. He licks a long, deliberate stripe from your soaked entrance to your clit, tasting everything—blood, arousal, need—and moaning like it’s divine.

His tongue flicks against your clit, again and again, featherlight but maddening. Then he shifts—mouth flattening, sucking, lapping at you with wide strokes of his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you.

And god, he is.

You fist the sheets, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as he moans against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Your blood coats his mouth, his chin, his lips—but he doesn’t care. He relishes it. His hands grip your thighs tighter as he buries himself deeper, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to crawl up inside and live there.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans between strokes, pulling back just long enough to pant against your slit. “You taste like heaven and sin all at once. Never gonna get tired of this. Never gonna stop wantin’ it.”

He slides a cold finger inside you—then another. Your body clenches hard, the contrast of his freezing hand and warm tongue almost too much to bear. But he knows your body now. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, how to suck your clit while his tongue and hand move in tandem.

You start to shake.

Your vision blurs.

You cry out, your orgasm building harder than the last, pressure curling, snapping, about to break—

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you start to sob his name.

Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.

Not even when you cum, shattering hard enough to see white behind your eyelids, your body jerking beneath his mouth like you’re being ripped open.

He keeps going.

Sucks your clit through it. Licks up every drop of blood and slick. Fingers you slower now, more gently, like he’s helping you ride it out instead of trying to end it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your swollen cunt. “Gave it all to me, just like you’re meant to.”

You’re ruined.

Your chest is heaving, your limbs loose, soaked through and aching, and he’s still between your thighs, still worshiping, still tasting like he’ll never get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because you’re bleeding.

And he’s starving.

Your breath hitches—caught somewhere between a sob and a moan—as your legs twitch from the aftershocks, thighs sticky with blood and saliva. But Remmick’s still there.

Still devouring.

Still worshipping.

His tongue moves with aching tenderness now, lazy, slow—almost teasing if it weren’t so reverent. He licks through the mess he’s made, lips parting to mouth at your folds like he’s kissing your mouth, not your cunt. Like every inch of you is sacred.

And even as your hips jerk, trying to pull away—too much, too sensitive—he doesn’t let you go.

“No,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart.”

He pins your hips with those cold, strong hands, mouth descending again.

You cry out, thighs shaking violently, the sensitivity blooming into a new kind of agony—pleasure twisted at the edges, electric and sharp, making your toes curl and your spine bow. The room is spinning. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.

“Shhh,” he breathes against you. “I got you. Just take it. Lemme taste every last drop you’re willin’ to give me.”

You feel your body trembling apart for him again, your stomach clenching, heat pooling low and impossibly fast.

Remmick’s voice is almost gentle now, slurred with arousal and reverence as his tongue drags across your clit.

“Don’t you go hidin’ from me, baby. You know I’ll chase you down.”

He kisses your cunt again, tongue flattening and lapping, nosing against your entrance where your blood is still fresh, still dripping slow. He moans deep in his throat like it’s a vintage he’s been saving for decades, like this moment—this mess between your thighs—is a gift he doesn’t deserve.

And god, the way he sounds when he speaks between strokes—

“Your blood’s hotter’n the devil’s breath tonight.”

Another lick.

“Tastes like lust. Like pain. Like home.”

Another.

“You were made for me, girl. Built to bleed for me.”

Your body coils tighter and tighter, the pleasure sharper now, no longer soft or slow—it’s demanding, relentless, fire at the base of your spine.

And he feels it.

He moans against you as you cum again—louder this time, messier, your entire body going rigid under him as you fall apart a second time, writhing as he holds you open and takes it all.

You’re crying now, softly, not from pain but from being so thoroughly undone.

From how deeply he sees you.

How completely he wants you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s soaked. Lips red, chin slick, eyes glowing like coals. He kisses your inner thigh, then your knee, then the scar on your ankle he once asked about and never brought up again.

You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.

And he looks so fucking proud.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, crawling up your body. “My perfect, filthy little thing.”

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms, curling your spent body against his cold one—and somehow, you feel warmer for it.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your hairline, then your shoulder.

“Sleep now,” he breathes. “Ain’t no one ever gon’ touch you but me.”

And as your eyelids flutter closed, muscles aching, pulse slow and full, you realize this is what he’s given you—what no one else ever could.

Not warmth.

But safety.

Not love.

But devotion.

And in a house filled with ghosts, buried in a forest that forgot its name, you fall asleep knowing you’ll never be alone again.

Not as long as Remmick walks the earth.

Not as long as he’s hungry—and you’re his.

[myfictionaldreams]

For a request do you think you could do poly!feysand x Illyrian!reader where the reader had an awful day and Feyra and Rhys help her feel better?

⁀➷ Clipped but Claimed // Feysand x F!Reader

Summary: After a brutal day of training and cruel whispers from the Illyrian males, you find solace—and worship—in the arms of your mates, Feyre and Rhysand. They remind you that your broken wings don’t make you weak… they make you theirs.

Requested by: What better way to celebrate 10 years of Acotar than a Feysand fic! Thank you so much for the lovely request (and I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write!)

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, poly, Dom Rhys/Feyre, sub reader, description of clipped wings + injuries, misogony/bullying, multiple orgasms, overstimulated, oral, wing play, masturbation, body worship

Words: 2.7k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

When you return home to the River House, the quiet greets you. Usually, the silence is a comfort, but today, it was like a brutal steel dagger to your already aching chest, heavy, suffocating.

Closing the door gently behind you, though your fingers were unsteady, you held back the response to slam it. You know you won’t cry yet. You never cry until they touch you. That’s always what unravels you. The way Feyre and Rhysand love you like nothing in you is broken or impure, even when everything feels like it is.

Three steps into the grand entryway, Rhys appears by your side. You can tell by how his hair was slightly out of place, not from intimacy but from running his fingers too many times through the strands, that he had been locked in his office all day.

Unable to meet his gaze as he steps close enough that the scent of jasmine and citrus wraps around you like a warm blanket. “You’re quiet”, he muses, voice low and carefully measured. “Too quiet”.

“I’m fine”.

“Try again.” There’s not a fierceness in his tone. No, there was only soft coaching, like he knows you need to tell him, and he was there for you to fall back on.

“I just-” You swallow, and it burns. Gods, your throat is raw, tender and aching. “I had a bad day”, you croak.

Feyre appears in the doorway behind him as you finally look up at the sound of her steps. Losing your nerve, your eyes focused on the dirt caking your boots, flinching as you realised you’d walked dirt into the beautiful home the three of you had created together.

Your mates take in the state of you. Sweat-drenched leathers, scraped hands, a faint limp in your right leg. Your wings, or what’s left of them, clipped and ruined at sixteen, the delicate membrane long since scarred over, hung heavily against the cool floor, causing a shiver up your spine. You had no energy to keep them off the ground.

Feyre steps closer. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” the lie is easy to say, “not physically.”

An ink-covered hand brushes your arm. “Sweetheart…”

“They said I was a disgrace. That I only got this far because I fucked my way into your bed. Like this was the only reason that I’m even allowed to wear these leathers, and not the years of training and torture that I’ve had to endure. It always comes back to what’s between my legs.”

Rhys stills completely as Feyre flinches, her hand dropping against her chest.

Now that you’d started your confession, there was no stopping. “I screamed my way through training, just so I wouldn’t hear them. So I could pretend I couldn’t hear them. But now, it hurts. I sound like a fucking animal.”

There's more silence, but not the kind that gives you one edge. This silence feels like gathering stormclouds as shadows coil around Rhysand. The violet in his eyes is vibrant with fury, and his jaw clenches as if holding back the urge to destroy.

A steady hand on his shoulder had the fire simmering ever so slightly. “They have no idea what you’re made of,” Feyre says, stepping forward. Her eyes were just as fierce as Rhys’s, but her voice was soft and comforting. “They see your scars and call it a weakness.  But I see someone who survived what no one should’ve had to. And kept fighting anyway.”

Flicking your eyes from Feyre to Rhys, you admit, “I just wanted to be seen. For more than being your mate. For more than being the girl with ruined wings.”

Rhys invaded your space first, his hand sliding around the back of your neck, his temple pressing to yours. “You are more. So much more. And tonight you don’t have to prove it. You just have to let us love and care for you, as you deserve.”

All at once, you break like a dam cracking and crumbling away until collapsing.

But they are both there. Your mates, holding you up by the time the first sob breaks free with an agonised cry.

Having come from a place of violence, aggression and stamina, to have people you loved, tend to you so carefully, like you were made of glass, made you feel worthy. Not fragile but precious.

Your clothes were removed. Feyre’s hands peeled your training leathers from your sticky skin. Rhys pressed his lips to your cheek, promising endless love and unconditional care. The words were not needed, though, because the bond was humming with emotions, filling you with warmth and safety.

When they slide your top over your head, your shoulders hunch instinctively. The strain of your wings was causing you to sway from their weight, but there were your mates, with steadying hands keeping you upright.

Your wings were once your pride and joy, and now they were ugly, twisted and scarred from being clipped. Most of the time, you could carry them around with ease. But on days when you were emotionally and physically drained, they were the first to feel the effects by slumping to the floor.

Initially, when you’d met Feyre, years after she became High Lady and the wars had settled, you’d been self-conscious about showing her, not wanting to frighten her. But she didn’t recoil; in fact, at the earliest opportunity, she had caressed and kissed the areas you were most conscious of.

Rhys had shown his emotions in other ways. Taking Cassian to a camp further into the mountains, he found the commander who had ordered your wings to be clipped and had done such ruthless and brutal vengeance that there were still whispers of the horrific screams overheard from the others in camp.

You’d never asked him to do this act, and you never wanted to use his power for your benefit. Still, it was the underlying act of love, adoration, and protectiveness that both Feyre and Rhys displayed that made you accept the mating bond in less than a week of being in their company.

“They don’t know what beauty is if they can’t see this” Rhys’s arms slip beneath your knees, the other supporting your back as you’re lifted. Your arms are unbelievably heavy, but you had just enough energy to wrap them around his shoulders, your face resting against his neck as he carries you up the stairs behind Feyre.

The bath that the High Lady draws is warm and herbal, scented with lavender and something that reminds you of moonlight.

“Stay with me”, your voice croaks more than ever, to the point where you flinch at the sound of how broken you sound.

Rhys’ arms tighten around you. “Always”.

Feyre undresses first, sinking into the bath carved out of the floor. Opening her arms, she gently helps you from Rhys’ arm until you’re lowered into the warm water and resting your back against her chest.

Feyre's arms wrap around your waist, her chin resting on your shoulder. “I’ve got you,” she says.

Rhys joins, careful to wash your aching body. It was a mixture between bliss and agony as your muscles seized as they’re massaged, but the relief after was unbelievable.

There was nothing more that you wanted to do than touch your mates back with as much tenderness, but you just couldn’t. Even keeping your eyes open was a difficult feat in of itself.

It seemed you had fallen into a light sleep as you’re eased out of the bath, a weightless sensation. A tingling warmth brushes your skin as Feyre magically dries you, and Rhys lowers you into the centre of your shared bed.

The silk sheets were a welcome softness on your aching body and wings as you tiredly blinked to try and remain awake with your mates.

Feyre’s inked fingers capture your attention as her nails gently graze down your sternum, circling your belly button until you’re tensing at the ticklish sensation, a different type of warmth beginning to bloom between your thighs.

She lay next to you, careful not to lean on your broken wings. She leaned up with her other fist under her chin, she looked in deep thought, inspecting the length of your body.

The ache had quickly replaced any form of tiredness for them. A seedy, thick scent began to fumigate the air, coming from each of you as your minds drifted to pleasuring the other.

With renewed energy, you tilted onto your side, ignoring the pinch of pain from a particularly sore bruise in your hip, your fingers began to trace a tattoo that swirled down the centre of her sternum. Your favourite of all of her masterful inks, but that was because it was a deal she had made with you months ago.

A warm body cocoons around your back, a strong arm sliding around your waist as Rhys’ lips caress along your shoulder. “Let us take care of you tonight”.

Feyre nodded along with her mate. Leaning forward, she places a single kiss on your collarbone. “Let us remind you who you are.”

All it takes is a single nod from you; they are you only and every thought.

They start slow. Every touch is worshipful.

Feyre’s mouth soft against yours. Simply breathing you in, her tongue dipping out carefully just to have a much-needed taste. There was always such a contrast between your mates.

Rhys was dominant and commanding. His touch always made it evident just how much he needed you and Feyre. She, on the other hand, was soft and took her time, like every touch was her trying to memorise every inch of your body. The two were polar opposites yet perfectly together.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just feel.” Rhys’s voice is thick with emotion as his mouth lowers to the top of your back, to where your wings and spine meet. Even with the destruction of your body, the ridge where they clipped the tension being especially tender, the membranes and span of your wing were just as sensitive as they once were.

Your breath hitches as his fingers ghost over the ridge of the wing closest to him. There’s hesitation in his movements, though, as he asks, “May I?”

Unable to talk, you nod.

Rhys leans in and presses a kiss to the curve. It’s featherlight. Gentle. And yet, your entire body jolts, causing Feyre to momentarily give you some space, knowing just how sensitive you were.

His kisses lower, moving across the membrane and with the way it was effecting your body, he might as well have had his mouth attached to your soaked pussy.

Your arousal was evident, from the heady scent but also from the dampness coating your thighs.

Your hips shift. Feyre hums sweetly, her fingers still stroking your stomach. “She’s trembling”.

Rhys lifts his head, eyes clashing with the amused blues of Feyre. “She’s close just from me touching her wings.”

You let out a soft, helpless moan. The sound seems to snap something in both of them. Rhys lowers again, licking an obscene line along the inside edge of the scarred membranes. The moment his warm, wet tongue drags along one of the nerve endings, you cry out - high and broken.

You were so close, so fucking close that you were already tightening with the impending orgasm.

“Fuck. Please!”, you beg, lifting a leg to wrap around Feyre’s waist, pulling her body closer until she lifts a knee and rests it against your wet core. You’re grinding down on her before your next breath.

The male behind you chuckles darkly against your skin, and the vibration sends another shock through you. “So sensitive. So responsive.”

A gentle kiss to your temple as your eyes open to glance at the beautiful female whose voice is now deliciously wicked. “I love watching you fall apart like this for us. For someone as strong and powerful as you are, a simple kiss to the wing has you begging for more. It’s so pretty.”

Arching your back as you cry out, your thighs tremble as you ride her thigh through your orgasm, Rhys' lips continuing to lick and kiss along that perfect spot until you’re slumping into the bed.

“So fucking good for us,” Rhys growls as he careful eases you onto your back, giving you a minute to catch your breath whilst he licks a downright greedy line through the wet patch on Feyre’s thigh.

There’s only a moment to regain movement in your body before it's contorted by strong male hands. Pushing against your thighs, you’re exposed to him as he lowers his powerful body, those twinkling violet eyes watching your face as his mouth lowers to your cunt.

It’s too much. Not enough. Overwhelming.

You’re losing control. Entirely vulnerable for your mates as your fingers squeeze into the sheets, ignoring the tearing from how harshly you have the material grasped in your fingers.

Delicate teeth graze over your pebbled nipples, Feyre teasing and suckling causing more tingling in your already oversensitive pussy. Your eyes clash with blues, holding the gaze as your mouth drops open in another silent orgasm as the man between your lips sucks aggressively on your throbbing clit.

Your body arches off the bed, sobbing and shaking in their arms. You give your entire body to them, but something is missing, and you need to touch them both.

“Please- I want to touch you both, Feyre, Rhysand, please.”

You were reaching for them both, but Feyre is quick to grab your hands together, holding them above your head until you’re pinned to the bed. With a gentle shake of her head, she smiles softly down at you, her brunette hair cascading around her face in a golden halo. 

“Remember what we said, this is about you, not us. Just let us both look after you for once. You’re always so giving, in every way that matters.”

Her response, as sweet and calming as it is, only causes more distress as your love for them expands, wanting to praise them with your own touch, but with your depleted strength, Feyre can easily keep you in position.

“But I-I need,”. You’re unsure what you need. But the begging doesn’t stop.

“Shhh, I know, his mouth is a lot, isn’t it?” Feyre soothingly whispers whilst kissing your cheek, keeping her body close to yours but blocking out the sight of Rhys still pleasuring you between your legs.

A masculine hum against your clit as your crying out again, thighs shaking as another orgasm threatens to break you.

“Just one more. One more little orgasm and he’ll fill you up, how does that sound?”  Feyre whispers into your ear.

“Yes! Please, yes!”

With a curl of his fingers that had easily pushed into your sopping wet cunt, and a circle of his tongue against your clit, you’re there. Unimaginable, overstimulating pleasure ignites a fire beneath your skin, every muscle tensing and then easing as the pulsing of your walls never seems to end.

Then you’re being stretched. The thickness of Rhys’ cock a welcome sensation as Feyre swallows your cries of ecstasy with her lips covering yours.

He’s slow with his movements. Calculated rolls of his hips. Steady pressure from his thumb to your clit.

Not once did either of them glance at the other. Their eyes were entirely focused on you. Their hands are massaging and holding your body. Lips whispering praises and words of affirmation that had all your insecurities a distant memory.

They don’t stop. Not until you’ve shattered again, sobbing into Feyre’s arms as your body convulses around Rhys as he roars with his own release.

They hold you for hours.

Even after you beg and beg for Feyre to finally find her orgasm. With tired but unmoving eyes, you watched as Feyre slipped her fingers between her legs, touching herself as you instructed her to, considering she still was adamant that you were to lie back and relax.

It was an artwork seeing her eyes glaze over, her back arch, and legs curl with the orgasm. 

Rhys’s wings make an appearance, shouldering all three of you. Feyre’s fingers trace soft lines along your scars and minor injuries. Your body aches in every good way, every needed way.

“You didn’t deserve today,” Rhys whispers against your neck. “But you do deserve this. All of this. You are not weak. You are not small. And you are not alone.”

Your voice is broken, but you manage to whisper, “I love you.”

They hold you tighter. Safe and content in your home.

[nerdyscouttribute]

Annie x reader fic

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This my first time writing a one-shot, so it might not be the best. I'm bad at summarys ,but it includes smut, so if you're uncomfortable with that don't read. While the " reader" was written as black in my mind , I don’t include any descriptions of her besides her having coils in her hair.

“I'm back “ , you say coming from running errands for Annie. You get no response so you walk further in to the shack sitting your things down. You finally find her ,sitting with her back towards you. Her figure filling out her haint blue dress. You slowly walk behind her trying to see what she's doing. “What you all quiet fo”, Annie says startling you.

Finally walking up behind her you realize she's organizing her herbs. “ I wasn't tryna bother you”, you say with a soft voice. Annie looks up at you with soft brown eyes , her face glistening from the Mississippi heat. You glance over her body that's shining from the sun peaking through the window. Eyes traveling down to her chest , seeing as it slightly moves with every breath she takes. “Why you staring “, she says . Startling you from staring at her. Annie stands up in front of you , glancing at your curly hair. She reaches up and twirls her fingers in a coil. “Why you acting shy all of a sudden?" Finally able to get your thoughts together you say, “ I'm not ,just collecting myself from the heat. I brought back all you asked for”.

Annie takes her fingers out your hair ,and walks to her table to look at all you got. When you look up Annie is doing a come here motion with her fingers. When you look down in her hand , you see she is holding something called cooling oil. “What is that”, you ask. Annie looks over at you ,and explains that it's an oil that releases tension. It almost makes you feel like you're floating, with no way to come down.

Without paying attention you didn't realize Annie had opened it. “What are you gonna do with it ?”

“I'm going to make you relax”,Annie says with a look of lust on her face, that you almost miss. She directs you to her room . “Take off your clothes “ , Annie says with no room for questioning. With a nervous glance you slowly start to pull off your shoes,and dress until you're down in your undergarments. Looking up you see Annie with her bottom lip tucked between her teeth admiring your body.

You almost cover back up, until Annie walks up to you, and puts her hand on your waist to guide you to the bed. Once settled you see her lighting a candle, blowing out the match she walks over to you with the oil in hand.

“ Are you comfortable “, Annie says in such a soft voice it almost puts you in a trance. With a nod from you she pours oil into her hand ,and starts to massage your legs. Not realizing how tense you're, you almost let out a moan. Too caught up in the pleasure that you don't realize Annie stops. You open your eyes about to question her ,but stop when you realize she starts to undress. “What are you doing”, you say with a small tremble. Annie looks over with a small smile and says , “ It's getting hot”. Still frozen about what's happening Annie slowly walks back over, but only this time with a thin silk slip on - that leaves nothing up to your imagination. Instead of staying by the bed she straddles you. While you lay there in shock , and in a pool of lust , Annie continues as usual. Slowly lifting each arm to make sure she gets all the kinks out. She trails her hands from your arms to your stomach, Slowly massaging it. Slightly making grinding movements on your thighs .

Your stomach is quivering, you start to feel a pulse and you know it's not your heart beat. Trying to focus on not moaning, you don't realize Annie is moving off your lap. Eyes shooting open as Annie says get up. You're confused but you do it. Once off the bed Annie sits against the headboard.

With confusion written on your face Annie motions you to sit against her . As if she had you in a trance you sit with your back to her chest. The warm sensation that hits you as she starts to massage your shoulders. Slowly making her way up to your neck . “ Do you trust me “, Annie whispers in your ear. Wanting to question what she means by that,but you just nod instead.

But you soon figure it out as Annie starts to kiss up your neck, and makes her way to your ears. In a hushed tone she says , “Your body won't forget me after this”. No longer holding it down you Let out a small moan , as she starts to lick the other side of your neck.

Somehow you gain just enough strength to stop her. Sitting up you turn around, wondering if you're bold enough to go through with this. Confusion written over Annie's face thinking she's made you upset. But before she can speak you grab her face into your hands , smashing your lips onto hers. With a small sound from Annie yall start following a rhythm.

Getting more comfortable you straddle her lap , and she puts her arms around your waist. You start to grind in to her lap , wondering where this new found courage came from . Letting her lips go, you struggle to pull the straps down from her slip. Noticing this Annie pats your thigh to get up.

She stands up and pulls the slip off. You stare , admiring her body. Her full breast, wide hips with light stretch marks , and thighs that could make any man weak. Standing up you drag her back to the bed . Kissing up her neck you stop and stare at her and say, “ my body may never forget you,but I'm going to make sure your heart,mind,body ,and soul will never forget me”. Annie let out a choked moan , you started kissing down her chest, taking one of her nipples into your mouth , twisting the other with your fingers.

Swapping every now and then to show both breasts equal attention. You stop for just a minute to admire Annie's moans ,and they way her chest moves with each breath. Feenin for more ,you slowly kissing down her stomach, feeling as it trembles with every moan. Leaving trails of love bites until you get to her thighs.

Picking up one of her legs , you start to kiss down until you reach the spot you have been craving. You sit up , Annie protesting until she realizes your reaching to take off the piece of clothing that's keeping you from her. Now, settling back in between her legs , breathing her in. Not believing after years of daydreaming it's finally happening.

Leaning forward licking her whole up to her clit. Pausing to here her beautiful moans. Leaning back down , taking her clit in to your mouth sucking her in. Reaching down inserting a finger inside her . Hearing her breath still, as she gasps, egging you to continue. Pumping in and out of her ,while still sucking. Inserting another finger, hypnotized by the sounds coming from her mouth.

You feel her pulse around your fingers,as you hit her spot. Realizing she's close. You suck harder, hit her spot harder. Feeling her shake, feeling her come all over your fingers. Leaning down to taste her , and clean her up. Looking up you see how worn she is . Kissing up her body , finally making it to her lips-letting her taste herself. The kiss gets sloppy, she takes control flipping you over.

Saying nothing, she starts to undress you ,slowly admiring your body. Once everything is off she reaches over to where the oil is sitting. Picking it up, pouring some into her hand and on to you. Her thumbs sliding over your nipples. Choked sounds coming from your mouth. Annie starts to massage the oil into your breast. Leaning down, taking one into her mouth, while toying with the other. Now sucking on your neck leaving hickeys. Displaying how much you will never forget her. Hands slowly trailing down your stomach. Stopping at your clit, Annie starts moving her fingers in a circular motion. She moves her mouth on top of yours ,quieting your moans.

She leans up , using her other hand and inserts two fingers inside your opening. Drawing a loud moan out of you. Continuing movements on you. Her eyes hold so many emotions it starts to overwhelm you. As you feel yourself about to cum ,Annie stops. About to protest, Annie stops you by saying,” I wanna try something”, with a smirk on her face. You nod, trusting her with your life.

She flips you back over sitting you on her lap, putting one of your legs under hers. Slowly pull your middles together. Both of you Let out a loud moan as yall clits touch. Annie, feeling overwhelmed, paused for a second ,taking it all in. Finally Ready to move she grinds you up and down her clit. Holding on to your hips tight, stomach quivering - on edge herself. You feel yourself coming, trying to tell Annie. “ I know baby”, Annie says with her head thrown back.

It feels like the world stops as y'all come together. Coming down slowly , Annie stills-pulling you into a kiss with her hand gripping your neck. Lost in ecstacy you allow her to take control. Your eyes closed feeling her lay you down .

Scared she was gonna try and make you cum again- you shut your legs closed with a whine. Hearing Annie laugh , you open your eyes seeing her walk towards you with a rag. “It's alright I'm not going to try anything yet”, she says with a knowing smirk on her face. Moaning a bit when you feel the warm rag cleaning you up. Once Annie is done she reaches an arm out to you , lifting you off the bed. With her arm wrapped around your waist she leads you to the bathroom.

That's when you see the tub full of water with floating flower petals in it. Trying not to cry from the high you just went through, you look back asking Annie ,” when did you do this”. She leads you into the tub, then slips in behind you, laying her head on your shoulder.” When you were out of it for a few minutes, I was worried, so I decided to finish helping you relax”, she says finishing with a kiss on your neck. Not answering you, lean back relaxing into her warm body, hoping this is the start to something new.

[ninyard]

hello I would like the kevallison smut ?? Please

The promised kevallison headcanons (aka how the two of them figure out what the other person is into + how they might go about doing it)

When they start hooking up it’s all pretty standard stuff. Allison gets him off after a game. Kevin eats her out if there’s ten minutes free in between classes and an empty dorm room. They’re a booty call before, during or after a night out, or a no-strings-attached way to get some frustration off their chest. Their friends-with-benefits situation is more often than not just a quick fuck when they’re bored. But it's kind of just… that? It's just fucking. It's a handful of different positions, in a handful of different places, but nothing more than fucking, finishing, and leaving. They don’t feel a need to bring it any further though, in some ways hesitant that the other will catch feelings if it gets too intimate. But from the get-go their agreement is clear - if either starts to get attached, or jealous, or even thinks that it might be worth pursuing, they stop. It doesn’t happen, of course, but in the beginning they really try to err on the side of caution until they know that for certain.

There’s one of two ways that their casual hook ups becomes more... interesting every now and again: one) accidentally. two) intentionally.

If it is accidental, I think they stumble upon the other’s kinks by the Grace of God. It's a quick fuck that turns into something more because one of them picks up on how the other's demeanor changes and they realise oh. oh. That did something for them. The moment when it happens is so intoxicating and sexually charged; So intense at the realisation of how turned on the other person is, that they’re just waiting for someone in the dorm room over, or outside the bathroom at a party, or in the almost-empty parking lot to ask did anyone hear Allison and Kevin fucking last night? For either of them, single and used to quick fucks with strangers that don't mean anything nor have the longevity for experimenting with, getting to dip into their fantasies is unparalleled pleasure.

If it’s accidental, it’s a pleasant surprise for them both, and Kevin and Allison have that in common - they are both incredibly, heavily turned on by their fuck-buddies feeling satisfied. It happens, where sometimes Kevin just wants to be blown without returning the gesture, or where Allison wants to come without having to put in the effort it takes to give back. More often than not, though, whether it be with each other or with other people, they're most satisfied when the other person is satisfied, too. So when the topic of kinks and turn ons is broached, or accidentally revealed, it doesn't matter that it's Kevin, or that it's Allison. When they've been fucking for long enough that they find themselves discovering these things, they're comfortable enough with each other to not feel embarrassed about what happens when they have sex. If it makes her wet, and it keeps him hard, then it doesn't matter. They don't talk about their sex lives outside of when or where it happens - a kink or two isn't going to change that.

For Kevin, sweet submissive baby boy who just lives to be praised - oh, when Allison finds out, it opens this door for changing their dynamics that she hadn't even realised existed. Kevin gets so turned on that he practically melts, and Allison eats it up like it's the hottest thing she's ever laid eyes on.

They've found themselves standing up against a wall in a bathroom at a party somewhere, too many suggestive looks across the room leading to a desperately desired handjob or two, and Kevin is fumbling with the buckle of his belt. He struggles with it for a second, before pulling the black leather out from it's square frame and Allison offhandedly says good job with a laugh as she trails kisses up his neck and her fingers down his stomach. She feels his reaction to her words before she notices how his eyes glaze over with the thoughts in his head; how he stills at her words, how he's yearning through his sigh when she follows with a knowing whisper of oh, you want me to tell you how good you're being?

Him in her hand, the long acrylic nails of her free hand dragging lines down his neck, Allison feels how needy he is and softly purrs in his ear to tell her how much he wants it. It's not lost on him how she plays with him like putty between her tender fingers, but still he looks into her eyes with his eyebrows knitted into each other, too close to argue; The please that escapes his lips trapped in between a gasp and a moan is rebutted with her sultry say it again. I want to hear that pretty voice beg. It takes the stalling of the rhythm in her working hand before he finds the ability to whimper out his desperate please, please, please. She's using her free hand to hold his face still, their eyes locked together, while he can barely keep himself in one piece. Her thumb is soft over his lips, brushing over little gasps and short breaths, holding him while she whispers a question and he falls apart in her hands.

If Kevin loves to be topped by strong women, Allison loves to hear a man moan. And she’s never heard him like this before, his lips drawn apart just inches from hers, one hand steadying himself against the wall and the other tugging and pawing at the skin of the small of her back. She doesn't let him look away as she guides him to climax with her soft words of gentle praise. How pretty he looks when he's trying his hardest to be quiet, how well he's doing at keeping himself composed.

Allsion doesn't care that she's accidentally unlocked this submissive side of Kevin; firstly, he's hot as hell when he's this desperate, and it's not as if she's going to be leaving that bathroom and calling him a good boy on the court, because that's not how this works. She's fucked him angry and she's fucked him needy - the passion of fulfilled fantasy only working on a different level to anything else.

(When he's caught his breath and started to clean himself up, she washes her hands and admires her work; his rosy cheeks burning up as she watches him in the mirror. She pushes herself up onto the vanity, and when he can finally bare to look at her again, she says I'm proud of you with a playful smile. Kevin covers his face to laugh in semi-embarrassment, his head shaking as he finds himself in between her legs. They don't talk about it too much before he returns the favour.)

Then there's, Allison, sweet Allison, who's interests work in harmony like a perfect composed song. We knows she loves to hear the men she sleeps with, but there's two things that really get her going that more often than not go hand in hand - rough sex, and loud sex. Living in dorms, it's hard to indulge, especially the second, but usually she'll just pull him close, with his lips to her ear or hers to his. Allison gets off on hearing the person she's fucking, and Kevin is not an exception to that.

They've somehow had a stroke of luck - an empty house in Columbia and some time to kill. Kevin is on the edge of the bed, and Allison is facing Kevin while sitting on his lap, her knees resting on either side of him, in a skirt that is already so short that it's barely even there. They're making out, and Kevin isn't really thinking, but he slaps her ass - something he'd done once or twice before, but never that hard, never that loud. Allison sits back, hands on his shoulders with her mouth open wide. She doesn't get the chance to finish her questioning what are you doing? Before his mischievous smile curls around, what, this? as he laughs and does it again. When she stands up off of him in a half-protest, shaking her finger at how close he was getting to really getting her going, he follows her up. He stands in front of her with feigned apologies for his boldness. She leans into his kiss, with arms wrapped tight around her waist, but instead of pouting his lips, he picks her up and throws her back onto the bed while she scream-laughs.

Body over body, on top of her then, a hand finds it's way in between strands of shiny blonde. A hand that she takes into hers, guiding his fist to grasp a handful of her hair. When he doesn't hold it hard enough she tugs it gently, keeping his fist closed with her hand around it. Looking down at her, he purses his lips with an oh that pauses his other hand while it pushes up her skirt to touch her over her panties. Reading him while waiting for the laugh that never comes is agonisingly long, as she braces herself for the mortifying conversation that he was not going to be entertaining it. Instead he waits for her hand to trail away before pulling her head, hard, back into the bed. And when she shuts her eyes and parts her lips in pleasure, he is quick to bring his hand up to her chin, tilting her head back. The two smallest of his fingers fingers tuck themselves neatly behind her ear, the other two tight between her jawline and her cheekbone. The ball of his thumb is resting on her chin. She doesn't stop him when his thumb trails down from her cupid's bow and into her mouth. She doesn't stop him when he takes it out hold it around her throat, either. Kevin is careful to scatter wet bruises down her chest where they won't be seen. When he's standing back to take off his pants and she’s lifting her top over her head, he asks, you want it hard? and she responds do you even fucking have to ask?

Her skirt is up over her hips and her thong down her thighs. He’s on his knees with her legs over his thighs, maybe he’s pinning her hands down above her head with one big hand over her little wrists. Headboard banging, unrestrained volume, handprints on ass cheeks and scratches across spines. Allison gets sex-drunk when he manhandles her. It’s sloppy, it’s messy, it’s loud, it’s so hot that it’s on fire. It’s eye-rolling, being in a daze afterwards type of fucking. It’s mascara running down cheeks, how the fuck am I supposed to look anyone in the eye after having that done to me type of fucking. It’s needing to have a shower immediately afterwards type of sweaty, messy fucking.

(It’s probably one of the only times they almost/kind of get caught. Not because of the noise, or the sex itself but because of the aftermath. Andrew and Neil clock INSTANTLY the missing and changed details when they regroup - how Kevin’s hair is freshly washed, how Allison has taken her heavy makeup off leaving only a fresh coat of mascara and some lipgloss remaining. How they can barely look at each other in case it reminds them of what has just happened. Their puffy lips, their general daze. Yeah, they fly a little too close to the sun that time - not enough time afterwards to recuperate from an absolutely dirty, filthy, fucking.)

If it's an intentional thing, a discussion about what they're into, and they know before getting into it/it's a conscious choice/it's intentional/some sort of discussion/WHATEVER? There's a few ways I could potentially see it possibly coming up.

A game of Never Have I Ever or some other drinking game with the group and the discussions of kinks come up; Kevin drinks when somebody mentions a praise kink, or being dominated. Allison drinks when somebody mentions liking it rough. Their looks to each other are quick but knowing, Kevin's raised eyebrows when Allison drinks to say she doesn't mind being degraded, the flick of her eyes when he drinks to say he doesn't mind begging for it.

They don't hang around after hooking up, usually. Clean up, get dressed, and leave. That's the routine. But they're talking afterwards for a little while, and the subject of fantasies comes up, and while shes fixing her makeup and tying up her hair she asks him what's the one thing he'd go crazy for. he considers it for a little bit but then gets embarrassed because it's a way harder thing to talk about when you're not actively turned on or drunk. They offer each other tiny pieces as they joke about it, starting tame before they eventually just say it out straight. (she calls him princess when she's leaving and he calls her a slut before she shuts the door.)

They ask each other outright. Kinda similar to accidentally figuring it out but they ask each other for it instead of the other person just doing something and stumbling upon it. Maybe Kevin asks her to tell him how good he feels and she asks why, are you into that? and they like. talk through it . Do you like it when I ask you this? Can I call you this? Do you like it when I tell you you're doing such a good job? Talking through sex can be so hot and even hearing the questions out loud sets the imagination off on a fucking marathon. Maybe Allison asks can you choke me? and he asks her how she likes it before agreeing. Do you like it when I hold you like this? Do you want me to spit in your mouth? Do you want to shut the fuck up and listen to what you do to me? It's a much more thorough discussion than them simply going oh, i think the other person has [blank] kink, so i'm just gonna go ahead and do that. It's a request, instead. Both of them knowing what they want and knowing how to ask for it? Yeaaaahhhh

[mismess]

Randy finds himself in a situation where he is the only one with Monk locked on the roof of a very tall building, not usually the one to help Monk through a stressful situation he recalls actions he has seen Natalie and Stottlemeyer do to help him out till someone finds them

[ghoul--doodle]

No more doodles for today I got migraine

[miraclewoozi]

no i just. i just need a few weeks to recover from this.

Like A Melody | ljh x f!reader

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~3.9k | Pairing: ljh x f!reader | genre: smut

Jihoon has fucked you in his studio before, but never like this.

Warnings: dom!jihoon, studio sex, biting, hair pulling, grinding, cumming in pants, multiple orgasms, oral f. rec., fingering,, recorded sex (just voices), male masturbation, praise kink, piv sex, creampie

Reader Notes: chubby, has breasts and a vagina, subby

Jihoon needs to take a break. 

He desperately needs to take a break, and he knows this, so why can’t he do it?

He’s been working on music for hours; his fingers are starting to cramp from plucking guitar strings and pressing down piano keys, his throat is sore from trying lyric after lyric, and his hair is a mess from his fingers running through it every other minute. His eyes are exhausted, the blue light lenses in his glasses only doing so much. Even his back hurts, which rarely happens now that he lifts so heavy. 

But he just can’t make himself quit, which is why he breathes a sigh of relief when he hears the knock. It’s soft, just like you, and he calls out a quiet, “Come in,” feeling the smile stretch his lips as soon as your sweet face peeks through the slowly opening door. 

“Are you busy?” You ask apprehensively, your eyes darting between his face and his computer. 

He can’t take a break for himself but he can for you, so he says, “Not at all, baby,” and pulls his glasses off, minimizing his music production software. Pushing away from his desk, he turns his chair to face you and holds his hand out, waiting for you to come closer and take it. He just holds your hand for a minute, staring up at you with tired eyes and letting them blink closed when you lean down and press your lips to his. 

Kissing you is as easy as loving you. It’s one of the few times in his life where he can shut his brain off and just feel, because every movement comes naturally to him. Dancing and singing do too, of course, but he has to count beats and remember words and keep every next move in mind. 

With you, Jihoon can just do what feels right. Like taking hold of your knee with his free hand and pulling until you give in and straddle him in his chair. He loves how plush and perfect you feel against him, all of his sharp edges rounded out by your curves, and he loves even more having your weight on him. 

He can take it, he can take you, and he likes to remind you at every opportunity. 

Sliding lower in the chair, he pulls your hips into his to let you feel his hardening dick, his hand flexing in yours when you grind down. He can feel how hot you are through your little pajama shorts, and if he knows you at all, you’re wet already. He works his fingers free of yours to slide them between your legs, pulling your shorts and panties to the side so he can feel you through his thin athletic pants. 

Your arousal soaks the fabric as soon as he thrusts up into you, making him let out a small laugh against your lips. You pout in response and mutter, “Shut up,” still working your hips against his. 

“Didn’t say anything, baby,” he teases, smirking up at you and squeezing your lush hips with both hands. You sink yours into his hair and pull, and suddenly, nothing is funny. His hips buck against yours as his cock twitches, precum leaking from the head adding to the wet patch on his lap. 

Your hips roll into his and he starts to throb, his dick pulsing in time with his heart. He can’t let you keep going or you’ll make him cum in his pants, or maybe… he could? 

Should he? 

It makes you feel good to make him feel good, and you always have a little pep in your step after he lets you make him cum first. He’s also desperate to get his mouth on you, and you’ll be more inclined to let him take care of you if he’s already taken care of. 

With his mind made up, he pulls you down onto his cock and grinds into you, exhaling a moan against your mouth when you tug on his hair again. You love it this length, you’ve told him, and he’s going to keep it like this for as long as he possibly can. Partially for you, mostly because he fucking adores having you brush it and play with it and braid it. 

He gets to be so close to you, and your fingers in his hair feel heavenly, even (especially) when you get a little rough. 

His scalp stings with the next pull and it sends a shiver down his spine, ending in a sharp buck of his hips. He stretches his thumbs out to pull your pussy apart so he can grind into your clit, hoping to take you over the edge with him. 

He’s getting close already, and you’re so wet, he can feel every inch of your cunt like there’s nothing separating him from you. Soon enough, there will be nothing, and he’ll be able to lick and suck and kiss you as much as he wants. 

You bite his lip and drag your nails over his scalp, and that’s it for him. 

His brain goes offline and his hips stutter against yours, a low groan leaving his open mouth as his dick twitches and jerks, streaks of cum splattering the inside of his pants. Your hips don’t stop moving until he stops them himself, his harsh grip dimpling your flesh. 

“Fuck,” Jihoon sighs, blinking his eyes open to find you beaming at him. 

He can only smile wryly at you in response, shaking his head and letting go of your hips to grab you by the waist. 

“Up you go,” he pushes, hefting you up to sit on his keyboard, discordant notes filling the studio until he leans forward and presses mute. 

“Are you su-”

“I’ve literally dreamed about this,” he tells you, for the first time. 

“You have?” You almost sound like you don’t believe him, and Jihoon simply can’t have that.

“Yes. I’ve dreamed about spreading you out on my desk just like this,” he shoulders his way between your legs. “And kissing up these thighs,” he presses his mouth to your soft skin, digging his teeth in only once, though he wants to leave you covered in bite marks. 

“And feeling them squeeze my head when I finally get you on my tongue,” he leans in and licks from your cunt to your clit, fighting a smile when your thighs snap closed just like he knew they would. 

He wants to talk to you more but he can’t pull himself away from your pussy, can’t make his mouth form words when he’s so busy using it on you. And honestly, his priority is keeping it on you, for as long as he possibly can. 

Between work and sleep, he doesn’t get to taste you nearly as often as he wants to, and now that he actually is between work and sleep, he plans on making the most of it. By shoving his tongue inside you over and over, by wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking until you cry, by groaning and humming into you both so you can feel the vibrations and to voice his obsession with your pussy. 

And Jihoon is obsessed with your pussy, make no mistake. If he didn’t love his job so much, he’d quit and spend all his time worshiping you, taking care of you, loving you. He honestly thinks he’d make a killer house husband, and someday, when he retires, he plans on becoming one. 

He can imagine it now, cleaning and working out and sleeping until you come home, then feeding you and fucking you till the sun sets, reading to you and massaging away any soreness before wrapping you up in his arms and falling to sleep together. He can still make music while you’re gone, but he won’t be jetting off or practicing for hours on end anymore. 

He’s not ready for that now, but for a distant dream, it’s pretty enticing. 

Even more enticing is the paradise between your thighs; the taste of you, the scent of you, the feel of you clouding his mind. He can barely breathe but that doesn’t matter, not when you’re moving with his tongue like this, grinding your hips onto his face as he sucks and sucks and sucks at your swollen little clit. 

He wishes he could record the sounds coming out of your mouth, wishes he could play them back to you, watch you squirm and feel you flush at the sheer debauchery of them. It occurs to him that he could, but he’d have to pull away from you enough to ask and he’s unable to do so at the moment. 

You’re just too hot and wet and perfect for him to stop for even a second, so he’ll save that idea for another time and focus on making you cum for him now. He can tell you’re getting close, by the way your thighs shudder against his ears, by the keen you let out when he sucks hard enough to hollow his cheeks, by the hand you sink into his hair to hold him to you, as if he’d ever want to leave. 

All it takes is a groan and a shake of his head and you’re cumming, your arousal leaking all over his chin and dripping down his throat to soak into the neckline of his t-shirt. He’ll take it off as soon as he gains the will to detach himself from you. 

It doesn’t come to him until his eyes travel up your body and catch on the way your tits heave in your sleep tank. He wants to see them, feel them, taste them, bury his face in them. 

Finally, he stands and rips off his shirt, leaning over you and waiting for you to raise your arms before tugging your top off and throwing it to the side. He takes a second to appreciate your bare breasts, the shape and weight of them intoxicating, and then shoves his face between them, licking over to one nipple and opening his mouth around it with a groan. 

He fucking loves your tits, and he shows you just how much with his lips and his teeth and his tongue, one thigh between yours to hold them open for his searching fingers. They find your clit with practiced ease and start to rub staccato circles, chasing you when your hips buck in sensitivity. 

He covers your other breast with his free hand, squeezing and brushing his thumb over your pebbled nipple as he sucks at its twin. You must have already showered, your skin tasting like your honey and cocoa butter lotion, and he can’t get enough, his head filling with clouds and images of you dripping wet and running your hands all over your body. 

He’s gotten you messy again, but he’s sure you knew what you were doing when you knocked on his studio door. This is almost always how you end up when you come to check on him, his hunger for you insatiable, incurable. 

How could he ever get enough of you when you’re this luscious, this sweet, this perfect? His mouth strays from your breast to your stomach, his lips tracing your rolls and stretch marks and cute little belly button before he sinks back down into his chair. He pushes your legs apart with a firm hand and replaces his fingers with his tongue, gliding it over you and sliding his fingers down to your entrance. 

He fills you with them slowly even as your cunt flutters and squeezes, wanting them deeper already. He’ll give you what you want, he always does, but first he’ll tease you a little bit. Not to be mean, or to punish you for something, but because he fucking loves to hear you beg. 

It always takes you a little push to lose your shyness, to find your voice, and this time, his push comes in the form of three fingers stretching your entrance open, sinking in only to the first knuckle. Your hips roll into his hand and his free one flies up to hold them still, his arm banding over your lap to hold you down so he can fill you at his pace. 

He goes much slower than he knows you would prefer, and he presses his smile into your clit when you finally break down. 

“Jihoon, please, I’ve been so good for you,” you whine, and he feels the heat spread from head to toe as he realizes it’s one of those nights. The kind where you need him to take control, to be rough with you, to reward you when you’ve earned it. 

And you have earned it, so he lets his fingers fill you, pushing them in all the way and murmuring into your clit, “You have been good, baby. I’ll give you what you need, promise.”

You just whimper, your head tilting back on your neck when he scissors his fingers apart and your walls clinging to them as he pulls them out to the tip. “Eyes on me, baby.”

He waits for you to return your gaze to his before pushing his fingers back inside of you and beginning to fuck you with them, his lips pursing around your clit and sucking with every thrust. Your pussy is so fucking hot and wet around his fingers, it makes him moan into you, just the thought of feeling you wrapped around his cock enough to reawaken it. 

It twitches in his damp boxers when a curl of his fingers beckons forth a rush of wetness and a sharp keen, one that echoes in his mind like a looped track.  

“Baby, can I record you?” 

He asks before he can stop himself, but now that it’s out in the air, he won’t take it back. He rests his cheek against your thigh as he waits, his heart pounding and his dick throbbing. 

“Um, sure?” You don’t sound certain, and Jihoon doesn’t want you to regret anything. He can always delete them, but he doesn’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable with. 

“You don’t have to say yes, Y/n. I just think it would be… really fucking hot. Having your voice on file, being able to listen to you whenever I want, using your sounds in songs that will never be heard by anyone but us.”

You squirm under his forearm and clench around his fingers, and he believes you when you say, “Do it, Jihoon. Record me.”

His lips stretch in a broad, genuine smile and he reaches for the computer mouse, opening his recording software and clicking the red button. 

He watches little waves form on the baseline, curls his fingers, grinds them into the rough patch inside of you, and arches an eyebrow. You gasp weakly, seemingly shy now that your noises are being picked up by something other than his ears. 

Jihoon can be patient though, knows that soon enough, he’ll make you forget all about it. 

You’re still being good, holding eye contact and keeping your thighs spread for him, so he rewards you with his mouth around your clit, a heavy suck startling a moan from your parted lips. He fights a smile, his lips pursing and pulling at the swollen bundle of nerves, and starts to hum, knowing you love the vibrations. 

He can’t see the software from here but the wave must spike because you let out a sharp cry, your nails scratching at the edge of his desk until he takes your hands and puts them on his head. Your fingers delve into his hair and you pull his face into your pussy, and he knows he’s got you. 

He didn’t really consider the mic picking up his own noises but he’s sure it is, his grunts and groans audible even with your thighs pressed to his ears. He can’t stop though, can’t hold them in when you taste so fucking good, when your cunt is searing hot and soaking wet under his mouth, when your nails are scratching at his scalp and sending zaps of electricity down his spine. 

They all end in his cock, and he feels it jerk against the waistband of his boxers. He’s tired of them, removes his arm from your hips to shove them and his pants down, groaning loudly when his cock pops out into the open air. It’s sticky with cum and hard enough to hurt, and he can’t resist taking hold of it with his free hand, squeezing hard at the base to ease some of the ache. 

His fingers thrust into you as he strokes his dick, the slick sounds loud in his studio, and you crane your neck, your eyes searching until they find his hand at work. 

“Fuck, Jihoon, I want you inside of me,” you whine breathlessly, trying to pull him off your cunt by the hair. That just makes him moan into you, makes his cock jump in his grasp, makes him fuck his fingers into you harder. 

“Cum for me first,” he demands, determined to get at least two orgasms on this file for mixing purposes. It seems he’s still a producer even when he’s trying to just be a boyfriend. 

You pout but listen well, your cries reaching a fever pitch as your pussy flutters around his fingers, arousal spilling out of you and dripping between the keys of his keyboard. He may have to buy a new one, but that’s a problem for future Jihoon, and a problem he would be lucky to have. 

“Perfect, baby, that was perfect,” he murmurs in a low tone, wanting your voice to be the focal point. 

“Will you fuck me now?” You pant, reaching down to smooth your fingers over the head of his cock, making him shiver and swallow a groan. 

“Yeah, baby, I’ll fuck you now,” he whispers, standing from the chair and pulling away from you to tug you off his desk. Your knees shake when you get your feet under you and he smirks, cupping your cheek and pressing a kiss to your lips before taking you by the hips and turning you around. 

He squeezes your shoulder and starts pushing you down, letting you bend over the rest of the way by yourself. You fold your arms under your head, resting your cheek on them so you can watch as he guides his dick to your cunt and sinks inside. 

You’re stretched out enough to take him easily, your walls forming to his cock and gripping it tightly. You’re such a perfect fucking fit for him, it’s like you were made for one another, like your bodies were designed to match. It blows his mind every single time he has the privilege of being inside of you. 

He’s reluctant to leave you and you’re reluctant to let him, but pulling out means he can thrust back in. He keeps one hand on your shoulder and drops the other to your hip, clutching at it like a lifeline as he starts to fuck you in earnest. 

His hips smack into your plush ass rhythmically, the sound causing sharp spikes on the waveform graph and acting as the perfect percussion to the moans and whimpers escaping you. The mic is right by your mouth and he knows they’re being picked up beautifully, butterflies gathering in his stomach just at the thought of getting to hear them through his headphones. 

“Sound so fuckin’ pretty, baby,” he grunts, angling his hips up to hit your g-spot and smirking when you yelp at the sensation. Your back arches, your stomach pressing into his keyboard and your hips pressing into his, and he just holds you tighter, fucks into you harder. 

Your pussy undulates around him as his hand slides from your shoulder to join the other at your hip, both of them gripping your ass and spreading you apart so he can watch his cock enter you again and again. It’s a sight he’ll never get tired of, a feeling he’ll never get used to, a gift he’ll never truly deserve. 

It’s what will send him over the edge, just as long as he makes you fall first. He already came before you once and he doesn’t plan on doing so again for a long time, but he needs to get you there soon or he won’t have a choice. 

One of his hands slips around your waist to dive between your legs, his fingers finding your sensitive clit and starting to strum it as he fills you over and over. You whimper and tremble against him, your cunt fluttering wildly around his aching cock and your hand flying down to grasp his wrist like you think he’ll pull away. 

He doesn’t intend to, honestly wouldn’t mind being attached to you like this for the rest of his life, knows already that he wants to spend it with you. 

His fingers get rougher on your clit and his hips move on autopilot as his brain empties, his balls aching to do the same. “Please cum, fuck. Baby, please fucking cum.”

Jihoon should have known he’d be the one begging you at the end of the night. 

Thankfully, you like to indulge him, your pussy locking him in place as you cum with a loud cry, followed by gasping sobs of his name when he doesn’t stop fucking you. He’s right there, he’s right fucking-

“Jihoon, cum inside me. Fill me up, I want it,” you whimper, pressing your ass into his hips and squeezing your inner muscles around his throbbing cock, and that’s the end for him. 

He drops down to cover your body with his as he breaks apart, his own moans and whimpers registering on the graph alongside yours and his cum flooding into you in pulses. His hand leaves your clit so he can wrap his arm around your waist in a hug, his cheek pressed to your back and his other hand finding yours. 

He tangles your fingers together and rises up, pulling you with him and sitting heavily in his chair. He’s still hard enough his cock doesn’t slip out, and he leans you to the side so he can cup your cheek and turn your face into his, pressing his lips to yours in an openmouthed kiss. 

“Love you, baby,” he whispers into your mouth, waiting for you to say it back before kissing his way to your neck and biting down gently, just enough to leave an indent of his teeth behind. 

“Will you come to bed with me?” You whisper in a small voice, and he returns his lips to yours, kissing you deeply and responding, “Of course, baby.” 

He reaches a hand out and stops the recording, saving the file to his private hard drive, ideas filling his head already. They can wait until the morning though, you asked him to go to bed with you and go to bed he will. 

Jihoon thinks this might be the most productive break he’s ever had. 

AN: this one's for all the jihoon stans who have been thirsting with me lately 💖

My Masterlist

My Chubby!Reader Masterlist

[gracieheartspedro]

For Cryin’ Out Loud

pairing: post-outbreak! joel miller x fem!reader

how to help the palestinians and what it means to write for the last of us characters

word count: 7.9k

description: living with joel is complicated, especially when you can’t sleep due to nightmares. when you find yourself in his bed, you can’t help yourself. but joel sure can. give him a day to mull it over.

warnings: pretty slow burn, kinda forced proximity, kinda angsty, unspecified age gap (don’t like it, don’t read it), joel gives you tons of nicknames (darlin’, kiddo, etc.), discussions of nightmares and possible mental illnesses, some fluff, reader isn’t really described, joel is kinda a gaslighter, he’s also a bit pervy, unprotected p in v (wrap it y’all), oral (f! receiving), dirty talk, joel like worships you!!!!!, joel licks his fingers clean, giving genitalia pronouns, joel’s a big boy. think that’s it. lemme know what I missed!

author’s note: I really enjoyed writing this. the idea is pretty simple but I love domestic jackson!joel. I promise i’ll try to switch it up soon and write something that isn’t jackson!era lol. support your fav fics by reblogging and commenting!! thanks love ya <3

For some reason, you always find yourself standing at the threshold of the front door when you cannot sleep. 

The air was especially brisk tonight. You wrapped yourself in a gray chunky sweater you found in the lost and found in Jackson’s thrift store, hoping to regain some warmth. Your bed may have been comfortable, but it was the place where nightmares usually plagued you. 

It was too late to be awake, and you knew that if you were caught, you would hear it from Joel. He always reprimanded you. Every time he caught you up late, it was like your father woke up and found your hand in the cookie jar. 

The dynamic between you two had changed since arriving in Jackson, and you almost resented him for it. When it was just you, him, and Ellie, you were managing a family unit. Joel was always the protective father, you being the mom or the voice of reason, and Ellie being chaos. 

When Ellie and Joel’s relationship shifted, he took on a fatherly role for you. It bothered you. A lot. 

In a moment of contemplation, you hear footsteps coming down the steps behind you. 

He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and no shirt, his hairy tummy something you did not see often. 

“What are you doing awake?” He questions, his voice groggy with a twinge of annoyance. 

You do not feel like explaining yourself, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to get out of this situation without a justification. 

You huff, leaning your back against the door frame so you can get a full look at the broad man. “Can’t sleep. Thought staring into the darkness would help.”

He grunts, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “How’s that workin’ for you, sweetheart?”

You could not close your eyes without the haunting dreams that seemed lively and so real. Every night, you had the same recurring ones. You were being chased, hunted, or murdered. Or all of the above. You would wake in a cold sweat, not wanting to shut your eyelids ever again. 

“Hm,” You say, staring back outside for a brief moment, “‘Was better when you weren’t looking over my shoulder.”

He chuckles, “Get back to bed.”

“I can’t, Joel.”

“You can and will. You’re no good when you’re tired.”

“If I close my eyes, Joel, I will just have the same goddamn nightmares I have every night. And I will end up doing what I’m doing now, which is trying to get some fresh air to forget them.”

“You’re not gonna forget ‘em with some fresh air. You just need to… get over them.”

The breeze picks up as soon as he says it, almost like the world knew the tension would have to be broken with some frigid air. You retort with, “And how do you get over yours?”

"I just accept them," he says, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "I don't have time to dwell on them. There's always more important things to worry about."

"I'm more tired in the morning when I just endure them." You explain, trying not to cry about it. But you are so sick of them. The same thing every night.

“I get it. One day they will subside, I’m sure of it. But for now, you gotta-”

You just want him to shut up. At the same time, your mind is trying to remember the last time you did not have a nightmare. The memory makes your stomach churn. “You remember that one time we were forced to share that sleeping bag? Back in Pittsburgh?”

“Yeah,” His tone was wary, “What about it?”

"That was the first night I didn't have it." You explain, your voice a bit shaking at the insinuation. You don’t want to face the fact that Joel, the man that you have known for going on 10 years, kept your nightmares at bay. The same man who continuously rejected you and told you that he was old enough to be your dad. The same man that told you no, I don’t like you like that. I never will. That Joel. 

“And? Why are you bringing this up now?”

"Because every night I go to my bed and I'm forced to face them alone. When you were there... they didn't even bother holding my mind hostage.”

He took another step closer, closing some of the distance between you two. He towers over you and you can’t help but stare up at him in awe. Joel has always been a complicated part of your life. You consider him your sexual awakening, honestly, but he will never ever know that. Over the years, he’s only gotten more handsome. 

But now, he has a curious expression written all over his face.

"Are you saying you want to share a bed with me?" he asks, his voice gruff and low.

You suck in a deep breath, not wanting to answer. You knew that was stepping over a boundary for Joel. He liked his space. He didn’t like you impeding on that space, especially. Your bedroom was the furthest away from his for a reason.

"I don't know." You manage to say.

Joel's gaze darkened, his expression was completely unreadable. You wish you could read his mind, but you should be grateful you can not. 

Because in Joel’s mind, he’s trying to formulate a way to convince you to stay away from him altogether. The wall he has built over the last decade was intentional. He did not want to hurt you any further. He already knew you had feelings for him, but he was an old man. He did not want to drag you into his mess, all the baggage he carried. He looked after you, he shared a home with you, and that’s it. Strictly platonic. 

He shifted on his feet a little, unable to tear his eyes away from you. You shook like a little leaf.

"You don't know?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble.

You nod, "I don't know if I want that."

You do want that. But you want more, too. You knew you would be playing with fire. You would just be disappointed. 

Joel’s temptations are buried deep but they still fester every now and again. Some days he would catch a glance at you getting dressed in the crack of your door and have to take a cold shower. As soon as he felt those emotions bubble in his chest, he would try to distract himself. Maybe he would take a longer patrol. Maybe he would go to the Tipsy Bison and try to find a woman to take home. That one never really worked. 

“Well, what do you want then? Because standin’ at the door and letting all the cold air in ain’t gonna work for me or you.”

You look down at your picked-over fingernails and contemplate your next sentence. You don't want to be heartbroken in the morning when you wake up and he's there sleeping peacefully next to you and you're not... his.

"I want to sleep with you."

Joel was not expecting such a blunt response from you, but he appreciated you not beating around the bush about it. He gestures for you to step out of the doorway so he can shut the door, which you do. 

He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your face, taking in the exhaustion and uncertainty. 

"You sure?" he asked, his voice a gruff whisper.

You just nod as he locks the front door. You couldn’t believe you were doing this. 

Joel couldn’t believe it either. Maybe it was the tiredness or the instincts he felt to protect you, but he was not mad at the idea of sharing his bed with you. 

You signal for him to go upstairs, “You lead the way.”

-

Joel’s room was always off-limits to you. So when you step into his small little world, you take it all in. 

The artwork around the room was mainly nature landscapes. He had a big dresser right at the room's entrance with picture frames of Sarah, Ellie, and other family members. You were even included in one photo—a picture of you and him on some horses from last year. 

A shirt littered one side of the bed, so you took that as it was probably his side. Unfortunately for you, it was the right side. You felt a pang of guilt realizing you would probably end up restlessly lying in Joel’s bed if you were stuck on the left. 

Before he can pull back the blanket for himself, you stop him. 

“Uh, can I sleep on that side?”

He completely halts in his motions, turning his head towards you with a blank expression. “My side? Why?”

You lick your lips, already regretting this whole thing. 

“Because I have had this superstition since I was a kid that I could only sleep on the right side of the bed."

Joel wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. He can tell you are at war in your head about the question, your expression practically anticipating his rejection. 

"Superstitions, huh?" he said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips."You and your weird beliefs."

You watch as he crosses to the other side of the bed and lifts the blanket. Is he actually letting you have his side? Maybe he doesn’t hate you. 

“You could also call it a compulsion, but superstitions seem more fun and less like a mental illness.”

He laughs this time, his deep chuckle making you feel a bit more relaxed about the situation. You did not feel like a burden as much. You walk to the right side and pull back his navy blue sheets and blanket. The spot looks warm and inviting so when you crawl in next to Joel, you start to realize that you’re back in the same situation you were in years ago in that sleeping bag. He was so close and warm and you wanted nothing more but for him to hold you and keep you comfortable.

But then another thing came to mind before you could imagine his arms around you. 

You usually sleep on your right side or back, but now you don't know what to do because you didn't know how Joel slept.

"Do you sleep on your side or back?"

Joel studies you as you fidget beside him, your uncertainty causing him to smirk slightly. It was almost endearing, seeing you be completely out of control of your surroundings. He remembers back when you were traveling with him you had an obsessive need to straighten up everything before you fell asleep. You had to roll yourself up in your sleeping bag the same way every night. 

"Usually on my back," he said finally. "But I can sleep on my side, too."

You swallow, trying to picture yourself sleeping. For some reason you felt the urge to have control of the situation, dictating exactly how he has to sleep, too. "Can I... I'll sleep on my side if you can sleep on your back? Is that okay?"

Joel had to suppress a smirk at your request. You knew he was trying to hold back a snarky remark. Instead, he surprises you.

"Sure, you can sleep on your side," he agreed, shifting his body weight onto his back, "’n I'll sleep on my back. No big deal."

You turn to face him, tucking the pillow further under your head. You can tell his eyes are heavy from exhaustion. You know it's time to shut up, to go to sleep, but you feel the need to say something else to him. Sometimes your brain concocts questions and statements and you know you shouldn’t say them, but your mouth betrays you.  

"When was the last time you had a girl in your bed?"

Why the fuck would you ask that? You think to yourself. It fell out of your mouth like drool.

Joel's eyes widened at your blunt question, surprise and a hint of embarrassment coloring his expression. You knew he was probably just expecting you to lay here next to him, maybe roll around a bit, then sleep. But instead, it’s an interrogation.

He took a deep breath, his mind rattling around as he tried to think of a response. He didn't want to admit what his genuine answer was to you, but he too could not help himself.

"Why do you want to know that?" he asks, his voice steely.

You hate that he even responded because now you needed to defend yourself.

"I uh, don't know. I don't know why it matters."

Joel chuckled softly, noting that you probably just had a case of word vomit. You always told him you were infamous for putting your foot in your mouth, especially in awkward situations.

"Curiosity got the better of you, huh?" he asks, rubbing his face with his hands. “You just can’t help yourself, sweetheart.”

He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side to face you, his gaze studying your expression.

You smirk, grateful that he's letting it slide. When he turns onto his side and he's at eye level with you, your face drops a bit. He is ruining the vision in your head. He’s throwing a wrench in your plans.

"You're supposed to be on your back, sir."

Joel couldn't help but chuckle softly at your comment. He knew he was supposed to be on his back, but the new angle allowed him to see you better in the faint moonlight.

"Don't worry," he said, a hint of humor in his voice. "I'll turn back over in a minute. Just... enjoying the view for a bit."

You roll your eyes, lifting your hands from under the covers and lightly hitting his arm. You knew he was just fucking with you now. 

"Okay, for that, I want to know the answer to my stupid question."

Joel let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He shook his head, amused by your persistence. You start to think about it and you have never really seen him bring anyone home. Maybe it had been a very long time and he was embarrassed. 

"Alright, alright," he said, a hint of resignation in his voice. "Last time I had a girl in my bed..."

He paused for a moment, his eyes dropping to the covers, his mind racing to find the right words.

"Go on..."

Joel took another deep breath, his voice dropping even lower as he spoke.

"It's been a long time, kiddo," he admitted, his voice pierced with a bit of shame. "Almost ten years, if I'm being honest."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "No way... You've never just... got it on with someone in bed?"

Joel's face flushed with embarrassment at your blunt question, a mix of shock and slight irritation flashing across his eyes.

"Jesus, you really don't hold back, do ya?" he muttered. He shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable in a different way. He hadn't expected the conversation to turn so personal, so quickly and he did not want to face you anymore. He was mortified. 

You mentally slap yourself in the face.

"I'm sorry, I am just tired and delusional. Uh, you don't have to answer that."

Joel could practically feel the humiliation radiating off you and he too felt the exact same way. You knew how to add to an already awkward situation.

"No, no, it's fine," he reassured you, his voice a bit gentler now. "I get it. You're tired, and your filter has taken a backseat."

"Yeah, exactly..."

He shifted on the bed, turning onto his back again, his gaze shifting to the ceiling, avoiding your curious stare.

You could not help but stare at his side profile. A prominent straight nose. His downturned lips are surrounded by some fine lines that show his age. He was a beautiful man now, but you can’t help but imagine him back in his 20s. He had to have been a hit with the ladies back then.

Joel could feel your gaze on him, studying his face. And while you were not scrutinizing him, he felt like a commodity in a museum or something.  He forced himself to keep his gaze on the ceiling, refusing to meet your eyes.

"So… ten years and no sex?”

You could seriously, not help yourself.

"Correct.” He grumbles, still not meeting your stare.

"Damn, Joel." You mutter, adjusting a bit to sit up a little more on your pillow. "I seriously thought you were sleeping around the whole time we have been in Jackson.”

He finally turns your way, a bit of offense on his face. “Why would you think that?”

You shrug, not wanting to insult him. But that’s how you formulated your grudge towards him. It was easy to just chalk everything up to problems with random women you have seen around town. 

“You just give off the energy…”

“What?”

You huff, laying back on the pillow. “I don’t know, Joel! I feel like when I’m around you all the ladies think you’re handsome. They stare.”

“They are staring because you’re always following me around and we aren’t married or… together. They think we are odd.” 

You had never heard such things around Jackson, but it does sort of make sense. Everyone was probably just confused because you two lived together but were not a couple. You can admit it is bizarre, but it just did not feel like an option any other way, in your mind. So Tommy gave you two a bigger house and you set up separate rooms. 

But in actuality, Joel secretly told Tommy that he did not want you too far from him. So when Tommy couldn’t give you any other houses nearby, Joel just told him that you two would be roommates.

“Well fuck ‘em.” You mutter, trying not to sound too offended by the thought of people gossiping about you two.

Joel just nods. You settle by tucking your arm under your pillow. You yawn, the exhaustion now taking over your body. You watch Joel grab a pair of reading glasses from the side table and a book. You decide not to bother him, especially because he probably wanted to just read himself to sleep instead of being interrogated by you any further.

You close your eyes and eventually fall asleep. The deeper you get, Joel notices how your breathing pattern changes. When he’s finally ready to get some shut-eye as well, he watches as your body crawls closer to him. Your arm swings over his stomach and rests on his forearm. He is so shocked he does not move a muscle. 

You adjust some more, not knowing what you are doing. Your leg creeps up and tucks right between his. You snuggle your face right into his chest. The only movement Joel decides to make is slinging his arm over your shoulders to pull you in tighter. 

It’s the first time in years that you two slept soundly, with no interruptions. No nightmares, no sudden intrusions, nothing. Silence and snores fill the room and that’s it.

-

When you wake up, it’s slow and gradual. Your brain hardly computes that you’re laying on top of Joel’s shirtless frame, until your hand runs across his warm tummy. 

You crook your neck up, looking at the handsome man you are spreading across. 

His lips are slightly ajar, letting out hardly-there snores. They are so pretty and pink and you cannot help but touch them with feather-like fingertips. You would feel so guilty waking him up-

His eyes slowly open taking notice of your actions even though you tried not to stir him. Your eyes fly open in shock, but he does not seem very annoyed. He smiles. 

“Mornin’ darlin’,” He says in a deep sleep-laced voice. You smile back at him, loving that he decided to call you the nickname you always got giddy over. You press your fingers into his chest before replying.

“I didn’t have a nightmare.”

His hand comes up from your shoulders and tucks some hair behind your ear as he stares down at you, “That’s good kiddo. I’m glad you slept well.”

The intimacy is almost too much. The way this is how it would be if you woke up to Joel every morning. It sends your brain into overdrive and you force yourself to ruin it a bit.

“Woulda slept even better if you didn’t talk so much in your sleep.”

Joel froze for a moment, his cheeks immediately flushing pink with embarrassment. He sits up a bit more, adjusting to the brighter lighting in his room. He knew he had a problem with talking in his sleep. Ellie used to talk about it all the time. He dreaded hearing what he was saying while curled up next to you.

"Uh... what did I say?" he asked, trying to maintain his composure.

"Something about it felt so good to be pressed up against someone, I don't know..." 

You could not help yourself and started to laugh. You knew you were going to get a rise out of him. 

Joel's face flushed an even deeper shade of pink as you started to laugh, clearly amused by your joke. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to come up with an excuse. He was just dreaming, it was not about you. 

"W-what?" he spluttered out instead of making an excuse. "I didn't... I didn't say anything like that."

You have a shit-eating grin on your face and you press your hands on his chest to prop yourself up. You enjoyed watching him squirm.

Joel's eyes flickered down to your hands on his chest. He sickly thought they felt so right placed there. He imagined what you would look like fully mounting him. 

He tried to keep his expression neutral, but you could see through his stone-cold exterior.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?" he grumbled, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"Fully fuckin' with you." You giggle, hoping he is not really that mad at you. 

“You’re a brat.”

You move your foot slightly, running it up his leg. It sends shockwaves up his body, having you so close and moving around so seamlessly. 

"No, you said something about how beautiful, alluring, and incredible I am. Said I was the girl of your dreams…"

"Yeah, right," he said, a hint of playful sarcasm in his voice. "You expect me to believe that?"

"So, you don't believe me?"

"No, I don't believe you," he says, his voice stern but playful. "I think you're a dirty little liar, trying to play me for a fool."

"A dirty little liar, huh? Well, it's good to know that you don't think I'm beautiful, alluring, and incredible." You giggle at his acknowledgment, knowing he caught you red-handed.

"Oh, I never said that," he smirked, a hint of teasing in his voice. "You are all of those things, darlin’. But you're also a dirty little liar who likes to play games."

"So you think I'm beautiful?" You crack, the biggest smile painted on your face. You don’t even care that he’s calling you a liar because it does not matter. Joel thinks you are beautiful. 

“‘Course I do.”

You push yourself up onto your butt, sitting crisscross next to him. He secretly wishes you were still curled up on top of him. 

“You always this nice in the morning?” You ponder, your fingertips starting to toy with the hair on his stomach. He tries not to pay mind to it, letting you have full access to touch him. 

But it’s driving him insane. The way you look freshly woken up, completely enamored with the idea of him calling you beautiful. You have some puffiness under your eyes and your lips are more swollen than usual.

“I am always nice to you.”

You let out a scoff, “No, you’re not.”

He notices the shift in your tone and starts to get defensive, “Now you’re just lyin’.” 

Joel always loved to gaslight you in these situations. You knew better than to let him get away with it, especially now. “No there was that one time you told me you did not like me and that you would never like me. How you are old enough to be my dad-”

“Because I am!”

And there’s the wall. The only constant in you two’s relationship. He was so good at throwing it up when feelings were being expressed. When vulnerability was presented, Joel could not help but reject it. 

“And the world’s fuckin’ ended, Joel! Big deal!” You almost yell, moving your hands from him. 

Why does he already miss your hands?

He huffs, crossing his arms over his soft chest. “We have had this conversation for the last 10 years.’M not sure why we keep rehashing it.”

“And every time you turn me down it’s another fuckin’ stab in the heart.”

“You know why we can’t,” He practically growls. You can not stand to even look at him anymore with your bitterness and irritation taking over. 

“Whatever, Joel.” 

As soon as you say it, you’re already leaving his room and heading to your own. When you slam the door, you hope you have made your point. You want to scream and punch a hole in the wall, but instead you just furiously stomp around the room and grab your clothes. You had patrol at noon, so you needed to get to the mess hall before breakfast was over. You try not to cry as you strip down and get dressed.

Joel sits in bed, reeling. He hates that it has become a conversation every six months. He hated that rejecting you always sent you into a spiral of hating him for extended periods. It’s not that he did not want you, it was simply just not in the cards. He was too old to be in love. He was too old to play house with you. He just could not submit to the idea of leading you on, especially because you had so much more life to live. 

He finally works up the courage to get out of bed and put on some clothes. He opts for putting on his typical jeans and thick flannel. It was getting colder and he knew by the end of the winter, you would end up with half his flannels anyway, so he had to enjoy them while he had them. 

You storm downstairs, going to the back door for your boots when you spot him in the kitchen. 

“You got pat-”

“Yes.” You respond quickly, shoving your foot into your shoes. He stands behind you with a mug full of tea, watching your every move. 

“Who are you-”

“Jesse.”

He was asking his usual questions, which you were not in the mood to answer. 

“Hey, can you-”

You snap your head back at him, giving him the glare you gave him as a warning usually. By now, he takes it as a hint and backs off. But not this time. 

“Can I what?”

He rolls his eyes, “Can you fuckin’ not be a brat about this?”

You wish your glare came with knives. If that were the case, Joel Miller would be dead on his kitchen floor. 

You are so thrown off by the question that you just watch him get angrier when you do not respond. 

“Are you serious, right now?” You press, keeping your voice from cracking. 

He brings the mug up to his mouth, taking an obnoxious sip. When he pulls the mug away, you notice how steaming it is. “You always pull this shit-”

“No, you do! You do this shit to me every fuckin’ time, Joel. You sweet talk me, make me feel comfortable, have me lapping everything up in the palm of your hands, and then you snatch it away. Then have the audacity to get mad at me!”

You are yelling now and it is throwing him off. Joel knows better than to interrupt you like you do to him. You were the kind of person who would calm down if you felt heard. 

The way he knew you down to your core made this all so painful. Because if he was not so stubborn and true to his convictions, he would have fucked you the moment you touched his lips this morning. 

“I ain’t tryin’ to make this harder than-” “Too fuckin’ late.”

You think back to the moment last night when you knew you were going to hurt your own feelings by sleeping with him. You knew better, yet here you are, still blaming him for your stupidity.

He stands there, still holding his mug, staring you down like a wounded doe who got pierced with an arrow. He feels guilty like he misled you. Before he can say anything, you are lacing up your boots and leaving out the front door without another word. 

-

All day long, Joel wanders around the house trying to get rid of the pit in his stomach. Nothing works. A shower. Reading a book. Cutting wood. As soon as he tried to use laundry as a distraction, he reached into his hamper and found one of your t-shirts. He held it close and smelled it, trying to wrap his head around how he got here. 

You spend all day, silently fuming on horseback with Jesse. When he tries to get you to open up, you ice him out and tell him to focus on the trail in front of him. 

You get back by sundown, the sun setting making it a lot chiller than you expected. You decide to take the long way home, wanting to avoid being home for as long as possible. You were not ready to face Joel, let alone share a space with him. But unfortunately, during your patrol, you fell into some mud and needed a shower. The more time it spent on your clothes and body, the grosser you felt. 

You open the front door, announcing that you are home. It was a habit you and Joel developed after you both pulled guns on each other during late-night arrivals. 

You hear Joel mumble something from the living room, but you do not stop to listen and continue on your way upstairs to the bathroom. 

You strip down as soon as the door is closed, tossing your muddy clothing into a hamper in the corner. You would get them washed and hung as soon as you shower off. 

You hear Joel’s footsteps creaking around the upstairs hallway as you scrub your body with homemade soap and warm water. 

When you start to dry yourself off, you hear Joel grunting something in the hallway. You wrap yourself in a towel and peek your head out the door. He’s on his hands and knees wiping something off the hardwood. “What’s goin’ on?”

He looks up at you, your body only covered in a bleach-stained blue towel. It makes his head spin. He can’t even be mad that you tracked in mud. 

He swallows, gripping the cloth he’s using tighter. “You got mud everywhere.”

You step out, not even really thinking about the fact that you are not properly dressed in front of Joel. You were still mad at him, anyway. Who cares what he thinks?

“Sorry, I could’ve cleaned it up.”

He returns to wiping the wood, “It’s fine, I got it, kiddo.”

You accept his response and move on to your room, but the draft you leave behind drifts to Joel’s nostrils. Your soap smells like lavender and it always sends his mind racing when you are fresh from a shower. He clears his throat, trying to get through the emotions filling his chest. 

But it’s been like this all day. You’re all around him even when you’re not physically here. How can he get away from you? Why is he trying to run in the first place?

He’s on his knees in your hallway, cleaning up your mess, sniffing the air you leave behind because he’s fucking in love with you and he cannot help himself anymore. 

Joel starts to think about how peaceful he felt having you next to him last night and how he would love to feel that way every night. For once he’s not thinking about what everyone else would think. For once he’s thinking selfishly and caving into every desire he has ever pondered about you. How would you feel under him? How would your lips feel pressed against his pulse point? 

His body was on fire, thinking about you. 

You are fiddling with some clothes in your dresser after you flick on the overhead light. You do not hear him come into your room behind you. 

You are so wrapped up in your own thoughts that when he clears his throat to announce he’s in your room, you scream. Loud. 

“For cryin’ out loud, woman!” 

You grip your towel tighter when you turn and see him standing at your mercy. 

“Joel, what the fuck?” You yell, gesturing to the fact that you are practically naked. He does not care, of course, and his ears are ringing from your piercing scream. He gathers himself as you shift back, trying to create some distance from him.

He is trying not to gawk at the fact that your grip on the towel against your chest is only pushing up your cleavage. He’s biting back everything. “Can we talk?”

“Talk about what? The fact you crept into my room when I was trying to change? Are we past boundaries now?” 

You are pissed, trying not to rattle off another million things to discuss with him. He’s only really talking about one thing. 

He scoffs at your last statement. “Boundaries were already out the window when you crawled into bed with me last night.”

Silence fills the room as you completely stop breathing. The anger you originally felt dissipates. 

“Joel-“

“I ain’t doin’ this back and forth anymore,” He starts shifting in his spot, unsure if he really should be doing this. “I can’t live how I've been livin’. Somethin’s gotta give.”

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. 

“You are the one who won’t give, Joel.”

As soon as you say it, he practically drags himself over to you. Completely destitute. You have never seen him look so desperate before. You can tell that he’s been at war with himself ever since you left this morning. His eyes never lied.

His hand creeps up your bare arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

But then you remember his words from this morning. You start feeling like this is just a moment of weakness for him and that he will regret it later. You had to stop it before it was too late. You did not want to deal with the consequences. 

“Joel, you said we can’t-”

“Fuck what I said,” He cuts you off, “Do you want this?”

You stare into those brown eyes, searching for a sign of hesitance. You cannot believe Joel is being this vulnerable with you. 

But, you do want him. God, you have wanted him so badly for so long. You have searched for him in every man you have ever been with since knowing him. 

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. He takes note of your parted lips, every word failing you at that moment.

“Darlin’-”

“Yes,” You finally manage. “Yes, I do want this.”

It’s all he needs. He closes the gap between you two by wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his space. His lips crash onto yours, not wasting another breath of air waiting to indulge in his sickest fantasies. 

You are all Joel ever dreamed about. He knew that once he caved and physically gave in, his world would be shot and everything would revolve around you. For years it had been a teetering object on a cliff, one nudge would have him falling. He always managed. But now, he was falling head first. 

His lips move so perfectly with your own. Your hand released your towel and found the tufts of his curls at the base of his head. You did not care that the article pooled around your feet, leaving you completely bare in front of Joel. You have wanted this all along. To be uncovered, to be stripped down to the rawest form. He broke the kiss briefly just to scan your naked body, his forehead pressed against your own. 

“Fuck, you are so beautiful.”

Your heart stutters as his hand traces your stomach down to your hips, all the way down to your ass. He stops there, grabbing a handful. 

“I need you,” You choke out before pressing your lips to his over and over again. “Right now.”

He mumbles “jump” into your mouth and you do so, his hands working quickly to hike you up onto his waist. He carries you to your bed, wasting no time dropping you onto your back. 

He cannot get enough of your soft, swollen lips. Every time he pulls away slightly, he dives in again even more aggressively than the last time. 

You are so hypnotized by the way he feels on top of you. In the light, he seems so much broader than he was last night. He’s still fully clothed, to your dismay. You start to tug at his shirt, motioning him to remove the articles that are in your way. 

He throws off his shirt before he stands up at the edge of the bed and pushes down his jeans. 

“Joel… I-“

He just shuts you up with another passionate kiss. It’s all tongue and teeth like he’s trying to melt into your mouth. Your hands trail up his back, gripping onto his shoulders, holding him down so he is pressing against your nude body. 

“God, I have wanted this for so long,” He sputters, trying not to sound too desperate. “Been wanting this.”

That’s when his hand reaches down between your thighs and gathers the wetness your slit has to offer. His fingers dance across it, starting from the top all the way to your spongy entrance. 

“Please, Joel.”

He loves the lust-laced tone you speak with when you say his name. It almost makes him cum there and then. 

You watch as he makes his way down your body, peppering kisses from your shoulder to your hip. When he parts your legs, you feel quite exposed. The adrenaline of being so spread for him manifests into a moan. 

“You are divine, baby.”

The use of that adjective is so-not-Joel that it makes you giggle. He notes your reaction and decides to sink down into you. When his mouth gets close to your core, it’s no longer a laughing matter. 

He uses his fingers again, using them to spread open your pussy lips. He cannot keep his eyes away from how dripping you are. “This all for me?”

“Y-yes, Joel.”

“God, I was a fuckin’ fool for so long. Could’ve had her earlier and I never fuckin’ caved. Such an idiot.”

Him giving your cunt pronouns was enough to have you throwing your head back and shuttering. His touch was magnetic like he knew exactly what buttons to push as he rubbed his fingers and palm over your core. 

“Yeah, you’ve been missin’ out. Every night…” You swallow before looking down at the man that is enamored with your pussy, “E-every night I would lay in this bed, fuckin’ myself just thinkin’ about you.”

He growls at the statement, before teasingly kissing your clit. “Every night, hm, kiddo?”

“God, yes.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as he leans forward more and dives in. His nose is pressed firmly against the top of your pussy, nudging forward every time his tongue enters your hole. When that motion became consistent, you began to note the rumblings in the pit of your stomach. A familiar build-up that you managed to get when you were playing with yourself. 

His fingers move in tandem with his lips and tongue. While his middle and pointer finger slide in and out of you, his lips wrap around your clit. It’s overwhelming and all-consuming. 

You do not know where to center yourself, so your hands grip the bed sheets you were completely soaking as Joel pulls the first orgasm out of you. 

“That’s it, baby, she’s cryin’ for me, hm?”

You hardly make a noise, the orgasm is so earth-shattering that you just writhe on the mattress. 

“Oh my god…” You groan, finally able to catch your breath. When Joel removes his fingers from you, you watch as he slowly brings them up to his lips.

When he inserts them in his mouth, you gawk at him, unsure how to react. He watches your expression and chuckles darkly.

“Mm, never seen a man enjoy the taste of ya?”

You shake your head. “Never expected to hear those words leave your mouth, either.”

“Wait ‘til you hear what else I got to say.”

He stands up beside the bed, grabs your hips, and brings them to the edge. He is tossing you around with ease, bringing your lower body flush with his. He yanks down his briefs, revealing himself to you. You instantly take notice of how well-endowed he is. You never thought you would ever be close to his cock, let alone have it lining up at your entrance. 

“Joel…“ You stop him with your small voice, but still welcoming him in with your legs opened wide, “I don’t know if it will fit.”

He grins, “It will, baby. Just relax for me, okay?”

You watch him slide his member along your center, the feeling so blissfully overstimulating. You whine a bit, raising your hips to his. 

But Joel continues his torture, enjoying the way you’re squirming under him. The way your eyebrows are knitted together, your eyes shut as you grind up into him. It’s the prettiest sight. 

“Ready?”

Your eyes fly open as you watch him ease his way into your core, the sound of squelching filling the room. You don’t think you have ever been this wet for someone. 

“Oh my fuckin’ god, Joel…”

He smiles as he inches in, “Squeezin’ my cock so good, darlin’.”

When he’s fully sheathed inside, he tests the waters by drawing out slowly. You roll your hips in a circle, trying to feel out every inch of him. He fits, but you know once he starts to move faster, the stretch will become overwhelming. 

He’s trying to focus and not blow his load immediately. You look so beautiful below him, your tits slowly shifting back and forth every time he draws back and forth. He reaches out, wanting to feel the flesh between his fingers. God, he craved every inch of you, he realizes. 

You open your legs as far as you can, letting him hit you at a different angle. The movement allows him to slip in a bit more seamlessly, so when he speeds up his thrusts, you don’t feel like you will completely split in half. 

He brings your leg up to hips, and feeling your soft delicate skin against him makes him lose all sense. His hips snap faster the more you moan out for him. 

“Fuckin’ Christ, girl. I can’t believe I was missin’ out on this cunt,” He babbles, “Need this cunt every day from now on. Gonna have you all to myself every night.”

You are too fucked out of your mind to read into those implications.

“‘M all yours, Joel.”

He smiles, slowing down a bit. “Keep talkin’ like that and ‘ll finish a lot sooner than you.”

You sit up a bit, your eyes flickering over his entire body. He notices you checking out his nude frame, which makes him feel a bit more bold. He leans down, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss. You love the way his tongue slips into your mouth so effortlessly. When he opens his mouth, his facial hair tickles your nose a bit which makes you smile. When his hips pick back up to a quicker pace, it sends you gasping into his mouth.

“Please, Joel,” You whine, that familiar build starts up but this time it’s like a freight train. Moving so quickly down every nerve ending in your body. “I’m gonna cum.”

“‘M with you, darlin’. Soak this dick. I’m right behind ya.”

His dirty talk causes the crash. Your body practically lifts off the mattress. You cry out so loud you are sure a neighbor could hear you. You try to gain your bearings, but you are panting like you just ran a mile. 

Joel fucks you through it, but the restriction your pussy is putting on his cock sends him over the edge. His hips stutter into yours, his seed emptying into your spent hole. He just keeps repeating your name as his thrusts slow down.

He has never had such a visceral orgasm in his life. His knees are weak and can hardly keep up his weight. He practically falls on top of you, which does not offend you at all. His warm sweaty body on top of you is almost reassuring. 

“You okay, kiddo?” He finally mutters as his hot breath fans the nape of your neck. You just nod, bringing your hand up to his salt and pepper hair. You tug lightly, smiling to yourself. 

“I’m more than okay.”

He finally sits up, his cock spilling out of you as he adjusts his position. Your hole drips a mixture of cum onto your newly clean sheets, but you could care less. It’s just another thing to hand wash tonight.

Joel stumbles to the middle of the room, picking up your bath towel. He uses it to wipe himself up before coming over to you. Your legs are still slightly apart so he decides to clean you up a bit. He’s gentle, knowing that you are probably still sensitive.

Once he finishes up, he crawls next to you as you continue to recover. Your bones felt like jello so standing up to adjust yourself was not an option.

So instead of facing him, you stare up at your ceiling fan as his eyes lock onto every detail of your profile. It brings him back to one night you two shared under the stars a couple of years ago. It was his turn to keep watch so you curled up in your sleeping bag by the fire. He admired you from across the flames, the orange hues lit up every angle of your face. It was at that moment that Joel realized that he could not picture his life without you. You had weaseled your way into every facet of his life and he used to resent the impact you had on him. You were younger, more patient but still stubborn like him. You made him laugh, like genuinely laugh, for the first time since the infection. While you may have been a bit impulsive with your emotions, he envied the way you could say exactly what you were thinking. 

Joel did not want to love you, but it was impossible not to. 

You finally look over at him, noticing the softness in his gaze.

“Are you okay?” You pose, scrunching your nose. 

He gives you a toothless smile, his eyes crinkling a bit. “I just can’t wait to sleep next to you for the rest of my life.”

tags of people I love and who may wanna read (no pressure I just love u) (some of u did ask tho) : @ashleyfilm @hockeyhughes @pedrospookie @guiltyasdave @amanitacowboy @myownwholewildworld

[headkiss]

fall right into me

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when something happens to your apartment and you need a place to stay, steve, your best friend, is quick to provide it for you. your prolonged proximity forces you both to realize some things.

word count: 13.6k

warnings: childhood bffs to lovers, absolute idiots in love, mentions of a negative relationship with parents, probably inaccurate descriptions of some things but it’s (say it with me) for the plot!!!

a/n: i know it’s been a LONG time since i’ve posted a long fic so thank u guys for ur patience <3 i had so much fun getting back to it and writing these two, and i hope it’s at least a little bit worth the wait!!! ily :,)

𝜗𝜚

Your shoes are still wet as you dial the first number that comes to mind: Steve’s.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Hi,” you can imagine him on the other side of the phone, leaning casually against the wall, an easy smile on his face, “what’s going on?”

You’re not quite sure where to start.

Coming home from work earlier, you’d been excited to shower and change and lay around for the rest of the evening, your book hanging open in your lap and some mindless TV filling the silence.

The day seemed to have other plans for you, though, because as you walked down the stairs to your apartment—one in the basement of a sweet, older couple’s house who just never used the space and converted it—the carpet had made an ugly squelch as soon as you stepped on it.

You looked down at your shoe against the carpet, at the way its color was darker than usual from whatever water had gotten into it. Looking up, you found a complete mess. A piece of the ceiling hanging open right above your bed, water still dripping in steady drops from the gap, your bedding ruined among many other things.

You don’t know how long you stood there, hand over your mouth, eyes flickering over the damage like you were hoping it would vanish, like it was only something you imagined.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

The couple who owns the house came down when they heard you shout for them, unsure of what else to do. They’d both gasped when they came down, and began apologizing for something that really wasn’t their fault before one ran up to call whoever it was they needed to call to fix this and the other comforted you with a gentle “we’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

You nodded, eyes still roaming your space that was now uninhabitable.

It’s an old house, something was bound to happen at some point, you only wished it wasn’t so inconvenient for you. A small leak, you could have handled, but the ceiling practically caving in?

Yeah, it was a complete fucking mess.

Hours later, with the damage assessed and set to take a few weeks to fix up, you’re on the phone with the one person you’d known would pick up.

You fill Steve in on what happened, and his first response is a sigh of, “Shit.”

“Yeah, shit,” you agree. “And now I’m gonna have to live with my parents for a while and I don’t know how I’m gonna go back into that house, Steve.”

If you’re being honest, the couple you live with now was kinder to you than your parents were. You suppose that’s one of the many things that you and Steve have bonded over.

“Just come live with me, instead,” he offers without hesitation.

Steve says it like it’s obvious, a no-brainer, and you guess it should be, since you’ve slept over at the Harrington’s house countless times before. Only, this is different because you’d be staying for a while, because you’d be needing his help, which makes you feel all awkward and guilty.

He’s been your absolute best friend for as long as you can remember, and you’re one hundred percent sure you’d offer the same thing if the roles were reversed, but that doesn’t make it any easier for you to accept, not when you’re already frazzled from the events of the day.

“No, Steve, I’m sorry I’m just being dramatic,” you say, twisting the phone’s cord around your finger. “I’ll be fine, really. It’s just a month, or so, and I don’t wanna be in your way or-”

“When have you ever cared about being in my way, angel?” The pet name he’s called you ever since your ninth grade Halloween party slips out naturally, the way it always does. “Besides, this house is too fucking big for me as it is, and you know my parents won’t be around to care, either.”

“I can’t ask you to let me move in, Steve.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering. It’ll be like that one week when we were twelve and you stayed over for spring break, only longer. It’s perfect!”

There’s a small smile ghosting across your face as you recall the memory he’s talking about. A blanket fort in their spacious living room, sleeping bags and pillows piled inside it along with two flashlights.

You can picture the way he looks on the other end of the phone, his hair a bit messy from running his hands through it during the day, one strand rogue against his forehead, his shoulder leaned carelessly against the wall the way it usually is when he stands. Like he can’t be bothered to hold himself up, like there’s constantly a weight on him.

“Are you sure about this, Steve? It’s really okay if you’re not. I swear I’ll be fine.”

“As if I’m letting you spend multiple weeks back in your parent’s house. You’re staying with me, alright?” His voice is insistent, yet kind, letting you know that he’s being honest, that he means it. “We’ll order pizzas and watch shitty romcoms, ‘kay?”

“You can call romcoms shitty all you want, but we both know you get teary at every single one.”

“Don't change the subject, angel. Also, fuck off,” he says, though you can hear the smile in his voice. “So, you’re living with me, yeah?”

You don’t think you could say no to him even if you wanted to.

“Yeah, alright, Steve. Thank you so much.”

“None of that. I know you’d do the same.”

There’s something beautiful about the kind of trust and ease that comes with a friendship as long as yours. One where you’ve watched each other grow up, awkward phases and all, and stuck together the entire way. There’s no questioning whether or not you’d be there for each other if you were in need.

It’s known, felt. Like a fact.

“Now,” he continues, “I’ll pick you up, okay? Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay.”

“You need me to bring boxes for your stuff?”

“I’m not sure how much is worth keeping. It’s pretty ugly in there.”

Your voice goes small at the end, because the gravity of it all is really sinking in. You’ll have to replace a lot of stuff. Stuff you don’t have money for right now.

But, you haven’t let yourself cry just yet, so you swallow it down.

“I’ll bring some anyway, then. We’ll figure it out, angel, don’t worry.”

“Thanks again, Steve. See you soon.”

“Ten minutes,” he assures you, then the line clicks.

-

True to his word, Steve arrives in under ten minutes, which isn’t surprising considering the size of Hawkins, but feels reassuring all the same.

You’re sitting on the curb in front of the house when Steve’s BMW pulls over on the other side of the road, and you stand just as he climbs out and shuts his door, rounding the car and jogging over to you.

His keys jingle as he tucks them into the pocket of his faded jeans, his opposite hand coming up to squeeze your shoulder, “You okay?”

The warmth of his palm seeps through your work shirt that you’ve yet to change out of, and you let your eyes fall shut just for a second before looking at his face, “Guess so,” you nod. “Maybe ask me again after all of this?”

Steve’s arm winds itself over your shoulders, tugging you into his side and dropping a kiss to the top of your head, simple as an instinct. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this, angel.”

We’ll, he says. A team.

You reach up and squeeze his hand and nod, guiding him to the side-entrance leading to your basement apartment.

“I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes for this,” you say.

Steve looks down at his feet and shrugs, “Shoes can be replaced.”

He lets you lead the way down the stairs, his footsteps close behind yours. You wince when you look at the damage again, even though you’d seen it minutes ago. You can't bring yourself to look at Steve, to see the reaction on his face, because you think it’ll just make it all more real.

He mouths the word ‘fuck’ while you aren’t looking, then claps his hands once. “Okay, let’s figure out what we can save, yeah? Where do you want me?”

You’re grateful for his gentle guidance at what to do. “Maybe the bathroom? Everything in there should be fine, so it just needs to be packed.”

“‘Kay. I’ll just go grab some boxes from my car,” Steve says. He squeezes your hand once before heading up the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

You decide to tackle the worst spot first. Though the place is more like a studio, the side that houses your bed and your closet is the most affected, so you head over there and try to tune out the squish of the carpet beneath your feet.

You’re opening the sliding doors to your closet when Steve comes back, dropping a stack of boxes by your feet and running his hand down your arm softly before heading over to the bathroom to pack for you.

Even his presence seems to be making things a little bit easier for you, and each time he finds a small way to touch you or speak to you, to remind you that he’s there, you’re glad for it.

Half of your closet is a gross, wet mess, but some things are salvageable, which you take as a win. Things might be damp, but at least it’s only water, you suppose. A cycle in the dryer and most things will be wearable again.

Your dresses that are hung get the worst of it, soaked and smelly, and you decide that it’d be easier to get a couple new ones than to try and save what’s there.

Steve checks in every now and then, poking his head out of the bathroom’s doorway to look at you and make sure you’re doing alright, giving you a thumbs up when you look over to him.

You’re not sure how you’d be managing this if you were alone, and you’re thankful that you don’t have to.

The next time he checks on you, you’re by your nightstand.

Sitting atop of it is a framed picture of you and Steve from summer camp when you were around ten years old, maybe younger. Only now, the picture’s stained with water and the frame you’d decorated all those years ago at camp is a splotchy mess.

Where yours and Steve’s handwriting used to be, is now a blur from the water seeping into the wooden frame, the marker’s colors muddy. You frown, picking it up and running your thumb over the edge.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re tearing up, frustrated and sad and tired. Memories like this one are the most special to you, the ones that have kept you going for so long, and just like that, the picture that’s sat on your nightstand since being taken is gone, and it fucking sucks.

“Hey, angel?” Steve calls.

When all you do is sniffle and mumble an “mhm?” in response, he sets the box he’d been packing on the bathroom counter and walks over to you.

He comes up behind you, resting his hands on your upper-arms and peering over your shoulder at the ruined picture.

“It was my favorite one,” you say, voice breaking a little. You wipe your tear away as it trails down your cheek, your own fingertips too harsh against your skin.

Although it’s soaked and splotchy now, Steve knows which picture it is. The one where you’ve both got your neon summer camp t-shirts on, the one where his cheeks and nose are completely sunburnt and you’re both grinning up at the camera from your seats on the ground.

Steve’s clutching a stick in his hand for some reason, and you’ve got your fist tangled in the sleeve of his shirt.

It feels like no time and forever has passed since then.

Steve grabs the picture and pries it gently from your hands, setting it back onto the table and turning you around in his grip to face him.

“We can fix it,” he tells you, his brown eyes all soft as his hands come up to cup your face, thumbs swiping your tears away.

“But the frame-”

“We’ll fix it, angel. I’ll find a way, okay? We can pack it in one of the boxes and figure it out.”

“Steve-”

“Look at me,” he urges you when your gaze flickers to the ground. You listen. “This fucking sucks, I know it does, but you’re strong and I’m here, and we can handle this.”

His voice is quiet, but sure. You search his face for any trace of a lie and find none. He really believes what he’s saying, and he really believes in you.

“Thank you for being here.” You take a deep breath and drop your forehead against the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry for crying. I know it’s kinda stupid. Most of this is replaceable, it’s just-”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, letting his chin rest atop your head. “You’re allowed to cry. Hell, I’d probably be kicking and screaming on the floor like I'm back in the terrible twos.”

You laugh wetly into his shirt.

“Now,” he says, pulling back and putting his hands on his hips, “the quicker we pack, the quicker we go home. I’ll even let you wear a pair of my good fuzzy socks.”

A smile tugs at your mouth. “Deal.”

-

Steve wouldn’t let you do much of the work after that.

Instead, he simply held up items for you to assess from where you’d been leaning against the wall and packed it into a box if it was a ‘yes,’ or tossing it aside dramatically just to try and get you to laugh if it was a ‘no.’

Once things were sorted through and packed, you loaded everything into Steve’s car—which wasn’t a whole bunch, considering how much you had to leave behind.

You’d refused to let Steve carry the boxes all on his own, though he tried, but he still managed to open the doors for you whenever you made it to his car, even when his own hands were full, too.

By the time you were finished, you were drained. It felt like you’d lived multiple days in the one. An eight hour shift opening at the store, then coming home to a wrecked apartment. All you wanted to do was shower and lay down and not get back up.

Steve knows you well enough to be able to tell when it’s time to fill the silence and when it isn’t, and on the drive back to his place, while your head was leaned against his window, he knew to stay quiet and give you a bit of space.

He turned the radio on, but not too loud, letting the songs hum through the speakers. At every stop sign, he reached over and gave your thigh a light squeeze. Reassuring, kind, somehow exactly what you needed at the moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

You were no stranger to the Harrington’s house, having been there countless times since you were little, but it feels more intimidating now, knowing you’ll be staying. You feel silly for being worried, but you are. Asking for help makes you feel like a burden.

Steve, however, doesn’t let you entertain that thought for long, parking in his driveway and jogging around to open the passenger door for you. “Honey, we’re home!”

“Dork,” you say, though you accept his hand and let him tug you up out of the car.

Grabbing the first couple of boxes, Steve leads you inside and upstairs, right to the guest room across the hall from his own bedroom. The closest one to him.

The house has at least two guest rooms, though you suppose with how little Steve's parents are around, you could consider there to be three. Three spare rooms and Steve puts you up in the nearest one possible. It makes your heart squish in your chest, how caring he is. He doesn’t even have to try, really, the goodness in him shows even when he tries to keep it hidden.

It only takes a few trips down to his car and back before all of your boxes are stacked against the wall. You decide you’ll deal with them later.

Steve runs over to his room and grabs a set of pajamas that you’d left there, and hands them to you. “I figured you’d wanna wash up.”

“You calling me smelly, Harrington?”

“Shut up, I think you smell nice. Usually.”

“Hey!”

“I’m teasing, angel.” He ruffles your hair. You swat his hand away. “You know where the bathroom is, and there should be soap and stuff in the shower already. Just yell if you need something, okay?”

You do know where the bathroom is. You have your own toothbrush in a cup by the sink, a set of travel-sized skin care products in the cupboard behind the mirror for whenever you end up staying over.

It’s funny, you’ve always felt more at home here than at your own parents house, and though he hasn’t said it to you, Steve much prefers this house when you’re in it. There’s a warmth that comes with your presence that makes him ache when it’s not around.

You nod, “Thank you again for letting me stay, Steve. I won’t be in the way, promise.”

“I want you in the way. You know you’re always welcome. This is no different.” He shrugs, “Plus, it’ll be nice having you around. Place always feels so empty when it’s just me.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay forever, then,” you say, tone light and joking.

Steve, completely serious, says, “I’d let you.”

There’s a zip that goes through you when he says it, quick as lightning, something you’ve never felt—or noticed, rather—around him. It throws you off just a little.

“Anyways,” Steve cuts your thoughts short, “I’ll let you get settled. Pizza will be waiting for you when you’re done.”

He leaves the room before you can thank him again, his footsteps retreating and heading downstairs.

You’ve been to his house a million times, so you don’t really feel the need to ‘get settled’ but you desperately need a shower so that’s where you go.

You stay in for longer than you need to, letting the too-hot water run down your neck and back.

When you finally do step out of the bathroom, now clad in your pajamas, and head downstairs, Steve’s sitting on the couch in the living room, the romcoms he owns sitting out in front of the TV for you to choose from, your favorite blanket resting on your side of the couch, and pizza boxes on the coffee table just as promised.

It’s the best thing in the world, you think, to have a friend like Steve.

-

You’ve been staying at Steve’s for a couple of days already, and time seems to fly by a little quicker when you’re there, especially when you’re around him.

He’s taken it upon himself to have coffee ready in the pot for you every morning, one of your favorite mugs already next to it on the counter. You’ve cooked breakfasts together (pancakes one day, where you’d done most of the work, or something simple as toast when you both have to get to work), ordered dinners, and Steve comes home from his shifts with a new movie to watch almost every day.

It’s been so nice. Almost perfect, actually.

This morning, the first day where your shifts happen to be at the exact same time, he’d even insisted on driving you to work. It was an easy yes, considering it wasn’t out of his way at all.

After a short stint of working together at the grocery store in ninth grade, and your subsequent firing from the job after a month of constantly distracting each other on the clock, Tim, the grocery manager, took it upon himself to warn Hawkins not to hire the both of you together.

Eventually, you’d taken the closest you could get which resulted in you working at the arcade and Steve next door at Family Video.

You share a parking lot. Steve already drives you to work most days. You like to put up a bit of a fight just to annoy him.

Though you haven’t worked together in years, and he isn’t far away by any means, you miss having Steve around on days like this. Where the arcade is quiet save for the sounds of the games in the background, where you’re simply babysitting the desk and cleaning things multiple times to try and make the hours pass by.

If Steve were with you, he’d make stupid jokes that you don’t wanna laugh at but do, or coerce you into playing the games while on the clock with the change you find whenever you’re cleaning.

He’d probably trash talk you, and bump your hip with his while playing pinball, and be a sore loser, and for some reason you want him around so bad.

You chalk it up to getting used to spending hours and hours with him, every single day, these past couple of days. Staying with him has made you miss him more, you think.

That’s it.

Meanwhile, over at Family Video, Steve isn’t feeling too different from you.

He’s spent the morning stocking shelves, memories popping into his head whenever he’d come across a movie you loved or watched together, while Robin’s been manning the desk.

Then, when his cart was empty and put back into the back room, he sat on the chair behind the front desk, spinning around until Robin stopped him with her foot and asked what he was thinking so hard about.

Steve caught her up on what had happened with your apartment (you’d told him he could tell her, because she’s your friend too and would find out sooner or later) and how you’d ended up staying with him in his house.

She raised her eyebrows and hummed in a way that was automatically suspicious, because Robin isn’t very good at hiding things.

“What?” Steve asks.

“Nothing.” When Steve only gives her a pointed look, Robin continues, “Well… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Now, Robin is one of Steve’s closest friends, and him one of hers, and she supports him in pretty much everything that he does even when she teases him relentlessly along the way, but she cares about both of you and doesn’t want to see anyone hurt.

She can read Steve better than he can read himself, probably, because to Robin, it’s clear that he feels more than friendly towards you. And he doesn’t even know it.

When they became closer, it was clear to Robin, even before meeting you, just from the way Steve spoke of you, that there was a spot reserved for you in his life that couldn’t be filled by anyone else.

He would say it’s that of ‘best friend’ but Robin would call it something even bigger than that. Still, even though she thinks he’s an absolute dingus, she’s trying to let Steve figure it out for himself.

Clearly, it’s taking fucking forever.

He looks confused at her question, “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

Robin sighs and resists the urge to drop her forehead against the desk and decides on, “You know what they say: become friends with your roommates, don’t become roommates with your friends.”

“Whoever they are, they’re dumb as shit,” Steve says. “She’s been over, slept over, hundreds of times. It’s not any different, just longer.”

“I guess so,” she settles on. “The rules of the world never really seem to apply to you two.”

“That’s because the rules of the world are also dumb as shit.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever tried following them.”

“‘Cause I’m a rule breaker, Robs.”

Steve wiggles his eyebrows. Robin shoves the rolling chair he’s sitting on with her foot, sending it into the other side of the desk with a thud.

“Don’t think that smoking weed in your backyard is enough to call yourself a rule breaker, dingus.”

-

That night, your routine was pretty much the same.

Steve was already waiting for you in his car when you left the arcade, a smile spreading onto his face when he saw you making your way across the parking lot to him, your skirt swishing a little with the breeze.

Rather than go straight home, you made a stop at your apartment to talk things over with the couple who owned the home. They’d met with a builder and plumber about getting everything fixed and wanted to walk you through it all.

Steve came with you and held your hand, and both of them cooed at him and pinched his cheeks and called him a cutie before getting to the important stuff.

After going over what had to be done (rip out the carpet, replace it, fix the pipes and make sure no others were at risk, replace the ceiling, and more you couldn’t even remember already), they’d assured you that they would be taking care of it all. Covering the entire cost.

You probably would’ve argued if not for how little money was in your bank account, and how stubborn you knew these people to be. Instead, you’d squeezed them both and thanked them while your eyes grew misty with tears.

Steve’s hand stayed in yours and squeezed when you sniffled.

He knew, because he knew pretty much everything about you, that these people were kinder to you than even your own parents. That, if this had happened at their house, they would’ve found a way to blame you for it.

You feel lucky to have found that kind of parental love elsewhere, sad that you didn’t know exactly what it felt like beforehand.

After giving the couple Steve’s phone number to call in case they needed you and giving them both another hug, you and Steve headed back home.

Home, you call it. Like it’s yours.

Sometimes it feels like it is.

Later, after you and Steve have both showered and had dinner and gotten comfy in your sweats, you’re back in the living room, Steve shows you the movie he’s brought back this time.

“Gremlins?” You ask, smiling and shaking your head.

“Hell yeah, angel. It’s a classic.”

Steve sets everything up, joining you on the couch after pressing ‘play’ on the movie and adjusting the volume with your guidance.

“So, how was work?” Steve asks during the opening credits. The two of you have a hard time being next to each other and not talking. It’s why you get dirty looks whenever you go to the movies.

“Weekdays are so boring, Steve,” you say, letting your head fall against the back of the couch. “You’re so lucky you have Robin to entertain you during the day. I think I dusted like, ten times at least.”

“Robin is a pain in my ass.” He says. He doesn’t really mean it, because even when she is, he’s glad to have her around. A different kind of gladness than he feels with you. “She kept pushing me every time I sat in the rolling chair. There’s probably a dent in the desk.”

“That’s because you were probably hogging the chair, Steve.”

“What the fuck!” Steve’s smiling when he says it, lacking any sort of anger. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Your smile mirrors his, the way it always does. It’s contagious, you think, the way his eyes crinkle at the corner.

Shrugging, you say, “I don’t know, I’d wanna push you around on that chair too, I think.”

“You’d spin me too much. I’d get sick all over you and then nobody’s happy.”

“Don’t talk about barf while I’m eating, Harrington.”

You throw a piece of popcorn at him. It bounces off his cheek and lands on his lap, and he doesn’t even flinch. Steve just picks it up and pops it into his mouth.

When the bowl’s empty, you lean forward and set it on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch, Steve's shoulder brushing yours. You let the warmth seep through your clothes and shut your eyes.

It’s a little more than halfway through the movie when Steve realizes you’re asleep. You’d been quiet, sure, but Steve only thought that meant you were paying attention to the movie.

That was, until your head slipped and rested against his shoulder.

He looked down at you, at the hair falling across your forehead (he smoothed it away gently, so it wouldn’t be in your eyes or your mouth), your eyebrows relaxed and free of any worry, your chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

He thinks of how tired you must be, after everything. Your apartment and dealing with the aftermath both emotionally and physically, working long shifts most days to keep your bank account full.

Steve, though he doesn’t let himself look too deep into it, also thinks of how beautiful you are. Now and always.

Not wanting you to get a kink in your neck from the position, Steve decides to rouse you from sleep as gently as possible. He slips a hand under your head to keep it steady and maneuvers himself to kneel in front of you.

“Hey, angel,” he almost whispers, thumb dragging across your cheek. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

Your nose scrunches and you grumble, but after some coaxing, you blink your eyes open and squint at Steve. You blame your half-asleep mind on the way you nuzzle into his palm. “Hmm?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble.

Steve laughs softly. “Don’t be sorry, I just didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

The warmth of his hand leaves your cheek as he stands and holds his hands out for you to grab. He pulls you up off the couch and starts leading you towards the stairs.

You knuckle at your eyes on the way, a tiny smile gracing your face at how sweet Steve’s being. As if you haven’t fallen asleep on his couch plenty of times before.

Still sleepy, you stumble a little on the stairs, but Steve catches you easily with an arm around your waist and a small “Careful.”

He leaves his arm there the rest of the way to what’s become your bedroom, guiding you over to the bed and lifting the covers for you.

Tomorrow, you’ll regret not brushing your teeth or washing your face before climbing in bed. But today, you don’t feel like risking not being able to sleep again if you wake yourself up further.

You’re practically asleep again by the time you’re settled with your head on the pillow as Steve tugs the blankets over you.

You’re just awake enough to feel the light press of his lips on your forehead and a soft “Goodnight, angel” against your skin before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.

-

On a random Thursday that you and Steve both have off, he convinces you to let him take you to the mall.

“We should go shopping,” he says when you walk into the kitchen. It’s a little later in the morning, having slept in since it’s a day off, the sun slipping through the window in warm beams.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Like, groceries?”

“No, like shopping shopping. You know, the mall?”

You lean against the kitchen island, the countertop cool on your back where it touches the sliver of skin between your tank top and sleep shorts. Steve has his shoulder against the fridge, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight against his muscles. Not that you’re looking.

You squint at him, trying to find his motive on his face. “You literally buy whatever the mannequins are wearing to avoid shopping.”

“That’s what they’re there for!” The sass in his voice has you biting back a smile. “You need new clothes,” he continues, “and I need to get out of this house.”

“We can do something else, Steve,” you say. “I thought you hated shopping.”

“Well, I don’t hate you.” There’s a pause, Steve’s eyes lowering to that sliver of skin above your shorts. He flicks them back to your face quickly, hoping you didn’t notice, because even he’s not sure what compelled his eyes to wander. “Plus, Eddie called me a hermit the other day and I really can’t stand for that, can I?”

“Ohhh,” you ignore the way your skin suddenly feels warm beneath his gaze, “so you need to make a public appearance to prove Eddie wrong?”

“Exactly. We’ll replace some of the things you lost and restore my reputation. Two birds, one stone, right angel?”

So that’s how you’d ended up at the mall. After Starcourt burnt down, the closest place was a couple towns over, and Steve (as always) offered to drive.

He lets you pick the music the entire way, sings along when you hold your water bottle by his mouth like a microphone, even attempts to harmonize with you which just ends in laughter because neither of you sounded that great.

You’re a couple of stores in, and Steve’s been complaint-free so far—which makes sense, since this was his idea, but you’ve caught him side-eyeing some things, so you know he’s got some remarks in his head he just hasn’t said out loud—and follows you around as you browse. You try not to take too long, because you can’t imagine that this is any fun for him.

“How about that one?” Steve asks, pointing at one of the dresses hanging along the store’s wall.

He’d seen your apartment, though that was a bit ago, and he remembered what you’d lost the most of, along with the type of stuff you like. He pays attention like that, in small, quiet ways that you think mean the most.

He knows you. He cares enough to know you.

“Yeah, that’s really pretty, actually,” you admit.

At your approval, Steve grabs one in your size (which he also just happens to know) and adds it to the couple of things he’d already been holding for you. Every time you picked something up, he was quick to snatch it from you, telling you it was ‘too hard to browse with your hands full.’

After making your way through the rest of the store, you decided to head back to try things on, holding out a hand for the stuff Steve’s holding. “You can wait out here, I’ll be quick.”

“Hold on,” he says, holding the hangers out of your reach. “Why do you think I’m here, angel? I wanna help you pick.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Give me a fashion show, yeah?”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, letting him follow you to the fitting rooms.

They’re hidden behind the back wall of the store, a hallway painted bright blue with pink changeroom doors on one side, and white benches along the other.

“Hi there,” an employee with auburn hair greets you both, her smile wide and kind, though you know it’s a practiced one. Customer service smile. “How many you got there, darling?”

“Oh, um,” you turn back towards Steve, who’s counting the hangers in his hand. “Five.”

“Perfect!” The girl takes the key hanging around her neck and unlocks one of the rooms for you. She takes the clothes from Steve and hangs them up inside for you, then turns to the two of you and says, “Your man can have a seat right here. We call them the ‘boyfriend benches.’”

“He’s not my-”

“Thanks,” Steve says, cutting off your correction because for some reason he didn’t want you to correct her.

Did he… like the idea of being your boyfriend?

Fuck. No. He just didn’t want you to have to explain the whole situation in your rambly way. That’s all.

The redhead smiles again, “Holler if you need anything,” she says before walking off.

You stand there for a second, something like confusion on your face. Did it look like you were boyfriend and girlfriend?

“Come on,” Steve says, snapping the both of you out of whatever that was. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“I can't believe you’re making me do this,” you say, walking into the fitting room and shutting the door.

You try on a couple of sweaters first, and Steve feels the fabric both times, making sure that it’s not scratchy on your skin. Then, there’s just some basic t-shirts that aren’t all that exciting, but Steve says they look nice anyway.

Finally, you get to the dress he picked out.

It really was pretty. A midi-length with a ruffled hem and straps that tie into little bows on your shoulders. You don’t always feel good in your clothes. Sometimes you wish you could crawl out of your skin when you look into the mirror, but right now, you don’t hate what you see.

You actually like it.

“Well?” Steve calls softly from the bench.

In response, you open the door and step out so he can see you.

Steve’s seen you in plenty of dresses—hell, you went to prom together—but for some reason this one makes his heart beat just a little bit quicker. Maybe it’s simply the fact that it looks great on you, or the way you’re smiling shyly as he looks you over.

Or, maybe it’s because he’s the one who picked it.

He stands up, spinning his finger in the air in a gesture for you to twirl. You roll your eyes but do it anyway, and he can’t take his eyes off of you. The hallway of fitting rooms isn’t very big, so with both of you in it, you’re standing toe to toe, the gold flecks in the middle of Steve’s eyes and the faint freckles that dot his nose are visible from where you stand.

As if he can’t help it, Steve lifts a finger and dips it beneath the strap on your shoulder. Not moving it or undoing it, just gliding along your skin where it sits.

“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice goes all quiet and soft when he says it, and his eyes widen a tiny bit, like he hadn’t meant it to slip out that way. It sounded… more than friendly. He clears his throat and steps back as much as he can in the small space, his finger leaving your skin. “I have great taste. Clearly.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself out of it as much as you can. “Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head.” You lift the tag where it hangs by your armpit and look at the price. You gasp and swat Steve’s arm. “Steve! Why would you let me walk into a place so expensive?”

You probably should’ve looked at the tag beforehand, but here you are. Steve, shrugging exaggeratedly, says, “I didn’t know!”

“Okay, I’m gonna change before she comes back. We can make a run for it.”

“We’re not stealing.”

“I know, but they look at you all judgemental when you try stuff on and don’t buy something. Trust me.”

You turn and go back into the fitting room to put on your own clothes, taking a look at the dress in the mirror one last time before shaking your head at yourself.

Steve, however, takes the opportunity to leave you and head back out into the store. He finds the dress easily and grabs another one in your size from the rack and heads to the cashier.

He’s just finishing up, bag in hand, when you walk out and meet him at the front of the store.

“For you,” he says, holding out the bag for you to take.

“Steve…” You grab it and look inside. Your chest aches when you see the dress, your heart suddenly too full and your stomach fluttering stupidly. “You didn’t have to do that. I would’ve been fine with something from the Gap.”

“I know that,” he says, a hand lifting to scratch at the back of his neck. It’s a nervous tick of his, and the thought of him being nervous right now makes you melt even more. “I wanted to get it for you. You looked too pretty in it not to have it.”

Your eyes catch his, and again, something passes between you that you don’t think you’ve ever felt before. A fizzle, a spark.

You rock back on your feet, looking down at the ground before meeting his eyes again. They’re so fucking soft it makes you wonder how lucky you have to be to have him in your life. Being your best friend, driving you to work even when he doesn’t have a shift, offering you a place to stay, buying you a dress.

He’s the sweetest boy you’ve ever known.

“Well,” you twist the straps of the bag around your fingers just to keep them busy. “Thank you, Steve. This is really nice.”

His knuckle traces down your arm just once, featherlight. “You’re welcome, angel.”

You don’t buy anything else after that, instead stopping at the food court for fries, stealing from each other’s baskets, smiling and slapping hands away.

It’s the best day you’ve had in a while.

-

You don’t think anything you do will convey just how grateful you are that Steve has been so kind to you. Always, but especially now. Letting you stay with him and refusing to let you pay rent. (“I don’t even pay rent, and I live here all the time.”)

But, this morning, you’ve decided you’re gonna try.

Steve’s favorite meal of the day happens to be breakfast, which is funny, considering he usually eats something as simple as cereal. He’d told you once that it was because, as a kid, breakfast was the most peaceful of meals, his parents too busy getting ready for work or wherever they were going that he’d have the kitchen table to himself.

Lunch was usually spent at school, and Steve was never a fan of school to begin with. Then there was dinner, which his parents (when they were home) still wanted to have all together. They’d ask him questions and make backhanded comments about every single answer he gave. He never won at dinner.

So, breakfast was, and has remained, his favorite.

You made sure to get up early enough to give yourself time to get everything ready before he wakes up. Steve’s usually the one making the coffee in the morning, and you figured the least you could do was give him a break.

Yesterday, while Steve had been at work, you went over to the Wheeler’s and asked Nancy if you could borrow their waffle maker. She’d directed the question to her mother, who went and grabbed it for you and handed it over with a smile. You promised to take good care of it and have it back in a couple of days.

By the time Steve walks into the kitchen, you’ve already made the batter and set out the toppings—berries, maple syrup, whipped cream—like a buffet. However, he just so happens to come in as you’re swearing at the waffle maker.

“Stupid fucking thing,” you mutter, trying to open it.

Steve smiles to himself before saying, “Morning, angel.”

You jump at his voice, not having heard him walk in. When you turn around, your heart beats for a different reason.

Steve’s still only in his pajama pants, plaid and soft, hanging low on his hips. And he’s shirtless, his chest smattered with hair and his skin a little tanned from the sun. He’s got beauty marks all over, like a constellation you could chart, and his abs are just visible beneath the soft of his stomach. A trail of hair leading to the waistband of his pants and disappearing beneath them.

You’ve seen Steve shirtless plenty of times. Swimming and sleeping over in the summer, in high school when you used to go to his practices, but it hits you harder for some reason this time.

The way his hair is still a mess from sleep, his eyes a bit heavy. The way it feels to be greeting him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. Intimate. Domestic.

You clear your throat and turn back around to pry the waffle maker open, revealing a slightly burnt but otherwise good-looking waffle. “I’m making breakfast. Coffee’s already in the pot, too.”

He walks over, his chest close to your back as he grabs a mug from the cabinet above you before heading over to pour himself a cup. He looks at the spread you’ve prepared, “Waffles, huh? What did I do to deserve all this?”

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” you say as Steve walks over to lean against the counter next to you, his hip barely touching yours. “To thank you, in a way. For letting me stay and the dress and-”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop thanking me?” He says, though his voice is soft and still a bit rough from sleep. “I like having you around.”

“So you don’t want the waffles then?”

“Oh, I want the waffles. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything for me. It’s not some debt you’ll owe me, angel.”

“Want you to know I appreciate you is all,” you say, pouring a new scoop of batter into the waffle maker.

Steve, unsure of what exactly possesses him to do so, dips in and presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek, his lips a whisper away from your skin when he says, “I appreciate you, too.”

Then he pulls away and moves to set the table. Like it was natural.

And it was, in a way. How you moved around each other in the kitchen. You leaning out of the way when he needed to reach something you were blocking, him putting a hand on your lower back when he walked behind you so you knew he was there.

Your cheek still tingles from where he’d kissed it when you bring the plate of waffles to the table, your skin somehow even warmer under his gaze, like he’s still remembering exactly how it felt, too.

You sit in the chair beside Steve, not noticing the way he tugs it a bit closer to him with his foot before you sit down. Soon enough, both of you are digging in. Steve’s got more whipped cream on his plate than waffle (you tell him as much) and you’ve got your berries on the side the way you always do.

Neither of you work until later in the day, and it’s nice knowing that you can take your time. Steve tells you about the advice he gave Dustin about how to be ‘cooler’ in school (he’d told him that being cool is completely overrated, he knew from experience, and that being himself is the most important). You’d told him he was going soft with age.

You talk about anything at all. How Keith somehow manages both of your places of work, how he also somehow does both terribly. The way he says ‘if you have time to lean, you have time to clean’ while literally having Cheeto dust on his fingers. Laughing at each other’s impressions of him.

What the new highscores were at the arcade, what people were renting from Family Video.

You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to leave. When you’re living alone again.

Logically, you know you’ll still see Steve frequently, because he’s your favorite person and you can’t remember the last time you went longer than a few days without hanging out. Still, it’ll be different than right now, waking up in the same space and sharing breakfast and brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror.

You’ll miss it, you think.

Trying not to dwell on something that’s still a few weeks away, you take another bite of your waffle. Steve catches your chin and wipes off a bit of whipped cream from the corner of your mouth, then pulling away and sucking it off his thumb.

He goes back to his own plate without a thought. Like touching you just now was an instinct.

Then, he teases you, “These are a little crispy, angel. Maybe you should stick to letting me make breakfast in this household.”

You kick his leg under the table. “That’s a funny way of saying ‘thank you,’ Harrington.”

He kicks you back, much gentler than you’d been. “Thank you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

When you look at him, there’s an easy, boyish smile on his face.

A similar one stretches across your own lips.

-

Steve has had the thought pop up into his head a couple of times, that maybe he should’ve just asked you to live with him before you ever bought that apartment. Because having you around feels the most right things have ever felt in his house.

And though the circumstances of your moving in with him (temporarily, he has to remind himself), were far from ideal, he can’t lie and say that he isn’t glad that you’ve ended up sharing his space.

The room across the hall will always be yours, even when you move back to your place.

He knows that you feel indebted to him for all of it, but if anyone owes the other something, he feels like it’s him. For everything you’ve ever done for him. Sticking around even when he was an asshole in highschool, defending him to his parents whenever you’d cross paths, simply being the kind of friend he needed.

Even when you’re not around, he can picture your face, the way your smile spreads slowly until you’re fucking beaming. Worse, the way you cried into his chest that day at your apartment.

He remembers the crack in your voice when you spoke about that picture frame from summer camp. Though he hasn’t seen you cry since, or even bring it up, he’s decided he wants to fix it. He’d told you he would.

Dustin wound up roped into his plan: find a similar frame, decorate it the exact same way, and scour the photo albums in Steve’s room for his copy of that same picture.

When he was younger, the photo albums pissed him off, because they were purely for show. Pictures of his family that were all fake smiles. Now, he’s glad for them, because at least he has some good memories to look back on. To know it wasn’t always all bad.

Steve probably should’ve thought that one through, because when they looked through his albums, he was on the receiving end of relentless teasing from Dustin. (“Dude, you have an insane boogie in this picture.” “I was four!”)

He hopes it’ll be worth it.

Dustin was the one who found the picture they’d been looking for, and he cheered and waved it in Steve’s face as if they’d been racing.

Now, after driving Dustin back home, decorating the frame the way the two of you did as kids, trying to make his handwriting look like it did back then (which wasn’t too difficult, ‘cause Steve’s writing still isn’t that neat), he’s waiting for you to come downstairs before giving it to you.

He’d picked you up after your shift at the arcade not too long ago, but he knows you like to shower and change as soon as you get home from work, so he’d taken the opportunity to wrap the frame and have it ready for you.

Steve can hear you singing in the shower, and he knows you’re done when it goes quiet. A few minutes later you’re walking down the stairs in a baggy t-shirt and silky sleep shorts.

His eyes, for some reason, linger on your legs for a second.

He stands up, frame in his hand, when you walk over. “I have something for you.”

“Steve! Stop buying me things. Seriously.”

“This thing was free, so you can’t even be mad,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly.

Your eyes search his face, flickering between his own and dipping down to his lips and his nose and back to his eyes. He looks… nervous.

Steve’s never nervous around you.

“Okay,” you say, shuffling on your feet. “What is it?”

“Here,” he hands you the poorly-wrapped frame. “Open it.”

You scrunch your brows at him once, because you have no idea what it could be. It isn’t your birthday, or any sort of holiday at all. With zero guesses, you look down at the light yellow wrapping paper in your hands and slowly tear it open.

What you find makes your eyes grow misty, tears pooling at your lash line but not quite falling.

It’s your favorite picture, the one of you and Steve in those stupid neon shirts with messy hair and dirt on your hands. Only now, it’s not water damaged, and the frame is new, but decorated just like the old one. You run your thumbs over the glass lightly, smiling down at little you and little Steve.

When you look back up at him, he’s already looking at you, his brown eyes all warm, his smile kind but also worried, waiting for your reaction.

Seeing his face springs you into motion, jumping forward and wrapping your arms around his neck tightly with the frame still in your hand. “Thank you,” you say into his skin.

Steve’s arms move to hold you around your waist without a thought. A reflex. They squeeze you close to him, his nose pressed into your damp hair, smelling your shampoo.

“It’s not perfect,” he says. “But I know how much you love that picture, and I wanted to fix it.”

“Steve. Shut up. It is perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, his thumbs running back and forth against your back.

You hug for what could’ve been minutes, but neither of you moves to pull away first. You’re not sure if it’s still considered friendly to stand in each other's arms, breathing each other in, for so long, but you don’t care at the moment.

This is probably the nicest thing anyone’s done for you in a long, long time.

When you finally do pull away, you don’t go far. Your arms stay slung over his shoulders, Steve’s hands framing your hips. His thumbs still dragging those sweet patterns against you.

“I’m keeping it forever,” you tell him.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Certain. You’ll always be my best friend, Steve.”

“You’ll always be mine too, angel.”

Then, your eyes both move to each other’s lips, yours flick back up in a second, startled at their wandering.

Steve, however, is a bit transfixed. He looks at the slope of your cupid’s bow, the way your lips are shiny from your lip balm. He thinks it quickly, like a gust of wind that can’t be stopped: I really wanna kiss her right now.

Fuck. He wants to kiss his best friend.

He blinks a few times, clearing his throat and pulling back, letting his hands fall from your waist as yours slide off his shoulders. He misses the feel of your touch immediately, but he’s too freaked out and confused to do anything about it.

“What are you in the mood for tonight?” he asks, cutting off his own thoughts. “I brought back a horror and a comedy. Take your pick.”

“Mmm,” he picks up two tapes from the coffee table and holds them up for you to choose from. “Horror. Unless you’re too scared?”

“You’ll just have to hold my hand, then, won’t you?”

“I guess I will.”

You look back at the picture while Steve puts the movie into the player. You smile at it every time you see it, because you can still see parts of Steve in him now that were in him then.

His eyes, always kind, the way he smiles when he laughs, and about a half hour into the movie, the way he holds your hand and squeezes it when he’s scared.

-

You’re having one of those nights. The kind where sleep seems to be fighting you.

You worked a closing shift at the arcade, which usually lasts until late considering how long you’re open plus all of the cleaning you have to do afterwards. Today was no different, and despite how much later you finish than him at Family Video, Steve waited and drove you home. He hung out in the arcade with you until close, actually.

You’d think that after such a long day, the second your head hit the pillow you’d be out and breathing steadily. Today, that is not the case. You fell asleep for maybe an hour before a nightmare woke you up. You can’t quite remember what happened, only that you’d been yelling for Steve and he wasn’t there.

Groaning quietly, you rub your eyes and toss the blankets away. You stand up and head down to the kitchen in the dark, hand trailing along the walls to make sure you don’t bump into anything.

Just as you’re pouring yourself a glass of water, you hear the shuffle of sleepy footsteps coming into the kitchen.

“Holy shit,” he says, walking over to grab a glass, one hand on his bare chest. “I thought you were a ghost or something just now.”

You shift out of the way to let him get some water just like you did, taking the second that he’s distracted to look at him. His hair a mess, wearing nothing but his boxers. You take a big sip from your glass.

“I feel like I should be offended right now,” you say, “if you think I look like a ghost.”

“Shut up,” he says, dragging out the second word. His voice being rough from sleep makes his words sound much warmer than they are. “My eyes aren’t awake yet. Nothing to do with you, angel.”

You shake your head, though there’s a soft smile on your face the way there always seems to be when you try to be annoyed with Steve. You tilt your head at him, asking, “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “Been tossing and turning. Just can’t get comfortable, then I got pissed ‘cause I couldn’t get comfortable and only made it worse.”

“You would get pissed at that. Probably slapped your pillow like it was at fault.”

He folds his lips inwards and blinks at you. Because he did smack his pillow and call it a dipshit. “Why do you know everything? Spying on me?”

“Hate to say it, but you’re getting predictable, Harrington.” You shrug, then move to put your now empty glass in the dishwasher. “I know you too well.”

He looks at you, your hair falling across your shoulders, your pajama shorts riding up a little as you bend down. The moonlight slipping through the window seems to hit you perfectly. Like a halo.

Fitting, he thinks. You’re his angel, after all.

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees. Then, “What about you? Why’re you up?”

“Nightmare. Been forever since I had one.”

“You okay?” he asks, trailing a knuckle over your shoulder, pushing your hair behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, skin tingling where he’d touched you. “I can't even remember most of it, but now my brain won’t let me sleep.”

Steve wishes he could’ve protected you from whatever haunted you in your sleep. It’s silly, he knows, to think he might be able to ward away anything that hurts you, but he wants to, nonetheless.

He thinks about how comfortable he is whenever you cuddle during movie night. Your head on his shoulder or his chest, his hand on your back or waist.

So, he blurts, “Why don’t you sleep over?”

You furrow your brows at him, “Um, I’ve been sleeping over. A couple of weeks now, actually.”

“No, I mean, like in my room with me,” he says, suddenly shy at the idea. He’s grateful for the darkness, because he can feel his cheeks warming up. “A proper sleepover.”

You’ve done it before. Shared a bed a bunch of times, but for some reason your heart jumps when he says it. Your stomach swirls as you say, maybe a little too quickly, “Okay.”

Steve’s eyes widen like he’s surprised, just for a split second, before a soft smile takes over his face. He holds out a hand for you to take, “C’mon.”

Soon enough, Steve’s lifting his navy bedspread for you, letting you slip into bed next to him. He stays further away at first, letting you settle and lay on your side the way he knows you always do.

You blame sleepiness—or, maybe, the lack thereof—for the way you reach behind you for his arm and tug him closer, draping it over your own waist.

He obliges, of course, his arm securing itself across your stomach, palm spread out and warm against your sleep shirt. His chest is only a breath away from your back, though he keeps his lower half a little more distanced.

His thumb runs circles over your shirt, once, twice, three times before stilling, his forehead pressing to the back of your neck.

“Goodnight, angel,” he says into your hair.

Your hand splays itself on top of his. “Night, Steve.”

And suddenly your eyes grow heavier, and sleep doesn’t feel like much of a battle anymore.

-

You wake up the most rested you’ve felt in a while. There’s warmth surrounding you, but not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that feels safe.

Somehow, you and Steve are even closer than you’d been when you fell asleep. His arm is still around your waist, his other outstretched and tucked beneath your head like a pillow. His chest is flush to your back, and you can feel it expand with every breath he takes.

Most differently of all, however, is the way his hips are snug against the curve of your butt. And you can feel him hard against you.

Your skin feels even warmer than before when you notice.

Steve hasn’t woken up yet, you don’t think, because the faintest snores are getting puffed out against your shoulder where his face is tucked. His hand on your stomach has worked its way beneath your shirt, though, and his fingertips press against your skin, like he’s fighting to keep you close.

As if you’d go anywhere even in your sleep.

His knee is tucked between your legs, and you’re quickly realizing that it’d be pretty impossible to get out of bed without him noticing. You’re completely tangled together, a knot of limbs somehow fitting together just right. Like two puzzle pieces.

In his sleep, Steve’s mouth presses against the back of your shoulder, and only when you involuntarily shiver at the contact, does he stir.

It takes Steve a bit to really wake up, mumbling words that don’t make sense, scrunching his eyes shut even further before blinking them open. He’s met with the sight of you right in front of him. Body curved perfectly against his.

“Steve? You awake?” you ask, checking.

“Mhm,” he hums.

Then, something that has his cheeks flushing pink, he registers the feeling of his boner pressed against your ass. He shuffles them back enough so there’s space between you. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. Because he can’t control the way his body reacts while he’s asleep.

“I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off, because he’s not quite sure how to say I didn’t think about the whole morning wood factor or that I’d fucking plaster myself to you when I suggested a sleepover without sounding stupid. Instead, he just repeats, “I’m sorry.”

You twist yourself around to face him, sheets crumpling and twisting as you move. When you settle back onto the pillow and look at his face, at the redness on his cheeks and the tips of his ears, you squeeze his hand that’s now laying between you.

“It’s okay, really,” you say. “It’s, like, anatomy. You’re human, Steve.”

“I don’t want you to think I invited you to sleep in here for some pervy reason,” he says, scrunching his nose when he says it.

“I don’t think that at all,” you tell him. You squeeze his hand again. “We’ve shared a bed like, a hundred times by now. If anything I’m surprised this hasn’t happened already.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shutting his eyes and pushing his face into the pillow.

“Steve,” you drag out his name, fighting a giggle at the way he’s acting. He’s got a reputation, after all, and how shy and embarrassed he seems to be doesn’t reflect the things you heard about him in high school. He’s changed a lot since then. “It’s seriously fine. We can pretend it never happened. Promise.”

Steve pulls his face from the pillow, eyes catching yours as his fingers squeeze yours back in appreciation. He lets his eyes wander a bit, at the messy bits of your hair around your face from sleeping, the marks in your cheek from the pillowcase, the way your sleep shirt has fallen off your shoulder.

He feels lucky to get to see you this way, right after you’ve woken up. Vulnerable, unguarded, beautiful.

It’s during this small stretch of silence that you realize how close your faces are now. You’re sharing a pillow, his nose not even an inch from yours. Shift forward the slightest bit, and they’d be touching. Your eyes trail down to his mouth, to the visible patch of chest hair and the freckles that dot his skin. He’s already looking right at you when your eyes flick back upwards.

You know Steve, could tell what he’s feeling just from the look on his face, but this is one you’ve never seen before. At least, not directed at you.

Steve moves first, his eyes a little darker than usual, shifting forward slightly, then looking at you. Daring you to make the next move.

“What if we didn’t forget about it?” he says. Quiet and scratchy.

You don’t have time to think before you move forward a bit, too. Your noses brush. “What would that mean?”

Steve doesn’t answer with words. Rather, he moves forward the final bit and brushes his lips against yours in a question mark of a kiss, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, the hand of yours that isn’t still holding his comes up to the back of his neck, gently encouraging him to do it again. His free hand tightens at your waist as he dips in a second time.

It isn’t as tentative now that you’ve urged him on. His lips meet yours more sure, more firm, but still soft against you. Neither of you cares one bit about morning breath, or about what this might change. As if the morning’s haze slows time, minds still a little sleepy.

You’re simply acting on instinct. And this feels too right to stop.

Soon enough it grows more heated, Steve shifting to hover over you, his elbows pushing into the mattress to hold himself up, his tongue sneaking out to lick against the seam of your lips for permission.

Just as you open up for him, the blaring sound of Steve's alarm cuts you off, pulling back with a gasp. He simply leans up on one arm and slams the snooze button—and you laugh, you laugh, at how hard he hits it—before diving back into you.

You feel hot all over, where one of Steve’s hands has moved to cup your jaw, his thumb running delicately against your face as his mouth moves against yours, practically devouring you. Where the blankets are still over your lower halves, trapping in heat. When he pulls back, looks into your eyes, fucking smiles all dopey and pretty, and then kisses you again.

It’s so good, you’re almost angry at yourself for not kissing him sooner.

You kiss until his alarm goes off again and Steve's forced to pry himself away from you, groaning about being on his ‘last tardy warning’ from Keith.

Still, he takes the time to kiss your forehead on his way out, Family Video vest slung over his shoulder, calling a sweet, “bye, angel,” on his way out. His hair’s still a mess from your fingers, and he doesn’t even seem to mind.

You stay in his bed longer than you probably should, blinking up at the ceiling, fingers pressed against your lips like you’re searching for physical proof that everything was real.

What the fuck just happened?

-

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Steve can’t stop thinking about that kiss. He doesn’t know it, but you can’t stop thinking about it either.

Neither of you have brought it up, and things have faded back to normal as if it had never happened. But you and Steve are both thinking the same things without knowing it. How good and natural and easy it felt, how, every now and then, you think about doing it again.

You talk and joke and watch movies and eat meals together the same way you always have, and it’d be so easy to stay that way, to never kiss again. But then, what if you could stay that way and kiss? Wouldn’t that be something close to perfect?

You lay awake thinking about it every few nights. Because, when you really reflect on your life and how intertwined it is with Steve’s, you realize that you’ve sort of always acted like a couple, minus the kissing and sex aspect. You go on what could easily be classified as dates—the movies, lunch or dinner—you cuddle on the couch almost nightly, and you’ve never shied away from physical touch with one another. Held hands, a palm on your back.

You haven’t brought it up with Steve because you haven’t even come to terms with it yourself. Feelings are so fucking confusing and messy and you’d like to have a better idea of what’s going on in your own head before asking him about his.

Meanwhile, Steve has allowed himself to come to terms with it. He’s in love with you.

He’s pretty sure he has been for a while. Months, maybe even years.

It hadn’t come easily, though. It was nights spent similarly to yours, running through interactions you’ve had and the way he felt that one time in senior year when you went on a date with some guy from your math class. Even then, a part of him felt wrong about it, that pit in his gut.

Then there were his shifts with Robin at Family Video where he’d practically spilled everything just to get her opinion. She looked up and sighed “thank you” before saying that it was nice of him to finally catch on.

Had he really been that obvious? All this time? And had he really been that oblivious to his own feelings?

Steve can’t answer those questions. He can’t say when his love for you changed from platonic to romantic, he just knows that it has and he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back from it.

You’re his best friend in the entire world, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and he can’t picture himself loving anyone but you so wholly.

He’s fucking terrified of losing you, but he’s also terrified of never telling you how he feels and testing that what if.

So, like a desperate idiot, he knocks on the door to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie opens it after a minute and what sounded like him stubbing his toe, “oh, hey Harrington. More weed?”

“No, shut up. I need your help.”

“You,” Eddie points at Steve, then at himself, “need my help for something? Are you ill?”

“Okay,” Steve, dramatic and bitchy as usual, sighs and mutters something about this being a stupid idea and turns to leave.

“Come on,” Eddie laughs, “I’m just joking. What’s up?”

Soon enough, Steve’s sitting on Eddie’s couch, Eddie pacing in front of the coffee table like this is a very serious matter, and telling him pretty much everything. Your kiss, the train of thought it sparked.

“Basically I’m in love with her and I have no clue what to do,” Steve finishes, sinking back into the couch cushions. It squeaks as he shifts.

Eddie pauses, tugging at his bottom lip between his fingers, then looks at Steve and says, “You know I’ve never dated anyone in my life, right?”

Steve groans into his hands, “Why do all of my friends have to be losers with no dating lives.”

Eddie ignores that, because he can tell how affected Steve actually is by all of this. How much he cares. He walks over and sits down on the opposite end of the couch. “Have you ever thought of, I don’t know, telling her how you feel?”

Steve rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and letting his head hang for a moment before picking it up. “Of course I have, but I’m fuckin’ scared.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Um, she could reject me and not feel the same way and everything would be awkward because I ruined it and I’d lose my best friend in the entire world.”

“What if she does feel the same?” Eddie asks.

He’s both yours and Steve’s friend, he’s been around the both of you together. He’s seen the way you look at each other. Eddie might not be an expert, but it’s always looked a lot like love to him. He’s pretty sure the chances of you feeling the same are quite high.

“What do you mean?”

“What if she does feel the same and you never figure it out because you’re too afraid?” Eddie says. “Man, don’t you think that risk is worth taking?”

Steve thinks about it, and as much as he hates to admit it, Eddie’s right. He’d hate to always wonder, to lose out on the chance to really be with you when he knows it could be so good.

You are worth the risk to him.

“When the fuck did you become so wise, Munson?”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs. “Wanna smoke?”

Steve laughs, “Yes I do.”

-

With Steve gone at work and you off for the day, there’s been too much room for your thoughts to creep in. Too much silence.

You’ve already been thinking about things so much. Thinking about him so much, that in his absence, your mind seemed to work overtime to fill in the gaps.

You thought about the day he picked you up from your apartment, how quick he was to drop whatever he’d been doing and come over and help you and take you home with him. The day he took you shopping and bought you a dress because he thought you looked pretty in it, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap on your shoulder when you tried it on for him.

The day he gifted you a remade version of your favorite picture from summer camp because he knew how much it meant to you, the way you held on to each other afterwards.

How you’d been waiting for him to get home that night he went to Eddie’s, just to make sure he was okay. How when he came in, he smiled at the sight of you curled on the couch, and he kissed your cheek when he walked by like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Your brain knew he was high, you could smell the weed mingling with his cologne on his clothes when he leaned in close, but your heart didn’t care about that. It thumped in your chest the second he leaned in closer, even worse when his lips touched your cheek.

The realization hits you now like a shock, a quick zip of electricity running through your system. You fucking love him.

Sure, you’ve loved Steve practically your whole life, but this was different. You love him, love him. Like, you want to kiss him when he comes home from work and in the morning. You want him to introduce you as his girlfriend and to be able to call him your boyfriend.

You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner, because looking back on things now, knowing how you feel, you can see it written throughout your entire friendship. Holding hands and kissing foreheads and hands pushing hair away from faces.

For a second, you’re purely happy, because you get to be in love with your best friend and it feels as warm and sweet as sunlight. Then, the fear creeps in, and you’re scared. Scared of losing him, of making things weird, of change and doing the wrong thing.

So scared that you start to panic and pack up some of your things in your bag like you’re running away.

Truthfully, you’re not sure what else to do. You’ve never been in love before, you’ve never known it this way—so kind and unconditional. And your parents sure as hell didn’t set a good example for you. They’d fight, and someone would leave with the slam of a door, and then they’d be back and the cycle would continue.

You’re scared and confused and your instincts are telling you to run away even though the only place you really wanna be is with Steve. In his arms.

You’re stuffing clothes into your bag just to keep your hands busy, breathing hard and fast, when you hear the front door open and close. Steve’s quick to find you, his eyes scanning your room and then looking at you. “What are you doing?”

You feel like you might cry just looking at him. His brown eyes worried but warm as always, his hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s nervous.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until later,” you say, hoping he can’t hear the shake in your voice.

“It was dead, so Keith let me off early. I-” Steve furrows his brows, “are you leaving?”

You nod. “I’ve been in your way long enough.”

“I told you, you’re never in my way.” Steve knows you, and he loves you, and he can tell that there’s something going on. That you’re panicked and trying to get away from whatever it is. He cares too much to let that happen. “I want you to stay.”

You want to stay, too. You just don’t know what comes next, and that unknown, the lack of control, of familiarity, it makes your hands shake.

Your mind doesn’t work the same when you’re afraid.

“Give me one good reason why I should stay, Steve. I’ve been taking up your space for weeks and-”

“Because I love you.” Steve cuts you off. He hadn’t planned on telling you this way, he wanted it to be romantic and perfect but he can’t wait any longer. Especially not when you’re trying to run away. “I’m in love with you. And I want you here.”

You immediately stop in your tracks, blinking up at him like you’re not sure you’d heard him correctly. “You- what?”

“I love you. Romantically. And I think I have for a really long time.”

“You’re not high again, are you?” You ask, your eyes a little misty.

Steve walks over to you and grabs both of your hands in his, making sure you’re looking at him, at the sincerity written all over his face, when he says, “Completely sober. I fucking love you and I want you to keep living with me, because this house doesn’t really feel like home unless you’re in it.”

“What about when my apartment is ready?”

He squeezes your hands. “Stay then, too. Stay forever.”

You look up at him, his hair falling over his forehead, his eyes so honest, a tentative smile on his mouth. The only boy you’ve ever loved.

You feel silly for trying to escape this when this is how it’s turning out. Steve had been brave just now, telling you he loves you and he wants you to stay, so you decide to be brave, too.

It’s easier than you thought it would be to say: “I love you, too, Steve. I feel the same. I only just realized it and freaked out. I’m so scared of losing you, is all.”

“You won’t. Not ever.”

You tip your chin up to kiss him after he says it, because you can. You pour your feelings into it, and Steve returns your kiss as if it’s one he’s known for years. It’s slow, and deep, and sweet, and so full of love you’re practically overflowing with it.

The two of you only pull away when you need a breather. Steve doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours.

“So what happens now?” You ask.

“Well, we’ve been acting like a couple for a while, I think, so we stay the same. Mostly. Except now I get to call you my girlfriend-”

“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to ask me first.”

He lets go of one of your hands and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckle running lovingly across your cheek. “My angel girl, will you be my girlfriend?”

Your grin is wide and lovesick and cheesy and you don’t care one bit. “Yeah, yes I will. Boyfriend.”

“And, being your boyfriend means I get to do this.”

He kisses you once more. And you don’t ever want to not be kissing him again.

𝜗𝜚

thank you guys so much for reading!!! it would mean a whole bunch if you would consider leaving a comment or a reblog and letting me know what you think!! it helps more than you know <3

[corinthianism]

SOMETHIN' STUPID || VIKTOR

pairing: viktor (arcane)/fem!reader additional tags: viktor's pov, viktor is a certified yearner, maybe ooc, unrequited love that's actually requited, no physical descriptions for reader other than having dainty fingers and being shorter than viktor, hopefully correct use of czech pet names, barely proofread synopsis: the ever-brilliant viktor finds himself drowning in feelings for his colleague, so what does he do? bury them, of course.... until he learns that love is not something you can just ignore.

author's note: hello everyone! it's been a long, long while since i've written anything so i thought i would try and see if the ol' writing machine (aka my brain) still works lol. this is more of a blurb than anything so please go easy on me. also trying out something new by writing in present tense (lmk if it flows well!) viktor might be a little ooc but i'm still trying to fully understand him. hopefully my characterization of him in future fics (if any) will be more faithful to the viktor you're all familiar with. anyways, enjoy 2k words of viktor yearning like CRAZY 🫶🏼

Viktor doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. How many more times would your eyes meet from across the room at one of those parties he never really wanted to attend in the first place? How many more times would your fingers brush in the early morning, when he accepts the steaming sweetmilk that you so kindly got for him? How many more times would your laughter intermingle softly late into the night, when exhaustion took over and your writing started to look more like chicken scratch rather than letters?

He might just go insane.

How was it possible to want someone this much? Maybe he’s experienced something like this before, in tiny amounts, for people he hasn’t thought about in years. Deep down, he knows that even if he added all of those fleeting romances together, it would still only be a fraction of what he feels now. For you.

He can’t pinpoint that exact moment in time when everything changed. There were definitely a few of those moments that stood out more than others, but none of those instances were the catalyst for whatever this is. But they certainly don’t help his case.

A few words of encouragement.

A book recommendation.

A smile— so soft, so intimate, he briefly allows himself to believe that it was meant just for him. Something precious for him to keep, to be his and his alone.

In the dim light of the lab, he finds you asleep on your desk. The humming glow of the hex crystals leaves you blanketed in a gentle blue. He’s heard tales of this before, from when he bothered to listen to such things. It would happen just like this, they said: his heart would beat so fast, it threatened to leave his chest entirely. His skin would burn with something unmistakable, a feeling that left one in a state of simultaneous confusion and clarity.

He feels it all now and he finds it polarizing. It’s too much and not enough. He chases and runs away from it at the same time. A part of him wants it to stop, to go away and leave him forever for the sake of ending this game he’s painfully losing… but a greater part of him hopes that it will grow and grow to the point where maybe you’ll notice and do something about it. His palms get a little sweaty just thinking about making the first move. Symptoms of a lovesick fool.

The soft sound of your breathing quiets the pounding of his heart, prevents the wretched feelings from overflowing and spilling everywhere. Even if it was just for tonight. Tonight, he keeps his lips sealed, fights to keep himself from reaching for you. It would be unbecoming of him.

His eyes land on you again, observing how your head rested on your arms. Understanding hits him then, why you’re so bothered by seeing him stay at the lab so late that he ends up falling asleep. That position couldn’t have been comfortable. Of course, he knew that from experience, but it’s your comfort he’s thinking about right now. He wonders if this is what you felt whenever you woke him up and implored him to go home.

Surely not.

No, he can’t wrap his head around you possibly viewing that act the same way he does. Not when he wants to bottle this moment, wants to capture the preciousness of seeing you like this. It just can’t be the same.

So can you really blame him if when he finally rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you gently, he lets it linger there for just a little longer? An infinitesimal piece of time that he claims for himself. He never thought himself to be the sentimental type, but he cherishes it all: he cherishes the way you blink slowly as you returned to the waking world, and your tired murmur of his name that makes his chest tighten.

It’s just a wisp of a moment, never really tangible enough for him to hold in his hands, but he cherishes it all the same. It’s burned in his memory, in his very being, the same way everything else about you is. Every piece of you that you so generously gifted him.

“You should go home, darling.”

The word slips past his lips before he could even think about it. But he allows himself this one indulgence. He can’t help it. He’s always been a bit greedy.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Far too late for you to be here,” he answers.

You huff out a breath of a laugh, “That’s rich coming from you.”

He finds himself smiling. How does someone manage to be so endlessly endearing without even trying?

It takes an embarrassing amount of effort for him to pull back his hand from your shoulder. Had you been more awake and had the room been brighter, he might’ve schooled his expression into something more neutral. Something to hide the unbridled adoration in his eyes. He doesn’t do that now. With the shield of darkness to protect him, he lets the mask come off. He lets his affection for you wash over him in waves. It would’ve been liberating, if it wasn’t for the tiny detail that that affection was unrequited.

Still, he says your name with utmost care. “You must go home and rest.”

To his surprise, you listen. You mumble a tired "okay” and gather your belongings, slipping on your coat. “You should go home, too, Vik.”

“I will. Soon. I just need to finish a few things.”

Your face twists into a frown, “No, you’ll do that tomorrow.” Before he can interject, you speak up again, “Just… come with me? It’s late and I don’t want to walk home alone.”

His brain refuses to reconcile with what his eyes see: the trepidation written all over your features, the way you clutch the lapel of your coat just a little tighter. He knows it’s a trap, you just want to get him out of the lab but how could he possibly reject the promise of a few more minutes with you? The chance to pretend, even if it’s just for those precious few minutes, that he was taking you home as someone more than a colleague? More than a friend? Only a fool would say no to you. Or perhaps he was a fool either way. He really must be going insane.

He says yes almost instantly.

It’s cold in Piltover tonight. It makes his bad leg ache more than it already does, and so his strides are a bit more careful. He doesn’t say anything about how you also slow down to match his pace but he appreciates your considerate gesture nonetheless.

The moon hangs in the sky big and bright, making everything around you seem softer. It’s picturesque. Almost romantic. He tries his best not to entertain that thought for much longer. Instead, he focuses on what you say to him so he could ignore the traitorous thoughts his mind conjures up and the way his knees were protesting because of the cold.

Conversation with you is easy— terrifyingly so. It was one of the first things he noticed about you when you first met.

Early on in the process of finding sponsors and securing funding, him and Jayce quickly realized that they needed help. Yes, Jayce is a friend of the Kiramman family. Yes, Viktor is Heimerdinger’s protégé, but they’re academics. At the end of the day, Jayce’s warm personality could only do so much when he was still greatly inexperienced with navigating these more political spaces and for all of his experience and perceptiveness, Viktor knows he’s no good at sweet-talking sponsors, either.

Enter, you.

Caitlyn Kiramman was the one to recommend you, her former tutor. Jayce was quick to back her up, remembering that you were also Academy alumni; a particularly strategic businesswoman. Viktor was hesitant at first, knowing that a third party could complicate things. Hextech was born out of the dream to help people. He worried that bringing business and politics (even though he knew it was necessary) into the mix would warp Hextech into something it wasn’t. Jayce convinced him to take a gamble, and it seemed that the potential of Hextech was enough to bring you back to Piltover from your travels across Runeterra.

It took him a while to warm up to you. You weren’t nobility, but most definitely well-off. Even more so after your years as a business consultant to organizations all over the continent. He respected you, sure, but Viktor had a hard time trusting someone who was so… privileged. How could you possibly understand how important it was that Hextech remained a beacon of hope for the less fortunate? Perhaps it was naive of him to think that way, as much as he hated to admit it.

But true to your reputation, you delivered exactly what they needed. You bridged the gap between Viktor and Jayce’s hopes for Hextech and the support they needed from sponsors, protecting them and their inventions from being taken advantage of.

Suffice to say, you earned his admiration.

Never in a million years would Viktor imagine that you would captivate his entire being, too.

It was daunting. Scary, really. Especially now that he’s beginning to understand the full extent of his affections. Years and years of burying that softness from his youth deep beneath the armor of his intellect— all that hard work diminished by a pretty girl. Gods, he really is just a man. Not even that. With you, he feels like a highschooler with a crush. It’s painful. Downright humiliating. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not when you link your arm around his, laughing at something he said. Was he really that funny? Probably not. He’s just happy to make you laugh.

“You don’t have to be nice about it. Salo is a grade-A asshole,” you grinned. “We both know it. If I have to spend another dinner with him present I might actually stab a fork in my eyes.”

He smiles, “Ah, but that wouldn’t save you from his incessant chatter.”

“I’ll stab the fork into my ears too."

“I might just follow after you,” he hums, “you’ll have to check if it works first, though.”

Your friendship blossomed when your visits to the lab became less for work and more for leisure. You wanted to visit, wanted to learn more about what he and Jayce were working on and why. Everything after that was just dominoes. You, with all your fiery passion and sharp wit, have become a permanent fixture in his life and now? He could hardly imagine life without you in it. You're one of his dearest friends and, much to his dismay, that makes his current predicament even more challenging than it already is.

Before he knew it, the two of you were standing in front of your apartment building— one of the most luxurious in Piltover. He could only imagine how much it cost, though he knew for certain that your penthouse probably barely made a dent in your wealth. He’s gotten somewhat used to your differing lifestyles, but he’s never completely able to not marvel at it. A gust of wind kissed his skin once more as he turned to look at you.

“This is me,” you say, gloved hands in your pocket and your lovely, lovely face framed by your hair and ruby red scarf. He recognizes it as the gift he gave you a year ago now. A spur-of-the-moment purchase on one of the rare occasions he was actually outside Academy grounds. He remembers thinking that the color would look nice on you. He was right. He finds himself holding onto the seconds before he has to go. “Thank you for walking me home, Viktor.”

“Of course,” he nods but the calmness of his voice don’t match the way his eyes bore into yours. “It’s only proper.”

“Proper?”

“Yes. Proper. I am a gentleman, after all.”

His accent comes out thicker, emphasizing the words more than he means to.

“I didn’t take you for someone who cared much about propriety,” you tease.

“Is it because I’m from the undercity?” he deadpans and he relishes in the look of horror on your face that replaces your grin.

“What? No!” you exclaim, smacking his arm when you realize he’s just joking. “You. Are. Impossible.”

A laugh bubbles out of his chest, “Oh, that’s cruel. You would hit a defenseless man? How heartless.”

“Shut up. That cane of yours is a weapon of war. Don’t think I haven’t seen you smack Jayce with it.”

“If I hit him with it, he probably deserved it.”

“Poor Jayce,” you laugh as well. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Viktor smiles.

“I do not think you could even if you tried, lásko."

He freezes and so do you. The laughter—the music—that you shared for the briefest of moments was thoroughly snuffed out, leaving you both in a silence that threatens to swallow him whole. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to speak so gently, but there is not a part of Viktor that could withhold this sincerity from you. Specks of the truth, of the confession he’s barely managed to wrangle into submission and lock away somewhere dark and unreachable.

He pulls back on instinct. He’s shown too much, said too much. You don’t move. He is petrified.

Your eyes widen and he sees his reflection in them, staring back at him. This is it, he thinks. He’s crossed the line and he’ll have to deal with the crushing blow of your rejection.

You manage to compose yourself and what you say next is… well, unexpected. Your tone is light, clearing the air and allowing him to breathe again.

“Do you say that to every woman or am I a special case? I’d hate to be part of a roster.”

He’s taken aback, but he feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. You are a miracle in his eyes. Washing away his worries with a kind smile and a few choice words. He laughs again and this time, he doesn’t stop himself from speaking the truth. It’s now or never.

“Surely you know by now that you are singular,” he whispers, his accent a pleasant drawl in your ears. He takes a step forward. It is gravity that pulls him in, not the Earth’s, but yours. A force that he can’t help but be drawn to. Not that he would ever dare to resist it now that his fear has shrunk down to something a little less debilitating.

His face is inches from yours. You don’t move. He gets a little braver.

“I do not appreciate your implication that I would pay attention to anyone else,” his voice is low, honest. “As if anyone could compare to you. As if you don’t hold my very being in the palm of your hand. Miláčku, I adore you. Don’t you know that?”

There is a hint of pleading in his tone, begging you to understand the full scope of his feelings from those few words so that he wouldn’t unravel before you, a bundle of nerves and petals the same shade as your scarf.

“Say something. Please,” his fear rears its ugly head once more. “Say the word and we’ll pretend this never happened. I will remain your colleague and nothing more. A friend, if you would allow it.”

“What if I don’t want that?” you ask, your own voice a little shaky with uncertainty. Maybe it was also fear. That, he’s not quite sure.

Viktor doesn’t fully trust what he’s hearing, thinks it to be a figment of his deluded imagination, but his heart is screaming at him now to push forward.

“What is it you want, lásko? Tell me and it shall be yours.”

You're almost breathless when you finally respond, “You. I want you."

The world stills. Time itself screeches to a halt. There is only you and him, together in this moment that he knows will be woven into the threads of his soul. He has never known euphoria quite like this. He can’t name it yet, doesn’t know if this is love. He can only hope that it will be.

When he looks into your eyes again, he does not see his own terrified reflection. He just sees you. And the sheer intensity of your gaze that rivals his own. Have you always looked at him that way? Was he just too blind to see it?

“Do you mean that?” he finds himself asking. He has to— has to make sure that this is real.

You smile again, dainty fingers intertwining with his. It is a gentle smile, a hopeful smile that answers his question before you even open your mouth.

“I do,” your voice is so gentle and yet it squeezes his heart. “I’m yours, Viktor, if you’ll have me.”

He brings your knuckles to his lips, places a reverent kiss on them like you’ve given him the world. In a way, that’s exactly what you did. Maybe his lips were always meant to be on your skin, worshipping you like the goddess you are. It feels too natural for it to mean anything else.

And for the first time in a long time, he allows himself to hope.

“I would love nothing more.”

[cryobabiess]

Pairing: Emperor Caracalla x concubine!reader

Summary: After a public tantrum at a senator's gathering, Geta sends Caracalla's most beloved concubine to comfort his mad brother. Tags: hurt/comfort, slightly NSFW, implied/mentioned sex, Caracalla has serious mommy issues, nipple play, breastfeeding :/ (sorry), short fic, Caracalla is obsessed with your big naturals I guess idk AN: I'm not sure if there's any Otessa Moshfegh enjoyers out there, but this lil mini fic is inspired by Lapvona. Caracalla's man-child vibe reminded me of Merek, so naturally I had to write the most strange and off-putting fic to satisfy my weird-girl impulses. Enjoy, freaks!

Hurt by his brother’s callous words, the divine emperor Caracalla had fled the senator’s banquet in a fit of rage. It only takes a single tense glance from Emperor Geta for you to receive his silent command to follow after his mad brother. It does not take long to find him.

Like always, he hides away under a golden table tucked in the far corner of the throne room. His sniveling echoes off the tall marble walls. You slowly approach his curled up form, as if not to startle a wild hare.

“Caracalla. You must come out now.” You call his name softly.

“I will not.” He croaks through his tears, turning his back towards you. With a sigh, you sink to your knees, extending your open arms towards him.

You wait for Caracalla to find his sense. After a few moments, He finally turns to you to reveal his face—pale, rosy, and wet.

“Has brother sent you to scold me? I am no child!” Spite coats his words. You smile at the absurdity. He could order your head on a pike if he so pleased, but prefers for you to indulge his brooding. A god-king with the whims of a spurned child.

“No, I do not seek to scold, little prince. Come now, so that I may hold you.”

And with that, the emperor crawls to you.

He settles into your arms and you cradle his torso, the luxurious fabric of his ornate robes pooling at your lap. His cheek rests atop your bosom like a newborn babe—he weeps like one too.

“It is unjust! Brother always has the last word, yet I am eldest!” Caracalla laments, his tears wet the bodice of your stola.

You use your free hand to smooth tendrils of copper hair away from his damp face. A tantrum of this magnitude was not uncommon for the young emperor, though you often wondered how a man could display such behaviors at the age of twenty and one. Caracalla was distinctly tender, despite his blood lust. His ego was delicate, easily wounded by Geta’s pragmatism and rigid sensibility.

“He wishes to be rid of me, I know it.” He sniffles, his hand reaching to fiddle with the pendant resting at the base of your neck. You smile softly despite growing weary of this routine.

“Don’t be without reason, mea dulcis. You are invaluable to Rome and all her subjects. Geta speaks without tact when he is cross. You must know this too, hmm?”

Caracalla thinks for a moment, brows knitting together in contemplation.

“He is unkind. It should have been him to suffer in the womb, not I.”

You can’t help but laugh at his juvenile description of his brother's malicious cruelty. Frustration flashes across Caracalla’s face as water threatens to brim his eyes again.

“Peace, my lamb. No more tears.” You coo, using a thumb to swipe away at the wetness—but it is too late. Your laughter invited a new wave of angry tears. He buries his face in your breasts, jeweled fingers dragging down the fabric of your stola. His mouth quickly finds your nipple. You hiss, resisting the urge to pull him away from your flesh.

It brings the emperor great comfort to suckle you. Geta had explained Caracalla’s affliction once before.

“Our own mother denied him her breast; she believed him to be cursed. Perhaps he held on to that trangression. He called for a wet nurse until the age of ten and two. My brother has always suffered from madness, you see.”

You had taken prior notice of this habit. After he fucks you like an animal in heat, he often drifts back to your tit, lazily sucking and nibbling until sleep takes him. You thought nothing of it until emperor Geta revealed it’s cause to you.

And though you had no milk to bear, tranquility came over the man as if he had been fed. Eyes closed and breath even, he plays with a tendril of your hair as he rolls your swollen nipple in his hot mouth—lost in bliss. It is odd, but you pity him. With his lips so flush against you and his expression finally at peace, one could forget the madness, the carnage, the rage.

Sometime later, Caracalla regains his composure, standing straight with his shoulders back, returning to a proud and stately posture. He crudely wipes the spit from his chin with the back of his hand.

“You will attend to me in my chambers tonight.” He commands before returning to the festivities.

[delilahsturniolo]

— ୨୧ dear god . . . m.s

in which . . . matt shows you how beautiful you are, in a different kind of way.

warnings . . . smut, unprotected sex, (BIG NONO) praise, gentle sex, body worshipping, kissing, cursing, use of pet names, fingering.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

SO CLOSE TO WHAT WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #5

it’s late. the kind of late where the world feels quiet, like it’s holding its breath. the bedroom is dark except for the soft glow of the streetlight sneaking through the blinds, casting shadows across the walls. you’re lying on the bed, wrapped in matt’s arms, your head resting against his chest, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.

matt doesn’t know you’ve been crying. or maybe he does, but he hasn’t said anything yet. his fingers trace lazy circles on your bare back, warm and gentle, grounding you in a way nothing else has been able to.“what’s on your mind?” his voice is soft, but it pulls you from the storm inside your head.

you hesitate. you don’t want to ruin this—this quiet, this closeness, this moment where everything feels still. but the weight in your chest is too heavy, the words pressing against your lips, aching to be let out. “i don’t know,” you whisper, your fingers gripping the fabric of his t-shirt. “i just… i feel lost.” he shifts, just enough to tilt your chin up, his thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realize had slipped down your cheek.“talk to me,” he murmurs. “whatever it is, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

you exhale shakily, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. his scent, his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest—it’s the closest thing to peace you’ve felt in a long time. “sometimes i just don’t feel like i’m enough, i don’t feel worthy of being loved.” you admit, your voice barely audible.

matt was taken aback by this confession. “what? what makes you say that baby?” his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. you lift your head just enough to look at him, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw, the shape of his lips. “why are you even dating me? i’m not even pretty.” you confess, tears glazing your eyes. matt’s heart absolutely broke at the sight.

“you are beautiful, baby. so fucking beautiful. inside and out, anyone who thinks otherwise is a fuckin’ idiot, okay? i love you, and i always will.” matt reassured you. “let me show you just how much i mean that.” matt whispered. his lips part, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t give you a chance to respond. instead, he closes the distance between you, pressing your mouth to his in a slow, aching kiss.

he sighs against your lips, his hands sliding up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss. it’s soft and unhurried, but there’s something beneath it—something raw, something desperate, something that feels like salvation. you whine in a needy tone as matt picks his body up off the bed, his lips not once leaving yours as he hovers over you.

matt pulls away, his fingers trailing over to hem of your shirt. “is this okay?” he asked softly, you nodded your head eagerly as matt pulled your shirt and panties off, your body naked beneath him. matt’s hands trailed down your body slowly, and teasingly. “so fuckin’ beautiful, shit..” matt cursed under his breath, his hands traveling from your boobs, to your stomach, and brushing past your core.

“mmm..” you mumble with need, slightly squirming with matt’s touch. his breathing was heavy as his hand slowly palmed your aching slit, his fingers collecting the wetness along your folds, eliciting a gasp from you. “oh? you like that?” matt smiled, pushing his fingers into you, making you moan as the pleasure coursed throughout your body.

you whined as matt suddenly pulled his fingers out of your pussy, he began to fiddle with his belt, pulling his boxers down, letting his cock spring out. fuck, you needed him so badly. matt kneeled between your legs, gently lifting your chin up with his finger. “look at me while i fuck you sweetheart, wanna see those gorgeous eyes..” matt spoke as he slowly took your thighs, spreading them apart wider. “s’pretty like this hon, could fuck this pretty pussy all day…so perfect..” matt murmured lazily against your neck, you could feel yourself getting close.

and dear god, this was all you could ever ask for.

© delilahsturniolo do not copy, re use, or modify any of my works.

taglist

[alg3a]

auspicious (pt. 2)

jayce x f!reader x viktor / jayvik x reader

3k, MDNI, no use of y/n

description: After confronting the boys and teasing them for long enough, you finally get what you want.

warnings: nsfw content, full complete total smut, MMF threesome, f!receiving oral, double penetration, all characters are sort of switches i suppose, double creampies! hooray!

a/n: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE ON PART ONE!!! it was entirely unexpected, but i loved hearing that all of you enjoyed it. it was my first ever tumblr fic, but there will be plenty more and my request box is VERY open.

Something in their eyes turns dark when you utter those words. Not utter, exactly, they were more of a proclamation. Maybe it was your confidence that threw them off so intensely, but how could you not be confident in a dress like that, after two glasses of wine, and knowing that the two most attractive men you’ve ever laid eyes on have been wanting you for months?

It made all the late nights and restless mornings worth it to be sprawled out on their cozy lab couch wearing practically just a strip of fabric, watching them eye you like dogs.

“What is it with you two? Do I need to write you a formal invitation?”

Surprisingly, Viktor moves first. When he gets to the couch he drops his cane as if it was a crumb off his coffeecake. Then Jayce follows, filling the spot behind you as you face Viktor on the other end of the couch. Jayce’s calloused hands wrap around your waist, feeling every inch of the delicate skin exposed by your low hanging dress. Viktor’s delicate hands cup your jaw.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting this,” Viktor says, his voice raspier than you’ve ever heard before.

“Hey–” Jayce squeezes your hips firmly and pulls you back into his chest. His fingers trace the long slit up the side of your leg and brush the fabric to the side, exposing your thighs. “How long we have been waiting for this.”

“Did you ever talk about me–about this–with each other?” You have a million dirty questions to ask them now that you have them at your disposal, and this seems like a good place to start.

“It’s hard not to,” Jayce says. “Every time you would come into the lab in that little skirt…”

“Things as small as lingering touches when passing tools…” Viktor added, his mouth dipping low to kiss your exposed collarbone.

“Anytime you did anything vaguely exciting… let’s just say the thought of sharing you is very familiar to us.” Jayce’s low, rough voice mutters against your neck. He punctuates his sentence with a nip at the soft skin as Viktor pulls away from your clavicle.

“Would you like that?” Viktor asks, his fingers delicately wrapping a strand of your hair around his long, slim finger. “For Jayce and I to share you?”

And suddenly they’ve monopolized this interaction. So much for all that confidence–thrown out the window as soon as they show a sliver of dominance.

“Speak up,” Jayce says, grasping your chin firmly and lifting it so that your face is flush with Viktor’s.

“Yes,” you finally utter. “I’d like that very very much.”

“Good,” Viktor says, his accent thicker and his voice raspy.

His thumb traces along your jaw until his hand seats itself on the back of your neck. His fingers slide into your hair. You’d never realized how big his hands were until then, as one wrapped around the back of your head, tugging softly at your hair as Jayce rubbed your bottom lip with his thumb, pulling gently downward to part your pretty lips. They really were fantastic partners, aiding each other in research. And there you were, their perfect little assistant, providing them with something to study.

You don’t realize how heavily your heart is thudding against your ribs until Viktor’s lips are exploring yours and your heart is the loudest thing in the room, second only to your little whimper as you realize Jayce is doing some exploring of his own. His calloused fingers brush your bare thigh beneath the slit of your dress and dip between your legs as his chest presses against your back. With the hand that once rested on your chin, he pulls the apex of the slit higher, so that your lacy black panties are exposed to the cold air of the lab.

“Fuck,” Jayce mutters at the sight of them. You feel as his hardening cock twitches against your back, eliciting a moan from your mouth that vibrates against Viktor’s lips.

You whine as he pulls away from the kiss to take a look at what Jayce has discovered.

“Don’t everyone look at once,” you joke, but your breathlessness and heaving chest don’t exactly contribute to the punchline.

Viktor smiles for a moment, but his eyes drift to your shoulder. More specifically, the fallen strap of the dress which leaves your shoulder exposed.

“You’ve been in this dress all night,” Viktor says, smiling as he looks at Jayce over your shoulder. “I can’t imagine it’s very comfortable…”

“Do you often imagine how uncomfortable my clothes are, Viktor?” You ask, returning his smirk as Jayce slips the remaining strap off of your other shoulder.

“All the time,” he says, taking the next step off of Jayce’s hands and sliding the bodice off your dress downward, then letting Viktor return to pushing down the remnants of the dress so that it pools around your ankles.

“And much more, it would seem…or sound, rather.” Jayce laughs in a low tone, the vibrations of his chest against the bare skin of your back causing your stomach to flutter. “Loudest housemate ever.”

“Oh really?” You ask, mouth agape as Viktor slides off the couch with a smirk on his face, bringing your legs with him. He pivots you so that you’re sitting with your back against the cushions now, and he’s kneeling between your parted legs. Only your cute little panties separate his face from your best kept secret.

“Hearsay,” Viktor rolls his eyes as he kisses up your thigh. “And from the man who doesn’t even close his door when he thinks of you…”

“I close it. The walls are just…thin.” Jayce replies, placing his hand on your chin once more to turn your face to his. “And I can’t help how much noise I make.” His voice lowers and his eyes flutter shut, preparing for his turn with your lips.

Jayce is a much rougher kisser than Viktor. Handsier, too. His hand slides up your waist, grazing your chest, before finally landing on the expanse of your tilted back neck. If he choked you to death right now, you could die happy. But he won’t. He just squeezes gently as his tongue explores your mouth, his grip a reminder that he’s been wanting you for three long months. You can imagine how it must have felt for both of the boys to have you within arms reach, pushed away only by their own semblances of professionality. Actually–you can taste it, too. And you can feel it as two fingers press against your clothed cunt and you let a moan echo into Jayce’s persistent mouth.

Viktor lifts a leg onto his shoulder, and you feel two of his calloused fingertips pulling aside the lace of your panties. With only the tip of Viktor’s tongue, you’re a whining mess against Jayce’s. Jayce pulls away from you with a condescending laugh, wanting to catch a glimpse of Viktor’s meal.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “I never thought my lab partner and I would have our tongues on the same girl at the same time.”

“Don’t lie,” Viktor looks up, a grin on his glistening lips. “I’ve heard my name through those thin walls, too.”

“Shut up,” Jayce groans, and guides Viktor’s head back to your cunt. “Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes,” you manage to utter, miraculously. You’d heard Jayce tease Viktor time after time about his inexperience with women. You’d be surprised that Viktor was this good at eating you out if you weren’t familiar with what a meticulous learner Viktor was. A true perfectionist.

As Viktor sucks on your clit, Jayce lowers his head and sucks marks onto your neck, one hand still on Viktor’s head, feeding you to him.

“Please…” you whimper, not sure exactly what you’re even asking for until you feel your impending release.

Viktor laughs against your core. “Please what, my love?”

“Please, I’m gonna… mmph! I–” The leg that rests on Viktor’s back bends so that he’s pulled closer.

“Don’t stop, Vik, she’s close.” Jayce’s grip on your jaw tightens and he pulls you ever so slightly downward to watch Viktor. “Is that right, sweetheart? Use your words.”

You nod emphatically, opening your lips but fuck it’s so incredibly difficult for you to form words when there isn’t an adjective on the planet that can describe how he’s making you feel. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna cum, please, please don’t stop.”

“Good girl,” Jayce says, his grip loosening as he goes in to kiss you again while your climax hits you like a tidal wave. Jayce feels the impact of it against his mouth in the form of your own, needy, whimpering moans.

Your legs begin to shake, but Viktor’s hands wrap around your thighs, holding you still as he shows no signs of stopping. He’s going to grant your begging wishes and ride this out with you, his tongue dancing along your clit, his fingers spreading you wide so it’s certain he won’t miss a spot.

Once you’ve settled, Viktor pulls away, wiping the arousal from his lips with the back of his hand. You’ve seen him exhausted, aching, and messy, but you’ve never seen him with such a powerful glint of desperation in his eyes.

“Did that feel good, sweetheart?” Jayce asks, his fingers combing through your hair.

Viktor seats himself on the couch again, drawn to your collarbone again, this time using his fingers to navigate the delicate clavicle.

You nod, but it takes every ounce of effort you have to lift your head up repeatedly.

“We’re not done with you just yet,” Jayce says, getting up off of the couch, “if that’s alright with you.”

The request is almost rhetorical. Of course it’s alright with you. He knows that. If the wanton, needy little noises you were still making in agreement were any sign of the pleasure you derived from this arrangement, you could go on until morning.

“Viktor, take your pants off,” Jayce demands, standing over the two of you.

“Who decided you’d be calling the shots for tonight?” Viktor asked, breathlessly, raising one eyebrow.

“If you don’t want to, I’ll gladly take your pla–”

Viktor rushed to take his pants off. You helped him with the belt buckle and in sliding them down his legs. As you do, Jayce fully removes your panties. It doesn’t make much of a difference, now that the two men have seen every inch of you.

As Viktor’s pants come off, you see the impressive imprint of his cock underneath his boxers.

“Can I?” You ask gently, lowering your hand to hover over his cock.

“We’re past that,” Viktor says, grinning as he takes your hand and guides it to his length. You dip your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and pull them downward so that they pool at his thighs.

Wow.

You’d always sort of assumed that since Viktor was so skinny that he couldn’t be hiding much. How wrong you were. Your lips part slightly, already salivating for him. You begin to stroke his cock, ready for him to push your head onto his shaft until you can’t breathe, but you hear a tongue clicking behind you.

“No need for that,” Jayce says. “I think we’ll save that treat for the workday. For now…”

Jayce’s strong hands find their grip on your waist on your right leg, pulling you to straddle Viktor’s lap.

“I don’t think either of us can wait any longer for this,” you look back at Jayce as he speaks, watching as he unbuckles his own belt and shed his pants along with his dress shirt.

Now this one, you expected. With the amount of female “advisors” you’ve seen watching Jayce in the forge, there’s no way he wasn’t packing.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Viktor says, his hands falling at either side of your waist and lining you up with the wet tip of his cock, already ruined with precum.

“I should start preparing you back here…” Jayce says as his large hands find purchase on the round of your ass.

“Are you ready, my love?” Viktor asks with a kiss to your wrist as he lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance, swiping it a few times to ensure you’re wet enough for his entry. You’re beyond wet enough. “It would seem you are…” He laughs as he pushes your hips down on him.

Even though you hadn’t taken your eyes off of Viktor’s cock since you took it out, the size still surprised you as he pressed into your wet cunt.

“Fuck…” Viktor groaned as his neck fell back against the couch cushions. “You feel…even better than I imagined.”

You can’t even form a sentence to reply. The stretch is so intense you’ve forgotten every word in the English language. You can’t even move, paralyzed on his length. Luckily, Viktor solves that problem for you, thrusting up into you suddenly, so that all you can do is let out a strained squeal. Your hands grip his shoulders but you can’t even worry about how your nails might be hurting him, although if his grin is any consolation, he might even be enjoying the pain.

Jayce trails a line of kisses down your spine and when you look back, he’s kneeling on the ground, spitting on two fingers. You barely have time to process what that might mean before those two fingers plunge into your unfilled hole.

“Fuck!” You exclaim, the first word that you can remember in these trying times. The pain lasts only a second before the feeling sends flutters into your stomach, and elsewhere. With renewed vigor, you begin to let yourself bounce on Viktor’s cock, eliciting a lovely little whine from him.

“Tell me how he feels, baby,” Jayce says, removing his two fingers.

“So…so good.”

“I know you can be more descriptive than that,” Jayce laughs as he gets up to stand, wiping some spit onto his plump tip and stroking it.

“I’ve wanted this for so long…” you say, the truest sentence in your head the first full one you can form. “So long… it’s so long…” Okay, back to putting the “senseless” in “fucked senseless.”

The boys laugh, but Viktor’s is a strained, breathless laugh.

“Please Jayce…” you beg, looking back at him over your arched back. “I want both of you…”

“Whatever you say,” Jayce says with a crooked grin as he wraps his hands around your waist, just above Viktor’s, who finds it in him to stop you from bouncing to allow Jayce his entry.

With a full, unexpected thrust, Jayce is completely in you. The stretch burns like Hell at first, but God you’ve never felt so full before.

Jayce lets out a desperate groan, not moving for a few more seconds. When Viktor thrusts into you, Jayce reacts with a moan.

“Fuck, I can…I can feel your cock, Vik,” Jayce says, letting out a breathy laugh.

“Lucky you,” Viktor laughs as he continues to lift his hips to meet your cervix.

With a dismissive scoff, Jayce finally finds the will to thrust again, even if it just results in more wanton, wasted little moans from his mouth: noises you didn’t even think he could make.

With both of them inside you at once, thrusts alternating and hitting spots within you that make you scream their names, it won’t be long until your second orgasm of the night.

Jayce’s hand reaches for your hair, taking a cluster of it and pulling you so that your back arches and your shoulders are flush with his. He cheeks your cheek with a contrasting delicateness and whispers in your ear, “Such a good girl for us. Isn’t she the best, Vik?”

“Better than our hands, absolutely,” Viktor jokes as his chest heaves and his forehead contorts. He’s close, you can tell.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Jayce says, releasing your hair and focusing all of his efforts onto your tight little hole, stretching you impossibly wide.

“I-I don’t think I can take much more,” Viktor utters.

“Me neither,” you whimper, pressing your head into the nook between Viktor’s head and shoulder. “Oh fuck…”

“Cum for us, baby,” Jayce says, squeezing your ass cheeks as his last few thrusts are used up. It’s not long before you feel his cock twitching, sending spurts of hot cum into your bottom. “Gods! Fuck, baby!”

The sight of the two of you losing your composure above Viktor is enough to send him over, and as you fall onto the full length of his cock after riding out your own orgasm, he pumps you full of his seed as well, whimpering like a wounded puppy as he ruts into you helplessly one final time. You’re all a pile of spent, sweaty, fucked out messes.

Jayce reluctantly pulls out of you, leaving a splatter of cum falling from your hole onto Viktor’s lap.

“Sorry,” he laughs as he collides with the couch beside Viktor.

You try to pull off Viktor's cock to provide him some relaxation, but he holds you still. “Please, don’t…don’t move yet. I want this to last as long as possible.”

“Feeling sentimental, Vik?” Jayce teases, running a hand through his lab partner’s sweaty hair.

“Feeling…like I’d like to memorize this feeling before I go to bed tonight.”

You laugh and kiss the bridge of his nose before resting your head on Jayce’s neighboring shoulder. “I should’ve put ‘handling two cocks’ on my resume. Maybe then you two would have actually read it.”

“Well, you’re more than welcome to list us as references on future resumes,” Jayce laughs, rubbing your hand softly as the three of you come down from your shared highs. “I’m glad you decided to come tonight. To the gala, I mean.”

You and Viktor both laugh.

“Next time, you won’t have to deal with crude men asking you to dance,” Viktor says as he kisses the top of your head. “You’ll be busy at our side the whole night.”

“I’m never going to move past the pretty little lab assistant allegations, am I?” You smiled into Jayce’s sturdy, shuddering shoulder.

“Maybe not,” Viktor said. “But why should you? You are our beautiful little lab assistant.���

@jeromeslilhoe @justaproudslytherpuff @onyxistired @sseleniaa @clearlycaffeinated-blog @darknessbyme @shoyofroyoyoyo

(pretty much just tagged everyone that commented asking for part two)

[junkissed]

goodnight n go

★ | member — fwb!vernon x f reader ★ | genre — smut, angst, non-idol au, happy ending, fwb to lovers ★ | word count — 10.2k

★ | synopsis — you keep coming back for more, but every night ends the same. maybe this time things will be different.

★ | warnings — guitarist!vernon, rock band!hhu, mentions of alcohol, vernon has commitment issues (but he gets over it) ★ | smut warnings — descriptions of female anatomy, consensual drunk sex, car sex, oral (reader receiving), fingering, piv, making out, multiple orgasms, pussy drunk vernon (he's down baddd), some aftercare ★ | notes — thanks to @onlymingyus for always being the best and to @wonustars for proofreading !! i did not intend for this fic to be this long but i'm actually really proud of how it turned out so i hope you like it!! also i often make playlists for my fics but i never share them, but i've been listening to this one for months while i've been writing this fic so i'll link it so you can listen too. if you enjoy this fic, please reblog and let me know in the tags!! reblogs are super important to tumblr and they help motivate me to keep writing more like this :)

check out the playlist! featuring — goodnight n go - ariana grande ; black eye - vernon ; uh oh - tate mcrae ; sunset - caroline polachek ; romanticise this - james marriott ; entertainer - zayn ; & more

“hey, you wanna get drinks tonight?”

as usual, that’s how it starts.

you probably should have said no. you’d played this game before. you knew exactly what hansol meant when he offered to hang out after band practice, because it was never just “hanging out”.

you don’t even know why you still go to practices anymore. for a long time you’d avoided them; it wasn’t really your style, and you were never interested in being a groupie for their local gigs. your roommate seungcheol always invited you to every practice and every time you declined with the excuse of homework or other plans, but cheol finally convinced you to come just one time.

at first, it had been because he wanted you to hear a new song they were working on and he’d wanted to know how you liked it before they played it at an upcoming show. but then he’d introduced you to the rest of his bandmates, and after that there was no going back.

you couldn’t help the way your eyes always gravitated towards hansol, who insisted that you call him his real name instead of his stage name that everyone else called him. from the very first practice, you were captivated by him: the way his long fingers seem to dance along the neck of his guitar so effortlessly, the way his voice rasps when he sings, the way your breath catches in your throat when he grips the microphone stand and rolls his head back, lips parted in ecstasy.

he’s addictive, and it’s exactly the reason why you find yourself in the backseat of his car over and over again.

every time, it was easy to pretend that things would be different. you’d walk into the bar together and sit at the table in the back, order a few drinks, chat for a while about nothing. did you like the new stuff we played tonight? yeah, i know cheol is really excited to perform it saturday. you been doing any writing lately? mmm, a little. i’ve been feeling inspired. we could go back to my place and i could show you. except he never does.

hansol wasn’t a bad guy. he always paid for your drinks no matter how many times you offered to pick up the tab, he was polite, he listened to what you had to say. he just didn’t want more than that, and that’s where it all fell apart. you’d screw around for a while, then you’d part ways and wouldn’t speak to each other until next week. you never went to see them play shows, he never texted, you never called, never went on a real date besides meeting in the same bar down the street every thursday night after practice.

he seemed fine with that. you weren’t. and yet every time, you ended up back in his arms.

he groans into your mouth, pushing his hips into you and pinning you harder against the faded leather seats of his old honda. his lips are sloppy but eager, messily pressing his mouth into yours as his fingers tangle in the hair at the base of your neck. you can taste the beer and smoke on his breath, but for some reason it doesn’t bother you. maybe you’re used to it, or maybe it’s just because it’s him. you don’t want to know which reason is the truth.

he kisses you until you’re dizzy, and you can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or from the thrill of kissing him once again. it’s a high you’re convinced you’ll never get tired of, although you’re not quite sure yet if it’s one that he will.

hansol always lets you set the pace, but tonight he can’t seem to keep his hands to himself. both of your shirts met the floor of his car what seems like hours ago, leaving you in just your bra and pants as he makes out with you as if it’s the first and last time he’ll get that chance. his fingers breeze over your waist the same way they breeze over his guitar strings when he plays: careful yet greedy, each touch intentional yet impulsive as he grips your waist.

he drags his fingers higher and it sends a shiver down your spine, arching your hips up against him and rolling your head back against the seat’s headrest. if there’s only one upside to this relationship, it’s that he’s good at this. really good. if he weren’t, then you wouldn’t have spent so many nights letting him fuck you in the parking lot of your shitty local bar. it does something for your confidence knowing that he must feel the same about you, or else he wouldn’t keep inviting you out. at the very least, this arrangement is mutual, even if you wish it wasn’t.

his hips rock against your crotch again, and even through both of your clothes you can feel how hard he is. your mind is clouded, everything’s a haze, and all you can think about is how badly you want him. the warmth of his skin, the gentle scratch of his nails on the back of your neck, his long eyelashes that flutter against your cheek as he kisses you.

you feel your hands slide haphazardly down his bare chest, fumbling over his hips as you tug on the waistband of his jeans. none of it feels graceful, not like the way he handles his music. it’s sloppy, desperate, clumsy, and it’s everything you need right now.

he manages to lean back from you enough to undo his pants and push them down to his knees, but his mouth is back on yours in an instant. somehow you end up on your back across the seats, gazing up at him with slack lips as his thin silver chain dangles over your face. you might not remember a lot of what happens on these nights when you’re with him, but you’ll always remember this moment. him hovering above you with heavily lidded eyes, biting his lip and cursing as he pushes into you, is etched into your mind in a way you simultaneously love and hate. love because it feels so good, hate because it never lasts.

the last half of those nights never stands out in your memory. you remember feeling good, you remember trembling in his arms and gasping and moaning and crying in pleasure, but the images are too fuzzy to make out. you don’t really need to reflect on them anyway; you know he’ll just bring you out next week and do it all over again.

hansol kisses you once more after you’re both finally spent, but the kisses afterwards are always different. more… hesitant, more uncertain. none of the passion and desperation that you’ve come to crave from him. not what you really want.

“i can drive you home,” he offers once he’s finished cleaning you up. for once you think he might genuinely mean it, but you can never be sure enough to take that chance. you want him to drive you home. god, you want him to so bad. to have him come over with you and stay the night, stay another night and another until your apartment isn’t just yours anymore, that’s what you’ve wanted all this time. and it’s what you’ll never have.

“i’ll call an uber,” you answer.

“i’ll wait with you, then.”

the silence that settles over his car is heavy as you climb back into the front passenger seat. you want to tell him to get in the uber with you, stay more than just a couple hours with you in the furthest back corner of the bar parking lot that’s too far to be illuminated by streetlights. you want to argue that he’s too drunk even to drive himself, that he needs to come home with you and sleep it off together in the comfort of your bed, but you know it’s not true and it won’t work. this is a conversation you’ve had many times before. every night you’ve spent with him blurs into the next, always the same. 

sometimes you want to laugh at how naive you are, for thinking he’d eventually come to his senses and realize there’s more to you than a good lay before a gig. sometimes you want to grab him and shake him by the shoulders and tell him to grow the fuck up, give him an ultimatum and make him tell you what he wants from you or else put an end to it all. sometimes you just want to cry, to mourn your wasted time when you’re fully aware it’s never going to lead to something more, no matter how badly you want it and how hard you try.

no matter how many times you get your hopes up, no matter how many times you pray and beg and plead with god and the universe and every other higher power to get him to realize this can’t keep going on the way it is forever, nothing ever changes. you’re never going to stop running to him when he calls, and he’s never going to stop calling.

finally another car pulls into the lot, and you manage to pull yourself out of his car. you hear your name behind you and you stumble, swaying on your feet as he rolls down his window.

maybe this time will be different.

he says his usual goodbyes and goodnights, flashing you a loose grin and a wave as his engine sputters to life, and he asks if you’re planning on coming to practice next week. 

and you find yourself nodding.

you’re left standing there, your head and your heart pounding, watching his headlights fade as he drives away, until you’ve stood there for so long that your ride starts honking and calling for you to get in the car so you can leave.

maybe next time will be different.

this is going to be the last time, you swear.

you exhale as you stand inside the lobby of the venue, repeating the words to yourself. there’s a chill in the air tonight. the wind blows smoke in your direction from the couple standing by the door, abandoned cigarettes clutched between their fingers as they make out sloppily.

you grimace and turn away, studying the faded graffiti and half-ripped posters and advertisements that litter the walls around you. you mean it this time, seriously. the only reason you came tonight was because it’s the last time. a goodbye, of sorts.

you have to admit, you were a little shocked when hansol texted you after your weekly meet-up after practice. not only did he want to make sure you got home safe after you left, but he’d asked if you’d come to their next performance.

you stare down at your phone in your hand, rereading the texts for what feels like the thousandth time in the past few days just to make sure you haven’t imagined them. but no, there they are, bright pixels staring right back up at you from the screen.

hansol: hey just wanted to make sure you made it back home

hansol: btw we’re playing at the phoenix on saturday and i was wondering if you had plans? i wanna see you

hansol: maybe we could get dinner after or somethin if youre down idk

hansol: hoping youll be there

you’d been tempted to refuse him, out of bitterness or resentment or something else, but you can’t say you weren’t shocked by his offer. he’d suggested every once in a while that you should come see them play sometime, but it was always clear to both of you that it was out of small talk rather than genuine interest in you being there. but this time he’d said he wanted you there.

it was nice to feel wanted, for once. maybe you hadn’t been going crazy. maybe things really were different this time.

you glance at your phone once more to check the time before you slip it into your pocket, taking a deep breath as you walk through the second set of doors into the main room. you can hear the deep sound of wonwoo’s drums warming up, but the stage is obscured behind a ratty set of faded red curtains.

there’s still a few minutes before their set, but the room is already crowded with people so you push your way to the side wall near the back. you don’t really want anyone to see you here, anyway. you don’t want anyone to see that your resolve is paper-thin when it comes to hansol.

you hadn’t told him that you were coming tonight, just sending him a vague response and telling him you’d have to see if your schedule is free. even that felt too generous, after the anguish he’s put you through the past few weeks. he doesn’t need to know that you’re here, just like he doesn’t need to know the real reason you’ve been avoiding ever coming to see him play. and it’s not because you always have other plans.

you’re hoping to just watch the performance quietly from the back, then sneak out without ever having to talk to him, and text him later that you’d enjoyed it. you already knew you were going to enjoy it. you’d heard every original song, cover, and riff they’d ever played together, and at this point you could probably recite their setlist by heart. anyone could see that they were talented together, so it isn’t surprising that the venue is packed tonight. honestly, it’d be for the better if you got lost in the crowd and never saw him face to face.

the house lights suddenly fade into darkness and the crowd starts to quiet, the curtains finally pulling back to reveal the band. seungcheol stands in front of a microphone in the center of the stage, with wonwoo in the back at his drum set and mingyu to his left holding a bass guitar. and then, of course, there’s hansol.

you hate the way your gaze immediately lands on him, standing in the same position he always does, with his guitar slung around his neck by a thick red strap. the crowd starts cheering, and distantly you recognize seungcheol’s voice introducing the group, but you can’t make out any of his words.

your mind flashes back to all the nights you’ve spent sitting on a folding chair in mingyu’s garage, watching them laugh and bicker and fool around. it’s different seeing them actually on a stage for once, the metal of their instruments glinting under the harsh, colorful stage lights.

it’s not a large stage by any means, just a few feet higher than the ground and barely wide enough for all four of them to fit. but their presence is captivating, and it makes the dingy local theater seem more special than it really is. but then again, hansol makes everything seem more special than it really is.

seungcheol finishes speaking and the crowd around you lets out whoops and cheers, but you stay silent. your eyes are still stuck on hansol, watching him scan the crowd as he twists the tuning pegs on his guitar.

even from the back of the room, you can tell he’s nervous. his fingers shake just a little, in a way you know they never do because you’ve watched him tune his guitar a thousand times under the dim interior lights in his car. you watch his eyes dart around the room, squinting to see into the crowd before turning his attention back to the fretboard in his hands.

he’s not the most outgoing guy in the world, but at the same time you know he’s not the kind of person to get stage fright. something is different this time. or, maybe it’s not. you’ve never actually seen him play in front of an audience. you don’t know him as well as you think you do, you have to constantly remind yourself every time your mind starts to wander and you let yourself daydream. after all, he doesn’t know anything about you, and he doesn’t seem to care enough to learn. neither should you.

the band opens with a song you’ve heard a thousand times, then another and another, pausing after every few songs to talk to the crowd. time seems to fly by around you, but everything moves in slow motion when you're looking at hansol. you study the way his hair falls in soft brown waves around his face, his head bobbing to the rhythm as he strums his guitar. it's one thing you've always enjoyed about watching him play; he always gets so lost in the music, and it's fascinating to watch. it's clearly on the list of things he's passionate about, and even if you aren't one of those things, at least you get to see him doing something he loves. 

you shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. you can't let yourself think like that. you're here to end things, not to reminisce. you shouldn't care if he likes music or not, that's not your problem anymore. he's not your problem anymore.

you zone out for a while, trying hard not to think about him but he's the only thing you can focus on. your eyes wander every once in a while, when you hear cheol's raspy voice in the mic or a particularly cool guitar riff from mingyu, but they always end up back at hansol.

they finish playing what you know is their last song, but the crowd is still bursting with electricity. it’s not long before everyone starts to chant, begging for one more song.

“encore?” seungcheol laughs into the mic, and flashes one of his signature dazzling smiles that sends the group of girls standing in front of you into hysterics. he glances over at hansol and nods. “mmm, yeah. i think we can do one more.”

you fold your arms over your chest. now is probably your best chance to leave. it’s not a very big venue, but from the amount of people here it’s obvious that there’ll be chaos once things are over as people start to file out. though most of them will probably be trying to fight their way to the front instead, giving wonwoo their phone numbers written on stained cocktail napkins and asking mingyu to sign their tits. but just as you’re about to start pushing your way back towards the exit, cheol’s deep voice makes you pause.

“we’re gonna play something real special tonight,” he says, making eye contact with hansol again. “something brand new, that we’ve never performed before. you guys wanna be the first to hear it?”

the room erupts into cheers again, and cheol grins. “yeah, i figured. so, i’m gonna let vernon explain this one. take it away, man.”

you stand still, arms crossed and curiosity piqued. maybe you can wait until after the last song. if this is going to be your last hurrah, then you might as well see it through til the end. just this once, and never again.

hansol clears his throat and looks out into the darkened theater. “this song is about a girl i’m in love with,” he starts. that gets a light laugh out of the crowd, a couple whistles and cheers, and he chuckles into the microphone before continuing. the words that have been brewing in your head for weeks seem to instantly melt on your tongue as his voice rings in your ears, echoing through your mind. that’s not you. that’s definitely not you.

“i hope she’s here tonight, but i wouldn’t blame her if she wasn’t. because i think i kind of fucked everything up.” he swallows, his eyes darting back and forth as he scans across the crowd, searching for something. searching for you? “so if she’s out there, i’m sorry. and i know this won’t make up for it, but i hope you like it anyway.”

the crowd cheers again, louder than they have all night, but the noise quickly dies down once hansol begins to play. the lights go dim, and the room fills with a soft melody from his guitar. the sound is unfamiliar, a song you haven’t heard before, and you realize he must’ve been working on it outside of the band’s usual practices. 

even if he isn’t talking about you, the song is beautiful. his guitar seems to sing every note that plays, and you can practically see the air around him shimmering with energy. the rest of the room seems to fade away, the audience that separates you suddenly disappearing. it’s like you’re the only two people around, sitting beside him as he plays just for you. 

he’s done that a few times, played you little snippets on his guitar. you can almost picture it now: it’s always right after he parks outside the bar, before you head inside together. he’ll unzip the case and pull his guitar from the backseat, positioning it on his lap. he comes up with a different reason every time; sometimes he’ll ask if the chords he’s been working on sound good together, sometimes he’ll tell you to listen to see if it needs tuning, sometimes he’ll say he just needs to practice this section a couple more times before giving up for the night and getting shitfaced with you off too many shots.

but you always see right through his flimsy excuses; obviously he’s doing it to show off, to impress you or something. but for the life of you, you’ve never been able to figure out why. why should he care about impressing you, if he doesn’t want to go any further with you?

and suddenly, as you stand in the back of the theater, watching his eyes sparkle under the lights and his fingers breeze over his guitar, looking more focused and frustrated and angry and sad and sorry than you’ve ever seen him look, now you finally have your answer.

you don’t want him to be talking about you. he shouldn’t be talking about you. you almost wish he would just be an asshole to you, give you a good reason to yell at him and cuss him out and tell him to fuck off, but he never does. sure, he’s a little dense to the not-so-subtle hints you’ve been trying to drop, but he’s always been good to you, even if it’s breaking your heart in the process. maybe you’ve been the dense one all along.

the show ends in a blur, and the lights come back on as people start to file out. there's cheers and more shouts for another encore, but it's clear the night is over. this is the part you've been dreading; even after days of convincing yourself, you're still not sure what you're going to do.

when the crowd finally clears out enough for you to move towards the stage, you can already see the group that’s formed around the members. cheol is off to one side, giving out autographs to whoever waves their napkins closest to him. mingyu’s helping wonwoo pack up his drum kit, smiling shyly at the girls calling his name and promising he’ll come back out to the lobby to meet them once he’s finished.

and then there’s hansol, looking flustered as people crowd around him, a deep blush in his cheeks as he waves his hands to try and get them to leave. you’re just far enough from his line of sight that you almost hesitate. it’s not too late to turn around. it’s not too late to leave before he can see you, to disappear from his life forever, but your heart won’t let you. 

you walk a little closer to the stage, hanging back behind the crowd of people, but he sees. his face lights up with relief, and even from a few feet away you can still see his eyes soften. he tells the people to move, more firmly with his words this time, and he hops down off the stage as they part to make room for him. when it’s clear his attention is no longer on them, they grumble and walk away, talking to their friends about the show and how hot all the members are and how they’re definitely planning on coming back the next time they perform.

hansol reaches you in a couple of strides, stopping just in front of you. he stays silent for a second, his eyes roaming over you almost gratefully.

“hi,” he says finally, offering you a lopsided smile. he wipes his palms on his jeans nervously. “you came.”

you bite your lip for a second before you nod. “i did.”

“so you’re— did you— were you here for the end of the show?” he asks, trying to hide the stutter in his words. it’s cute how shy he is all of a sudden. it’s not like him to be shy like this. but then again, the only times you’ve seen him are when he’s playing with the guys or fucking your brains out while he's drunk, so it’s not like you’ve really gotten to know him. maybe he’s always been this shy and you were just too caught up in him to notice.

you know what he’s trying to say without outright saying it. obviously you were there the whole time, a fact you aren’t the proudest of, but you aren’t about to let him know that. “i heard your song,” you finally settle on, cutting straight to the point.

his face goes through about a hundred emotions in the span of a second, from surprised to happy then right back to shy again. “yeah?”

even though most of the room has cleared out by now, he starts walking as he talks, pulling you through the side door into the quieter backstage area. you follow him around the corner until you reach a private room, a wrinkled sheet of paper taped to the door with his name written in sharpie. his guitar case that you've seen so many times lies open on the floor, his backpack slumped against one wall.

“i liked it.”

he exhales in relief as he turns back around to face you, and you can almost see his whole body relax. “i'm so fucking sorry,” he says, nearly stumbling over his words with how fast he tries to get them out. “i've been really, really stupid. the way i left you the other night… i shouldn't have let you go like that. i regretted it the second you left.”

you purse your lips as you listen. you can tell he really means it, and it's getting harder and harder to stay mad at him. but you can't let him off that easy, not after how long you've been going through this.

“i just don't understand what it is you want, hansol. you treat me like— i don't know, like nothing.” you pause and chew on the inside of your cheek for a second, letting your words sink in. “and then out of the blue you beg me to come to your show, and you play this really sweet, heartfelt song, so how the hell am i supposed to take that?”

he winces, but the wounded look on his face doesn't feel as satisfying as you'd hoped it would. “i know. i'm just… i'm bad with words. i'm better at music.” he sighs. “but that's not an excuse. i didn't ever wanna make you feel like that, not on purpose. i just got scared. but i shouldn't have.”

you stand silently, waiting. clearly, there's more on his mind. he stuffs his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, shifting from one foot to the other. 

“i love the way you laugh. i love the way you watch me when i'm playing and it makes me feel like the only person in the whole world. i love the way you smile when you're drunk and the way you kiss me. and it was stupid of me to ever think i didn't want that all the time.” he lifts his gaze to meet your eyes, the fear in his expression more obvious than anything you've ever seen before.

you let out a breath, your voice dropping almost to a whisper. “you should've just said that.”

“i should've,” he agrees.

you offer him a tight-lipped smile, trying to keep yourself together. this is not how you thought tonight would go. you didn't even think you'd talk to him, and if you did, you thought it would be a shouting match, screaming and cursing before angrily storming out of the venue, finally feeling vindicated after all this time. yet here you are, standing quietly in front of him and trying not to cry.

he waits for a second, trying to gauge your reaction before he continues. “you're, like, my best friend,” he says, adding a nervous little chuckle to lighten the mood. “i think about you every time i play or whenever i try to write something. it's always about you. you don't know how much i look forward to thursday practices and getting to see you.”

now it's your turn to laugh. “you literally could've just texted me and i probably would've dropped everything to be there, anytime.”

he grins, his smile a little wider this time. “yeah, i know. i tried, the other day when i invited you. that was scary as shit.”

he looks up at you again, his soft brown eyes and long eyelashes shining even under the dim flickering bulb overhead. “i'm really glad you came tonight, though. i wasn't expecting you to, but i really hoped you would.” he offers you another nervous smile. “will you let me try again?”

you don't answer right away, and the look of nervousness starts to seep back into his features. “i promise i—”

but you cut him off, pulling him in by his shoulders and pressing your lips against his. he falters for just a second but his arms immediately wrap around your waist, tilting his head to lean into the kiss, and somehow that one little action feels more natural than anything you've ever done together.

you slide your tongue against his lips, and he lets out a groan into your mouth before he pulls back to breathe. “is that a yes?”

you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes and laugh, but instead you just nod. “yes.”

you definitely didn't come here tonight expecting to get laid. in fact, the last thing you ever thought you'd do is sleep with hansol again. but all of that feels like a distant memory as you head out of the community theater together, his guitar case over his shoulder, walking hand in hand towards his car.

the routine is familiar, but nothing is the same. you're not drunk, you're not in the parking lot of a cheap bar, and you don't feel lonely anymore. 

he unlocks the doors and you start to climb into the backseat, but he lets out a little noise and shakes his head, and you look up at him in confusion. 

“we're going back to my place. or yours, if you want.” he reaches down to offer his hand and help you out of the car. “i said i was gonna do it right this time, didn't i?”

by the time you get back to your apartment, your stomach is in knots in the very best way. your hands shake as you fumble with your keys, and if you weren’t so on edge it would have almost made you laugh, the way hansol looks away and pretends not to notice. you're more alike than you thought, and suddenly you're overcome with a feeling of excitement. now you get to discover all these little things about him: things you didn't allow yourself to see before, things he wants to show you and tell you and share with you. 

you try not to let the awkwardness seep back in, but you pause outside your bedroom door, almost as if you're waiting for hansol to tell you what to do. in just one night he's turned your life on its head, and now you're at a loss.

so he takes it as a sign and kisses you, his hands finding your waist and slowly trailing up your body until he's cupping your chin. it's different from all the other times he's kissed you. it's not just the fiery passion you're used to when you can tell he's worked up, but there's a hint of uncertainty in it, more similar to the kisses he gives you afterwards when you're trying to figure out whether to ask for a ride home or not. and then, the pieces finally settle into place and you realize he wasn't kissing you like that because he didn't want you; he was kissing you like that because he did.

you pull away and he freezes a little, and you can tell from the worried look in his eyes that he thinks he's gone too far. “relax,” you laugh softly, your forearms still resting on his shoulders. 

he complies, but his eyes still dart across your face in nervousness. despite how badly he wants you, how badly he needs to prove himself to you, there's clearly still so much that needs to be discussed before you can move forward, things that've been left unsaid for far too long.

you inhale and look up into his eyes, trying to find what emotion is hidden there. “what do you want, hansol?”  

“want you to be my girlfriend,” he breathes out without hesitating. if it were any other time and place you might've thought he was joking, but you can tell he's dead serious.

“i—” whatever words you had ready instantly die in your throat, not expecting such a genuine answer. “yes. but i meant, like, right now. what do you want, right now.”

his expression shifts in understanding and he grins, though it's still shy. “oh. well…” he pauses again to think. “what do you want me to do?”

you watch his eyes carefully for a moment before you reply. you've wanted him to do a lot of things. you wanted him to be better, you wanted him to be worse. you wanted him to do anything besides being stuck in this weird limbo of friend-zoned friends with benefits. but now that the choice is up to you… you don't want any of that.

“i want you to be honest,” you start softly, almost shy to say it, but you know it needs to be said. “i want you to tell me how you feel. because i can't lie, you really fucked up. i shouldn't have given you so many chances.” he winces at that, but you brush your thumb along his cheek and pull his attention back to you. “but i did. so you need to earn my trust again. and i just want you to not be so afraid anymore.”

he stays silent for a long moment before he nods, as if he's seriously considering your words. “i know,” he says finally. his voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper. “i'm sorry. you're gonna get so fucking sick of hearing me say how sorry i am, but i'm not gonna stop saying it.”

you want to laugh, but his tone is so serious that you know you shouldn't, so you keep a straight face and ask him again. “so… what do you want?”

he lets out a sigh, still holding you face in his hands. “shit, everything. but, first— i really wanna taste you. can… can i?”

you take a step backwards into the bedroom and he follows, tearing off clothes one by one in a hurry until you're both left with just underwear. with the limited space in his car you've never actually been fully naked together before, and the thought of him seeing you is both terrifying and exhilarating. 

he leans you down onto the bed and you pull him down with you. he falls beside you, pausing to kiss you once more before rolling off the bed and onto his knees, holding your legs in front of him as he stares up at you.

it's the kind of image that could drive a woman mad. you didn't think he was capable of being this patient, but it seems he's full of surprises tonight. “yes,” you breathe out and finally give him an answer. your eyes are locked onto his, a silent conversation happening between you in the span of a second.

he clears his throat and slowly pries your legs apart, pulling his gaze away from your face to stare between your thighs instead.

“god, this pussy…” he groans in delight as he settles your legs over his shoulders, his gaze transfixed on the wet spot at the seat of your panties.

he slides his palms up your thighs, and for his sake you pretend not to notice the way his fingers are shaking just a little. you lift your hips to encourage him, and he slips his long fingers beneath the hem of your panties before pulling them down, taking his time to slide them off and toss them on the floor behind him.

his hands immediately come back up to your thighs, using his thumbs to press your legs apart to give him a better view.

“so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbles to no one but himself. it's like he's in a trance, admiring the dripping mess between your legs like it's about to be his last meal. if he hadn't been so enthusiastic, you might've been embarrassed at the electric shiver that runs through you from his praise. but when there's a man this hot in front of you, kneeling and staring up at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life, it's hard to feel embarrassed for long.

he leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your clit, and you nearly jump out of your skin at the feeling. he's never been incredibly rough with you before, but he’s never been this gentle, either. he's touching you so delicately, like a statue at a museum that he's not sure yet if he's allowed to touch or not.

your reaction spurs him on, and he leans in further to flatten his tongue against your entrance and gives a long, slow lick. your hips lift automatically, trying to push him closer and add more pressure.

he curls his tongue through your folds before pulling away, his hands coming up to rest on your hip bones and hold you down. “even better than i imagined,” he groans, looking up at you from his spot on the floor, and the image of him down there makes you so dizzy that you have to lay back down against the bed again.

“more,” you whimper desperately. in the back of your mind there's a distant feeling of shyness at how demanding you're being, but you don't think twice about it. after everything he put you through, he still needs to prove himself to you, that he's not going to break your heart again. but he's doing a damn good job so far. “vernon— ah, fuck!”

“mm, anything.” he presses a kiss against the soft skin on inside of your thigh. “anything you want, baby.”

you don't even have time to process the nickname before he's diving back in, his lips wrapped around your clit as he sucks at you. you let out a strangled noise of surprise, your hand instantly flying down to hold his head.

your fingers tangle in his hair, his tongue so deep in your pussy that you're already gasping and writhing under his touch. you can't tell which one of you has been more stupid for not letting this happen sooner, because it almost seems like he's enjoying this more than you are.

the coil in your stomach already feels like it's about to burst, pent up with white-hot energy that feels hotter than the sun. it hardly takes a few more pointed laps of his tongue before you fall apart into his mouth, whimpering and groaning and begging shamelessly for him. 

“you called me vernon,” he says when you finally manage to push his head away, shivering with overwhelming sensitivity. he lifts one hand to wipe at his chin, way too nonchalant after everything he just did.

you're still fighting through the haze of your orgasm but his words bring you back down to earth, and your face fills with heat. “huh? sorry, i—”

“everybody calls me vernon,” he says as he shakes his head, quickly cutting you off. he stands up and moves onto the bed, flopping down beside you. “i liked that you always called me hansol. made it feel special.”

your eyes follow his movements, still laying on your back as you catch your breath. “but…?”

he grins, and you swear there's a hint of blush in his cheeks. “but that was really sexy when you called me vernon. it sounds way cooler when it's coming from you.”

all you can do is laugh, letting your eyes close as you rest your hands on your stomach. “noted,” you giggle. “so should i do it more, then?”

he hums in thought, rolling over onto his side so that he's closer to you. “you can do whatever you want, baby.”

that nickname again. he's already started leaning in to kiss you again, but you grab his shoulders and pull him down to meet him halfway. there's a bitterness on his tongue that you'd almost forgotten about, but you're quickly reminded once you feel his hand sliding across your stomach and down back between your legs. you let out a surprised but happy moan into his mouth, one of your hands moving to the back of his head to kiss him harder.

your legs part, accepting the warmth of his palm as he gently presses it against your sensitive clit. he holds his hand there for just a moment, pausing his movements as he kisses you, eagerly swallowing the whimpers and sounds you give him in return.

after a minute he shifts his hand, carefully pressing his index and middle finger into you. you're right up at the edge again already, clenching down hard around his fingers as he sets a slow pace, pulling them out halfway before thrusting them in deeper than before. you're seeing stars, releasing a constant stream of muffled moans into his lips as he curls his fingers inside you. he follows the rhythm of your hips as you rut against his palm, letting the movement force his fingers even deeper.

his fingers are dripping with your juices, down his knuckles and pooling in his palm, but it only makes him want to fuck you even more. it's not like this is the first time he's fingered you. the guys at the auto shop down the street know him all too well, from the amount of times he's had to take his car in to get the seats cleaned. he always claims that it's because he's a messy eater, and while that's true in some ways, he knows those guys don't buy it for a fucking second.

his fingers are completely buried inside you but he never stops kissing you, breathing almost as heavily as you are. he stops thrusting his fingers and adjusts his hand once more, pressing his thumb against your clit to rub lazy circles over it. 

“ver—vern— fuck, hansol!” you finally manage to pull away from his lips, nearly gasping for air as another orgasm rips through you. his other hand slides down your body and it feels like the first time you've ever been touched, his palm so warm and tender against your skin that it somehow makes your high even better. you're shaking in his arms, lips parted in a soundless moan as you clench wildly around his fingers, but he just holds you tighter against his body and keeps pressing kisses along your jaw.

his lips are wet with both spit and slick as he watches you, his eyes filled with stars. usually when you're together, in the dark backseat of his car illuminated only by the moonlight and nearby streetlamps, it's hard to make out the details. it's dark, and everything is fuzzy from both the alcohol and the late hour. but now, he's realizing how stupid he was for never letting this happen sooner. he could've ended up going his whole life without ever seeing you like this, laying completely fucked out under the soft light in your bedroom, your pupils wide and eyes watery and so, so beautiful.

he waits until you've calmed down again, leaning away to give you a little space, but your hand shoots out to grab his wrist and keep him close to you and he can't help but smile. when you open your eyes you're expecting to find a cocky smirk, to see how proud of himself he is for having you in the palm of his hand so easily, but it's not there. just that soft smile.

“now. what do you want?” he says. “i should be asking you that way more often.”

“want you inside,” you pant out. “now. please? i— i missed you.” you shouldn't have said the last part out loud, but at this point you don't care anymore. all your cards are out on the table.

his eyes widen a little at your boldness, but he bites his lip and nods. he can't lie and say he wasn't secretly hoping you'd say that, but he'd be just as happy to sit here on the floor and eat you out over and over and over again. he'd do anything you want at this point, and not just because he feels like he owes you. he does, but it's deeper than that. it's a different kind of feeling, one that makes him want to do cheesy shit like lay his jacket over puddles for you and buy an airplane to write your name in the sky.

as he starts to position himself between your legs on the bed, you watch his face. his expression is outwardly neutral, but little by little you've started to recognize the signs of his happiness. it looks good on him.

but your brain isn't content with that, not just yet. you swallow as a thought crosses your mind, and you can't push it down any longer.

“wait,” you say quietly, forcing the word out before you can reconsider. he stops immediately, his eyes searching your face for anything he can find, any sign that you've changed your mind about this.

“yeah?” he replies, his voice just as quiet, as if he's afraid to speak too loudly and break the tension of this moment.

you clear your throat as best you can manage, though it's kind of starting to get sore from how much and how loudly you've been moaning all night. “just curious,” you start, nervousness suddenly starting to creep in. but tonight is for being honest, and you can handle the truth. probably.

“before, while we were together— well, it doesn't really count as being ‘together’ but you know what i mean.” you pause again, chewing your lip. “did you ever… y'know. was there ever anybody else?”

hansol exhales, still hovering over you. “no. unless you count lotion and my hand, ‘cause there was a lot of that.” your eyes soften and you visibly relax at his words, and he mentally kicks himself for ever making you even think that was the case. that there would ever be anyone else for him but you. “i know i was stupid, but i'm not that stupid.”

“okay.” you pause again, trying to figure out how to get back on track. “sorry, i just wanted to know. i don't care.”

he scoffs, but his tone is more melancholy than angry. he shifts on top of you so he can rest on his elbows, getting closer and brushing his hand over your hair. “you should care. if i had, i would've given you full permission to lay into me, cuss me out, whatever. i would've deserved it. you don't deserve that.”

“i wanted to, trust me.” you sigh. “but you're too nice to me. i thought…” you chew on your lip, eyes searching his as you try to figure out what to say. “…i don't know what i was thinking.”

“i don't think i'm anywhere near ‘too nice’,” hansol laughs. the sincerity in his expression almost makes you feel better. “i'm the luckiest dude on the planet that you didn't decide to, like, slash the tires on my car and egg my house or something instead. i really wouldn't have blamed you if you did.”

“maybe i should then, next time,” you say, a smile creeping onto your face.

he shakes his head. “there won't be a next time.”

the room goes quiet and you stare at each other for a second, letting his words sink in. you can tell he's being lighthearted, but he's not even trying to hide the sincerity behind his words.

“you can… continue now,” you say after a tense moment, breaking the silence. the tension in the room is thick but it's not uncomfortable, slowly but surely melting into a lust that's deeper than any of the times you've been drunk and horny in his car.

he nods, and he reaches down to brush your hair back behind your ear before his hands slide down your body. he seems so hesitant to let go of you, but finally he lifts one hand to grip his cock and position himself at your entrance. he braces his other hand against your hip, shivering as he brushes the tip of his cock up through your folds. fuck, he's not gonna last. 

after steeling his nerves as best he can and trying to convince himself not to bust the second he's inside you, he angles himself between your legs and starts to push in.

by some miracle he manages not to cum immediately, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to think about literally anything else but how fucking beautiful you are lying beneath him, but what actually happens instead might be worse.

hansol groans once he's fully inside, slowly splitting you open bit by bit until he bottoms out with his hips flush against yours. there are so many words on his tongue begging to spill out, but he can't think straight. holy shit, he can't even think about anything right now. why did he never say anything sooner? why did he waste so much time content with putting in the least amount of effort when he could've been having you like this all along?

“i love you,” he blurts out, and for a split second you think maybe this is all a dream and somehow you passed out at the show and hit your head so hard you started hallucinating this. but then his eyes widen and he winces in that way you've started to recognize, and you almost laugh because now you know it's real.

“shit, i don't know why i said that. i'm sorry. fuck, i'm sorry,” he groans and hangs his head, but despite his embarrassment you can still feel every inch of his dick twitching inside you and it feels way too good to ignore. “you don't have to say it back. i know it's way too soon—”

“did you mean it?”

“what?”

“did you mean it?” you repeat. his attention pulls back to you, a confused yet hopeful look in his eyes that makes your heart warm.

he clears his throat, obviously trying to hide the pink spreading across his cheeks. “yeah. i think i did. and not just because you have the best pussy ever.”

“are you sure? because that's what it sounds like to me,” you tease and try to roll your eyes, but his words make you clench involuntarily around him and he curses under his breath.

“fuck— yes, i’m very sure, i meant it and i'll keep saying it forever if you'll let me.” he lets out a groan, both hands now firmly planted on your waist. “but, god, please let me fuck you now. i'm trying so goddamn hard to hold back and i'll gladly go for another round later but i'm trying to make it up to you right now and it's gonna completely ruin it if i cum in, like, five seconds.”

you can't help your laughter in that moment so all you can do is nod, lifting your hips a little to try and get him going. and he takes the hint, pulling halfway out of you before slamming back in, a loud, deep string of groans leaving his lips.

his pace starts out frantic but he quickly calms himself down, stabilizing himself through his grip on your waist and pulling you to meet his thrusts. he snaps his hips into you at a smooth pace, his cock dragging against your walls with each stroke in a way that has you clawing at his wrists for support as he holds onto you.

hansol may be bad at relationships, but he's never been bad at sex. even on a good day it really doesn't take much to have you seeing stars, but this is different. this is desperate, determined, thankful, and hopeful all wrapped into one movement, sliding in and out of you with a passion you've only ever seen when he's playing guitar. 

“ha— ngh— hansol!” despite your efforts to keep it steady, your voice still comes out broken, his name escaping your lips as easily as breathing. you roll your head back against the pillow, and you're suddenly even more grateful that you're at home in your bed instead of alone in a parking lot. this is so much better, better than you could've dreamed.

“fuck, you always take my cock so good,” hansol groans as he leans forward and buries his face in your chest. “i should’ve been telling you that every single time, how good you are. so fucking good.”

the way he fucks you is strangely tender, in a way you're not sure you've ever felt before. it's rough, but somehow in a gentle way. he's taking you apart piece by piece and putting you back together with his hands, his kisses, his touch. none of the times before have ever come close to this. 

maybe it's the feeling of a mattress beneath your back instead of a hard plastic seat, or maybe it's the promises hanging in the air between you that makes this time feel brand new. maybe you're just too caught up in the moment to think straight, but for the first time it finally feels like a fresh start. this time is different.

“baby, please, one more for me,” he moans into your skin as his hips begin to grow weary, his breath hot against your chest. “‘m not gonna last much longer— fuck, cum for me one more time, baby. god, you're so perfect. please, let me make you cum.”

at this point he's rambling, almost as far gone as you are, but it's like he doesn't even need to ask. as soon as the words leave his mouth you feel the familiar sensation starting to build again, burning hotter and quicker than before. you almost start to panic because you can't even tell if you have another one left in you, but you look up and meet his eyes one last time and suddenly a wave of calm washes over you at the sight of his soft brown eyes filled with way more love than you're expecting to find there.

you don't even have time to tell him when it hits you one more time, you just grab him and hang on tight as your high tears through you. you struggle to lift your legs and wrap them around his back, pulling him in even closer to you as your walls flutter uncontrollably around him. he invades your senses and you can feel him everywhere, and you can only hope he feels the way you do.

but it's obvious that he does, because “ah, shit—” is the last thing you hear before he pulls out, barely managing to get back in time before he spills all over your stomach, your thighs, your pussy, the sheets. it's everywhere, and neither of you care. his hands are still on you gripping your waist tightly like he can't bear to let go, his cock pulsing limply as it rests against your stomach. rope after rope of thick white floods over your skin, and yet it's like he barely even notices because he's so busy repeating your name, praising you again and again in between swears and shaky moans.

you're panting, your hands shaking as you reach for him, but he's already right there. he's breathing heavily himself as he drops down on the bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and burying his head in the crook of your neck. 

his weight half leaning against you is grounding, and eventually you feel your heart starting to return to normal as you become aware of the sticky puddle of sweat and cum that you're both laying in. but you just close your eyes and rest, focusing on his body warmth and his palm holding your side and the tickle of air coming from his nose as he breathes against you, and you realize nothing, no feeling in the world, has ever felt better than this.

when he reluctantly pulls himself away from your body to go look for a towel, you already know there's no question about whether or not he's staying over tonight.

once he's done cleaning you off he lifts you up into his arms, laughing and nuzzling his nose into your neck as he sets you down at your desk chair to start stripping the mess of sheets off your bed, and in that moment you can't help but think how lucky you are. he keeps saying that he's the lucky one for letting him have a second chance, but you're lucky in a lot of ways, too. lucky that it turned out he wasn't as much of an idiot as you’d thought. lucky that your heart wouldn't let you give up on him, no matter how hard you tried. lucky that after everything, hope still works sometimes.

after stumbling around your room, tossing blankets and sheets around and looking the happiest you've ever seen him, you're finally settled down together and you're back where you've always belonged, laying in his arms. it's so late that the sun is probably coming up soon and you're exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of a night, but you couldn't care less about what happens next because everything finally feels right.

hansol sighs, his arm curled a little awkwardly around your shoulders as he twirls a lock of your hair between his fingers. “can… we not do this anymore?” he asks finally. 

his voice is quiet; not shy or uncertain, just quiet. it's different than what you're used to with him. usually when you're around him everything is loud, it's fast and messy and jumbled, a whirlwind of a night followed by heartache and a pounding headache in the morning. but now he's just… quiet. all the thoughts that normally rush through your head are gone, leaving nothing but silence.

you swallow, confused. although you've already talked out all your worries, you can't help the uncertain feeling that starts to return. “what do you mean? like, right now?”

he exhales like he's thinking, and his fingers pause in your hair. “like… i don't know. i want things to be good between us. whatever we were doing before— anything but that. no more not talking about stuff. no more tension. y'know? i promise.”

“mmm.” you hum, letting his words sink in for a while. you drum your fingers absently against his chest, almost trying to make sure he's still there. “yeah. i think… i think things are good between us now.” you giggle, leaning your head against his chest. “as long as you don't pull that shit again.”

he laughs, reaching up to grab your hand off his chest and hold it there. “oh, yeah, i know. you're way too good to me for even giving me another chance. i'm so sorry i almost fucked it all up.”

“you don't have to say that anymore.”

“well like i said, babe, i'm going to—”

“you can just keep saying ‘i love you’ instead.” you interrupt, squeezing his hand in yours.

he stops short in the middle of his sentence, caught in surprise, but as soon as your words register a grin slowly begins to make its way across his face. “cool. then… i love you.”

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[stardust-thief]

look after you

an: this my first x reader fic LMAOO, i needed to write smth and this spencer was on my brain :// i am in the middle of a rly long donna fic but i cba this was much easier. also i absolutley have not proof read this sorry

synopsis: you get hurt while hunting down an unsub, after some reluctance (and kind words from papa rossi) you let spencer take care of you, 1.7k words

cw: descriptions of violence, panic attack, spencer swears and can drive (the most un-canon thing abt him) umm italians..., the rest is just fluffy, hurt/comfort, x reader but no y/n

masterlist

The unsub had his gun pointed at you, the cold press of the barrel against flesh. He was ranting and raving about needing to be seen and understood, having spent his childhood in emotional neglect. Teachers and parents failed him at every turn, it’s not his fault that this happened but he can fix it if he just drops the gun. Rossi tried to tell him this over and over, but he only got more angry, pushing the gun in harder and harder. 

If you were to open your eyes, you would’ve seen JJ and Luke there too, guns trained on the unsub. Their eyes glancing between you, the unsub, and the gun. But you didn’t. Not until the bang went off and you could breathe again. 

The flashing lights of the ambulance do nothing to dissuade the pressing headache you feel coming on, the movement of people helps even less. You watch as the EMT’s cart the unsub away on a gurney, sheet covering him. 

“You okay, kid?” Rossi asks from beside you, he had been hovering ever since the ambulance arrived. 

“I’m fine, just need a good night's rest. I’ll be good as new.” You hummed half-heartedly. 

David Rossi always knew when someone was lying to him, part of that talent comes from his job as a profiler, but it’s mostly because of some ancient Italian magic. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that to me. Look, Hotch is on his way with Reid and Emily. They’re gonna be taking some witness statements, but I imagine Boy Wonder will be a little distracted. I want you to let him take care of you, ok? You’ve been through hell tonight kid, let him worry.”

Italians never lie, although you wish they did. Spencer had very obviously caught feelings for you, everyone on the team could see it. Unfortunately, so could you. Spencer Reid was one of the kindest, most genuine people you had ever met, always putting other people's needs before his own. A voice in your head kept telling you that there is nothing you have done to deserve someone like him doting all over you? You had only brought trouble to the people who loved you. Eventually you learned that it was better to just keep everyone at a distance; if you don’t let them in, they can’t get hurt. Which worked well, up until Spencer.

He had such a wormy way of getting into your brain at the worst times; whether it was when you were alone in your kitchen, or at slightly dangerous, very inappropriate times on a case. You couldn’t stop thinking about him and his stupidly cute (and sometimes ill-timed) facts. Some part of you wanted to let him in, in the end the stubborn side always took over. 

Before long, you heard the worried cries of Spencer trying to find you in the chaos. Rossi called his name and gave you a pat on the shoulder, “Remember, you deserve to be looked after too.” and left to find Hotch.

“Oh my god, are you okay? We tried to get here as soon as we could, but they managed to take down the unsub right? What happened, did he hurt you? How did you get so close? Talk to me are-” Oh, how he rambles. 

“Spencer, I’m fine. I just need to… rest, you know. He didn’t hurt me that bad, just a sprained wrist, couple bruises. Could’ve been worse.”

He spluttered, “Could’ve- you know, that doesn’t make this any better, I was so worried about you. He had a fucking gun to your head, I was going insane thinking about what could’ve happened. What did the EMT say about your wrist?”

“Just to rest it, and use an ice pack if it starts to swell or hurt.” You couldn’t look him in the eye, he was so worried about you. It made butterflies dance in your belly, but there was a twinge of guilt there too. He was so busy, he worked so hard and then went home to look after his mom. He had too much on his plate, how could you add more to it? “Spence, I’m really sorry about worrying you. I should be fine to leave now, so I’ll just head home and sleep it off. Have a good night.” You pushed yourself off the ambulance, eyes focused downwards, restless fingers fidgeting with the already frayed bandage.

“No- wait what are you talking about? You’re gonna drive yourself home in this condition? I can’t let you do that, even thinking about it makes me feel sick.” He lowered his head to yours and spoke softer this time, “Please let me take you home. I don’t have to stay, I just want to make sure you’re ok, ok?”

Fuck that voice did things to you. Leaning from side to side, you thought about what Rossi had said earlier. Maybe, it was ok to let someone in? It would be cruel to let him suffer more, not knowing if you were ok or somehow got in a car crash with 5 other vehicles on your way home. Just this once, you think.

Looking up into his soft eyes, you give a small nod. His lips immediately turned up into a smile, his hand comes up to cup your head, fingers stroking your cheek. It felt… nice. His thumb was calloused but he still moisturised enough for it to feel smooth, and he smelled like lemongrass and ginger. His hand fell to the small of your back as he guided you to his car. Ever the gentlemen, he opened your door and softly placed his hand over your head as you got in. Manoeuvring himself into the driver's side, he pulled out his phone and typed something, then quickly stuffed it away into a pocket and turned on the engine.

The sky was dark when you woke up. The unsub had a gun to your head at dusk, and Spencer was walking into your apartment when the moon was out. He took off his shoes and the door, and walked into your living room.

“I’ve never been here before,” he mused. “I like it.”

He looked at ease wandering around your apartment, his shoulders had relaxed and he let out soft musings as he perused your photo collections.

“Oh Spencer, not that one, it’s embarrassing!” You tried (with not a lot of effort) to pull him away from the frame.

“No this is cute, was this when you were at University?” He asked, wrapping an arm around you.

Oh my god. “Yeah, um- those were some of my friends at the time. I try and keep in touch but, you know.”

He hummed, pulling you closer into him. Finally content, he looked down at you. “How’s your wrist?”

“It’s ok,” you shrugged, “just a little tender now.”

“Where’s your kitchen, I can get some ice.”

“Spence-” you wanted to tell him no, to go home and look after himself. But his body was so warm, having him so close to you melted your brain, leaving you unable to think of any good reason as to why he should leave. “It’s the first door on the right.”

His grip tightened for a moment before he swiftly navigated you to the sofa, and turned to leave for the kitchen. The cold of the apartment rushed to get you as soon as he unraveled his arms. You hadn’t been alone all day since the unsubs attack, it somehow felt more claustrophobic. His hand on your throat, squeezing the air from your lungs. The way he grabbed your arm, contorting it so he could throw you to the ground. The gun, pressed into your forehead. The knowledge that the only thing between you being alive, and you being in a ditch, was a madman's finger on the trigger. Reality faded as each memory pressed further and further into your mind. You weren’t in your apartment anymore, you could feel the cold concrete beneath your hands. The thick air in your lungs, Rossi and the unsub shouting.

A hand on your knee, a soft voice bringing you back. There was no unsub, no gun to your head. You were alive. You were alive and Spencer was in your apartment, wiping the tears that had fallen down your face.

“You with me?” His voice was so soft, you couldn’t recall ever hearing Spencer raise his voice in anger. He was so gentle when he touched you. 

The floodgates burst, choked sobs made their way past your lips. Your shoulder shook as you cried, pressing yourself into Spencer’s arms. “Oh honey,” He murmured, pressing his lips into your head, softly rocking you back and forth as you sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. It was too much. You could have died today. Very nearly did. You weren’t ready to die, not yet at least.

As your cries softened into hiccups, you pushed yourself back from Spencer. “I’m sorry, that was so disgusting. It just all- I don’t know.”

 “Hey, you don’t ever have to apologise to me ok? What you went through was really scary, I’d honestly be more shocked if you didn’t cry.” His hand moved to draw soothing shapes along your back as you leaned back into him. “You want to watch something to calm down? I brought you some water and an ice pack for your wrist.”

He would be the death of you. You nod and push yourself back into the sofa, moving your wrist to rest in your lap. Spencer gently places the ice pack across your wrist and grips the tips of your fingers. He leans forward to push your cup of water towards you and grabs the TV remote, then turns and leans back so your side is pressed into his front. Truthfully, Spencer didn’t seem like the type to watch cable TV but he navigated the menu with somewhat ease. 

“Look at what’s on! It’s your favourite isn’t it, you want me to put it on.” He said as he nudged your shoulder.

He remembered your favourite film, of course he would remember it he has an eidetic memory. You hummed a yes as you relaxed your body further into his, finally content. Maybe Rossi was right, having Spencer close really wasn’t so bad after all.

[glitch-but-ya]

SILKEN CHAINS.

| AO3 | PAIRING: Yandere!Caleb x Psychotherapist!Reader CW: SFW but MATURE, manipulation, yandere, obsessive/possessive/controlling behaviour, grotesque descriptions, descriptions of gore, suicide, implied murder, stalking, trauma, mental illness, just a heavy fic in general, mild swearing, Fem!Reader. SUMMARY: When her childhood friend spirals into a paradox of obsession and madness, who could mend his fractured mind better than her? Utilizing her years of expertise, she is determined to bring him back. But can one play with fire without scorching their skin? Can she unravel his mind before he devours hers? WORD COUNT: 31k words. DISCLAIMER: Although you are free to view this as dead dove or dark romance, I am not romanticising such behaviour. I'm simply telling a dark story for the sake of telling a dark story. This is merely a psychological thriller written for the fun of it. Heavy content ahead, be warned. A/N: Helloo!! Sorry for being super inactive!! I hit a writing slump and when I’d recovered from it, I started this fic (or, more accurately, I started writing this fic in order to flee from writer’s block.) I wanted to work on my other sylus fic but I kept mixing the character’s personalities up. I’m usually great at multitasking but not when it comes to writing it seems. I had exams, my mother got sick halfway through ramadan, I was fasting and constantly exhausted, and yeah. (Yes, I am Muslim!) Anyways, the idea for this fic was something akin to a shower thought. I changed my writing style a bit. Basically went from uhh poetic(?) to more mordern. So I don’t know how I did. Any criticism or feedback is appreciated!!

He was always like this, wasn’t he?

You twirled your pen between your fingers as you glared out the open window into the faces of buildings looming high. A warm westerly breeze wafted through the opening, swirling the bittersweet scent of coffee throughout the room. A long, white couch sat at the other end of yours, bearing a small, fresh dent on its right corner—left by the last patient of the day. That decade-old piece of furniture had been in your office for as long as you could recall. It had shouldered the weight of various troubled souls who would rush to you at the first hint of distress. They would barge in, plop themselves down on the exact same side of the sofa, and pour their worries out.

For hours, you would sit still with a notebook in your hands, gazing out that very same window as if your ears had not caught a word. And once they’d stop, you would turn to them with a smile.

“I see. Well, let’s start from the beginning.”

Many came with a burdened frown, and all left with their heads lifted high. That was the quality of your service—the merit of having abandoned the role of a renowned criminologist to settle for a mere clinical psychotherapist. It was a far more peaceful life, where you only needed to contend with the usual afflictions of mental health. You’d say it suited you better. It was far kinder to your body and soul to study the boundaries of the mind rather than the savagery of crime. Because if you were truly competent enough to retain your position as a criminologist, you would have noticed sooner, wouldn’t you?

Your pen stilled in your hand.

You had studied the faces of many. Cheaters, narcissists, the apathetic, the antisocial—you had seen it all and more. During your brief tenure as a criminologist, you had worked with the most wretched criminals. A deranged, delusional son who had donned the skin of his mother shortly after gutting her alive, a schizophrenic woman who had splattered her husband’s brains across her grotesque painting, and countless men and women who displayed heightened symptoms of obsessive and abusive behaviour towards their partners.

And yet, you missed it.

There was a saying that we normalise the odd behaviour of those closest to us to such an extent that their misdoings and concerning actions fly off our radar without a hitch. Our paths were so intertwined with theirs that we saw no reason to stop and ponder—Hey, could this be a sign of mental illness?

You supposed you had fallen into the same dilemma. He had sat before you your entire life—from adolescence to the moment higher education set you apart, he had always been there. Even as you pursued your double majors, Caleb’s botched mental evaluation exam had not raised any red flags in your mind.

“Oh, it’s a flawed test. You of all people should know that someone’s mental health can’t be determined by a simple questionnaire.”

And regrettably, you believed him. He made a good point, after all. A simple questionnaire said nothing about someone’s true psyche.

But still, you regretted not questioning—Is it even possible to fail so miserably?

You should have checked his answers. Such an oversight had cost you the surprise of finding out in... such a way. And now that you looked back and reevaluated your interactions with him, the markers became clear.

“The people that want to hurt you? They should all just—” his gaze burned through your skull, “—disappear.”

“I don’t need your protection. I’m fine on my own.”

He scoffed, eyes brimming with betrayal.

“You don’t need me? Is that what you think?”

Your lips trembled as you sank deeper into the plush of the couch, forced down by his presence. With one arm, he caged you between his body and the cushions.

“Alright, what do you want? You can tell me.”

You knocked his forearm weakly. “Caleb, calm down—”

“We can return to Linkon if that’s what you want. We’ll rebuild our old house. And if one house isn’t enough, I’ll build you a whole maze.”

Like a fish out of water, you thrashed about, only to still once realisation dawned on you—

He was speaking to you with unfiltered, bare words. There would not be another chance like this. Now was the perfect time to capitalise on his raw and vulnerable state.

You pursed your lips. Caleb’s finger trailed across your jaw.

“I’ll decorate it with whatever you want. It will be the most stunning garden you’ve ever seen.”

You emptied your gaze, donning the familiar facade of a professional, objective psychotherapist. You scrutinised him as he spoke. You picked up on the subtle crack of his voice, the tears threatening to form, the gentle firmness of his grip. This was him—the true, raw him. How could you not have noticed sooner?

In hindsight, the signs were present. Possessiveness, obsession, strategic control—traits you would have easily identified in a client. He thought of himself as clever. And he was right. To the general public, Caleb was beyond cunning. A force to be reckoned with.

But you had seen worse. You had dissected minds far more twisted than his. You were confident in your abilities—you could unravel him, strip him bare once more, and deliver the final blow with cautious precision. Patients often believed themselves to be indecipherable, an enigma buried in the sands of time.

Yet they forgot that doctors such as yourself had wasted half their lives preparing for them. No matter how savage or twisted one may be, you were trained to make people collapse at the slightest pull of their heartstrings.

The only reason behind your incompetence had been simple—familiarity breeds blind spots, and Caleb was all too familiar to you. You regretted not having picked up on it sooner. Now, all your analyses pointed to the same result. He was severely disturbed and in urgent need of therapeutic intervention.

And who was more qualified to deliver just that than you?

This was what you had studied for, was it not? With your combined expertise in both psychology and criminology, you could corner Caleb into spilling his woes. You could fix him. He thought himself untouchable, but you had spent years preparing for men like him.

You tilted your head and glanced at the brightly coloured strip of paper sitting atop your desk. Tickets. To Skyhaven. You could finally see him.

You smiled. How long had it been? A couple of months, perhaps? Since your last visit to Skyhaven, Caleb had not hesitated to check up on you daily. As if unbothered by your reluctance to respond, he left small texts floating in your inbox. Simple formalities—How are you feeling? Have you eaten well?—all left on read. You could practically see the fireworks erupt in his violet eyes the moment you finally responded—

“I’m coming over tomorrow. Do you mind?”

Like an overjoyed pup granted his favourite treat, he swarmed your chat with various emoticons. ‘Are you on vacation? :0’ ‘When are you coming?’ ‘Should I make dinner?’

Despite your best efforts at denial, you couldn’t shake the flutter in your chest at his care and enthusiasm.

If only he had remained the same.

If only he were the boy you once knew, you wouldn’t have to resort to such measures.

Your pulse quickened as your fingers brushed across the ticket’s surface.

You were really doing this, weren’t you? Playing with fire, confident in your eventual triumph. In your field, patience was key.

You would untangle him thread by thread. And when he collapsed, you could embrace him once more. Not as a cruel, restrictive monster, but as the warm boy you had always known.

It was only a matter of time.

“Please stand clear of the doors,” a robotic female voice buzzed. “Next stop, Skyhaven.”

You planted yourself against the hard plastic chairs, clutching a phone that idled on a conversation.

“I’m on the train.” “I’ll be there to pick you up :D”

You stuffed your phone back into your bag. With a loud whir, the train began to move. Your body swayed to the side as it accelerated, pressing you against a metal pole. In just a few hours, you would reach Skyhaven. And he would be there, waiting for you with that big grin plastered across his face—the grin that once lifted you off your feet, whose irony you had now begun to despise. It was the very same expression that would trick the masses.

Girls lined up against high school lockers would swoon over it. But what they didn’t know was that his radiant smile was merely a distraction meant to deter them from the way his eyes, no matter what obstruction emerged before him, would always be locked on you. His warm violet hues would burn through your skull as you led him through the hallways, chatting away obliviously. Back then, you had shrugged it off. He was just expressing care, you thought. You were afraid of crowds back then. He was just looking out for you. It was in your best interest, right? If only you had known.

You should have questioned. You should have known better.

But your high school days were well behind you. What stood now were two matured adults with a strained relationship, engaged in a ruthless game of chess—a game he did not yet realise he was a participant in.

But that only gave you the upper hand. When dealing with patients who would exploit your vulnerability and love for them, having a head start was almost a necessity. Sure, you were certain you’d come out on top eventually. But your work had taught you to tread gingerly nonetheless. When navigating the confines of a person’s mind, every micromovement of yours could cause the whole structure to crumble. No matter how accomplished a psychotherapist is, they are bound to experience massive turbulence in the field of their work.

And you had come prepared accordingly.

You reached into your bag to retrieve a worn, leather-backed journal. It had no labels. Only a brown, thick covering with a matching strap. A blue strip with a metal piece on its end hung loosely from the bottom. It was a bookmark. Old, worn—the fabric of the strip had gone dirty. It was stained with splotches of brown, with an array of torn threads poking out from a corner.

You turned to the first page. It was dated three years ago.

You swiftly flipped through the rest of the pages until you landed on nothing. Somewhere around the middle of the journal, there was a cluster of blank pages stapled together. With a moment of reconciliation, you thumbed through the stapled pages.

Harrison Roan.

A small smile graced your lips. You had, in fact, snatched the correct one before departing.

You traced your hurried handwriting, skimming over the words. You stopped at the small paragraph below the margin—the ‘final comment’.

Patient remains evasive and reluctant to engage in cooperative dialogue. He exhibits obsessive tendencies when discussing his partner, demonstrating patterns of control consistent with Machiavellian protection. His behaviour suggests a state of limerence, accompanied by coercive control over his loved ones. Obsessive-compulsive personality traits are observed, raising suspicion of OCPD. Therapy is recommended for further evaluation and intervention.

Back during your time at the Linkon Criminal Psychiatric Facility, you were assigned as Harrison’s primary psychotherapist. He was accused of abducting and imprisoning his lover, Anne Lotte. Anne underwent severe emotional abuse and manipulation. For a short period of three months, you were assigned to her as well. But before you could make any progress, she had thrown herself off the facility’s roof.

It was devastating, the state you found her in. Anne’s mind was completely mangled. There was a dark fog clouding her conscience. You doubted even a piercing sharp beam of light could pass through to her. She was unresponsive, silent, rendered dead; almost as if her mind had gone senile. Her situation filled you with revulsion. Ten years of imprisonment and psychological torture could destroy one’s psyche so brutally that even after they had regained their freedom, the light of hope would fail to reach their eyes.

You refused to be a victim of the same tragedy, and you refused to let Caleb walk the same path of insanity. Beyond all, you loved him. You wouldn’t leave him be and watch as he slowly abolished himself. You would not let the same tragedy occur once more. And perhaps Harrison’s case was the key. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from here.

“Skyhaven. Doors will open from the left.”

You shut your journal and lazily shoved it back into the depths of your bag. A flock of passengers stood, ready to hurl themselves out the moment the door slid open. You recoiled in your seat with a sigh. You’d just go once the crowd had dimmed.

Placing your chin in your hand, you looked out the window and peered through the crowds, fishing for Caleb. Your pulse fluttered as you saw him stare back at you with that signature smile of his—boyish, handsome… eerie. A chill shot up your spine. There was something about this ‘new’ him you could not explain. Something you couldn’t wrap your head around.

Something that frightened you.

You beamed through the glass, the brightest smile you could muster, and raised your palm to wave at him feverishly. Collecting your belongings in a frenzy, you rushed out the door, only to be met by the solid wall of his chest.

“Oof—” You rubbed your forehead. The man before you broke into a fit of gentle laughter and ruffled the top of your head. “Were you that excited to see me?”

You shot him a sheepish smile. He returned your gesture.

“Here, let me help with those.” He hoisted one of your bags over his shoulder and beckoned for you to follow. You took after him shortly after, skipping over to him with glee.

“Soo… why the sudden visit?” Caleb mused. You raised your head to look him in the eye. “I got a vacation, and…”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And?”

“There are… never mind. Can I tell you once we’re alone?” You could feel the way his heartbeat hastened without needing to touch him. It made your stomach knot in retaliation.

“Alright. Sounds good.”

The two of you hauled your way to the car. Before you could nestle yourself in the spacious backseat, he rushed in front of you to swing open the door to the passenger seat. He gestured for you.

Your eyes glinted with mischief. “Oh?”

“The finest service from yours truly.”

Damnit, that smooth imbecile.

Defeated (yet not yielding), you slid into the passenger seat and waited as he loaded your luggage into the trunk of the car. Once sure nobody was looking, you pried open your bag and inspected the journal inside. Phew. You hadn’t abandoned it on the train.

“Forget something?” You jumped. Your head whipped to the head peeking in from the crack of the car door. A shudder crept up your spine at the empty expression plastered on his face and the way his eyes gave away nothing. The grin was absent from his lips. With lingering unease, you forced your muscles to relax. “I just thought I left my phone behind.”

The warmth returned to his gaze. “Sorry for scarin’ ya.” He ruffled your hair affectionately. You shook your head. “No, it’s fine.”

The drive was quiet, with you engulfed in your paranoia regarding whether or not you should say what you’d sworn to tell Caleb, and him consumed by God-knows-what. The way he fixed his gaze on the road up ahead, not once looking back or giving you a sliver of his attention, perplexed you. What was he so invested in?

“So,” Caleb started, snapping you out of your domain of thought, “What were you gonna say?”

You bit the inside of your cheek and forced yourself to don a neutral tone. “I wanted to…” Fingers deftly played with the hem of your shirt. “Fix things.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Between us. Because, you know.”

The world stilled. You subconsciously hugged your bag tighter against yourself, anticipating all sorts of responses he could give. Would he stay silent? No. Not his style. He would…

Caleb smiled. “So, you want to start over?” He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Can’t say for sure whether I can be the Caleb you want.”

An opening.

You mustered the kindest simper you could and shook your head. “I was thinking… rather than rebuilding our past, we try and make peace with the new versions of each other.”

There was silence. And then, a glint in his eye. His shoulders slumped against the leather seat. The weight dimmed from the air, leaving only a soothing quietude—the calm after the storm had passed. It was almost like the old days.

Almost.

“Sounds good to me.” His mask returned. Contrary to his words, this version of Caleb was unfeeling. Even now, he refused to let you in. He blocked you out with that fire—that crackling lukewarm grin, that blazing radiance he bore. Warm like the sun, and just as deadly as it, and almost impenetrable.

But you could see the cracks that ran through that frigid surface. Earth crumbles fast. And no matter how sturdy the soil, the right amount of water could dampen it just enough for you to dig through.

You would reach him. You were sure. And you would save him just as you should’ve saved yourself.

Caleb helped you unload in front of his house, reaching the bags faster than you could and hauling them over his shoulder before you could protest. Admittedly, it was these small gestures of fondness that allured you to him in the first place. A trap, you thought. Only a front to mask his true twisted nature.

“Are you gonna conquer my room again?” he teased. You stopped in your tracks, turning to scrutinize all the barren rooms. A thought arose, one you desperately tried to shove to the back of your brain. Had you let your fear of him affect you so much that you would begin to lose your mind over the simple choice of rooms?

You took a deep breath and raised your finger, pointing at his room. You looked at him and grinned. “Why not? Your bed is the comfiest.”

Caleb would fall for it, wouldn’t he? The thought of you inhaling his scent, residing where he did—it was far too intimate for his mind to fathom. And the privilege of having your scent rubbed all across his bedsheets, in his balcony, in the mugs you used and the plates you discarded; you were making an offer a lovesick mind like his could not refuse.

You rejoiced internally at the sight of his face. The widening of his eyes, the contraction of his pupils, the subtle twitch of his lips—something awoke in him. Something fearful—a horned monster with gleaming red eyes clutched his heart. It was your indication that you’d won.

“Alright, alright,” Caleb mused. “Whatever the lady wants, she shall get.”

And with that, you successfully seized his room.

They say that one’s room is a reflection of one’s mind. They being you, of course, alongside a few other studies that emerged following the publication of your own. A great deal can be discerned from the mere face of a room—the way its occupant arranges their bedsheets, the colours they favour, the state everything is in, the organisation of furniture and possessions, the things they treasure enough to keep within these walls. From mental state to relationship status, all could be dissected from a single glance at a room and its arrangement.

You didn’t believe Caleb foolish enough to leave incriminating evidence strewn about. If anything had been there, he would have tidied up days before you set foot in Skyhaven. He preferred to keep details of his field of work discreet. You assumed it stemmed from an unwillingness to "corrupt" what he held sacred—sacralisation, perhaps? Disturbing when done to a human, yet not uncommon. You had encountered such cases before, and no matter how many you worked on, each left a familiar sinking feeling in your gut.

Knowing that, you never expected to find anything concrete in his room. But that wasn’t your intention.

You unpacked, arranging your belongings on the bed. Your journal rested on his desk. Of course, there was a risk in choosing to stay here. If you left your journal lying about and he happened to enter on a whim (which he had every right to; it was his room, after all), you would be exposed almost instantly. What excuse could you offer for analysing patients from three years ago, especially while on holiday? Worse, if his eyes caught the blue thread marking the pages where you had written about Harrison, he would connect the dots at once. What would he do then? Banish you? Grow cold? Or something worse?

You didn’t want to think about it.

Regardless, it was a risk you were willing to take. Consequences only existed if you faltered first. You were far more interested in what his room revealed about his mental state. Was it irrefutable evidence? No. But you weren’t on duty. This was a personal investigation—here, proof could be as subjective as you pleased. The only jury was yourself.

The bed was impeccably made, yet a thin layer of dust coated the duvet—a symptom of neglect. Still, there were signs that he had attempted to prepare. The neatly arranged cosmetics on the vanity, the dusted balcony with its watered plants, the stocked bird feeder swaying gently from the ceiling, the polished bathroom with its dry, tiled floors. They spoke of the care he had taken to render the space habitable for you.

It was your belief that people tidied before the arrival of guests to mask the unguarded fragments of themselves, those revealed in the dim solitude of their rooms. You could sense the effort he had poured into creating an illusion of warmth. His room practically welcomed you. Little hints of life were scattered throughout, almost as if to weave a mirage of normalcy.

"When we move in together in the future, what kind of room do you want?"

You lifted your chin, humming in thought. "Oh! I know! I want a lively room!"

"You mean colourful and vibrant?"

You shook your head. "No, dummy. A warm room! One that looks lived in."

Had he remembered your words? Back then, you had merely been a child. You had no true grasp of what you were saying, lacked the linguistic skills to articulate your thoughts. And yet, he remembered. Or perhaps it was simply instinct—after all, any normal person would feel more comfortable in a space that had been occupied before.

Despite his meticulous efforts, something betrayed it all.

You ran a fingertip across the duvet, picking up dirt. He had forgotten to tend to the bed. You could see it now—the bed, untouched for so long, had appeared so pristine that it had entirely slipped his notice. That very perfection had made him overlook it. And you might have as well, had it not been for the red welts that bloomed upon contact.

That told you more than you had expected. So consumed with work, he had dehumanised himself. Yet, instead of confronting it, instead of seeking help, he had merely painted over the cracks and prayed you would not notice.

Caleb was underestimating you. And that would be his undoing.

As both a therapist and a friend, it was your duty to halt his descent before it could begin.

Breakfast was served a bit late, around the time you’d usually make it for yourself back at home. Flatbread stuffed with meat and cheese—slightly indulgent, you’d say, but filling and undeniably delicious. Especially when put together by his hands. The savoury aroma wafted through the kitchen. You sat near the counter, devouring the bread in bites that left your mouth stuffed and puffy. Caleb laughed at the sight. But what could you do? After all, you were obsessed with his culinary prowess.

Although, you would admit, it was hard to focus on the food when his eyes were practically glued to you, unmoving and unwavering. A chill crept through your limbs but was quickly swallowed by the sudden burst of flavour in your mouth.

“How is it?”

You mumbled incoherent words through your full cheeks.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

No matter how vastly he changed, one thing remained constant—his food. It hadn’t changed a bit. The taste carried the same warmth it once had, the same lingering aftertaste of his signature seasoning. A silly thought popped into your mind—what if that were to change as well? A ridiculous notion. But then again, art changes as the artist does.

“Do you eat well while you’re on duty?”

Caleb looked out the window and hummed. His gaze averted yours. “Does cafeteria food count as ‘eating well’?”

“…Not really.” You smiled. Why did he look away?

You pinched his arm. “Look at you—you’re going to grow frail and weak!”

Caleb flinched before wincing dramatically, forcing a chuckle. “Really? Guess I gotta start eating well, huh?” He paused, glancing at his arm. “Or else someone’s gonna be breathing down my neck even when we’re apart.”

With a tilt of your head, you nodded. “I’ll scold you every time I’m back.”

“If it means seeing you more ofte—ow!” You pinched a thin layer of his flesh and twisted it.

“I can see those evil schemes swirling around in your brain. Cut it out! Or do you want me to punch you?”

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Oh, whatever am I to do?”

Despite the playful spark in his eyes, you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze flickered toward the compartment beneath the counter. He shifted, positioning his body over the gap so you were unable to steal a glance even if you tried.

You tilted your head and hummed. Interesting. It was best not to let him know you’d caught on.

You swallowed the last bits of your food with a mug of icy water. “Once you’re weak, I’ll craft a ploy to seize your position. The fleet’s going to have a new Colonel soon!” Smirking slyly, you puffed out your chest with mock confidence.

An unexpected tension settled in the air. You noted the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched at the word Colonel. A fleeting, alien emotion flickered behind his violet eyes, only to be swiftly dimmed by his sudden grin. That same, insufferable grin that guarded the entrance before you could step into his mind. His way of shutting you out.

He poked your arm and chuckled. “I’ll be looking forward to it, Colonel.” A palm rose to his head in an exaggerated salute.

Why was he so jumpy today?

Later, sometime during the afternoon, you dragged Caleb out for a casual tour of Skyhaven. “Show me your favourite places to relax!” you’d said with a beam. That was all it took for him to crumble to his knees.

He led you to a sky-based retreat (well, you were already in the sky, but still) situated atop a towering skyscraper that dwarfed all others of its kind. It was a behemoth of a building—a monolithic structure plated with heavily tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows on all four faces. The epitome of a modern yet intimidating corporate monolith. A lake surrounded it on three sides, and the only way in was via a vast bridge, sturdy enough to withstand the heaviest of cargo-bearing trucks, looping around the entire strip of land.

The apex was swallowed by cotton-white clouds. The last few floors vanished into the fog, dissolving from view. Despite the presence of splendid and meticulously maintained gardens throughout, only a few workers strolled about. Even with the meticulously architected bridges, barely any cars were to be seen. Only the distant rattle of golf buggies echoed in the air. Save for the occasional chirps and the gentle woosh of water below, it was eerily quiet.

You contemplated asking Caleb about it, but for some reason, your inability to piece it together on your own gnawed at you, filling you with a bitter pride. It should be easier than a murder case. Why were you fumbling? This was supposed to be your first real move. How could you falter before even setting your plan into motion?

None of the workers paid any real attention to the two of you as you stepped through the main entrance. Only a few odd glances followed. Caleb seemed to be a regular here. They all seemed at ease with his presence.

The elevator ride was a gruelling one. You could swear it took five whole minutes just to exceed the twentieth floor. Caleb argued it had only been forty seconds. It felt longer, nonetheless. Normally, a crowded elevator would have preoccupied you. You would have found yourself enthralled by the faces and mannerisms of the passers-by—the twenty-something man in a black suit, the unusually silent boy with bruises on his arms, the seemingly unfazed elderly woman with a deep-set frown. Insignificant to most, yet to you, endlessly fascinating.

For instance, the furrow on the businessman’s brow suggested he was late for work. The bruises on the boy’s body spoke of a heartwarming heroism, evident in the little girl beside him who thanked him ceaselessly (though, judging by his expression, he had definitely received an earful from his guardian). And the irritable old woman—well, she was quite clearly the one who had placed a zipper on the boy’s mouth.

What seemed forgettable to others was precious to you, and as long as there was company, you found solace.

But here, there wasn’t. Other than Caleb, of course. And unfortunately, you couldn’t exactly stare at him for the entire ride. You’d rather not resemble a mad doctor dissecting a newly discovered organism. Still, you couldn’t deny it—he was far more interesting than any stranger.

So, you stared at him anyway. Luckily for you, he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps because he was too preoccupied, gazing out the transparent sheet of glass with a small smile on his lips. He seemed to be in a good state of mind. That was good. Otherwise, things had a slim chance of escalating into an argument. Nothing you couldn’t handle, just something you’d rather avoid. Or else, he’d pierce through your façade faster than you intended.

The doors slid open with a hiss. Beams of warm light spilled through, hitting your face and causing you to squint. The entryway, constructed of flimsy straw structures, was adorned with threads of vines creeping up and down the walls. Sunlight dripped through the holes in the patchwork roof, glinting cruelly beyond the tapestry, shining down with all its might—an act of savagery against your poor eyes. Thankfully, the vines shielded you from its full assault.

You tilted your head. A woman—uniformed, with a strict look on her face—stood beside the entrance with an immaculate posture. A familiar hat sat low on her head, guarding her eyes from both the intense heat and light. The utter lack of emotion in her gaze sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

You glanced up at Caleb. He was unfazed by her presence, as if she were a mere colleague or a guard standing by. But she wasn’t the latter. You could tell by the uniform.

With your hand in his, he strode up to the woman. She offered a curt salute in response. “Colonel.”

“We would like to enter.” His voice was cold, a stark contrast to the way his thumb tenderly grazed over yours.

The woman turned to you. Her head tilted as she scrutinised you with a wary gaze. Then, she nodded. “Right this way.”

You were sure of it now. This was a private building, accessible only to high-ranking members of the Farspace fleet. You supposed such an arduous job had its benefits. Well, this was the least they could offer to those who put their lives on the line each day, fighting for yet more senseless bloodshed. This place was built upon a mixture of blood and sweat.

You grimaced. It felt wrong to stand upon this ground. If you squinted, you could see them—corpses strewn across the floor, brain matter splattered across the walls. Your stomach coiled. What a pathetic way to live—to be crowned in blood and sit upon a throne of bloodied cash, chest brimming with pride, belly full of greed, smirking down upon the famished.

You turned to face Caleb. You supposed he wasn’t too different from those people. And yet, you had forgotten all about it until now. He was truly a master at forging a harmless appearance, a welcoming front. Even now, a part of you refused to see him that way.

You supposed you were guilty as well. You had accepted your position as his plus-one without hesitation and accompanied him to such a place. It was hypocritical to persecute him while standing upon the faces of corpses, declaring yourself the selfless hero.

Such was the nature of humans.

The woman led you through the delicate gate. Caleb dragged you along. The first time you laid your eyes on the garden, your world stilled.

Words could not describe how breathtaking yet melancholic the sight before you was. If you were to attempt to jot it down on a piece of paper, you would be stuck on the first word. Unlike your initial beliefs, the botanical garden was not encased in glass. It should’ve been obvious from the torture you’d endured—the perpetrator being the sadistic, open sun. Maybe it was the awe of it all that heightened your perplexity.

The flowering meadows, the perfectly trimmed patches of fresh, green grass, the symmetrical, square-shaped ponds, the pair of birds feeding from the birdbath, the cascading artificial waterfalls—you didn’t know which one of them struck you the deepest. Or maybe it was the overly maintained religious sculptures—the one depicting a winged woman, angel or devil, with a honeycomb for her face—or the concerningly clean walkways, or the flawlessly aligned roses in the rose gardens that seemed a little too well-kept, stealing away the ‘wild’ and ‘natural’ vibe of your typical botanical garden.

The sky above was a whirlwind of blues, whites, subtle purples, and a dominant yellow-white. A soft breeze cascaded past, threading through the strands of your hair and dancing along your skin. It was cool and pleasant—perfectly so. Like the soft spring breeze that blows in February, or the afternoon wind at the shore of a river. It was just right. The perfect temperature to lull you to sleep.

Your mind winded back to the afternoons you spent with Caleb under your backyard’s willow tree. The breeze there would blow just as strikingly as it did here. Leaves would flutter down onto your face, only to be brushed aside by Caleb’s warm fingers. You would spend several hours lying there with him. Whether it was to complete your homework (of course, you slacked off and lured him into an endless chat instead) or flip through a book, he would always be there, brimming with that brotherly tenderness of his. It made up for your lack of a father figure in your life—Grandma Josephine being your only guardian.

Your heart ached at the memory. Maybe he hadn’t changed at all. Even then, Caleb harboured one major purpose—to protect what he loved, you, and to cherish it to the fullest. You had a hunch—what if that mysterious chip in his brain did not alter him entirely, but only heightened his preexisting instincts? But still. You found it hard to believe that the chip could truly rewire his brain so severely. You refused to believe such contraband existed. The mind is a fragile thing. It’s not so easy to suppress its power. Although all factual data pointed towards only a little portion of his brain remaining untouched, you firmly believed it was a front.

Maybe, among his emotions lay one that would be easy to utilise, to take control of and provoke so that he abided by their rules. And the only emotion so easy to manoeuvre—his only weakness—was his love for you. If you hadn’t been born…

“It’s… wow,” you let out an audible gasp. Your eyes twinkled with stars. On your heels, you spun around, imprinting every inch of the garden in your memory. Caleb didn’t need to be a genius to know that bringing you here was the best choice he had made in a long time. His grin mimicked yours. There was no use in asking whether you were enjoying the view or not—the way you frantically hopped about the place, skipping from pond to pond and observing the exotic birds from afar, told him everything.

With small, unhurried steps, Caleb approached you as you peeked at the pair of colourful birds drinking from the birdbath. “They’re raised here. I feed ’em sometimes.” He tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “They’re friendly towards humans. Watch.”

He held out his right hand and approached the birds gingerly. The blue jay tilted its head to scan Caleb as he neared. As if recognising him immediately, it leapt onto his arm.

Using his other hand, he gestured for you to come. You approached with silent and hesitant steps. Once close enough, you reached up to touch the blue jay perched on his arm. You nearly jumped into a pond when the bird took off. Your cheeks flushed red, to which Caleb burst out guffawing.

“I forgot to mention—they don’t like being touched. Sorry, Pip!” he uttered between chuckles.

You gave him the meanest glare you could muster. “How very forgetful of you.” You brought an accusatory finger to point at his chest. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Did I?”

“Yes, you did!”

The woman watching from afar could not help but smile at your meaningless banter.

You and Caleb lingered until the sun began to dip below the horizon, until the once-blue skies were replaced with a bright orange-red and purple. The clouds began to darken—the battle cry of an impending tempest. Or was it the coming of night? You didn’t know. Nonetheless, both of you refused to leave.

“The world looks so tiny from here.” You compared the size of the structures afar with your fingers. Your other hand gripped the railing for support. “I’m almost jealous. You get to come here every day.”

You mumbled, turning to face Caleb, who appeared entranced by the hues of the setting sun. A smile adorned your face. He looked so peaceful, so content. As if nothing had occurred in the past few months, as if it was still the two of you against the world. You yearned to breathe in his embrace once more, just like old times. You swallowed. You couldn’t afford that. The past was gone. Now, only the future awaited—a future that depended on your actions, your choices, and your diligence. You couldn’t back out now. You were too far in.

“Don’t you miss that Willow tree?” you started. “The big one in our backyard. We used to rest against the trunk on the grass.”

“Once, I had to save you from a grasshopper. It lunged at you from the grass, and you screamed like a child,” he laughed. “And afterwards, you ended up avoiding that place for two weeks.”

“I only went after you got rid of them.”

He nodded. “I sprayed the whole area with bug repellent—it killed some of the vegetation as well.”

You smiled at the memory. “Grandma was so mad at us.”

A comfortable quietude ensued, submerging you both into a peaceful state of mind. Then, Caleb spoke solemnly.

“I have patrol tomorrow.” The sun began to disappear below the horizon, leaving swipes of purple behind on the sky. Dark clouds converged. “I won’t be there for you, pip.”

“Truth be told…” You gazed up at the vanishing sun. “I have some work to do. I came here for a more peaceful and friendly working environment.”

“Then you can busy yourself with that. Just… don’t burn down my kitchen, yeah?”

You shot him a scheming grin, yet it held no bite. “When will you be back?”

“The day after. Not too long.”

You bit your lip. Couldn’t he have stayed for a day longer? You had to be quick on your feet, then.

“Did you think about it?” Caleb suddenly interrupted. The gears turned in your head. Your mind was brought back to the offer he’d made before you departed from Skyhaven the last time—“Why not live here? You have nothing left in Linkon city to return to. I can get you a position somewhere as a criminologist. You can return to doing what you loved.”

Your gaze returned to him. You hadn’t decided yet. Sure, it gave you quite a handful of opportunities to inspect his brain a little closer. But if your plan failed? You’d be stuck in Skyhaven. You were sure it wouldn’t, but…

You took the flesh of your mouth into your teeth. It wasn’t the time to doubt yourself. But that wasn’t the only concern in your mind. The thought of him bearing so much power over your life and your job put you at unease. It was risky. Terribly so. It made your advantages over him feel insignificant. No matter how passionate you were about your work, and no matter your love for him, you preferred your sanity and wellbeing over all.

You turned to Caleb with an apologetic smile. His eyebrows furrowed, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. “Sorry, Caleb. I’ve made some friends, and I’m happy with the quiet life I’ve managed to build for myself.”

You could sense his thoughts—“What life? That poor, miserable one devoid of my presence and protection?”—you were sure that was what’d crossed his mind at that moment. You could tell by the way his jaw was clenched and his muscles tightened. But at once, the solicitous façade returned, washing away every hint of dissatisfaction that’d dared to cross his face. “That’s all right. You’re free to change your mind whenever you wish.” You forced your lips into a tight smile in return. “I appreciate it.” A part of you winced at the sudden formality in your tones. For some reason, you loathed whenever he got serious. It frightened you somewhat.

“You know, pip-squeak,” Caleb mused, his voice light, casual. Unnervingly so. Something in your stomach coiled—that familiar feeling of dread and anticipation. “Something tells me you’re not here for relaxation.”

You stilled, only for a little while. But it was enough. His gaze sharpened. “Tell me.” His eyes bore into yours—calculating, scrutinising, leaving no stone unturned. As if you were the experiment, and he, the mad scientist. Something venomous swirled in his violet hues. Like a dagger, or like the teeth of a snake—sharp, ready to pierce skin, waiting.

Unreadable.

Bolts of lightning ripped through the skies, illuminating a part of Caleb’s face to highlight the utter insanity brewing beneath his irises. A strong, dusty wind blew, sending shivers down your spine—though, you were unaware whether they were from fear or the cold. So, it was an oncoming storm.

Your fingers curled against the railing. Your sweat seeped onto its surface. You hesitated.

“Caleb, that’s—” A soft voice murmured. You let out a breathless laugh, flustered. “You’re not wrong.”

The air between you stretched taut. He remained silent, unmoving. Once again, silence had engulfed you, but this time, it wasn’t pleasant. Like a watchful eagle, Caleb waited.

You brushed strands of hair away from your eyes and glued your eyes to the birds instead. “You know, lately, I’ve just—I’ve been thinking,” you let your words tremble, “I—I’m sorry…” You gripped your chest. “I’ve been thinking that, maybe…” You swallowed, lowering your gaze. Perfect.

You inhaled sharply. “You were right.”

His brow raised. He seemed hooked.

“I thought about what you said—about my security. And you’re right. Although I’ve trained in the police, my combat knowledge is minimal. Linkon city is becoming less safe by the second, especially for me.” You closed your eyes. “Assuming what you said was true, about several corporations being after my head—well, my heart, I just can’t help but feel unsafe. Even when surrounded by my friends, even in my own home.” Your lips quivered. He listened with immaculate patience, as if he were picking apart your words, searching for a hidden subtext. “And now, everybody seems like hollow, empty beings. I can’t resonate with my patients; I can’t have fun with my friends. I feel so… isolated. So alone. And I realised,” you continued, “that despite all, you on the other hand? You were always there for me. In my heart, by my side. I could truly only be safe and happy when with you.”

Silence. The only sound in the air was the crackling of thunder.

You chanced a glance at him, watching how his eye twitched. Had he caught on? Were you in trouble? Was he mad? Your anxiety peaked at the slow inhale as he prepared to speak.

But then, his eyes softened.

“You should’ve just said so.” His voice was gentle, lacking the malice it once had. “You know you can always turn to me for help, right?”

Bingo.

Inside, you smirked. It worked. He fell for it. How could he not? You had been preparing for ages.

You’d won your first challenge. Arguably, it was the toughest one. If you’d failed—if he’d caught on, or noticed even the smallest hint of it having been a lie, your entire world would’ve crumbled. All that you’d worked for, gone. Rendered meaningless by your incompetence. You didn’t know what you would do afterward if that were to happen.

You let yourself appear small and vulnerable when you looked back at Caleb, attempting to highlight the anxiety in your eyes. “I know. I was planning to say it, but a perfect moment never came. Until now, that is.”

Caleb brought his palm to your cheek and cradled your face in his arms. “You don’t need an excuse to be honest with me. Whenever you feel like it, just lay your heart bare.”

“But you seemed so happy. Like you were enjoying yourself. I didn’t want to ruin it with my embarrassing thoughts.” You argued, forcing a frown on your face. He shook his head. “Once you’re done, we can go straight back to having fun if that’s what you want. Besides,” he averted his gaze, “It’s been on my mind all day—why you could be pretendin’ when you could’ve just told me. I was wondering how bad it was for you to be hidin’ it from me so desperately.”

You assumed as much. Explains why he seemed so jumpy earlier during breakfast, and why he kept zoning out the entire way here. It was what gave you the idea of using such deceit in the first place. You were sure if there was a perfect place to confront you about it, it would be here; under the witness of the setting sun, in a place you were bound to feel sentimental and thus, vulnerable and ready to spill it all out.

Unfortunately, you were not willing to fall for such a clear trap.

By the time you had left, the downpour had begun. Weighted beads of water stormed down on you viciously. The two of you rushed out before the storm could catch you. Well, one of you did. Caleb, who so valiantly used himself to shield you against the relentless tempest, had been completely drenched. Blobs of water dragged along the floor as he walked. You swore, if you squeezed him then, a whole waterfall would erupt. It was almost sweet—the way he so earnestly utilised his behemoth of a body to block out the storm’s ceaseless assault. It was something straight out of a romantic drama, or some sort of cliché film. But for some reason, you couldn’t cringe. You only laughed it off, paying no mind to the gentle flutter in your stomach.

The drive home was thrilling—abundant with giggles and snarky remarks thrown around. Perhaps you were in a better mood because your stomach was full—Caleb had been kind enough to treat you to supper in a small café situated on the middlemost floor of that building. The chef’s culinary expertise overflowed from the arrangement of exquisitely prepared Skyhaven delicacies. And the best part? They were quite cheap. Had you received a discount in honour of his presence? You didn’t know. But at the very least, you didn’t go broke after insisting that you split the bill 50/50. Despite having dried off, however, Caleb somehow wetted the seats.

Once home, both of you almost immediately collapsed onto the couch (you threw him off, of course, for soaking the furniture with the remnants of his heroism). He scrambled out of his clothes and cooked you both a warm plate of braised chicken wings shortly after. Dinner ensued normally this time, with a dearth of odd flinches or averted gazes. The two of you simply chatted to your heart’s content, both putting in equal effort to make it seem as if old times had returned.

Of course, it hadn’t. You were thrust back into reality when Caleb’s phone began to ring.

With a sidelong glance, he excused himself, making haste to his room and shutting the door behind him. You eyed the door, moving only when you were sure it’d clicked shut. Tip-toeing over to the kitchen, you bent down to eye the compartments underneath. There it was. Unmistakable, concrete—a file of unknown origin adorned with a sleek grey cover. You glanced over the counter. He wasn’t done yet. Your attention travelled back to the file.

But you paused. Tremors rippled through you as you slipped the ring off your finger and dropped it to the floor. With a measured kick, you pushed it further beneath the counter. Just to be safe. In case you were caught.

You reached into the compartment. Your entire arm was swallowed by darkness before finally, your fingers met the file. Cautiously, you pulled it out. The layer of dust coating its surface sprang up to your face as you dusted it. You made an effort not to cough.

The file’s edges were worn. Yet the pages inside appeared to be relatively new and untouched, perhaps even well-kept. A plastic sleeve shielded the grey manila folder from all sorts of debris. The pages inside were laminated and contained bundles of new words and information foreign to you. The file’s contents overwhelmed you. They appeared to be gibberish, nonsensical.

You deftly skimmed through the first few pages. None of the information contained within them seemed worthy of noting. Not to you, at least. There didn’t appear to be anything you didn’t know and was not known by the public. Then why was he reacting so oddly back then? Why had he flinched? Why had his gaze travelled back to his lap—or more specifically, to this file, as he anxiously fiddled with his fingers? You’d lured him away on purpose—dragging him outside the moment he could’ve gotten a chance to remove the file before you could grasp it. Was it all for nothing, then? Were you mistaken?

You stilled.

You weren’t mistaken after all.

Your fingers hovered over the fifth page.

There, in big, bold letters, was your name.

Inscribed upon the laminated page. And beside that lay your picture, alongside a list of unremarkable data, such as your date of birth, full name, affiliation, and so on.

Before you could investigate further, a voice called out your name. You hadn’t heard the door creak open.

You peered up from beneath the counter. Caleb’s face was contorted with horror—his pupils contracted; his body frozen. The hand holding his phone to his ear dropped to his side. He began to stride toward you.

You shoved the folder lazily into the compartment once more, ensuring no sound was emitted in the process. Adopting the most nonchalant expression you could, you lifted your head to face him. “Caleb,” you called out, a small pout gracing your lips, “I can’t reach the ring.”

He stopped. The act seemed to have taken effect. He cocked his head, eyes bearing into yours, as if ripping apart your soul itself for a trace of a lie. But you weren’t intimidated by his silent interrogation. You held your resolve, maintaining the façade with determined accuracy. Gradually, Caleb’s impishness returned.

“Dropped it?”

He fell for it so flawlessly, it almost irked you that he hadn’t put up a bigger fight. You pouted internally. Could he not have pretended not to buy it? For the sake of the thrill? Oh, well. A win’s a win.

You nodded. “I can’t reach it. Can you help me?”

He hurried to your side and hunched over. You noted the way his eyes skimmed over the document tucked away in the depths of the compartment, right where he’d left it, before it went to the gap underneath the counter. The subtle glint of your ring confirmed your honesty. He raised his hand and twirled his fingers in the air. As if a gust of wind had carried it here, the ring smoothly levitated out of the darkness and onto the countertop. You shot him a sheepish smile before returning to your feet to collect the ring.

Just as you slipped it onto your finger, Caleb grasped your chin between his fingers and turned you to face him. His eyes bore an unnerving intensity as they skimmed over your face. Were you busted? Had he caught on? You didn’t let the quiver reach your lips. Instead, you donned a perplexed complexion as he whisked your head around.

Once satisfied, he released you from his grip and ruffled your hair. “Just checking if you’d gotten dust on you.” You rolled your eyes in response. “I’m not a child anymore!”

“Anyway, anything wrong? That call seemed important.” You caught him zoning out, staring into the distance. You waved your hand before his face. “Earth to Caleb?”

He straightened himself. “Not really. I just… might return home a little late tomorrow. And I gotta leave tonight.”

You frowned. He had the audacity to lie to your face, knowing you were skilled enough to penetrate through whatever front he puts up. Pushing it would only add to the uncomfortableness of it all, so you sealed your lips instead.

You whined, although it came out a bit prolonged, before swatting his arm weakly. “But you said…”

“I know,” he sighed, “But duty calls.”

“Tell you what?” He brushed a stray strand away and cradled your cheek. For a moment, he glanced to the side, lost in thought, before he looked back at you and continued, “I’ll make it up to ya once I’m back. But with that being said, don’t stay up too late tomorrow, yeah?” You pretended to be unmoved, but a part of you jumped at the mention of recuperation. You wondered what it would be. Food, perhaps? Or maybe tickets to that movie you’d been dying to watch? Whatever it was, you couldn’t deny it enlivened you.

Caleb seemed to have noticed the somersaults you did, and the way you skipped around with joy behind those eyes. He smirked. “I’ll be leaving now. Get some rest. I’m sure you’re tire—achoo!” He hastily covered his mouth with his arm. Another sneeze. And another.

You narrowed your eyes and folded your arms over your chest. “Are you sure you won’t catch a cold? Although you probably already have…” you muttered the last part under your breath.

Caleb waved his arm dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be—” And another. “Yeah. Anyways, as I was saying, go to bed on time, alright?”

You shook your head, as if disheartened by his juvenile behaviour. “Alright. But, at least take some medicine or something. It’ll probably be one long night.”

When Caleb had left, the tempest roared at its prime. Despite having handed him two umbrellas, a string of worry coiled in your chest. Could he fend off against the raging winds that thumped against the sliding glass doors of the balcony and threatened to knock them over? No matter how strong a man, he was deemed fragile and brittle against the forces of nature. What if an uninvited bolt of electricity had happened to fall upon him as he walked? Was he even walking? You hoped not. At least vehicles were designed to protect people from lightning.

In the end, the quietude proved to be quite pleasant. You could immerse yourself in re-studying Harrison’s case without the fear of Caleb barging in and catching you red-handed.

You managed to skim over quite a lot of pages before hunger struck. Glancing up at the clock, the realisation dawned upon you that you had been at it for more than two hours. But it was a productive two-hour session with yourself, you’d say. But there were obstacles, nonetheless. As you’d suspected, Roan’s problematic behaviour had a completely different source from what you’d suspected Caleb’s to be. He acted on paranoia and insecurity, whereas Caleb seemed more insistent on the idea of protection. Roan’s obsession blinded his wit and caused him to act on impulse.

The kidnapping of Anne Lotte, although seemingly flawless, was conducted on a whim. Harrison executed his plan with merely a gun, a bundle of ropes, and some chloroform to sedate her. The alley Anne happened to be crossing through had no cameras, and as it was a secluded shortcut few were aware of, there were no passers-by to witness the crime. Nobody had gotten injured, thanks to Harrison’s prior police training, so there was no blood or evidence to be picked up. All other proof happened to be washed away by the rain shortly after.

From this timeline of events, it was clear that Harrison had gotten away with Anne’s kidnapping simply because of luck. If the stars hadn’t aligned during his sudden state of paranoia, Anne would be alive and well now. What an unlucky girl she was. It was almost as if fate had abandoned her.

Harrison had strength, but he was dim. That was what caused the inevitable discovery of Anne stashed away in his basement. Caleb, on the other hand, possessed both. Throughout high school, he had topped you almost constantly. No matter how hard you studied, no matter how many all-nighters you’d pulled, he would somehow manage to top you with a mere four or five hours of study before an examination.

You admit, you were envious of him throughout most of your teenage years, and you were appalled when he’d decided to tread a completely different academic path from yours. But nowadays, looking back, you realise that the only reason he’d made such an effort to conquer you was to be a reliable pillar of support if you were to falter. Which, inevitably due to the gallons of caffeine and hours’ worth of lost sleep, you did. Another irksome consequence of his undying affection that you had to suffer.

Even now, his wits and manipulation are clear. You were sure nobody rose to the rank of Colonel so swiftly without possessing immense intelligence. Caleb’s puppy eyes weren’t going to fool anyone. Not you, at least. They couldn’t hide the terrifyingly adept brain that lay beyond them.

Anne’s decline in mental well-being was predetermined. It was part of Harrison’s flawed plan all along. His insecurity left little room for actual care and affection to be expressed towards her, and as a result, he determined that breaking her resolve would be the surest way of ensuring submission. Of course, that did backfire for him. It led to her malnutrition, forecasted miscarriages, and her eventual suicide. Although you had no sure way of knowing what Caleb would’ve done, you were sure it wasn’t this.

Someone like him could predict such an outcome from a mile away. Breaking somebody’s mind, in this case, would be a reckless decision. And most importantly, his fatal flaw is that he loves too dearly and cares too much to be able to leave someone he admires to fend for themselves as he relentlessly shatters their psyche. He is too infatuated for that. His obsession stemmed from a desire to protect, not meaningless paranoia like Harrison’s. That explains why he would be unwilling to lay a finger on them.

And, of course, Caleb was a “manipulation>direct action” type of man. He had expressed his twisted desires to keep you confined and unable to flee once before, as he had been bandaging up your injured leg. But you were confident that his idea of confinement exists in a psychological state. He would bind your mind and heart to him, maneuver you to fall deeper into a psychical trap you could not escape. He would never directly imprison or confine. He would rewire your brain so that you willingly stuck yourself to him. It was a legal way to get what he wanted. And you didn’t doubt he could pull it off.

However, one thing to note was that he needed motive—proof that you were slipping from his grasp. As long as you remained on good terms, or pretended to, he would not need to resort to such methods.

Maybe.

Despite the dissimilarities, you were sure you could learn more to be able to counter his blows if he were to ever make some. But your main priority was still to cleanse his mind, to provide him with an opening to redeem himself and return to his normal life once more. Never mind your intentions. The contrast between their insanities led you to notice some peculiar things.

You turned to one of the back pages of your book and began scribbling down your thoughts.

Harrison and Caleb were merely two sides of the same coin. A cerberus with two heads. One who is impulsive, led on by rage and desire, and the other that is intelligent, driven by his loyalty to his master. But in the end, the cerberus is one complete being. If you split it in half, it will not regenerate like dividing cells. It will simply perish together. After all, both are two extremes.

Meaning if a lack of foresight could tackle one, then the other would fall for his over-calculation of things. They were both arrogant and full of themselves, believing only themselves and their strategies to be correct. In the end, they couldn’t see the 48 other heads lodged between the two—48 other ways to be “correct”.

The impulsive head aches to swallow his prey, to make incisions within his heart and stash them away in one of its chambers. And the cunning head too cuts, not his heart, but his lover’s brain, and detangles the strands only to twist them again, only this time in a way that would make them willing to stay. Resorting to such cruel yet more humane tactics implies that the fear of losing their treasure was rooted far more deeply in the intelligent cerberus rather than the dim one.

And what if fear is not another vulnerability to control?

Whereas Harrison is abundant in paranoia and insecurity, Caleb is almost wholly dominated by the extremity of positive emotions like love, care, and an overwhelming desire to protect. His unwillingness to hurt means that if you were to show even a single crack in your mind, the fear of you crumbling would force him to loosen his grip almost entirely, given that his side of the mind games had already begun. That would create the perfect opening for you to slip past and dash out to meet your freedom.

All you had to do was put on one more act.

Harrison’s impulsiveness, contrasting Caleb’s preparedness, also let you peer into another opening. If you continued to think of them as two sides of the same coin, then you could come upon this conclusion—if Harrison had a breaking point, so did he.

Harrison’s inevitable downfall and his psychological abuse of Anne was set into motion when the thought bit into his brain, whispering—“If you don’t tighten the leash, she will run away.” It was safe to assume that Caleb too had a breaking point. It was simply harder to reach. One side of the coin was made of bronze, whereas the other was constructed of tungsten. Both could melt, just at different speeds.

If you could provoke him up to that point, Caleb would be forced to reveal his hand. But, admittedly, picturing what could happen if he snapped was… unsettling. Precisely because you couldn’t picture it at all.

And thus, that would remain something you would try if you couldn’t get him to falter at all. A last resort, to be more specific.

And now, with your acquired information, you could weave your final plan: if he tried something anyway, you could paint a front of danger, as if his ‘advances’ and whatnot had thrown you into a state of endangerment, and if he didn’t back away immediately, it may cost him (and you) something precious. Whether it be your life, blood, or sanity, he cared too much not to abort instantaneously. Unlike Harrison, he wouldn’t act blindly—he’d justify his actions. If you could provide real consequences (consequences that mattered to him), you could alter his idea of justifications and compel him to rationalise his actions differently.

And how, exactly, would you achieve that? Well, that was something to figure out along the way. That was your motto—have a vague, surface-level plan, and build upon it as you go. If you had a solid, fool-proof plan, you wouldn’t have searched for information after arriving in Skyhaven.

To be honest with yourself, your knowledge on Caleb’s behaviour and your predictions on what may have happened next were minimal; certainly not enough to conclude that you were in any real danger, and certainly not enough to deduce that your initial assumptions could be utilised to orchestrate a surefire way of taking him down. You suppose you had to spend more time with him to come to a real conclusion. Of course, that wouldn’t be too easy, considering that you’d purposefully invaded at a time where he’d be busy juggling you and his duties simultaneously. You had your reasons. The perfect time to strike was when a man’s back was faced to you, and he was too busy with the happenings before him to notice the footsteps creeping up on him from behind. In short, right now, he was vulnerable. If he found out you were up to something, he would be too exhausted to think straight and thus he would falter. If you face an enemy far stronger than you, wear them down first, and then strike when they are on the verge of tears.

The real problem right now was how you could feign being endangered. For now, you’d come up with a few ways. Perhaps a more logical approach would be best for a start.

Skyhaven’s weather seemed mostly untouched. Save for yesterday’s storm, it remained relatively stable. With clear, cloudless skies, splashed with a unique blue, it was perfect weather—perfect air. Too perfect. Maybe the storm from yesterday lingered somewhere beneath the blues. It had to be. Nothing is truly calm—especially not here.

“Beautiful, isn’t it, Rhys?” you hummed. A flock of black ravens flitted past your window. The bitter scent of unbrewed coffee beans drifted in the café’s air. It was a scent you’d grown to admire. The perfect place to work, really. It opened your mind (and mouth) wide enough to effectively scribble away at one of your flimsy journals, analysing some patients’ consciousnesses or just gathering your thoughts. But today, you weren’t here for work.

“Probably because we’re so high up,” Rhys grinned, flashing his braced teeth. He was a tall man of dark complexion with thin brown hair kissing his shoulders. Rhys Vaughn—one of the few patients you’d reviewed in Skyhaven, involved with your limited history here. He used to be a drug addict and had nearly run over a child while stoned. To his luck, the child managed to escape mostly unscathed save for a broken limb, and thus, he got off with a relatively lighter charge. He was placed under your care while serving time in prison. Eventually, after a period of two years, you’d managed to lure him into making a full recovery. Now, he appeared before you, a new, clean man with a loving wife. But, above all, working with Rhys had one sure advantage—he was quite talented in the art of gathering information.

In his line of work as a technician, Rhys was required to have some basic computing skills. As a result, he’d undergone several computer science courses online, and he completely aced them. The coding shenanigans that couldn’t penetrate through your thick skull passed through his as if tearing through paper. He was skilled in what you were not; practical work. If there was anyone to call for some ethical hacking and information digging, it would be him. To Rhys, asking him to dig up information was the same as asking him to pass you the remote from across the room. You could put those skills to use.

“How’s your wife?” you gingerly sipped your coffee.

“She’s good. Hit a milestone in her art.”

“And you? How are you feeling?”

Rhys chuckled. “Still playing psychotherapist, miss?”

You shook your head with a sheepish smile. “Force of habit, you know? Can’t take my mind off work.” You waved your hand dismissively. “Really, though, how are you? Answer the question viewing me as… a friend.”

“I’m doin’ great!” He raised his hands dramatically in a gesture of joy. “Not delirious all day, actually sane and stable, able to keep relationships and eat something other than scrawny prison food. Yeah, couldn’t have been better.”

You smiled. Genuinely. “Good to know.”

Knowing your patient had achieved happiness fulfilled your purpose as both a psychotherapist and a human. Your mind recalled a skinnier Rhys sitting across from you on a long, white couch, lacking the sun in his eyes, which he now had multiple of, swirling about in his pools of bronze. His eyes back then; they were empty. He appeared a lifeless man with mould growing out of the pores of his skin. And now, he was here, sitting across from you, helping you just as you had helped him two years ago. It was a motherly pride that filled your chest, cascading through your nerves like a warm, sweet liquid. You couldn’t be happier.

“Anyway, what ya here for?”

You placed your hand under your chin and turned to look out the window.

“I remembered what you said, Rhys.”

He cocked an eyebrow and peered at you from over his cup as he sipped. You took it as a sign to continue. “You mentioned once that you owe me one, and that if I ever find myself in a stump in Skyhaven, I could call for you.”

“So,” he added a packet of sweetener into his coffee, “You want to take me up on that offer now? I thought you’d forgotten about me.” His countenance twisted to display mock hurt. “All right. I’m just playing. What’s it about?”

“I recently managed to earn myself a boyfriend,” you started, although cringing internally, “And I happen to doubt his mental well-being.”

Rhys kicked back on the plush of the chair. He’d figured it out already, you were sure, but you went on anyway.

“We just got together about 6 months ago. So, it’ll be hard to know enough to be able to help him.”

“So you want me to dig up some information about him?” He leaned closer. “What kind?”

“He’s an orphan. Doesn’t have family, pretends with his friends. But there are a few people he seemed close to. Some workers, mailmen, plumbers, you know. Those types of people I can never seem to get a hold of.”

“Should I fetch their contacts?”

“No.” You winced at the finality of your words. “I mean, yes, but not just that.”

Rhys cocked an eyebrow. An amused smirk crossed his face. Had he caught your lies?

“It’d be convenient if you could search for his transactions with them. Their backgrounds, history, et cetera. I have some… other doubts as well.”

With a large gulp, Rhys slurped up his coffee and wiped his face with a napkin. Only silence swayed between you two as he took his time to reply. He wasn’t thinking. Certainly not. But he lingered, nonetheless.

He knew, for sure.

“You know, little miss, I don’t know why you feel the need to fabricate when you know I don’t hesitate to dirty my hands.”

You glued your eyes to your lap.

“I owe you. And even if you asked me to kill a man, I’d do it.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “If I were still your therapist, I’d be scribbling on my notebook right now. But, considering I’m in a pinch, I’ll let it slide.” You smiled. “I appreciate your help, Rhys, and your respect for my privacy. I will forever be indebted to you.”

He swatted his hand about mindlessly. “Yeah, yeah. A name, please.” He slid you a slip of paper.

You plucked a pen from your coat and jotted down Caleb’s name before passing it across the table. Taking it between his fingers, Rhys eyed the name. He lingered there for a beat too long. Something was up. Your suspicions only spiked with the subtle twitch of his finger. A light of recognition crossed his bronze irises before fading just as swiftly. In a flash, his grin returned, and he pocketed the slip of paper before springing to his feet. “All right. Tomorrow, I’ll text you with whatever I find.”

You lowered your head. “Again, thank you.”

That night, Caleb returned late. Uninjured, thankfully, but acting odd nonetheless. In his hands, a small bag was clutched. You recalled his words—“I’ll make it up to you.”—and it took a lot for you to resist leaping from the couch and snatching the bag from his hands. What stopped you, aside from the fear of appearing awfully juvenile, was the exhaustion etched into his face.

When his eyes met yours, however, his complexion brightened immediately. Still clad in his uniform, Caleb kicked off his boots and strode towards you. A weariness weighed his movements. The strongest man you’d ever seen, both physically and mentally—your pillar of strength—stumbled across the room like a golden puppy dragging its injured leg along the floor, wagging its tail and paying no mind to its pain. You felt stabbed in the chest. For a man of such power, he could be absolutely endearing at times.

“Miss me, pip?” Caleb leaned down to ruffle your hair affectionately. You shut off your phone to smile at him. Your eyes enlarged as his familiar face appeared before you, but a frown tugged at your lips at the dark stains under his eyes. You reached your hand out to caress the blackened bags of flesh.

“You didn’t sleep.”

He cradled your face in turn. “Neither did you.” A flick to your forehead caused a pout to form on your face.

“I wasn’t working my ass off.”

“And I was. I know. I’m sorry.” He set his colonel cap on your head. The accessory dwarfed your skull, sinking down until it obscured your vision. Caleb stifled a laugh at the sight.

He noted the way your eyes drifted to the bag in his hand—the bag that was coated with crimson and shiny gold accents, which gave away very little about its contents. Sensing your curiosity, he handed the bag to you.

“The lady asks, and I deliver.” He bowed curtly. You both broke into merry laughter.

Stashed away in the depths of the tiny bag was a rectangular velvety jewellery case, coloured similarly to the bag, down to the gold accents. The mere surface of the case seemed extravagant enough to satisfy your greed even in the absence of the jewellery itself. You stared in awe. Were you truly deserving of the real gem hidden inside? Your fingers traced the engraving on the case’s surface. A remarkable brand. There was a lump gathering in your throat. It felt sacred to hold something so precious, so expensive. You were no high priestess or beloved queen—not worthy enough to clutch a revered artifact. And yet, Caleb’s eyes bore into yours with a gentleness that could bring you to tears. And it did. You felt tears threatening to form. You were sure he noticed.

A sudden wave of guilt knocked the wind out of your lungs. Just hours before, you’d been conspiring against him, digging up information that could potentially be labelled as an invasion of one’s privacy, and threading together a plan that was catered to go against him, to take him down. You knew you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were helping him. Guiding him to a path of happiness, just as you did with your patients, just as you did with Rhys.

Just as you would have with Harrison and Anne.

If only your incompetence hadn’t gotten them killed, they could walk their own paths today. You closed your eyes. An image flashed before you. A flimsy blonde girl with scars littering her arms, crossing a bridge, heading towards a field of flowers with her dead child clutching her hand. And a battered older man going the opposite way—a path towards a blinding light, the path to redemption.

You wouldn’t let it happen again.

There was nothing to be guilty of. Your fingers curled tighter against the fabric of your pants. There was nothing to be guilty of. You weren’t in the wrong. This was for the greater good. They’d understand. They surely would, once they realised that the path you chose for them was a more tranquil one.

But did you risk losing yourself in the process?

“Not going to open it? Your head’s been stuck in the clouds for about thirty seconds now.” Caleb loosened his tie before seating himself next to you. “Something on your mind? Is the casing not to your liking?”

You shook your head. “I’m just… you’re exhausted beyond belief right now, and you went through all that trouble… I don’t deserve this.” You frowned. “I’m so sorry for making you ‘make up’ to me. I didn’t know you’d go that far, I—”

Strong arms coiled around you, drawing you in. You felt the steady, yet surprisingly slow beats of his heart from where you were nestled against his chest. Fingers wove through your hair, offering a sense of solace you hadn’t felt in a while. With a low, careful tone, he whispered. His lips brushed against your ear. “Don’t say anything.”

And you obeyed.

For a moment, you remained steady. Silent. Your lips were pursed, and your heart beat fast—a stark contrast to his. You sank deeper into his embrace. Your grip faltered, and you eventually gave in to his presence entirely. Your body slumped against his, but he seemed to have no trouble bearing your weight. For a moment, you considered letting the tears flow. But a part of you clawed against the muscular wall of your heart in retaliation, screeching in protest. Something screamed danger, despite you being the safest you’d ever been right now.

With steady arms, Caleb brought your palm, which was weakly clutching the jewellery case, to your chest. “I had this ordered for months. I was just waiting for the right moment to pick it up. So,” with his other hand, he tousled your hair, “Don’t think you were a bother. And honestly? I can’t name a single woman more deserving of this than you.”

A faint blush coated your cheeks. But you shook it off before he could see. Renewed courage surged through you, and your fingers made their way to the hook of the case.

Carefully, you slid it open.

A white gleam.

There, perched amidst the plush, was a delicate, thin bracelet made of what appeared to be sterling silver. The chain itself was of a unique geometric design consisting of circles, ovals, and a myriad of shapes you couldn’t name. The expert craftsmanship showed in the presence of the bracelet’s seamless links and its shiny, polished clasp. You ran your fingers over the chain. The material was smooth, devoid of bumps or rough edges—things you’d usually find in low-quality bracelets.

You remembered complaining to him once how half of your bracelets used to dig into your skin, to which he’d reply with a smile, “One day, you won’t have to wear uncomfortable jewellery.” Back then, you’d brush it off with a “Oh, that day better come soon!”. But now, considering the significant amount of effort put into smoothing the surface, you wondered if this was what he truly meant.

The primary point of attraction, however, lay not in the bracelet’s gleam or smoothness, but in the moderately sized white gemstone hanging from it—a gorgeous pendant.

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Caleb chuckled. “White sapphire.”

You pressed your lips into a thin line. What could you say? You were surprised your jaw wasn’t kissing the floor by now.

Speechless, you ran your fingers along the gemstone. It weighed a bit more than you’d expected—an insignificant difference, really, but notable nonetheless. Perhaps it was pure. If that was the case, then it didn’t help with your simmering guilt.

“Here,” Caleb snatched the jewellery from your fingers, “Let me help you with that.”

Deftly, he slid the bracelet down your wrist and clasped the hook. You raised your arm, watching as the white sapphire that dangled from the thin chain glittered beneath the pencils of light. Your lips parted in awe.

“Promise me,” your attention shifted to Caleb as he brought your jewelled wrist to his chest, “That you won’t take this off.”

“Like how you’re glued to that dog tag I gave you?” You giggled. His lips curled into a soft smile. “If that’s how you want to put it.”

“Okay.” You placed your free palm atop his. “I promise, I’ll cherish this forever.”

“If you don’t, I’ll be really hurt.” He feigned a pout. But the yearning in his eyes was real.

You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” Caleb brought your palm against his face, sinking into your warmth. You stilled for a moment. This was way too intimate. But the guilt glued you in place, restricting you from moving away. Or was it his endearing affection? Nonetheless, pulling away felt like a crime. He’d handed you such a priceless treasure; could you not indulge him for a moment and let him bask in your radiance?

You choked back the sinking feeling in your gut to let him have his way with your arm. He was acting like a starved puppy. Cute, yes, but a little overbearing and unsettling. Almost as if the puppy brushing up against you had blood smearing its teeth. Of course, it was just your paranoia, and nothing was really there.

Nothing visible, at least.

In spite of your passionate protests, Caleb insisted on whipping up a late-night snack for you. And so, you were practically forced into your seat on the counter as you were made to watch him scurry through the kitchen. The heated pot sizzled in objection to the cold oil poured onto it. You’d made up your mind to just observe as he worked, in case you could find an opening or an excuse to help, but you were distracted by a notification on your phone.

Rhys.

You looked up at Caleb. He appeared too deeply immersed in his cooking to notice the small ding of your phone. Bringing the device under the shade of the counter, you opened your chat with Rhys.

“Miss, this is important.”

Your brow furrowed. “Found anything?”

“Well, yes. A few things. But first, I think I really gotta come clean with this.”

You silently typed out a reply. “Go on.”

“That guy? Caleb Xia? I know him.”

You froze, fingers hovering over your keyboard. Rhys continued typing.

“I worked for him in the past. He needed something installed in his home. I was the one who took up the job.”

“Install what?”

“Cameras.”

A void formed in your stomach. A sudden chill enveloped the air. You shivered involuntarily. Cameras. He had cameras in his house. Your head whipped about the room, scouring every wall and every corner for a hint of something that could be labelled as a camera. Something prickled the skin on the back of your neck. Caleb’s back was turned to you. But still, you felt something watching you from the shadows.

Paranoia. You couldn’t let it consume you.

“I found it odd back then,” Rhys continued, “He had it installed in his rooms. The bedrooms,” You studied Harrison’s case in one of them, “The living room, the hallways.” Dread crippled into your being. It was as if someone had thrown a pebble across a calm pond, causing violent ripples to tear through the once-steady surface.

“And also,”

He paused.

“The kitchen.”

A clot. In your throat. Your lungs constricted.

He knew.

Caleb knew.

That you’d stumbled across that document.

Images of a collected Caleb smiling down at you as you knelt against the counter resurfaced in your brain. The way he so nonchalantly fetched the ring for you, the act he’d put on just now. The act you’d believed.

You gazed down at the white bracelet clasped around your wrist. What used to be a remarkable work of superior craftsmanship transformed into a heavy chain made to tether you to him. ”I promise, I will cherish this forever.” You really were going to throw up.

With shaky hands, you shut your phone. Your eyes returned to the bracelet.

It wasn’t a gift. It was an anchor to bind you to him. To trick you into forming a vow you couldn’t break.

Shit.

You walked right into a trap.

Blind and oblivious. A moth to a flame.

The circular kitchen lights buzzed overhead. A flicker of light flashed past the window—a ghastly apparition, watching. You whipped your head towards it in an attempt to catch it before it fled. There was nothing. Were you seeing things? Paranoia. It was simply your fear—your body preparing itself to become hyper-aware of its surroundings. A consequence of the natural fight or flight response. You were paranoid. You were aware. But that didn’t help how every shadow felt darker, how every corner untouched by the kitchen’s dim light seemed to host an entity.

Your whole time here, you were being watched. How much had he seen?

“You seen a ghost?”

It took every bit of your strength to not leap off your seat. You looked up at him, then eyed the plate nestled in his palm. It was hard to trust him right now.

Under the faint light, half of Caleb’s face remained shrouded in an ominous shadow. His violet hues gleamed from beneath the darkness menacingly as they peered down at you. Beyond the cloak of darkness, however, his countenance seemed normal.

But you couldn’t shake the dread off.

An invisible shiver tiptoed down your spine. You forced a smile. “I got startled by the flash of lightning.”

“It’s stormin’?”, he placed the plate down on the counter before turning to the large windows. “Again?” A bolt of electricity ripped through the sky. Caleb turned to you with a smirk. “Still afraid of thunder, pip-squeak?”

Afraid of you., you wanted to say, but you bit your lip. It was best you avoid giving him reasons to put a collar on you. For now, you had to stay low.

“I’m not.” You huffed, folding your arms over your chest. A forced blush crept up your neck. “I’m just… anyway, the food looks amazing!” You swiftly snatched the dish from his hands, leaving him slightly dumfounded as he lingered where the dish once was. With the help of his evol, Caleb pushed a pair of utensils your way. You were glad you suppressed the flinch that threatened to ripple through you. For the first time in your life, his evol terrified you.

The bed groaned under your weight as you suspended yourself entirely onto it. The mattress dipped beneath you. Even his bed, which, to you, had once been the comfiest bed in the anthropology of beds, felt like a cage. You could feel metallic tendrils crawling from beneath it, wrapping over your form as you slept, encasing you like a cocoon would. Perhaps that’s all you were to Caleb. A butterfly, useful only for its grace and the tranquility it brought. Meant to be wrapped away in a cocoon and let out only when it bloomed. The part of you bound to your profession begged to differ—clearly, that was not the case. Clearly, his feelings ran deeper than that. A complex tapestry of twisted adoration, infatuation, and perhaps even hatred or rage.

But that didn’t stop your feelings from thrashing about in a frenzy, did it?

It’s a simple truth. Many, if not all, of the patients you reviewed struggled with something similar to it. Their brains were aware of the truth, but their hearts refused to comply. It was a plague, killing them from the inside. Their loved ones resorted to presenting the truth before them. And their brains knew, lodging the processed data as it normally did. But the heart is a stubborn thing. Some things it refuses to accept.

At this point, you would become the patient.

A part of you urged yourself to bash your head against the wall for not predicting such a bold move on his end sooner. You were close to figuring it out. A part of the reason why you’d always gone to the bathroom to change included this subtle feeling of being watched. So, with your hands still gripping the ends of your shirt, you kicked open the bathroom door and changed there instead. You were glad you’d done that, of course, but you couldn’t hate yourself more for not pondering a second longer on the feeling of being watched. If you had, you were confident you’d have figured it out before he could notice. You were supposed to be ahead of him.

You were about to reopen the chat, but the sensation of a chilling pair of eyes drilling into your head halted your decision. The bedrooms also had cameras. But where? And how good was their image quality? Could he have read the contents of your journal, perchance? Could he see your chat even from up there? Your initial thought was to position yourself away from the camera. Find a blind spot, maybe. But all those ideas were rendered useless considering you were unaware of its position.

You could open your phone and check for any flashes of red or purple from infrared LEDs, which would most definitely be present assuming the cameras were equipped with night vision. But committing to such a dumb move would expose your knowledge of his ‘control’. You were sure twirling about the room in the dark with your phone’s camera on would leave no room for assumptions. What excuse would you bring? That you were so awe-struck by the lack of artistic interior design in Caleb’s room that you felt tempted to record it all and store it on your ‘top-10 things to not do while constructing a home’ list? Yeah, no. He would figure you out faster than Rhys had in the café.

You didn’t want to imagine what would happen next.

So, you resorted to the last thing you could think of.

You reached for a thin blanket and threw it over yourself. Protection. He couldn’t see what you were up to, even if he tried. And what excuse did one need to huddle up under a blanket?

You switched your phone open and scrolled through the messages you couldn’t read.

“I’d gotten it done a few days ago.” Right before your arrival at Skyhaven. He gauged your intentions so swiftly. A chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t tell whether it was from the storm’s frosty wind.

“Pretty high-tech stuff. With night vision and all. It was odd. I should’ve questioned it. But it wasn’t any of my business. So I left it.”

“I did some digging on his background. And, miss, I have to ask you—are you aware of his profession?”

You sighed, threading your hair through your fingers. You hadn’t asked him to dig up dirt on that matter.

“I’m not sure if I should be telling you, but—”

“I know,” you typed back. “I know about it very well.”

“I’m not sure if I should be getting involved in this. Surely, you understand?”

He knew too much. And for that, you had to let him go. Even if he hadn’t approached you first. You’d have to. Because honestly, you were scared of what that man could do. Scouring any further would prove risky for him. The last thing you wanted to do was put a man happily living his married life in inconceivable danger for the sake of your selfish desires. It was a cruel thing to do. Although you’d technically used him, it was your last wish to be selfish.

“I understand. I’m sorry for getting you caught up in this. Should I pay you for your troubles?”

“No need for that. I barely did anything. But, I will tell you this.”

You watched as the three small dots enlarged and shrank as he typed.

“Recently, some personnel were recruited under his command to be appointed to more general tasks. That’s the most I can tell you. Searching any further’s gonna cost me my head.”

You didn’t push Rhys any further. You thanked him for his service and were about to log off when he sent one last text message.

“Little miss, I know you’re determined in whatever you’re tryna do. But please. For your sake, leave Skyhaven and forget about this.” You gripped your phone a little tighter. Exhaling shaky breaths, you shuffled under the blanket. You knew Rhys was right, and that he only spoke from a place of genuine care and respect. You knew you should’ve taken his advice and ended your vacation here. But you couldn’t. Not when you’d gotten so far. You were too deep into this. You were sure that Caleb wouldn’t let you leave either—he was (most likely) aware that you’d stumbled upon that document. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something he wanted you to see. And he wasn’t going to let you flee so easily after unearthing such a disastrous secret of his.

But you had to say, he needed to practice being discreet more often.

“Protect yourself. If things go south, you can’t escape. The whole of Skyhaven is controlled by his fleet.”

You sighed. There was nothing to say to that. But you were sure it wouldn’t come to you having to physically run from the authorities and escape the land in secrecy. Physical restriction was something Caleb couldn’t bring himself to do, even if he was injected with all the liquid courage in the world. His care for you ran too deep, even if he had mentioned it in a fit of rage. You’d defend that belief with your life.

Why were you defending him again? Oh, well.

But if it came to mentally detaching yourself from him, well, that… you weren’t so sure. It just so happened that you’d been so full of yourself before arriving here that you’d completely forgotten to ponder the possibility of having to flee on short notice. Simply put, if worst came to worst, you had no plan to save yourself.

You agreed that Caleb did have influence. And, unfortunately, that could often overpower the authority over one’s mind and heart. After all, the realm we truly resided in was the physical realm, not the psychical one. If anything were to bind you in the physical world, you couldn’t escape from it even in your mind. In other words, you’d be trapped here, body and soul.

“Don’t worry,” you lied, “I have it under control.”

And with that, you ended your conversation with Rhys.

It was only a matter of awaiting the occurrences of tomorrow now. You wondered what the weather would be like the next day. Would it storm again? Or would Skyhaven finally see an endless period swarmed by the warm west breeze? The only thing you could do was close your eyes and wait and see.

Except, you couldn’t sleep.

Three hours had passed as you rolled about on the large contemporary bed, making a sleepless mess of yourself. You winced at the way your hair clung to your head, warm and sticky. Like lukewarm goo. You twirled a lock on your index, only to be surprised at the absence of the goo you were picturing. Were you imagining things? Nonetheless, your body ached for a good, cold shower. You switched your phone open to check the time. 4 AM. Oh, well. What better place was there to collect your thoughts than under the sprinkle of an artificial shower?

You hugged yourself a little tighter as the cold beads of water commenced their assault on your head and dripped down your sides. You trembled heavily, but you let yourself do so. It was the collection of your fear from the past few days bolting out of your body at once. Finally, you could let out the shaky breaths you’d been withholding. It was only within the confines of enclosed foggy glass and under a gentle spray that you could truly let yourself loose and breathe freely once more.

People underestimate how arduous it is to put up fronts. Acting wasn’t easy. Especially when your life practically depended on it. It was like waltzing through a stage, but instead of expectant guests and observers anticipating your fall, there were 500 archers and the world’s best snipers aiming for your head, all while you were bound not to break your dance. Put on a show and attempt to please your pursuers. The chance of failure was almost certain. Even the best of dancers and actors fail to escape such a scenario.

And that was the gamble you were willing to take—fighting; no, dancing for the nonexistent chance that you may save your head, all in the sake of helping somebody you found yourself caring for a lot more than you were willing to.

Your eyes trailed to the bracelet resting near the sink. When he had handed you that gift, you felt… truly happy. A feeling you hadn’t felt before. Like your heart had burst open, and a myriad of colours had strewn out in a frenzy. Like your skeleton had been immersed in warm pond water, and a flock of underwater lilies caressed your skin.

For the first time in a long while, you felt as if you were needed for a cause beyond that of your profession.

That you mattered to him as much as your patients did to you, or perhaps even more. In his eyes, you could see a care that extended beyond what you could comprehend. A desire to keep you close and by his side, basking in your warmth forever.

A long time ago, you’d frozen your heart.

All because you believed there was no place in this world for your emotions.

To be someone else’s haven, you had to forsake your own.

The moment Caleb had handed you that bag, you felt as if your life had gained a new meaning. In the end, you were just a girl like all others, and he had made you embrace that.

For a moment. Only for a moment.

Because now, the silver you once admired reminds you of the silver of a chain. The chain was thin and fine, for it was not made to restrain you, but to help you grow accustomed to the existence of a shackle on your mind. It was suffocating to wear it. But a part of you wondered—what if his affection is genuine? Then, would it be so bad to give in? Well, he was the only one who made you feel alive. Perhaps, if you just stayed…

No. You shook your head. Strings of water flew off your hair and hit the glass walls. This was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it? To make you accustomed to his control. To silently persuade you into giving in out of your own volition.

Caleb wanted a reaction. Any hints that you were being sucked and molded in the black hole he set up for you. If that’s what he wanted, all you had to do was withhold it from him, no? Just stop reacting. Act normal, put some subtle distance between you two, and watch as he crumbled beneath your finger.

You shut off the shower and rolled your hair back on your head. That’s right. You had to submerge yourself back into your monochromatic world. Only then would he falter, knowing all his advances had failed.

You stepped out of the shower, bringing with you a trail of water as you walked. A small white towel was wrapped around your head, and a bigger one coiled around your torso. You snatched the bracelet off the sink after changing into your new clothes. No matter how you felt about it, you made a vow. And for the sake of your ideals, you would not stray from it.

The hardest part about experiencing your first loss was that you had to regain control afterwards. Fail this step, and watch as the spear cuts through your stomach inch by inch. And if you cannot truly regain control, form the illusion of it.

You eyed yourself in the mirror. A crease was present between your brows. Taking the cream off the vanity, you began applying it in long swipes across your skin. Caleb still used the same cream as before, huh?

Act as if nothing had happened. That was the best you could do for now. And to form a plan to actually reclaim your throne, you needed some alone time. Away from this house. Away from the prying eyes perched in every corner of every room, and away from him.

The cream melted into your skin.

It was about time you began searching for an excuse to get out of the house and stray from him. Perhaps you could look for work. A new patient. Something that came up urgently? Or was it better for you to be more subtle? Just whip up an excuse to go hang out with friends? Not that you had any friends in Skyhaven. And if he asked to tag along? What then?

You released yourself from the towel and reached for your shirt.

A sigh passed your lips. Seems it would just be best to find some work. But save for Rhys and a few others, barely any of your patients lived in Skyhaven. And even if they did, would you just go knocking on their doors and creating a new mental issue in their stead that somehow needed urgent fixing? That wouldn’t do. You required real work.

Perhaps it was a problem best saved for tomorrow. Right now, your starving stomach demanded some attention.

The kitchen lights flickered on with a buzz. One of them didn’t light. You’d better tell Caleb about it tomorrow.

The hum of the fridge increased in volume as you strode towards it with heavy steps. Inside, an arrangement of food lay: some in boxes, some bare, some bottled. Your eyes narrowed. They seemed to have been recently stocked. You bet his fridge had been empty up until your visit.

You snatched a plate of dinner’s leftovers and gathered a few utensils to accompany you. And with that, you plopped down on the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights. It risked waking him up, after all. You wouldn’t want that. Especially now.

Shuffle shuffle.

Something stirred beside you—a figure shrouded in darkness. You nearly launched your fork into its heart when a familiar arm reached out to wrap around your wrist. “It’s just me,” a groggy voice responded. You threw yourself off the couch and rushed to turn on the lights.

Caleb. It was just him.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You—” Your accusing finger pointed in his direction. “Why are you awake?”

His violet eyes skimmed over your form, stopping at your toweled hair. “Likewise.”

Sluggishly, you returned to your plate and picked up the fork. Caleb nestled himself by your side. “You took a shower? At 4:30 in the mornin’?”

“Why are you here? On the couch? I don’t recall seizing every single one of your rooms.”

He breathed a sigh. “I’ve made an enemy of insomnia, and it’s been chasin’ me ever since.” He turned to you. “Maybe you can help with that.”

“I don’t know what you take me for, but,” you stuffed a portion of food into your mouth, “I’m half-dead right now. Therapists are humans too.”

“But,” you wiped the corner of your mouth and finished up, “Still, I’m ready to listen.”

Caleb shook his head. “I was messin’ around, pip.”

“Such a tease, even when sleep-deprived.”

You pressed your fingers into his temple and soothed the area. Your fingers moved gingerly, as if the slightest slip-up could cost you one of them. The man under you gradually relaxed. His body sank deeper into the couch.

“Come on, Caleb. What’s the hold-up? I know you’re hiding something,” you cooed. His sealed eyes didn’t help with trying to see through him. But you pressed on nonetheless.

You leaned forward slightly, pinching his forehead a little harsher than you would have. Finally, he opened his eyes, only to glue them to the ceiling instead.

“I’m not going to force you into a 12-step rehabilitation programme.”

“I know, it’s just…” his eyes never left the ceiling, “You’re tired. I’m tired. We all need a break. You’re not entitled to help me.”

You hummed. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Caleb let out a small sigh of relief as you pressed down on that one spot on his forehead. You continued to massage the area for a while before moving on to the next.

“I’m doing this out of my own volition. I want to listen to you. And whether I’ll help, well, that depends on what it is.”

Picking up on the slightest droop of his lips, you continued, “But, unless it’s a tedious task like climbing a skyscraper with nothing but my bare hands, I won’t refuse you.”

Caleb’s eyes didn’t move from the ceiling lights as he contemplated. You could see the weight of decisions bearing down on his mind, and you worked your fingers accordingly to soothe him whenever he faced a mental obstruction. Your smile widened.

With one finger, you moved his gaze to you instead. “All right, mister. I know the ceiling’s looking quite lavish today, but I’m sitting right here, fighting for your attention.”

Caleb grinned. Subconsciously, his eyes travelled to your lips. You found yourself tensing up for a moment, but you swallowed it. Just how you were trained. But uneasiness overtook your nerves. Why was he looking at them like that? As if he yearned to devour them whole?

“You can’t outsmart me at this hour, Caleb. See?” You lifted your arms before placing them back on his temple. “I’m not writing any notes or anything.”

“It’s not that.”

“You make it seem like it is.” You sighed. “You don’t need to use big words. Just tell me what you need.”

“All right, then. Can I ask you for a favour?”

You hummed. “Depends on what it is.”

His eyes fluttered. You tensed as they lingered on your lips once more before they moved to meet your eyes. He seemed incredibly exhausted. “I have a friend,” he began, “And she’s been… off.”

“A fleet member?”

“Yes.” He let out a soft groan as your fingers continued to massage his temple. “You met her. She’s the guard at the garden we visited.”

Your mind recalled her stature. Tall, brooding, albeit intimidatingly, with curly ginger locks and tan skin. You remembered her.

“I’ve been worried about her mental well-being. She experienced a devastating divorce lately. And ever since, she’s been acting… you know. Distant. Violent. Is a little rougher with her underlings. I gave her a break, demoted her temporarily to the position of a guard. But she isn’t improving.”

Your brow furrowed. The behaviour he described seemed like the usual displays of pent-up anger and resentment following a horrid event. But what bothered you wasn’t the normalcy of her situation.

It was the fact that you’d failed to pick up even a sliver of negative emotions from her as your eyes landed on her face.

A therapist’s eyes were made to penetrate flesh and scour the soul with ease. Especially yours—considering your previous position. How come Caleb just happened to notice, whereas you entirely missed it? You were unsure whether his eyes were better than yours, or you were simply dozing off at that moment and unable to catch a glimpse, or…

Was it a hole in his story?

Still, the kindness and concern Caleb had shown towards his fellow colleague filled you with a sense of warmth you loathed. It felt genuine. But you couldn’t feel like this. Not with somebody like him.

“So, I guess you figured it out by now.”

Your fingers halted. Your eyes drifted in thought. “When should I visit her?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll give you the address. Should I tag along?”

“No,” you winced at the severity of your tone. In a frenzy, you reiterated, “She might be unwilling to open up if you tag along.”

He nodded in understanding. “Tomorrow, then. For now, let’s get some sleep.” In a swift motion, he pulled you onto him and buried your head into the crook of his neck. A red tint coated your cheeks, but you didn’t protest. Act normal.

You’d called for work, and work came to you. Sometimes, fate (and perhaps your luck) left you awe-struck.

But, this time, for some reason, you weren’t sure whether this was God’s plan or the Cerberus’.

No storm crackled through the air that day. Only an endless mass of grey clouds hovered over Skyhaven’s sky, still brewing, lingering, as if the storm were awaiting the right moment to unleash its shower. The air was damp, humid, but stiflingly hot. In spite of the absence of the sun, the heat rendered you as disgraceful as a panting dog. The metro was stuffed to the brim. People squeezed against you as you struggled to grip onto something. The heat radiating off the enraged passengers did not help in cooling you down. Quite a contrast to your initial thoughts that you could find a moment of respite in the metro’s air conditioning. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t even manage to find a seat.

Luckily, trains moved fast. It was only a matter of five minutes before you pushed your way through and out of the suffocating swarm of people. Perhaps, you should’ve taken up Caleb’s offer for the car. But who knew what trick he had installed in there? Another camera? Or even a tracker? You were better off walking.

You fidgeted with the pendant of your bracelet. Caroline’s house was eerily quiet. Not a single beam of light peered out of her curtained windows. Only darkness emerged from underneath the front door. She lived in an isolated villa, something akin to a bungalow. Red-bricked, with mould growing off the walls, the small garden before the house was overgrown with ferns and invasive plants. Mushrooms grew off one side of the house. A foul stench permeated through the air.

She had a pool as well, somewhere near the back of the house that you could only catch a glimpse of as you arrived at the front gate. But that small glimpse was enough to know the state it was in—the water was rotting. Fallen leaves decayed on its surface, turning the once-blue waters into a murky yellow-green. If you weren’t any smarter, and if the decay had been any faster, you’d think it was a pond, not a pool. It smelled like wildlife as well—the damp, fungal musk of rot.

It surprised you how bad the smell near the house had accumulated, considering how large the bungalow’s verandas were, how abundant the number of windows, and how open the air around it was. Her house was isolated from the main roads. Only strips of vibrant green land stretched around it for acres. And to add to the advantages of the location, you were standing atop the windiest parts of the land. Knowing this, you wondered—where was the ammonia-like stench coming from? It was as if an entire crowd had relieved themselves across the garden and into the pool. If you hadn’t known better, you’d have believed it, if not for the large iron gates that were padlocked shut.

You rang the doorbell. No response. Your head craned to the top floors. The sliding glass doors near the veranda were open. The white curtains drifted in the air. Somebody was home.

You pressed your finger against the doorbell again. Once more, only silence greeted you. Something felt wrong. You’d imagined it to be a result of depression at first, but now, something felt off. Something lurked beneath the waters, threatening to erupt.

After a few more tries, you stepped away from the door. If she wasn’t going to let you in, you’d just leave.

Walking across the pavement, you pulled out your phone to quickly type a short apology message to Caleb. But that was when something caught your eye.

The back gate. It was open.

Your feet came to an abrupt halt. To get a closer look, you maneuvered your body and took a few steps. You weren’t mistaken. Alongside the gate, the back door was pried open as well.

You strode past the black pool until you were directly facing the looming red door. The stench was only increasing in intensity. But this time, you could smell something else. Something you couldn’t catch before.

Old blood and flesh.

You opened your phone’s camera and aimed it at the door. Just in case, you thought. With your free hand, you pushed it open.

The room inside was dark. Pots and various random clutter were littered on the ground. You made an effort not to step on them, but you found yourself stumbling nonetheless. In a hurry, your fingers worked to pry the curtains apart and swing the windows open one by one. You subconsciously breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden gust of fresh air passing through the openings. Finally, some ventilation.

The phone’s recorder blinked.

The little light from outside illuminated the room just enough for you to be able to spot the light switch. Hurrying over, you flicked it.

The lights flickered on with a static buzz. The back door led to the kitchen. Or, well, you assumed it was one. You couldn’t tell because of the ruckus. It appeared as if a fight had occurred here. Either that, or Caroline was one messy individual. You doubted the latter.

The kitchen sink was clogged. A broth of mould, discarded food, and fish bones lay inside. You stopped yourself from gagging and throwing up your breakfast. The kitchen didn’t need another mess. It was suffering enough.

On the floor lay dirt tracks. Footprints—messily removed by rubbing more mud on top. Somebody was here. Could they still be here?

Dread finally seized you. Your foot stilled, and you found yourself unable to move any further. As if fate itself urged you to leave. To turn and leave out the back door as swiftly as you’d entered. But you couldn’t. Something was up, and a greater scandal could’ve been at play. You couldn’t leave. Not now. Not when you’d sunk one foot in already.

You dragged yourself along the battered tiles, entering room after room and flicking the lights on before swinging the windows open each time. Downstairs was empty. You’d checked everywhere—in the two living rooms, dining, and across all the hallways. You even made sure to check under the sofas. The static in your mind grew louder. It pierced through your ears painfully from the inside out, busting your eardrums until your head throbbed so violently you thought it would implode. The nothingness told you to not go.

You pushed yourself back onto your feet and bolted up the stairs. You searched all the rooms, throwing the doors open and spinning about the entire area before moving on to the next. Eventually, you’d scoured all the rooms. Save for one.

The demon gurgling inside you moved as your eyes landed on the door. The master bedroom door.

You held the camera up to your face and placed your hand on the doorknob.

With a sickening and loud creak, the door crept open.

You held your palm against your nose. The scent of ammonia was strong, paired with the decaying flesh you’d picked up from outside the bungalow. And to fuel the disgusting stench, your nose could also pick up the faint scent of bleach. Your face contorted. Bleach?

The bile rose, threatening to spill out of your throat. You swallowed it down. Bitter. You were really about to throw up. Everything inside was dark. But thanks to the light in the hallway, you could make out the debris scattered across the floors. Cigarette boxes, open and sealed, were present among most of the junk. Other than that, empty beer bottles and discarded laundry could be seen. From the ceiling, large decorations hung. Decorations or more clothing, you couldn’t tell. The scent of bleach engulfed your lungs.

Hesitantly, you reached for the lights.

Your phone fell to the floor with a thud. Your fingers curled into your palm. A tremble rippled through you. You couldn’t move.

They weren’t decorations at all.

A step.

Nor were they more ugly clothing.

Your hand met skin. Cold, lifeless skin.

There, from the ceiling, hung a ginger-haired woman, ghastly and pale.

A corpse.

Caroline.

Thunder drummed through the clouds. A flash illuminated behind you. But you were too still to be afraid. Your body shivered, even under the cloak of the warmest, fuzziest blanket Caleb owned. Your numb hands clutched a mug of hot cocoa. Its bittersweet aroma rose from the cup, entering your nostrils. But your mouth didn’t water at the scent. You only sat still, as lifeless as a corpse, as the wide-screen television played on, broadcasting the news of Caroline’s death.

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind. “Drink up, pip. It’s going to get cold.”

He was right. The fingers curled around the mug only felt cold—a sign of the drink’s dissipating warmth. But how could you eat? Your teeth had tasted flesh not long ago.

The figure behind you sighed. “I shouldn’t have sent you there.”

“I went too late.” You curled against yourself. “If I had been faster, I—”

“She’s been dead ever since that day at the garden. It was inevitable. We didn’t know.”

Your body slumped in his embrace, threatening to give in.

“She was my patient. I’m still responsible.”

“I’m so stupid.” Caleb’s arms left your torso, leaving you cold once more. A part of you ached to reach out, to grab him and bury yourself into him and just—disappear. Vanish from existence. It was what you deserved. What you’d brought upon yourself. “I shouldn’t have sent you on a job. I ruined your vacation.”

“Caleb, I can’t.” You buried your face in your palms. “We were having fun. We were laughing, joking around, all while she…” You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to. Caleb empathised, nonetheless.

Coming to your side, he gently pried the mug from your hands and cradled your face. “Let me warm it up for you.” He switched off the television and returned to the kitchen.

You curled up on the couch. This wasn’t meant to happen. Someone wasn’t supposed to die. Unrelated to your mission or not, experiencing a death head-on was not part of your predictions. This was supposed to be executed flawlessly. You were supposed to be in charge.

Nonetheless, you felt more of the control slipping from between your fingers with each passing second. You were losing. Devastatingly. You’d prepared for various outcomes—losing because of yourself, losing because of him, but you’d completely forgotten to consider that you could lose to independent external factors as well.

In short, you thought you were invincible.

You thought none grasped the situation better than yourself.

But alas, it was indeed the devil himself who’d intervened in your fate. The opening for a temporary escape from him was timed too perfectly. It was too good to be true.

And it wasn’t. What you’d thought would be a normal, perhaps exhausting, session with a new patient, morphed into a traumatic, arduous twist of fate that would throw you entirely off course, flicking you so far from your path that crawling back was rendered both physically and mentally impossible. How could this have happened? You just lost twice in a row. Fate had abandoned you, just how it had abandoned Anne.

You gritted your teeth.

None of this was fair. Caroline shouldn’t have had to die. Nobody deserved death. Images of her intimidating visage flashed across your mind. Just a few days ago, you heard her speak. Just a few days ago, she was blinking, moving, talking, eating, breathing. And now, she was off to God-knows-where. Perhaps her body was stored in some cold machine, or she was placed in a stretcher as the morgue worked with her body. In a blink, the life was sucked out of her. And she was rendered nothing.

You eyed your arm. Everything felt so surreal. What if this was all just a dream? An alternate reality, or a sick nightmare you couldn’t wake up from. You shut your eyes and attempted to drift off into another land. It was too taxing to process this overload. It was better just to sleep it off, or just disassociate so you didn’t have to make peace with the truth.

You pressed your lips into a thin line. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get a moment of shut-eye. The sight of the corpse flashed before your eyes. A noose was tied around Caroline’s neck as she hung from the ceiling fan; dead, lifeless, gone. So close yet so out of your reach. Her once-vibrant ginger locks were tainted a sickly orange. Her once-intimidating eyes were sealed eternally shut. The lips she’d spoken with that day were dry, blue. Blood had stopped circulating inside them. Her heart had stopped beating long ago. You knew you couldn’t have saved her even if you’d tried.

Counterfactual thinking. You sighed. At this point, you really were turning into the patient.

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, paying no mind to the way its soft edges cut into your skin. Countless what-ifs pried into your brain. You covered your ears with both hands, attempting to shut it off. If only your brain could shut up.

A familiar pang resonated in your temples. Your head began to throb violently—just as it had before you went up the stairs of Caroline’s bungalow. Those thoughts weren’t as evil as you’d made them up to be. If only you hadn’t looked. If only you’d stopped and messaged Caleb instead. Then, you wouldn’t have to be involved in such a complex scandal. Paired with the recent discovery—your recent loss—the whole situation, you were afraid, was going to render you completely mentally senile. Just like Anne.

Anne. The moment you’d gazed upon her—all shrivelled up and curled into a ball at the side of the black couch you’d owned in your previous office—you felt a sense of sympathy you’d never felt before. Something about her resonated with you. Her whimpering eyes, her clammy hands, her knitted brows, or the dimming fire that had blued years ago crackling in her eyes. You didn’t know which of those had piqued your curiosity. Something about that woman, so gorgeously broken, sparked something within you.

Perhaps, it was her eyes. Those dread-filled eyes that bore into yours. The spark that ignited when she saw you. The hope she’d regained upon your visage. Like she’d been starved of a true friend for millennia, and you were the one meant to be the ailment to her wounds. She’d looked at you like a newborn gazing upon its mother—its protector, saviour from the cruelty of the world. She looked at you with… hope. And in your heart, you swore to protect her. To be the one to show her the beauties of life, and to guide her onto a path of bliss and tranquility so she could return to the life she once had.

And what did you do?

You failed her.

The dread that tingled your limbs that day was the same one that numbed it now. That horrid purple, fanged beast. When the detective knocked on your office door in a delirious state, and had brought to you the news of Anne’s attempt, you couldn’t move. The air lumped in your trachea, refusing to release, as if your body itself had decided you were unworthy of life, and your fingers went cold. You almost fell to your knees, unable to rush to Anne’s side immediately. She was not dead yet. She was alive, blinking, here. And that only made it worse—how would you face her? You couldn’t bear to see the look in her eyes deform from hope to animosity as she looked at you one last time. You couldn’t let the one who abandoned her be the last person she saw, felt, and breathed.

So, you didn’t go.

Shortly after, a messenger knocked on your door. His knocks were calm, unhurried, as if the weight of everything had already settled into his heart. He brought the news, low and steady, that Anne Lotte had breathed her last.

The first tear fell from your eye. You’d cried for her before, and you would do it again. The first time, you wept silently because she couldn’t. And the next time, you wept out of your own free will. Because nobody was there to mourn her death.

Anne had an empty funeral. Abandoned by all, loved by none.

Caroline’s death was only a reminder of your past shortcomings, a visceral punch to the gut, the reality that life and death were beyond your control, and that even you couldn’t shoo the poison away from eating at your patient’s brain.

You couldn’t even save yourself.

You failed as a psychotherapist, as a human, as an organism.

A type of survivor’s guilt. You bit your bottom lip, tearing at the dry skin coating it. The migraines worsened. Drowning in your thoughts, you failed to process the shift in weight beside you as another figure seated himself on the couch.

“I re-heated the cocoa. Come. You have to eat.” With unnerving gentleness, Caleb lifted your body off the couch and brought the mug to your lips. Defeated, you gently sipped. You winced as the hot liquid seared your tongue. “Too hot?” he cooed before setting it down on the glass coffee table. Even then, his arms never left you. Cautiously, as if to not scare you away, he positioned you on his lap and began to run soft circles on your back. You melted into his touch. As much as you hated to admit, he knew exactly what to do to help you feel at ease and lift your mood just enough.

You rested your chin on his shoulder, and suddenly, the world reverted 15 years back. A young girl sat atop a boy’s lap, whimpering, sniffling as she rubbed her tears and snot onto the boy’s shirt. But he didn’t seem to mind. He only hummed a soothing tune and cradled her head tenderly. “They said the cat deserved to die,” the girl choked a sob, “Tell me it didn’t, Caleb, tell me!”

A small smile graced your lips at the memory. Back then, and even now, only to him could you lift the dam and let your tears flow free. Only in his embrace could you breathe once more, and only here did you truly feel at home.

If you’d lost your memories, you’d just want to stay here forever. By his side. In his arms.

But you couldn’t forget. A part of you wished you could.

Rain pattered against the windows—its sound being the only one besides your breaths intertwined with his. His fingers found their way to your wrist, pressing down gently on your pulse point and watching as the fragile vein beat. A content sigh passed his lips. But something about it irked you. How could he be so calm when the colleague he’d shown so much care for yesterday night wound up dead? You suppressed your anger. Blowing up on him wouldn’t fix anything. In fact, you’d only end up pushing away the ones who cared for you. You knew you couldn’t cope without him.

A warm, smooth object pressed against your lips. The scent of chocolate filled your senses, and for the first time, your mouth watered. Your stomach growled in response, as if it had awoken from a long slumber—empty and unfulfilled.

"Drink up," Caleb hummed. "And then, I'll tuck you in."

You opened your mouth and slowly sipped the hot cocoa. The warm, fudgy liquid enveloped your tongue. Saccharine bursts of flavour erupted in your mouth. Steadily, his hands guided you to slurp up the entire mug, granting you occasional breaks to collect yourself in between. His demeanour was gentle, unhurried.

The butterflies in your stomach stirred from their dormancy, flitting about once more. It was an odd sensation—the serenity of butterflies mingled with the bitterness of guilt, resentment, and anger. A combination never meant to exist.

The next thunderclap sent a jolt of pain through your skull. You gripped your head and winced. Taking note of your discomfort, Caleb pressed his fingers against your aching temples.

"You should really get some rest."

"I tried. I can't sleep."

"I'll get you a sleeping pill."

Your brows furrowed. How could you trust him with medicine after that? Nonetheless, he had a point—if you didn’t sleep now, the weight of your burden would end up crushing you into smithereens. Sighing, you nodded.

Caleb disappeared into the darkness before returning with a bottle of medicine. He scurried over to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and was back at your side shortly after. You plucked the bottle from his hands and inspected the label. Ibuprofen. You eyed him warily.

"Your head’s killing you, right?"

"And the sleep medicine?"

He opened his palm to reveal a relatively large pill. You cocked an eyebrow. Since when were sleeping pills that large? Maybe it was a stronger dosage.

You swallowed the ibuprofen before turning to the pill resting in his palm. Your eyes narrowed. Carefully, as if handling a radioactive sample, you pinched the pill between your fingers and brought it to your nose. You sniffed. A strong medicinal scent.

This wasn’t a sleeping pill.

A sharp breath. Your shoulders slumped. Suddenly relaxed, you calmly returned the pill to Caleb’s hand. He stared at you with half-lidded eyes.

"A predetermined provocation. You knew I’d catch on." An empty smile graced your lips. A breathless laugh followed. "You know I know a lot about medicine. This was no attempt to drug me." Your sharp glare met his violet hues. "You deliberately planned this."

Caleb curled his fist and placed the pill on the glass table alongside the water. "I was tired," he mused, "of dancing along as we played this stupid game."

"Oh," you lifted your head and smirked. "No, you were enjoying every part of this. Playing with me, driving me to the edge."

"I had to." His fists curled. "You were being a brat. You thought I wouldn’t catch on, right? But your relaxed composure gave it away."

Crossing your arms, you let out a huff. "I—"

Before you could finish, Caleb pressed on. "You were conspiring against me. Treating me like some damn lab experiment. Is that all I am to you? A deranged patient in need of saving? Another victim of the fleet?" He looked up at you, genuine hurt lacing his eyes. You gulped.

"You were studying that case all day in my bedroom while I was away, you—"

"You spied on me," you retorted. "Twice. First, with my personal information, and again, with your damn cameras!"

Caleb’s teeth sank into the plush of his bottom lip.

With eyes blazing with unrestrained emotion, you went on. "Last time, you actually drugged me. Kept me captive for three days. Threatened me. Terrified me out of my mind! And you try to insist you're above a deranged patient? You’re delusional and in need of help. I wanted to help you. I wanted to bring you back."

If Caleb had ears, they’d be lying flat against his head right now.

Your heart withered with guilt. You knew you shouldn’t have called him a deranged patient. But even then, his reaction wasn’t a response to that insult—it was something deeper. It emerged from the darkest recesses of his mind, the parts even you could never access.

Had you gone too far?

"Was it," his lips trembled, "was it all a lie? What you said in the car? That you were willing to make peace with the new versions of ourselves?"

"You know that to be a lie very well."

"You’re wrong." He lifted himself onto his feet. "I trusted you. I trusted in us."

"There was no us!" You lashed out, overwhelmed by the sheer force of emotions that inevitably laced your tone. "I’ve been alone ever since you left me—us—for the DAA! Ever since you blew yourself up with Grandma!"

You watched as Caleb clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. You’d struck a nerve. It was enough. You got the reaction you wanted, but you couldn’t stop. Not when he was finally listening to you, looking at you—truly looking. For the first time in years, you could tell him how you felt.

And so, the words kept tumbling out of your mouth like an unstoppable avalanche—cold, all-consuming, and doomed to self-annihilate.

"I didn’t talk to anyone. For years after you left, I shut myself off. I found solace in my patients’ despair because you were never there!"

You looked up. His eyes were glued to his feet, his clenched fists trembling. Darkness overcast his face. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, much less how he felt. You searched his face for a sign—anything. Anger, resentment, agony, indifference, tears, or a smile. But you found nothing. It was all hidden away behind that invisible veil. Another mask.

You gritted your teeth. It only fuelled your rage further. At that moment, you wished you could tear open his skull and peer inside his mind.

"And you know what? I was such a fool. When I saw you again, I was willing to forgive your every flaw! I was willing to forget and move on with you. But guess what? The man I was madly in love with since high school had become so intoxicated by his newfound power and authority," you spat the last words with venom, "that he’d forgotten of my existence entirely! And still, I trusted you nonetheless! I thought it was my shortcomings when you were the insane one!"

"You…" Caleb lifted his head. The darkness dissipated from his face, only to be replaced with a flicker of hope. "You loved me?"

You slapped your palm against your face and threw yourself onto the couch, oblivious to how painfully you'd bumped your leg. You couldn’t believe you’d said that. Stupid, stupid.

"Why else would I be so obsessed with bringing you back?"

In a flash, Caleb was on his knees before you, bringing your palms together and pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded with fervour. His eyes gleamed with something raw, something terrifyingly close to unraveling. This was no act.

"Caleb…" You spoke his name with such softness, he gulped. "What are you doing? Get up—"

"You loved me." His grip tightened. "Do you still feel that way? Do we have a chance?"

The loudest bolt of lightning ripped through the stormy clouds. You turned your gaze to the tempest outside.

"I don’t think so, Caleb."

"I’ll make this right. Let’s live together."

"Caleb…"

"I’ll return your position as a criminologist. You can work under the fleet. You’ll have a better salary and a better working environment. And if you don’t want that, I’ll move the whole clinic here."

"Ca—"

"You like lively atmospheres, right? We’ll decorate this house. Or we can move to a new one. It’ll have the largest windows and the warmest winds. I’ll build you a garden full of your most treasured flowers, in a place far away where nobody will find us."

You tensed. A tremor rippled through you, but Caleb didn’t seem to notice. And if he did, he didn’t care. His eyes gleamed with desperation, restraint, and a love-fuelled mania that terrified you. Yearning. Could a mere emotion become so haunting? So intense?

"Let’s rebuild our life. We can be married. Have a bunch of kids, or not. If it’s what you want, we can take it slow. One step at a time. Just…" He nuzzled both your hands, his eyes lingering on the bracelet. "Just be by my side. You’ll never have to be alone again."

"Caleb."

You affirmed firmly, making him halt mid-sentence. His brows furrowed noticeably. A flicker of anger ignited in his eyes.

"You’ve gone too far. I can’t be with you."

You retracted your hands. The frown deepened on his lips as the absence of your warmth settled in. Gone was the adoration. Only wrath remained where it once was. He acted as if you’d stabbed him in the back, as if you’d plucked the feathers from his bionic wings and crushed them before his eyes. Faster than he’d knelt by your side, Caleb sprang to his feet and caged you within the couch. A familiar scenario. Your mind raced.

"You just don’t understand, do you?"

You averted your eyes. He forced your head parallel to his with a firm grip, ensuring your gaze remained locked onto his. You squirmed under the inferno alight within them. Whatever swirled inside was darker, crueler, and far more monstrous than anything you’d faced in the past few days. It was far more ruthless than what had lurked the last time you found yourself pinned to the couch. Honestly, it truly terrified you. Even in Harrison’s frantic eyes, you hadn’t spotted such ferocity.

"I’ve given up my life, my heart, and a limb for your sake. You breathe today because I sacrificed my breaths in your stead."

You thrashed against him, trying to pry your face from his grasp, but nothing worked. He loomed over you with monstrous strength.

"What? Weren’t you wondering what happened after the explosion? I’ll tell you, alright? If you give me something of yours."

Mustering all the strength you could, you barely managed to knock the behemoth of a man off you. As if regaining his self-control, Caleb eyed his hands before turning to you. The mania in his gaze dissipated, leaving only that desperate yearning.

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

"Pip—"

"I’m leaving Skyhaven." You picked yourself up and stormed off into your—well, his room. "Try to stop me, and I’ll show you hell."

And with that, you slammed the door shut.

That night, while Caleb had (not so) blissfully stashed himself away in his temporary room, you gathered your things and silently fled the estate.

Before walking out the front door, you spared one last glance at the empty house. You eyed the barren shelves, devoid of colour or antiques, the dim lights that were rarely granted the opportunity to welcome any host, and the uninspiring grey paint coating his solid walls.

Perhaps these walls were meant to imprison him, not you. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, Caleb had suffered—immensely. But you couldn’t let him drag you into the sizzling depths with him. He may have abandoned joy, but you would not. You would return to Linkon, maybe flee to another city nearby, and leave your past behind in pursuit of a joyous future—a future where, this time, you would be in control, not your listless feelings from decades ago.

You yearned to take another look, to glimpse his slumbering, pained face one more time before departing. But a saying from a precious individual circled in your mind: Don’t look back at me. If you do, it’ll be more difficult to leave.

Or, in other words, do not look back before leaving. If you do, you will be bound to them eternally—heart and soul. That was what he meant back then, wasn’t it?

With a relieved smile, you stepped out the door and into a new beginning.

“Goodbye, Caleb,” you murmured under your breath. “I love you.”

But in actions, I always look back.

There were only a few trains active at night. As a result, the station was relatively quiet, save for the occasional sweep sweep of the cleaning lady’s brush or the robotic echo of the AI announcing the next rides. The aged cleaning lady eyed you suspiciously. Perhaps you were suspicious—a woman sitting all by herself at a station at eleven at night, with barely any luggage to accompany her. You clearly weren’t mourning or panicked, so it likely wasn’t an emergency you had to return to.

Even then, the way her gaze kept returning to you was… odd.

Ding!

You fished through your pockets and retrieved your phone. Had Caleb caught wind of your absence? No. Odd. It wasn’t Caleb.

It was Rhys.

You quickly opened his chat and skimmed through his messages. A sinking feeling settled in your gut.

"Miss," he hastily followed, "you’re on the news."

You stilled. Why would you be on the news? Surely, a woman alone at a train station at night wasn’t such a revolutionary event that it had lured in the mass media?

"?" you typed back. "I’m famous now?"

"It’s no joke. Look."

A video file popped up. The thumbnail appeared to be Rhys’ TV. You could spot a snippet of his wife from one of the corners.

The throbbing ache in your head returned, begging you not to click on the file. Alas, your curiosity took hold of you, and your fingers hovered above the play button.

Hesitantly, it met the screen.

The woman announcing the news spoke your name. You immediately lowered the volume.

Your name. Your full name. Something was wrong.

"A suspect has been found." She said your name again. "Skyhaven authorities are actively searching for the suspect in connection with Caroline Mayday’s death. According to local reports, the individual was seen near the estate a day prior to the incident."

You slapped your clammy palm onto your mouth to silence the gasp that was about to escape your lips. The only person you had met that day was Rhys. Surely, there had been some sort of mistake. Surely, you hadn’t murdered a woman whose address you weren’t even aware of.

"Evidence, including fingerprint analysis and multiple witness testimonies, has linked the suspect to the scene."

Testimonies? Witnesses? Had people perceived a ghost? How could they have witnessed a woman who wasn’t even there?

Your hand stilled. Suddenly, the thoughts in your brain quieted, leaving nothing but unnerving, unmoving silence. The gears turned in your head. And then, it all made sense.

Caleb. Utilising his authority.

That bastard.

"A search warrant has been issued, and officials confirm that she will soon be taken in for questioning before the court of law."

Shit.

Shit.

You turned off the video and returned to the chat. Rhys had sent another message.

"Miss, you have to leave. I’ll get you tickets to Linkon."

"No need," you typed back. "I’m at the station. I was just about to leave anyway."

After a brief pause, you asked, "Rhys, do you believe I’m guilty?"

For a moment, he didn’t reply, leaving you on seen. Your body stiffened. If he didn’t believe you…

"No. We were at the café right about the time the witnesses claimed to have spotted you. And even if you weren’t, well, how do I put this nicely? Miss, you don’t have the balls."

Despite his half-insult, you couldn’t help but smile. At the very least, there was somebody who trusted you.

"I know it was that colonel’s doing. He isn’t to be trusted. Please, for your sake, never get involved with him ever again."

"I won’t."

And this time, you were being honest. You couldn’t return to him. Not after this.

"Stay safe, Rhys. If I’m not caught and executed, I promise you, we will meet again."

The train rolled into the station. Its wheels hissed against the cold metal rails.

You had to leave, now.

A handful of people lined up against the entrance. Some of them had their faces glued to their phones. Could they be watching the news? You hoped not. It was safer to go last.

You fished through your luggage and pulled out a cap you happened to bring along, placing it low on your head, shielding half your face from the gazes of passers-by.

Donning the calmest demeanour you could muster, you stepped into the train’s carriage and seated yourself far away from all. Sort of counterintuitive, now that you thought about it. Attempting to appear normal whilst actively isolating yourself from the crowd like a child who had shoplifted a candy bar. It made little sense. But how could you think logically when danger was quite literally breathing down your neck each second? Half of Skyhaven’s forces were after you, and you were practically tethered to a determined fate.

With a slow rattle and a monotonous announcement, the train began to move.

Your eyes trailed to the bracelet clasped around your wrist. Your promise to Caleb. But what did that matter now? It was merely a chain. A bad-luck charm, even. Ever since you had put it on, misfortunes followed close behind. You kept experiencing losses ceaselessly.

You contemplated tossing it away, but it would be such a waste of a valuable item.

You peered from below the cap’s shade to eye the modern tablet displaying the train’s destinations. The last stop wasn’t Linkon. It was a town two cities apart—Nimbura. The land of storms and tempests. Perhaps the storm that had been looming over Skyhaven for the past few days originated from there.

Nonetheless, Nimbura was a town of little population. Due to the never-ending downpour, most citizens had moved to greater cities. It was the perfect place for an escape. You could sell your bracelet to a local broker for a small fortune. You reckoned it would get you enough to kickstart your new life there. Perhaps open another clinic or begin to achieve the dreams you had long since abandoned.

This time, you would live your new life the way you wanted to.

With Caleb manipulating the press from behind the scenes, any chance of achieving justice and clearing your name was lost to the wind. Though a cowardly move, fleeing was your only choice.

You shut your eyes. Oh, Caroline. If only she knew how her death had been exploited by her higher-ups for such selfish purposes.

Of course, starting anew was easier said than done. You still had to fetch yourself a new identity, a house, and somehow evade the authorities for the rest of your life. It was fun to dream, but you knew you had to embrace reality soon.

Or else, you would be caught in the dumbest way.

At the very least, you could put up one hell of a fight before being whisked away in shackles. Enjoy your last remaining days of freedom before he caught up.

Your breath hitched. Caleb wouldn’t give up, would he? He’d comb through each city and town, overturning even the smallest villages in search of you.

You couldn’t picture what drastic measures he’d take.

Perhaps he’d even drain the oceans and pluck you from the seabed if you decided to live freely as a sea turtle.

Wherever you were, he would find you.

Some things were only possible in the presence of power. No matter how intelligent you were, your helplessness was undeniable. You bore not even a sliver of authority and thus were incapable of turning the tide against him. You could run from a man, but you couldn’t escape a whole fleet of deranged, cybernetic militants.

You chuckled at the inevitability of your fate. In time, he would find you. The government wouldn’t protect you. Not when you were a wanted criminal on the loose. If anything, they would hand you over—to him—on a silver platter. Nobody wanted to make an enemy of the farspace fleet. They were a ruthless bunch. What would one insignificant sacrifice mean when it had been made for the greater good? For eternal peace?

Just like Anne, the world had abandoned you as well.

And this time, you truly had no home to return to.

An unfamiliar feeling coiled in your chest—a yearning for home. A yearning to sit across the white couch of your clinic, listing away your patient’s traits on a clipboard as a frigid wind drifted in from the window. A coveting for the warmth of your bed, the bitterness of the coffee you brewed each morning, and the intimacy of your workspace.

This was all a mistake. You should never have embarked on this journey in the first place.

So much for bringing someone back. Someone who had lost their heart long ago.

If only you hadn’t let your emotions blind you. If only you had moved on from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. A single tear slipped down your cheek. This was no place to cry. What you should have been focusing on was a plan—a means of saving yourself. You barely had any money. Would it even be enough to buy you transport to the nearest broker?

You didn’t have any weapons on you either. Nothing to defend yourself with. Just you, yourself, and a lightweight bag with nothing valuable inside.

You should have stolen a few bucks from Caleb. His position surely paid well, so what would a hundred dollars mean to him? You really should have. And the worst part was that you knew he would have handed it all to you without a second thought. Something churned in your chest.

"I don’t know what to be when I grow up, Caleb. What should I do?"

You kicked your feet on the bed, lying on your back as you watched Caleb’s attentive gaze remain glued to his homework.

"Why are you askin’ me?" A young voice replied. "It’ll come to ya, pip-squeak. You’re only ten."

"But," you pushed yourself off the bed and nudged his shoulder, "the teacher asked us to write an essay on our dream careers. Help me, please? You’re really smart!"

"Why worry about that? I’m here, aren’t I? I’m smart enough for us both."

"Really?" You grinned stupidly. "That means your money is my money?"

He reached over without averting his eyes from the textbook to flick your forehead softly. You whined in response.

"Hasn’t it always been like that? But still. You’re good with people, right?"

You hummed. "I don’t have many friends other than you."

"But you understand people."

You nodded.

"Then why don’t you become a psychologist?"

"A… what?"

He sighed. "Never mind. You’re too young to think about that." And with that, he ruffled your hair and sent you off.

Little did he know you would cling to that word for the rest of your life.

The train whirred along the tracks, speeding readily through the various stations. One by one, the passengers departed, until you and an old man were the only ones remaining.

Before long, the train passed by Linkon. You watched with a solemn gaze as the doors slid shut. A part of you imagined yourself stepping out—happy, grinning from ear to ear, returning home. This cap wouldn’t be on your head, and your face would be devoid of worries. You would be free. On your way to a new life in the absence of Caleb. Into a new normalcy—a reality you could embrace this time.

You shut your eyes and rested your head against the window. Two fresh tears slipped past your lashes. Home. The word called to you from amidst the darkness. You envisioned two gentle arms cradling your form. The ghosts in your bed would welcome you home. They’d open their arms and tuck you in.

Just yesterday, the ‘ghost’ would have been none other than Caleb. But now, you wanted nothing to do with him.

Now, they had become two fleeting, ghastly apparitions—echoes of the past, lingering somewhere in your psyche.

The flesh may forget the sting of steel, but our minds will know.

You didn’t recall where you had heard that line. Perhaps it was a lyric from a melodious choir, or maybe a fragment of dialogue from a show you once treasured. You couldn’t recall the exact words either. At first, you had only nodded at its proclamation. It was right. There was nothing to refute.

As the new you emerged from the epicentre of a vicious battle, wounded by the likes of steel, its choir rang within your heart.

The mind never forgets. It is a being of its own. A tranquil entity, a lifeless organism so equally abundant with life. It may not respire, but it bears the authority to decide whether you do so.

And sometimes, it chooses for you not to be able to breathe.

Caleb would never vanish. He might perish while executing his unethical duties, or he might fade from your life altogether. He might even heal and reform. But that wounded man lived in a hollow within your heart, a cavity carved out with a knife—an unhealing wound, a permanent abyss.

A dark, bottomless pit you could never truly move on from.

No matter how achingly you worked to normalise his absence, his ghost would linger.

And so would the ghost of your former self.

For that wounded man didn’t just win,

He devoured you. He plucked your ribcage open and fused with your heart.

The burden of exhaustion weighed on your bones, dragging your body down against the train’s plastic seat. Your mind kept drifting home—to the warm lighting of your kitchen, the abomination stashed away under your bed, the mess coating your desk that you never quite found time to clean up. Their images flashed before your eyes, like a boat drifting back to the seas it had departed from, pushed there by a storm.

Now, it was up to you to decide what home meant.

You would make sure that this time, home wouldn’t be a place that breathed Caleb’s name.

“Nimbura. Doors will open from the right.”

You hauled your luggage alongside you as you exited with the old man. From beneath his drooping eyebrows, he shot you a wary glance before inching forward. A flimsy brown cane supported his weight as he walked. You hoped you would never again encounter a situation where you’d need to rely on someone else—not until you reached seventy, at least.

A cool gust of wind sent flyers fluttering through the air before your face. You shivered, hugging yourself a little tighter. An earthy scent lingered—damp soil, the kind you could always smell before an impending downpour.

Of course, the town hadn’t bought its name with cash.

It bought it with its perpetual rain.

“Excuse me,” you called out to the old man. “Do you know where the nearest broker’s is?”

“They’re all closed by now,” he croaked. “Get some sleep, girl. Go tomorrow.”

You let out an audible sigh before returning to your pocket to count your cash. Just enough for a night’s stay, but beyond that? You weren’t so sure.

To your surprise, the man turned back. “Need a place to stay, child?”

You eyed the money on your palm before returning to his face. He appeared wise. From the way his brows were furrowed, you could tell he had seen much in his long life. A part of you secretly loathed these types of people. Those who had seen it all were especially hard to deceive. They could spot any hint of trickery, no matter how ethical, from a mile away.

Your gut told you he probably knew you were on the run.

You needed a place to stay, but your instincts flared up. You didn’t know him. Anything could happen to you in a town this small, and it would go unreported for the most part. This was a matter of survival. Although your expertise insisted this man was no threat, your wariness begged to differ. So, with a polite smile, you turned down his offer.

Defeated, the man showed you the way to the nearest inn.

You followed his directions only to end up at a run-down inn around the corner. Its sign hung loosely, threatening to fall at any second. But clearly, the owner hadn’t cared enough to fix it. On top of that, the place stank. It reeked of alcohol, vomit, and cigars. You’d rather sleep out on the streets than stay here.

Thunder flashed in the sky behind you. You jumped.

Okay, maybe sleeping under a storm’s embrace wasn’t the best idea.

You were on the run, after all. Now wasn’t the time to be picky.

A short, blonde-haired woman sat on the other side of the counter, chewing gum as she scrolled mindlessly through her phone. The electric bell above the door chimed as you pushed it open. In a few swift movements, she spat out her gum and shoved the phone into the cavity under her desk.

“Hello, how may I help you?” She flashed the brightest grin she could muster.

She appeared young. Most likely still in high school. Your gaze travelled to the photo frame behind her—a clean picture of a family with a mix of blondes and brunettes. So, her parents owned the place, huh? A lucky child with a stable future. You envied her.

“How much for one night?”

“Oh, uhm—” She fished through something under her desk. You could hear the faint crumple of paper as she moved. That agility… was she in hunter’s school?

She named the price. You reopened your wallet and counted the bills. Just enough for one night, plus transportation.

“Is the food free?”

“No, ma’am. Only water.”

A deflated sigh passed your lips. You hadn’t eaten dinner, and you were practically starving. If you wasted money on food now, you doubted you’d make it through tomorrow.

Oh, well. A day’s fast wouldn’t kill you.

“All right. Can I have a room?” You smiled, placing the cash on the desk.

She opened her register and quickly handed you the change before fetching a pair of keys from the shelves behind her. Tossing you the keys, she showed you to your room. Despite her persistent offers, you ended up carrying your bags yourself.

Your room was relatively cleaner than expected. Initially, you’d envisioned a room as run-down as the front of the inn, with broken beds and a toilet that didn’t flush. Of course, the room was nothing like the average hotel rooms you could rent in Linkon, but it would do.

At least you discovered where most of the inn’s funds went.

You fetched one of the sealed bottles of water from the desk and buried yourself in bed. Having finally achieved a moment of respite, you whipped out your phone and began scrolling through your messages.

Oddly enough, there were no texts from Caleb. He was offline on all his socials.

Perhaps he hadn’t caught wind of your absence yet? That would suggest the idea of framing you for murder was something he had planned beforehand. Possibly after the argument.

You were about to head to bed when suddenly, your phone lit up with a notification.

You guessed it was Rhys again before even looking at the screen. He was the only one you’d been texting (or, more accurately, who’d been texting you) over the past few days.

If he was texting you, it could only mean trouble.

With numb fingers, you opened his chat.

“Miss, run.”

“You’re in Nimbura, right? They know your location.”

You froze as he kept bombarding you with short, panicked, back-to-back messages.

“He discovered our relationship. My wife’s dealing with the fleet.”

“They’re at our door.”

“Please, run.”

“Forget about us. Leave Nimbura. Immediately.”

“The police know where you are.”

The adrenaline was so deeply coded into your DNA that you’d gotten used to it by now. Only a deafening numbness lingered where anxiety once resided.

But, more importantly, how did he know where you were?

Your eyes trailed to the bracelet. The pendant gleamed under the light.

Now that you thought about it, the pendant’s size was oddly convenient, was it not?

And it was quite a bit heavier than you had expected.

Could it be…?

Caleb had revealed his final card. The ace up his sleeve.

Blood drained from your face. You paled.

A tracker.

You jolted up to the sound of police sirens slicing through the air. They were already here.

In a hurry, you snatched the bag you hadn’t yet opened and rushed to the door. Your other hand fidgeted with the bracelet coiled around your wrist. You hissed. Why were these things so hard to unclasp with one hand?

Pushing through your body’s sheer exhaustion and numbness, you bolted down the stairs, tripping over some of the steps. A knock resounded at the inn’s front gate.

“Skyhaven authorities. Open up.”

The perplexed blonde girl eyed you awkwardly. Tearing the bracelet forcefully off your wrist, you tossed the jewellery to her and muttered an apology.

“Gotta run. Take this as an apology.”

And with that, you stormed out the back door. Rain poured from above, thumping against your bare head relentlessly. No time to equip an umbrella. Just run.

With trembling legs, you skidded across the empty alleyways. Multiple pairs of footsteps slapped against the damp pavement close by. They were closing in. Fast. You had nowhere to go.

But perhaps you could make it to the train station before it closed. There was one last train heading to Linkon soon. If you could make it, maybe you could throw them off your trail for a while?

You bit your lip. You weren’t so sure. Chances were the authorities had already surrounded Linkon—your home and clinic were under their jurisdiction.

But that was a problem for future you. Right now, you had to run.

Mustering up all your strength, you pushed yourself forward, darting through the desolate streets. The commanding voices of the officers pierced through the rain, declaring how they would use force, how resisting would only worsen your case. You paid no mind to their warnings. Only the worst would happen if you were arrested—you’d be thrown into jail, executed by the fleet, or sent straight into Caleb’s arms. And he would definitely rather skin himself bit by bit than let you go once more.

How much worse could it get?

The walls of the world seemed to shrink in on you, confining you within Nimbura’s insignificantly sized territory. All sounds blurred together, contorting into one singular noise that thudded violently against your eardrums—the pulse of your own quickening heartbeat. The heart that once beat in love for a man now pounded in terror of the very same one. You no longer flinched at the bolts of lightning, no longer cared for the heavy droplets of rain smashing through your skull.

At that moment, you were reduced to a cowardly mess of a woman who knew only how to run. She ran from her life, her job, her stability, her friends, her problems, her mistakes. And now, that woman realised she had spent her entire existence fleeing. She buried her troubles in the desolation of her patients, abandoned the life that had given her everything, and flung herself into the arms of a stranger. A stranger who, due to her naïveté, received her love as she foolishly gave herself away.

Hot tears streamed down your cheeks. Or was it rain? You didn’t know. Didn’t care. And for the first time, you let the tears fall freely. You sobbed—your face contorted in despair. Your lips curled into an unsightly frown, your brows knitted dramatically. Vision blurred. Your pace faltered.

Your legs begged for respite. To stop, to collapse onto the wet asphalt, to simply wail to your heart’s content. But the footsteps behind you suddenly grew louder. Your brief moment of weakness had allowed them to close in. You were screwed.

Forcing yourself forward, you pushed through the pain. Your shoes stretched against your feet, groaning under the pressure. The soles were likely torn by now—perhaps even left behind a few metres ago. You didn’t know. There was no time to stop and check.

Then, through the curtain of rain, the silhouette of a tall stranger emerged. He walked parallel to you, treading calmly beneath the shelter of a large, black umbrella. Your heart lurched. You couldn’t stop now. You were bound to collide.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced for impact.

You crashed into a solid chest and, from the sheer force, went stumbling back. Before you could hit the ground, a firm hand seized your waist, steadying you.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, lifting your head to catch a glimpse of his face. “I—”

Your body froze. As if your entire being had shut down, every gear in your mind clogged at once. The pitter-patter of rain and the approaching footsteps of the police faded, drowned by the roaring static in your head.

That long, black uniform. Those leather gloves. That sleek cap.

And, most importantly, those innocent violet hues scrutinising your face.

For a long while, there was only silence.

You parted your lips, but no words came. Finally, you choked out, “How—”

A chuckle. One you recognised all too well.

“Are you hurt?” A familiar voice cooed.

Caleb.

You turned on your heels and bolted in the opposite direction.

A flight of uniformed personnel obstructed your path, caging you in against Caleb’s form. In tiny, panicked steps, you inched backwards.

The leader announced your name. “You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Sergeant Caroline Mayday. You—”

“I’ll take it from here,” the figure behind you commanded firmly. “I’ll escort our criminal personally.”

Hesitantly, the officer backed away with a curt tilt of his head, signalling for his troop to stand down. You watched helplessly as they retreated.

A part of you wanted to reach out. To beg them to throw you into jail instead. An axe to your neck would be far kinder.

But no. They tossed you right into the vicious, merciless jaws of the beast, leaving you to a fate you couldn’t determine.

The world stilled. The patter of rain against the road was all you could hear, aside from his steady breathing contrasting with your short, quick spasms of breath. In that moment, it felt as if it were only the two of you in the world. As if only you both truly mattered.

But those weren’t your feelings, were they?

They were his.

You gulped. Unhurried footsteps inched from behind. “You look tired. Have you eaten?” Caleb’s fingers interlocked with yours. Gently, he spun you around. The cap hung low on his head, obscuring half of his eyes. If only you’d spotted it from afar. Maybe if you’d picked up on his presence earlier, you could bolt in the opposite direction and avoid clashing into him.

He appeared from seemingly nowhere. Perhaps his appearance was also a calculated move that slipped past your radar.

Your final, most fatal loss.

Your reckoning.

You snatched your hand away. “You,” you cocked your head to meet his gaze, “What did you do to Rhys?”

You endured a long, deafening silence. The weight of it all pressed against your chest, squashing you against the mud. Like an insignificant, pesky bug meeting its end under the sole of one’s shoe.

A cold, frosty wind wafted through the atmosphere. Goosebumps prickled as frostbitten air slipped beneath your skin. The chill gnawed deep within your bones, causing painful pangs to crackle through you. Your knees buckled, unable to bear your weight any longer.

Expectedly, an arm wrapped itself around your waist and hoisted you up, pressing your body against his own.

Strings of water slid down from leaves nearby, splashing onto the pavement. Your forehead pulsated—that familiar sensation of dread that emerged each time you found yourself caught up in a complex, seemingly inescapable web. Usually, you’d bear the scissors to free yourself. But this time?

The webs cut into your skin, threading through your nerves. Every fibre of your being was tangled. The slightest movement would cause the intertwined nerves to be ripped out of your skin. A violent flash of lightning illuminated half of Caleb’s face.

“Who?” He lifted his chin, gazing at the sky as if buried deep in thought. When he looked down at you, he did so with a familiar darkness in his eyes. Envy. “Oh. Him.” His frown curled deeper as he uttered the last word.

“Why would that matter? It’s about us now.”

You locked your jaw. “What did you do?” Tears threatened to fall from your eyes.

As if able to distinguish between the rain and the remnants of your despair, Caleb brought his gloved hand and cradled your face. His thumb brushed against the tears, tossing them away as though they didn’t belong on your cheeks, and didn’t deserve to be shed from your eyes.

Not regarding another man, that is.

You flinched at his touch. A new, unsettling calm dawned over his countenance. And in a flick, all emotion dissipated from his eyes. His lips relaxed into a neutral line.

“I got rid of him.”

Your lips parted, but no words were uttered. A lump of saliva knotted in your throat. Your tongue was overcome with foreign saltiness.

“What do you mean…?”

No response.

“Caleb…” you stuttered, placing your palm on his hand, more to comfort yourself than to coerce him, “What did you do?”

His fingers trailed over your own. A tremor ran down your spine at the sheer tenderness he displayed, treating you as if you were a precious glass ornament ready to shatter at the slightest prick. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Your arm dropped to your side. “You… did you hurt him?” Caleb didn’t reply. He only leered down at your trembling lips with an impenetrable mask. Or perhaps it seemed as such to you because you couldn’t be bothered enough to pick him apart.

You sucked in a breath and exhaled audibly. Your head lowered until you were staring at the surface of your mud-coated shoes. Think. What could get you out of this situation? Your eyes lingered on your feet for a while. The cogs whirred in your brain, working, but producing no reliable output.

A flock of thoughts flooded you—irrelevant, unimpressive, shrill, and horrid thoughts. What would he do to you once he’s got you in his grasp? You swallowed the saltiness, nearly gagging at the taste of your own bodily fluids.

But then, a thought emerged.

Bodily fluids. Bodily gases. You smelled ammonia—a common gas released upon the decay of a corpse. But amidst the urine-like stench, you smelled something else.

A strong stench of bleach—something you only picked up once you’d ventured inside the room. Meaning it was present nowhere else. The corpse crime scene hadn’t been cleaned. There was no need to tidy up after a corpse that hadn’t bled. And there was no residue of liquid bleach anywhere within the room. If there was, you certainly would’ve noticed.

“Chlorine.” You lifted your head to meet his gaze.

Finally, Caleb’s eyes flashed with a hint of emotion.

“I smelled chlorine in Caroline’s room.”

With an amused tilt of his head, Caleb wordlessly challenged your wits.

“She didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered with chlorine gas.” You glared up at him. “In gas form, chlorine is extremely noxious. Seventh grade chemistry stuff. You made it too easy.” You shook your head. “Once she expired, you didn’t hesitate to take her out.”

His lips curled to form a smirk you couldn’t shake off. It felt so out-of-place. So visceral. As if it didn’t belong on his pretty face.

It’s an expression he’d donned countless times in the past. But each time, it was a playful, giddy smirk. A boyish grin, more so. The one you’d flash before committing a silly act.

But this one conquered your nerves with an uneasy rattle.

Eyebrows slightly curved, his eyes subtly squinted, a feral glint alight in his gorgeous violets, and with his lips angled oddly. Your stomach churned. It felt as if you were being preyed upon and tested.

Nonetheless, you stood your ground. You ensured that every bit of you would exude defiance, from your visage to your body and to the hairs of your neck. But your insolence only seemed to rile him up. The lunatic look in his eyes deepened alongside his uncomfortable smirk. Your fire exhilarated him, as if watching you ablaze with passionate rebellion was the prettiest you could be.

Like it was one of the many things he absolutely adored about you.

In spite of his admiration, he wouldn’t let you have your way, though, would he?

“A harsh accusation. But,” his hand returned to your face, as if it was unable to keep itself from it, as if it belonged glued to its side, “The world knows you to be the killer.”

“You weren’t raised to be a monster.”

Caleb cocked his head to the side. He hummed.

“Sure it wasn’t you? Don’t worry, you can tell me.”

Your balled fists trembled. “So,” you drooped your head, letting your hair fall before your eyes, “I was right.”

“Then, tell me,” you continued, “How do you know the fleet won’t turn on you next?”

“Once you reach a certain rank, you’re free from those risks. She was merely a sergeant.” His shoulders jerked to a casual shrug. “The media needed a culprit. The law doesn’t care who it is, they just need a scapegoat. A person to throw into a cell.”

“Which was me.” You eyed him in disbelief.

In a sharp movement, Caleb squeezed your chin and brought your face to his, forcing you onto your tiptoes. “But,” an alien, hoarse voice rasped, “I wouldn’t let them have you. They wouldn’t take you from me. Not again. Not after…” You could see fragments of a memory flash in the reflection in his eyes—a memory you seemed to share with him, but one that wasn’t yours.

Normally, you’d pry further. Coerce him, utilise his vulnerable emotions to spill the truth from his lips without having to properly ask. But by now, you’d given up on his rehabilitation. Now, your most vital priority was survival.

“You put a tracker in that bracelet.” A proud grin spread across his face. He had the audacity to silently congratulate you after all that.

“This?” He held up something near his face. A shiny, silver chain with a sparkling white sapphire pendant dangled from his fingers. “You forgot it at the inn. Here.”

Gentle fingers grasped your arm. He slid the chain onto your wrist before hooking it shut. “You were made to be clad in jewels. A Goddess.” You shuddered at the abrupt softness of his voice. Sincerity was engraved into his movements.

For a moment, it felt as if he were simply a man in love, and nothing more. A man awarding his partner with a treasure purchased by hours of his hard work, made only for the one he loved so dearly. You yearned to close your eyes, to let your world sink into darkness so you could paint a picture of your own—one where the two of you were simply a happy, normal couple, living a humble, free life. But dreams were merely dreams. In the end, you had to wake up.

A frown graced your lips. Your bad luck charm had followed you into your doom. And once more, the shackle was clasped to your wrist.

“Did they touch you anywhere?” He gripped your arm. His eyes poured over your body.

“What?”

“The authorities.” He affirmed. “Did they—”

You pried your form away. A visible tick emerged in his forehead. “No, they didn’t.”

“Why…” his eyeballs quaked, rolling about in his head with fervour, “Why can’t you just…” His teeth sank into his bottom lip viciously, drawing blood. “Are you afraid of me? Of what I’ve become?”

If it were just this morning, when he’d sourced you with the warmest form of solace as he cradled you on his lap, you would’ve denied that claim. You would’ve fought back with all your heart, with passionate proclamations on how you feel the safest when with him, and how nobody feels like home other than him.

Just a few days ago, you’d approached him out of fascination. Love, yes. But above all things, you were intrigued. Lured by his mystical, webbed, and broken mind. Eager to pick apart the strands of his brain tissue and see for yourself how they operated.

But now?

You weren’t just afraid.

You were terrified of him. Of whom he had become. And who he could transform into in the near future.

So, you simply let your head hang as you pursed your lips into silence.

The man didn’t move. He didn’t shift, whimper, nor shout. He simply stood there with you. Beneath the cloak of the large, black umbrella. A gentle thunder ruptured the air. The gale softened. The tempest was nearing its end. The grey storm clouds were returning home.

“If you love something, you should work hard to earn it.” You wiped a few stray droplets off your eyes. “If you love me, you should work hard to be a better person for me. You can’t just… do this.”

With slow, sincere motions, Caleb lifted your arm and slotted it with his.

“Let’s go home, then. I’ll work hard for you this time. We can make things right.”

But you didn’t move. You simply stood, pulling back your arm ever so slightly. Not desperately, not angrily, just… subtly. As if your own games had tired you out. Because they had. What use was there in fighting back? You had already lost.

“There is no home to return to, Caleb.” A soft voice spoke. His lips twisted into a frown. Brief anger flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t speak. What was there to say? He knew you were right.

“Let’s go build one, then. We’ll begin from nothing.” His fingers tightened around yours. “One step at a time.”

“My home,” you averted your gaze, hesitant to continue, “doesn’t include you.”

The wrath returned, spreading through his visage like poison dipped onto a pond’s still surface. His grip tautened painfully. “What? Don’t you love me?” There was a scoff in his voice, a forced friendliness. “All right. I get it. You’re shy, is that it?” he grinned. But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Much like a lot of his smiles nowadays.

You stared back at him with a worn countenance, unresponsive to his tease. But something subtly stirred in your chest. Nothing pleasant. Fear. He was at it again. He was walking a fine line between mania and sanity, and he threatened to topple over and fall into the clutches of psychosis at any moment.

Knowing what it was scared you more. Most would mistake it for hurt, for desperation or any other normal feeling in the book. But you knew all too well it wasn’t that.

He was losing himself. You were, both physically and psychically, driving him mad.

Caleb’s smile slackened. “Pip-squeak.” He shut his eyes in an attempt at self-restraint. When he opened them, your nerves screamed. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Either,” a step forward, “you come with me, help me fix what I broke, or…” he stopped. His lips neared yours. His hot breath fanned over your eyes. The knot in your stomach tightened. Tears rose to your eyes.

You should move away, display the last bits of your dimming defiance. But what was the point? It was all over. He’d caught you, and now, the victor would claim his prize. Your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your torso, moulding to your shape. It pressed against your chest. Suffocating, revealing, vulnerable—the words raced in your mind. Bile rose to your throat. The weight of the clothes dripping down irked you, but not more than how you felt practically revealed under his gaze.

You gulped.

“Ya know, killing an important member of the fleet is a serious offence.” His eyes skimmed over your body. You tensed right as he caught himself and deflected his gaze.

You understood what he implied. Granting you a swift, painless execution was the kindest decision the fleet could come upon.

“But,” the coldness in your eyes matched his, “you wouldn’t let that happen to me, would you?”

“Smart girl.” He ruffled your wet hair. “Either you come with me, or I drag you home kicking and screamin’.”

The lack of reluctance in his voice startled you, paired with the sheer casualness of his tone. You could tell he wasn’t lying.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t,” he confirmed. “So, shall we go home?”

You don’t respond. You only look at him. With empty, broken eyes, with a dimming spark of defiance still lingering in them.

And in his eyes, you spotted emotion. His brow furrowed, curled. His lips threatened to drag into a frown. He was recollecting. Zoning out on the image of your face, drifting away into the land of memories. Your patients often entered this semi-delirious state, so you’d naturally learned to pick up on it. During those times, you’d simply offer silence. Because for most, the memories they recalled whilst vulnerable and overwhelmed were the ones they hid from themselves the most. If you were to interrupt his thoughts, he’d never confront himself again.

You didn’t know what burdens his heart bore. You didn’t know how many times his flesh tasted the bite of steel. And you certainly didn’t know whether what he felt had justifications. But one thing you knew for sure was that Caleb had to confront his past soon. If he didn’t, he’d lose himself to his obsession.

But you knew it was a matter you couldn’t manipulate. It was not something you could push and pull behind the scenes to manoeuvre them the way they should be moved. There were parts of the human mind that even the most talented psychologists couldn’t access, and if they could, they were not to interfere.

And because of that, most patients embraced a similar decision each time.

He tilted his head. The onslaught of broken memories fragmented before disappearing entirely amidst the purple voids. Just like most, Caleb had chosen to run. And then, without hesitation, he took your arm and pulled.

“Atta girl,” he cooed.

The faltering rain drowned everything—the drum of your heartbeat softly thumping against your ribcage, slowed by the exhaustion biting your limbs. In the distance, the last train to Linkon rattled past.

With a crestfallen gaze, you stepped towards him. Caleb wrapped his arm around your waist and gently lugged you close. The cage you couldn’t see before clamped shut. And so did any possibility of his rehabilitation that you’d initially planned on.

And then, together, you stepped into a new beginning—a future that was no longer yours.