#through the storm chapter five

[i-appear-misssing]

I can't remember if I cried 6 years ago when I got hurt the first time

[sonarspace]

RAIN, REGRETS, & REDEMPTION. KENTO NANAMI

SYNOPSIS: promises made in the rain often get washed away, leaving echoes of what might have been CONTENT: angst. nsfw. PAIRING: ex-husband! nanami x reader. WC: 2.7k

☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸

it's been over five months since you filed for divorce from nanami. they say it gets easier with time, but it feels like it just gets harder every day. you miss him so much, it’s like a part of you is just gone.

you still remember that day so clearly—pushing him out the door and yelling “get out!” before collapsing on the floor, tears streaming down your face as it hit you that your marriage was really over.

it’s hard not to feel bitter when you think about how his career seemed to take over your whole life. the rare moments of intimacy—only on birthdays and your anniversary—felt more like a formality than real connection. it’s like your entire relationship was reduced to those fleeting moments, leaving you feeling more alone than ever.

the days after were a blur. you tried to stay busy, but every corner of the apartment was haunted by him. the layout of the living room, your habit of leaving your shoes by the door, his favorite mug next to yours in the cabinet, his second pair of glasses on your bedside table—everything was a painful echo of his absence.

what hurt the most was that he didn’t even fight for you. he didn’t fight for your relationship. it ended so abruptly, like a chapter closing with no chance for a rewrite.

so you did what you could to move on. you packed up everything and decided to move out of the apartment, sending his belongings back through his lawyer since you no longer knew where he lived. yet, selfishly, you kept his sweater. it was the only piece of him you allowed yourself to hold onto.

you decide to spend one last night in the apartment you both once shared, before the divorce would be finalized tomorrow. after tomorrow, you'd be free from everything that connected you to him. the place was empty, with nothing left but your mattress on the floor in the bedroom and the refrigerator in the kitchen.

you pull on his sweater, feeling its familiar warmth, and then catch your reflection in the mirror. you can’t help but think how pathetic it all seems. trying to shake off the feeling, you pour yourself a glass of wine. just as you’re about to head out onto the balcony, the doorbell rings, cutting through the quiet of the empty apartment.

you frown, wondering who could be ringing the doorbell at this late hour. when you open the door, your wine glass nearly slips out of your hand. there he is, standing in front of you—the man who caused you so much pain. whom you still can’t help but long for. his messy blond hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it anxiously. his clothes are crumpled, his shirt hanging out of his pants when it’s usually neatly tucked. he’s breathing heavily, as if he’s just ran up twenty flights of stairs to you.

the sight of him, unexpectedly at your door, floods you with a storm of unresolved feelings, making your heart ache with bittersweet emotion.

“elevator’s out of order, huh?” he says, his voice heavy as he catches his breath. you stare at him, struggling to find your words.

“what are you…” you're about to ask, but he cuts you off.

“can i come in?”

you stand there, your feet rooted to the ground. you’ve replayed this moment countless times during your lonely nights, imagining if he’d ever come back, if he’d ask for your forgiveness. now that he's here, the reality of it is almost too surreal.

you’re about to shut the door, the sight of him too much to handle. but he stops it with his foot. “please, baby,” he says softly, and it almost makes you melt. you quickly remind yourself to stay strong. “you don’t get to call me that,” you snap, sounding like a petulant kid even though the endearment tugs at you.

his eyes meet yours, filled with a mix of regret and desperation. “i know you don’t want to see me, but—”

before he can finish, you sigh and step aside. he walks through the door, and the emptiness of the place hits him hard. memories start rushing back—the way you'd run up to him and hug him when he came home from work, the new recipes you’d tried out together in the kitchen, those late nights on the couch where you’d read while he worked on his laptop. his eyes fall on the open bedroom door, spotting the mattress. the nights you spent together, a mess of tangled limbs.

his throat feels tight, and before he knows it, his eyes are filled with tears. you see the look on his face and without thinking, you set the glass down on the kitchen counter and pull him into a hug. he clings to you, holding you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. his knees start to wobble, and he pulls you down with him. you both sink to the wooden floor. his body trembles as he takes in shaky breaths, trying to hold back his sobs.

you press a kiss to his hair like you have countless times before when he sought comfort in your arms. “kento,” you whisper softly, the name feeling heavy on your tongue. “please,” he whispers back, his voice broken and desperate. you know what he's asking for, but it's too late. “you’re too late,” you say, struggling to keep your voice from wavering.

he pulls back from your shoulder. you both gaze into each other's eyes. the unspoken words hang heavy between the two of you. “i’m sorry,” he says in a broken whisper. the words you've been longing to hear for the past five months. the apology should be bringing you some sort of relief, right? but all you feel is guilt. overwhelming guilt which threatens to spill from your eyes. why didn’t you fight harder for both of you? why did you just pin the blame on him and give up after only one attempt?

as if sensing your turmoil, he cups your cheeks and leans his head against yours. “don't even think about blaming yourself,” he murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring. his hands are warm on your cheeks. his warmth seeps into you, pumping your heart. it's too much in the best way. god, you've missed him so much.

“kento,” your voice chokes. he kisses the tears streaming down your cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin with a featherlight touch.

“no more tears,” he says, giving you a sad smile. his thumb gently brushes away the last of your tears. he stands up and offers you his hand. you take your glass of wine as he grabs the bottle and leads you out to the balcony. you both stand under the night sky, covered with heavy clouds with the promise of rain.

you sip your wine silently while he takes a swig directly from the bottle. after a moment, you place your glass on the floor and, without a word, he hands you the bottle. your fingers brush against each other as you pass the bottle back and forth. you somehow find yourselves moving closer.

he turns his head to look at you as your head rests on his shoulder. you’re unsure who makes the first move and you couldn’t care less. your lips brush against each other, both of you hesitant, unsure if you should cross the line or not. you don’t know if it’s the emotions of the night or the alcohol in your system, but before you can think too much about it, you close the gap and press your lips against his.

the bottle slips from his hand and shatters on the floor as he brings his hand up to cup your cheek. his thumb moves under your jaw, tilting it higher to deepen the kiss. he groans into your mouth, and just then, the rain starts. fat, heavy drops fall over both of you as you lose yourself completely in the kiss.

the kiss starts slow and gentle but quickly turns needy and desperate as you both give in to each other. he walks you back into the apartment, blindly shutting the balcony door behind him with the rain muffled outside. he pulls away, breathing heavily, and his hand moves to the hem of your drenched sweater (his). “looks better on you than it did on me,” he smiles tenderly as he notices.

he waits for a moment, his eyes searching yours for permission to remove it. you nod and the sweater is off before you can blink. your pants follow next. you start unbuttoning his shirt as he kisses you again. both of you blindly make your way back to the bedroom. your hands find the waistband of his pants, and as the back of your feet meets the mattress on the floor, you yelp, falling backward and pulling him down with you. the sounds of your chuckles fill the empty apartment.

the room fills with tension as you both quiet down. kento’s finger gently tucks back a strand of hair behind your ear. "i missed hearing that," he murmurs sincerely. before you can respond, he captures your lips. his tongue presses against your lips and you part them, letting him in as the kiss deepens and becomes urgent.

his hands roam over your body with confidence, each caress of his fingers making you gasp against his lips. he cups your breasts, making you arch into him. he pulls back from your lips and trails teasing kisses down your neck and jaw.

he takes a moment to slip off your bra, leaving you just in your panties. seeing the blush spread across your cheeks, he grins. "you're so fucking beautiful," he breathes, his voice hoarse with need.

his hands continue their exploration, setting your skin ablaze. he parts your legs and positions himself between them, his fingers grazing over your thighs, savoring every inch. he takes in a shaky breath as he gazes down at you, reminding him of the first time you were together.

“ken, please,” you whimper, voice trembling with need. he chuckles at your desperation. “patience, my sweet love.” he spreads your legs wider, making you gasp as his tongue presses against your drenched panties. “haven’t even done anything yet, and you’re already so wet?” he asks with a cocky grin.

his eyes flutter closed as the taste of you seeps through the fabric, his nose pressed against you, sending shivers through your body. your hands instinctively find his hair, tugging him closer. his breath is hot, teasing, as his tongue traces the outline of your folds, every lick driving you closer to the edge. unintelligible sounds spill from your lips as your breaths grow heavier.

his fingers slip beneath your panties, grazing where you need him most. he teases you, taking his time, relearning your body, savoring every reaction. when he pushes two fingers inside, he growls low, “so warm, so eager.” your hips buck up, seeking more.

he withdraws his fingers and slides your panties off, his eyes never leaving you as he pumps himself slowly. he watches the way your lips part, how your eyes darken with desire. without breaking his gaze, he slides into you, and you both moan in unison. the stretch is overwhelming, your hands instinctively grip his shoulders as your body arches, shuddering under the intensity.

his lips trail kisses across your collarbones, his breath ragged against your neck. “tell me you missed me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need and vulnerability.

“i missed you so much,” you breathe out. he groans softly at your confession. his lips crash into yours, a messy attempt to kiss as his movements grow more desperate, deeper.

for a moment, the past five months of pain, regret, and loneliness seem to melt away. it’s just the two of you, tangled up and breathless, your bodies slick with sweat and desire.

outside, the rain pounds against the windows, a loud backdrop to the soft, urgent sounds of your carnal needs. the heavy rain against the windows blends with the symphony of your mingled breaths and whispered names.

your moans grow louder as he picks up the pace, your walls clenching and holding onto him he moves in out of you. your senses blur together, the pressure inside you builds fast. that tight coil in your stomach winding impossibly close to snapping. your muscles tense as you edge towards your release.

your nails dig into his back, your body trembling as you feel yourself teetering on the edge. his grip on you tightens like he’s afraid to let go, afraid of losing this moment—or you—all over again.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice cracking as he presses his forehead against yours. his thrusts slow but grow deeper, each one filled with a desperation that cuts through the haze of pleasure. “i’m so sorry.”

the words hit you like a wave, and your chest tightens. it’s hard to breathe, your heart torn between the intensity of your orgasm and the pain of remembering everything that brought you here.

but for just this moment, you let yourself drown in both. the pleasure and the ache intertwine, your moans mixed with soft sobs as you finally come undone in his arms.

your body trembles beneath him as you try to catch your breath, still reeling from the intensity of it all. he stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, holding you like he never wants to let go. his fingers trace your cheek, catching a stray tear, and his lips press against your skin—soft, desperate.

“don’t leave me,” he whispers, voice breaking as he buries his face into your shoulder. his chest heaves, and he pulls back to meet your eyes, pleading.

you can barely breathe, the weight of it all crashing over you. he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, trembling, like he’s holding on for dear life.

“i should’ve fought for us,” he says, voice cracking under the strain. “i messed up, but it’s not too late. i’ll talk to the lawyers tomorrow—i’ll fix everything.”

his words hang heavy in the air as he kisses you again, slow and tender, like he’s sealing a vow. and despite the conflicting emotions inside you, you let yourself lean into it, into him, just for tonight.

when you wake the next morning, the light filtering in through the curtains, you feel his warmth still pressed against you. for a brief moment, you think it’s a dream—one of those bittersweet fantasies you’d had over the last few months.

but then you feel his arms tighten, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck. “good morning,” his voice gruff.

“i’ll talk to the lawyers today,” he whispers, his voice low and soothing. “i’ll make it right.” you give him a sleepy smile and he chuckles fondly. you hear him moving around quietly—getting dressed, gathering his things. “i’ll be back soon,” he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “we’ll figure it out.”

the morning is gray, the skies still heavy from last night’s rain. you hear the sound of his car pulling away, hoping when you wake up next, this will all be over. but when you do, it’s not the sound of him coming back that wakes you—it’s the phone ringing.

the roads were slick, the rain turning everything into a slippery danger. they say he didn’t see the other car coming, didn’t have time to react. your heart sinks as you hear the fragments of the message: “accident,” “wet roads,” “collision.”

the phone drops from your trembling hand. the world around you blurs as you fall to the floor.

you rush to the hospital, your mind racing. when you finally get to the icu, you find him there, motionless but breathing. a rush of relief floods through you as you see the steady rise and fall of his chest.

you sit by his side, gripping his hand tightly. the steady beeping of the monitors fills the silence in the room. you don’t know when he’ll wake up, or if he’ll wake up at all. tears slip silently down your cheeks as you whisper, “i’m here, kento. i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸

A/N: product of me listening to pink in the night on repeat for the past two days. likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

© SONARSPACE 2024 | DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS!

[falling-endlessly]

Boomerang (part 1)

Vox x Female!Ex!Overlord!Reader

Summary: When Vox proves incapable of cutting Valentino out of his sex life despite his many reassurances, you decide to break it off with him and leave for good. He doesn’t take it so well.

Just to be clear, reader is an artificial intelligence demon, looks super realistic and human-like, but is actually composed of nanotechnology. She was human once though, like all of the other sinners.

INSPIRED BY THIS POST

Part 2—> Chapter Index

"Y/n?" Charlie poked her head through your door. "There's uh, someone here to see you."

You narrowed your eyes, rising from your bed. A bone-weary sigh escaped you. It was obvious who your supposed "visitor" was. "Did you tell him I'm busy?"

Charlie pursed her lips, looking down. Great, so that meant he was throwing a temper tantrum. And she wanted you to sort him out.

"Alright, fine," you pinched the bridge of your nose. "I'm coming." She was generous enough to let you stay, after all. The least you could do was clean up your messes.

When you finally reached the main floor, Vox and Alastor looked about two seconds away from clawing each other's faces off. Cyan blue electricity was sparking along Vox's entire body, and Alastor's shadows curled dangerously behind him, ready to attack at his call.

Seeing him made a hot fury like no other claw its way up your throat. "What the fuck are you doing here?" You growled lowly, balling your fists at your sides.

At the sound of your voice, Vox immediately broke away from Alastor, a giant smile spreading across his screen. "Sweetheart! There you are!"

You stormed up to him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him harshly into a corner. You let go of him once you were sufficiently out of earshot of the others, crossing your arms and leveling him with a furious glare. "You have five seconds to explain yourself."

"Okay, let's just calm down for a second here," he chuckled, but it was an empty sound. "Is it really that weird for me to want to check up on you? After all, you kind of just disappeared," his smile strained.

"Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you couldn't find me was because I don't want to see you?" You smiled sardonically, patience running thin.

"Uh, what?" He laughed, but his smile was frozen. "Why would you not want to see me?"

That was the last fucking straw. "Are you that fucking delusional, Vox?" You snapped, poking him harshly in the chest. "When I said I was done, I meant it. This," you gestured between the two of you. "Is over. I'm done."

Vox twitched, electricity sparking off sporadically from his antennae. He stared at you in stunned silence, his breathing starting to pick up speed as he processed your words. His eyes searched your face for any sign that you were being untruthful, and when he found none, he glanced up at the small crowd of residents and staff gathered, only to lock eyes with a smug Alastor.

Vox's screen glitched, his features twisting in a rage. "So you're replacing me with the radio fucker now, is that it?"

"Oh, really?" You narrowed your eyes. "Just like you replaced me with Valentino?"

"That's different," Vox gritted out.

"Is it?"

"Yes, for one, Val isn't some archaic cannibalistic fucker with a vendetta against me!"

"Who has the vendetta against who here? Cause it seems like you're the one who can't let things go." You watched him splutter on his bullshit for a few seconds before you shook your head in exasperation, the pounding pressure increasing at your temples. "Alright, that's it, we're done here. Get out."

"Y/n," he narrowed his eyes. "You need to think about this."

"Oh I've had plenty of time to think," you grabbed his tie, pulling him closer to bare your teeth menacingly. "Now get out before I put a goddamn virus in your software Vox!" Your face pixelated from rage at the end of your sentence. You let him go with a harsh shove.

For a long moment nobody spoke, a tense silence blanketing over the two of you. You glared at him venomously, chest still heaving from your outburst. And him, he was looking at you like he'd never seen you before. Good, you thought spitefully. It's finally getting through to him.

Vox's mouth hardened into a thin line, his sharp claws nearly drawing blood from his palms. "Why here?"

You closed your eyes. "It’s not a forever thing. I just—I need to be away from everything for a little while, okay?" Everything that we've built together. Reminders of you. "No flashy shit, no fast life, no technology—"

"You're an A.I. model," he said dully.

"Yeah well, you win some you lose some," you sighed, rubbing at your temples. "Look, I don't want to say it again. Leave Vox, I'm serious."

For a hot second, it looked like you were ripping his entire world apart and stomping on the broken pieces, the way he looked at you so lost, before he hastily pulled himself back together. "Fine," he spat out. It sounded like it physically hurt him to say it.

He lifted his chin, adjusted his lapels, and stormed out of the hotel, slamming the door so hard it blew straight off of its hinges, blue sparks of electricity still sizzling from it.

For a few seconds, a thick tension suffocated the room, as everyone took the time to process the shit show they'd just witnessed.

"Well, that was fun!" Alastor's cheery voice punctuated the silence. You glared at him tiredly.

***

If you thought that he would give up like you so nicely asked, you were sadly mistaken.

Turned out it was just a pre-game warm up for this asshole.

At least thrice a week, he made sure to fuck up your peace somehow. Last time it was spray painting the entire hotel electric blue (how, you didn't even want to know). The time before that, it was trying to sneak some of his peeping gadgets in through the window. And the time before that, it was putting your name up on every billboard in the goddamn city with a red heart next to it.

Now, you stood incredulously in front of half of the hotel. As in, the other half was missing. Blown off by a fucking missile. You couldn't make this shit up if you tried.

"What the fuck is going on?" You gritted out, before taking a deep, calming breath.

Vox's electric laughter rang out from a speaker of unknown source. You turned angrily to face the open air.

"Pathetic," he jeered. "You still want to shack up with these losers, Y/n?"

You shook your head slowly, laughing in disbelief. "Wow," you said sarcastically. "You really showed us, didn't you? Feel better about yourself now?"

You punctuated your sentence with a glare, before turning and storming towards the remaining half of the building.

Vox watched you from twenty different angles across his screens. The moment you turned your back, his wide, toothy grin dropped, eyes squeezing shut. He slammed mute on his microphone.

“FUCK!” He banged a fist on the table, breathing heavily. It had been two weeks already, and you still hadn’t come back to him. He was getting desperate now.

A quick glance at the screen showed Alastor’s glitching picture. The radio bastard snapped his fingers with a raised brow, the missing half of the hotel repairing itself instantly.

“Fucking show off,” Vox growled raggedly.

He needed to change tactics. And fast.

***

Nothing. He had nothing.

No plans, no blueprints, no smart and suave moves to get you back.

Every scenario he ran through his head would inevitably end with you walking away from him. If only he could hypnotize you like with everyone else—but you were a tech demon, just like him. More advanced, even. Your firewalls were just too strong.

Vox poured himself another glass of scotch, solemnly glaring up at the ceiling in frustration.

A clawed hand clasped his shoulder, making him grit his teeth.

“You’re looking a little tense, Cariño,” Valentino purred, trailing his fingers up Vox’s neck. “I can help with that~”

Vox shrugged him off, annoyed. “Not in the mood, Val.”

But Valentino was undeterred. “Is this about Y/n?” He murmured, knowing he hit the nail on the head when the other demon tensed considerably. “What’s so special about that bitch anyway, hm? Is it the pussy? You know I’ve got whores lined up for you, baby. Just say the word and—”

“Fuck off, Val!” Vox exploded, electricity sparking in his eye. “I don’t want just any random bitch from the street, okay?! I want Y/n. I want her back,” he spat miserably.

Valentino went silent, his face twisting into a cruel expression. “Don’t you understand?” He growled. “She left you. Betrayed you. And she’s not coming back, ever. The sooner you see that and stop wasting your time, the better.”

He turned away, his heels clacking against the marble floors until the double doors swung closed behind him.

Vox let out a frustrated yell, arcs of electricity shooting out from him and shattering his expensive collection of drinking glasses to smithereens.

***

A tap sounded at your window, making you tense.

Slowly you approached it, generating a pistol from your nanotech and holding it tightly to your chest. You peered out of the blinds, only to find your ex dangling from the window sill.

“Holy shit!” You screeched, jumping back.

“A lil’ help?” he grinned lazily, reaching out for you. You grasped his hand, hauling him inside of your room.

The unmistakably pungent scent of alcohol invaded your senses, making your wrinkle your nose.

“Jesus fucking Christ, are you drunk?” You dragged a hand down your face.

“No,” he hiccuped, shaking his head vehemently, which caused him to lose balance. You grabbed his shoulders, righting him before he fell and broke his screen.

“Oh yeah,” his face lit up in realization, before he reached behind him, pulling out a bouquet of slightly squashed roses. “For you,” he slurred, offering them proudly.

You looked at them in exasperation, before taking them gently from his hands. Bringing them up to your face, you closed your eyes, sniffing them slightly. A sweet floral scent filled your senses as you regarded them.

“They’re pretty,” you remarked quietly.

“Yeah,” he grinned, your eyes flickering up to catch his. “But you’re prettier.” At your lack of reaction, his grin faltered, and he looked down.

“I…” he started, swaying slightly. “I’m sorry.”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head. “Don’t do this.”

“Please come home,” he continued, expression drooping sorrowfully. He clasped your hand, looking up at you pleadingly. “I’ll…I’ll do better, I promise.”

The ache in your heart grew almost unbearable the more you looked at him, so you averted your gaze. “Why don’t you ever say that when you’re sober?”

Vox let go of your hand, sliding down the wall until he landed on his ass. “Scared,” he mumbled.

You crouched down in front of him, lifting his hanging head from his arms. “Of what?” You said gently.

His eyes flickered up to yours, and the raw emotion nearly stole your breath away. “You still won’t want me.”

“Vox…” You closed your eyes, pained.

“Come home,” he whispered hollowly. “Please.”

“You know I can’t do that,” you said thickly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He looked at you sadly, but resigned. “Yeah, I know,” he lowered his screen back into his arms. “…miss you,” he trailed off quietly, before soft whistling snores could be heard.

You dropped your face in your hands, breathing raggedly. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. You had almost fucking caved.

After a moment to compose yourself, you searched his pockets, pulling out his phone (he didn’t even change his password) and dialing a familiar number.

“What the fuck do you want now, Vox?” An irritated feminine voice answered the line.

“Velvette,” you said cooly. “I need a favor.”

****

Part 2 —> Chapter Index

[chimcess]

⮞ Teaser Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Hockey Player!Jungkook, Figure Skater!Reader, Hockey Player!Taehyung, Hockey Player!Jimin, Coach!Yoongi, Hockey Player!Namjoon, Hockey Player!Hoseok, Figure Skater!Jin, Genre: Hockey!AU, Figure Skating!AU, Olympic!AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Self-Discovery, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn Drop Date: 01/20/2025 Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has always been destined for greatness as a competitive figure skater, her dreams of the Olympics sparkling like the ice beneath her blades. But when a devastating injury sidelines her, those dreams seem to melt away. Just when she feels lost, she unexpectedly meets Jeon Jungkook, a talented NHL hockey player.

I never used to think about what came after. Why would I? It felt pointless, like trying to guess the end of a novel when you’re still tangled in the middle. Every chapter rushing by, barely letting you catch your breath. Sometimes, life dangled a dream so vivid, so close, you could almost feel it in your hands. But right when you thought you had it? That’s when life reminded you—pages stop turning. Lights flick off. And suddenly, you’re back in the grind, stuck right where you started.

Normal? No chance. I wouldn’t recognize normal if it jumped out of the shadows and hit me. Normal was for people who punched clocks and sipped lukewarm coffee in beige cubicles. My mornings started when the world was still dark—lacing up my skates, the cold air biting at my face. Stretch until the pain dulled, practice until my routines were burned into my mind like a broken record. The rink smelled like sweat, frost, and desperation, clinging to me as I chased that perfect moment, day in and day out.

That was my life. Until it wasn’t.

From the moment I took my first steps, the ice had been my escape. My personal sanctuary. Each time my skates touched the frozen surface, electricity sparked through me, alive in my bones. My mom, Emily, she saw it first. She recognized that fire in me and latched on, pulling me headfirst into the competitive skating world. She wasn’t just supportive—she was relentless, like a storm barreling down on me, pushing me to be perfect. To her, maybe that was all that mattered.

People whispered behind her back, saying she was living vicariously through me, chasing dreams she’d lost. But I didn’t resent her for it. Her ambition, fierce and all-consuming, burned like a fire. It kept me warm—even when it scorched me. It wasn’t the trophies or the standing ovations that drove me. It was the ice itself. Out there, I wasn’t just a name on a roster. I was free.

Emily had been a skater once, too. But life, cruel and chaotic, had other plans. Her dreams fizzled out, lost somewhere between time and circumstance. When she got pregnant with me, she married my dad, Jim, and watched her ambitions wither like dead leaves. Year by year, regret settled in, until all she had left was me—and the ice. I became her second chance.

She met Jim when she was still a bright-eyed girl in a small town, dreaming big. He came to Michigan for police training; she was restless, yearning for more. They fell in love—or something close to it. Soon enough, I came along, and after a quick courthouse wedding, our lives unraveled. Emily and I left Michigan for Colorado, chasing skating dreams. Jim drifted back to Olympia, Washington, sinking into his routine like it was quicksand.

I became the bridge between them, constantly tugged between my dad’s predictable world and my mom’s fierce drive. Stability—something I longed for—was never in the cards. Emily hated Michigan, so we stayed away. Jim became less of a father and more of a ghost.

The crackle of the intercom yanked me from my thoughts. My knee throbbed, a bitter reminder.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’re starting our descent into Detroit, where it’s currently five-eighteen p.m., and a frigid fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Please secure your belongings.”

Michigan. I was back, but it didn’t feel like home. It hadn’t for years. And yet, here I was. Family wasn’t a refuge—not with Jim. He felt more like a stranger now, a shadow of someone I used to know. The home we once had? Long gone.

Monday, I’d meet with Dr. Jeon. People swore he was the best, but deep down, I already knew none of it mattered. The moment my skate hit that rough patch of ice, when my body twisted and the world flipped upside down, I knew—my skating days were over.

I could still see it. The rink, bathed in soft afternoon light, the sound of *Swan Lake* floating through the air. I wasn’t competing that day, just skating for the sheer joy of it. Emily and my coach were in the bleachers, discussing my next routine. I built up speed, heading into a fan spiral, when it happened. My blade caught. My leg buckled. I hit the ice hard. Everything went dark.

The plane’s landing gear screeched, snapping me back to the present. My heart raced, the memory fading like smoke. As the plane stopped, passengers scrambled for their bags. I waited, letting them pass, before grabbing my things. The crutches in my hands were cold, unfamiliar. I used to glide effortlessly across the ice, and now, here I was—struggling just to stay upright on solid ground.

At baggage claim, I stared at the mountain of luggage, feeling the weight of it all sink in. How was I supposed to manage with no free hands?

“You need a hand?”

The voice startled me. I turned and saw him—tall, with warm brown eyes that somehow felt like they saw right through me. Before I could respond, someone bumped into me, and my crutch clattered to the floor. I wobbled, reaching out to steady myself, but he was faster. He caught me.

For a moment, the noise, the crowd, everything blurred. It was just us, frozen in time.

“You alright?” His voice was soft, steady, his hands still gripping my arms. I nodded, heat flushing my face as I pulled away.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” I muttered. He bent down, picking up my crutch. As he handed it back, his eyes lingered on me, not with pity, but with something else. Understanding, maybe.

“No problem.” His smile was easy, casual, but there was something behind it, like he had more to say.

Around us, life resumed its frantic pace—people rushing by, voices bouncing off the airport’s high ceilings. But for just a second longer, it was still only us.

“Need help with your bags?” he asked, glancing at the heap of luggage. 

I hesitated, my pride prickling. “I’ve got it,” I said, even though I clearly didn’t. My knee throbbed in protest.

He didn’t push. Just smiled, unbothered, and shrugged. “Alright. But it’s no trouble if you change your mind.”

As I shifted my weight, feeling the twinge in my leg, I sighed. “Okay, yeah, I could use some help.” The words tasted like defeat, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He easily grabbed my suitcase, balancing my smaller bag on top. I clung to my messenger bag, determined to carry something myself.

"Is someone picking you up?" he asked as we walked toward the sliding glass doors, the cold Michigan air sneaking in like a thief in the night.

"No, I'll just grab a cab," I said, weaving through the crowd. His presence next to me felt steady, comforting, like a life raft I didn’t even know I needed. 

“I’ve got my car in the overnight lot,” he offered casually, like it was no big deal. “I could give you a ride if you want.”

For a moment, I hesitated, caught off guard by the offer. “No, it’s okay,” I said, almost too quickly. “A cab’s fine.” But something shifted in his face—just for a second. Disappointment? Or was that just my imagination?

We stepped outside, and the cold hit me like a slap, sharp and biting. I cursed under my breath for not grabbing my gloves. 

He noticed, his lips quirking up in a knowing smile. “Forgot what Michigan feels like in January?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, pulling my coat tighter. “Something like that.” I should’ve been used to it by now. I grew up on ice, for God’s sake. But standing there in the freezing wind felt different, like the cold wasn’t just outside—it was creeping inside me, gnawing at the edges of something deeper.

“So, where were you before this?” he asked, his curiosity genuine, his breath hanging in the air like smoke.

“Nevada. Before that, Colorado. We moved around a lot.” I don’t even know why I was telling him this. I didn’t even know his name.

“We?” He raised an eyebrow, the question soft, but pointed.

“Me and my mom,” I said, my voice quieter now. “She’s never been one to stay put. Wherever she went, I followed.”

He nodded, like he understood more than he should. “A modern-day nomad. Sounds... exhausting.”

I let out a small laugh, more out of habit than anything else. “Yeah, it can be.” But there was something easy about him, something that made this whole conversation feel less strange, less fleeting.

“You staying here for a while?” he asked, his dark eyes locking with mine, the cold forgotten for a moment.

“For the foreseeable future,” I replied, surprising myself with how easily the words slipped out.

“Good to know.” His voice softened, like he was letting me in on some secret only we shared. That crooked smile crept back, and I felt my pulse quicken again. He had no idea what he was doing to me.

I bit my lip, trying to steady the rush of nerves rising in my chest. What was I even doing? Standing here, flirting with a stranger in the dead of winter? This wasn’t real life—it was the stuff of daydreams. But somehow, with him, it felt real. Almost too real.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said, his hand lifting to ruffle his hair again. The messy strands fell back into place like he didn’t care—like he knew exactly how disheveled he looked and leaned into it.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it. The airport, the cold wind—it all seemed to fade away, leaving just us in this strange, fleeting moment.

“You live nearby?” I asked, even though I knew I should’ve been hopping into a cab by now, getting out of this freezing wind and back to whatever was left of my life.

“Detroit,” he said, his breath fogging in the air like a ghost of something lost.

“Me too,” I said, a little too quickly. “Just moved there, actually.”

“Downtown?” He asked it casually, but his eyes were sharp, as if my answer might mean more than I realized.

“Royal Oak,” I said, nodding. “The old houses there... they’re beautiful.”

“They are,” he agreed, and there was something in the way he said it, like he was noticing things I didn’t even realize I was showing. His gaze flicked between my eyes and my lips, and for a moment, the air between us stretched thin, a fragile thread pulling us closer until a sharp gust of wind snapped it, jolting me back to reality.

"Welcome to Michigan," he said with a laugh, his voice warm against the icy air. Without warning, he reached down and took my bare hands in his. The warmth of his touch jolted through me, electric, racing straight to my core. For a second, I swore the ground shifted beneath us. Something unspoken buzzed between our hands.

“We should get you a cab,” he said, glancing down at my frozen fingers, his expression softening with concern. “You’re not exactly dressed for this weather.”

"Yeah, I probably should’ve planned better,” I admitted with a laugh, still caught up in the warmth of his hands, the way they made everything else feel just a little less cold. 

He waved down a cab with the ease of someone who’s done it a hundred times. I watched him as he loaded my bags into the trunk, every movement feeling like a countdown. And then, when he opened the passenger door for me, I hesitated. I stood at the edge of that moment, torn between the part of me that wanted to leave and the part that wanted to stay, just a little longer.

“Thanks for the help,” I said, looking up at him, my heart thudding hard in my chest.

“Jungkook,” he said, his voice soft, that crooked smile still tugging at his lips. “I’m Jungkook.”

“Y/N,” I replied, the name slipping out of my mouth so naturally it felt like it was meant for him, like it was always supposed to be said here, in this cold, surreal moment.

“Y/N,” he repeated, like he was testing it on his tongue, like it was something fragile and precious. He leaned in just a little, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Y/N?" His hand hovered near my shoulder, his voice even quieter now, almost as if he was about to share a secret meant only for me.

And suddenly, the world around us—everything—fell away. The cold, the noise, the blur of people rushing past. It was just him, standing there with that crooked grin, making me wonder if maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end of whatever this was.

“Yeah, Jungkook?” I asked, my breath catching, anticipation curling low in my stomach.

“My friends and I... we hang out at this bar on Grand most Tuesdays. Billy’s?” He said it like a suggestion, but it felt like more. Like a bridge to whatever might come next. “Maybe I’ll see you there sometime?”

A thrill shot through me, quick and unexpected. This wasn’t just some random, fleeting connection. He wanted to see me again. “Yeah,” I stammered, my voice barely steady. “I could swing by. Once I’m settled in.”

“Great.” His whole face lit up, and it was like watching a door creak open, revealing something softer, something vulnerable underneath. "I’ll see you around then, Y/N." He stepped back, shut the door behind me with a quiet finality.

As the cab pulled away, I turned, craning for one last look. He waved, easy and casual, and I lifted my hand in return, my heart still racing. Part of me wanted to freeze this moment, hold onto it before it slipped away. But the cab turned the corner, and just like that, he was gone.

I slumped back in the seat, exhaustion settling in like a heavy weight. I rested my head against the cold window, letting the chill ground me. This wasn’t just some daydream—it was real. And yet, as the city lights blurred by, doubts started creeping in, shadows curling at the edges of my mind. Would I really show up at Billy’s? Or would I let this whole thing fade, convincing myself it was just a fluke? 

But then I thought about him—Jungkook. That crooked smile. And a small part of me couldn’t help but wonder... What if?

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[capuccinodoll]

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter five ♡

Summary: At the Halloween party, you have fun and finally get Joel out of your head. Sure, at least for a few hours, as the night plays a trick on you. WC: 6.1k A/N: Hi! As the tag list has gotten so big (THANK U OMG!!!) and apparently doesn't work too well, I'm not going to use it anymore. From now on, I'll be posting updates through my updates blog! So make sure to follow and turn on notifications <3 love youuu

Saturday, 7 p.m. The evening air carried a quiet sharpness that pricked at the edges of your skin, cool enough to remind you that autumn was in full swing but not so bitter as to warrant more than your tights and boots. You stepped out, the white dress flowing lightly against your thighs, its flared sleeves brushing your arms as you moved. The dark brown corset at your waist felt like a reassuring hand, grounding you, while its lift brought a confidence that hummed softly under your skin. Your boots, stretched to your knees, a quiet defense against the chill creeping in with the fading sunlight.

The door clicked shut behind you, a sound that was at once final and fleeting. You barely had time to register the weight of the evening when the low rumble of Joel’s truck snuck into the quiet, its approach measured, deliberate. You turned, instinctively, just as he stepped out. His movements were unhurried, his gaze low, as though he hadn’t seen you—or as though he was choosing not to. 

The passenger door opened next, and Sarah emerged like a burst of energy, her grin wide and unguarded. She spotted you immediately, her excitement spilling over as she called your name and hurried toward you, her arms flung wide. You caught her easily, her warmth a stark contrast to the crisp air. 

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice full of a curiosity that felt almost reverent. “You look beautiful.”

You smiled at her, taking in the mismatched charm of her outfit—fluffy bunny slippers peeking out beneath purple pajama pants patterned with white clouds, her coat barely concealing the dark blue long-sleeve shirt underneath. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m going to a Halloween party.”

Sarah pulled back slightly, her brow furrowing in confusion. “But Halloween was last night. It’s November.”

You laughed softly, the sound slipping past your lips like something you hadn’t meant to reveal. “It’s never too late for a party, is it?”

Before Sarah could reply, Joel’s voice cut through the moment like a taut string snapping.

“Sarah. Home.” His tone was firm, unmistakable, though his face only lingered in the doorway for a second before disappearing inside.

Sarah ignored him with the practiced ease of someone who knew how far she could stretch the tether.

“I hope you saved me something good yesterday,” she said, turning back to you, her eyes alight with the thought of treats.

You smiled, brushing a loose strand of her hair aside. “I’m sure Brenda sent some sweets with your dad.”

“Did she make those cara—”

“Sarah.” Joel’s voice rose again, sharper this time, slicing through her sentence. His figure reappeared in the doorway, framed by the warm light spilling out behind him. His gaze landed on her first, then shifted briefly to you, his frown deepening as if your presence was an unwelcome interruption.

“Home,” he said again, the word heavier this time, a command that carried no room for negotiation.

Sarah turned toward him, her annoyance barely concealed.

“In a second!” she called back, her voice tinged with exasperation. Then, with a glance at you, she rolled her eyes dramatically. You couldn’t help but grin, mirroring her expression in a conspiratorial gesture that only seemed to deepen Joel’s scowl.

“NOW,” he barked, his patience finally unraveling. His presence filled the doorway like a storm cloud, and Sarah, sighing, gave in. 

“Go,” you told her gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. Your voice was quiet, steady, though something in your chest tightened as you spoke. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

She nodded, the mischief in her smile dimmed slightly by the weight of her father’s insistence. As she retreated, her steps slow and deliberate, you stayed where you were, watching until the door closed behind her. The ache was subtle but sharp.

You shook the thought from your mind, forcing yourself to let go of the tension Joel's mood had wrapped around you. He wasn’t going to ruin this night—not this one. You tightened your grip on your small purse and started walking toward Travis’s house. Your boots clicked against the pavement with a rhythm that felt too steady for the fluttering nerves you carried.

There was a faint nervousness bubbling under your excitement, a ridiculous thing, really, given that you’d seen Travis just that morning. He’d picked you up to go shopping, laughing at your indecision as you flitted from one idea to the next, caught between wanting something outrageous and something simple. You hadn’t known what to wear for tonight. All you knew was that you wanted to feel good. Pretty, yes. Sexy, definitely. Attractive, for sure. Something about the promise of the evening—the energy it held—made you crave a night where you didn’t have to think too hard, didn’t have to manage the weight of anything heavy. Just a night of effortless fun in good company. 

Travis was exactly the kind of company you needed. Relaxed, thoughtful in that easy way, funny without trying too hard. He knew how to take care of you without making it feel like a burden. When you’d asked for his opinion on a costume, exasperated after hours of fruitless searching, he’d picked up the white dress with an almost boyish confidence. “Victorian pirate,” he’d said with a grin, as if the idea had struck him in the moment. “Or something like that.”

You’d agreed without much thought. The dress was beautiful, and you already had the perfect corset at home to pair it with. It hugged you in all the right places, cinching your waist while lifting your chest just enough to make you feel like the women in those romantic paintings you loved—the ones with soft, curved bodies draped in gauzy fabrics, their skin glowing and inviting. And tonight, you did. The tights and knee-high boots you’d added were practical for the cool night, but they didn’t detract from the overall effect. If anything, they completed it. On the other hand, the corset hugged you the way you imagined the painter’s brush might.

By the time you reached Travis’s door, you felt confident, maybe even a little giddy. You rang the doorbell, the sound breaking the quiet night, and it wasn’t long before the door swung open. Travis stood there, framed by the soft light spilling from his hallway. He looked... well, like something you wouldn’t hesitate to sink your teeth into.

The suit, perfectly tailored, a sharp black with a red tie that caught the light against the pale blue of his shirt. The clear raincoat gave him an edge, its plastic sheen catching and refracting the soft glow from the house behind him. His hair was combed back, deliberate and smooth, and the clench of his jaw softened when he smiled at you.

“What do you think?” he asked, lifting a hand to reveal a plastic axe held loosely in his grip. “I’m Patrick Bateman.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up from somewhere easy and warm.

“Of course you’re Patrick Bateman,” you said, your smile widening as you stepped inside. Your hand brushed his abdomen lightly as you passed, a touch that felt both casual and charged.

The compliment landed, making Travis pause just long enough to tuck the axe into the pocket of his raincoat. He moved toward you, closing the space between you with an ease that always felt natural. His hand settled at your waist, the leather of your corset soft beneath his fingers.

“Stop it,” he said, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in close. “Telling me that and looking this good? Stop it, or I’ll cancel the party and keep you here all night.”

His breath skimmed the edge of your ear, his lips brushing your jawline just enough to leave your skin prickling with anticipation.

“One compliment and you’re ready to throw the whole night away?” you teased, though the slight rasp in your voice betrayed how his closeness was affecting you. You felt his breath near your ear, the briefest graze of his nose against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw. Your pulse quickened. “You’re an easy target, Dunn.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “Only for you,” he said, his gaze meeting yours. There was something unguarded in his eyes, something that made the moment feel fragile in a way that was achingly sweet. “But don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

You laughed, leaning into the playful intimacy of it all. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

His lips found yours then, the kiss gentle at first, like he was testing the waters. You leaned in instinctively, wanting more, but before you could deepen it, he pulled away. You bit back a groan of frustration as he grinned, oblivious.

“We’d better go, beautiful,” he said, brushing a hand down your arm as if to soothe you. “People are waiting.”

You sighed, shaking your head with a smile. With Travis, things were always easy—except, maybe, when you wanted just a little more.

*

2 a.m. The cab door slammed shut with more force than you intended, the sound reverberating in the quiet street. The driver turned sharply, scowling.  

“I-I’m sorry,” you muttered, your words tumbling over each other.  

Travis, a few steps ahead, laughed without looking back, his shoulders shaking slightly. His keys jingled as he fumbled to unlock the door to his townhouse. The sound dragged on endlessly, the alcohol in your veins making the small delay feel monumental. You stood beside him, shifting your weight from one aching foot to the other, the dull throb only partially numbed by the buzz in your head.  

“Almost got it,” Travis mumbled, his focus unwavering despite your impatient sighs. Finally, the lock clicked, and he pushed the door open with a triumphant grin.  

You followed him inside, the warmth of his home enveloping you like a soft blanket. Without ceremony, you dropped onto his couch, sinking into its cushions with a relieved groan. Your head lolled back, your body both exhausted and energized, the kind of tension only a night like this could create.  

The evening had been perfect—better than perfect, really. For the first time in months, you’d felt free, truly free, as though the weight of everything that had been haunting you had dissolved into the dark, wine-colored sky.  

The party had been at Renzo’s house, one of Travis’s oldest friends. The place was stunning, a sprawling Mediterranean-style villa that practically glowed against the night. Its white stone façade, crowned with red tiles, looked like it had been plucked from a postcard, while spooky Halloween details added just the right touch of whimsy. Lanterns swayed gently on the porch, casting flickering shadows across life-sized skeletons perched on wicker chairs.  

Inside, the atmosphere was even more enchanting. The main room featured a long wooden table draped in black lace, adorned with candelabras dripping wax, decorative skulls, and bouquets of dried flowers that looked both macabre and elegant. Ceramic plates with dark patterns and gold accents glinted in the candlelight, completing the eerie tableau. Guests milled about in costumes that ranged from impressive to ridiculous, every outfit telling a story.  

You’d met a handful of Travis’s friends, all nice and welcoming. And by the end of the night, Renzo handed out an award for the best costume, which went to his brother Eric for his incredible The Mask ensemble. The details were so perfect, from the prosthetic teeth to the vivid green makeup, that no one could deny it was well-deserved—except Travis, who jokingly accused him of rigging the vote.  

The drinks flowed freely, and you’d had more than enough. By past midnight, your feet ached from dancing, but you didn’t care. The music pulsed, and so did you, your body pressed close to Travis’s. His hands rested on your waist, his touch grounding and electric all at once. For the first time in weeks, your thoughts didn’t drift to the things that usually kept you awake at night. Those dark eyes that haunted you in quiet moments, the ache that twisted your chest when you remembered what you’d tried to forget—they were nowhere to be found.  

Now, on Travis’s couch, you laughed uncontrollably as he struggled to string together a coherent sentence. His head rested lightly against your shoulder, and the sound of his voice, slurred and boyish, made your stomach ache with affection.  

“Whatever, you get what i mean” he said finally, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. “God, I shouldn't have had that last drink.”

“Oh, you’re terrible,” you teased, reaching for his tie and pulling him toward you until his eyes met yours. “But I had a beautiful night. Please, let’s make it last.”  

Something shifted in his expression—softened, deepened. He straightened, cupping your face as his lips crashed into yours. The kiss was different from anything you’d shared before. It wasn’t cautious or measured, the way Travis usually was. This was eager, unrestrained, his mouth moving against yours like he’d been holding himself back for far too long.  

His hands found your legs, lifting them over his lap as he leaned into you. You fell back against the cushions, his weight pressing into you just enough to make your breath hitch. His lips left yours to trail along your neck, leaving a path of heat that made your chest rise and fall unevenly.  

Your fingers tangled in his hair, undoing the careful style he’d worn all evening. He groaned softly at the contact, his face lifting to meet yours again as he kissed you harder, his desire palpable and infectious.  

Your hands moved down to his belt, fumbling with the buckle in a blur of anticipation and urgency. The sound of the clasp coming undone was like a victory bell ringing in your ears.  

But then, suddenly, he froze.  

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice strained as he pulled away, turning his face to the side. “Shit, I’m gonna be sick.”  

You blinked, startled, as he scrambled off the couch and hurried toward the stairs.  

For a moment, you just sat there, propped up on your elbows, your breath coming in uneven bursts. The absurdity of the situation hit you like a wave, and despite yourself, you let out a laugh.

The moment you stood up, your feet wobbled beneath you, betraying the steadiness you were trying to project. The stairs seemed endless, each step doubling before your eyes as if the staircase were playing tricks on you. You gripped the banister tightly, willing yourself not to topple over. The vodka shots coursing through your veins made everything feel both distant and intensely vivid, the sensation disorienting but oddly comforting.  

When you finally reached the bathroom, the door was slightly ajar, the light spilling out in soft, pale streaks. Inside, Travis was hunched over the toilet, his body curled into itself, his face ghostly pale.  

“Oh,” you said softly, unsure what else to offer in the way of comfort. You moved closer, your hand instinctively finding the back of his neck, your fingers brushing the damp hair sticking to his skin. His vulnerability struck something tender in you.  

The sour smell hit you immediately, sharp and invasive, making your stomach churn in protest. But you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on Travis, on the fragility of the moment.  

He groaned softly as his body shuddered, expelling the last traces of that ill-fated drink—the electric blue cocktail he’d downed with so much confidence earlier. You grimaced at the sight but stayed, stroking his back in slow, soothing circles until the worst had passed.  

When he leaned back against the tiled wall, his face glistening with sweat, you reached out to flush the toilet, closing the lid with a gentle finality.  

“God,” he croaked, his voice thin and hoarse. “I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”  

You laughed lightly, kneeling in front of him, your head tilting as you studied his expression. There was a defeated sort of charm in the way he looked at you, his eyes half-lidded, his usual confidence dimmed by the night’s chaos.  

“Not at all,” you replied, your words softened by the alcohol still fogging your mind. Your hand came to rest on his knee, a quiet reassurance. “Tonight’s been perfect.”  

Travis groaned, letting his head loll back against the wall. “My reputation’s in shambles. Now my pretty neighbor thinks I’m a mess.”  

You laughed again, louder this time, your inhibitions dulled enough to find his self-pity endearing. “You think I’m pretty?”  

His eyes stayed closed, but his lips curved into a smile, lazy and unguarded. “Are you kidding? No wonder Joel Miller hates me.”  

Your laugh faltered, the name cutting through the haze of the night like a blade. You blinked slowly, leaning your head against his knee, letting out a sigh that felt too heavy for the moment.  

“Oh, man,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why did you have to bring him up?”  

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Travis said quickly, his hand falling clumsily to your back. “Now I’ve really screwed up, haven’t I? I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I pre—”  

“Stop,” you cut him off, your voice quiet but firm. You lifted your head to meet his gaze, his curious eyes watching you closely now. “Are you feeling better?”  

“Much better,” he said, offering a small, sheepish smile.  

You pushed yourself to your feet, leaning against the sink for balance. He followed your movements, standing slowly and steadying himself with a hand against the wall. Without a word, you leaned your head against his arm, closing your eyes as you listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing.  

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, suspended in the quiet warmth of the moment, but eventually, Travis stirred. He touched your shoulder gently, his other hand extended to help you up.  

Downstairs, you collapsed onto the couch again, the effort of descending the stairs leaving you slightly breathless. Travis returned with a glass of water, holding it out with a knowing look.  

“Drink,” he said simply.  

You obeyed reluctantly, grimacing as you took a few sips. “I’m going to have a huge hangover tomorrow,” you muttered, setting the glass on the coffee table.  

“Me too,” Travis admitted, lying down beside you with a heavy sigh.  

You glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s only three in the morning?” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief. “God, I’m old.”  

Travis laughed, his grin lopsided and a little drunk. “I swear I thought it was, like, like five in the morning.”  

You chuckled, but the weight of the night was catching up with you. Your eyes drifted shut, and the world faded into a soft blur.  

When you forced them open again, sometime later, Travis was fast asleep beside you, his breathing slow and even. You sat up, careful not to disturb him, and gently shook his forearm.  

“Hey,” you whispered. “I’m going home.”  

He mumbled something incoherent, his eyes fluttering but refusing to open.

“L-let me walk you home,” he slurred, his head tilting to the side as sleep reclaimed him.  

You smiled at the sight of him, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“See ya,” you whispered, the words hanging in the air as you let yourself out.

The cool night air greeted you with a sharpness that cut through the haze of alcohol still coursing through your system. It startled you, a shiver running up your spine as you wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. You were still drunk, but the world felt steadier now, your feet moving carefully across the pavement as you crossed the quiet street.

In your mind, you conjured the image of your warm bed waiting for you, the soft embrace of your pajamas, and maybe, if you could muster the energy, the luxury of a hot shower. The thought made your body ache for rest, but then you noticed the soreness in your face—a dull reminder of the unrelenting smile you’d worn since you’d said goodbye to Travis.

You were happy. Light. Effervescent, even. The kind of happiness that made you feel untouchable, like nothing could weigh you down.

That feeling lingered as you approached your house, though it faltered slightly when you passed by the Millers’ place. Your eyes were drawn, almost involuntarily, to the living room window. A soft, warm light glowed behind the half-transparent curtains, the kind that could only come from a solitary lamp left on too late. You slowed your steps, your gaze lingering as the sharp memory of Joel’s voice from earlier that evening surfaced.

Authoritative. Abrupt. Unbearable.

The way he’d called Sarah home felt unnecessary, almost punitive. Why had he insisted so forcefully? He didn’t usually mind her spending time with you, so why now? And what if things between you and Joel had soured to the point where he forbade Sarah from seeing you altogether? The thought stung, a sharp contrast to the Joel you used to know—the one who would never have done something like that. You hated that you couldn’t anticipate him anymore. And lately, it seemed like everything about him had shifted, like you were seeing a stranger instead of the man you’d once—

“Are you okay?”

The voice, low and steady, cut through your thoughts, making you jump. You looked up sharply, your heart skipping as your eyes adjusted to the dark porch. Joel was sitting there, barely visible except for the faint gleam of the streetlights reflecting in his eyes like stars as he watched you, his expression unreadable, the faintest hint of concern etched into his features.

You didn’t respond right away. Your brain was scrambling, trying to piece together an answer while simultaneously processing the sight of him. He stood then, stepping into the light just enough for you to see him more clearly—the broad set of his shoulders, the slight furrow in his brow, 

“What... what are you doing here?” you managed finally, your voice wavering slightly.

“Here?” he repeated, the corners of his mouth twitching in what could have been a smile. “I live here. What are you doing here?”

“I live next door,” you shot back, your tone almost defensive. You tilted your head, studying him more closely. “I meant out here. What are you doing outside? It’s late.”

Joel hesitated, his hand brushing the back of his neck in a way that told you he wasn’t going to give you a straight answer. And of course he wouldn't tell you that he'd spent the evening on his couch watching TV, alone, or that he’d been restless all evening.

After having dinner with Sarah, she'd retreated to her room—furious with him for cutting her time with you short—he’d spent the better part of the night sitting on his couch, half-watching some mindless TV show, his attention divided between the screen and the window. Waiting. Then, just as he was beginning to close his eyes, a sharp knock woke him up; the cab door. But of course, he didn't get to see the yellow car because when he got to the window, he only got to make out your body coming through Travis' door, cab long gone. 

When you disappeared inside Travis house, something inside him twisted. Restlessness turned into something heavier, something he couldn’t name, and the next thing he knew, he was on the porch with a beer in his hand, staring out into the night like the answer might appear if he stayed long enough.

“It’s Saturday,” he said finally, his voice calm, almost teasing. “Well, Sunday now.”

You nodded absently, but your eyes betrayed you, roaming over him without restraint. It had been a while since you’d let yourself really look at him. Lately, every glance had been fleeting, clouded with irritation or anger. But now, in the quiet glow of the streetlights, there was no denying it.

He was beautiful. Infuriatingly, achingly beautiful.

Your stomach twisted with the realization, the way it always did when you thought about him for too long. You could try to distract yourself with Travis, with his boyish charm and kind eyes, but it wasn't enough. 

Travis didn’t have those dark, fathomless eyes that seemed to hold every one of your secrets. He didn’t have that nose you loved so much or the lips you’d tasted once and could never forget. His voice wasn’t rough and silken all at once, nor did it carry the weight of every word like Joel’s did.

You hated how much you liked him, how much you wanted him. It was uncomfortable, unbearable, because there was nothing you could do about it. Joel was untouchable now, a door that had been closed and locked a month ago.

“I hate you, Joel,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out before you could stop them. They weren’t loud, but they were steady, deliberate.

His smile faded, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful expression. He nodded slightly, as if weighing your words.

“Do you?” he asked, his voice level, his eyes searching yours.

You smiled faintly, almost amused by the softness in his tone. You shifted your weight, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Do you care about it?”

“Of course I do,” he said, his voice dipping lower with honesty. “But I know it’s not true.”

"Why do you always say that?" you demanded, voice thick with frustration, your arms crossed so tightly against your chest it felt like you might bruise your own ribs. The alcohol in your bloodstream turned every word into a dare, every thought into an accusation. "'I know it's not true. I know you're lying. I know you don't mean it'. What, are you like this omniscient, all-knowing shit—blah, blah, blah?. Didn't it ever occur to you that maybe you don't know anything at all?"

Joel’s eyes softened, his expression unreadable but intent. His hands stayed buried in his pockets, steady while you felt like you were spinning out of control.

"Lately? Yeah," he said finally, his voice low. "I don’t know anything."

The simplicity of his confession, the quiet honesty of it, made you snort in disbelief. You turned your head to the side, looking anywhere but at him, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your thoughts from spilling out unchecked. When you looked back, his eyes weren’t on your face anymore. They’d dropped lower, lingering somewhere around your waist. Probably on your corset, you realized. Suddenly, the fabric felt suffocating. Not painfully tight, but enough to make you aware of every breath you took.

“What are you looking at?” you asked, tone sharp, defensive. And when he didn’t answer, you pressed harder. “What do you want, Joel?”

“Me?” he asked, his voice calm, almost indifferent.

You nodded, daring him to answer.

“I don’t know.” His lips tilted in a faint smirk. “You’re the one standing here in my doorway. Weren’t you just peeking in my window?”

Your mouth fell open. “I wasn’t peeping, dumbass,” you said, fumbling over the words, heat rushing to your face. “I was—”

"Yes, you were," he interrupted smoothly, a trace of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t smug, not really, but it wasn’t innocent either.

God, it was infuriating.

"Ugh," you groaned, the sound dragged out like it could physically push him away. Your arms dropped to your sides, and you turned your face skyward, exasperated. "Were you always this much of an asshole?"

Joel held back a laugh, his head shaking slightly as he raised his eyebrows at you, his silence infuriatingly steady.

"Okay," he said finally. "You’re drunk."

"Yeah, Einstein," you shot back, your voice sharp and your eyes wide as you threw your hands in the air in mock applause. "You’re finally right about something! Everyone, let’s hear it for Joel!"

You clapped for him, slow and exaggerated, addressing an invisible audience. Joel glanced down, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face before he hid it.

That didn’t stop the memory from rising, unbidden: Clara, her hand slipping into his at the barbecue, her laugh bright and flirtatious, her eyes shining with self-satisfaction. It had turned your stomach then, and now the bitterness came rushing back in full force.

"Do you think what you’re doing is right, Joel?" you asked, your tone sharper than before, slicing through the fragile quiet between you.

His brows knit together, confused, and he tilted his head slightly as if to ask what you meant.

"Do you think you’re accomplishing anything by sleeping with the women in this neighborhood?" you continued, your words rushing out faster now. "I mean, first you sleep with me—oh, the worst mistake of your life—then you sleep with Clara. And what about Sienna? What does she think of all this? You’re a selfish, irresponsible man, Joel Miller, so irresponsible." The words kept spilling, your voice trembling now, laced with both anger and something softer, something that felt like pain. "And as if that wasn’t enough, you’ve ruined us. Completely. And I hate you for that, Joel. I hate you because you’re not the man I thought you were. And i love you so much I—"

Your gaze dropped to the ground, unable to meet his eyes. The tears welled up before you could stop them, blurring the edges of your vision and leaving your cheeks hot.

You hated how raw it all felt. How exposed. And worse, how the alcohol that had loosened your tongue was no longer numbing enough to shield you from the reality of what you’d just said.

Before you could stop him, Joel’s hands came to rest gently on your arms. The warmth of his touch made your stomach flip, and it took everything in you to pull away.

“No,” you said firmly, shaking him off and turning on your heel. But you barely managed two steps before your foot caught awkwardly in front of the other, sending you stumbling.

You yelped as your palm scraped against the ground, but Joel caught your other arm before you could fully collapse. The heat of embarrassment rushed to your face as you stood quickly, brushing off your dress and refusing to look at him.

You marched toward your door with renewed determination, ignoring the sting in your palm and the sound of his voice calling after you.

“Wait,” he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading. 

But you didn’t stop. Your trembling fingers fumbled with the key, eyes fixed on the lock as if opening the door quickly enough could make him—and everything you’d just said—disappear.

The key slid into the lock on your first try, a stroke of luck you hadn’t expected. You stumbled inside, not bothering to close the door behind you. Maybe it was unconscious, or maybe some buried, foolish part of you wanted him to follow. Whatever the reason, Joel did, shutting the door softly as he stepped in, his footsteps trailing after your clumsy, rushed ascent up the stairs. His hand found your lower back more than once, steadying you whenever your feet betrayed you and your balance faltered.

When you reached your room, his presence pressed down on you, heavy and inescapable. Your chest felt tight, emotions boiling over with an intensity you couldn’t contain. The exhaustion—of everything—clawed at your insides, raw and relentless.

“Fuck you, Joel,” you spat, spinning to face him, your palms colliding with his chest in a sharp slap. The sound echoed between you, loud and angry. You hit him again, this time harder, though he barely moved, only stepping back an inch. “Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re a complete asshole, and I hate you. I hate you so much.” Your fists clenched, pounding against him now, the blows strong but harmless.

Joel didn’t resist. He let your fists land where they would, but then his hands rose, gentle and deliberate, catching your wrists mid-punch. The pressure of his fingers around your forearms was firm but not threatening, as if he was trying to guide the violence out of you without a word.

His stillness broke you more than anything could, and the weight of his quiet left you reeling, unsure of what to say next. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Why was he standing there, letting you fall apart?

“Say something!” you cried, your voice cracking, desperate and raw.

But he didn’t. His silence stretched between you, maddening and unbearable.

Your vision blurred as tears spilled over, hot and heavy, the release leaving you shaking. Your sobs filled the room, a sound so guttural it startled even you.

“Why did you have to do this to me?” you demanded, your fists still pressed against his chest, though they no longer moved. Your voice broke entirely now, trembling as you added, “Why do you keep hurting me, Joel, why are you acting like this? What did I do to deserve this from you?”

Joel’s breath hitched, his shoulders sinking as if under the weight of your words. His eyes, glassy and red, shone in the dim light. “I-I’m sorry, I'm sorry” he whispered, his voice rough and uneven. “I’m so sorry. Please… please forgive me. I love you, baby, I love you, I've al—”

“No, you don’t.” You shook your head, your voice trembling as his hands left your wrists and wrapped around you instead, pulling you closer. “You don’t.”

But you didn’t push him away. His arms were warm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself fall into them. The pain dulled, just slightly, under his touch. You hated him for it. You hated yourself more for letting it happen.

“Yes, I do,” Joel said, his voice thick with emotion.

You wanted to look up, to see his face, to know if the tears in his voice matched the ones burning in your eyes. But you couldn’t bring yourself to. Instead, you buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your cheek.

Gently, he scooped you up and carried you to the bed. He set you down softly, his hands brushing against your arms as he pulled away. You sank back into the pillows, your gaze distant, your sobs quieting into sniffles.

Joel knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands moving to unlace your boots. He didn’t look at you, his focus entirely on the task, but his face betrayed him. His eyes were rimmed red, his cheeks damp, his expression taut with pain.

Once the boots were gone, you lay back fully, staring blankly at the ceiling as the room swayed gently around you. Your head throbbed, and your chest ached, but the tears had slowed, leaving behind only exhaustion.

The mattress shifted behind you as Joel settled in beside you. He kept his distance, but you could feel the heat of him near you, the tension in the air, a palpable thing you didn’t know how to navigate. You could still hear his breathing, steady but strained.

When his fingers brushed your waist, you stiffened.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking softly. “Let me take that off. It can’t be comfortable, right?”

"No," you answered, and as the corset loosened, you felt a wave of relief rush through you, a softness you hadn’t even realized you needed.

Joel moved the corset off your body in one smooth motion, dropping it carelessly to the floor. Then, he returned to his position, inches away, and for a few minutes, there was nothing but silence between you again.

You closed your eyes, the weight of the night pressing against you, the exhaustion dragging you into a dreamless sleep. But just before you drifted off, you heard your own voice, quiet and pleading.

“Please go home, Joel,” you whispered. “I want to be alone."

He didn’t argue, although you could hear him doubting. Then, you felt him shift behind you, his hand brushing your arm briefly in a gesture that felt almost like goodbye.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, his voice so low it was nearly inaudible.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you exhaled deeply, letting the tears come again, though they felt emptier now, less urgent.

Next door, Joel stepped into his house, the quiet suffocating him as he sank into the couch. The air felt too thick, the walls too close. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to keep himself from falling apart, but it was no use. The despair was overwhelming, a mix of regret, shame, and a self-loathing so profound it left him hollow. And he couldn't help thinking that maybe, it was too late after all. No action or word from him could undo the pain he had seen in your eyes that night.

In the quiet of his own mind, he hated himself more than you ever could. 

-

@nobodyssfool @gigistorm @maryfanson @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @cosmic006533-blog @doblasftcisco @maiyart @concrete-jungleeee @playboygirlsnextdoor00 @powellssaturn @kyloispunk @paleidiot @aceaubrianna @liciafonseca @kaolusha @beeboopski @rosebuds-and-moonlight @the-universe-is-complicated @formulafun @chewie-bars @glizzymcguirex @pedroswife69 @ivoryandflame @dixonswingz @sarahhxx03 @mellymbee @dailyobsession @msmorningstaarr @mystickittytaco @xxreginaxx @marellabyr @spacegirl-3 @alrihhty @heheheilovepedro @svrgs-blog @94namkooksworld @puddles221b @cowboymcflurry @medusaandposeidonshead @stylesispunk @sweatpeakarolinaa @puddles221b @deansimpalagirl @jasminedragoon @lover-of-books-and-tea @whimsiwitchy @cuteanimalmama @theherothesavior @ivoryandflame

[love2write2626]

Chasing The Wind (Tyler Owens x OFC)

Summary: Five years have gone by since the life-altering storm chase that impacted Y/N and her sister Kate. Through the years Y/N has experienced Highs and lows, but eventually found her place with Tyler and The rest of the Tornado Wranglers. However, when Kate returns home to collaborate with Storm Par, Y/N attempts to mend their relationship only to be rebuffed. It appears that Kate is solely heeding Javi's words and disregarding reality. Will she be able to make Kate see the truth?

Read the Prologue here

Chapter 1

5 Years Later

“Bye Mama” I said hugging her

“Bye sweetheart, thank you for coming to visit” I smiled

“Of course, Mama” I got out of the car, and as I’m walking to the diner she yells “Y/N!” I turn around “You tell Tyler to be careful” I rolled my eyes

“We will be careful” She squinted her eyes suspiciously

“I’m telling you, if you get hurt, I am coming for him” I laughed

“Ok mom, I’ll tell him”

“That’s all I ask. Love you sweetie”

“Love you too” I waved as she drove off. I looked around the old Diner, I haven’t been here in a while. It looks pretty much the same, just a little worn down. The parking lot is full of wanna be storm chasers waiting for news of a big twister coming so they can go and take lots of pictures.

As I walk further I let out a scoff when I see Storm Par waiting in the wings. Javi and I started Storm Par and I was so excited. Then Javi brought in a new business partner and I kind of got pushed to the side, which I didn’t mind all that much at first, but when I saw the shady investors they were dealing with I packed up my stuff and left. When we started we were in the business of helping people, now It seems they are in the business of just making money.

Scott, Javi’s business partner saw me and gave me a cocky smirk before turning around and went back to his conversation.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After quickly running to the bathroom I walk back out and stop in my tracks when I see Javi, and “KATE?” I yelled. Her head snapped up and she gave me a slight smile, but didn’t seem that happy to see me. I walked over and gave her a hug, even though she didn’t return it I didn’t care

“Hey sis” Kate said “What are you doing out here? Are you still chasing?” She asked

“Yeah, You would know that If you answered my calls” I said with a laugh, she frowned

“I’m not that good with communication Y/N” I nodded, Javi walked over to us and I glared at him. This man use to be one of my best friends now I can’t stand the sight of him.

“Hey, Y/N”

“Javi” I greeted, turning my head back to Kate

“So what are you doing out here?” I asked her

“I convinced her to come out for a week, to help us get our data. You know she has the best instincts.”

“I believe I was talking to my sister, not you” I said

“Y/N, Chill” Javi said, I know my face was full of anger “Kate is in safe hands with Storm Par… you know better than anyone we have some of the best safety protocols” Kate looked in-between the two of us.

“Y/N, you chase with Storm Par? Why didn’t you tell me Javi?” She asked confused

“No, No she use to work with us, hell this company was her idea… Our baby if you will” I rolled my eyes, and let out a sarcastic laugh “Then she ditched us to go be with some less funded storm chasers”

“That’s not the full story Javi and you know it, maybe you should tell her the truth about where all the money comes from and how you are nothing but a fraud” Kate put her hand up

“Y/N stop, Javi is our friend”

“Maybe your friend, he hasn’t been mine in a long time” We were cut off by loud music coming into the parking lot, and even though I was not in a particularly good mood, I still couldn’t help but smile when I saw Tyler drive up

“Behold, Tyler Owens” Javi said

“Who is he?” Kate asked, but before I have a chance to answer Javi said

“Redneck storm chasers with a youtube channel” I rolled my eyes “Him and his group including Y/N, call themselves Tornado Wranglers. The go around and do crazy stunts and stupid shit that is going to get them all killed one day” of course he leaves out the part about how we help the community and help get people food and water, but whatever. Kate turned to me

“You left Storm Par for that”

“I did, but I’m not going to explain myself to you sis. Go ahead and believe every word out of Javi’s mouth, but when you’re ready to hear the true story you have my number” I said walking over to the truck. I pushed my way through the adoring fans, and When Tyler saw me he smiled brightly.

“ONE MORE TIME, IF YOU FEEL IT…”

“CHASE IT” everyone yelled back, He hopped down off the running board and took my hand in his.

“Hey baby” he finally said to me, I wrapped my arms around him, and he immediately hugged me back. “You ok?” he asked.

“Not really, but I’m happy you’re here” He ran his hands up and down my back

“C’mon” He said, he grabbed my hand and pulled me with him, I couldn’t help but giggle, I have no idea where we are going but I don’t care I would follow Tyler anywhere. I love this man with all my heart. He is the smartest, funniest, kindest, hottest man I have ever met in my life. He pulled me around the back of the diner, and once we were out of sight of everyone. We stopped walking.

“I have a good idea of what we are doing back here Ty, but do you wanna tell me why you dragged me back here?” I smirked. Without saying a word or breaking eye contact. He walked me back against the wall.

“You look so fucking sexy when you wear my shirts” I looked down at what I am wearing, Tyler’s shirts get torn up a lot so most of the time instead of throwing them out, I will cut them into a crop top or something, and it turns him feral. He nuzzled his face into my neck, and started leaving light kisses “I missed you, next time you are coming to Arkansas with me”

“I missed you too, and you got it” I giggled. “What?” I asked when I noticed he was staring at me.

“Nothing, just Sometimes I just like to look at you just because you are so beautiful” I frowned

“Ty” I said attempting to push him away. He knows I hate being called pretty, or beautiful because I’m not. My body is covered in horrible scars from the accident 5 years ago. My car flipped 10 times, I know I am lucky because I could be dead, but it doesn’t make it any easier. His hard strong body stopped made it easy for him to keep me pushed against the wall.

“Y/N, Baby” He whispered into my ear. I felt a shiver run down my spine “You are a fucking goddess, the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. You are beautiful, funny, smart, and a whirlwind and I love you more than anything in this world. The scars are just proof of how strong you are, in my eyes they make you 10x more beautiful than you already are.” I know I have tears in my eyes. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck.

“I love you too, Now will you please kiss me?” he smirked, he leaned down and brought his lips to mine. I sighed into the kiss, He has been gone a week, and a week without kissing him has been torture. I felt his hands run down my back, and down to my butt. He squeezed my ass, and I broke the kiss to let out a little laugh and squeal.

“TYLER” I giggled. Without warning he immediately lifted me up, I wrapped my legs around his waist and made sure I held tight as he pushed me back against the wall and we continued to make out.

“Tyler and Y/N! Can ya’ll stop sucking face for 2 seconds so we can go chase a storm?” Boone yelled, I giggled.

“We’ll be there in a minute Boone” Tyler said. Once Boone walked away, I Jumped down and sighed.

“That was cut much shorter than I would have liked” I mumbled

“Don’t worry baby, tonight we make up for a week of no alone time” I giggled. He grabbed my hand and we started walking toward the truck. When I heard

“Y/N” I turned around and saw Kate running over to me. Tyler looked at me suspiciously, I smiled

“Go ahead I’ll be there in a second” He nodded before walking off.

“Javi just told me all about Tyler and ya’ll Tornado Wranglers” I smirked

“And?” I said waiting for her to continue

“Y/N, how could you abandon Storm Par, and Javi for that jerk. Are you sleeping with him?” I looked at her shocked.

“I see Javi didn’t tell you the truth, so don’t come over here and make me out to be some sort of bad guy. You don’t know the full story, but by all means listen to Javi and not your own sister.” I started to walk away, and she yelled.

“Javi wouldn’t lie to me” She said I nodded

“Sure he wouldn’t” I started to walk away again when I yelled back, “Oh by the way I am sleeping with Tyler by the way, it’s quite normal for women to sleep with their fiancé’s”

“You’re… you’re getting married?”

“You would have known that if you answered any of my calls” I sighed “You know sis, I don’t know what Javi did or said to get you to come back out here… but just so you know he has other motives.” I walked back toward the truck, I opened the passenger door

“Boone get in the back” Tyler said

“Why?” I sighed

“Boone get in the damn back, before I make you stay here” He grumbled and climbed in.

“Ready baby?” Tyler asked

“Always”

What do you think??? Is this worth being continued???? Leave a comment and let me know.

[macfrog]

twin flame sex on fire chapter eleven

thank you all for being so patient and kind, and loving this story no matter how terribly long i take with it. anyway, here's wonderwall. (shout out to @bageldaddy who saved this on numerous occasions lmao)

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: doing it with a broken heart is harder than it looks.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, reader's a Real Tough Kid she can (not) Handle Her Shit, kale!!!!!!, alcohol consumption, cursing, soft!joel, fluff and angst. angst angst angst angst

word count: 7.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

Five days lasts a year.

So it feels, anyway, when you spot Martha from the corner of your eye – pulling her coat on and hooking her purse over her shoulder. She tucks her peroxide blonde layers behind her ears, gives one last check of her makeup in a compact mirror, and looks up.

“You coming?”

It’s five thirty on Friday. You haven’t said more than two words to Joel since you walked out on him, Monday morning.

She knows by now – Martha. Or at least, she has a pretty good idea.

You haven’t told her, as if you’d even be able to begin explaining it all. But she pieced it together by herself, didn’t she? You’re hardly subtle. She figured you out less than five minutes after you stormed out of his office, fists balled and face tight with rage.

She says your name, and the sound is muffled. Distorted by the sour backwash of that feeling: the hot temper which dissipated so quickly into an ache behind your ribs all day.

You finally look up. “Huh?”

She fixes the collar on her trench coat. Flattens her thin, merlot lips and says, “Let’s go, kid. It’s been a long week.”

And that, you think, might just be the understatement of the fucking year.

She slips her arm through yours in the elevator, and you don’t protest. It’s not like she’d let you go even if you tried to shake her off – but there’s a comfort to it. Something sweet; soft and motherly. Martha’s not often this affectionate.

You want to slot your cheek on her shoulder. Ask her how long her worst heartbreak lasted. Ask if that’s even what this is, if you can give a two-month hurricane of sex and secrets enough power to split you open this badly.

Ask her how long until the gnawing in your chest eases. How long until you’re finally able to look at him again, without wanting to cuss him out – or run into his arms.

But you stare ahead, swaying with the dropping elevator, wrap your arms tight around yourself and swallow shallow breaths of her rosy perfume.

Your reflection splits in two, pulled apart by the rumble of the doors. Something akin to a growl from between Martha’s teeth.

The skeleton of the lobby sears behind your eyes, every surface bleeding gold. Silver arrows of rain pelt against the windows, slicing through the blazing sunlight. Dark figures shake umbrellas open at the doors; others yank their collars over their heads as they run to cars.

A gaggle of square suits separates to let you pass, black material shining and soaked through. Nodding to both of you, your names dripping from their lips as they load into the elevator.

Under the canopy outside, Martha hoists her purse over her head.

“Monday then?” she yells over the drumming rain. And without waiting for an answer – because she isn’t so much asking as she is telling – she totters off through the drizzle towards Alan’s Volvo.

One last glance over her shoulder, a wink as her six-inch heels swing into the car. Like a Bond girl, off to wrangle her preteen into eating his vegetables.

You call a cab, leaning against the building to watch the clouds roll overhead.

Two words. That’s all you’ve managed to force over your tongue.

Sure and okay. Both uttered between teeth, as though your body might be trying to hold them back. Mundane and fucking meaningless; pushing by everything else you want so desperately for Joel to hear. How could you? Why would you? I think I hate you, you know that?

I hate you and I miss you so much that it makes me hate you all over again for it.

He’s doing as you asked, at least. He’s following your rules. No looking, no touching, no talking.

To a point.

He is still talking – saying a little more to you than you are to him. You’re allowing it, given that he is still your boss and they’re only ever boss things to say. Schedule this meeting, look out that old file. Pick up his drycleaning when it’s mid-afternoon and he spots your boredom from across the office.

But he never comes near.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t brush by, stealing a giggle when his elbow nudges your waist. He doesn’t order you lunch, then wait until you’re sat opposite him in his office to eat together.

He doesn’t kiss you as soon as the elevator doors close. He doesn’t perch on the edge of your desk to steal snacks and gossip with you and Martha. He doesn’t play with your hand, he doesn’t hold you by the hips, he doesn’t whisper dirty jokes and sweet nothings in your ear.

He keeps his distance. He acts like your boss again.

And – Jesus. You’ve never wanted to hate him so much in your life.

“Waitin’ for a cab?”

“Shit –” You twirl, rain flicking from the tail of your coat.

Joel takes your arm steady. His grip is so familiar, so safe you feel yourself melting into it already. “Easy, easy,” he says, his voice much the same. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.”

“You didn’t, you…Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess you did. What did you say?”

He smiles. It’s weak, humored, but completely unsure. “I just asked if you’re waiting for a cab.

And goddamn it, just the sight of him this close thaws you from the inside out. It’s like warmth against the wound, softening you like the creases by the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” you start, “I just called one. Figure there’s traffic.” You gesture to the bodies scurrying down towards yellow cabs.

Joel tosses his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the sleek Rolls by the curb. The rain bounces off its roof. “Rand can take you, if you like. Save you waitin’.”

“Oh, no. No, I’m good, thanks.”

“I’ll take your cab,” he clarifies. “I’ll take the cab; Rand can take you home.”

“Really, Joel,” you reply, hugging your purse. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

He nods, looking down. There was – there is – nothing he wants more than to look out for you. There’s probably nothing that stings more right now, than the fact you won’t let him.

He makes to leave, then hesitates. Hands in his pockets, he turns back and says, “You ever need anything, just let me know. Alright?”

Your lips flatten. “Mhm.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“Alright,” he says. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday.”

He strides off towards the Rolls. So much cooler than the suits scrambling around him; dipping his head as he slides into the backseat, fixing his tie before he pulls the door closed.

The car doesn’t move until yours arrives. Until he’s seen you run over, settle in the backseat. Rand pulls out behind as your driver sets off; turns in the opposite direction at the first set of traffic lights.

You watch as it shrinks into a speck from the back window, wondering if Joel’s watching you, too.

The driver tuts and shakes his head. He flicks his fingers to the windshield, some comment about this goddamn rain and ain’t let up for five goddamn days.

You fish your phone from your pocket, turning the weight of it over in your hands like turning the dilemma in your mind. Thinking up something like, Hey, I was gonna order food in tonight. Wanna come over?

Something like, Or not, if you don’t feel like it.

Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m –

The screen lights.

Your heart jumps to your throat.

The driver rambles on, “…said it’d dry by Wednesday – well, you can’t trust a damn one of ‘em…”

Your eyes are glued to the name onscreen.

Joel headers the first notification. And the second. A text, then an email.

Your thumbs hover over the messages for a few seconds, vision blurring around his name. Frantic circles while you decide whether or not you actually want to read them. But it gets the better of you – morbid curiosity – and you tap on the text.

As quickly as it leapt, your heart plummets.

Forwarded Jean-Marc’s email, in case you need it. Have a good weekend.

Three, four, five times. You read over it five fucking times before it sinks in. Switch to your emails, where Joel Miller sits proudly at the top of the list.

“Why are you…?” you mumble, blinking at the screen. Salt stings across your waterline. “You – you fucking…”

It boils through your veins, pools in the pit of your stomach. That ache winds again, twisting around your ribcage.

Anger.

Anger, and…something much worse.

You bite hard on your lip, refusing to let the tears spill over. Your heart hammers against your chest. Your fist balls, like tightening around the leash of a misbehaving dog, pulling it back into place.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Steam slowly swallows your silhouette whole. In the mirror, you shake the shell of the office from your shoulders, watching as she disappears entirely behind the heated glass. Relieved just to see her go.

You sob under the scorching stream until your skin prunes and your head throbs. You order in food and burrow deep in your couch to pick at it.

Drowning in the same hoodie he once pulled over himself – his landscape of a body, strong as rock and soft as the earth. The material unwashed, still smelling of mint and men’s cologne.

You thumb through the chick flicks on offer: all perfect grins and power couples; the commercial dream that is a two-tone poster with a quirky, conversational title. And then, worse: the breakup movies.

Women flat-out in bed, picking from a tray of chocolates. Two-day pajamas and three-day bedhead. Slumber parties to burn love letters and gauge out their exes’ eyes in photographs, swear themselves off men and then down heavy cocktails until they puke.

Then – the epiphany. Right before some pop rock track from the noughties sends the heroine off into the sunset. The I’m better off without him, or Maybe he wasn’t so bad moment.

Love truly exists, after all. Roll end credits.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mumble, chewing wetly on popcorn. “You’re all bullshit, anyways.”

Maybe you’re just fucking miserable. You liked the bullshit, two weeks ago.

Blake Carter – he was chocolates in bed and feminist handshakes. He was one night at your mom’s, one night at your best friend’s, then back in your old place before the week was out.

This is different. It’s like a sickness.

Rotting from the inside out. Deep in your chest, a fierce fever spreading from the split, the empty cage of ribs. An anxiety which gathers and festers in the barren corners, like teetering along a wire with no idea how high the drop really is – only that you’re not going to make the landing.

How were you ever going to make the landing, letting go of his hand like that?

You manage three mouthfuls of a greasy hamburger, then shove the bags across the coffee table. Too sick and too unsettled to eat without feeling it roll around your stomach in a furious tide.

You ever need anything, just let me know.

Asking for help is not something you do. Not since you were sixteen, and even before then. There is nothing – nothing, you swore – a man could offer you that you couldn’t go find yourself.

But then – then, you found someone who wasn’t looking for you to ask. Didn’t want or expect you to need him for anything, only wanted you to know that he was around if you ever did. Being near you was all he ever really gave a shit about.

You found someone who was on your tail every time you looked back. All your running, all the times you swore you wouldn’t let him catch you. And there you were – turning to make sure he was still trying.

He was. He was always trying. He’s the closest anyone ever came to proving you wrong.

And now…he’s letting you go.

If you had the energy to laugh, you’d laugh. You’d march back into the bathroom and wait for your reflection to clear again, just to point your finger right in her face.

The same woman who walked away from Blake Carter and his heirloom diamond ring; from Sundays forcing down quiche Lorraine at his parents’ house, and pretending to enjoy bouncing his nephew on your knee.

The same woman who left that diamond ring on his bedside table, packed a bag full of clothes, and fled the apartment before he could plead anymore.

The same woman who had seen the entire thing as a bird breaking free from her cage, in the end.

You understand it now.

You spend long enough in that cage, long enough planted on your feet – you forget how to use your wings.

The weekend is slow and sleepless.

Your sheets wind up a twisted mess each night. Kicked to the foot of the bed, cocooned back around your shoulders, then whipped from your body again when you feel too hot, too smothered.

He’s all over your apartment. Dozing in the reflection of the TV screen, bass voice reverberating off each wall, kisses in the clinking of mugs.

Each night, you stare blankly at the ceiling. Sleep becomes a tide you float on the surface of, pooling across your stomach and only ever wetting to your ears. Face skyward, bone dry. Desperately waiting for a wave that never intends on turning.

Come Monday, you’re running on something like four hours sleep and as many coffees.

Martha recognizes it instantly, the way she fawns. She hasn’t let up all day. Not since you walked in this morning, looking like shit and avoiding Joel’s office at all costs. She’s spent more time staring, delivering snacks, making sickly-sweet conversation that hurts your teeth – than she has actually working.

And it was touching. Until ten o’clock.

Joel has two assistants for good fucking reason, it turns out.

“I do not understand a goddamn word I’m reading…” Martha flips the Cosmo she stole from you last week. “The hell is a retrograde?”

Your head tilts. “Do you even know which sign you are?”

Her thin, penciled brows quirk. “Taurus, but I don’t like the way this bull’s lookin’ at me.”

She wiggles her mouse before the monitor switches off, then prods a shard of cucumber with her fork. The rain scatters across the window at her back, dragging golden shadows down her blazer.

“Did you eat today?” she asks.

“Mhm,” you lie, “This morning. Before you came in.”

She chews suspiciously. “Liar.” She offers you the salad bowl. “Eat.”

“Martha,” you push it away, “I’m not –”

“I don’t care whether you’re hungry.”

She thrusts the tub towards you, cherry tomatoes trembling.

“Martha.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not gonna eat your salad, will you stop –?”

“One bite. Just one.”

“I don’t even like –”

She’s holding out a forkful. “Eat the damn –”

“Get a drink with me.”

She halts, greens dangling in front of your face. Her expression twists, loosens, and then twists into bewilderment again. “Pardon me?”

You sigh, deflating into the leather. “Stop tryna force feed me salad, and get a drink with me.”

“On a Monday?” She scoffs. “What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t…I don’t have one,” you groan, pushing to your feet. “At least, not a good one. I just need something a little stronger than kale.”

An all too familiar click over your shoulder plucks her attention. Her eyes flash across the room.

She tracks Joel from his office over to the water cooler, a forced smile when he must glance up. Her eyes snap back to yours at the trickle of water into his mug.

Please? you mouth, and she grumbles.

“Joel?”

His voice is strained; he’s bending at the cooler. “Yep?”

Martha links her arm through yours and forces you to turn. “You mind if we take a long lunch? We were thinking of trying that wine bar up by the golf course.”

Joel lingers on the other side of the office, sipping from his mug. He’s almost unrecognizable: no bear left in him. Declawed, toothless. Dark crescents like the shadows of a bruise beneath his eyes, the ghosts of smile lines on his cheeks.

“Wine bar?” he asks. “Didn’t even know there was one up that way.”

“It’s new,” Martha says, popping the lid back on her salad bowl. “Alan told me about it. Says it costs an arm and a leg, but apparently, it’s worth it.”

He wanders over – hesitant, like approaching the desk of a wild animal. You can feel the heat of his stare on you when he replies, “’s nice up that way. Take the afternoon. You need a ride?”

“All good,” Martha chirps. She squeezes your arm. “I’ll go call a cab.”

She drapes your coat over your shoulders, then twirls off in the direction of the elevator. A girlish little strut, quietly pleased with herself.

She’s deliberately leaving you stranded. Both of you.

Joel steps back when you move. His breath catches in his throat. He slips a hand in one pocket, and says, “Be nice to have a relaxing afternoon.”

“Yep,” you choke, elbow brushing against his. “Nice to have some girl time, I guess.”

“Oh,” he sniffs, “I was talking about me. Empty office, two of you off my ass. Peace and quiet.”

You smile, feeling the weight of him rock gently against your side. “Hilarious,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He stares straight ahead, sunlight catching rare amber in his eyes. Smiling to himself, calm and content, he says, “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and turns back for his office.

Your chest twinges as he closes the door behind him. A tight fist around your vocal cords.

“See you tomorrow, Joel.”

Oasis is a trendy little bar out west, which looks anything but its namesake. All exposed brick and smirk of silver pipework, industrially rustic and injected with the silky scent of wine and wealth.

Exactly the type of place you’d go to get over your millionaire ex.

Martha slinks in like she’s made of the place. Coat loose over her arm, hips swaying and heels clicking. She hops onto a stool at the bar, drums her glossy nails on the varnished wood.

You settle awkwardly into the stool beside her, prodding at what turns out to be a very real cactus. You jump at the sharp prick.

A waiter behind the bar clocks you, and laughs to himself.

“Nice, huh?” Martha asks, scanning the place. The low-hanging lights, the spill of foliage from the rafters. She seems to fit into it a whole lot better than you do.

“Sure,” you mumble around your fingertip, “Are you buying?”

She rolls her eyes. “You asked me out, remember?”

“I was thinking some two-for-one cocktails dive, not the fucking Ritz, Martha.”

“Call it a pick-me-up,” she says, accepting a menu from the waiter. “We’re treating ourselves.”

You pinch your fingertip, watching a scarlet bead bloom from the wound. A satisfying sort of pain, a tender break your hands won’t stay away from. You squeeze until it balloons into a trembling bubble of blood, then swipe the cut clean. Squeeze, then swipe.

Martha orders some vino she says she’s always wanted to try. Two glasses, because when the waiter looks to you to take your order, you’re still staring at your bloody finger.

He slides the drinks over and smiles politely, eyes daring to meet yours only twice. He’s handsome: chiseled jawline and the smudge of a dimple on one cheek. Chin speckled with stubble, shorter and blonder than you’d like.

Your fingertip throbs, and you look down to find it closed in your fist. You take a gulp of wine.

Martha smacks her lips and hums. “Not half bad,” she says, and then slots her glass next to yours. “Alright,” she clasps her hands, “What is it? What’s been goin’ on?”

You spin the base of your glass, staring at the swirl of honeysuckle. “I just needed some air and…wine.”

She buys it about as much as you do.

“Only one thing in the world that makes me need air and wine,” she says. “A man.”

A laugh flutters from your chest, as if by accident. As natural as the sun splitting the clouds. No thinking about it, no forcing it.

Either the expensive alcohol works fast – or Martha does.

She lifts her nose, like sniffing out the truth. “Come on, no bullshit. Why’d you ask me to get a drink?”

It rolls from one shoulder to the other in a tired shrug. You’ve no fucking idea why you asked her to get a drink.

The office was becoming claustrophobic, bursting with the grief of it all. Joel was nowhere to be seen and yet everywhere you looked. Here’s the wall he’d kissed you against, there’s the spot you’d first shaken hands.

Here’s all of it, really: the shame and the anger and the heartbreak all knotted together. Holding yourself back from doodling hearts on his sticky note messages, busying yourself with shredding instead of nosing around his office.

No bullshit, you were about to scream. Martha’s just the first person you laid eyes on.

Her and her fucking kale.

“Because,” you summarize, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

Her eyes are wide, serious. She’s hooked already. “With Joel?” she asks, sipping.

“With any of it,” you reply. And then, hearing her properly: “What do you know about me and Joel?”

She swallows quickly. “He hasn’t told me a word, I swear,” she says, “but I wasn’t born yesterday. Paris was always a solo trip, darling.”

You massage your forehead, grumbling into your palms. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper. There’s a heavy ache blooming behind your eyes.

Martha smiles. “I thought it was sweet. He’s never been serious enough about anyone to take ‘em over there with him. But,” her eyes ladder down your figure, “I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Okay,” she squints, reading you, “And are we relieved? Are we hurt? Angry?”

“We are four and a half coffees Monday morning, and a wine bar Monday afternoon.”

“Got it,” she says, face stony. “That little shit. You need me to yell at ‘im?”

You lift your wine, shake your head. “I did enough yelling at him last week,” you admit. “It wasn’t just him, anyways. He fucked up, but it was the both of us.”

Martha nods, and you both take a long drink.

She taps her nails against the swell of her glass. “I thought you two were really great together,” she says – polite, pensive.

The least Martha you’ve ever heard her.

“You did?”

She nods. “You just always had this camaraderie. It was palpable. From the moment he met you, he was different. Better for it. I don’t know when you were…whatever you were, but –” she takes a deep breath, looking off past you, “– I know I liked it when you were.”

It’s not something you ever considered, even in the thick of it. What it might look like from outside, this little love affair: promises whispered into coffee mugs and glances stolen from behind paperwork.

It was never a secret – at least, not one either of you were trying to keep. It was just…yours. You and Joel. Two names etched at the bottom of a birthday card, no room for anyone else’s.

And if anyone did find out – Martha, Rand, Jean-fucking-Marc – they felt more like collateral. Just the landscape, the backdrop for your fated meteoric crash down to Earth.

God, it felt good to fall.

Martha sighs, dabbing a knuckle at the corner of her lips. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, gently. “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you hoped.”

Your eyes drift across the room. The waiter pours a deep red wine for a silver-haired couple over by the window. The man’s thumb surfs back and forth across his wife’s knuckles, dipping to circle the ring on her third finger.

The split in your skin opens again, your nail pressing clumsily into your finger. A tiny wave of pain rocks through the tip.

“Yeah, well,” you sniff, “Shit happens, right?”

“Sure does,” she says, and holds her glass out.

You cheers, the clink piercing the bumbling jazz in the air. The wine thrashes against the side of the glass, and you gulp back a sour mouthful.

“He sent me an offer for a job in Paris,” you confess into your drink. “That’s what our fight was about – the fact he didn’t want me to go. Then on Friday, he sent it anyway.”

“Paris?” Martha straightens in her chair. It’s easy to tell her, easy to pretend it’s some third-floor gossip when she reacts the same way. “That’s big,” she says. “Are you gonna go for it?”

“No,” you admit. “It’s with that guy Jean-Marc.”

Her upper lip curls, a bend of burgundy. “You can do better.”

“I guess,” you frown, “if I were looking.”

“You’re not looking?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It twists in your throat. A million answers which fizzle into nothing at all on your tongue. Because because because –

“Who would read all of Joel’s boring emails?” It comes with a smirk, which drops as quickly as you realize Martha’s expression isn’t shifting.

“I would. And he’d find a replacement for you eventually. Not half as good, but…”

“Ha,” you stare at her, “Funny.”

“I’m not kidding. “I’m not,” she adds, when you roll your eyes. “It’s about damn time you realized you’re head and shoulders above all this.

“Maybe,” she continues, with an almost bloodthirsty interest, “Joel didn’t let on about Paris because he thinks you’re better than that, too. You don’t think he sees your potential? Hell, I do. You’re too good to be making coffee and taking minutes.”

Tell me something I don’t know, you think.

Joel’s never been quiet about how he feels about you – professionally or otherwise. He said as much in his office last week: I didn’t want to lose you. Those exact words kept you up all weekend, for crying out loud.

Sure, Joel sees something in you. Assistant, colleague, friend, not-friend. It’s not enough to stop the need you have – pinhole pupils hunting, blood jumping in your veins. Like it’d kill you to catch your breath, to shake your hackles and loosen your muscles.

Watch, watch. I can answer your questions before you’ve even come up with them. Watch, watch. I can show up early and leave late, barely pause for breath in between.

Watch, watch. I can break your heart and make it look just like mine.

You squirm under Martha’s glare.

“I don’t…I don’t even know what else I’d do,” you garble, playing with your hands. “I like this job. I’m good at this job. It’s…it’s –”

“– comfortable,” you say together.

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Martha nods, “You’ve outgrown it. You’re nothing but a monster in red bottoms now, baby – too scared to find something that fits you better in case it turns to shit. So what if it does? Is it the end of the world?”

“Feels like it right now,” you reply. She’s cloudy, blurred behind the ocean of tears teetering along your waterline. “And this is barely even a breakup, never mind failing at a career.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You think you’d be the first? The last? People fail at things all the damn time. Better to do it now, young as you are – little elastic band of resilience and nerve.”

“Poetic,” you scoff.

She tilts her glass and her head follows.

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning in. “Do not spend one more second paralyzed by fear. I know you’re scared. You’re supposed to be. One day, you’re going to miss the time you gave enough of a shit to feel this fear.

“It’s like electricity in your veins. Everything’s so intense, everything hurts ten times worse and feels ten times more exhilarating. You think something might bring about the end of the goddamn world, and then the sun comes up the next morning just to prove you wrong.

“And Lord almighty, you are going to get it wrong. You’ll say the wrong thing, trust the wrong feeling. You’ll make the same mistakes over and over again. But Jesus, I’d rather you blew it all to hell and at least learned somethin’, than never did it at all.

“You know what my mom would say? World’s been waitin’ on you, kid. Grab a paddle.”

Another laugh spurts from your lips, tears spilling into your mouth, a crackly, wet sniffle. “What the hell does that even mean?” you giggle.

She smiles and wipes your cheek. “Means dive in. Get your hands dirty. Fall in love, get hurt, grow the hell up. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want. That electricity won’t be there forever – so use it.”

“Use it…” you echo, taking the mascara-stained tissue from her.

“Promise me,” she implores, wrapping her hands around yours, “Promise me that you will.”

It’s not just Martha asking, you know this. She’s the one staring at you like a madwoman, sure – but her plea is echoed by a littler, quieter voice.

She’s nervous, scared. A crumpled math paper in her backpack. Her whole world tipped upside down one Wednesday afternoon, soul cursed forever – or so she thought.

When you reply, it’s not Martha you see. It’s the sixteen-year-old version of yourself.

So you look her dead in the eye, and say –

“I promise.”

The world is hazy by the time you leave the bar. Vignetted, a saffron sunset seeping across the sky. Mingling with the city skyline and losing herself over the horizon.

You totter up the steps to your building and wave Martha and Alan off, twirling inside. The weight of wine heavy in your veins, pulling you from one side to the other, and still – you feel lighter, somehow.

You spent all afternoon giggling, once the heartache thawed and the alcohol kicked in. It felt nice; bubbly and nostalgic, the peachy tint of girlhood.

Swapping stories about your old, ridiculous love lives – Martha’s overall-donned boyfriend in high school, or the guy you went on two dates with last year before realizing he was the same dude one of your girlfriends had ghosted three months prior.

For a few hours on a Monday afternoon, you were fifteen again – and the worst thing that could happen was a pimple sprouting on your chin the night before picture day. All you’d ever know was the shiny film on magazine pages, reading two-week old horoscopes to see if they came true.

You slump against the side of the elevator, head spinning as it carries you home. It’s something like seven. You’re too buzzed to fall asleep, but too tipsy to do much more than roll around your apartment.

And by the time you’re back in your sweats, sunken into the couch, one very final nightcap in hand – you’re too tired to even move.

Promise me, she’d said, wildfire behind her eyes. Martha’s notorious for her talents in convincing anyone of anything, wriggling her own way out of any circumstance.

This felt different.

She’s just your colleague. At best, a passerby. Technically – going by her track record with almost everyone else in the company – she doesn’t have to take any more interest in you than the parking attendants in the basement lot do.

But she took your hand and led you out of that office without thinking, the second she understood. She bought you drink after drink, and slapped your hand away when you tried to pay. She listened to you, dried your tears, and then kicked your ass into gear.

By all standards, she was the best first date you’ve ever had.

And promise me, she’d said.

It starts as a joke. Humoring her, humoring yourself. A dare whispered to you by the tinkling of ice in your glass. Innocent curiosity, mixed with a dash of Martha’s good influence.

The perfect cocktail of chaos.

Your first online search brings up so many results that it dizzies you. Marketing executive and project coordinator, business support manager and production lead. They blur into a gray fog, a taunting swirl on your laptop screen.

“Jesus,” you mutter, mouthful of wine. “What the fuck do I…?”

Business and art. That’s what you know. One you’ve been in long enough that you reckon you could do it with your eyes closed – and the other…your little pipedream.

‘s not stupid, Joel had said, that night by the river. Not a pipedream, either.

And – fuck it, maybe you ought to listen for once. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want, and all that.

You dig your knuckles into your eyes, letting the spatter of stars clear your vision, and start again.

A second search threads together a list which feels a little cleaner. A little more you. Sophisticated websites with sleek designs, smooth wording which makes it feel like you’re being sold something.

And so what, if you are? Maybe you’re looking to buy.

You click through image after image of bright offices and beaming staff, sipping sharply through your straw. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, unsure whether the lightheaded feeling is from the rosé, or the promise of a successful career and competitive salary. Memorizing brand manifestos, learning company values like prayers passing through your hands.

It’s manic. Crazed. Like you’re stood on the brink of an abyss, thick fog kissing your ankles.

You laugh to yourself. This must be the fucking electricity.

Promise me. And what can it hurt, anyway, turning in an application form? Who says it’ll even go anywhere? They might take one look at your resume and laugh you all the way into the trashcan.

Or – they might see what Joel sees. What Martha sees. For the love of God, what you see.

Your resume looks much the same as it did four years ago – still molded into the shape of the kind of girl you thought Joel Miller, CEO might like to meet. And he did, very much so. It’s just – he met all shapes of her. Even the ones she tried to hide.

He found them all out, eventually.

Your thumb pauses, hovering over the mousepad. A slow guilt slithering over your shoulders, coiling deep in your gut. You think of Paris; those streets you walked down with Joel on your arm. Talking, laughing, spilling secrets and keeping them, too.

Your shadows are probably still on those avenues. Your reflections still bobbing in the Seine. Kisses hidden behind steam-coated mirrors, bodies joining in a darkened hotel room.

It twinges some, deep in your chest. A little numbed, what with all the alcohol and – well, Martha. But it’s still there. The same wound you’ve had for twelve years now.

It’s there. It will probably always be there.

So – fuck it.

You’re grabbing a goddamn paddle.

It’s been a quiet, fruitless week. No calls, no emails, no messages written in the stars.

Which is probably a good thing, given you were more than a few glasses of wine deep – and still on some kind of high from Martha’s speech. God only knows what kind of shit you were filling those applications with.

Nothing quite like liquid courage and a broken heart, right?

The light from the Xerox flickers, swiping memories from that afternoon back and forth. Martha’s hand locked around yours, the perfumed wine she kept buying. The waiter with the dimples, Joel’s Have a good night I’ll see you tomorrow, the pine air freshener in Alan’s car.

Things have mellowed, settled in your stomach. The world is back to beige – as plain as it always was before that night of tequila and AC/DC. You’ve made peace with it, this idea of letting go. Letting him go.

Martha – soapbox queen, microphone in one hand and glass of Sauvignon Blanc in the other – has checked in every day since. Expectant eyes from across the room, treasure chest emails full of job ads she’s collected.

Anything? she texted this morning, with six praying emojis. One more since yesterday, two since the day before that.

But no – nothing, for almost eight days now.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe you can swallow back the knot of misplaced disappointment, slip back into your heels and forget any of it ever happened. That fire Martha struck so effortlessly, snuffed by a cruel, cold wind.

His knuckles on the door scatter your thoughts.

“Hey,” Joel says, leant against the frame. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” you reply. “What’s up?”

He looks…frustratingly good. Like he’s pieced himself back together. Sharp and smart, brand new. And yet – warm, homey, in all the places only you know to look.

Your fingers flinch by your side, as though they’re seeking him out. You want to run them through his hair, through his beard. Want to straighten his tie, smooth the shirt over his chest. Breathe him in and feel him melt under your touch.

Feel him change, feel him soften – just for you.

Only for you.

He floats over, hands in his pockets, and perches on the desk by the copier. “Exciting stuff,” he muses, tapping the machine twice.

“Hm,” you nod, “You’re an exciting man.”

“How was the wine bar?”

“It was good,” you reply. “Little above my price range, but – it got us drunk, so.”

“Did the job.”

“Did the job,” you agree.

“Good,” Joel says, crossing his ankles. “I’m glad to see you a little more your old self.”

Your lips flatten into a smile. “Well, Martha has a way with words.”

He snorts. “Don’t I know it.”

He lingers, then. An awkward air about him. He scratches his nose, stuffs his hands back in his pockets. Sucks in a deep breath, swallows what seems to be a soliloquy of sentiment, or secrets, or something else.

Whatever it is, his nerves rub off on you.

You cross your arms, twist your toe into the carpet. Stare at the paper churning out of the machine, stare at your nails, stare at anything that isn’t the man sitting right in front of you.

But then – he murmurs, as though the words splinter from his tongue, “I had an interesting email this morning.”

The copier shudders at his side.

Your eyebrows lift. “Oh, yeah?”

Joel clears his throat. “Yeah. Pertaining to you.”

And you realize.

You look up at him, the tight knit of his brows. His fixed jaw, the way it flexes as he chews on the words.

“Pertaining to me,” you echo – a nudge.

The light from the machine catches a wet glint in his eye. He blinks it away.

“Request for a reference,” he says.

And – shit.

“Shit,” you hiss.

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” louder.

His expression sharpens into a perplexed smirk. “Surprised?”

“Yes,” you start, “I mean – no. No, I just – Shit, I didn’t think they’d…I thought they’d talk to me first. Why didn’t they talk to me first?”

He shrugs. “I know of the company, met the CEO once at a gala. From what I know, she runs a pretty tight ship. Probably just wanted to gauge you before reaching out. It’s okay,” his voice is kind, hushed, “Doesn’t mean you won’t still hear.”

“Oh, Jesus, Joel,” you pull on your cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“Woah, woah,” he pats the air, moves so close you worry he might hear the thud of your heart, “No apologies, alright? That ain’t why I brought it up.”

“I just didn’t mean for you to find out that way. I wanted to be the one to – to tell you.”

He stands, hands finding your elbows. Gentle, a little timid. Barely brushing the sleeves of your shirt, and yet your whole body ignites.

“Darlin’,” his voice is serious, “I don’t care. I don’t give a shit, I promise. I mean…” he shakes his head, “…I give a shit. I give a lotta shits. I’m not – I don’t mean that, I meant –”

“I know what you meant,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “you always do.”

You pick a speck of fluff from his tie. He watches your hand, then takes it in both of his. Two big paws wrapped around one of yours, swallowing it whole.

It’s a familiar feeling, staring at the shape of your fingers tangled in his. Two in the morning at your first sleepover, praying Mom will pick up the phone. The first night alone in a new apartment, the babble of reality television for company right until sunrise.

You’re homesick.

Homesick for a man who’s standing right in front of you.

“I just wanted you to know,” Joel says, “that I sent it off just now. Just in case somethin’ goes wrong with the email, it doesn’t go through, I sent it to the wrong goddamn place – I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that it’s done.”

He holds your hand to his chest, his heartbeat against your knuckles. When you don’t reply, throttled by the threat of tears, he gives your wrist a little shake.

“Okay? You in there?”

“I’m here,” you breathe, and your hand slips from his grasp. “Thank you. I’m still sorry. You musta felt a little blindsided.”

His head bobs, considering. “Was a surprise, but a good one. Junior art director, huh? That sounds pretty damn exciting.”

“Yeah,” you reply, relaxing as he settles back on the desk. “Really exciting. Flex those creative muscles again.”

He grins. “You plan on working your way up?”

“Yup. Earn my stripes.”

“Alright, little tiger,” he says, and your heart leaps. “Proud of you.”

A silly smirk on your lips, you give him a tiny curtsy. “Here’s hoping your reference seals the deal.”

Joel laughs. “I don’t know about that, darlin’. It’s pretty shitty.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah. Talked all about how sarcastic you are, how you forgot the charger for your toothbrush – and then stole mine. Told ‘em about the Bart Simpson socks, force-feeding me Patrick Swayze. The lot.”

“The Bart socks,” you snicker, “They really stuck with you, huh?”

“Sure did.”

You slide onto the desk beside him. “What did you really write?” you ask, leaning in.

Joel glances to you. It should be obvious, with the way he’s looking at you, exactly what he wrote.

“Tell me,” you say, elbowing him.

“I told them…” he sighs, “…I told them not even to think about it, just hire you. They’d be outta their goddamn minds not to. Told them I wouldn’t be anywhere without you – or your Bart socks.

“Told them you’re the best thing that ever happened to this place. The best thing that ever happened to me. And you think – you think you never know what you have until you lose it, whatever that saying is, but I did. I knew from the second I met you. And they will, too. So – I told ‘em.”

The photocopier cuts, huffs, and falls silent. The room is plunged into a suffocating silence. You’re not sure you’re even breathing.

Joel’s arms are crossed protectively over his chest. You want so badly, more than anything, to burrow under them. To wriggle your way into his grasp – because you know he’d let you – cling to his chest, let his heartbeat regulate yours.

Let his entire body become yours; forget which parts are you, and which are him. Crawl into his skin, envelop yourself in him.

You want to cry into him. Hand him back all those mangled shapes of yourself you tried so hard to hoard – realizing now, that he knew what he was doing all along.

He was never trying to break them. He was never trying to hurt them. He only ever wanted to love them.

He only ever wanted to love you.

“Anyway,” Joel says, dusting his thighs, “Why don’t you finish that up, head on home for the day?”

“Uh –” you swipe the tears from your cheeks, “– no, it’s okay. I got a to-do list as long as my arm, and I still owe you, like, three hours from last week.”

Joel watches as you leap back over to the copier, swing the documents under one arm.

“I’m sure the to-do list will keep,” he assures, taking the ream from your clutches. “Go home, clear your head. Wait for that invite to interview to come through.”

“Joel –”

“Look at me,” he towers over you, “Anything urgent is Martha’s job now. She’ll love the drama of it. You want me to email that company back ‘n have them add Doesn’t follow orders to your reference?”

You breathe a laugh. “No.”

“No,” he repeats, brushing by.

All the times you’ve missed him before – landing back home after Paris, sat with some lovestruck financier in a golf club, fighting like kids in his office – and none of them compare to right now. Stood in the copy room, mere inches and yet entire worlds between you.

And Joel seems to know, like he knows everything you’re thinking. He glances over his shoulder, flame in his eyes, and he smiles. All sweet and charming, the real kind that softens him, lightens him.

Everything that makes him yours.

“Go on, git,” he says, heading for the door. “‘fore I change my mind.”

“Hey, wait. Joel?”

He turns back.

Your voice trembles. “How are you so calm about all this?”

His jaw flicks uncomfortably. He considers it for a moment, then says, “If you love something, you let it go.”

You repeat his own words back to him, whispered to you while you lay intertwined on his childhood bed. When they leave your mouth, they sound more like a plea. Fight back.

“But then you’d be losing something,” you say.

Joel shrugs. Earnestly. “Can’t lose somethin’ I never had.”

He doesn’t get it. He must get it. He’s twenty years older, twenty years wiser. He must know, by now. Christ, he had you to a tee two weeks ago.

How doesn’t he get it?

Your chest heaves. Your head shakes.

“You had it. You had me the second we walked into that dive bar.”

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 13 | Bucky

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Series Masterlist

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Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

“What… if one day Nate asks who his father is?” You folded your arms, watching Bucky closely. “He's a smart kid, Bucky. He’ll figure it out.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “That’s Hazel’s duty to explain when the time comes. If it affects him badly… I’ll be there for him.” His voice was steady, but there was a slight edge, like he was preparing for the inevitable storm.

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “There’s a part of me, a small part, that wants you to win this election.” Your gaze softened, conflicted. “That’s why I’m staying.”

Bucky blinked, clearly taken aback. He hadn’t expected that. His eyes met yours, searching for meaning behind your words, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something—maybe something real. But before he could, the glass door slid open with a soft thud, pulling you both out of the tense moment.

Nate stood there, rubbing his eyes, his hair tousled from sleep. “I wanna swim,” he said, his voice still groggy.

Bucky glanced at you, then back at Nate. “I’ll watch him,” he said, his tone softening. He gave you a look that lingered for just a second longer than necessary, then followed Nate out.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

At the swimming pool, you stood off to the side, watching them through the glass. Bucky and Nate were in the water, laughing and splashing around like nothing in the world could touch them. It was strange—almost bittersweet—to see Bucky this way. So different from the man you’d been arguing with just moments ago.

“Uncle?” Nate’s voice broke through the playful splashes.

“Yeah, buddy?” Bucky replied, swimming over to him.

“Is Auntie gonna leave again?” Nate asked, his big eyes filled with childlike curiosity.

Bucky’s shoulders tensed for a brief moment before he let out a sigh. “I hope not, Nate. I really hope not.” He paused, looking down at the water. “If she tries to leave again… can you stop her?”

Nate frowned, his small brow furrowing in thought. “Hmm… no.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Eh?”

“I’d wanna go with her,” Nate said matter-of-factly. “She’s traveled the world. I want to go with her instead.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “So, you’re just gonna ditch me, huh? Go off with your aunt?”

Nate grinned, splashing water at him. “Only if it’s school holidays!” he said, laughing as Bucky splashed back.

Bucky shook his head again, clearly amused. “Smart kid,” he muttered under his breath.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

While they continued swimming, you quietly slipped away, heading back to your room. The moment you closed the door behind you, your heart pounded in your chest. Bucky’s words still echoed in your mind, his casual reference to the issue you’d missed, the one connected to Steve.

You sat down at your desk, your hands trembling slightly as you opened your notebook. It had been so long since you’d felt this rush—the familiar thrill of investigating, piecing together clues, and chasing down the truth. It was like breathing again, a sense of purpose surging through you.

You began scrolling through your notes from the last five years, mentally sifting through the noise. Eliminating dead leads, failed stories, and the few articles that had never made it to print because they’d angered the wrong people. Until finally, there it was—the headline that sent chills down your spine:

“Deals in the Dark: Inside the Global Conspiracy Threatening Economic Stability.”

You stared at the title, your mind racing. This was it. The story you’d written. The story you thought had been buried. The story that, you now realized, had been connected to Steve all along.

This was the story that had caught everyone’s attention. You had been covering suspicious dealings between foreign governments and private entities—rumors of bribes, illegal arms trades, or secret negotiations. On the surface, it didn’t seem much different from other investigative pieces you’d done. But there was something about it.

And then, it happened.

Just three hours after the article went live, everything started crashing down. The website was pulled offline. The office lost power. Panic spread through the newsroom like wildfire. You remembered the look on Ian’s face when he turned to you, wide-eyed and pale. “Wow, I guess you woke up a lion from its sleep.”

It was chaos, but through the storm, you stayed oddly calm. You picked up the phone and called Mike, your boss. The phone barely rang once before he answered.

“Ahh, our hero. I was waiting for your call. How are you? Are you alright? It must be exhausting,” Mike said, his voice unnervingly cheerful.

His tone threw you off for a second. Mike was always stressed, always scrambling for funds to keep the publication afloat. But today, he sounded... different. It was the first time in a while he didn’t seem weighed down by the usual pressure.

“Well... here I am. Still alive,” you said, pacing the room as your mind raced. “Mike, do you remember the piece I wrote?”

“Which one?” he asked, the edge of nonchalance in his voice making your skin prickle.

You quickly sent him the link.

There was a brief pause on the other end, then a sharp breath. “Ah… this one.” His tone dropped, his usual stress slipping back in. “Yeah. I still feel bitter about it. That phone call I received... still gives me goosebumps. Their threats nearly took us down.”

Your grip tightened around the phone. “Threats?”

“Oh, come on. You knew this was heavy stuff, didn’t you?” Mike’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “Someone didn’t want this story out there. They weren’t subtle about it either. Almost made us bankrupt.” He exhaled sharply, as if trying to shake off the memory.

A chill ran down your spine. Your heart thudded, and a realization began to creep in. This is it. This was the story that connected to everything. You didn’t have all the pieces yet, but something deep in your gut told you it was linked to Steve.

“Mike… was there anything that stood out? Anything that made you think it was bigger than what we originally thought?” Your voice was tight with tension, carefully controlled, though inside, your instincts were in overdrive.

There was a pause on the line, and you could almost hear Mike choosing his words carefully. “Look, there were a few things that raised some red flags,” he finally said, his voice lowering further. “Some of the names involved, the companies… it’s no secret they have ties to government officials. And not just any government. We’re talking high-level U.S. interests.”

Your breath hitched. He didn’t say Steve’s name, but the implications were clear. The weight of what you were unraveling pressed on your chest. This was more than just a story—it was the key to everything.

There was a long silence between you and Mike, and you could feel the gravity of it hanging in the air.

“Be careful,” Mike finally said, his voice softer now, almost warning. “You know the kind of people we’re dealing with.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see. The puzzle was finally coming together, and the stakes had just gotten a lot higher.

“What 'cha doing?” Nate’s voice made you jump in your seat.

You spun around to see him standing in the doorway, already dressed in his pajamas. His hair was slightly messy from the day, and his sleepy eyes blinked up at you. You glanced out the window, not even realizing how dark it had gotten. It was already 8 p.m.

“Sorry, Nate. I got too caught up in my work,” you said, offering him an apologetic smile.

He shook his head, unfazed. “It’s alright. Uncle told me you were working.”

You nodded, feeling a little guilty for losing track of time. “Do you want me to read you a bedtime story?” You had always done that when he was younger. It was your thing together.

But Nate shook his head again. “No. Uncle reminded me after I brushed my teeth that I had to check on you.”

“Oh,” you chuckled softly. “Well, thank you for checking on me.”

You gently patted his head, brushing a few stray hairs away from his forehead. “You’re such a big boy now, huh? You can fall asleep without a bedtime story?”

Nate nodded, rubbing his eyes as he yawned. “Yeah, I fall asleep really fast now.”

“Lucky you,” you thought to yourself, envious of his ability to drift off so easily. You stood and took his hand, guiding him towards his room. His small fingers wrapped around yours with familiar warmth.

As you walked, Nate mumbled, “But sometimes, I wanna be an adult so I can stay up late like Uncle Bucky. He stays up till 11 p.m. watching you on TV.”

You froze for a second, confused. “Wait… me? On TV?”

Nate nodded eagerly. He quickly darted to the living room, grabbed the remote, and started navigating through the TV’s menu with the ease only a tech-savvy kid could have. You couldn’t help but be impressed by how quickly children adapted to technology these days.

The search history popped up, and your eyes widened when you saw it was full of videos of you — specifically, clips of your reporting from the field, during one of the more dangerous assignments. These were from independent news sources, not widely viewed by the public. You hadn’t expected anyone outside your circle to even know about them.

Your heart skipped a beat as the realization set in. Bucky was watching these. He’d been following your work—your reports from battlefields, places far too dangerous for him to easily reach you. Quietly, he had been keeping up with your life, watching from a distance.

A rush of mixed emotions hit you: surprise, confusion, and something you couldn’t quite name.

Your thoughts were interrupted when Nate’s voice broke the silence. “Where’s Uncle Bucky?”

You glanced around, noticing for the first time that the house was unusually quiet. “He’s not here?”

“He went for a run,” Nate said, already snuggling into his bed.

“This late?” you muttered, furrowing your brow.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

Bucky’s feet pounded against the pavement as he ran through the night, each stride a desperate attempt to clear his cluttered mind. The cool air wrapped around him like a comforting embrace, but the unease gnawed at him. He needed this release, this moment of solitude away from the chaos that had become his life. The park loomed ahead, a sanctuary in the darkness, and he pushed himself harder, the rhythm of his breath syncing with the pounding of his heart.

As he entered the park, he spotted a familiar figure silhouetted against the soft glow of the moonlight—the unmistakable outline of Steve, sitting on a bench by the lake. The stillness of the scene was punctuated by the gentle lapping of water against the shore, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside Bucky. He slowed to a jog, then came to a stop, catching his breath as he approached.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Bucky remarked, his voice low, masking the tension that simmered just below the surface.

Steve looked up, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Needed some air. Thought you might too,” he replied, gesturing for Bucky to sit.

Bucky took the offered seat, his body tense as he noticed the pen drive resting on the bench between them. He instinctively reached for it, curiosity piqued. “What’s this?”

Steve smirked, a hint of mischief in his expression. “Information about Edgar and Brock's weaknesses. Figured you’d want to handle it.”

Bucky accepted the pen drive, his fingers brushing against Steve's, and felt a rush of unease. He studied Steve, who seemed relaxed, almost too comfortable, watching the night lights dance across the water. The quiet sounds of the lake surrounded them, but Bucky’s mind was anything but calm. This feels too easy, he thought, his instincts flaring.

“How’s your missus?” Steve asked, breaking the silence.

“Good,” Bucky replied, keeping his voice steady.

“Both of you have been separated for five years, but it doesn’t show,” Steve said, his tone casual. “You two play the part so well.

Bucky shrugged. “Credits to her.”

Steve scoffed. “Compared to me… Peggy and I live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, but it’s cold.” At public events, his family looked perfect, but behind the scenes, it was a different story.

Peggy was more focused on her interviews and pushing her charity work. They were still together because of the twins and now, because of the election.

“I always have bad luck with women,” Steve said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back on the bench, his hands resting on his knees as if weighing the weight of his words. His gaze shifted to the distant city lights, a hint of frustration flickering in his eyes.

Bucky knew Steve’s marriage was hanging by a thread.

“How’s Nate? I saw your wife at school picking him up,” Steve asked.

Bucky clenched his jaw. “He’s doing great. Really enjoyed the snack you gave him.”

Steve smiled at that, clearly pleased with himself.

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “You made a good decision pulling her out of there,” he continued, a hint of approval in his tone.

Bucky’s stomach churned at the reminder of his choices. He had done what he believed was right, but the weight of his decision sat heavily on his shoulders. Did I really pull her out for her safety, or was it just to save my own skin?

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the moment.

“Yes?” Bucky responded, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“You’re not going to betray me, right?” Steve’s gaze was piercing, searching Bucky’s face for any sign of hesitation.

“No.” The word was sharp, clipped, as Bucky met Steve’s gaze.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Bucky stepped inside the dimly lit kitchen, the weight of the night hanging over him. You were sitting at the kitchen table, your hands wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. He glanced at you, his eyes flickering with concern, but he kept his tone casual.

“Not tired?” he asked, moving to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water. He uncapped it and drank deeply, hoping to clear his mind.

You didn’t answer right away, just watching him as he finished drinking. Your silence made him pause.

“You were right,” you finally said, your voice soft but steady.

Bucky lowered the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hmm?”

You looked up at him, eyes sharp with the weight of realization. “Compared to you... Steve is much worse.” Your tone was heavy, as if admitting it left a bitter taste in your mouth. “How did you accept that?”

He leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest, the exhaustion of the night catching up to him. “I turned a blind eye,” he admitted quietly, his voice low and full of resignation.

“Bucky…” There was a tremor in your voice, and he could hear the worry creeping in. “If this gets out... if people find out what Steve’s done, it could drag you down with him. Everything you’ve worked for—gone.”

He noticed how tightly your hands were gripping the mug, as if you were holding on to it for stability. The unease was clear, radiating off you like heat. He walked over and knelt beside your chair, gently prying the mug from your hands, replacing it with his own. His grip was firm, but there was an unspoken apology in his touch.

“I know,” he said, his voice softening. “This is the price I have to pay.”

Your brows furrowed, and you looked at him, disbelief mingled with concern. “Why… why are you dragging me into this? Why make me part of it?”

He met your gaze, holding your hands tighter, his eyes dark with intensity. “Because I need you,” he confessed, the honesty raw in his words. “Your integrity, your sense of justice... that’s what keeps me grounded. I can’t afford to lose that. Without you... I’m just another man lost in the game, blinded by power.”

You searched his face, feeling the weight of his admission sink in. There was a storm brewing beneath the surface, and for a moment, you felt caught in the middle of it. But more than anything, you felt the pressure of what he was asking of you—what being with him meant.

Bucky exhaled, breaking the silence. “When you’re in this world—when you taste power—it’s easy to forget what’s right. To hide behind laws and deals, to justify anything for the sake of winning. Steve… he’s always been a man with a plan. And when you’re up here, it’s hard to resist.”

You shook your head, the enormity of the situation hitting you. “If this leaks, it’s not just you, Bucky. It could destroy everything, even Nate’s future. What happens when he finds out his father is a criminal hiding behind a suit?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. The thought of Nate—innocent, unaware of the world his uncle and father were tangled in—struck him hard. He bit the inside of his cheek, his jaw clenching at the image of Nate discovering the truth one day.

“I won’t let that happen,” Bucky said firmly, his voice full of determination. “Whatever it takes, I’ll protect him. I won’t let Nate pay for Steve’s sins—or mine.”

You leaned back, processing everything. Your mind raced, wondering how far this would go, how deep the corruption ran. The guilt gnawed at you, knowing you were now part of it, whether you wanted to be or not.

Bucky’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, trying to offer some comfort. “I need you to trust me on this. I’m not Steve. I won’t lose myself like he did.”

You sighed, the weight of the conversation settling heavily between you. “But what if we’re both already too deep? What if it’s too late?”

He looked at you, his expression a mixture of resolve and regret. “Then we’ll deal with it. Together.”

“What if…” Your voice faltered, eyes distant as though you were weighing the impossible.

Bucky felt the tension ripple through the silence. He knew you well enough by now to recognize that tone—the way you hesitated before dropping a bombshell.

His mind was already spinning, the conversation pulling him in different directions. The guilt of what Steve had roped him into, the constant pressure of living in a world where one wrong move could unravel everything… and now you were laying more weight on that already burdened scale.

“What if you became president instead?”

Bucky froze, his breath catching in his throat. He hadn’t expected that—not from you, not here, in this moment. His pulse quickened, his brain scrambling to process the gravity of your question.

President? Him?

His eyes widened, and for a moment, he could only stare at you, searching your face for signs that you were joking. But there was no humor there—just the same quiet determination, the same intensity that had kept him grounded all these years.

You couldn’t be serious.

But the look in your eyes said otherwise.

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A/N: Me cheering for myself after finishing this chapter.

[darthfighter]

patience

Chapter Five of Your Shadow Series

warnings: oral (f!receiving), fingering, p in v, lightsaber as a lamp, pure smut.. like.. the whole thing is :D MINORS DNI !!!!!

summary: stuck in a cave waiting out a sandstorm, what’s the worst that can happen?!

word count: 2.3k

authors note: this is my first time publishing smut & i’m a bit nervous.. so here you guys go, as promised !!! hope you enjoy

part four here !

Kissing Qimir never felt enough. As you two meshed together, kissing as one. You wanted to drown in him. In a way, you started to feel yourself suffocate under him. Feeling as though kissing him was starting to drown you. This makes you break the long, choreographed like kiss the two of you shared.

Both of you heave out your lungs from catching each other's breath. Your hands continue to roam his chest, but you begin to reach from under his shirt feeling his soft skin beneath the cloth. Immediately he rips off his shirt but all you can do in this moment is feel, no matter how open your eyes are. It’s still pitch black in the cave you both took cover in while waiting out the sandstorm.

His lips crash against yours like the waves back home. The sounds of your lips smack together repeatedly like waves meeting the shore, growing more hungry. You start to lift your back off from the makeshift bed and lift your shirt off. After it's off, you continue to kiss a bit more after this, but Qimir wants to taste more of you. His lips unattached from yours and move towards your neck. You hum as a reaction and he feels the vibration of it beneath his lips. Qimir makes his way down to your chest. His lips are warm and soft. His bare hands slide their way up your stomach, eventually resting above your bra. Your hands plant themselves above his, and signal him to take it off.

Your bra comes off, and immediately Qimir bolts his lips onto your breasts. You sigh so loud in the air the wind storm beyond the cave can’t cover it. You feel the sensitivity on every inch of you start to grow. Your body grows hot, feeling as if you are directly under the suns.

As Qimir plants kisses and sucks over your chest, you start to reflect. You remind yourself that this is what your life was missing. You were missing these feelings of want and desire. You were missing Qimir. You no longer felt out of place when you were with Qimir. He understood you, you and your wants. In the past, you would shut the feelings you feel now down into your mental vault. Knowing it wasn’t the Jedi way. Now, Qimir opened this vault, and you didn’t want it to close anytime soon.

He starts to shift more down, making his way down your stomach. His hands pull your pants down along with your underwear, and you lift your bottom to help him. You feel your heart squeeze in anticipation so much it hurts just a bit. Qimir starts to caress your bare legs, shifting himself in between you while lowering himself down.

Qimir breathes out heavily, and you feel the cold air hit your core. Your whole body shivers in response and you whine into the air.

With one swift, broad tongue, he licks your cunt.

Your whole body feels a wave of pleasure and overwhelmness. Your hands reach towards Qimir, and you lace your fingers through his hair. The more he massages your folds with his tongue, the more you pull his hair.

His mouth vibrates against your core and your mouth grows slack with pleasure.

You feel yourself throb from underneath him while you squirm, but Qimir’s arms wrap around your legs to hold you in place. He’s eating you, and you're enjoying it. You bite your lip so hard it stings under your teeth. Qimir’s fingers grip onto your skin, leaving imprints you can’t see.

After long sucks and licks, he removes his mouth. You feel the warmth leave you and you immediately huff out your mouth in want.

Qimir starts to tease and make this all last longer by planting soft kisses along the side of you, especially on your thighs. You start to grow impatient and its making you shift. He tightens his grip on you as he presses soft and gentle kisses onto you, and you swear you can feel his smile into the kisses. He’s enjoying driving you crazy for him. You decide to shut down his amusement and tell him what to do. “Do it again, please.” You whine through the force.

He wastes no time, and latches his mouth onto your wet aching cunt.

You moan as loud as you can, uncontrollably. You cover your mouth with your hand, but he reaches towards your forearm and holds it down himself. Making you loud just for him.

When you think of desire, this is what you feel. You feel all the nerves of you a million times more sensitive. One of your main feelings is being treated as you are wanted. He wants to taste you, he wants to touch, and kiss you.

How could you live life without this? How empty would that be?

You suck in your breath and it hitches. You feel overwhelmed. You are over your cliff. The cliff you always feel like you're on around Qimir, but it's different this time. Below the cliff are waves crashing. Your body wants to join the waves, and Qimir senses it.

“Let yourself feel.” He orders in your head.

You start to feel yourself be engulfed by the waves, feeling the powerful ocean come to you. You reach over the edge, and your body shakes under him. You cum on his tongue and he groans in response. Savoring the taste of you.

You begin to gasp in and out, trying to catch your breath. You ache for the come down and your body sends aftershocks. Qimir decides to go easy on you, and removes his mouth from you.

Qimir wastes no time and grabs ahold of your face again to guide himself back onto your lips. Your lips move together and you taste yourself on his lips, and his tongue. The prickles of Qimir’s facial hair rub along your upper lip.

His hair dangles in your face above you, and your hands brush the hair back. Feeling the black strands intertwine with your fingers.

Without saying anything, Qimir rests your hand that was on his head, and guides it down his chest, down his stomach, and finally above his hard imprint in his pants. His grip on your hand tightens as you touch him.

You loved feeling this. This desire. It felt warm and hot. It felt scorching under your touch and inside your chest.

Qimir rests his forehead on yours, as he loses himself into the pleasure you are making him feel. You can even feel the warmth of his panting on your face. You breathe him in.

You start to grow impatient, wanting more. In a way, you’re sitting on the shore. Coming down from your high. You want to feel yourself in the waves again. With that in mind you start to reach upwards onto the waistband of his pants, and tug.

You feel (but can’t see) him shift beneath you knowing it must be him taking his clothes off. With your senses you hear the fabric fall to the floor, then immediately feel the soft but hard skin of his cock beside your thigh.

The tip glides itself in between your folds, feeling slick and hot. You naturally grind yourself into it and move your hips. Then, your eyebrows frown as you hear Qimir groan in annoyance. You stop in fear you are doing something wrong, and he senses it.

“No no- keep doing that.”

And you do. Your hips roll below you and you feel yourself get closer to the waves. Although Qimir’s annoyed groans only continue, and he acknowledges it. “Fuck. I can’t-” he puffs above you, heaving his chest in and out “I can’t see you.” and without a second to waste, you feel the force fill the air. Next thing you know the cave is illuminated red from Qimir’s lightsaber.

He wanted to see you ride his dick so much that he force pulled his own weapon, and turned it on to see you. The vibration of the saber resembled the way you felt inside, quivering and hot.

Finally after only being able to feel, now you get to see. Qimir’s eyebrows frowned in concentration, his eyes scanned your entire bare body before him, his broad shoulders, his arm holding out the lightsaber above you, his toned stomach doing small paces to rub himself onto you, and his huge thighs in between you. You blushed so hard that your eyes started to water from your blood pressure rising.

You started to feel impatient. You ached for him to be inside you. Your hand reaches towards his cock, and you align it with your entrance.

“H-hold on. I haven’t warmed you up enough.”

The sandstorm beside you both can’t even cover your next words with how loud you yelled. “What?!” you blared between you two.

With Qimir’s free hand, he strokes your folds with his fingers delicately. He knows he doesn’t wanna say these words out loud, because he knows he needs to say this in a deep, condescending tone that he won’t execute out loud. “Did The Jedi not teach you patience?”

You clutch your fist in frustration, but especially arousal. He was teasing you.

His lustful eyes leave yours and sets them on your pussy. His mouth forms an O shape from how wet you were for him. He didn’t even need to use spit anymore. With how slick you were for him, he gently pushes a finger inside you.

You inhale sharply and feel yourself in a different way, and start to know yourself in a new way as well. You’ve never felt this amount of desire in your whole life. Sure, you had your moments, but you never gave into them this far. Qimir made you feel more than you knew was physically possible.

Then, you moan the dirtiest and loudest moan as his finger curls onto your soft g-spot. Your body launches forward from the pleasure causing Qimir to softly curse.

“Fuck.” He lifts his saber higher to bring it farther away from you. With this action, it brings him satisfaction to know he’s making you feel this strongly and it brings a smile to his face. A smile on his lips as his eyes study your body below him. Your body is red and aching.

The more Qimir fingers you, the more you feel the waves get closer. You can feel the wind of them brushing against your skin. It starts to bring goosebumps onto your flesh, and Qimir can see it. This makes him add another finger inside you and repeat his action.

You become so overwhelmed that grab ahold of his hand below you. Though you just rest it on top of him and he waits for you to pull him away, but it never comes. Qimir continues to pump his digits in and out of you and bites his lip as you unravel around him.

The waves are closer, your skin is feeling the sprinkles of the powerful waves before you. You’re close. You can practically walk and enter the ocean— but not like this.

Your hand pulls his wrist and he immediately stops. You open your tight shut eyes and see Qimir’s expression reading concern, you can even read his lips faintly saying “You okay?”

You nod your head with your hair damp from sweat. Your shaking hand reaches towards his cheek, and you speak to him through the force once again “I wanna let go around you.” You immediately feel Qimir’s cock twitch beside your thigh.

Surprisingly he is still holding up his lightsaber ahead of you. Clearly meaning he wants to see you, every part of you, and every moment. His hair dangles in front of his face as he lowers his head down to align himself with your entrance.

Slowly, and as gently as he can, he pushes himself into you. Your whole body grows tense in anticipation waiting for all of him. You look up to him seeing his adam’s apple bob in pleasure.

For a bit, Qimir repeatedly inches his way in and out of you. Trying his best not to overwhelm you. When the time comes when he’s all the way in, he rests it inside you. You look up to him, with red highlighting every pore on him, you see his face. Although you are so focused on the insane amount of desire you feel, you don’t comprehend what’s in his mind.

In his mind, he’s blown away on what he has before him. He has the one he’s been searching for inside of him, wrapped around his cock. You don’t realize it yet, but you have him wrapped around you too, around your finger.

Qimir still holding his lightsaber up, he starts to pump repeatedly, slowly. With his free hand its caressing your thighs beneath him. Roaming your legs like he’s trying to personally heat up his hand from your touch. You croak out moans into the cave. When Qimir finally reaches a pace he is satisfied with, and you as well, he rests his hand above your pubic bone, and lowers his thumb onto your swollen clit giving it the attention you need.

The waves are beneath your feet, slowly but surely reaching you. You can feel the powerful waves flow through your body. From your clit, up your stomach, your sensitive breasts, heaving chest, marked neck, and moaning mouth. This all repeats.

It repeats until you are close. You look into Qimir’s eyes, and he reads them. He knows you, knows you well enough to know what your eyes are trying to say.

Instead of speeding up his pace, he keeps it. Knowing this feels best for you. The sandstorm can’t even cover his moans escaping his lips.

The waves crash a second time. Feeling more powerful than the first. Your walls tighten around him and you can feel yourself throb around his cock. The waves grow slower, and you come down. Qimir slides out of you, and you immediately feel empty.

His saber turns off, and the cave is pitch black once more. Though, this time instead of being alone in the darkness. Qimir rests beside you and holds you, drowning into your ocean.

chapter six here !

[heechwe]

the start of time | 𝐩𝐣𝐬

୨୧ pairing: park (jay) jongseong x reader ୨୧ word count: 8.6k ୨୧ genre: angst, semi-fluff, smut ୨୧ tags: friends to strangers to lovers, childhood friends, miscommunication, pet names (baby, love, etc.), unprotected sex, TRIGGERS FOR DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND PARENTAL ABUSE IN THE LATTER HALF OF FIC. ୨୧ synopsis: You've lost your creative spark for the first time since moving away from Jeju Island, leaving behind your best friend in the process without an explanation. But when a work assignment sends you back to your hometown, truths come to light and perhaps lost love can come back with a little time and effort. ➸ bless @pars-ley for following this fic to the very beginning and being one of the best betas ever! this story is for you, ley, and thank you ♡ 💿Listen to the story's playlist here!

Over the thin railing that separates Jay from the cliffs below, the waves crash violently together. The weather mirrors the feelings circulating through his veins. The ripples of the seabed meeting the sand make him long for what his life could be instead of its current state. The wind whips his trenchcoat in angry thrashes against his back. His hands grip the lighthouse’s iron bars to keep his body steady. The upcoming storm was forecast last night to be one of the biggest downpours of the summer.

As the second in command of the lighthouse keeper, his father, it’s standard practice to be prepared for what’s to come. As the sea continues its visceral reaction to the weather, Jay thinks about her and what her life has become since she’s left. Is she happy? Is Seoul everything she dreamed of? Was running from Jeju without saying goodbye worth it? Or is she closer than he believes, her heart’s desire turning out to be not far from the fishing town they grew up in?

His father calls for him inside, interrupting his spiraling thoughts. Probably for the better, anyway. Thinking about those chapters of his life, the book separated cleanly and harshly with a before and after, does him no good. So, like he should, he runs inside to do the next task that keeps one of the last lighthouses in Jeju working properly. Even if his heart has to be sacrificed in the process.

The subject of your next photograph takes no interest in the lens standing three feet away. Her tail wiggles rapidly as she inspects the bush in front of her with her perky, wet nose. You giggle quietly behind your camera, trying not to disturb her inspection of the roses.

Rule #1 of photography, according to your department head Sunghoon, is to make yourself nonexistent. To get the perfect shot, conceal yourself as much as possible. It’s taken many practice sessions since your first magazine catalog, the original photos coming out less than perfect. Thankfully, you’re now lead photographer thanks to Sunghoon’s tutelage and tips. After five years, you feel like you’re on stable ground.

It reminds you of Jay, the sudden memory of him being the focus of your lens many times before a punch to the gut. Your oldest friend in the world probably wonders what the reason was for your sudden departure. You couldn’t even leave him a letter to provide some semblance of an explanation, one that he definitely deserved more than anyone else.

If only you had a reason that made sense or could salvage the bond you once shared. You know now it’s been eaten away by silence, so what could be said anyhow to repair it? 

Your guilt gnaws at your empty stomach the entire way back to the headquarters of Otherworldly, the magazine you interned at and subsequently were hired to take pictures for. You greet the rest of your team when you make your way upstairs.

”Finally found some inspiration?” Sunwoo asks. Your friend tries to balance a pencil on the top of his nose.

”I’m working on it. In the meantime, I got the copies you wanted.” You give him the folder that holds your pictures for the month’s spread.

”Barely made the deadline this time, kid.” Sunghoon tuts his head at you.

“Leave her be,” Chaewon chides him, thwacking her notebook on the back of his head. It’s nice to know the writer’s room has your back when the boys decide to tease, especially in the form of Chaewon. She may be a stern leader, but she also happens to have a soft spot for you, the only female photographer.

You hear your boss, Kim Taehyung, call your name and ask you to come to his office. Your body bristles at the command, but Chaewon pats you on the shoulder. “Probably just a timesheet thing.”

Tip-toeing into Taehyung’s office, you smile at his back. Your boss is focused on a box of files on the windowsill, the outline of his button up shirt highlighted by the sun. “Please sit,” he says.

You do as he asks, putting your hands on your knees to pinch the skin, an old habit you couldn't kick. You tuck your hands under your legs to stop when Taehyung turns to you. He presses his glasses higher to the bridge of his nose, a soft smile emerging on his lips. “I wanted to say your photos from the last column were very impressive.”

”Oh!” You respond instinctively. Expecting reprimands that turned out to be compliments, you mentally take a deep breath of relief. “Thank you, sir.”

"Also," he says, "I was wondering how you’d feel being sent out on an assignment. Well, you and Sunwoo, actually. Sunghoon was discussing a location-focused piece, and he recommended you for it since you may need a change of scenery for some fresh inspiration.”

You nod your head immediately. “Of course!”

Taehyung claps his hands together, clearly pleased. “Perfect. I’ve already booked you two for the next flight to Aewol in two days. It’ll probably be easy to find a place to stay, right?”

The pit in your stomach that faded immediately widens into a chasm. The sound of your hometown’s name on Taehyung’s lips could have been a figment of your imagination. A sick joke your guilt materialized to punish you further. But as you look longer at your boss, his glee transforming into hesitant confusion, you know the reality is far worse.

”The location piece is for Jeju,” you say, the realization on your lips hitting your ears like a cannon.

”Is that an issue? I can always send Jungwon with Sunwoo instead."

”No sir! Not a problem at all.” The words tumble out before you can stop them.

Jungwon, the little prick, wouldn’t get in the way of your success if you could help it. It’s bad enough that he reminds you of your creative block whenever he gets the chance. No way would he steal a cover piece from you. Particularly the one Sunghoon recommended you for and your boss expected you to complete without problems.

Despite the implications creating intense dread in every fiber of your being.

”Perfect. Get some sleep for the flight! I’ll send the piece details in an email first thing tomorrow morning.”

You walk back to your desk in a daze, unsure what to say when Sunghoon, Sunwoo, and Chaewon ask about the meeting. All your thoughts can center on is Jay, his smiling face continuously playing in your mind’s eye.

“This town is cute! A bit barren, but cute,” Sunwoo says as he exits the car parked in front of your childhood home. Your mother’s rose bushes stand tall near the mailbox, the only color in the dry grasslands surrounding your house. Aewol pales in comparison to the colors of Seoul, the city’s vibrant hues suddenly replaced with sepia tones. The only color that seems to shine through the landscape is the sea a five-minute walk away.

”Say that again, Woo, and your face won’t look so cute.” You roll your eyes and grab your luggage from the trunk.

Two weeks, only two weeks, you can survive two weeks. Your mantra on the flight to Jeju Island has been giving you some relief at the thought of going back home in half a decade. Standing in front of the brick and mortar that encapsulates your old house, you find the words to be extremely hollow.

With her uncanny senses, your mother is already out the door and greeting you and Sunwoo with hugs and kisses on the cheeks. How she could tell the two of you were barely out of the car without spying out the window, you’re unsure.

Sunwoo melts under your mother’s attention, his gummy smile and polite aura on full display. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

”Ah, my prayers were answered. Glad to see my daughter returned with a boyfriend!”

Yours and Sunwoo’s eyes grow to saucers. Your tongues are erupting with explanations at an absurdly fast speed. “No, Mom,” you shush her as Sunwoo’s blush creeps across his neck. “Woo’s my coworker. He’s here with me on an assignment.”

”Oh! Apologies.” She laughs behind one hand and pats Sunwoo on the back with the other. “Doesn’t mean one day you can’t be more than coworkers! That’s how your father and I met, remember?”

You give her a close-lipped smile and nod, the muscles in your jaw tightening.

You hadn’t thought about your father or your parents’ relationship once since you had flown out to the mainland. Admittedly, your life was all the better for it.

Feeling the air of his presence surrounding yours again twists the veins in your neck to tense knots. The ends of your hair prickle in anticipation. You make it to the front of your doorstep, wondering where he is and why he didn’t barge outside to greet you.

Like she can read your mind, your mother says, “I forgot to call and tell you, honey. Your father had an accident at the factory a month ago.” You see a tear in the corner of her eye, but you don’t address it. “So…he’s been bedridden for the past few months now.”

Sunwoo expresses his deepest sympathies. Unbeknownst to him, they deserve to go to the next beggar before him.

Like any other child, you should worry about your father’s sudden health change with a heavy heart and a frazzled mind. You should feel guilty for being away for so long, wondering how to make up for the lost time.

But you feel nothing. Not an ounce of what you should feel.

Even when you sit by your parents’ bed, his eyes lazily gazing out the window while your mother tells him in a loving voice that you’re home, your emotions are devoid of anything negative or positive. Sunwoo smiles and greets him politely. Your father says nothing. The seizure that overtook him stole his ability to enunciate coherent words.

Some moments later, when it’s just the two of you in the room together, you itch to leave. It should be a pleasure to see him. But you’re unsure to see it any other way but objectively: he’s just a body in a bed, doing nothing every day.

You hear your mother shouting in the living room. Her voice is at an abnormally high pitch to exemplify her happiness. You forgot she could achieve such a decibel when she wanted to.

”You won’t believe who’s here, Seongie!”

Seongie.

The childhood nickname Jay was blessed with by his parents, and the name stuck like a second skin. Now, it bounces off your ears and exacerbates your already conflicting emotions. Your body goes into overdrive from the sudden overstimulation, at ease from knowing Jay is close by but petrified you're seeing him after so long.

You fix your hair and take tentative steps out of your parents' room and into the hallway, hearing your mother call your name to beckon you to welcome your old friend.

When you see him, his frame filling the doorway of your childhood house, you’re transported back in time. You see yourself and Jay on a day when he could barely stand at half the wall height. You were etching pencil markings into the doorframe, the wood concealing the handwriting perfectly when the door was fully closed. A time when there were no worries or anxieties placed on you, the two of you against the world.

Looking over his face now, you realize the years have not shown physically. He still has the same angled jaw and smooth cheeks. His bottom lip remains puffy, especially when he pouts. The only thing that has changed with time is his eyes, most likely from the image before him, one he hasn’t seen in so long.

He has every right to be confused. One second, you stopped being a staple in his life. Now, you’re back in it without a warning.

You can’t deny your heart clenching. The muscle seizes when he looks over your figure, his jaw ticking when he finally meets your eyes with his own.

”You’re back,” he says finally. His first words to you in five years hold an air of uncertainty, laced with unspoken pain. He’s unsure what to do with his body, his arms pressed to his sides and his hands stuffed tightly into his pockets.

Knowing you’re the cause of it makes you want to run to Seoul all over again with your tail between your legs, hoping you can forget the misery you’ve caused. How can one apology hold enough weight to make up for what you did to one of the only people you’ve ever loved?

Sunwoo, aware of the sudden tension flooding the room, holds out a hand to your best friend. “Hi, I’m Sunwoo.”

Jay breaks eye contact with you to take Sunwoo’s palm, shaking it with a gentle but present grip. Jay gestures to your mom when he discusses yours and Sunwoo’s job at the magazine. “She’s very proud of her daughter, you know."

”Of course!” Your mother exclaims. “‘S not everyday that your child becomes some hip photographer.”

Jay inhales a heavy breath and looks down at his watch. “I have to go back to the lighthouse, but—“

”I thought your dad still ran that thing,” you cut Jay off. Aewol’s lighthouse was one of the last on the island, and the last love Jay’s father had left after his wife passed away twelve years ago. You expected it to stay in the family, but not in this way. Not when Jay has so many dreams to fulfill. Or, at least, you hope so.

Jay releases a humorless laugh, eyes falling at the corners. “Pop’s getting old. Can’t do it forever.”

He hugs your mother and gives a soft wave to Sunwoo. You feel the pit in your chest from a few days ago re-erupt when Jay looks in your direction before he departs. All you’re left with is the grim line of his mouth to haunt you for the rest of your afternoon.

The shutter of your camera makes Jay turn his head to you with a shy grin, his hair blowing in all directions from the wind. Your spot on the cliffside overlooking the sea is close enough to the lighthouse for you to see Jay’s father going in and out of the structure with supplies shipped from the mainland. Jay only runs over when his father calls for him to help, but his father hasn’t bothered to in the last hour or so.

In the downtime, the two of you have been alternating between science homework and enjoying the cool, cloudy weather. You’ve taken a number of shots of the water’s current and weeds surrounding your picnic blanket, but the majority of them were of your best friend. He pretends he’s going to smack your lens away, but he never does.

“Are you done taking candid shots of me?” Jay asks, his pencil scratching against his notebook.

“Depends. Maybe once you tell me what you’re writing,” you tease. “Because it’s definitely not a chemical equation.”

Jay chuckles and puts his notebook between the two of you. The words are jumbled in front of you until you recognize them as a recipe. “I was testing out this version of hoedeopbap last night, but I used white fish instead of salmon. It turned out really good, even Jaeyun liked it.”

You rest your head on your hand, sprawling out on the blanket to look at Jay. He always appears so animated when discussing food. You wonder when he’ll take the initiative and do something with his passion.

“What?” He asks when he catches you staring.

You grin and turn your eyes away. “You’re just a dork for food, is all.”

“Says the nerd with her camera always around her neck.”

You click your tongue at him. “I consider myself an opportunist. How else will I get good shots if I don’t have my baby with me?” You rub your camera’s body lovingly, and Jay releases a hearty laugh.

The booming sound of your father’s voice calling your name makes your entire body flinch. You swear his figure is as tall as the lighthouse as he comes towards your picnic blanket, stopping short when he sees Jay next to you.

“It’s almost dinner time. Let’s go home.” Your father says the words with a false ease; they hide his warning to follow him back to your house. Your anxiety rumbles low in your stomach, but you play it off like it’s nothing as you pack up your stuff.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jay says, his eyes hopeful for the next morning. As it is your routine for him to bike with you to school, you’re also counting the minutes until you see him again.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, your eyes soft but your stomach wrapped in knots. When you’re out of sight, and your father wraps his hand around your upper arm on your way to the car, you calculate the next seconds until you’re away from him and back in the safety of your best friend’s presence.

You and Sunwoo have been around the town square of Aewol all morning and afternoon. The crisp hour of 4 PM hits you sharply with the sound of cows and other livestock sounding off somewhere nearby. The pictures you’ve both taken of the local townspeople, random animals passing through the pale greenery, and subtle landscape have been average at best. They don’t hit you with awe or fuel any further inspiration. It’s the same cycle you’ve repeated for the past three months, trying to strike some sort of match of creativity only to come up empty.

“Let’s be honest,” Sunwoo says, looking over his own camera’s reel. “These kinda blow.”

“You don’t say?” You kick a free cobblestone off the road in front of you, lips downturned.

“The assignment is ‘Hidden Treasures’ right? Maybe we’re just looking in the wrong place.”

“Where do you think we’ll find something like that here?”

“You’re a local,” Sunwoo says in his defense. “Where did you go all the time in this backwater town?”

The beginning of your sarcastic remark dies on your lips the second you see Jay walking out of the laundromat with Heeseung, one of your old high school friends. He looks the same as Jay, still youthful but showing maturity around the edges.

Jay catches your eyes as they continue walking, his face contorting in surprise but unsure how to address it. Heeseung is the one to run towards you and pick you up in a tight hug, practically squeezing the remaining energy out of you.

“Holy shit, Jong wasn’t lying! You’re really back!” Heeseung laughs, his eyes becoming crescent moons from his happiness. You match his reaction, genuinely glad to see another familiar face.

You introduce Sunwoo to Heeseung, and Sunwoo exchanges pleasantries with Jay. Jay remains tense, the two of you conflicted about how to bridge the awkwardness that lingers.

Heeseung, like Sunwoo, is a great detective, sniffing out tension and immediately directing the conversation to your cameras. “So, Jong was saying you’re here for an assignment?”

“Yes!” Sunwoo says before you can. “We’re trying to find hidden treasures, actually. Our boss’s words, not mine.” Heeseung laughs at Sunwoo and then flicks his fingers.

“Jong could show you guys the inside of the lighthouse! Or even the view from that damn balcony would be a treasure in its own right. You can practically see the whole town from up there. Right, Jong?”

Jay rolls his eyes and rolls the cuffs of his sleeves up to his elbows. “Yeah, that would be fine.”

“Perfect! We were dying here without any good material. No offense to you small town folk,” Sunwoo apologizes, but neither of your old friends mind. They welcome Sunwoo’s city perspective with laughter and an open hand, just like they always have with newcomers.

On your walk to the lighthouse, Heeseung and Sunwoo taking the lead, you’re left to walk alongside Jay. The tension is a tad looser than it was before, but it still pervades the space between you both.

Finally, Jay says, “I can’t believe you’re actually home, y’know.” He says the sentence more like a question, his voice unable to mask the traces of hurt that linger.

It makes your heart rip, but you avoid the workings inside your chest to keep the conversation light. "It took a long time, didn't it?”

”Yeah. It’s like you dropped off the planet.” Jay’s voice turns a degree lighter. He smiles, the crack in his solid facade giving you a way back in.

“I basically did. All I had was my camera and some clothes in my bag.”

Jay's eyes widen, startled by the thought. “You’ve never traveled light once in your entire life.”

”I know! I barely had time to grab the necessities.”

His eyes are filled with humor. “And by that, you mean…”

“Obviously my Pokémon collection, for starters. I had to start from scratch,” you joke. “Good thing I saved all of the old cards under my bed.”

”Even the one of Charmander that I dropped in Jaeyun’s homemade soju?”

You nod, laughing. “It still smells like watermelon.”

”Bullshit!”

You both fall into an easy rhythm of witty banter and taunting, recalling old memories and brushing shoulders in a mocking fashion.

By the time you’re taking photographs on the highest floor of the lighthouse, the tension has dissipated by a large portion. Your relationship with Jay may not be completely back to where it was before, but the first lighthearted smile he throws in your direction proves it’s a start.

And a start is just enough to make your heart feel a million pounds lighter.

“So Jongseong is flailing this card around, not realizing that the bowl of my signature soju punch is right there behind him…” Jake tells the story of the Charmander card with animated expressions. Heeseung and Jay roll their eyes, but Sunwoo laughs the entire time, his buzz bumping his energy to a level you had never seen before.

The bonfire Jake and Heeseung set up a walk away from the lighthouse is big enough for all five of you to sit comfortably around it. It seemed to be the only way your old friends could hang out together at this point in their adult lives. The bar that still stood in town filled with too many old people to feel like an acceptable hangout location.

“And he completely dropped not only her precious Pokémon card, but his whole fist into the punch bowl! I had to make a whole new batch without my parents knowing about it!” Jake laughs incredulously.

The memory still holds a level of insanity for him, clearly—not just at the situation but the level of teasing that you and Jay would devolve to when you were in your own little world together. You couldn’t help that you wanted to take your card from Jay’s hands, even if that meant soaking him in alcohol to get him to give it up.

You lift your beer to your lips, blushing. Jay sits beside you and notices the humor in your expression, smiling to himself too. You didn’t expect to reach this level of closeness again so soon. Who knew it would take a work project to find your way back to each other? With the week coming to a close and a good catalog of photos under your belt thanks to him, you could say the glass was looking half full.

“You guys got any more stories? This shit’s hilarious!” Sunwoo says, still laughing.

“Loads, man,” Jake responds.

“He’s got the best memory of all of us. Probably remembers all of our first naps in elementary,” Heeseung adds.

“How about we focus on the present, please? Otherwise we’ll be here until the sun comes up, Dee and Dum,” Jay says, pointing to the prime suspects with their all-knowing smirks.

“What else is there to say, Jay? Jake and I have been toiling on the dredging boats. You keep guarding that white tower and saying no to your uncle every time he asks you to work at his restaurant. Same old, same old.”

You turn your head to stare at Jay, perplexed. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

It’s always been Jay’s dream to make something of himself with his recipes. Bookmarks, sticky notes, anything with free space held an ingredient here or a step for a recipe there. It was like it was second nature, as were photographs for you.

How could he deny himself from what he wanted?

“I already have responsibilities here. I can’t drive up and down the highway to Park & Co. every day.”

“Start small, idiot.” You chide him, half-serious in your pestering. “Who said you couldn't do both? You can be a good son and still have your own dream.”

“Careful,” Jake says to you. “He might listen to you.”

“You’re the only one who gets through that cold heart of his,” Heeseung teases.

Jay gives the older boys a stern look, and they back off immediately.

On the walk back to your house, Jay’s jacket nestled around your shoulders, you grill him further on the prospect of him cooking seriously. “You should do it.”

Jay shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “And what’ll happen to the lighthouse? My dad will go back every morning on his cane and keep it working himself? No way.”

“Come on, who says you can’t do both?” You flaunt your arms in the air, emphasizing your point. “It’s not like it rains every day here.”

He looks at you with humored eyes, their shape becoming extremely thin when he smiles. “You’re even more stubborn as an adult, you know?

You poke your tongue out at him. “I could say the same about you, Seongie.”

The rain soaks your clothes when you run through Jay’s door. You shake off the droplets in your hair, most of the strands needing to be wrung out in your fist. Jay gets you a towel to dry off with, laughing at your current state of affairs.

”Don’t make fun of me. Be glad I still came, asshole,” you warn, warming yourself with the dryness of the cotton towel.

Jay raises his hands in mercy. “I told you to come earlier! Forecasts are no joke.”

”Sometimes they’re wrong,” you say. 

”Ninety-five percent of the time, they’re not. Trust the lighthouse keeper next time, maybe? I’ve been watching those skies for three years. I know if and when the weathermen are full of shit.”

You roll your eyes and shuck your shoes off, “Whatever. Any chance you have a spare pair of warm socks for me? I may get frostbite.”

”One, that involves snow,” Jay says as he walks into his small bedroom, leaving you alone for a second before coming out with what you requested. “And two, promise to bring them back. I only have so many pairs before I have to go to the city for more.”

”Scout’s honor,” you promise. You switch out your soaked socks for Jay’s, the feeling of the fabric making you immediately warmer. It could also be the fireplace that Jay put kindling in before you got there, but it’s mostly the socks. “Thank you. I feel better already.”

“I’d offer you a set of clothes too, but I’m moving a lot of my stuff from my dad’s.”

“It’s not that far away, though. You really want to live in this tiny shack?”

Jay laughs and returns to his food on the stove. “Do you think I could bring a girl home living with him? I love him, but I’m getting too old to be his roommate.”

You smile and press your arms into the kitchen counter, but you know it’s false. The thought of Jay being with someone else sprouts a gargantuan knot of jealousy in your stomach. He’s never belonged to you, not by any means. Not only that, but your illogical departure gives you no right to claim him now. And yet…

“Hey, where’d you go?” He waves a dish towel in front of your face, a smile on his lips.

“Sorry, just lost in thought,” you play off your prying thoughts.

“Obviously.” He sticks his tongue out at you and continues to stir the concoction on the stove.

“What are you making anyway?”

“Seaweed soup. I haven’t been able to make you any since…the last birthday we spent together.”

Your body warms deep down to the soles of your feet at this surprise. “My birthday was three months ago.”

He chuckles and turns his head to you, smirking. “Consider it a belated birthday gift then.” He carries on stirring, but continues talking. “Besides, you always liked my soup compared to your mom’s. Too watery, if I remember right.”

You blush and step away from the counter. “Let’s not talk about her or her food.”

Jay’s face turns puzzled. “You’ve always been so bristly when we talk about your family. Your mom is one of the sweetest ladies in town." 

“You don’t get it. You didn’t grow up with her.”

“Hey, at least you have both parents around.”

You slam your hand down on another laminate countertop, growing more frustrated the longer the topic is broached. “Jongseong, please drop it.”

“Why are you getting so upset?” He asks, puzzled and growing alarmingly quiet at your outburst.

“Because you don’t get it! And you never will, okay? So let it go!”

The kitchen suddenly feels too suffocating, the memories of the past and your argument melding together in a way that makes any hunger that you had become a full stomach stuffed with nothing but anger and fear. You run out of the house and back into the rain, knowing if you say anything more, your secrets will fall around you like pellets soaking your skin.

The lanterns fill the sky like a thousand stars, close enough for you to touch before they’re whisked away into the dark clouds above you. Even for your small town, every adult and child knows the end of summer festival is a time to make the last set of wishes and affirmations before autumn comes. If Jay’s father yearned for an easy season, he would buy a lantern to release on a night light tonight, as would your friends’ families who hoped for good health and fortune.

You smile when you manage to catch one, holding on tight despite knowing it’s against tradition. Once one is meant to float away, it was considered rude to stop it from continuing on its path upward.

Jay chuckles and grabs it from you, matching your pout in jest. “Next year, I’ll buy you your own, alright? Don’t be greedy!”

You roll your eyes and watch the lantern rise up and away from your spot on the beach. It shimmers in an amber glow until it slips away into the black sky overhead.

You turn to him, eyes lit up not just from the lantern flames. “Did you wish for anything this year?”

Jay shrugs. “I can’t really wish for anything ‘cause I didn’t get—“

“Don’t give me that! It’s symbolic, anyway. Just tell me,” you whine.

Jay only side-eyes you, a smirk playing on his lips.

You attempt to throw a bundle of sand in his direction, but he sees your upcoming attack the second you raise your arm. He takes your wrist in his hand, the clump disintegrating between your fingers. The two of you laugh as you try to wiggle free from his grasp.

You’re both a tangle of limbs until he finally pins you down on the ground. He hovers above you, panting hard. “I win,” Jay replies, his breathing ragged but eyes still sparkling from a successful takedown.

“You wish.”

In the flicker of lantern lights and midnight stars overhead, Jay can’t help himself from leaning down closer until there’s barely a breath between your lips. He lets every doubt that has lingered over the past fourteen years dissipate and surrenders to the moment, feeling the softness of your mouth as he kisses you.

You could be glowing as bright as the lights still being sent off into the sky. You feel like you are, anyway.

He doesn’t go faster or push you further, the simplicity of the act making you sparkle from within with every ebb and flow of your conjoined lips. The crackle of a firework is what makes the two of you come up for air, unaware of how much time has passed.

 You let the moment hang between you the entire walk home. He holds your hand, squeezing it every now and then, the action more valuable than any words he could say right now. He holds himself back from giving you another kiss to say goodnight, knowing there’s always tomorrow.

Minutes after you make it inside, the scene in front of you turns whatever joy was left from Jay’s presence into acid.

“Can you not do anything right around here? I ask for the simplest things and even that’s too much.” Your father points to the food in his hands with an air of disgust directed at your mother.

He spits his vitriol in her face, the pattern commonplace. The behavior is nothing new, but his eyes show something worse than normal brewing beneath the surface.

“I can fix it,” your mother assures him, trying to take the bowl from him. “I’ll throw out the old batch and—“

“So now you think wasting food is the better choice? Are you stupid?”

The two of them are unaware of your presence, but even if they were, you doubt that would change the downward spiral they were heading towards.

She tries to walk away from him like she always has, diffusing the situation in the only way she knows how, but he drops the bowl on the counter and takes her by the arm.

“You’re not leaving,” he warns. The next moments pass in a blur, each one that plays out making you hover outside of your body, looking down in disbelief. Your mother’s temple hits the wood with a terrible thud. The next second, your body is pressed against your father’s to pull him away, begging, “Daddy, please stop!” 

His upper arm has enough force to jam into your chest and knock you onto the kitchen tile below. Pain reverberates up your tailbone from hitting the floor in a violent bang.

Your mother comes from the daze of her assault to cover your body with her own. It’s a pointless defense, your father’s feet slamming hard on the floor as he walks away and into the bedroom without looking back once.

She apologizes profusely, holding your head in her hands as tears stream down her face without an endpoint. You can barely form a tear yourself, still unsure the past ten minutes happened at all. An hour ago, you had your first kiss, and now…

“Your aunt lives on a coast off the mainland. I can’t let you stay here anymore, my love.”

That moment is when you feel the water form in your eyes. You couldn’t leave now, not with so much left uncertain.

“Promise me you’ll leave this place. Don’t think about this night again and find something better, please.”

That entire night, the waves knocking into each other with the same force as you had encountered hours ago, you feel your heart shatter into a multitude of pieces, each fragment tinier and more painful than the last. The thought of Jay waking up to see you in the morning only to find you erased from his life, robs any chance of you sleeping on the boat ride to Wando.

He’ll try to call and text, for sure. But what could be said that would explain the last twenty four hours without breaking your promise to your mother? How could you live with sharing such intimate details of your household, even with someone as sacred to you as Jay is?

How could you make him believe it wasn’t his fault that you fled without revealing your most vulnerable and harsh reality? After coming so close to the future you always dreamed of with him, what would he think? What would he do?

So, like any coward does, you let the phone ring until your battery dies, not bothering to charge it again until you make it to your aunt’s. You tell yourself he’ll move on and life will be better with you safe and out of the picture. Every beat of your breaking heart may call you a liar, but you’ll learn to twist it into the truth one day.

The next afternoon, sun slowly setting to meet the waves below, you walk towards the lighthouse with the courage your younger self didn’t have the night you ran away. Your heart tosses around in your mouth when you take the first step through the threshold, but now is the last time you fear the truth. If you couldn’t explain the circumstances back then, the least you could do was explain them now.

You take the trek up the steps to the top floor of the lighthouse, every step heavier than the last. Jay stands inside the lantern room cleaning the large bulb at the center of the space. He immediately tenses when you walk through the open door, but he says nothing. He only holds the same somber expression he had the first day you arrived back in Aewol. Only now, so much more rests behind his face that you cannot decipher.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally. The words release something you believed couldn’t be separated from your being. Your guilt remains present, but the apology provides a long-held breath of fresh air.

He looks up to meet your gaze, eyebrows furrowing just a touch. The setting sun casts amber shadows across his face, making his confusion breathtaking. Clearly, he’s unsure what exactly you’re apologizing for.

The next words already taste like lead in your mouth, but you can’t hold the weight of them for another second.

Speaking them out loud is what will set you free.

“The night I left, my dad pushed my mom into a cabinet,” you confess. The eight words you just uttered create a well of tears in your eyes, but you keep your voice level and solid. “He had always been…harsh before, not just with her, but that was the first night I ever saw him hurt her with his hands instead of his words.

“I tried to stop it from getting worse, and I fell down—no,” you take a breath, “h-he threw—he threw me down on the floor.” You feel foolish for trying to minimize his actions, knowing there’s no reason to protect him anymore. You lower your head, ashamed. “That was when my mom called my aunt in Wando. She begged me not to say anything, so I kept it a secret. You’re the first person I’ve ever told about it… and about how much of an asshole my father really is.”

You can’t help the way your words crumble on your tongue or the low whimper that erupts from your lips. You had accepted in silence the harsh reality of your father being a violent and cruel human being, but speaking the words aloud is another beast entirely.

You go cold, your figure limp until you feel Jay’s gentle fingers under your chin. They pull your face up to meet his, catching his glassy and red eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

You sniffle. “What would you have done? We were seventeen—“

“Fuck that,” Jay seethes, his face a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “I would’ve killed him then, just like I want to right now.”

You laugh and take his fingers in yours. “I made a promise.” You lock onto his gaze harder, trying to convey every ounce of regret you still feel. “I thought about calling you every day. I’d pick up the phone and didn’t know how to come up with the right words, especially after…”

Jay laughs, passing over the curve of your cheek with his thumb. It’s the rhythmic pattern of his touch that makes you come down from such heightened emotions. It’s always been his superpower, grounding you like this. “If I had known I wouldn’t see you again, I would’ve kissed you until the sun came up.”

You blush, your body flushing with heat. “Nothing’s stopping you now, Jongseong. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He steps forward, the shy boy you grew to love appearing in front of you. The last time you were this close, you both were unsure about most things in life, but not about how much you meant to him, and vice versa.

Now, the feelings he had put on hold for so long take hold of him, his heart a kaleidoscope of pent-up sensations when he finally presses his lips to yours. His mouth is ravenous, his tongue finding yours as his arms clutches onto your body with fervor.

You’re encased in him, all the lost time suddenly found in the spaces of his mouth on yours, your hands on his body, and the moans that leave your mouth. He undoes the buttons of your cardigan with quick ease, taking it off of your shoulders and somewhere in the room you don’t care to remember. You help him pull the sweater over his head to kiss the column of his throat and top of his chest, making him shudder.

You both pause to hurry down to the drawing room below, not wanting to continue on the iron floor next to the bright bulb of the lighthouse. Yes, the cot off to the side of the room is not incredibly comfortable, but you care little about its lack of comfort when Jay lays you down on your back and smothers your body in kisses. He makes a map of your skin until he meets the apex of your thighs, your body highly strung by the time he kisses the center of your legs.

You clutch his hair with both hands and hold tight in the midst of his ministrations, his whispered words of affirmation and the figure-eight patterns of his tongue saying just enough to push you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

He lifts his head from your body to crawl over you, his heart in his mouth as he says the words that have always been in his mind and heart from the second he saw you. “I love you.”

You’re unsure if it’s normal to cry at such a confession or in the midst of your current situation, but regardless, there are no tears of fear or pain. They’re ones that fill the silence between you with what he already knows to be true. But you say the words he needs to hear anyway. “I love you, too, Seongie.”

This is what it feels like to be at home. His body against yours, him sliding so easily inside of you without a word needed for the immense amounts of pleasure that already exists. It could be a handful of minutes or a span of time that carries over into the next morning. All that matters is his lips on your own and his hips meeting yours with every thrust.

And in between every movement, he has to remind you how much he loves you. His words and feelings are already embossed into your heart, but it’s nice to hear the breathless cadence of his voice. “I love you so much,” he groans, his end close with the sudden stutters of his body.

You fall off the cliffside together, your bodies in sync in the best possible way as your eyes see the stars from the very first night you kissed in the back of your eyelids. And when he has his hands in your hair, his touch lulling you to sleep, you wonder why it took you this long to come back to the one person who has always been the safest space in your world.

The two of you stay nestled in the thin blanket, Jay’s body your source of warmth in the small drawing room of the lighthouse. The cot barely holds your bodies, but with you both squeezing together and not wanting to let go, you make it work.

Jay takes stray hairs from your face to tuck behind your ears. “I can’t believe you didn’t know how bad my crush was until the festival.”

You giggle into his chest. “I wasn’t paying attention to boys back then! How would I have known?” You hold his gaze, suddenly vulnerable.

He chuckles. “I think I was pretty obvious.”

“To everyone but me, I guess,” you joke. “Besides, I think I always knew I’d end up with you, strangely.”

“That’s not strange, not at all.” He kisses you tenderly, nipping your lips until you laugh into his mouth. “Perfect. At least to me.”

“Same,” you agree. “I’ve never felt more at home than when I’m with you.”

Jay responds by holding you tighter between his arms. He kisses the top of your head before whispering, “So where do we go from here?”

The answer is simple, but that doesn’t make it any easier to face.

Jay looks deeply into your eyes and senses the words you cannot say, and the strength of his stare and his arms as your protective walls from all the harm that still exists in this world gives you the power to confront what you need to.

That afternoon, leaving Jay in the lighthouse with your heart fully in his possession, you know you have to face the demons that wait for you in your childhood home. If you are to have a future together, the first thing you have to do is make peace with the past.

A handwritten note on the fridge tells you your mother went out for groceries, giving you the perfect excuse to release the words that would end your terror once and for all.

You enter your parents’ room to see your father, unmoved from the spot you saw him in on the first day you were back home. Your mother pleaded for you to check in every now and then now that you were back, but you couldn’t bring yourself to. Not until now.

You move the chair by his bedside out to sit down. When you finally face him again, you take note of the details you were too blinded by indifference to notice before. You observe the wrinkles on his forehead, the sunken divots under his eyes, the age lines surrounding his mouth, the frailness of his body.

The weight he’s lost since his accident makes all his features stand out more. All that he’s lost, but has also always been, is on full display now: this husk of a man without the venomous words and bravado to hide behind is truly nothing to be scared of anymore.

 “You’re so much smaller than I realized.” You say it with a breath of relief, any fear or anger that was left behind for him in your soul replaced with pity. You can walk away without regrets or words you wish you could’ve said, because you know now it’s a waste of your peace. Maybe one day, you’ll find it in your heart to forgive, even. Not today, but someday.

You walk away with no grievances left, back in the direction of the lighthouse with a new purpose and ready to take the path you were always meant to. Back to the home you’ve always had resting inside of the one you love.

Jay stands with his back facing you, staring off into the expanse of sea in front of him. His shoulders ease as you step closer.

“You’re back,” he says with saccharine happiness. He takes your hand in his and presses your fingers to his lips.

“I am,” you respond. You kiss him with your whole soul, incredibly in love and unafraid of what will come next.

“Babe! The new issue is here!”

You open your eyes to the sound of Jay’s words. You could barely doze off when he was so excited to grab the mail this morning. It was only delivered a few minutes ago, but of course he has to check for the newest spread of Otherworldly in your mailbox. To his happiness and your shy pride, your name’s plastered in almost every section of the photography credits.

Convincing your boss to let you work for the magazine from your hometown turned out to be easier than expected. With his happiness from your newfound inspiration, it seemed like you could take pictures of algae for all he cared and it would be a hit in the magazine’s eyes.

You weren’t the only one who could take credit, though. Jay’s name was also included in some of the photos, his insight into Aewol’s cuisine and new sous chef position at Park & Co providing more than enough influence for your photography. The lighthouse would always be his priority (aside from you), but his second love of food could not be kept at bay any longer.

He opens the magazine to the first page that features your photos, the centerfold being of Jay’s original recipe for hoedeopbap. “It looks even better in print,” Jay says, his face three shades brighter staring at the meal.

You giggle and wrap your arms around his middle, peeking your head out from the side of his shoulder to look at the pages. “It’s really good, isn’t it?”

“Some of the best you’ve ever done.” He turns in your hold to press your chest to his, kissing your forehead in the process. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“Actually, getting lucky is how we got this.” You take his hand and rest it on the curve of your stomach, fifteen weeks peaking out from under the midriff of your tank top.

He laughs and presses his lips to your cheek. “I love you.”

To your surprise, peace was easier to find than you had expected. Confronting what you ran away from all those years ago feels like a distant memory, the pain of the past a part of another reality. There are no monsters that creep in the shadows or secrets to keep locked behind closed doors.

All that remains is the ease that comes from a life filled with nothing but love and happiness, as weightless and freeing as a lantern floating through the sky.

“I love you too, Park Jongseong.”

@junekissed (thank for beta-ing also june!! ilysm) @yvnempire @sjylouvre @mini-mews @jayparked @heesuncore @yoursjaeyun @sungbeams @jenoslutie @loserlvrss

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 ౨ৎ˚₊

@kvanity-main @sweetvenomnet @onedoornet @sayxonet @violetanet @svthub @whipped-kpop-creators

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Honey Girl. Chapter Nine.

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. Chapter Four. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Chapter Ten. The Playlist. Series Masterlist.

Chapter Synopsis - You and Bucky are holding it together. Until you aren’t.

Pairing - DadsBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au

Warnings - cursing. hospital setting. talk of illness/health issues. panic attack.

Word Count - 3k

Authors Note - I probably sound like a broken record, but… thank you all so much for your patience and support. couldn’t do it without you. can you even believe that next chapter will be chapter ten? thanks for sticking with me. sorry for this rollercoaster of a chapter. there is still more to come - don’t worry!! <3

as always, if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging!! reblogs are the only way to circulate my writing, which generates more of it. feel free to send me a comment or an inbox, too!! thanks, my loves!! <3

Masterlist. Inbox.

You don’t remember the journey.

One minute, Bucky’s grabbing your hand and bundling you into the passenger seat of his truck, buckling you in as your hands shake. The next, he’s undoing your seatbelt, telling you that you’ve arrived as he puts the car in park. You don’t recall speeding across town and into the city. You can’t even think back to the roads flying past in a blur as your thoughts run at a hundred miles an hour.

The only thing that’s on your mind is your Dad.

You and Buck take the stairs two at a time, hands clasped together tightly. When you reach the reception desk, you try to speak, but nothing comes out. Your words have dried up, dissolved and evaporated into thin air. Your soulmate saves you, once again.

“We’re here to see a family member in cardiology. Can you tell us where to go, please?”

The receptionist looks up at you both, before nodding her head in the right direction.

“Follow that hallway, then through the double doors and up the stairs. Go left, and you’ll see the sign.”

You’re on autopilot, heading straight towards the doors. Bucky follows you quickly, throwing a chaste but genuine thanks to the lady behind the desk as he goes.

“Baby,” he calls after you when you reach the top. “Baby, hold on.”

You spin around, looking up at him with glassy eyes. Your bottom lip quivers as he tucks some hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek gently.

“Take a breath, please. You’re gonna faint before you get there.”

You inhale as deeply as possible, your lungs only filling to half capacity. You grab onto his hand for a second, squeezing as hard as you can.

“Okay. Breath done. Let’s go.”

You take off down the hallway, leaving Bucky to jog after you. Finding the big blue sign that reads Cardiology, you storm through the doors, looking around frantically. You spot Room 4 and head straight into it.

The room is all white, clinical and clean. There’s sunshine beaming through the window, but it doesn’t seem to warm the space. It’s cold, almost ominous. It makes it hard to breathe.

The bed is empty, crisp sheets tucked tightly into the plastic sides. Your Mom is sat in the chair beside it. She looks small, swallowed by the blue material.

“Mama.”

You don’t recognise your own voice. It’s choked and strangled, foreign to your ears.

She practically jumps up, striding across the room to wrap you in her arms. Inhaling the familiar scent of home, you hug her back as tightly as you can.

“Where is he?”

“He’s in surgery.”

You breathe a half sigh of relief. You’d feared the worst, when you’d walked in and seen the empty bed.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s been leaning against the door frame, watching you both carefully but giving you space. The tone of his voice is calm, collected. He’s holding it together for you.

“I honestly couldn’t understand it all. They were telling me so much information so fast.”

She sits down in the chair while you and Bucky perch on the edge of the bed, facing her.

“It was supposed to just be an appointment, wasn’t it?”

She nods.

“They did the EKG and weren’t happy with the results, so the nurse put us in this room while she waited for the Doctor. Then the Doctor burst in, talking about blockages and bypasses and emergency surgery.”

Her hands are trembling, neatly manicured nails being picked at repeatedly. Bucky reaches over and links his fingers with hers, all grounded and reassuring.

“They put him in a gown,” she continues, “and all of a sudden they were wheeling him away. I can’t even remember what I said, or if I said goodbye or I love you.”

“Mama, you will have said I love you. I promise you that.”

“She’s right, Lori. You will have said exactly the right thing. You always do.”

She squeezes his hand gratefully, taking a deep breath.

“The Doctor said he had a blockage, and they were worried about blood clotting. That’s why they rushed him in. The nurse said she’d update me when she knew anything, but I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon. You know what Jack’s like,” Bucky laughs. “He’s the toughest guy I know.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, freshen up a little. Call me if a nurse comes in, won’t you?”

You nod, clasping her hand tightly for a moment.

“Promise, Mama.”

She stands up carefully, inhaling before leaving the room. Your posture instantly crumbles, faked bravado leaving you as soon as she’s out of view.

“I’m so scared,” you whisper.

Bucky hears it clear as day.

He slides closer to you, wrapping both arms around your frame. Pressing a kiss into your hair, he runs his fingertips up and down your spine gently.

“I’ve got you, baby. You’re allowed to be scared. But everything is going to be okay. I know it will be.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you mumble into the cotton of his shirt. “It should, but it doesn’t. That scares me, too.”

Bucky traces the features of your face gently with his thumb, his ocean blue eyes never leaving yours. He dances his finger over the slope of your nose, your cheekbones, the curve of your lips. His skin is warm and calloused against yours, polar opposite to how cold you feel.

“I’m your soulmate,” he murmurs, “but I’m not a miracle worker. Fuck, I wish I was. There are gonna be some things that I can’t fix for you, no matter how badly I want to. We just have to ride them out together, sweet girl.”

You nod, leaning in to rest your head against his pounding heart.

It still beats to the rhythm of your name. Even after all this time.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You don’t jump apart when your Mom walks back in.

Upon first glance, the picture is simple - a girl being comforted by her Dads best friend. A hug. Reassuring words.

If you look closer, the image becomes a little more complicated - her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt. His hand cradling the back of her head. Familiar lips softly pressed to her temple.

Any other time, someone might question the sheer intimacy of the moment. But not now.

Now, all focus is drawn to the nurse in sky blue scrubs that appears in the doorway.

“You’re all Jack’s family?”

You all spin to face her, nodding frantically.

“Thought so. He’s out of surgery, and he’ll be brought up here shortly.”

“Is he alright?” your Mom asks, standing up. You can physically see the tension rising in her body.

“He’s doing okay. The Doctor is going to come up and talk to you a little about some… complications. But he’s okay.”

The reassurance at the end of the sentence doesn’t make any of you feel any better. You’re stuck on the word complications.

As if on cue, your Dad is wheeled in, all laid up cosy in crisp white sheets. He has oxygen tucked up under his nose, tubes and wires attached to his hands. He looks fragile, which is a state you’ve never seen him in before. Usually, he’s larger than life, braver than a bear, with a booming laugh that can make anyone smile. In this current moment, he looks like a little boy again, put to bed softly by his mother on a school night.

They get him situated as the Doctor approaches the three of you, huddled by the chair to stay out of the way.

“The surgery went well. The blockage has been fixed, and hopefully shouldn’t reoccur. We’ll put him on medication for the future, blood thinners most likely, to prevent anything further.”

Your Mom nods, lips pressed together.

“The nurse said there was complications?”

Bucky’s voice is low and careful, the timbre of it reverberating next to you.

“We ran into some trouble with the anaesthetic. We struggled to wake him for quite some time, and then his blood pressure completely bottomed out. We managed to get him steady again, but it was a little touch and go for a minute.”

Your Mom sits down slowly, holding onto the arms of the chair with taut knuckles.

“Your husband is going to be just fine, ma’am. We’ll manage any future worries with meds. Some people just don’t respond well to anaesthesia, especially if they’ve never had it before. We’ll monitor him over the next few days, keep him under observation just in case. But it looks positive. I assure you.”

She inhales, leaning back and exhaling the breath.

“He’ll probably just sleep it off for the rest of today, so don’t worry if he’s barely conscious. His body has been through a trauma, and he needs some time to recover.”

You all nod, Bucky’s hand reaching out to squeeze yours momentarily. He subtly presses a kiss into the nape of your neck, as if to melt the tension away.

You all breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“If you need anything, there are always nurses walking around on this floor. They’ll call me if necessary.”

She smiles before leaving, picking up her clipboard as she goes.

“Thanks, Doctor!” Bucky calls after her, making both you and your Mom laugh softly.

The three of you remain still for a while, scared to make any sudden moves. Eventually, Bucky stretches his legs.

“I’m gonna grab some coffees. The usuals?”

You both nod at him.

“Be right back. Call me if you need anything.”

You can’t take your eyes off him as he leaves. You miss his warmth instantly.

“He’s a good guy,” your Mom whispers to you from the chair, where you’re perched on the armrest. She’s watching him go too.

You hum in agreement.

“He looks out for you.”

You hum in agreement once again, albeit this time a little quieter.

“You guys are close, these days.”

You inhale calmly.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He’s got my back.”

“He likes you a lot.”

Before she can continue, your Dads eyes flutter open slowly. You both jump up, standing on either side of his bed.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hi, Dad.”

He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh lighting.

“How you feeling, tough guy?”

He smiles softly, and the relief that fills your body is so overwhelming, you feel as if your legs might give out. You hold onto the metal bars of the bed for support, praying you stay upright.

He groans a little, throat hoarse.

“Water?”

Your Mom puts the straw in his mouth, nodding in approval as he sips.

“I’m good,” he croaks. “Got my girls with me.”

You both laugh.

“Jack, as much as I’d love to be your girl…”

Bucky is stood against the doorframe, keeping a careful distance from the family moment. Your Dad chuckles, shaking his head.

“You’re the prettiest one, Buck,” he says with as much conviction as he can muster. You all can’t help but laugh even more.

“How you feeling, honey?”

“Fine. Tired, though.”

“The Doctor said you’d most likely just sleep it off all day. Go back to sleep, if you want to. We’re right here.”

He nods, closing his eyes instantly. Your Mom settles back in the chair as Bucky hands her a coffee. He goes to give you yours, but you place it down on the side table.

“I’m gonna get some air. Be back in a minute.”

He gives you a look that says are you sure?, but you’re already out the door, not glancing back.

“She doesn’t like hospitals.”

Bucky nods in recognition, but can’t focus on anything except the severe levels of rising anxiety in his chest.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

You can’t find your way out, and it’s making you panic more.

You’re throwing doors open, running down sets of stairs. Eventually, you see an exit, and barge through it with no regard for your surroundings. You’re at the front of the hospital, somehow making it to the main entrance.

Your lungs feel like they’re burning, white hot heat filling them with each weak inhale that you manage. The world is turning, suddenly, the entire axis of the Earth shifting on its head. Gasping, you grab onto a railing, desperate to just take a full breath and calm down.

The more you try to breathe, the worse things seem to get. It feels like the non existent walls are closing in, claustrophobia settling into your weary bones. Your legs buckle as your surroundings spin.

You don’t even register the impact of your knees hitting the ground, nor feel the pain that follows. You’re only minutely aware that you’re even on the floor because you can feel the warm tarmac underneath your palms.

Suddenly, there are two strong arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you into a solid chest. You relax against it, tired of fighting.

“It’s me, baby. Shit, it’s me.”

The voice is panicked, almost frantic in the way it hits your ears. There’s a hand stroking over your hair, strumming over your cheekbone, squeezing your shoulder. You wonder for a second if anyone has ever died from something like this. You feel as if you’re pretty close.

“You’ve got to start slowing your breathing, honey. Can you hear me?”

You think you nod. You assume you do, because the voice continues.

“Put your hand on my heart,” he says as he does it for you. “Just like that. Can you feel the beat of it, underneath your palm? It sounds like a drum, right? One two, one two, one two. Can you focus on it?”

You try to hone into the sound. You think you might be able to distantly feel it, where your hand meets his shirt.

“How about if we create a pattern together? And we’ll both follow it? Like this.”

The voice tilts your chin upwards, so you’re looking into his eyes.

“Bucky,” you choke out.

“Breathe when I breathe, okay? In, and out,” he inhales and exhales. “In, and out. There we go, atta girl. In, and out. You got it.”

You stay collapsed on the sidewalk for what feels like hours, breathing when he tells you to. You focus your vision on his ocean blue irises, finding your home in them. Eventually, you feel like you’re somewhat filling your lungs, and the world stops spinning.

“There she is.”

You drop your head onto his chest, warm tears soaking into the material of his shirt.

“I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You finally let yourself relax, sagging against his body as he holds you close.

“Fuck, you scared me. Are you hurt?”

You don’t even know the answer to that question yourself.

Bucky starts checking you over, looking for any visible injuries. When he reaches your knees, he inhales sharply.

“Shit, baby. We’ll have to get some antiseptic on these grazes of yours. You’ll have some badass bruises tomorrow, tough girl.”

You realise, slowly, where you are. You’re on the sidewalk outside the hospital, sat on the floor, wrapped in Bucky’s arms. You try to stand up too quickly, and wobble backwards.

“Woah, easy. There we go. Come sit over here with me.”

There’s a wooden bench not far from the entrance, tucked in between a hedge and a flowerbed. You take a seat, surveying the bloody mess of your knees as you do.

“They look worse than they are, baby. Promise. We’ll fix them when we go back upstairs.”

You rest your head on his shoulder as he throws an arm around you and tugs you into his side.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, hmm?”

“Don’t like hospitals,” you whisper. “Never have.”

“Is there… any particular reason? Or is it just one of those things?”

“Spent a lot of time here when I was younger,” you admit quietly. “I was kind of a sick kid. Had my own set of issues. Lots of appointments and stuff.”

Bucky nods against the top of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“You never mentioned anything.”

“Didn’t think it was relevant.”

He hums.

“I’m sorry,” you confess. “For causing a scene. Being dramatic.”

“Honey,” he scolds. “You’re not dramatic. We’ve all got our fears, the things that make us tick. I promise you, no one thinks you’re dramatic. You feel how you feel, and that’s okay.”

You sigh in defeat, pulling your knees up under your chin.

“I think I was holding it together until I saw he was okay. When I knew he was fine, I just… crumbled.”

“That’s a perfect reflection of your character, you know. Keeping it together for everyone else.”

You chuckle dryly.

“Maybe. I suppose.”

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

The two of you sit outside for a while longer, breathing in the fresh air and revelling in each others embrace.

“We should probably go back up. They’re going to wonder where we are.”

You go to stand up, but Bucky pulls you back down onto the bench.

“Honey, wait. There’s something we need to… talk about, before we go.”

You turn to face him, and instantly tense up. He looks worried.

“Buck, what is it?”

“I… I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. Or how we’re meant to handle this. I really, really don’t know what the best angle is here.”

“You’re scaring me,” you say as you cradle his face. His scruff tickles your palm, and any other time, you both would have laughed.

“Before I came down to find you, your Mom raised a question with me.”

“… which was?”

He takes a deep breath. Exhales it shakily.

“She asked me how long you and I have been soulmates.”

tag list part one

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[betweenstorms]

Part Six of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Exactly five days had passed since Simon Riley’s last visit, and true to his word, there he was again, standing at your doorstep in the quiet lull of an overcast afternoon.

The clouds hung low that day, full with the promise of rain, but the city outside remained still, suspended in waiting, where time seemed to stretch, holding out it's hand for the storm to break. You had felt it coming somehow, the inevitability of his return, as if the universe had carved out this moment for the two of you.

Simon was dressed in simple, plain clothes as before, plus that damn mask that shrouded half his face in mystery. His hazel eyes, though, were unmistakable, cutting through the soft grey light that filled your small apartment. There was something different this time. The first visit had been sudden, unplanned—an unspoken reckoning between the two of you. But now, there was a gentle certainty to his presence, like he had come here with purpose.

And you were ready for him.

The past week had been a strange blur of careful planning and tempting hope. Each day, you’d found yourself cooking more than necessary, always for two, even though you were the only one in the apartment. Each time you did, you felt a little foolish, like you were preparing for a guest who may never arrive, but you kept at it. It had become a sort of evening ritual, a way to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted. You’d convinced yourself that you were just being practical, that having extra food ready was a good habit to get into, but in the back of your mind, you knew the truth. You were waiting for him, hoping that he would come back.

As you opened the door for him, you could feel the flutter of nerves in your stomach, but it wasn’t the same overwhelming rush of emotion that had floored you the last time. The tension between you wasn’t as suffocating, though it still hummed in the air. You met his gaze with a shy smile, and even though he didn’t return it, there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or maybe just relief that he hadn’t startled you again.

As you moved about the kitchen, setting the table, you could feel Simon’s sharp eyes on you, watching silently as you went through the timid motions of domesticity.

There was something almost surreal about it, how easily he had slipped into your life, into the rhythm of your days, despite the years of distance and the weight of everything unspoken between you.

“Hope you’re starvin’, cause I cooked,” you joked, your voice soft but carrying a note of pride.

He paused, his gaze shifting to you, and for the briefest moment, you saw it. Surprise, so subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed it. But you did. Because you always did. For a man like Simon, who had probably seen and endured things beyond your understanding, it was hard to catch him off guard. But somehow, this had done it. You weren’t sure if it was the food or the fact that you had prepared for his visit, but either way, something had surprised him.

Simon sat down without a word, and you followed suit, sitting across from him at the small, worn table. The plates were mismatched, and the silverware was old, but it felt right, like the two of you had found a quiet corner of the world where the past could be left behind.

You ate in silence for a while, the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic the only noise in the room. You tried not to observe him too closely, but you couldn’t help sneaking glances in his direction, noting the way he ate in a methodical way, as if food were just another task to be completed. Like it was sustenance.

But still, he ate everything you had made.

Feeling a bit braver, you tried to engage him in conversation, asking questions about where he had been, what he had been up to.

But, as expected, Simon deflected your questions. His answers were all vague, if he gave any at all, and more often than not, he responded with a noncommittal grunt or a quiet huff that left you with little to work with. It was like trying to pry open a door that had been stuck for years, but you knew better than to push him too hard. It frustrated you, yes, but you had come to accept it, in a way.

You knew that Simon’s life was full of things you would never be able to understand, things he carried alone. He didn’t talk about himself, didn’t share his burdens. It wasn’t in his nature.

But he did ask about you.

It was subtle at first, his questions slipping into the conversation like afterthoughts. He asked how work was going, what you had been doing lately, how your parents were. Safe topics. Ordinary things. You answered to all of them dutifully, at first feeling incredibly awkward, unsure if your life could possibly hold any interest for someone like him. However, there was something in the way he looked at you that made you feel like he genuinely wanted to know, like he was trying, however clumsily, to bridge the gap between you.

At first, you had been nervous, scared that your life was far too dull to hold his interest. What did you have to offer to someone like Simon, really? Your job was nothing special, your days were uneventful, and your life felt small in comparison to the things you imagined he had seen and done. But when you noticed that he was actually paying attention, that he wasn’t just asking out of politeness, something shifted inside you. His gaze never wavered from you, and though he didn’t say much, you could feel his undivided attention, his magnetic presence, in the way he sat there, letting you fill the space between you, only with your words.

So you told him about the small things.

The way the shop down the street had started selling your favourite lemon biscuits again, how your neighbour had adopted an absurdly large dog that barked at everything that moved, how you’d been thinking about taking up creative writing again, though you hadn’t found the time. Then, you told him about the music you’d been listening to, the films and series you were hoping to watch, even the latest book you’d picked up.

You watched his stoic face as you rambled on about your day, the corner shop, your plans for the weekend. Simon wasn’t the kind of man who offered much in return, his responses were still clipped, mostly just a nod or a grunt, but there was a subtle warmth in his attention. You saw the slight twitch of his lips, the occasional raise of an eyebrow, signs that he was more engaged than he let on. It was as if, for the first time since you were a child, someone was truly listening to you, hearing you, without judgement or expectation.

And that made all the difference.

As an adult, you tend to fade into the background, even in the eyes of your own parents, who no longer find your life as fascinating as it once was. It becomes rare to meet someone who is truly interested in you. As a child, everything was easier. Friendship came effortlessly, falling in love felt light and unburdened, and emotions flowed like crystal water. Adults would smile down at you, ask about your weekend plans, your schoolwork, even your little crushes, as if your life held some fond magic. But next to Simon, for a fleeting minute, you felt like a kid again, as though you were still filled with that magic. And you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude—for Simon and for the way he made you feel like you mattered again, even for just a second, like you were something worth adoring.

After dinner, he helped you with the dirty dishes.

You almost laughed out loud at the sight of him, this hulking figure built like a bloody fortress, standing at the sink, washing plates and cups like it was the most normal thing in the world. The kitchen felt even smaller compared to him, his broad shoulders brushing against you as he reached for the plates, and that made your heart press against your ribs, threatening to burst. There was something so tender, so wonderfully domestic about the scene, something you never imagined you’d have with him.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, handing him a dripping plate.

He took it without a word, his large hands handling it with such care that seemed out of place for a man of his size. But that was Simon, wasn’t it? Always full of contradictions.

After the dishes were done, you made a suggestion—an invitation to show him the little shop down the street you’d mentioned earlier, the one with the delicious lemon biscuits.

You didn’t expect him to agree, but to your surprise, Simon gave a small nod. It was strange, seeing him agree to something so ordinary, something as simple as a walk to the nearby shop, but you didn’t question it. You didn’t want to ruin the moment.

So, you slipped on your jacket, and together, you ventured out into the cool evening air.

Simon wore his mask, even for such a short walk, and though it puzzled you, you didn’t press him about it. He had his reasons, and oddly, that was enough for you.

As you walked down the streets, you noticed how the grey world seemed to shrink around the two of you. The city faded into the background, the sound of distant traffic becoming a hum that didn’t quite touch the space you two occupied. You told him how the owner had a strange habit of stacking the shelves in a particular way and how the colourful sign of the shop had faded to nearly nothing since you moved here. Simon listened, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze drifting over the neighbourhood but always coming back to you.

When you reached the tiny shop, you bought three packets of biscuits, a small indulgence you couldn’t resist.

As you walked back, you shared them with him, handing over a piece without thinking twice. His surgical mask made it a bit of a challenge for him to eat them, but the way he handled it, with such simple grace, surprised you. As if eating with a mask was something he’d mastered a long time ago. Nevertheless, you only smiled at him.

The months that followed were some of the happiest of your life.

Simon’s visits became more frequent, though never scheduled. Sometimes he would appear at your door unannounced, and sometimes he’d let you know he was coming, with a punctuated, short message that always felt like it carried more weight than it should. However, each time he showed up, your heart would lift, if only for a little while. There was a quiet understanding between you, a habitual rhythm that developed naturally, as if fifteen years apart had simply folded into the space between you without effort.

You began to treasure the time you spent with him, the quiet moments that made up the fabric of your strange relationship.

Late-night talks on the balcony of his apartment, where the two of you would smoke cigarettes and watch the city lights flicker in the distance, your voices hushed in the golden glow of streetlights. Cooking meals together in your tiny kitchen, where he would stand at the stove, helping you chop vegetables with the same precision you imagined he used in the field. Watching films and series you wanted to share with him, the two of you sitting side by side on your worn-out sofa, the space between you shrinking as the months passed.

It was the simple things, the mundane moments that you found yourself clinging to.

You were always struck by how he fit into your boring life, seamlessly slipping into your routine as if he had always been there, right next to you. Grocery shopping together, wandering through the aisles of the supermarket or the farmer’s market, picking out fresh produce while Simon trailed behind you, always quiet, always present.

Walking through your neighbourhood, pointing out places that held some meaning for you, while he listened with the same attentive intensity, nodding occasionally as you spoke. There were moments when the conversation was light, filled with teasing and sarcasm, and other times when silence stretched between you two, comfortable and unpressured. It was in those moments of stillness that you felt the most connected to him, as if words weren’t necessary to understand the weight of what lingered unsaid.

But the thing you appreciated most was the talking.

Even though Simon was a man of few words, over time, you began to unravel him, bit by bit. It was a painfully slow process, peeling back the layers, but you cherished every fragment of him he allowed you to see. You learned that beneath his gruff exterior and his hardened past, Simon had a dry, morbid sense of humour that made you laugh in a way you hadn’t in years. His wit was sharp, his sarcasm biting, and yet it was never mean-spirited. You found yourself looking forward to his jokes, when he would throw a quip your way, the corner of his mouth quirking in the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. And you loved it.

Oh, how you loved it.

You loved the way he made you laugh, the way he looked at you when you were together, the way he seemed to feel at ease in your presence. You loved every moment you spent with him, no matter how small or insignificant. You loved him in the quiet, in the way he listened to you rambling, in the way he paid attention to the smallest details of your life. You loved him in the way he let you into his rugged world, without ever making it feel forced or unnatural. And, slowly but surely, you began to realise that you were falling in love with him.

It wasn’t a grand, sweeping realisation.

Falling in love with Simon Riley was like the gentle embrace of the rising sun, a warmth that crept into your icy soul without fanfare or grand gestures. There was no single moment when everything fell into place—no sudden clarity or lightning strike of realisation.

Rather, it unfolded gradually, like the soft glow of dawn spreading across the horizon, casting its light quietly, almost imperceptibly, until the cold ground was warmed beneath your feet. It wasn’t until you stood there, basking in the radiant comfort of his presence, that you realised just how deeply he had become part of you, the warmth of him seeping into your very bones, making everything feel softer, brighter, without you ever noticing the shift.

At first, you tried to fight it, wrestled with the feelings that threatened to overtake you every time he crossed your mind.

You forced yourself not to think about him when he was away on deployment, not to let your heart leap at the thought of his return. You made every effort not to seem too eager when you were with him, not to act like a schoolgirl caught up in her first crush.

Bloody hell, but it was impossible.

When he made you blush, you looked away, pretending the burning heat on your cheeks was from something else. When his eyes met yours, catching you in the act of staring, you quickly turned, as if you hadn’t been completely mesmerised by him. And when your hands brushed, just the briefest of touches, you shifted, heart racing, trying to ignore the intoxicating pull that came with the smallest contact.

No matter how many years had slipped by since the days of your childhood, no matter how long you’d been an adult, standing next to him made time blur in a way that was both haunting and comforting. It was as if the weight of the years dissolved whenever you were near him, pulling you back to that distant time, so far away it almost felt like it had belonged to another. In his presence, you were that child again, caught in the same quiet awe, the same unspoken connection, even after all the miles you had walked apart.

And yet, you fought it with everything you had.

And he must have noticed.

Simon saw the signs, read the signals you didn’t mean to give away, and in his silent way, he respected them. He didn’t try to get closer. He was there, returning to you, keeping his promises, but there was a careful distance, an invisible line neither of you dared to cross.

Since the day he told you he had read your letter, he kept his space. He stood just far enough to be present, but never touched, never pressed, as if he understood your hesitance in the way you withdrew as well as his own.

You didn’t know why you looked away, why you pulled back from him, why his touch made you retreat when all you wanted was to feel him closer. It terrified you, this primal instinct to shield your heart from the very thing it craved the most. Because deep down, you knew—

—you loved him.

But love, for you, had always been tangled in something darker, something messy and painful. Everything you ever loved had faded, slipping through your fingers like sand, no matter how tightly you tried to hold on. The long, golden days of summer spent with your grandparents, the laughter-filled, drunken nights with high school friends, the passionate, young love with your ex-fiancé, your mother’s blooming rose bush, once so full of life—everything you cherished had withered, just like you had. 

So how could you tell him?

How could you ever admit that you fell in love with him, when you were so certain that love was tied to loss?

To let him know, to say the words aloud, felt like signing your heart away to another disappearance. You couldn’t bear to watch him slip away too, to see him fade into the same oblivion where all the things you once held dear now lived. The fear of loving and losing had rooted itself deep inside you, so you kept Simon at arm’s length, not because you didn’t love him—but because you did, you desperetely did, and that scared you to death.

You tried to convince yourself that this was enough.

That loving him in secret was enough to keep him close, enough to soothe the longing that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart. It had to be enough. You couldn’t bear the thought of risking more, of laying your heart bare, watching it bleed to death. You didn’t want to hold his memory longer than you had held him. The idea of losing him, of watching him slip from your life like everything else you had ever dared to love, was far more unbearable than never speaking the truth aloud.

So you settled for silence.

It was the beginning of November when you two met again, a month heavier with the bite of cold winds, the days darkening earlier, and the air growing sharp with the crisp scent of fallen leaves. You could feel the promise of winter in the cold air, the way it clung to your skin and seeped into your bones, even after you’d bundled yourself in layers before stepping outside. The city had taken on a grey, muted tone, the kind that made everything feel distant and quiet, like the world was holding its breath.

It had been weeks since you and Simon had shared any significant time together. His work had consumed him more than usual, drawing him further into whatever grim business he was tied up in.

You understood, of course.

Simon’s professional life was a complicated web of responsibilities, ones you couldn’t begin to unravel, but you couldn’t stop feeling his absence like a weight in your chest, a quiet ache that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts. That’s why, when you finally managed to pin him down for an evening, you decided to do something different. Instead of the usual quiet nights at yours, you had dragged him to the cinema for a change. Maybe a night out would shake up the routine. He had agreed, somewhat reluctantly of course, but you knew by now that Simon rarely said no, well, not to you and not outright, even when he wasn’t particularly enthused about something. Your idea seemed pretty sound at the time—a bit of mindless fun, a chance to forget about life for a couple of hours.

But halfway through, you began to regret it.

Despite his compliance, it had hardly seemed to hold his interest.

The film, Thanksgiving, had been a bloody mess of cheap jump scares and gruesome deaths, the kind of silly horror that mainly thrived on shock value. It wasn’t your typical choice, but you thought it might be fun. You could laugh at the absurdity of it all, maybe even hide your face in Simon’s shoulder during the worst bits. However, you caught him with his eyes closed at one point, and though you couldn’t be sure with Simon, it looked like he was trying to sleep through the entire thing. You felt a twinge of guilt for dragging him out of his comfort zone, but it was hard not to smile at the ridiculous way he handled it.

Now, as you sat in his car, the evening pressing against the windows, you rubbed your hands together, trying to chase away the embrace of autumn. The scent of leather and something distinctly him filled the small space, grounding you in the moment. It was strange how his presence, as imposing as it could be, brought a sense of calm.

Simon shortly joined you, his usual surgical mask firmly in place, obscuring half of his face, but leaving those sharp, assessing eyes visible. You could see the faint lines of a frown etched into his brow. God, he truly wasn’t impressed. But you couldn’t help yourself.

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

He shot you a look so lifeless it was almost comical, as if your inquiry was the most ludicrous thing he'd ever heard. It wasn't meant to be, but it was really funny. The way Simon could reduce any situation to its barest, bleakest elements always amused you, especially when you knew he had probably seen far worse in real life.

“Watchin’ people get butchered over a roast dinner’s not my idea of fun, love,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, as he buckled his seatbelt.

You snorted, your breath misting up the window a little.

“Not a fan of festive slasher films, then?” You hummed. “Could’ve fooled me. Wouldn’t have thought you of all people would be such a film snob.”

“Just not a fan of shit films,” he deadpanned, turning the key in the ignition. 

You giggled, the sound bright and unexpected, cutting through the solemnity of the moment, and for a second, you forgot about the cold seeping into your bones, forgot about the distance that had grown between you both these last few weeks. It was so Simon, his dry attitude never seemed not to amuse you.

“Alright alright, I’ll pick somethin’ better next time, promise” you offered, leaning back into your seat, watching the rain start to dot the windscreen in light, lazy taps.

He didn’t respond, not verbally at least, but the slight dip of his chin told you he’d accepted the truce. His eyes were focused on the road ahead as he eased the car into gear and pulled away from the parking lot, the city lights blurring into a mosaic of greys and muted yellows.

You were just about to continue your lighthearted roasting of the film when something caught your attention.

Nestled in the door pocket, half-hidden by your handbag, was a small, familiar box. Pushing aside your bag, you reached for it and recognised the brand instantly. It was the same one as your favourite snack, those lemon biscuits you loved so much, but this one was peach-flavoured. Your heart leapt a little at the discovery. A bright smile spread across your face as you held the box up to Simon, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips.

“Where the hell did you get these? Only ever had strawberry ones, but they taste like that god-awful medicine my mum used to force on me as a kid. But peach? My goodness, this is a fuckin’ revelation.”

Simon only shrugged, his eyes still on the road, as if it were nothing, as if his attention to this small detail in your life hadn’t just made your entire night.

“Saw them in Berlin,” he said simply, his voice almost casual.

You held the box of sweets like it was something precious, turning it in your hands as if doing so would reveal more about his thought process. It felt heavy, not because of the contents, but because of the meaning behind them. A small gesture, perhaps to him, something you would do for a friend, but to you, it was monumental.

He had thought of you.

While away, while on deployment, in the middle of whatever chaos he entailed, his thoughts had drifted to you. Enough for him to notice something as simple as biscuits, to pick them up and bring them back, just for you. Your heart swelled painfully in your chest, beating faster than it had any right to. You turned away from him, pressing your sweaty palm to your cheek as if that would somehow hide the flush rising to your cheeks. Your hair, thankfully, provided some cover.

The weight of your affection for him felt almost too much in that moment, as if your heart might burst under the pressure of it all. You loved him already, but every time you thought you couldn’t fall any further, Simon would do something incredibly thoughtful, and it would send you tumbling all over again.

You murmured a soft “thanks,” under your breath, your voice almost swallowed by the steady hum of the vehicle. Your fingers played nervously over the edges, then, clearing your throat, you asked, “Mind if I open it?”

Simon huffed, glancing at you for a brief second before refocusing on the road. “Brought ’em for you, didn’t I?” The tone in his voice was that signature Simon blend of exasperation, as though the mere notion that you’d need his permission was absurd.

You grinned, eager and unashamed now, looking down at the box one last time before diving in, tearing open the packaging with the same enthusiasm you’d had as a child on Christmas morning. The fruity smell hit your nose immediately, sweet and delicate. You took a biscuit, biting into it with a hum of appreciation.

“Shit, they’re delicious,” you offered him one without even thinking.

He shook his head, eyes still fixed ahead. “Not for me.”

You weren't surprised.

Simon didn’t seem the type to indulge in overly sweet things, not unless you counted tea and the occasional glass of whisky. His refusal didn’t dampen your spirits, of course.

The warmth of the treat spread through you, a sharp contrast to the damp evening that loomed just outside the car windows. The rain had started in earnest now, the soft pattern turning into a steady beat against the windscreen. You watched as the droplets raced down the glass, your mind drifting as the city lights blurred into streaks of amber, ruby and gold.

Finally, the quiet between you both wasn’t awkward.

It didn’t demand anything from you anymore. It had taken months of tentative conversations, stolen glances, and hesitant touches, but now, the silence had transformed. It felt like a shared language, a kind of intimacy beyond words. You could sit there for hours, side by side, saying nothing at all, and it would feel as though you’d spoken a thousand truths.

“Berlin, huh?”

Your smile was shy, hesitant even. You were testing the waters, trying your luck to pry into a part of Simon's life that still felt really distant and elusive. There was so much about Simon you didn’t know—so many parts of him shrouded in shadows you couldn’t reach.

You knew that he was a high-ranking military officer, that his life was filled with danger and violence, but beyond that, his world was a locked door you didn’t have the key to.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his tone nonchalant, a familiar wall sliding back into place.

“And what did you do in Germany, sir?”

You tried to ease him into conversation, something you knew was like drawing blood from a stone. You slipped a teasing lilt into your words, but the moment “sir” left your lips, you saw the shift in him.

His broad shoulders tensed visibly, his entire body going rigid, and the air in the car thickened with discomfort.

“Don’t call me that,” Simon muttered sharply.

The change in his demeanour took you aback, your frown forming before you could stop it. His reaction had been almost immediate, something instinctive, a reflex more than anything else, but it cut through the humour you were trying to build. You had thought he’d shrug off the title with a bit of banter, as he always did when you tried to joke with him, but clearly, this time you’d touched a nerve.

“Oh. Why not?”

The question hung in the air between you both.

You watched as his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, his body shifting uncomfortably in the seat. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer at all. You waited, the rain still tapping steadily against the glass, each second stretching into an eternity. His silence made you regret asking, but you couldn’t take it back now. So you waited, giving him space to either explain or ignore the question altogether.

Finally, after what felt like endless hours but was likely just a few heartbeats, Simon exhaled, his breath heavy and laden with a weight you couldn’t see but could almost feel. His voice, when he spoke, was low and gruff, laced with a bitterness that made your chest tighten.

“It ain’t who I am with you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his statement.

His words were as heavy as the rain pattering against the rooftop.

It was an admission, simple and raw, and it sliced through you. You weren’t sure how to respond, how to grasp what he was offering with that small sentence. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of that realisation settle deep in your chest. For Simon, the titles, the rank, the soldier he was in the field—those weren’t meant for you.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to—I was just teasin’,” you mumbled, your words faltering as you searched for the right thing to say. “But it was a shitty joke. I’m sorry.”

“S’alright,” he grunted.

“I just wanted to, dunno, tease you into talkin’ more, I guess,” you added, eyes darting briefly to him. “Find out more about you. About what you do when you’re not with me.”

Simon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly, the tendons in his hand pulling taut like the silence between you.

Your heartbeat thrummed steadily in your ears, matching the rhythm of the rain, but you waited. He didn’t answer immediately, however, the fact that he didn’t brush you off instantly, didn’t give you his usual noncommittal grunt, was answer enough.

He was thinking, considering. You could almost see the cogs turning behind those familiar hazel eyes, weighing whether or not he wanted to open that specific door.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Simon spoke. “S’not that I don’t want you to know,” he said quietly, voice rough as gravel. “Some of it, you wouldn’t want to, trust me.”

You nodded, his words sinking deep into your chest. 

“Well, yeah but... if it’s important to you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rain, “then it’s important to me. You don’t have to tell me everythin’, y’know, but I’d like to know more about you. What you do, where you’ve been—if you’re okay with that, of course.”

His jaw clenched under the mask, ever so slightly, and you could see the battle waging inside him. It was as if the weight of what he did, what he was, hung like a boulder around his neck, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to share even a piece of it with you.

You waited, breath held, afraid that if you pressed him too hard, he’d close himself off again.

“I’m in the SAS,” the admission rolled out like a stone dropping into still water. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, observing your reaction before he continued. “Been with ‘em for a while now. Means I’m involved in the kinds of things most bastards never even hear about. We’re the ones who get sent in when the situation’s gone south, when the regular lot can’t handle it. Clandestine tradecraft. Sabotage. Ambushes. Infiltration.”

For a second, you let his words settle, absorbing this sliver of his reality. You hadn’t expected him to open up, even to this degree, but you could see the cost of that openness, the weight of it etched in the hard lines of his face. 

“Uhm, I don’t really know much about that kind of stuff,” you admitted, your voice quiet but honest. “Sabotage, infiltration... sounds like somethin’ out of a bloody movie.”

He gave a low grunt, almost a laugh but not quite. “Clandestine tradecraft’s just a fancy way of sayin’ we go undercover. Sabotage means we disrupt the enemy. Ambushes, we lie in wait. Infiltration’s when we sneak in, undetected. We go into hostile environments, behind enemy lines, and we do what needs doin’.”

You absorbed his words, a silent acknowledgment of the reality that formed the backbone of Simon’s existence.

You nodded slowly, taking in each word.

You found your gaze lingering on his hands, strong and steady as they gripped the wheel, fingers worn and calloused from years of conflicts that were far removed from the world you inhabited. You wanted to reach over, to touch him, but you held back.

“And you’re… good at it,” you said, not a question, but a statement. It wasn’t hard to believe that Simon excelled in a world of calculated danger and precision.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m good at it.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, no pride.

It was just a fact, as undeniable as the rain that continued to beat against the windows. Simon wasn’t bragging about his skills, nor was he seeking validation. No, not even from you. He was simply stating the truth, a truth that had probably saved his life countless times. And the way he said it made it sound like it was something mundane, like he’d just clocked in and out of an ordinary office job, but you knew better. Work, for Simon, wasn’t something you could ever fully understand. It was the kind of job that left scars—

—on the body, sure, but more importantly, on the soul.

You wondered, as the weight of his words hung heavy in the car, how much of Simon’s soul had been lost in the shadows he so skillfully navigated. His hands bore no visible scars tonight, yet you knew they held memories of things you would never see, things he would likely never tell you. He had painted himself in muted greys and blacks, fading into the backdrop of a life that was dangerous, clandestine, and impossible to reconcile with the gentle, steady warmth you’d felt whenever he was with you. You realised he was both, this man of quiet domesticity and of ruthless precision—

—and the contradiction left your heart aching.

“So, when you’re here… with me… you don’t want to be that person?”

Simon’s hazel eyes flickered towards you, briefly, before he looked away. It was the faintest movement, but you caught it, that quick glance loaded with something unreadable. He released a low sigh, his shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he said at last, the word as soft as the rain outside. “Not here. Not with you.”

And then, as if he had reached into the depths of your mind, Simon’s hand found its way to your thigh, his palm resting there. The warmth of his hand cut through the chill of November, spreading like wildfire across your skin. Your breath immediately hitched, a reflexive flinch, and you looked at him, wide-eyed. He didn’t return your gaze, not this time. His beautiful eyes were focused on the road, his expression a mask of calm, as though this touch was as natural as breathing to him, as though he hadn’t felt the tremor it sent through you.

But for you, it was something else entirely.

It wasn’t a touch you’d grown used to, despite the countless times you’d dreamed of it, wondered what it would feel like to have that quiet strength grounded against you. Your heart raced, an urgent beat that felt almost painfully loud in the silence. You wondered if he felt it, the way your pulse quickened beneath the weight of his hand, the heat pooling where his fingers pressed ever so lightly against you.

You let your gaze linger on his hand, his fingers resting so close to the inside of your thigh that it felt as though he was holding your truest and barest soul right in his palm.

For a moment, you hesitated, feeling your own hand tremble slightly as you lifted it, reaching to touch him back. You laid your hand gently atop his, your fingers just barely grazing his knuckles, feeling the strength hidden beneath his stillness.

You felt your resistance dissolve like frost in the morning sun.

The car moved through the city streets, the streetlights casting harsh shadows across his face, softening the lines, making him feel almost otherworldly, yet solid—solid in a way you couldn’t ignore, in a way that made you feel safe. His hand never faltered, never pulled away, and you kept your hold on him, afraid that if you let go, you might never find the courage again. All the worries, the endless questions, they faded into nothing, replaced by a calm you hadn’t felt in ages.

You melted into him, allowing your hand to rest over his, tracing gentle circles over the rough skin of his knuckles. His hand remained still, firm yet yielding under your touch, as though he were afraid to disrupt the fragile peace between you.

For the rest of the drive, neither of you spoke.

It’s painfully funny how I only planned to write a one-shot for this story, yet here I am, unable to stop writing about these two...

[bunnliix]

When Eight Becomes Nine - Chapter One

I finally have a first chapter out! Finally!! It's a bit shorter than I wanted it to be, but like it's here after so long, so I'm happy with it! Plus we get some angry boys in this fic

Pairing: Ateez x 9th member!reader Summary: Ateez wc: 1.4k AU: a/b/o Genre: Fluff/Angst warnings: Angry Joongie/ateez, yelling, mentions of anxiety and fear, angst with some fluff, honestly just the boys are pissed off but mostly it's Hongjoong being royally pissed, I think taht's everything? masterlist

“What do you mean we need another member?!” Hongjoong asked the KQ management team members in front of him.

“We’ve decided that you need something new to add to the group, and that a new member will be the best choice to attract more attention to Ateez.” One of the higher up staff members replied.

“We’ve been fine for five years, why do we need another member?” The captain asked through gritted teeth.

“Look, the decision has been made, there’s nothing more to say. You and the rest of the members will have to prepare to have a new member.” They said, a tone of finality marking the end of the conversation.

“So we’re supposed to just accept whoever the fuck you find into the group, and potentially our pack, without any say?!” Hongjoong exclaimed, fed up with the group of people in front of him at the moment. They really thought they could just spring this news on him and he’d be fine with it?

“It’s in the best interests for Ateez.” Was all that was said, as if it was a sufficient explanation in any way for the upheaval of the status quo for Ateez.

Hongjoong pushed his chair back, standing up and leaving the room quickly, trying to keep his temper under control. Who did they think they were? Ateez had done so much for this company and now they’re haphazardly adding a new member into his group. This changed everything. They’d had to readjust the choreography, the lines for every song, any of the concepts they’ve come up with now have to be adjusted. He stormed into the practice room where the rest of the pack was practicing, and a couple of them flinched at the anger emanating from their captain and pack alpha.

“Hongjoong, are you okay? What did they want to tell you?” Seonghwa asked cautiously, not wanting to anger the man further.

“They want to add a new member to our group. A new member after all this time!” Hongjoong ranted, revealing the news to the rest of the group.

The rest of the group had various reactions of shock, and more than a few were angry at this news being sprung on them. Wooyoung felt the brunt of everyone else’s reactions and curled into himself, while Seonghwa moved to try and calm down Hongjoong, knowing that it wouldn’t be productive to talk while he’s that upset. The eldest member, who also was the head omega, wrapped his arms around the smaller man, pushing out a soothing and calming scent to try and get the captain of their group to calm down. It worked thankfully, and Hongjoong rested his head on the other man’s chest.

“Thank you Hwa.” He softly said to the other man, once he had gathered his emotions and had calmed down significantly. He was still upset, but not as much as he was minutes ago.

“Always.” Seonghwa replied, smiling at the alpha. He brought the pack alpha closer to the rest of the guys, and they all sat down on the floor before starting to talk about what this change means for all of them.

“Did they say how they’re choosing a new member? I assume it’d be another trainee from the company?” Wooyoung queried, his eyes full of curiosity.

“They didn’t get that far before I left.” Hongjoong admitted.

“You could’ve waited around until they told you at least!” Wooyoung whined.

“Wooyoung, quiet down. This is not news any of us were expecting, and even if it was, the expectation is that we would have been included in the conversation. So I don’t blame Joong for storming out. KQ took the choice of having a new member away from us, which isn’t fair on any of us, let alone Hongjoong.” Seonghwa scolded the younger man, who looked properly chided by the end of it.

At that exact moment, Hongjoong’s phone started ringing once again, making the idol frown before answering it.

“Yes?”

The rest of the group watched as Hongjoong listened to whoever was on the other line, not sure what the call was about. Though it wasn’t long before they found out as Hongjoong sighed as he ended the call.

“So, what’s going on now?” San asked their leader.

“They want all of us upstairs for a meeting, right now.” Hongjoong stated.

They all knew this was about the new member, and they all got up from the various places in the room, heading towards the door with the two eldest leading the group. They walked up to the designated meeting room, trudging in to find most of the same group that had been in the earlier meeting with Hongjoong. 

The eight men sat down in the chairs set out for them, and as soon as they’re sitting, one of the management team starts talking, as another hands each of them a pile of thin folders.

“Here are the shortlisted candidates for the ninth member of Ateez. We’ve already held auditions, and these are the smaller number of candidates that we think are suitable for the role of your newest member.” He explained to the group.

“What do you mean you’ve held auditions? Without informing at the very least, Mingi and I?” Hongjoong questioned the man, a frown evident on his face.

“You weren’t needed. You had other pressing matters, so we took the liberty of holding auditions. It doesn’t matter now, you have the information on all 20 shortlisted candidates. We’re bringing them all here to do a final audition, as well as to make sure they fit within Ateez.” The man continued, ignoring any reaction from the two producing members.

Before the captain could retort, Seonghwa’s hand touched his arm, and the pack alpha looked over at his omega, who reminded him non-verbally that he needed to calm down. Getting mad at the company right now wouldn’t be productive. But that didn’t stop others from protesting the company’s decisions.

“Wait! So you’ve gone through this whole process and never thought to even consult us or tell us what you were planning until now, when we’re almost to the point of you choosing a new member?” Wooyoung shouted, staring down the opposite side of the table.

“As I just said, you were all busy and weren’t needed until this point in the process.” The man repeated himself, seeming very tired with having to reiterate his words.

Grumbles and mumbles about the way that KQ management has conducted things so far were heard from Ateez’s side of the table. Their manager picked up where the other man stopped, hoping to calm the boys down, they didn’t need angry alphas, nor a pissed off Ateez pack, it wouldn’t end well for anyone.

“We’ve brought you in now, because this is now more of your decision than it is ours, but we will still have input on the decision. The 20 candidates chosen are arriving tomorrow, and don’t worry, they’ve all been thoroughly checked to ensure they’re not sasaengs.” The manager assured them.

“We’ll look past the issue that you didn’t think to talk to us until now. But why wait to tell us they’re arriving till today and that they will be here tomorrow. There were plenty of opportunities before today, that you could have pulled one of us aside and said something, if not pulled us all into a meeting.” Hongjoong lectured the staff members, thoroughly upset with them and their actions.

“Regardless, this was the major thing we wanted to discuss. Though once the prospective members arrive tomorrow morning, in the afternoon they’ll be here for their final auditions, and to see how well they fit in with you. So you will be required to be here at the company at noon tomorrow.” The first man informed them.

There were huffs from the members who were quick to anger, and especially from the alphas in the pack, and the others had displeased looks on their faces.

“Well, thank you for at least informing us today, instead of springing it on us tomorrow.” Seonghwa cut in, before Hongjoong could say anything. The omega had also grabbed Joongs wrist, trying to calm the anger he could feel coming off of the alpha in waves.

Sadly for Seonghwa, his efforts were for naught.

“I will remember this, and you better hope that there’s someone in your shortlist that I and the rest of the pack can get along with. Or no one will be happy.” Hongjoong said as he pushed his chair back and stood up, prompting the rest of the pack to do the same. With the pack alpha leading the group, they all walked out, leaving the management team behind.

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@fr34k4c1dr41n @ateez-atiny380 @bethelighthalazia @davinashifts333

Taglist is open!

[throneofsapphics]

the ebb and flow of fate

Cazriel x f!Reader (Mor’s sister)

(part two) (part three) (part four) (part five) (epilogue)

Summary: “Did you piss her off?” He leaned back, mouth curving into a smirk. The smirk quickly disappeared when Rhys explained what happened. 

“Tell her she can come on her own feet, or over my shoulder.” 

Word Count: ~6.2k

Warnings: eventual smut in later chapters, sexual assault, harassment, stalking, nightmares, light smut-ish (m/m, briefly described), light angst, liberal use of bargains, minors dni!

A/N: this was written for day 20 of my kink/angst-tober prompts but, my patience is limited and I needed to get this out of into the world and out of my brain for a bit. part 2 will be posted 10/20.

Something in her had been … off, ever since she visited a friend in the Autumn Court. Of course, they had all heavily protested her choice, but she’d been a friend of hers for years, and she firmly held her ground - insisting everything would be fine and that they didn’t know of her relation to them. 

It was driving all of them to the verge of insanity trying to figure out exactly what happened. Rhys gently probed against her mind once, and was immediately shut out - the walls going up like impenetrable iron gates, and a litany of creative curses were shouted down the hall. 

-

“How was your visit?” Mor asked hesitantly. She was curled up in an armchair, eyes quickly scanning the page, a full plate of food - likely a few hours old, still on the table beside her. 

“Fine.” Y/n replied, not looking up. The same answer she’d given everyone all week. 

“Any more details?” She probed. 

She slammed the book shut, looking up at her. “What else do you want me to say?” Her voice was low, and she could tell her anger was rising to dangerous levels. Maybe it would be worth provoking y/n’s temper, if only to get some kind of reaction out of her. 

“You won’t eat, you won’t talk to us, and you’re walking around like a gods-damned ghost.” 

She plucked a grape from the plate next to it, popping it in her mouth with an indignant look on her face. “Better?” Gods, she was going to kill her - sister or not. 

“I want you to tell me what the fuck happened before Rhys and I storm over there and kill someone.” Mor spat, rising to her feet. Y/n rose with her, throwing the blanket off, fists clenched at her side. 

“That’s not necessary.” 

“You can tell us anything, you know that right?” She tried to keep her voice gentle, soft even.

“I’m aware,” she snipped, “but that doesn’t mean it’s any of your business.” 

“For Cauldron’s sake.” She ran a hand through her hair, squeezing her eyes shut before leaving the room - in case she said or did anything she regretted. 

“Any luck?” Rhys asked from the end of the hallway. 

“Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping.” 

He grimaced, but turned to stride with her. “It’s been three days.” He said quietly, “Cassian and Azriel will be back tomorrow.” 

If anyone can get answers out of her, it would be those two. Even Amren couldn’t reach her. 

-

“Where’s y/n?” Cassian asked the next day. Mor looked to Rhys with a grimace. A shadow curled around Azriel’s ear. 

“In her room probably.” Mor replied. The same place she’d spent most of her time in. 

“Did you piss her off?” He leaned back, mouth curving into a smirk. The smirk quickly disappeared when Rhys explained what happened. 

“Tell her she can come on her own feet, or over my shoulder.” 

He relayed the message, and they all heard the sound of something slamming - along with a wince from Rhys. Mor figured she’d likely shouted something into his mind. Two minutes passed, and nothing. Cassian glanced at Azriel, and the two Illyrians rose - heading down the hall.  

“Good luck.” Mor muttered behind them and Rhys snorted. 

-

“What’s wrong with you?” Cassian’s voice echoed through the room as her door swung open - hitting the wall hard enough there might be a small dent. 

“Nothing.” She muttered, turning over in her bed and tugging the blankets closer to her. Azriel exchanged a look with him. 

“Get up.” Cassian barked. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Not happening princess.” He strode towards the side of the bed, ripping the blanket back. He was greeted by a book careening towards his face, one he deflected with a shield. “You can do better than that.” He tugged the pillow out from under her and she shot up to sit. His stance widened, feet braced on the floor - prepared for a fight. 

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Y/n said through gritted teeth. 

Cassian hummed, tilting his head as if he was debating it. “No.” 

“On your feet or over his shoulder, your choice.” Azriel said from behind him. His voice was flat and smooth. Another book launched - where the hell had it come from? And Cassian let it fly over his head, knowing exactly who it was aimed for. A low snarl came from the corner of the room, and Azriel strode up to stand next to him, forming a wall. Y/n, of course, didn’t look intimidated and no fear came from her - but he did see caution in her eyes. 

“You’re a brat.” The shadowsinger commented, with a tilt of his head. A predator assessing her, waiting for her next move. 

She sent him a vulgar gesture, and apparently Azriel was fed up because quicker than she could react, he had her slung over his shoulder, stalking out her door with a shield covering his wings. 

Smart, he thought as he followed, he didn’t doubt y/n would use that to her advantage. She’s done it before, raking her nails up his wings and nearly getting herself killed. 

He deposited her at the table, shoving her down into the seat next to him before pushing it in. Cassian took up vigil on her other side. If he thought she was angry before, she was absolutely fuming now - sending both him and Azriel a look that promised a slow, slow death. He rolled his eyes, he’d been on the receiving ends of that look frequently, and it didn’t phase him. 

“I thought it was over your shoulder.” Rhys’s voice flooded into his mind. 

“Azriel took care of it.” 

“Obviously. Did she throw anything at you?” 

“Yes.” A strained chuckle came from Rhys, and he felt his presence leave. 

She sat there, taking small sips of water and avoiding eye contact from anyone. 

Cassian let out a low groan before filling her plate with food. 

Mor and Rhys exchanged a glance, their eyes glazing over slightly. “We have things to take care of,” Mor gave an awkward excuse and they both rose. Leaving them to the wolves, then. Wolf - actually. 

“Don’t make me feed you like a child.” Azriel told her when the two were out of earshot. 

“You wouldn’t,” y/n countered, but didn’t sound confident. Azriel reached for her fork, and she snatched it away from him, spearing a piece of food instead and slowly raising it to her mouth. 

“Are you going to tell us what happened?” Cassian asked her. 

She ignored the question, choosing to eat small bites of food instead. 

“Or I can go find out for myself,” Azriel offered. 

“No,” she said too quickly. “Don’t.” 

-

She was confident Azriel would go find out what happened, and that’s not what she wanted. Regardless of whether he heard it from her or figured it out himself, it wouldn’t go over well. But, if they were here when they did learn there’s a better chance of her de-escalating the situation. 

“I’m not ready to talk about it.” Her hand shook, palms going clammy. She saw them exchange a worried look out of her peripherals and for some reason it incensed her further. She’d had enough of people worrying. Well, she fully knew she’d been acting like a ‘brat’ as Az would say for the last few days. But, in her defense they were all busy-bodies who couldn’t mind their own damn business. 

“When will you be?” Cassian sounded … gentle, almost. Like she was some breakable doll. She firmly placed a lid down on her anger, shoving it away. 

“I’ll let you know.” 

“You have until tomorrow night.” Azriel cut in. With a low and obnoxious groan, she slumped in her seat. “Finish your food,” he directed. A particularly nasty look was shot his way, but she relented. 

There’s not a doubt in her mind that he’d make her eat if she refused. The two of them were overbearing and annoying, but meant well. Y/n knew Rhys had sent them in, considering his, Mor’s and even Amren’s attempts had all failed. 

“I thought you’d be happier to see us,” Cassian teased, nudging his shoulder with hers. “It’s been two weeks.” 

“I am happy to see you,” she mumbled. It’s the truth, she was glad to see him, and if she’d actually known they were back she probably would’ve left to at least check they’re in one piece. 

As soon as she’d cleared her plate, Cassian looped his arm in between hers - not giving her a chance to go anywhere. “We’re training.” 

“I just ate.” She protested, but it didn’t work. Azriel trailed them outside, hopefully to make sure Cassian didn’t end up working her to the point she threw up. 

-

She realized the mistake exactly as it happened, both arms raising for a block - and her shirt lifting as well. Revealing two yellowing hand print shaped bruises on her waist. She forced her expression to remain still, to not react, and hoped they hadn’t noticed. But, Cassian stilled. Eyes focused on where her shirt now covered her stomach. Y/n could’ve taken the opportunity to strike him, but didn’t. 

“Where are those from?” He asked her, and she could tell he was struggling to keep his voice even. They’d caught Azriel’s attention as well, from where he was standing a few paces away from the ring. Based on the predatory look of rage in his eyes, he’d seen everything. 

“None of -”

“Don’t.” The general cut in shortly. 

“It’s fine.” She insisted, going on the defensive. 

“Is that … part of what has you upset?” His throat bobbed, and she could tell he was trying very hard to keep himself calm. Y/n turned and ducked out of the ring, returning her sword to the rack. There was no use in lying to them, they both always knew when she was. And when she badgered them for her tells, they refused. So, she took a deep breath and prepared herself to deal with the fall out. 

“Yes. I took care of it already.” Her voice shook with each word. 

“What happened?” Azriel asked mildly. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and tilted her head back to look at the sky. She couldn’t look at them now, and didn't want to. Didn’t want the two of them to see her break down. Instead, she focused on the stars above her as the story spilled out. One of her friends' brothers had cornered her. She was in her early-twenties, and had never been interested in anyone. Not in that way. When the … opportunity came up she went along with it for a minute - even flirted harmlessly with him, but when he pressed and tried to push her for more, tried to get her to kiss him, and when he refused … 

“That’s when,” she waved her hand down her stomach, “that happened. I told him to stop but he wouldn’t,” she couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes as the story kept spilling out, of how he grabbed her breast, tried to stick his hand between her legs. 

“And he called me a frigid bitch after I kneed him in the balls.” She finished weakly, forcing a laugh. The two of them had gone incredibly still, and she felt the tears drip from her cheeks onto her shirt. “I took care of it.” She insisted. 

The ‘taking care of it’ worked for a day. Until he came back, thinking she was just playing with him - that she liked the ‘playing hard to get.’ The worst was her friend justifying it, when she brought it up to her. 

“Well,” she hesitated, biting on her bottom lip. “You did flirt with him, how’s he supposed to know?” 

“I told him to stop.” Y/n insisted.

“Just try telling him again.” She sighed. “I don’t want to get in a fight with him.” She told him, again, over the next three days. 

“There’s more.” Azriel said. Gods, he always knew - even if she was just omitting something. “All of it. I need to hear all of it.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She yelled, the anger she’d kept a firm lid on spilling out as tears ran down her face. “I don’t want to think about it, I want it to be over.” 

Cassian strode towards her, wrapping her in his arms and bringing her close to his chest, rubbing her back and holding her through her sobs. Cool shadows swirled around her neck and shoulders, and she recognized Azriel’s way of comforting her. 

“I’m sorry.” She murmured, face still pressed into his chest. 

“None of that,” he replied, running a hand through her hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

She snorted, pushing back against him. “You’re growing soft.” 

“Just for you,” he grinned but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

Y/n yelped as she was gently tugged away from him, instead bundled into Azriel’s arms, his fingers running through her hair and shadows still curling around her. Probably reporting her expressions even as he couldn’t see her face. “Can you tell me now?” 

She exhaled slowly. She wouldn’t get out of this, so she might as well tell him. “He just didn’t know how to take the hint. He thought I was playing with him.” Azriel tensed underneath her, and she scented the pure rage coming from both of the Illyrians and knew if she didn’t say anything else someone in the Autumn court would find their immortal life cut short. “I told him if he didn’t stop I would stab him.” 

“Good girl.” He murmured, but didn’t release her - instead holding her tight as if she might disappear at any moment. 

“Don’t -,” she took in a breath, “don’t tell anyone else.” She pushed back, tilting her head to see his expression. He looked troubled by it and glancing over to Cassian told her he’s feeling the same way. “Please.” 

They looked at each other, as if they were communicating something silently, and nerves hit her - crawling under her skin and swirling in her stomach. She took another step back, forcing Azriel’s arms to hang back by his sides. 

“We’ll make a deal, with a few conditions.” Cassian said, and strode closer to her, standing next to Azriel to make a wall formed of pure arrogance. She groaned internally. “If you don’t agree. We’ll tell him.” 

She crossed her arms, pressing her lips together. “What are they?” 

“Firstly, they’re non negotiable.” He waited for her nod before continuing. “You don’t visit them again. If you want to see her, she comes here.” 

“I’d have to go through Rhys for that.” He gave her a look, as if to say - “that’s your problem,” and she rolled her eyes. 

“Second. No more hiding.” 

“I wasn’t -” 

“Yes you were.” Azriel cut in, raising an eyebrow at her glare. “Rhys told us.” 

“He needs to learn to mind his business.” She muttered and Cassian snorted. 

“If he didn’t tell us, we would’ve figured it out. You don’t miss meals.” 

“I could have just wanted to eat in private.” 

“For three days in a row?” He crossed his arms. 

“Mind your damn business.” 

“Enough.” Azriel cut off the quickly budding argument between the two of them. He’s always been the mediator between the two of them - both ‘blessed’ with quick tempers. 

She wheeled on him instead. “And you have to promise not to tell him.” She needed to be very clear on that, otherwise he would take the loophole and exploit it. He looked conflicted, but ended up promising - unless it somehow escalates, but considering she’ll never see him again - she doubts it will.

“Is that everything?” 

“One more. Anyone does that to you again, you tell us.” 

“As long as you don’t tell anyone else without my permission permission.” They exchanged another look, and both nodded. She stared at them for a few seconds. “It’s a bargain.” 

She fought her smile as she was on the receiving end of twin glares. Apparently they hadn’t intended for it to go that far, but now she knew their word was good. 

“Brat.” Cassian muttered, but started searching for the tattoo. 

She shoved up her sleeves. Nothing on her arms. But, felt a tiny prick on chest, and strode towards the mirror, adjusting her shirt to see. Some kind of constellation was etched into her skin, spreading across her collarbones in a pattern she didn’t recognize. Azriel and Cassian had matching ones - it took them a minute to figure it out, especially with their leathers in the way, but small dots were interwoven with the tattoos already lining their chests. 

“It’s … feminine.” Cassian commented. 

“Nothing wrong with that,” she raised a brow at him. 

“Nothing wrong with it.” He quickly agreed. 

“I think they’re pretty,” she teased, poking his chest. 

-

“Did you figure it out?” Rhys asked later as the three of them met in his office. 

Cassian’s hand ran down his face. “We did.” 

“And what is it?” 

“We can’t tell you.” Azriel replied through gritted teeth. 

Rhys paused for a moment, before raising his brows. “You let her trick you into a bargain? I thought you would’ve known better.” Both of them bristled. Ever since y/n figured out what a bargain was, she managed to word things carefully enough they’d get wrapped into them. Rhys still remembers the first time he met her, back when she was a youngling and before they managed to get her out of the Court of Nightmares. 

“Mor said you could fly,” she whispered - low enough nobody else could hear. She looked up and saw the hesitant look on his face. “I can keep a secret.” She grinned. He gave her a quick nod. 

He saw her again, a year later - now seven years old. “Could you take me flying?” He gave a subtle shake of his head, but every time she saw him she would ask, and eventually he caved. 

“I’ll make a deal with you, you stop asking - and I’ll take you flying” 

“It’s a bargain.” She whispered, and Rhys winced as a small band appeared around his upper arm, a matching one on her. That’s not supposed to happen … she shouldn’t be able to make those without both parties expliciting saying it. 

They snuck her out the next day and took her, if only to keep anyone else from noticing the thin tattoo around her upper arm. He still remembered Mor half-heartedly lecturing her about the danger of making bargains - and not to go doing it with strangers. 

Another idea popped into his head. “Did she say you can’t show me?” 

Cassian winced. “I don’t-,” he turned to give Azriel a sharp look, “we don’t want to betray her trust. But it’s taken care of.” 

Rhys nodded. He’d have to wiggle it out of her himself then, even if that’s nearly impossible. Besides, if the two of them break her trust like that, and she finds out … that would be a fight he doesn’t want to be anywhere near. 

-

Mor promised to get her out of Hewn City, whenever she needed to. Y/n was eighteen when she left, when she moved to Velaris, met Cassian, Azriel, Amren, and started making friends in the city. She should’ve known any ‘friends’ she met living there … Y/n cut off that line of thinking, reminding herself it’s not her fault, in any way. But, her mind still swirls with all of the ways she possibly could have prevented it, or the different things she could have done. For gods sake, she’s told others countless times that it’s not their fault, and they’re in no way responsible for others actions, but she still gets caught in that spider web, in the dangerous abyss of her own thoughts caving in on her. 

“Where’d you go?” Rhys interrupts her and she blinks heavily. 

“Here and there.” She mutters, pushing some food around on her plate. 

“Anything you want to talk about?” Him and Mor have stopped questioning her as frequently, but still try to put subtle feelers out to see if she will respond, or open up to them. 

The words blurt out before she can think twice about them. “Can I speak with the priestesses again?” 

His entire body tenses, his shoulders tightening and eyes darkening. She’d just given him a very clear idea of what happened while she was away.

-

The priestesses. He can only think of a few reasons why she’d want to speak with them. It could be related to her past, but more likely to some recent events. Barely, he manages to keep his composure. 

“I’ll ask them.” His voice is short and he watches her worry her bottom lip. 

“Please don’t do-” 

“Anything rash?” He raises a brow, forcing a cool and neutral tone. 

“I took care of it.” She insisted. Similar to what Azriel and Cassian said. 

“Will you ever tell me? Or Mor? She’s worried sick.” Rhys knew it was a low blow, even as he said it. 

“I’m tired of … I’m tired of talking about it.” 

He wondered why she’d want to go to the priestesses, why she’d want to speak with them if she’s already sick of talking. But then again, he’s heard that sometimes they go into their offices just to cry or scream. Either way, he’s not going to deny her the chance, or that request. He knows without a doubt that they’ll agree to see her. They all love her there, and she spends a lot of her time studying in the archives. Technically that’s her official position in his court - to research, her mind is her greatest weapon. 

“Why don’t you ask them yourself?” 

“I wanted to make you feel useful.” He rolled his eyes, leaning over to flick her nose. She dodged it, swatting his hand away. “But if you’re going to complain I can ask them myself.’”

“Asking who?” Mor swept into the room, her eyes glimmering with curiosity. Rhys took that as his cue to leave, before he got caught into anything between the two sisters. 

-

Y/n mouthed ‘traitor’ at Rhys’s retreating figure, when Mor wasn’t looking. 

“I’m going to ask if I can speak with the priestesses again.” 

“Oh.” She paused, before sitting down on the couch next to her, stretching her legs out in front. “Anyone in particular?” 

She exhaled in relief, something Mor noticed but didn’t comment on. 

“Not Merrill.” Y/n muttered, drawing a laugh out of Mor. 

“Merrill has a good heart.” 

“I deal with her enough already.” Y/n groaned, leaning her head back on the cushion. 

“How is that going?” Mor switched subjects, navigating to safer areas. If she pushed too much on this topic … y/n might shut down again. 

“Slowly. Traveling between worlds, Rhys is obsessed with it and translating some of the old texts takes hours.” 

“Is he now?” She turned, interested, and gave her a small smile. 

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.” 

“I won’t snitch.” 

“I won’t either.” She snipped back, but a small smile was on her face, and some mirth dancing in her eyes. She could’ve cried from relief - even if she has other things to think about now, about how she has a very clear idea of what happened. Part of her wants to lecture her sister about bargains, again. 

-

Y/n was forced to stop hiding, the tattoo pricking into her skin every time it thought she was being a bit too reclusive. Still, she wondered if it really was a fair bargain - their silence in return for; not visiting her again, not hiding, and telling them if anyone does that again. She supposes that could mean several things, and they never specified a specific timeframe on when she would have to tell them. In her desperation for them to keep her confidence, she’d done something foolish and doubted they would let her out of that anytime soon. If ever. 

The two of them can be just as tricky as she is, and just as likely to find loopholes. At least they wouldn’t use it against her with the intention to cause harm. She’d never make one of those with someone she doesn’t trust. Even if the wording is iron-clad, there’s always room for error. Most of the ‘bargains’ she’s made are always light-hearted. 

Like making Rhys take her to fly, even if it was the shortest gods-damned flight of her life. Two minutes, if that - and under the cover of dark, after him and Mor snuck her out of Hewn City. Her very first taste of freedom. She was always kept away whenever the Inner Circle visited. Still, she managed to sneak away from the guards, learning how to create diversions and somehow give the impression she was still sleeping in her rooms, enchanting her toys to keep moving, or a pen to keep writing, a book to keep flipping its pages. They never caught her either. She wasn’t even born when Mor left. In fact, she wasn’t born until after Rhys took up his throne. Born into a ‘cleaned-out’ Hewn City, and grateful for it - she doesn’t want to know what it was like before. 

Not many children were around, anyway. The friends she did make were the ones her parents encouraged her to, from foreign courts for the most part. People she’s unlikely to ever visit again. Technically, she could leave of her own accord - but that would mean whoever she’s visiting is going to have someone knocking on their door to drag her away. 

A knock sounded on the door as she slumped back against her pillow, and she could sense Azriel was out there. 

“Come in,” she called. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’d enter anyway. 

The door swung open, revealing him leaning against her doorway. “I heard you went to speak with the priestesses.” 

Cutting right to the chase, then. “I speak with them every day. It’s part of my job description.” 

His eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean.”

She groaned, pushing herself up to sit. “You don’t need to haunt the doorway, you can come in.” 

“Last time I did, I recall a book launched my way.” 

She held up both hands, showing there were no projectiles in reach. He still looked cautious as he entered, and took up a seat in one of the armchairs, right by her favorite window. She swung her legs over so she sat on the edge of her bed, propping her forearms on her thighs. 

-

Azriel couldn’t help as his eyes shifted down ever so slightly to where her nightdress slipped down, showing the tops of the curves of her breasts. His gaze switched back up as quickly as possible, and somehow y/n didn’t catch the action - instead looking out towards the window. Good, the last thing he needs is to start ogling her, to give her the impression he’s coming onto her. There was something else he could do. He’d need to speak with Cassian. 

“I’m proud of you,” he offered instead. Her head snapped, back to look at him. Her eyes were wide and he fought the urge to shift under her gaze. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, her lips turning up into a soft smile. A shadow curled around his ear, happy, happy, happy. It sang. 

“What do they tell you?” She tilted her head, eyeing it. 

“That you’re happy,” he said honestly. 

She blinked twice, lips curving into an easy smile. “I suppose I am,” she finally answered. 

“You should get some sleep.” He’d noticed the bags under her eyes, how she still seemed exhausted and worn down throughout the day. Azriel had told Cassian he needed to stop dragging her outside and beating her into the ground every day. He’s aware healing is different for each person, but it had been a month since she returned, and his worry only grew. 

“That’s rude.” She frowned, but glanced at the mirror across from her bed. Interesting placement. “I do look like shit.” 

He snorted. “You look tired, there’s a difference.” 

“Sleep hasn’t … been easy.” He could tell it cost her something to admit that. Stubborn pride, just like her sister and cousin. And the rest of them, he supposed. 

“Nightmares?” He prompted, and she nodded. He wouldn’t pry further, but made a mental note to send a shadow in later, to keep watch on her. Maybe it was an invasion of her privacy, but he didn’t particularly care. “I’m right down the hall,” he jerked his chin towards the door. 

“I’m aware.” Another shadow curled around his ear, stay, stay, stay. “Is it too nosy if I ask about that one?” She teased. 

“Maybe.” 

She held her hand to her chest in mock surprise. “I suppose it’s your job to keep secrets.” 

“I recall someone making a terrible bargain to keep something secret.” 

Her face dropped, and he got the impression he said the wrong damn thing. “They’ve already figured it out.” She mumbled, eyes avoiding him. He hated that, hated when she wouldn’t look at him. 

“That’s not a terrible thing.” He fought the urge to rub the back of his neck. He’s never been great at comforting, usually Cassian’s the one to do these kinds of things. Still, he found himself walking across the room, taking a seat next to her. On instinct, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, tugging her into his side. 

She froze, went still for a brief moment, and he was about to move away when she leaned into him, her body relaxing. A few of his shadows swirled around her neck, and she hummed in content. 

Another one curled around his ear, happy, stay. Maybe, for a minute or two. 

-

Cassian went looking for Azriel, he wasn’t in his room - or downstairs or anywhere to be found, and tracked his scent off to y/n’s room, of all places. The door was already parted, and he nudged it open with his foot. Y/n was curled into his side, sound asleep in an awfully uncomfortable position. How tired did she have to be to sleep like that? Almost sitting up. 

Azriel turned his head to look at him, his expression almost saying ‘I have no idea how I got here.’ He held a fist up to his face, fighting back a laugh, and ignoring his glare. He stalked over towards the duo, ignoring Az’s glare as he shook y/n’s shoulder. 

“Stop holding him hostage.” He watched as her eyes opened, half lidded with sleep. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, hand coming up to hide a yawn. 

Azriel moved his arm away, even if he seemed reluctant to do so, and he pushed back her shoulders so she’d actually lay down. “I don’t want to hear any complaints if your back hurts tomorrow.” 

“Fuck off.” She yanked the blankets back over her, burrowing down into the pillows. It took barely a minute before she was sound asleep again, her breaths evening out, mouth slightly parted in sleep. Peaceful, she looked so peaceful, even with the bags still lining her eyes like horrible bruises. 

Azriel tapped his shoulder, and he realized he’d been staring for a while. They quietly left, gently shutting the door closed behind them. 

“You’ve gone soft.” He told the other male after they were out of earshot. 

“I was just … comforting her, and she fell asleep.”

“Must be really tired, then.” 

“She said she’s having nightmares.” 

Mother above, Cassian wanted to storm the autumn court and bring her back that asshole’s head as a gift. In fact, he’d been debating it for the last few days - but, if anything it would distress her further. Y/n’s never been a violent person, in contrast to the rest of the inner circle. A good contrast. She thought he’d been training her more just to keep her from ‘hiding,’ but his mind was swirling with what else could’ve gone wrong, and if she would have been able to defend herself. Or why she threw herself in whole heartedly, pushing herself harder than ever. 

“She’s been more ...” Cassian pressed his lips into a tightline, glancing behind him to make sure y/n wasn’t behind. “Dedicated, training wise.” 

“I know.” Azriel replied quietly. He couldn’t shake the feeling there was something else they didn’t know.

-

Her tattoo pricked at her as she opened the third letter in the past month. Addressed from her friend, like the last two, but something was different about this one - her name written differently, a small curve to the letters. 

Her eyes scanned the page, picking out the key phrases. 

I miss the fun we had. I know how much you enjoyed yourself. 

You must, should visit at your earliest convenience. 

There was only a general threatening atmosphere to the words - nothing outwardly against her safety. Only him … reminiscing on the past events, in uncomfortable detail. Harmless, she decided, even if her subconscious screamed against her. No pain ripped through her magic, also some guilt crept into her at the feeling - she was hiding it, using a loophole to get out of the agreement, not honoring the spirit of it. 

With a low exhale, she justified it to herself, no need to worry the two of them - they were busy enough as is. Besides, she couldn’t trust them to keep their cool. The guilt would multiply if she knew violence was brought to her friend's doorway. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, and crumpled the paper - shoving it in a drawer and reminding herself to burn it later. It was dark, the sun already dipped below the horizon - only vague rays of pink and purple peeking up past the horizon. Her stomach grumbled, loud enough she snorted. That’s a clear signal she needs to grab something to eat. 

She slipped out her door, closing it behind her with a gentle snick. She kept her footsteps as silent as she could as she trailed down the hallway, but she heard … moans - and groans coming from Azriel’s room. Did he have someone over? A small tinge of hurt filled her - not that he was hers, or she had any claim to him. Or Cassian. Why had her mind gone to both of them? “Ridiculous,” she quietly chided herself. She could manage to walk by the room, keep her eyes set right ahead - no need to look at the door or pause, she wouldn’t be nosy. 

Her feet moved quickly, and she spotted the cracked open door in her peripheral, cursing him. Eyes forward, right ahead. No need to look. 

But, she made the mistake of looking at the window, figuring it would be harmless. 

Her mouth parted in shock as she saw Cassian, pressed back against Azriel who had one arm wrapped around his front - palming him through the leather pants. They were both shirtless, muscles toned and gleamed with a light sheen of sweat. Azriel’s other hand was fisted in the General’s hair, their lips crashing together in a violent and passionate kiss. 

She hadn’t realized she was staring, arousal starting to creep into her, until a shadow curled around Azriel’s ear and his head snapped towards her. Cassian quickly followed, and she let out a small yelp - going bug eyed and taking off down the hall. She was not supposed to see that. Not at all … Mother above they need to close the damned door. Arousal flickered through her as she paused at the end of the hall - way out of range, bracing her hand against the wall, she squeezed her eyes shut and willed away the feeling. She couldn’t want them. They were perfectly unavailable, and together, at least in some sense. 

Did Rhys and Mor know? She wouldn’t be the one to tell them. Her mind flashed with more images;

Azriel panting as Cassian knelt in front of him. Azriel hauling him to his feet - throwing him over the side of the bed … 

“Stop it.” She muttered to herself, pinching the bridge of her nose and darting her gaze around the hall. No one to witness, good. She couldn’t remember why she left her room, but she wouldn’t be returning for a while. 

-

It shouldn’t have, but getting caught - and by her, and feeling her arousal from the brief moments she watched them … it spurred him on, sent him deeper into that state of building pleasure. 

She didn’t know they already knew she was there. Azriel  wanted to see how long it took for her to say something, or if they’d have to act first.

“We should invite her back.” Cassian said, bruised lips frowning. 

“Do you want to scare her off?” Azriel asked incredulously. They had actual albeit vague plans for this. To  come in stages, how to trigger various emotions in her. 

“No.” He muttered, entwining his hair at the nape of Azriel’s neck.

“Good boy” Azriel teased and his friend grunted, throwing a half-hearted punch his way. Cassian stiffened under his hand. “You like that?” His teeth nipped at his neck as his hand slipped under his waistband. 

“Do we talk to her about it?” Cassian asked, an hour later - hair messed, cheeks flushed, one hand braced on the doorframe. 

Az propped himself up from where he was still laying in bed. “Let her dream about it.” 

[slytherinslut0]

MATTHEO RIDDLE- Beg For Me

Chapter Three- Info: You and Mattheo have been butting heads for months, since you were assigned as his tutor, and one day during a session full of tense bickering, he has enough.

(This will essentially be a toxic book where we are Thèos fucktoy. No love here, very minimal fluff.)

Tags: 18+, PURE SMUT, Sub!Reader, Dom!Mattheo, Oral Sex (M Rec), Throat Fucking, Toxic Behaviour, Blackmail, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, Humiliation, Manipulation, Gagging, Spitting, DubCon, CNC.

**here’s: one, two, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen & twenty.

As you approached the door of the familiar private classroom, a subtle sense of unease gnawed at the edges of your confidence.

Admittedly you got lost in the depths of your homework after dinner, becoming absorbed in the swirls of ink on your parchment, diligently crafting your Astronomy essay due in a mere three weeks from now. The minutes seemingly slipped away, and you realized you were running late for today's tutoring session, the devastating consequence of your intense focus on your academic obligations.

However, considering Mattheo's habitual tardiness--one of which he has mastered as well as any given art form--you assumed your delay wouldn't be at all consequential, and would most likely even go unnoticed. So without really thinking twice about it, you gently pushed open the door, expecting the room to be empty, the usual silence welcoming you as you stepped inside.

But then, to your astonishment, the room was not vacant. There he was, Mattheo Riddle, perched on the chair with an air of casual authority. His long legs were stretched out before him, feet confidently resting on the desk's edge, displaying a newfound confidence that sent a shiver down your spine. His arms were folded, his posture exuding an almost predatory assurance. His eyes, dark as the night and twice as intense, followed your every move as you stepped inside. The atmosphere crackled with tension, the weight of his gaze pressing upon you.

You closed the door with a deliberate slowness, the soft click echoing through the room like a gunshot in the silence, and his eyes locked onto yours, silently challenging you.

"Well, well, look who finally decided to show up." He taunted, his voice laced with a poisonous charm. The room seemed to shrink in the wake of his suffocating arrogance. "Guess Ravenclaws little good girl isn't so perfect after all...who would have guessed."

You rolled your eyes, a flush of embarrassment staining your cheeks as you awkwardly dropped your gaze to the floor. The weight of being late for the first time in your life was almost palpable, but you made an effort to play it off, attempting to regain your composure despite the lingering discomfort.

"Save the mind games for someone who's willing to play, Riddle," you said, slowly making your way toward him. "You have no right to talk, you're late every single week."

"Yeah but I'm not the one who turns into a sobbing mess over a less-than-perfect grade," Mattheo sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "I don't have mental breakdowns just because I'm not the class's golden child in everything, and I'm definitely not the one who's about to graduate in merely a few months while still a fucking virgin-"

Your jaw dropped in astonishment at his audacity, a surge of indignation propelling you to slam your bag down on the desk in front of him. The force of your action knocked his feet off the desk, abruptly interrupting whatever sentence he had intended to finish, leaving him silenced in disbelief.

"At least I'm going to fucking graduate without needing someone to hold my hand like a child." You hissed, the words slipping past your teeth before you even had a chance to process them. "For someone who needs me so much, you sure don't act like you appreciate my help."

Mattheo's eyes darkened, a storm of arrogance and anger swirling in their depths, transforming his usual stoic demeanor into a deep scowl etched across his face. He rose from his seat, his tall frame looming over you, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch across the room.

"You think I need you, Raven?" He purred, wetting his lips. "You really think that?"

You steeled your jaw, strengthening your stance, ignoring the fact that your fingers were trembling like leaves in the autumn wind.

"Where would you be without me, Riddle?" You whispered, kinking your neck back to catch his dark, hungry eyes. "How many tutors did you have before me? How many other students tried to help you but couldn't stand your arrogant, no-fucks-given attitude, hm?"

Your words draped the air with a palpable gravity, silencing Mattheo completely--an unprecedented reaction, given his usual quick retorts. The revelation ignited a fierce ember within you, fueling your resolve and lending a sharp edge to your words, as if each syllable carried the weight of your determination.

"That's what I thought..." your voice was low, reverberating as a mere whisper in the air, something flickering behind Mattheo's eyes that made your lips curl into a devilish smirk. "You know that without me, you'd be here forever...maybe you've managed to manipulate me into being your little toy, but that doesn't change the truth about this whole thing...you need me, Riddle, you fucking need me..."

Mattheo blinked, the ensuing silence lingering for what felt like a painful fucking eternity--time seemed to come to a standstill, everything around you fading into insignificance, leaving just you and the cunning, arrogant boy with tousled hair in your presence.

When he finally spoke, You couldn't shake the sinking feeling in your stomach, understanding all too well that his words were laced with an arrogant twist, a prelude to something manipulative and cunning yet to unfold.

"You're right," he finally said, stepping closer. "I do need you,"

His voice dipped into a low, sinister register, and the corners of his lips curled into a sadistic smile, sending a chill down your spine.

"I need you to watch your fucking mouth," the touch of his fingers on your arm nearly made you jump, his hand grazing up and over your shoulder. "I need you on your knees begging for my forgiveness," the pads of his fingers grazed your collarbone, and before you could even comprehend it, his large hand clasped around your throat, the other finding the small of your back as he pushed you up against the desk. "And then, I need you swallowing my fucking cum like the good little whore I know you are."

Without wasting a single second of time his plush lips attacked yours, his tongue delving past your teeth with a passionate urgency. You were painfully aware of Mattheo's manipulative tactics, understanding that he was using your vulnerability to his advantage, and the rational part of your mind screamed warnings at you, reminding you of the toxicity in his actions.

Yet, beneath the surface; as his hands roamed your curves, his tongue explored your mouth; an unsettling, exhilarating feeling lingered, a strange sort of affection for the very dominance that should have repelled you.

The awareness of his exploitation only intensified the rush, a twisted form of affection blossoming amidst the wrongness of it all. It was as if the knowledge of being used had become entangled with your desires, forming a paradoxical bond that you couldn't sever. In the midst of the moral turmoil, a dark, irresistible thrill coursed through your veins, leaving you helplessly drawn to the very thing you should have despised.

"You've been a very naughty girl, Raven..." his lips fell to your jawline, hands groping your curves, bunching the fabric of your uniform within his battered fists. "You've been swearing far too much...you were late...and now you want to act like you have power over me?" When he sunk his teeth into your earlobe, you yelped, flinching as he tightened his grip on your hips. "Don't get it twisted, princess...I hold the fucking power here...look at what I do to you..."

Your entire body was tingling, your fingers latching onto the fabric of his white button up dress shirt for dear fucking life.

"Mattheo-"

His lips fell lower, rough hands gripping your hips and shoving your ass back onto the desk behind you, parting your legs on either side of his strong body as he pulled you against him.

"This is what I do to good girls like you...I turn them into naughty little whores..." he purred, licking a flat line up the side of your throat, your lids involuntary fluttering shut at the breathtaking sensation. "...naughty little whores who take my cock and swallow my fucking cum."

His hands slid up your sides, taking the fabric of your skirt along with them, and you gasped as you felt it hike dangerously high up your thighs, trembling fingers tugging it back down to keep yourself covered.

Mattheo huffed, releasing the fabric. "You're not used to being bad though, are you, princess?"

His teeth sank into your collarbone, creating a tantalizing blend of pleasure and pain that sent shivers down your spine. Strands of his tousled hair caressed your cheek, the faintest whisper of a touch sending tingles across your skin. Your lips parted involuntarily, releasing a soft whimper, while Mattheo's response echoed in a deep, guttural groan that reverberated through the air, intensifying the charged atmosphere between you.

One hand gripped your jaw as he pulled back, meeting your eyes. "Answer me when I ask you a question."

Your breath hitched, flames roaring in your veins. "No, Mattheo...I'm not..."

"Mm," he purred, wetting his lips as he stared. "Do you know what happens to bad girls, Raven?"

Your stomach twisted as he tugged you closer by the hold on your jaw, his eyes darkening with desire as they darted across your face, seemingly examining your features as though they were precarious and new.

Your voice trembled. "No..."

"They get fucking punished."

Before you could respond, Mattheo shifted his hand, shoving two rough fingers between your teeth, reaching for the back of your throat and forcing a gag. Your eyes watered, beads of salty fluid threatening to spill down your cheeks, but he was unyielding, gripping the back of your neck with his other hand to force himself further down your throat--holding you in place while he did.

Your entire body was in flames, your thighs begging, fucking screaming in a need so disgustingly dirty you'd never experienced anything remotely close to it before.

Mattheo groaned, low in his chest, his dark eyes watching every single ministration of your face as you gagged on his fingers. The hand behind your head relented as he brought it to his crotch, palming the insistent bulge in his trousers as he watched you; seemingly not having blinked once.

"Unbutton your shirt," his voice was a hoarse whisper, laced with primal desire. He pushed his fingers deeper, clearing his throat. "Seal those filthy lips around my fingers, and unbutton your fucking shirt, princess..."

You cursed the fact that his body was separating your legs because all you wanted, more than anything on the face of the planet, was to squeeze your fucking thighs together--to give your cunt any sort of friction possible. Every word from his lips was doing inexplicable things to your body, and the need between your thighs was growing so insistent it was almost painful.

Following his commands, you sealed your lips around his fingers, swirling your tongue and bobbing your head painfully slowly as you teased him, trembling fingers moving to the buttons on your blouse and undoing them one by one until your chest was entirely exposed to him--your lungs stalled, pussy clenching as you watched his eyes darken with desire while they scanned your chest covered only by your navy laced bra, the hand on his crotch moving more insistently now.

"My fucking God, Raven," he breathed, jaw tensing so tight it looked painful. "I can't believe you've been keeping all of that hidden this whole time..."

You mewled involuntarily as he grazed your chest with his free hand, pushing his fingers deeper down your throat with enough intensity to make you cough as his demeanour switched and he palmed your breast with enough force to illicit an exasperated groan. He was possessed now, something swarming his pupils that made your entire body convulse with unfamiliar and unabashed need; you were almost certain there'd be a pool of your desire on the desk between your thighs at this point.

Without warning, he abruptly removed his hands from you. Your lips, parted in anticipation of a breath, yearned for air before his mouth enveloped yours once more. In a frenzy, his hands hurriedly reached for his belt, driven by an almost desperate urgency as you both inhaled sharply through your nostrils. Your lips meshed together in a way that seemed to consume each other, as if you could breathe in one another during the kiss.

Once he'd successfully freed himself, he pulled back, shoving his fingers back into your mouth and yanking you off the desk, his throbbing length pressing against your belly as he shoved himself against you; fingers forcing another gag from your chest, watching you with a primal fervour in his eyes so intense it was intoxicating.

Pulling his fingers from your mouth again, he cupped his hand out in front of you. "Spit."

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your brain buffering in attempt to process his words until his free hand shot into your hair, tilting your head until your lips were parallel to his palm.

"Spit, Raven," he repeated. "Spit into my fucking hand."

Your stomach contorted with a mix of disbelief and unfamiliar desire, your entire being thrown off balance. Each word that fell from his lips felt like a jolt, causing your heart to stutter in your chest. His eyes bored into you, searing your skin into flames, and without another moment's hesitation, you gathered the saliva he had coerced from you and spat it into his hand.

"Mm, that's it...good little whore..." He purred, bringing it down to his cock, rubbing it into his shaft as he stroked himself, eyes never once leaving yours. "Now, get on your knees for me, pretty girl."

Your breath caught in your throat. He, of all people, had just called you "pretty," and you were certain your ears were playing some sort of trick on you. It was a compliment you never expected from him, someone you had never imagined would see you in such a way. Pulling your lip between your teeth, you did as he said, squeezing your thighs together as you situated yourself in front of his feet.

Mattheo's hand remained in your hair, firmly gripping a fistful as he stroked himself. "Hands behind your back, Raven..." he muttered. "Let me see those delicious fucking tits of yours."

Your entire body shuddered, immediately clasping your hands together behind you without a second thought.

"That's it...fuck-" he was stroking himself faster, the veins in his hands tensing with every movement. You weren't sure who was enjoying this more, him or you. "You want this, princess? You want this cock in your dirty little mouth?"

Your throat was drier than the desert, each swallow a struggle against the arid emptiness within. Fingernails dug into your own flesh with a fierce intensity, the pressure threatening to break through the skin, mirroring the internal turmoil that gripped you. Holy fucking shit.

"Yes..." your voice was a pathetic whisper.

"Don't be so modest, Raven," he sneered, slowing his pace, twisting his wrist as he stroked his shaft, eyes never once leaving yours. "Beg for it."

Your stomach was in your throat. You'd never done anything like that before, you weren’t even really sure how. "I...um-please, Mattheo..."

His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, a flicker of amusement dancing across his features before he locked eyes with you once more, his arrogance wrapping around the room like a suffocating cloak.

"Bloody hell, I said beg for it...does the prissy little princess not know how to fucking beg?" his voice was a hoarse growl, his vocal cords strained with lust. "Tell me how bad you want my cock, Raven, tell me how much you need it."

You couldn't believe your ears; the turn of events in your life felt utterly surreal. Never in your entire existence could you have imagined that this is where you'd find yourself right now--merely a few months away from graduation, on your knees for the most suffocatingly arrogant delinquent in the school who was making you beg to suck his fucking dick. A man who only last year wouldn't have paid you an ounce of mind, who probably didn’t even know you existed.

Your cheeks burned, but you fought through it, the arousal in your lungs fuelling your words. "Please, Mattheo...I want your cock so bad, I want you in my mouth, I want to choke on it, I want you to fuck my throat until you cum-"

His grip on your hair tightened, simultaneous with the grip on his cock as he cranked your head back, leaning down to meet your eyes; his lips hovering mere inches above yours.

"My God, you're a dirty fucking slut, aren't you?" He purred, smirking so wide it reached his eyes, his fingers bruising your scalp. "A dirty fucking slut whose sole purpose is to let me use her mouth whenever I want, yeah?"

You swallowed, wincing as he jerked your head back further, fucking into his fist faster, harder. "Yes, Mattheo..."

He sneered, clearly loving every fucking minute of this. "Imagine if anyone saw you like this...fuck-you're fucking filthy..." his voice was breathless, if you didn't know any better you'd think he was about to make himself cum before you had the chance to suck him off. "Apologize for being such a nasty little slut and I'll let you swallow my cum."

Your thighs clenched in need, your wetness seeping through your panties at this point. Gods, you wanted him so fucking bad you thought you were going to die.

"I'm sorry," you pleaded, eyes wide as you peered up at him, nearly-speechless. "I'm sorry for being a nasty little slut."

"That's right..." he purred, directing the head of his cock toward your mouth, groaning as your pressed your lips to it. "Good girl...fuck-so good for me..."

Your entire body was in flame, hands still clasped together behind your back as both of his thrust tightly through your hair, absentmindedly sealing your lips around his shaft, revelling in his skin's heat, dragging your tongue along the throbbing, pulsing underside. Riddle growled, bucking his hips, and you took him further into your mouth, gagging as his tip slammed the back of your throat.

"You take me so well, Raven..." he breathed, head falling back on his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as his hands urged your head along his length. "Can't believe a mouth that annoying can feel this fucking good."

You groaned in assent, sucking hard at his cock as he slowly started to fuck your throat. You were both struggling to breathe, both losing control, both lost in an ocean of primal, urgent carnality. Pleasure was straining your seams, ready to explode inside of you, drool dribbling in globs from your chin, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as you tried to hold the boundaries of your sanity together.

"Mm, fuck..." Riddle's grip was crushing your skull. "I changed my mind…I'm gonna' cum on those perfect tits, princess..."

Your bones almost liquefied at this--but you steadied your knees, gagging as he started fucking into your throat faster, thrusting deep, your eyes disappearing into the back of your head as you allowed him to use your mouth as a helpless hole for him to fuck--singlehandedly loving every fucking second of it.

"Shit-" he groaned, eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck."

Your thighs clenched, brain fogged by a hurricane of lust, but when he pulled out, abruptly, your cognition returned--your vision clearing to an image of Riddle, red-faced, fucking his fist. Snarling, he jerked your hair, and choked on his moan, the sound stuttering while he shot the hot loads of his cum onto your chest and neck. He sucked down air in long, heavy breaths, waiting until the end of his release had dissipated, and then dropped you, stepping back to marvel at his masterpiece. You swore steam was wafting off your skin.

"Beautiful," he murmured. He pieced himself back together, buckling his belt. "Tell me how I taste."

Every inch of you tingled, chest heaving, jaw slack in an open pant. Keeping his stare, you brought a trembling hand to your chest, swiping his sticky cum off your tits and trailing it past your lips, slowly sucking it off your first two fingers. The taste melding with the mere prospect of what was happening elicited a low moan from your chest, and you shuddered, trapped in his gaze until you were finished.

"Salty." You teased, smirking up at him.

"Salty, huh?” He huffed, a devious grin on his face as he helped you up to your feet, rough palm grasping your forearm. "Important mineral for a balanced meal, yeah?"

You chuckled, heat swarming your skin as you stammered up to your feet, meeting his darkened eyes as you began buttoning up your shirt, taking in his newly flushed features--curly brown hair slightly sticking to his forehead before he ran a battered hand through it, brushing it back.

“Smartass,” you grumbled, turning toward the desk. “Next week we have an exam, so there won’t be a tutor session, you know that right?”

He released a breath, throwing himself into the usual creaky wooden chair beside yours. “Guess that just means you’ll have to do that again before the nights’ over,” he said. “You know, to compensate for next week.”

You rolled your eyes, failing to hide your smirk. “In your dreams, Riddle.”

“Oh, definitely not, princess.” He breathed, glimpsing you briefly. “In my dreams you do a hell of a lot more than that.”

——————

Chapter four->

[rafeskai]

Life as We Know It — Rafe Cameron

Chapter Five

Two opposites must navigate love, loss, and unexpected parenthood to discover the meaning of family.

Summary: When tragedy strikes, two very different individuals find their lives unexpectedly intertwined as they become the guardians of an orphaned child. As they navigate the challenges of co-parenting, balancing careers, and confronting their pasts, they discover that family can form in the most surprising ways. Through heartfelt moments and unexpected humor, they explore what it means to build a life together—one step at a time.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Character deaths & angst.

Author's Notes: 2 more chapters to go!

Masterlist: Here

The courthouse doors slammed behind you as you stepped into the empty hallway, your chest heavy with grief. The weight of the decision still hung in the air, pressing down on you like an unbearable burden. Ward had won. He had won Willa.

Your heart was a storm of emotions: fury, betrayal, hopelessness. You had tried so hard. You had fought for Willa, for Sarah and John B., to give her the life they would’ve wanted. But it wasn’t enough. In the end, the system didn’t care. The judge didn’t care. No one cared.

You found yourself sinking against the cold marble wall, your body trembling with the overwhelming sense of failure. You had promised Sarah you would look after Willa, that you would protect her. And now, in a single blow, it felt like you’d lost her.

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and before you knew it, a sob broke free. The grief, the exhaustion, the helplessness—all of it hit you like a tidal wave. You buried your face in your hands, trying to steady yourself, but it felt like everything was slipping through your fingers.

And then you heard him.

Rafe’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, and you didn’t even have to look up to know it was him. He didn’t need to say anything at first—he simply crouched beside you, his hand reaching out to gently pull yours away from your face. His eyes, red-rimmed and brimming with pain, met yours.

“I... I don’t know what to do, Rafe,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I promised Sarah and John B. that I would protect her, that I would keep her safe. And I failed them. I failed her.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, his own pain etched across his face, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached over, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from the storm of grief swirling around you both.

He didn’t say anything for a long while. The only sound between you was the occasional shaky breath, the quiet sobs that escaped without warning. But then, Rafe spoke in a voice that barely reached above a whisper.

“You didn’t fail her,” he said, his voice raw. “You fought like hell for her. We both did. We’ve still got a chance to fix this. We’re not done yet.”

You pulled away slightly, looking up at him, trying to see some trace of hope in his eyes, but all you saw was the same frustration, the same loss that mirrored your own.

“I don’t know how we can fight this anymore. Ward’s got everything on his side. He’s won... and I don’t know what to do, Rafe.” You shook your head, feeling the tears come again. “I just want her back. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Rafe’s hand cupped your cheek, his touch gentle despite the storm brewing inside of him. His eyes softened as he gazed at you, and you saw something there—a kind of resolve you hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m not letting her go, [Y/N]. I’m not,” he said fiercely, his voice trembling. “I’m not giving up on her.”

You nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. You needed to hear that. You needed to believe it.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. “But how? How do we stop Ward?”

Rafe was quiet for a moment, his eyes drifting away as if he was piecing together a plan in his head. His brow furrowed, and you could almost see the wheels turning. Then, his gaze locked onto yours once more, filled with an intensity that made your heart race.

“We take it back to court,” Rafe said, his voice steadying with determination. “We find a way to show that Ward’s not fit to raise her. That we are the ones who should be raising her, not him.”

“Rafe,” you said slowly, your mind racing. “How do we do that? We can’t just... ask for a new judge or something.”

Rafe stood up, pacing back and forth as he thought. You watched him, waiting for him to finish putting the pieces together. He was quiet for a moment, then stopped in front of you, a glint of determination flashing in his eyes.

“We need evidence,” he said, his voice hardening with resolve. “We need proof of what he’s done. All the times he’s hurt us, hurt Sarah, hurt me. All of it. If we can show the court that he’s dangerous, that he’s unfit to care for Willa, we have a shot at getting her back.”

Your heart skipped a beat as Rafe’s words settled in. You knew what this meant. You knew the kind of things Ward had done. The abuse. The manipulation. But it had always been buried under layers of lies and secrecy. It was the one thing that had kept Ward in power for so long.

“You really think we can do that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Rafe’s gaze softened, but the fire in his eyes didn’t flicker. “I know we can. We’ve got to fight for her. We’ve got to fight for Sarah and John B. We owe it to them.”

You stood up, wiping your eyes, feeling a spark of something in your chest—a glimmer of hope, the first you’d felt in weeks.

“Okay,” you said, your voice steadier now. “Let’s do it. We’re not giving up. We’ll fight him.”

Rafe smiled slightly, though it was tinged with sadness. He reached out, pulling you into a tight hug, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There was only the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. The grief was still there, weighing heavily on both of you, but now, there was a plan. A way forward.

“We’ll get her back, [Y/N]. I promise.”

And for the first time since the hearing, you believed him.

Together, you’d fight for Willa. You’d fight for Sarah and John B. And this time, you wouldn’t lose.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It was late into the night when you and Rafe began mapping out your plan. The house was eerily quiet, the silence only broken by the occasional murmur of Willa's soft breaths from her room. Rafe sat across from you at the kitchen table, the dim light above casting shadows across his face as he tapped his fingers on the surface, his thoughts clearly miles away.

You, too, were deep in thought, mentally piecing together everything you knew about Ward, everything you had endured growing up in the Cameron household. The years of his emotional and physical abuse. The fights. The silence that followed each blow.

You felt sick just thinking about it, but you couldn’t stop. You had to. This was the only way forward. If you were going to keep Willa safe, you had to make Ward’s past a part of the case, even if it meant digging into old wounds.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you muttered, staring at the open folder on the table in front of you. It was filled with legal documents and notes from your lawyer, a roadmap for how to fight back. But it felt impossible—too big a task, too much to uncover.

Rafe leaned forward, his face tense, but his eyes were determined. “We have to, [Y/N]. We can’t let him get away with it anymore. For Willa. For Sarah.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and you knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. The weight of Sarah’s death had been unbearable for both of you. But now it was more than just grief. It was about keeping Willa safe, keeping her away from the monster that had shaped so much of their lives.

“We need proof,” Rafe continued, glancing at the stack of papers. “We need to find something. Anything.”

You nodded, your mind already racing. You knew that Ward’s past was buried in the same place as all his lies and manipulations. His anger had always been a weapon—aimed at Sarah, at Rafe, and even at you when you had been younger. There had to be something—some record, some shred of truth that you could use to show the world just who Ward really was.

“Do you have anything?” you asked, looking at Rafe.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. “I know a few things,” he admitted quietly. “But they’re not enough. Not on their own.”

You sat back in your chair, trying to calm the nervous fluttering in your chest. “What do you mean?”

Rafe leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face. “I remember... there were moments. When I was a kid. I overheard things. Conversations. There were times when Sarah would—she’d try to protect me, try to shield me from Ward’s anger. But there were... documents. Letters. Things that could prove how he manipulated everything.”

You felt a chill spread over you, a sense of urgency taking over. “Where are they? Can we find them?”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, and he looked down at his hands. “They’re in the attic. A box of stuff that Sarah and I hid. I don’t know exactly what’s in it, but I remember Sarah saying she didn’t want Ward ever getting his hands on them.”

Your heart raced as a plan started to form in your mind. "We need to go through it, Rafe. Everything we can find. We need to dig through all of it."

He nodded, his jaw tight with determination. “I’ll go through it. I’ll find it.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The following morning, Rafe and you set out for the attic. It felt surreal as you made your way up the stairs to the small, cluttered space that held so many memories—memories of a past neither you nor Rafe had wanted to confront, but knew you had no choice but to face now.

Dust filled the air as Rafe opened the attic door, the wooden steps creaking under your weight as you followed him up. The space was cramped, boxes piled high, old furniture tucked away, things discarded and forgotten. You could smell the mustiness of years gone by, but there was no time to linger. No time to let the memories flood you.

Rafe began to dig through the boxes, pulling out old papers, photos, and forgotten trinkets that had once meant something to Sarah and him. You watched him closely, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. He was doing this for her—doing this for Willa.

After a few moments, Rafe paused, his fingers brushing against something wedged behind a dusty old coat. He pulled out a small, weathered cardboard box, the tape on the sides barely holding it together.

“This is it,” Rafe murmured. He opened it cautiously, as if he expected something to jump out at him. You peered over his shoulder, trying to calm the pounding in your chest. Inside, you saw a tangle of old photographs and folders—records from the past that, hopefully, would be the key to winning Willa’s custody.

Rafe pulled out a folder first, his fingers trembling as he flipped it open. Inside, there were handwritten letters—letters that Rafe had clearly never meant to read, written in Sarah’s handwriting, detailing arguments, moments of fear, and Sarah’s attempts to escape their father’s control.

“I knew it,” Rafe muttered, his eyes scanning the pages. “Sarah... she tried so hard to protect us from him.”

You felt a lump in your throat as you read over his shoulder. The letters were raw, emotional, detailing Ward’s abusive behavior—his temper, his verbal cruelty, his violence. There were accounts of physical injuries Sarah had tried to hide from the world, and she’d written about the times Ward had hurt both of them, though she never named it outright. She’d tried to find ways to escape him, even at a young age.

“This is what we needed,” you said softly, a feeling of relief flooding through you. “This is it, Rafe. This is proof. We can use this.”

Rafe stared down at the letters, his eyes glossy. He didn’t speak for a moment, and the weight of everything he had lived through—everything you were now uncovering—seemed to press down on him.

“I never wanted her to know,” Rafe whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I never wanted Willa to go through what we went through. I thought I was protecting her by keeping her away from all this.” He swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. “But we can’t keep running from it. If we want to win this, we need the truth.”

You nodded, reaching out and placing a hand on his. “You didn’t fail, Rafe. You’re doing everything you can for her. We’ll make sure she’s safe. We’ll make sure Ward doesn’t win.”

Rafe exhaled deeply, looking at the papers in his hands. “We’ll do whatever it takes. We’re not losing her.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

The attic felt smaller as the hours passed, the musty air thick with the weight of the secrets it held. You sat beside Rafe on the dusty floor, the pile of evidence between you growing larger. Letters. Photographs. Police reports. Even old school records. It was all beginning to paint a picture of a man no one ever truly understood—the man who had shaped Sarah, Rafe, and their entire childhood.

You flipped through a few more papers, the words on the pages starting to blur as your emotions overwhelmed you. There were times Sarah had begged to be seen, to be heard, and each word you read was like another stab to your heart.

“God…” you whispered, your hand trembling as you gripped the edge of a photo. It was one of Sarah, just a child, smiling in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The darkness that had been lurking in the background of their lives, the abuse they had endured, was so clear now. It wasn’t something you’d seen before—perhaps because you hadn’t wanted to see it. But now, as the layers were peeled back, the reality hit you like a flood.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Rafe’s voice cut through the silence, soft and gentle. “Hey, you okay?”

You blinked and wiped at your eyes, trying to keep it together. But the tears didn’t stop. “How could he do this to her?” Your voice cracked as you looked down at the photograph. “How could he hurt them like this? How could he… do this to you?”

Rafe was silent for a long moment, and you felt him shift beside you. You could feel the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles, the quiet grief that hung in the air like a thick fog.

You turned to look at him, catching him staring at you, his eyes shadowed with pain. The walls he had built around himself were always so thick—so hard to penetrate. But now, in this moment, with all the pieces of the past laid bare, the mask he wore seemed to crack just enough to let you see the real him.

“I’m sorry you had to see all this,” he said quietly, his voice heavy. “You didn’t deserve to know the ugliness of it.”

Your chest tightened. “No, I needed to know. I need to understand.”

Rafe took a deep breath, rubbing his hand across his face. His shoulders slumped, and for the first time since you’d met him, you saw a man who wasn’t just the spoiled, angry son of a cruel father. You saw a man who had been broken by his past, a man who had been fighting every day to prove he wasn’t his father. But in his search for redemption, he’d never realized that the hardest thing to do was forgive himself.

“I know I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of,” Rafe muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t... I didn’t want to be like him. I never wanted to be like him. I was just... trying to survive. Trying to protect Sarah, protect myself.”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching for him. You had always seen the worst in him, the ways he lashed out, the cruelty that sometimes bled through. But now, as you sat there with him, you understood. You understood that his anger, his rebellion, was just a defense mechanism. A mask for the hurt he carried, the fear that had been instilled in him from a young age.

“Rafe…” Your voice trembled as you reached out, placing a hand over his. “You’ve done so much for her. For Willa. You’re not like him. Not in any way. You’re more than what he said you were. More than anyone ever saw.”

The words were barely out of your mouth when you saw something flicker in his eyes. Vulnerability. Pain. A need for validation. For the first time, you realized just how much he needed to hear that. Needed someone to see him for who he truly was.

Rafe leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his breath shallow and uneven. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything hanging between you. His hand, warm and slightly trembling, cupped the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin there. You could feel the electricity between you, the way his body tensed, the way you both seemed to exist in this moment where everything else faded away.

And then, as if something snapped, you moved without thinking. Your lips found his in a soft, tentative kiss—a kiss that was born from shared grief, from the fragile hope that had flickered between the two of you ever since you had started this journey together. It was a kiss full of longing, of understanding, of something neither of you had been ready to admit until now.

Rafe kissed you back, slowly, as though he was testing the waters. His hand slid to your jaw, holding you gently as his lips pressed against yours with a tenderness that surprised you both. There was nothing frantic about it, no rush. Just the simple, raw need to connect, to feel something good after all the loss.

When you finally pulled away, your breaths came in shaky bursts. Rafe’s eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. You didn’t know what to say. Words didn’t seem to matter in that moment.

But then you both spoke at once, as if trying to make sense of the overwhelming emotions swirling between you.

“I… I didn’t mean to—”

“Wait, that was… I shouldn’t have—”

You both fell silent, the awkwardness creeping in. But something had shifted. The tension between you had transformed into something else—something deep, something unspoken. You realized, maybe for the first time, that the lines you had drawn between each other were no longer so clear. The walls were crumbling, and in their place was a fragile, but undeniable connection.

“I just…” you started, your heart racing. “I just needed to tell you that you’re not your father, Rafe. You never were. And I... I see you. I see all of you.”

He exhaled sharply, his thumb gently caressing your cheek, his gaze intense. “And I see you too. I don’t know what this means, but I—”

Before he could finish, you pressed your forehead against his, closing your eyes. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll figure everything out. For Willa. For us.”

Rafe nodded, his hands still resting on your face. You both knew that the road ahead was going to be hard—there was no easy way forward. But for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in it anymore.

© 2024 rafeskai | All rights reserved. This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by characters from Outer Banks, and no part of it may be reproduced or distributed without permission.