#took me a few seconds to remember what it's from

[mrsbarnesblog]

i’ve got you

part 1

masterlist

summary: after leaving you with Sarah, Rafe decides to deal with your ex and make sure that he would never have the power to hurt you again

words count: 2k

warnings: mentions of SA and being filmed without permission, violence, blood, threats with a gun, protective Rafe

a/n: for those who asked to write the continuation of the first part. also i’m accepting request for Rafe, so if you have anything interesting to share, feel free to send it to me🪼

Rafe didn’t say much when he left you in the living room of Tanneyhill, only threw a blanket over your body and left a soft kiss on your forehead, as you both knew exactly where he was going. Only Sarah stood speechless in the doorway, looking from her brother to you and being absolutely lost about what was going on. 

A few hours ago you came in normal, greeting Rafe the way you usually did—shy, hesitant. The way that made Sarah always tease you about it. She didn’t notice anything weird. And after you disappeared in the bathroom for an hour, coming out of there with her brother, shaken and clearly after crying there the whole time, Sarah didn’t know what to think. 

She had never seen Rafe like that before. Sure, his temper had always been over the top, but an absolutely cold and murderous look on his face when he brushed past her and ordered her to look after you? Well, that was new.

“What happened? Is there… anything going on between the two of you?” She asked softly, sitting at the edge of the sofa near you. You shook your head, not trusting your voice to speak and knowing damn well that if you open your mouth, you will burst into tears again. She let out a sigh, for a moment debating calling Kie or Cleo to ask for advice, but eventually she let go, settling near you while you slowly drifted to sleep. 

Rafe’s knuckles twitched against the leather wheel as he drove with one hand. He knew where Ethan lived, remembering that busted apartment off Madsen Street, the third floor, the one with the shitty balcony and peeling green door. He parked crookedly and didn’t even bother locking the car, knowing that it wouldn't take him long. 

He didn’t knock, he slammed his hand against the door a few times. Ethan opened it with the usual, sleazy grin on his face, holding a phone in his hand, as if he was waiting for something. His eyes widened for a split second before he puffed his chest to make himself look bigger and taller than Rafe was, looking him up and down dismissively. 

“The fuck do you—“ Rafe didn’t let him finish, shoving him back into the apartment and slamming the door behind him so hard it felt like the whole building shook. 

Ethan stumbled back, barely not tripping over the sofa, trying to look tough and cool, but Rafe saw that fear in his eyes. The one he always had around him, as if knowing that Rafe could snap him in half if he really wanted to, and Rafe definitely thrived on that feeling. 

“Get the fuck away, Cameron!” Ethan mumbled, backing away with every step Rafe took, fidgeting with his phone and helplessly looking around. 

“You know why I'm here. Though you could scare her into crawling back to you, huh?” Rafe’s voice came out low and dangerous, the feelings about you being hurt finally getting a release. Ethan’s grip on the phone tightened, the screen lighting up, making Rafe’s eyes zero in on it and jaw clench. 

“I didn’t—man, it wasn’t like that, I swear—” Rafe didn’t let him finish, throwing a punch right into his jaw. Ethan fell on the floor, crying from pain, as blood trickled down his lip, trying to get up, face red and twisted in a mix of pain and fake bravado. 

“You don’t know what she’s like, man—she—she wanted it, alright? She was moaning my name—”

That earned him another blow. This one knocked a tooth loose. Blood bloomed across his lips.

“Say that again.” Rafe snarled, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him upright like he weighed nothing. “Fucking say that shit again. Tell me she asked for it. Tell me she wanted you to touch her, to drug her, to film her like she was just something for you to use and toss away.”

“I didn’t drug her!” Ethan spat, his face bleeding now, splotches blooming on the floor and light wall behind him. “She drank too much, okay? It wasn’t my fault! What do you want me to say?”

“That you're worthless.” Punch. “Pathetic sack of shit.” Punch. “Who’s about to lose everything.” Punch. Rafe threw him back down like garbage, breathing heavily, before connecting his boot with Ethan’s ribs with so much power that it was enough to break them. 

Rafe finally was satisfied enough, seeing that piece of shit hunched on the floor and covered in his own blood. He reached behind him, pulling a gun from the back of his waistband, and held it steady, cold metal glinting in the hallway light. Rafe wasn’t shaking. His hand was terrifyingly still, aimed right at the forehead.

Ethan coughed, whining on the floor, trying to lift himself on shaking hands, still oblivious to what could happen at any moment. When something metal clicked near his ear, Ethan’s eyes went wide, head snapping towards the sound. He scrambled backward, palms scraping against the floor. “What the fuck, man… What the fuck?!” 

Rafe thrived off the look in Ethan’s eyes. That pure and pathetic fear, the moment he understood that he was absolutely alone and unable to protect himself. And Rafe would’ve pulled the trigger. Oh, he really wanted to. But he knew how much it would hurt you to know that he got blood on his hands, he could imagine you blaming yourself for it.

“Phone. Laptop. Drive. Whatever shit you have, you’re gonna delete everything. Every video. Every picture. Every fuckin’ copy on every drive, every cloud backup. All of it. And you’re gonna do it with a gun to your head so you don’t get any bright ideas. You better pray I believe your ass, or otherwise I’m gonna blow a hole in your fucking head just like you deserve.” His voice was cold and steady. Ethan started nodding, fidgeting with his phone and unlocking it only on the third try. 

Rafe stood there and watched everything. He watched Ethan open the files, show the videos, show the backups, and delete every last one. And then, with the gun still trained on his face, Rafe made him reset everything to factory settings. Wipe. Everything.

“And the drive.” Rafe said again, voice flat.

“It’s gone, I swear—”

“Drive. Now.” The barrel of the gun touched Ethan’s temple, and he slid down the wall, on which he was leaning while sitting, to the floor, crawling towards the desk and pulling it from a drawer. One last backup. Rafe smashed it with his boot, again and again, until it was nothing but plastic and wire guts. 

“You show your face again, you text her again, or you look at her again, and I swear to God I’ll bury you alive after breaking every bone in your body. Do you hear me?!”

Ethan was choking on his own sobs now, snot mixing with the blood, face pale and eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. He nodded frantically, hands raised like a white flag, but Rafe didn’t move. He crouched down, slow and measured, keeping the barrel grazing Ethan’s forehead, his eyes full of rage but clear and sharp.

“If I hear one rumor, one whisper, one goddamn trace of her name tied to what you did…” His eyes locked with Ethan’s, voice stone cold. “You’re dead.”

He turned, leaving Ethan curled on the floor, the door hanging crooked on its hinges behind him. 

Out in the car, Rafe gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went bone-white. He didn’t start the engine right away. He just sat there, breathing hard, his shirt clinging to him, his heart almost jumping out of his ribcage.

Rafe returned back to Tanneyhill an hour later, feeling that he had to calm down before seeing you. He took the longest road to clean his mind, to think about what happened and about what it meant for the two of you. 

His feelings for you were clear and sincere, they always had been, since the moment he finally accepted that there was a reason he felt different whenever you were around. So now, when all the cards were on the table, he had to be careful. He could never forgive himself if he fucked it up. Not this time. Not with you. 

He moved through the house slowly and quietly, going through the big rooms to the one where he had left you. 

Sarah was in front of him the same second she heard the soft steps. Her eyes got wide at the sight of the blood, his and clearly someone else’s, on his split knuckles. Hair messy and eyes still slightly distant and cold—clear indicator that something had happened that disturbed Rafe deeply. 

“Rafe… What the hell happened?” She hissed as loud as she could, looking back for a second to look at your sleeping form. “Tell me you didn’t kill anyone…” Her voice dropped lower, an unsettling feeling creeping into her. 

“I didn’t.” Rafe mumbled, not even looking at his sister. His eyes were on you, slightly softer now. 

“I don’t— I don’t fucking understand. Why was she crying? Where have you been? Why the hell are you looking at her like a lovesick puppy?” Sarah got desperate, her hands flying to her head, running them through her blond hair, and groaning when Rafe still didn’t pay any attention to her. 

“If she wants to, she’ll tell you.” That was everything he said before brushing past Sarah, moving towards the sofa, and dropping to his knees in front of you.

You were asleep, but it was clear that it wasn’t peaceful. Your hands were gripping the blanket and keeping it close to your chest. Blow slightly furrowed and lashes fluttering against your cheeks. 

Rafe brought his clear left hand to your face, sliding his knuckles down your jaw. 

The gentleness of his touch made your eyes open slowly, a quiet and tired sigh escaping from your lips. Everything was blurry at first, until your eyes focused in the dim room and saw Rafe’s face in front of you. 

“Rafe.” You whispered his name softly, lifting your hand to touch his. 

“I’m here now.” His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and grounding. “I handled it. It’s all gone. I promise.” You stared at him, stunned, trying to process everything, to understand that it all was not a sick nightmare. Your lips slightly trembled, but you were too tired to cry again. “You don’t have to worry. He won’t come near you ever again.” 

You nodded slightly, and something inside you unclenched, just enough to let the exhaustion come crashing in all over again. When you shifted and, instinctively, reached for him, Rafe caught you before you could even sit up fully.

“C’mon.” He said, rising with ease, one arm sliding beneath your legs, the other behind your back. “You’re sleeping in my room tonight.”

You didn’t protest. Just curled closer against him, eyes falling shut again as the motion of his footsteps rocked you softly, lulling you back to sleep. 

“Are you serious right now?” Sarah’s voice echoed faintly behind you. “She’s staying with you?”

But Rafe didn’t answer her. He didn’t even turn around. He just carried you upstairs like you were the most precious thing, and it was his work to protect you. And for him it was. From now on he promised himself to keep you close and safe. 

When the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, Rafe laid you down gently on his bed, tucking the covers around your body. 

You were half-asleep, but when you sensed him moving away from you, your hand caught his wrist as if on instinct.

“Stay.” You whispered, barely audible.

Rafe stilled, unsure if it was really what you wanted to. Then nodded, slow and reverent.

He climbed in beside you, not caring about changing his clothes or about the dried blood that caused him discomfort. If you wanted him, he couldn’t say no. The moment the mattress dipped under his weight, you rolled toward him instinctively, curling into the curve of his chest. His arms came around you without hesitation, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. 

Rafe didn’t fall asleep right away.

He laid there in the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breath and the quiet thrum of his own heart. Every now and then, he’d press the lightest kiss to your temple, not to wake you, just to remind himself you were real. That you were safe. That you were his.

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, no warnings apply for this chapter.

A/N: A multipart series?? From me?? who would've thought. We'll have to see where this goes and whether I'll keep it up lmao. Let me know what you think!

Read it on AO3

Chapter 1 - Sitters NYC

1.9K words

“You said babysitter, I get a babysitter, problem solved!” Alexei exclaimed. The girl pinched the skin between her eyebrows, taking a few breaths before turning back to Alexei. 

“I didn’t mean an actual babysitter! I meant a trained professional! Or at least someone with a background check.”

This had been going on for about 5 minutes, ever since you’d arrived at the penthouse of the rebranded Avenger’s Tower. 

“Look, there’s clearly been a misunderstanding here. I can just, you know, leave,” you shrugged to the elevator, slowly picking your bag back up to leave. 

“No, no! You don’t leave. Just wait here,” Alexei insisted. You put your bag back on the floor, unsure of what to do next. 

You should’ve known as soon as the man contacted you through the Sitters NYC app that it was a bust. Who even has kids that need sitting in a place like this? You could still go back to Mrs. Lowinski, go back to cat-sitting the woman’s 17 Sphynx cats. But the lingering cat smell… Not to mention the fact that naked cats get their skin oils everywhere... No— this was a safe bet. 

The duo argued some more before the girl, Lena?, turned to you with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure you’re very nice and that my father offered you good money, but we had a bit of miscommunication about how to solve a problem. I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s okay, really. Thanks for the generous offer, anyway, Alexei,” you thanked the man with a thin smile, once again picking up your damn bag and heading for the elevator. 

Alexei yelled after you again to wait, but it was clear the man wouldn’t get his way, unfortunately for you. You gave him a sad wave and pressed the button for the elevator. As the doors opened, someone was about to step out when you were about to step inside. You did the awkward side-shuffle to get out of each other's way before he laughed and let you go first. You turned to stand facing the doors and caught a last glimpse of the man’s unruly brown hair before they closed.

✶

“Who was that?” Bob asked as the doors closed. 

“Your babysitter, if it was up to Alexei. We’re trying to find a reliable person who can stay here with you when we go out on missions, but Alexei took it upon himself to get an actual babysitter. For kids. Or cats. Or birds, apparently,” Yelena sighed. 

“You ask for trained professional with background check. We don’t even pass background check!” Alexei shouted. He did have a point, there. 

Bob was about to argue he didn’t need a babysitter, but he probably actually did. He couldn’t be left alone with his thoughts for too long, or he’d spiral real fast. Not good. 

“I mean, besides the company I really don’t think I need someone with much experience or training,” he shrugged. 

“See! Bob agrees. Sitter is sitter,” Alexei grumbled. 

“We’ll talk about this over dinner with the rest of the team,” Yelena spoke, and it was the final word. 

✶

You walked out of the grocery store enlightened. That’s where you’d seen the father-daughter duo before. The Wheaties box. They were part of the so-called ‘New Avengers’. It had been a few months since The Blackout, but you remembered it well. One second you’d been filling the 17 food bowls in Mrs. Lowinski’s kitchen, the next you were back in your childhood home.

You unlocked the front door and loaded your groceries in the cabinets and fridge. You sighed as you sat down on the couch, ready to call Mrs. Lowinski for your job back and to get back on Sitters NYC for more part-time work you could combine with your online classes.

Manhattan - Full-time 3 Children, aged 4, 6 & 9

Brooklyn - Part-time  4 Dogs

Queens - Au Pair 2 Children, aged 5 & 7 1 Cat

Manhattan - Part-time 3 Birds 1 Dog

Manhattan - Part-time 1 Child, age UNDISCLOSED

Ah, Alexei hadn’t taken the ad down yet. He’d been so nice, too. From what he’d described, you figured it was an older child, possibly a teenager, even, who needed someone to spend some time with every now and then. Not allowed to go out by themselves too much, irregular schedule, possible overnight stays. Nothing you couldn’t handle. Too bad it had been a misunderstanding. 

You walked into the kitchen and got ready to prepare dinner for one, again. One day you might put yourself out there. ‘Find someone real nice to take care of you,’ as Mrs. Lowinski had insisted. God, you had really spent too much time with the elderly woman. 

✶

“It really doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Ava spoke as she munched on some broccoli. 

“It’s not a bad idea, per se, it’s more that there’s factors we need to account for that Alexei overlooked. Like the fact that Bob is essentially a weapon that could be taken advantage of by the wrong person if we let them get too close,” Yelena had a point. 

“I’m not that naive…” Bob chimed in, but everybody knew he was easily influenced. Not to mention he couldn’t control The Void, and where The Sentry was, The Void followed. They couldn’t risk it. 

“I ran a background check, she’s just a college student. We can try it out with the next mission and see if Bob likes her. That’s the most important part, after all,” John argued. He grabbed the pot of potatoes and loaded a pile onto his plate, never satiated. 

“Bob, be like John, eat loads of potatoes. Good for strength,” Alexei’s mouth was full as he spoke. Bob gave him a small smile in acknowledgement, raising his fork which had a potato on it. 

“What does Bucky think?” Ava asked. The man rarely joined them for dinner, usually ‘too busy.’ 

“Haven’t spoken with him about it yet. I’ll call him after dinner to discuss. We need something if we’re gonna be as busy as Valentina is implying we’ll be,” Yelena sighed, stuffing her mouth with chicken. 

“Bob, can you pass me the salt?” She asked, mouth full. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. 

They finished dinner and Bob went to clean up as usual while Yelena called Bucky on speakerphone, still at the dining table. 

“I mean if she passed a background check I see no issue with at least trying it out. It’s not like we have many other options. He doesn’t need an actual caretaker. At least she’s somewhat his age, right? Maybe a little younger?” Bucky’s voice boomed from the phone and filled the room. The man was so up to date with technology, yet was still convinced he needed to talk louder if he was on speaker. 

“I guess. I’ll have Alexei call her back. But it’s NOT my fault if this all goes wrong!” Yelena made it very clear. She was not about to be blamed if this ended in disaster. Best possible outcome; the girl did fine, blended in and spent time with Bob. Worst possible outcome? Who knows. 

✶

”Are you really sure this time?” You asked Alexei over the phone. You’d been down this road with him before. 

“Yes, Yelena asked me to call you herself. You come by tonight to meet the team and meet Bob. Will be fun!” 

“Alright, I’ll be there by 9,” you confirmed. Who named their child Bob in this day and age? 

“See you at 9!” Alexei boasted. The man hung up and you stared at your phone bewildered. He better be right. You better not be going back there for nothing again.

If you wanted to be on time, you’d have to leave soon. You put your shoes back on, grabbed your headphones and bag and ran back out the door. You locked it behind you and sped down the stairs of your building. 

You walked to the subway station and put your earbuds in. Luckily the tower was only a few stops away, or this whole ordeal might’ve been more of a nuisance. The lights flickered irregularly as the metrocar shook through the underground. It seemed as though it was having more trouble than usual, but your trip was short, it didn’t matter as long as you got to your destination. 

The car shook some more as you got off, but it was no longer of any worry. You ran up the stairs of the station and were once again met directly with the entrance to the tower, the second time today. 

You walked back in and pressed the button for the elevator to come down. You sighed and got on, pressing the button for the penthouse and waited for the doors to close. The last thing you saw before they closed was the glass entrance of the tower being shattered. You flinched on instinct, but the elevator was already taking you up and away from the danger. Your heart thrummed in your chest. Was it just an accident, or was something bigger going on? 

Your question was soon answered by an announcement over the intercom. Everybody below the top twenty floors had to evacuate the building. Not you, then. Still, you were worried. 

The elevator came to a halt at the penthouse, doors sliding open agonizingly slow. You were met with a ruckus of people walking around yelling at each other. 

“Babysitter is here!” Alexei yelled as he tugged a red mask over his face. 

“Well that’s great timing, I guess,” Yelena spoke as she sheathed a few knives. She turned to look at you. 

“Bob is in the kitchen. You just need to keep him company for now while we go deal with whatever is going on on the street. We’ll explain everything when we get back. Whatever you do, try to keep him happy, distracted and away from danger. If anything happens to him, your funeral.” The instructions (and threat) were clear. 

Several people with an assortment of weapons bustled around you as you found your way to the kitchen. You looked around for a child, but there didn’t seem to be one in here. The only person you found was the guy you saw getting off the elevator earlier today, with the comfy outfit and tousled hair. He was seated at the breakfast island, watching as the others got ready for what you assumed would be quite the fight. 

“Uh, hi?” It came out as a question unintentionally. He turned to you, your first time catching a good look at his face. 

“Oh! Hi, uhm, you must be the, uh, sitter?” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. You nodded, putting your bag on the counter and looking him over. You looked around again, no child or teen in sight. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be, like, getting ready for battle?” You mimicked a fighting pose. He chuckled and shook his head. 

“No, it’s usually best to keep me as far away from those kinds of situations as possible…” He looked away, obviously not proud of the fact.

You sought out eye contact and reached out your hand. He looked at it before looking back to your eyes, tentatively reaching out. You introduced yourself and stretched your hand out further, encouraging him to take it. He was like a skittish kitten.

“I’m Bob,” was all you heard before your vision was delved in black and you returned to a memory from a past life left behind.

[jaredwnch]

The Impala was barely cooled off when Dean threw it into park, jaw clenched tight. The drive had been torturous—your hand on his thigh, your tongue slipping out to wet your lips, the soft, knowing looks. You’d been teasing him all day.

Now you were going to pay for it.

“Backseat. Now.”

His voice left no room for argument.

You scrambled into the back, heart pounding, and he was on you in seconds—hands rough, mouth demanding. His tongue claimed your mouth like it belonged there, and his teeth scraped your bottom lip as he pulled back.

“You want to act like a brat?” he growled. “You’re gonna take what I give you.”

He shoved you down onto your back and dragged your pants off, along with everything else, until you were laid bare across the warm leather. He took his time with your shirt—ripping it open, buttons flying somewhere into the floor, exposing your chest. Dean’s hands were everywhere—gripping, groping, claiming.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmured, stroking his fingers down your stomach. “All mine.”

You barely had time to breathe before he was yanking his belt loose, the snap echoing through the Impala like a warning. He pulled his jeans down just enough, cock already thick and heavy in his hand as he gave it a few rough strokes.

Then he grabbed your hips, dragged you closer, and spat into his hand before sliding it between your legs, slicking you up with practiced fingers.

“Gotta get you ready, sweetheart,” he murmured, two fingers pushing in deep. “Can’t ruin you properly if you’re not stretched good and wide for me.”

You moaned, hips bucking into his hand, and he smirked. “You’re soaking. You like being manhandled in Baby, don’t you?”

He worked his fingers in deep, curling them just right until you were panting, back arching off the seat. Just when you were on the edge, he pulled out and positioned himself at your entrance.

“You want it rough?” he asked, teasing the head of his cock against you. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please, Dean—just fuck me already.”

That was all it took.

He drove into you hard, the first thrust punching a cry from your throat. You weren’t sure if it was pain or pleasure—it didn’t matter. Dean didn’t let up, hips slamming into you with enough force to rock the whole damn car.

The leather squeaked beneath you with every thrust, hot skin slapping against skin, his groans low and filthy in your ear.

“God, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he growled, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Tight little hole takin’ me so well. Like it was made for me.”

Your nails clawed at the seat, desperate for something to hold onto, legs shaking from the relentless pace.

He reached down and wrapped a hand around you, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Come for me,” he ordered. “Now. I want to feel you tighten up around my cock.”

You cried out his name as your climax hit, body writhing, pulsing around him, vision white-hot.

Dean groaned loud, slamming deep one last time as he spilled inside you, heat flooding your insides. He didn’t pull out right away—just stayed there, buried to the hilt, panting hard above you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours. “That was… shit.”

You both laid there for a moment, catching your breath, the car thick with heat and sweat and sex.

Then Dean smirked and leaned in to kiss you—soft this time. Reverent.

“Next time you wanna tease me,” he whispered, “just remember… Baby’s got plenty of room for round two.”

[whatdoeseverybodywant]

Mile High (2)

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

All OC Characters belong to me

Josh felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She was close. His jaw ticked. He didn’t need to turn around to confirm it, the faint scent of her vanilla and something floral that always lingered too long, like a memory refusing to fade. He wasn’t even paying attention to what Jakara was saying anymore. His full focus was on the presence of Essence. 

Don’t turn around. He told himself over and over again. Don’t fucking do it. 

But it was like his body didn’t trust his brain. His shoulders were tight, fingers flexing at his sides like they remembered how she used to hold onto him when no one else was looking. Like they remembered everything he was trying so hard to forget.

His breath hitched in his throat as they made eye contact. Even though she had ripped his heart out of his chest and stomped on it, she was still the one his broken heart desired. She was the one he wanted to wake up next to every morning, The one he wanted to share every win, every loss, every damn breath with. But that wasn’t what she wanted. 

He clenched his jaw as he gave her a tight nod and turned his attention back to Jakara. His heart was hammering in his chest. The broken look on her face would be permanently scarred into his brain. 

She didn’t want you. 

He had to keep reminding himself. This was what she wanted. 

“You doing anything after the show?” Jakara asked him and he heard Essence suck in a deep breath, The sound of her heels echoing in the hallway as she all but ran away from them. 

Josh didn’t even realize he was walking away until he was already doing it.

Jakara called his name behind him, confusion in her voice. He didn’t stop, he had already made up his mind. He rounded the corner just in time to see the dressing room door close behind her.

His stomach was in knots as he knocked on the door. “Essence.” He called out softly. He closed his eyes, resting his hand flat against the wood. “I know you hear me.”

Inside, Essence stood just a few feet away, frozen. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her back to the door, as if distance could shield her from the weight of his voice. But it didn’t. “I’m not here to fight,” Josh said, his words more like a confession than a plea. “I just… please open the door.” 

Essence stayed still, her mind running wild. She wanted to ignore him. She wanted to scream at him to go away, to go back to Jakara, but she couldn’t; instead, she found herself turning towards the door and unlocking it. She cracked the door open just enough so that their eyes met. 

His heart stuttered in his chest as he got a good look at her for the first time in three weeks. He wasn’t over her. He had told himself he was. Josh didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, eyes locked with hers through the narrow space of the open door.

Her eyes were swollen and puffy from crying.  For a second, neither of them spoke. The air between them was dense with everything left unsaid. They stared at each other before Essence quietly opened the door wider. Josh cleared his throat and walked into the empty dressing room. Josh stood inside the dressing room, the door clicking shut behind him. Essence didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just watched him. 

“I shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, almost to himself, but didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that.

Essence nodded, leaning her back against the closed door. “Then why did you?”

Josh let out a slow, shaky breath. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Because no matter how many times I try to hate you,” he said, his voice low, “I can’t.”

Essence’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her throat was tight, her chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. She didn’t know how to respond to that. Instead, she took the easy route. 

“I saw you…” She started, her eyes trained on the floor. “With Jakara. You looked… happy.” She shrugged, and Josh scoffed. 

“I mean, this whatchu’ wanted right?” He asked, his voice full of emotions that he was trying to keep at bay. 

Essence flinched at the bite in his tone, but she didn’t argue. Because she couldn’t, he was doing exactly what she thought she wanted. 

“I thought…” she started, then shook her head, blinking fast. “I thought it would be easier for you. If I stepped away before I became just another thing you had to carry.”

Josh stared at her like she’d just slapped him. “Easier?” he repeated, his voice low, incredulous. “Do I look like I’ve had it easy these past three weeks? I’ve been miserable, E.” 

“I didn’t know what else to do, Joshua!” She finally snapped. “I was scared. Everything between us was starting to feel real, and it scared me.” 

“You think I wasn’t scared, too?” he asked, eyes searching hers. “You think I knew what to do with how I felt about you? Hell, I still don’t. But the difference is, I stayed. I wanted to stay. I wanted to work out this love thing with you. 

“Josh…” Essence trailed off, tears now falling down her cheeks. “Each one of my relationships ended with me getting my heart broken.” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath, arms wrapping tighter around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces in. “I just… I thought if I ended it first, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much this time. Maybe I could control it—stop it before it got bad. But I was wrong. It still hurt. God, it still hurts.”

“You don’t get it, man,” Josh said softly, shaking his head. “You don’t get how much I fucking cared about you, How you were the only person on my mind.” Josh took a step closer, his voice trembling now, no longer sharp with anger but heavy with hurt. “You were it for me, Essence. Like… the one. Not some fling. Not some secret. I was ready to give you all of me, flaws and all, because I thought—” he swallowed hard, “I thought you wanted me, too.” Josh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I was never going to leave you, Essence. I loved you.” 

Essence’s breath caught. She looked up at him sharply, eyes wide with disbelief. “Loved?”

Josh held her gaze, his own eyes swimming with unshed emotion. “I don’t know what I feel anymore,” he said honestly. “Part of me still loves you. Part of me hates what you did. And part of me’s just tired of hurting every time I think about you.”

“I’m sorry.” Essence whispered. “I was just trying to protect myself, but I ended up destroying the one thing that felt real.” 

Josh didn’t move. He tilted his head to the side as he gazed at her. “I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Essence whispered. “But I needed you to know the truth. That it wasn’t about you not being enough. It was me not knowing how to handle someone who actually loved me like I mattered.”

Josh looked down, then back up, like he was trying to hold himself together with threads that were already fraying. “So what now, E? What are we doing here?” His voice was tired. “Because I can’t go through this again unless it’s real. Unless you’re in it for real this time.”

Essence stared at him, the gravity in his voice anchoring her in place. For a moment, she didn’t breathe. She wanted to run. Her first instinct was always to run. But she stayed in the same spot, eyes locked onto his. “I want you. I want everything.”

Josh’s expression didn’t change right away. He just stared at her, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, like he was afraid she’d take the words back if he blinked too hard.

“You want me now,” he said quietly, the weight of doubt heavy in his voice. “But what about when it gets hard again? What happens when you start to feel too much? When it gets real again?”

Essence took a step forward. Just one. Her voice was still soft, but her eyes were steady now.

“Then I stay,” she said. “Even if I’m scared. Even if I don’t know how to do it perfectly. I stay. I show up. I try.”

A tear slid down Josh’s cheek, and he didn’t bother wiping it away. His throat bobbed as he swallowed the lump threatening to choke him.

“You broke me, E,” he whispered, pain etched in every syllable. “You tossed me to the side like I meant nothing.” 

“I’m sorry, Josh. I’m so fucking sorry.” She whispered, moving closer to him. Essence's voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved. But I know now.” She stepped even closer, the space between them shrinking until there was nothing but their shared breath. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.”

Essence could feel the heat of Josh’s body against hers, the steady thrum of his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of her own. She wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing she knew, Josh was leaning down, his lips brushing against hers with a softness that took her by surprise.

It wasn’t a forceful kiss, nor was it rushed. It was slow, deliberate—like they were both savoring the moment, testing the waters, unsure if it was real.

Essence’s fingers found the back of Josh’s neck, pulling him closer, and he responded in kind, his hands settling on her waist, guiding her closer as if he couldn’t bear to be apart from her any longer. The kiss deepened, the tension from weeks of silence and hurt melting away, leaving only the rawness of their connection.

"I missed you," Essence whispered against his lips, her voice trembling with emotion. "Every single day."

“I missed you, too,” Josh muttered back as he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. “Me and you.” He said, staring deep into her eyes. “Me and you, Essence. No more pushing me away, no more running.” 

“No more running,” She promised. Josh’s grip tightened slightly around her waist, pulling her even closer. The way he held her felt different—stronger, as though he was anchoring them both in the moment, ensuring neither of them could slip away again.

Essence met his gaze, her heart racing in her chest. She had always ran, always pulled away when things got too real. But now? Now, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk away again. Not when everything she wanted was standing right in front of her.

Soooo... what yall think? Worth the wait or I could've kept this shit lmao? 🤣,

Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated ❤ 

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[enwoso]

weight of the world | part three

alessia russo x baby!reader

-> based on this request | some upsetting themes throughout so read with caution

grumpy masterlist | part two here

it took two days for alessia to even work up the courage to message ella and even then her finger hovered over the send button for a few minutes before she quickly clicked it before she had time to talk herself out of it.

less | ‘hey. can we talk? i'm really sorry.’

the reply came within seconds, like ella had been waiting.

tooney | ‘course. whenever your ready, come by carrington.’

alessia stared at the message until the screen dimmed. even then, she didn't move. her fingers stayed clenched around her phone like it was the only thing tethering her to something real.

her stomach churned the whole drive over. her hands trembled on the steering wheel. part of her wanted to turn around. to just disappear. to just go back home where you and her mum was. but the guilt, the shame—it sat in her chest like a stone.

and underneath it all, a deeper, more painful fear: what if they didn't want her anymore? what if alessia had pushed too hard, too far, and broken the very thing that used to feel like home?

when she got there she stood outside the changing room for nearly five full minutes.

carrington sounded different now—brighter, louder. the energy buzzed in the walls. laughter echoed down the hall.

it felt so far from the silence of alessia's flat, from the wails and whimpers and isolation that clung to her like a second skin.

it felt like life. and alessia didn't know if she belonged in it anymore. but she stepped inside anyway. the room quieted almost instantly when the door clicked shut behind her.

several of the girls looked up from tying boots, laughing over playlist debates, sipping protein shakes. conversations stilled. expressions shifted. curiosity. concern. relief.

and then ella stood up from the bench. ella looked exactly how alessia remembered—steady, grounded, warm—but something flickered in her eyes. caution. hope. a kind of quiet ache.

"hey," alessia said, voice barely above a whisper.

"hey you," ella replied. alessia swallowed hard. the words were burning in her throat.

"i- i was wrong," alessia said. "i wasn't okay. and i took it out on you. on everyone. i thought i could hold it all together, but i couldn't. i didn't. i'm really sorry."

ella didn't speak for a moment. her jaw clenched—once, twice—and then she stepped forward. "we never needed you to be perfect, less," ella said a soft smile on her lips. "just honest."

alessia nodded as her voice cracked. "i- i didn't know how. i thought if i slowed down, everything would fall apart. that i would."

"you were falling apart," ella said gently. "you just didn't have to do it alone."

and that was it. the dam cracked open.

"i'm scared all the time, el," alessia whispered. "i love her so much it hurts and i'm constantly terrified i'm doing it wrong. that i'll mess her up. that i already have. i've been so angry and tired and empty and i didn't know what else to be. and i thought... i thought you'd hate me."

ella blinked quickly, trying to keep her own tears from surfacing. ella stepped closer, her voice a murmur.

"i was scared too," ella admitted. "not because you yelled. but because i thought you might hate me. for calling your mum. for stepping in."

alessia looked up at her then, properly. her mouth opened, then closed again. alessia shook her head, overwhelmed. "i don't," she managed. "i couldn't hate you. i think... i think you saved me."

and then ella—blunt, bold, unshakable ella—wrapped her arms around alessia like she'd been waiting weeks to do it.

held alessia like she wasn't fragile, but sacred. held alessia like friendship was a promise, not a transaction.

"you don't have to be anything but here," ella whispered. "we've got you. and we've got y/n."

around them, the girls slowly stood. millie came over first, squeezing alessia's shoulder without a word. then mary, who gently took alessia's bag and set it down like it was nothing.

one by one, the team drifted closer—not swarming, just present.

someone handed alessia water. someone else a towel. little things, quiet gestures.

but to alessia, they felt like lifelines. they didn't ask questions. didn't make a scene. they just showed up.

and after weeks of isolation and silence, that was enough to split something open in alessia's chest—something that ached and healed all at once.

for the first time in what felt like forever, alessia let herself believe it: she wasn't alone anymore. she didn't have to do this alone.

not with you. not with the fear. not with the healing.

alessia had them. and they had her.

⸻

a couple of weeks had passed and the mornings still started early. but they were getting lighter. you were waking only once a night now, around four a.m. your soft gurgles and sleepy kicks a gentle, almost sacred alarm clock in the grey-blue hush of dawn.

alessia didn't resent the early hour like she used to although she does sometimes find her self dreaming of a lie in once in a while but she now didn't meet the sunrise with dread or panic or that crushing sense of failure before the day had even begun.

there was a rhythm now. not perfect. not smooth. but it was hers.

alessia moved slower in the mornings, with more care than urgency. less like she was sprinting against time, more like instead she was moving along with it.

alessia lifted you from your crib and pressed a kiss to your warm, squishy forehead. you smelled like baby lotion, milky breath, and dreams. with your small fingers curled instinctively around alessia's shirt as you yawned, blinking up at your mummy with pure, sleepy trust.

"good morning, my little love," alessia whispered, rocking gently, swaying on the balls of her feet like it was second nature now.

the house still bore the marks of a life interrupted—but it no longer looked like a war zone.

there was a bib draped over the couch. a half-folded baby blanket on the armchair. your toys littered the corner like evidence of joy instead of chaos.

the sink had dishes, sure—but there was food in the fridge. a half-drunk coffee on the table. a warmth in the walls.

not neat. no where near pristine. but lived in. loved in. safe.

alessia's mum had returned back home to kent three days ago—but not before leaving order behind like breadcrumbs in the woods.

there was fresh calendar hung on the fridge, days colour-coded between training sessions, therapy check-ins, and your growing milestones. a corkboard held emergency contacts, appointment slips, and a laminated sleep guide ('just in case, love')

and there, stuck to the front of the freezer with a magnet shaped like a heart, was a small, handwritten note on floral stationery:

dr. finch – women's health & postnatal support private line. safe, discreet. kind.

alessia had stared at it since her mum had placed it there. she'd walked past it, opened the fridge for oat milk, stared, then shut the door again.

alessia had told herself she was fine. that the worst had passed. that she was stronger now.

but every night, when the quiet crept in again—when the world shrank to just alessia and you and the long dark—alessia felt that same undercurrent of fear tug at her ankles.

not drowning anymore. but maybe not exactly steady either.

and so, a few days later, alessia reached out and peeled the note from the fridge. sat on the couch. phone in hand. heart pounding.

alessia's thumb hovered over the number like it was a trigger. and then alessia tapped it.

the phone rang once. then twice. then a voice answered, warm and even. "dr. finch's office. this is morgan. how can i help?"

alessia's voice caught for a second, thick in her throat. then she exhaled. "i- um i think i need someone to talk to," alessia said quietly. "um i'm a new mum. and i... i think i'm not okay."

there was no judgment. no silence. just a gentle, "of course. we can help with that." and for the first time in a long time, alessia didn't feel weak for asking. she felt brave.

she looked down at you—now curled up on your mummy's chest, snoring softly—and tucked the blanket around your tiny body.

maybe it wasn't about getting it all right. maybe it never had been.

maybe it was just about showing up—over and over. messy, tired, healing. but still here. still choosing to keep going.

[7975348473]

Hi, I love your fics. Could you write one where Lyra and Gray have a really big fight, break up, and then get back together after a while?

Breakups Don't Last.

------------------------------ Relationship/s:- Lyrason (Lyra x Grayson), The Hawthorne Brothers. Post- The Grandest Game

I recommend you read "The Rolex Chronicles" before this fanfic,in order to understand it better, but its not necessary.

-------------------------------

LYRA

Grayson and Lyra hadn't been properly communicating for quite a while. It wasn't intentional, of course.

Half of Grayson's thoughts were still preoccupied with Lyra and half of Lyra's thoughts were still plagued by her asshole.

It was just that, between Grayson's work at the firm and Lyra's studies, they couldn't talk much.

So, apart from the occasional "How are you?", "Did you eat?", "I love you" and "I miss you", they weren't interacting. Of course, Lyra had noticed. And she hated it.

But she had figured that, once both of their lives calmed down, everything would return to normal. Return to just them.

Life had other plans, though.

Grayson was tired. Lyra was beyond exhausted. Yet they still took out time and decided to meet one another, that's what love did to a person. Unfortunately, though, their lack of communication over the past few weeks finally took its effect.

They ended up arguing.

“Lyra, I honestly don't remember??” Grayson said, sounding absolutely exasperated. Which only hurt Lyra more.

“I- Gray. You planned the event??” Lyra immediately shot back.

“And I forgot. I'm sorry, its just work has been-”

“Do not give me that excuse again, Gray, because I have been perfectly busy too, but I remembered.”

Grayson ran a hand down his face, his smile was completely gone now.

“I'm not giving you an excuse Lyra, its the truth and sadly inevitable.”

Lyra let out a frustrated groan, “Inevitable, Hawthorne? Really? You're the one that suggested we go out this weekend and then forgot. This was perfectly avoidable.”

Grayson's eyes bored into her, as if he was trying to read what was going through her mind.

“You're right. This was perfectly avoidable, I shouldn't have tried in the first place.” He sounded cold.

Lyra tried to remind herself that they were both just tired, that they were both lashing out for no reason, yet she couldn't get herself to stop.

Her scoff was cruel.

“Or you could have remembered?? Set a reminder or something. This is the third event of ours that's been cancelled-”

And so they went back and forth over and over again.

“Oh, my god. I cannot even with this right now.” Lyra said after they had argued for a good twenty minutes. She raised her hands in defeat and began to pace the room to keep her cool.

“With what?” Grayson pried, he wasn't masking his anger either.

“I don't know genius. The event? This? Us?”

When Grayson was angry, he didn't yell or scream or turn red. No, when he was angry, he put on his poker face. His cool, unbothered façade. He went so unbelievably still, seemed so unbelievably calm, that people were unnerved.

And that demeanor never faltered when he was in a bad mood.

At least that's what Lyra had thought up until then.

The moment the word “Us?” left her mouth, Grayson's expression changed. For one split second, he looked shocked, taken-aback, broken.

Lyra knew immediately where she had erred. She didn't mean that. Not one bit.

“Gray-”

“Then leave.”

Silence.

Lyra felt her world tilting on its axis as she repeated those words again in her head.

Then leave.

He wants you to leave. He wants you to leave.

A small part of Lyra whispered, He doesn't mean that.

Lyra took a deep breathe.

But what if he does?

She looked up to meet Grayson's gaze but he wasn't looking at her anymore. His head was turned to the side as he glared holes into the floor.

“Leave?” She asked, her voice sounded indifferent. A broken kind of indifferent.

A heavy silence followed, which answered the question for her.

“Alright then.” Lyra turned on her heels, walking fast towards the door. She needed to get out of there.

“This is the end, Hawthorne.”

Lyra grabbed her car keys and was about to snatch her coat from the stand when she realized that it wasn't hers.

The coat she had been using was her boyfriend's. Or, her now ex-boyfriend's

Lyra's hand retreated and she barged out the door. She didn't let the tears come, she had a long drive ahead of her.

But where am I going to go?

She decided on Miles End, making up her mind to drive for nearly a day and a half.

Lyra sprinted to the parking area and spotted a man standing in front of her car.

“Excuse me, can you please move? I need to drive.” She tried to sound as polite as she possibly could at that moment.

The man turned to her, “Actually, I have been assigned to drive you wherever you'd like.”

Lyra felt her heart tug.

Maybe Grayson didn't hate her?

She pushed the thought away. He had told her to leave, he didn't want her around anymore and she would respect that.

“I decline the offer, now please leave.” Lyra said, making her way to the drivers seat.

“M-miss! I insist-”

Lyra sent the man a levelled glare, ordering him to back off, “You are dismissed, sir.”

The man gave a small bow and left. Lyra almost felt bad, she hadn't meant to scare the poor guy, but she wasn't exactly emotionally stable at the moment.

Finally, sitting there alone in the car, her feelings bombarded her. A broken sob escaped her lips.

Lyra didn't think her life could have a lower moment than when the memory of her biological father began to haunt her. She had been wrong.

This was so, so much worse.

Because Lyra had a taste of what love felt like, what being whole felt like, what being with him felt like.

And she had screwed it all up. She had ruined it.

Lyra felt like somebody had ripped her heart out of her chest, threw it to the ground, stomped on it a hundred times and put it right back in her chest.

That would be better than this, actually. She thought.

Everything hurt.

And he wasn't there.

Lyra's entire body shook as she sat their in the car, crying her heart and soul out.

She had lost him. He hated her. They were over.

-------------------------------------

GRAYSON

Grayson's brain didn't process what had went down until she slammed the door shut behind her.

She left.

Lyra was gone.

And he had told her to leave.

Grayson's eyes widened slightly.

When they had started arguing, Grayson knew it wouldn't be a short 'scream and finish' argument. They both had been tired, they both had lashed out.

But he never expected for this to happen.

Grayson took a step back as the weight of the situation finally settled in.

Lyra left. She's gone. She isn't coming back. We broke up. She hates me. It's over.

He fell back on the sofa without meaning to, his legs had given out. Grayson had faced heartbreak before, this was something else. Because what was his life without Lyra? What was he without Lyra?

How did this happen? Why did this-

He took a shaky breathe. He tried to steady himself.

He failed.

---------------------------------------

LYRA

It was hard to keep her eyes open for nearly 29 hours after having an entire sob session, but Lyra was stubborn as hell.

She had drove. An entire 29 hours. No eating or breaks. Just driving

And she was now at Miles End.

Lyra stood at the front door staring at the door knob as she contemplated whether to tell her mom. What to tell her mom. She took a deep breathe and stepped in.

“Mom! I'm home!!” Lyra screamed as if her arrival was to be expected.

Her mom ran out of the kitchen, “Lyra?! Oh my goodness-”

She hugged her, Lyra let her.

“You came alone?? Where's my soon-to-be-son-in-law?” She asked, looking back to the door to make sure nobody was left behind. That he wasn't left behind.

When Lyra didn't reply, her mom turned back to her.

Lyra had decided before hand that she wouldn't tell her mom, she didn't want to worry her. She didn't want her mom to see her despair.

Her mom turned around and gazed over her entire body, toes-up. Her eyes lingered on her face. She didn't say a word.

She simply took Lyra's hand and led her to the living room.

Lyra followed like a lifeless corpse.

She took a seat on the sofa and signaled for Lyra to follow suit. She did. And then, her mother took her head and gently pried it onto her lap, Lyra was stunned for a moment.

But that's all it took.

She wrapped her hands around hers mother's waist, face towards her mother's stomach.

The tears came of their own violation.

----------------------------------------

GRAYSON

Grayson had dealt with heartbreak before. This was not the same.

He didn't know what to do. What to think.

It had been nearly a week since the argument, since the break up. Grayson hadn't so much as left his room. He didn't shower, didn't eat, didn't sleep.

Life felt bland, pointless, like nothing.

Suddenly Grayson heard voices coming from outside the door, his usually sharp ears, though, didn't process what they were saying until they entered his penthouse.

“Nope. We've given him enough time to sob. We cannot handle this gently anymore.” Jameson

“Agreed.” Said Xander and Nash heaved a heavy sigh.

They stepped into his room and froze.

Obviously, whatever it was they were expecting, it wasn't this.

Grayson, laying down on his bed, looking surreally pale- symbolizing a corpse. Judging by how disheveled his clothes looked, he obviously hadn't changed from his previous pair, leave alone bathed.

He looked miserable. Dead, almost.

His three brothers stood there, trying to process what they were seeing. It didn't feel right. Nothing about the scene said Grayson.

Jameson snapped out of it first.

“Grayson. What are you doing?” He practically screamed, Nash shot him a glare but he ignored it.

When Grayson didn't reply, didn't move, Jameson walked forward.

“Oi! Grayson-” Nothing.

“Gray! You can't stay like that for the rest of your life. Get up.”

Followed by, once again, nothing. Not a glare, not a scoff not even an eye twitch.

Jameson's eyes widened slightly. This was bad.

Nash and Xander stepped up beside him as they all looked down to Grayson's extremely still body-practically-corpse.

They were stumped.

“Okay!! Its obvious my dearest brother here is in need of some scones. And chaos. A lot of chaos.” Xander declared.

He produced a scone out of his pocket and handed it to Grayson, when he didn't move Xander began to wave the scone in front of his eyes.

“Brother! Earth to Brethren!! Hey, its a once in a lifetime moment that I share my scones, are you seriously going to miss out on this??” Nash and Jameson snorted, Grayson remained still.

Silence.

Xander looked slightly panicked and even Jameson was shook.

Nash then picked Grayson up and they all moved to the living room. No one had to say anything, because when a Hawthorne was down and depressed, only one thing helped them lighten up.

 “Karaoke Time!!” Jameson and Xander screamed simultaneously.

And the brothers did what they did best. They chaos-ed. They chaos-ed so hard that Xander had just about lost his voice, Nash had ditched his cowboy hat and Jameson's shirt had come undone. Yet, despite it all, Grayson had still not moved.

Finally, his brothers stopped.

They all shared a look, they needed to face this head on.

Nash sat down next to Grayson, who was just staring at the floor. He wore no expression but it wasn't what you could call his poker face.

His poker face only came up when he himself was in control, this expression was something else.

It was broken.

“Gray.”

Nothing.

“Look at me lil' brother.”

Grayson didn't. He didn't so much as move a muscle.

“I feel a tackle coming in~~” Xander tried. Still nothing.

Finally, Jameson stepped up.

He simply moved and sat down on the other side of Grayson and then, without warning, he smacked their wrists together.

A loud clinking sound was produced.

Nash and Xander looked confused, they looked to Jameson and Grayson's wrist and saw two Rolexes.

Two matching Rolexes. Bestie Bands.

Finally, Grayson looked to Jameson and Jameson met his faltering gaze.

“You alright, bro?”

Grayson shook his head slowly as his brain began to catch up with reality once again.

A broken sob escaped him, and then he couldn't stop. The sound kept coming, shattered and crushed.

Jameson was immediately there, wrapping his arms around his brother, Nash put his strong arms on Grayson's shoulder as he shook.

Xander's eyes looked slightly glassy, he was the youngest after all. He wiggled himself between Jameson and Grayson's bodies and wrapped his hands around Grayson's waist.

All four brothers stayed like that for a while and Grayson's brain finally formed one coherent thought.

What'd I do to deserve these three?

A/N: Everything. Gray, my child, ur the bestest.

-----------------------------------

LYRA

It had been a week and five days.

An entire 288 hours without Grayson, and Lyra was not coping well.

She would randomly explode during the day and cry herself to sleep at night. Things were not looking good.

Lyra's mom had told her that she needed to be stronger for herself and try to get over the entire situation.

But it was easier said than done.

Because getting over Grayson Davenport Hawthorne seemed to get more and more impossible with every passing hour. How were you supposed to get over somebody that perfect, somebody you didn't even want to get over??

Lyra had been trying though, to pull herself together for the sake of her family. She was miserably failing.

No matter what she did, her brain would always find a way to wander back to him. If she was cooking she'd think, "Grayson likes less spice in his food" Or if she was watching TV she'd catch herself thinking, "Grayson's favorite show comes on today."

And then reality would catch up with her, but that wasn't the worst part.

No, the worst part was the thought that came after.

You shouldn't be thinking about him anymore. You can't.

It was that thought, that thought that made her heart squeeze, that made it hard to breathe.

Thinking about Grayson had always come naturally to Lyra, as if he was always meant to live rent free in her mind. And Lyra had loved to think about him, her boyfriend.

Hell, she still loved thinking about him, and that's what anguished her.

Lyra still thought about him, still loved him but she had lost the right to do so. She had hurt him by saying she was tired of them, she had left.

It was all her fault.

"Lyra!! Get down here, you have a guest!!"

Lyra flinched awake. She had been trying to sleep off her heart wrenching reality for a little bit, but it seems her mom had other plans.

A guest?

No one knew Lyra was back in town, so who would have come to visit her?

"Quickly!!"

Lyra dragged herself out of bed unwillingly, she barely had the energy to stand. She walked over to the mirror and stopped, looking herself up and down.

God. I look terrible.

Lyra's eyes were brimmed red because of all the late-night-crying-sessions and her hair was all over the place, not to mention her tear stained cheeks.

She let out a heavy sigh and grabbed a scrunchie, putting her hair into a quick messy bun and then washed her face.

When she was done tidying up, she realized... she still looked like shit.

Screw it.

Lyra flew down the stairs, making up her mind to wrap this up quickly.

"Mom, who is i-"

Lyra reached the end of the stairs and paused upon seeing the guest, she was absolutely floored.

A tall man in his early twenties, equipped with a cowboy hat stood at the front door.

What''s Nash doing here??

Lyra proceeded to have a mini freak-out.

Oh no. He probably heard what happened from Gray. Does he hate me too? I would hate me if I were him.

Nash's voice reeled Lyra out of her trance.

He smiled and said, “Hey lil' darlin'.”

Lyra was, once again, floored. Why was he smiling at her??

“H-hi.” She replied. What were you supposed to say to your ex-boyfriend's eldest brother?? Lyra certainly didn't know.

“Can I get you anything, Nash?” Lyra's mom chimed in.

Nash turned his gaze from Lyra to her mom, “No, thank you though. I'd just like a few moments with my lil' sis' here.”

Lyra's eyes widened slightly at the endearment. Lil' sis?

She took a deep breathe, trying to calm her emotions which were brewing up a storm, internally. But why was he being so nice to her??

“Please come in.” Lyra said finally.

Nash walked into the living room, his eyes travelled around Miles End as if assessing and judging the house.

“Um- can I ask why you're here?” Lyra asked hesitantly.

He plopped himself down on the sofa, turning his gaze to her and that's when it hit her.

He's probably here to return the stuff I left.

When Lyra had left Grayson's pent house so abruptly, she had forgotten all of her belongings.

“I already told your mom didn't I? I just wanna talk with you for a little while.” Nash drawled, Lyra felt a comfortable warmth settle over her.

Why was he being so nice?

“Oh, I also needed to give you something your forgot.” He quickly added.

I knew it. She thought.

Unexpectedly, Nash reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. Lyra looked at him, slightly surprised, before taking hold of the picture.

Her breath hitched.

The picture had 5 smiling girls in it, Avery, Max, Gigi, Savannah and Lyra.

It had been no secret that Lyra loved the photo, she had framed it and kept it in her room and it seemed Nash had noticed.

But it wasn't the photo she loved exactly, it was the moment that had come with the picture, the photographer.

------------

“Alright people, gather around!! Our photographer is ready to do his job!” Jameson yelled from across the park.

Grayson rolled his eyes. A habit he had picked up from his girlfriend.

The five girls, who had been screaming and messing around, ran on over to have their photo taken. Grayson was ready with his camera.

The girls posed, putting up two fingers to make the peace sign, grinning. Lyra had been smiling too, the same smile she always wore in all her photos. A practiced smile.

Grayson was adjusting his camera when he suddenly frowned. A frown so minute you could barely see it but Lyra knew it was there.

She was confused, 'why is he upset all of a sudden?'

Suddenly, Grayson looked up at her and their gazes met, the rest of the world seemed to tune out. Because, god, he was looking at her like that again. Like she was the world and the stars and everything else that came with it.

And then, Grayson Hawthorne- the beautiful asshole, smiled. He really smiled. The type of smile where his eyes softened and his eyes wrinkled slightly.

Lyra's breathe caught. How was he so unfairly beautiful??

But Grayson Hawthorne was contagious.

Lyra found herself returning the smile and then the camera sounded click, he had taken the picture.

And she had been smiling. A real smile. Meant for him.

The moment was incredibly private, but Lyra knew she'd cherish it forever.

They would be forever.

-------------

Lyra ignored the way her heart squeezed and her throat closed up. She smiled at Nash.

“Thanks, Nash.”

“So, what have you been up to?”

Lyra thought that over. Oh- the usual, crying, having mental break downs, etc.

She couldn't exactly say that, though.

“I've been trying to learn a new dance choreography I found online. Its pretty nice.” She settled for a half-truth.

Lyra had been trying to learn a new ballet choreography, true. But she had also been unsuccessful in doing so because even the slightest violin note reminded her of him and then she felt her eyes burning.

Nash's eyes bored into her, and suddenly Lyra was reminded of how crappy she looked.

“Max and Xander managed to almost burn down the entire house. Again.” Nash deadpanned.

Silence.

Why was he telling her this? Weren't they going to talk about Grayson?

“Oh.” She replied finally.

He adjusted his cowboy hat “Yeah. They were apparently trying to make scones with some sort of alchemy for science.”

Lyra snorted at that.

“Let me guess, Alisa had their head?”

Nash shot her a look, “Worse. Xander is banned from touching scones for two days and Maxine is not allowed to read any romance novels.”

Lyra couldn't help it, she giggled.

Leave it to Alisa to find the most perfect ways to punish people.

Lyra and Nash talked, discussing the stupid found-family that resided within the Hawthorne household. And for the first time in the past two-ish weeks, Lyra felt slightly happy. Slightly at ease.

“I can't believe him sometimes, honestly.” Nash said in reference to Jameson.

Lyra rolled her eyes, “That sounds like Jameson. Stupid half-british ass.”

Nash paused for a second, meeting her eyes before laughing. Lyra found herself joining in.

Finally Nash stood up, a smile still on his face, “I should get goin' now. A long trip ahead and everythin'.”

Lyra stood up too and walked with him slowly, towards the door. She wasn't sure why he came all the way to Miles End just to talk to her.

Once they reached the door, Lyra spoke.

“You can say it.”

She hadn't meant to open her mouth, but now that she had, she couldn't find it in herself to stop.

Nash turned to look at her.

“W-why,” She took a deep breathe, “why haven't said anything about Grayson? You have the right to be mad. You're his eldest brother.”

Nash didn't say a word as he continued to look at her.

Her vision began to blur, “I'm sorry. Its my fault. I got mad first and lashed out like an idiot. I-”

She tried to steady herself, ordering her tears not to fall, “Grayson, he- he deserves better than m-”

Lyra was cut off by Nash's strong arms wrapping around her upper back and pulling her close. Lyra was stumped.

And then a sob escaped her. Followed by another, and the she was breaking down again in Nash's embrace.

“Shhh, its okay lil' darlin'.”

--------------------------------

GRAYSON

“For the last time, Jamie. No.”

It had been exactly two weeks since the break up.

And saying Grayson had not been taking it well was a major understatement, weren't these things supposed to get better with the passage of time?

How come he felt like dying then??

“C'monnnnnnn. What're you gonna do lazing around here, marinating in your depression?” Jameson retorted.

Grayson sent him a glare, “Do I look like I'm in the state to attend a social party, Jamie??”

He didn't. He looked terrible actually.

He hadn't had a proper meal in ages, which made him look skinnier than usual, his hair was disheveled and he wasn't even dressing properly anymore.

The Grayson Davenport Hawthorne, who always looked too perfect to be real, looked far too human at the moment to be considered even okay-adjacent.

"Heartbreak doesn't kill a man, and it certainly doesn't kill a Hawthorne." Tobias Hawthorne's words echoed in Grayson's mind.

And then he snorted. Then what the hell is happening to me right now, old man?

“Gray. Please. Why can't you try and move around a bit? Touch some grass?”

Grayson didn't deign that with a response.

Jameson muttered something incomprehensible, “You're gonna die at this rate.”

Then Grayson met his eyes, “Good.” Before turning his attention back to his phone.

Silence.

When Jameson didn't say anything Grayson looked back up at him, planning to tell him to leave.

His tongue caught when he saw Jameson's expression, though.

Jameson was a lot of things.

Reckless, stupid, a daredevil, whipped, narcissistic, perhaps even an egoist in the making. But that was mostly just a front. He, like all of his brothers, was taught to suppress his feelings, to never let his emotions catch up with him.

So when Grayson saw the expression Jameson was making, he was taken-aback to say the least.

Jameson's eyes were glassy and he was holding his breath, like if he let go then he'd come crashing down with it. His hands were balled up into tight fists and he was glaring holes into the floor.

He looked angry, helpless.

Scared.

Grayson thought the situation over again. To him, dying sounded perfectly fine, hell he already felt dead. But Jameson wasn't okay with that.

“Three hours. Then I will leave.” Grayson deadpanned.

The way Jameson's face lit up reminded Grayson of when they were kids, when they actually confided in one another. When it was just them.

He almost smiled.

“See you then, Gray.”

-----------------------------------------

LYRA

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you too.”

Lyra groaned.

She had been trying to help her mom cook when her phone suddenly went off. She ignored it initially but then it rang again.

Lyra had stormed off, ready to snap at whoever dared call her a second time when it was obvious she didn't want and wasn't going to pick up.

She was slightly shocked when she read Avery's name. Pleasantly shocked.

“Avery. I. Am. Not. Coming.” Lyra paused after every word, trying make her point.

“Whyyyyyy??!!”

“I literally live 29 hours away?! I can't just show up for an over night, quote on quote, 'social party' and leave-”

“I'll just send a private jet to get you, please come.”

Lyra forgot she had rich friends.

But travelling wasn't the only problem. What if Grayson is there?

Lyra wouldn't mind seeing him, in fact, she wanted to. Really, really badly. But Grayson hated her. What if he got angry when he saw her? What if he ignored her?

She didn't want to think about it.

“Lyra. We haven't so much as talked in two weeks, I miss you. Just for a little while. Please.”

Lyra felt warmth wrap around her heart. She had missed Avery too. The two girls had talked all the time when Lyra was still dating him.

“... Alright.”

She heard Avery gasp and then squeal from the other side of the line.

“But only for a little while, okay?”

“Of course, darling.”

--------------------------

LYRA

Lyra had considered ditching the entire plan and running away a million times but she pushed the thought away every. Single. Time.

Yet, as she stood in front of the Hawthorne Gates, gazing at the huge crowd, she cursed herself for not escaping while she had the chance.

I am done for, aren't I? Welp. No turning back.

She walked in.

Lyra was, in a way, an introvert. She hated huge crowds and loud noises, so this party was not appealing in anyway.

Just find Avery, say hi, get out.

She walked through the crowd and spotted Avery.... with Jameson.

Yay. Off to a great start.

Lyra turned around and stalled for a little while, praying that Jameson left his girlfriend's orbit for just one god damned minute.

There was no way she was facing any of Grayson's brothers today.

Thankfully and surprisingly, Jameson did walk away. That was almost sketchy, Avery and Jameson were practically inseparable at events.

Lyra decided not to look into it and walked on over.

"OH MY GOD LYRA!!!" Avery screamed and immediately hugged her. Lyra laughed, returning the embrace.

She still couldn't believe that both Nash and Avery didn't hate her.

"Its been so long, girl. Where have you been?"

Lyra gave her a soft smile. There was something to Avery, something that allowed Lyra to open up and be herself.

"At Miles End. Dying, I think." She said it as a joke, but it was true.

Avery stared her down for a before they continued talking about the most random bull crap, laughing at terrible jokes.

Lyra turned around to grab a drink from a bartender and that's when her gaze fell on him.

About 10 feet from where Lyra stood, a man with beautiful blonde hair and shining grey eyes stood. His posture was perfect, one that said that he was a man of power and not afraid to use it.

Grayson Hawthorne. Gray.

He looked skinnier, his dark circles had grown slightly, too. No one else saw it, she did, though.

Lyra's heart beat picked up, she felt like a stupid girl with a crush again. She couldn't help but stare, forgetting that Avery was talking.

He looked immaculate as always, glorious as he smiled.

And he was talking to a girl.

Lyra tried to ignore the way her heart squeezed, he's not yours anymore, Lyra. Get a grip.

"Lyraaaaa, earth to my favorite kitty!"

She snapped out of it and turned back around to see Maxine Liu standing next to Avery.

Lyra couldn't help the smile that broke out on her face, Max was a force to be reckoned with and Lyra loved her for it.

The three girls went on yapping, when suddenly a very familiar song came on. One everybody knew.

Shape of you.

Max squealed, "Lyra."

Lyra didn't have to guess what Max was implying, "Max. No."

Avery smiled at the both of them, "Why not?"

Lyra sent her a withering glare, "I just don't want to."

Max rolled her eyes, "Who are you lying to? You always want to dance."

She had a point, Lyra did in fact want to dance. It'd help her get her mind off of Grayson smiling at another girl.

God Lyra, stop acting like you're still dating him. Her heart squeezed again.

But if she were to start dancing, chances of Grayson spotting her would be at an all time high. She couldn't risk that.

"C'mon pleaseeee, its been so long since we all danced together." Avery pleaded and Max joined in.

Lyra sighed, feigning exasperation as a smile broke out on her face.

Well, I suppose I could dance just a bit.

And the three girls walked on over.

Lyra looked to her two best friends as they began to dance, Lyra let the music come, felt it in every bone of her body and then she was swaying to the beat.

------------------------------------------

GRAYSON

Like every other event Grayson had ever attended, this party too, was extremely taxing.

People put on nice facades and talked to others only so that they could benefit themselves.

In fact, this party was much worse.

Not only was Grayson still trying to cope with the separation from Lyra, as it turns out, news of the break up had spread far and wide. People jumped at the opportunity.

In the one hour Grayson had been present at the party, he had been flirted with at least 50 different times and that was rounding it off.

His brother was not making that much better.

"Oh! Gray, here comes another one~" Jameson teased, signaling towards a girl whose clothes seemed far too suggestive for Grayson to feel comfortable.

Wrap this up quickly. You control the room. Grayson reminded himself.

He was wrong. This girl was demanding and stubborn.

"Hey there hottie~"

Grayson tried not to cringe as Jameson snorted.

"Yes, miss?" Grayson replied, ever-so formally.

"I hope you know CPR, because you just took my breathe away." She replied.

Jameson turned his head around, covering up his laugh with a cough. Grayson fought to remain polite.

"That's quite funny, miss."

"Oh please, drop the title, just call me mine." She said, adding a wink.

Grayson was dumbstruck, can this woman not take a hint?? Jameson was having far too much fun.

"I'm sorry, ma'am?" He said, emphasizing the new title. This woman was getting on his nerves.

"Hmm, maybe 'mine' is not to your liking?? Then what about girlfriend?" She said, sounding smug.

Jameson tried to cover up his grinning by sipping his drink.

Grayson was floored, "Um. No thank you."

"Aww, you wanna take it fast then? Alrighttttt, you can call me wife."

Jameson choked on his drink.

Grayson choked on air.

What in the world was going on??

"I'm not interested, so-" She cut Grayson off.

"Yet. You're not interested, yet."

Grayson blinked. What?

The lady spun on her heel, she shook her head, her hair falling down to her waist and she threw off her coat.

"My dance will enamor you." She declared.

Jameson was barely holding it together, she then boldly walked to the dance floor, never once breaking eye contact with Grayson.

Then she started dancing.

Grayson shot Jameson a withering glare as he laughed. Hard.

"OH MY GOD, THAT WAS PEAK. AHHAHA-" Jameson barked

Grayson was considering actually digging up a hole and just dying, the woman didn't even dance well for all her boasting. She looked like a robot was attempting to do ballet.

Grayson's gaze wandered over the dance floor before it landed on one girl. He'd recognize those moves anywhere.

Far left, Grayson's gaze rested on a girl with long dark hair which had been left open, her golden-tan skin seemed to shine in the disco light as she danced to the beat like the music had possessed her.

Lyra.

He noticed the way her moves seemed more dragged out, as if she was tired. Her smile was fake and her dark circles had increased.

Yet, she still looked breathtaking.

Grayson didn't bother hiding his stare.

---------------------------------------

LYRA

Lyra got carried away.

She knew it the moment she felt his gaze on her, unwavering as he stared.

Lyra didn't know whether she should hate herself for dancing in the first place or hate herself for liking the fact that she had caught his attention.

He's probably glaring. She thought.

I mean, his ex-girlfriend did quite literally just attend a party his family had hosted. Lyra groaned.

"You guys, I'm tired." She said, coming to a stop. Her body ached for more.

Avery and Max shared a look, "Alrighty, lets go chug some drinks!!" Max yelled.

Lyra shook her head as they began to walk off the dance floor, that's when two guys stepped in their path.

"Hi." One guy said, speaking to all three of them but his eyes rested on Lyra.

Lyra wanted to ball his eyes out.

"Hello." Lyra replied as Max and Avery spectated.

"I happened to see you dancing and I must say, you can groove." He said.

Lyra heard Max and Avery snort the moment the weird guy said groove. She shot them both a glare.

"Um... yeah. Thanks. Now please move aside." Lyra replied, trying to make her disinterest clear.

The man was stubborn.

"Actually! I was wondering if we could have a drink together?" He asked, sounding confident in his abilities to make a woman swoon.

Lyra raised a single dignified brow. She had learned that from Grayson. Her heart ached yet again and she immediately pushed the thought away.

"I'm sorry, but no." She said, crisp and firm.

That should do it. Lyra thought.

"Oh come on. you can spare a few seconds-" The man started.

"She said no." Avery stepped up along with Max, who was now glaring.

"Um... I don't remember including you in this conversation?" The man had the audacity to say.

Lyra thought about reaching for her heels and beating the living shit out of this guy, but she couldn't since that'd tarnish Avery's image.

"Really?? Well I remember Lyra telling you to back off and you not listening you motherfaxer!!" Max said.

"Look. Everyone knows she's single, so she doesn't have any real reason to reject me?? Why should I-" The man began.

"She's my sister-in-law and best friend." Said Avery and Max simulatenously.

Lyra whipped her head around to face them.

Sister-in-law?? She wasn't dating Grayson anymore, what were they on about??

Avery sent her a look. Lyra let out a breath and turned back towards the man.

"You heard her. I am married and taken. Walk away."

The man and his friend snorted.

"Who do you think you're lying too??"

Lyra was about to reach for her heels, when she felt a hand suddenly land on the small of her back. She froze.

She knew that hand, that touch. She knew it the way she knew her own body.

Grayson.

Lyra leaned into the touch out of pure habit, she relaxed into the intimacy.

Shit! Pull back. Lyra ordered herself.

But then Grayson's hand moved from her back and slithered over to the side of her waist. Everywhere he touched burned and Lyra felt her heart begin to race.

She blushed hard.

"Don't make her repeat herself."

The man looked up at Grayson with wide eyes, obviously, he wasn't expecting this. To be fair, Lyra hadn't either.

Grayson's voice turned dark, "Scram."

The man and his friend didn't need to be told twice, they ran like their life depended on it.

Avery and Max smirked at Grayson, knowing fully well where this was going, before they, too, took their leave.

Yet, Lyra couldn't focus on them.

Her focus was fully on the man behind her.

Grayson. Suddenly the party hall seemed too small and she couldn't breath properly.

Neither of them moved until Grayson retracted his hand. He made to move away but Lyra was faster.

---------------------------------

GRAYSON

The guy with the death wish finally left.

Grayson had considered sending Oren after him or beating him up himself but his anger completely dissipated when his gaze landed on her again.

Lyra. Grayson's heart swelled yet he felt nervous.

Her eyes were downcast, her hair covering the side of her face. He saw the tiniest tinge of pink on her ears.

Grayson didn't let go at first. He couldn't.

Lyra was right here. Right in front of him. He wanted to pick her up, run away with her and apologize until she forgave him. But he wouldn't do that.

Not unless she wanted him to.

Grayson loosened his hold on her and then let go completely, he turned to move when her hand latched onto his.

He froze.

She wants me to stay. Grayson pushed the hopeful thought away. He turned around to face the goddess, that was Lyra.

She wouldn't meet his eyes as she stared down at where her hand held his arm.

"U-um. I- uh." She began.

Grayson's heart began to race, he had almost forgotten how much he liked her voice.

"Can we talk?" The words were out of his mouth before his brain had even processed it.

Lyra looked up at him then, eyes blown wide.

Shit. I screwed up.

"Yes." She said finally.

Grayson paused. then blinked once. Twice.

Yes?? She said- she said yes?! Yes!

He grabbed her hand and walked the both of them off the dance floor and towards the "Staff Only" area.

Once they got there Grayson let go of her hand and turned to face her properly. The Staff Only area was unfairly small.

They deserved better than one small square room??

Grayson noted to mention that later.

Grayson's gaze landed on Lyra and, this time, she was looking too, Grayson's breathe caught.

Suddenly the rest of the world didn't exist.

She's here.

------------------------------------------

LYRA

Lyra noticed the way Grayson's eyes travelled around the small staff room he had led them to.

She observed as his face went from stoic, to observant, to disappointed, to serious before his gaze landed on her and then all of his feature softened.

Lyra's heart swelled. Why was he looking at her like she was fragile? Like she meant something??

She had hurt him.

Lyra had made up her mind on the short walk to the room that she would apologize to Grayson and that, no matter the outcome, she would live with it.

No matter how upset it made her.

But, now, with her staring into his beautiful deep eyes, she couldn't seem to remember any of the points she was going to say.

"Lyra." Grayson broke the silence, he said her name like it was a secret. A promise.

Lyra didn't know what to say.

You're beautiful? I love you still, but I'm also a dumbass and hurt you?? Why are you looking at me like that?? Her mind ran through her options.

"Hi."

She slapped herself mentally.

hi? HI?? REALLY??

Grayson blinked, slightly taken a back, before a smile broke out on his face, Lyra's breathe was taken away.

How was it fair that he smiled like that and she was supposed to let him go?

"Hi, Lyra."

She looked down as she blushed slightly, god this is embarrassing.

A silence followed, but it wasn't suffocating or awkward. It was comfortable. As if the rest of the world had disappeared leaving just their slow breathing.

They both stood their, absorbing the others presence. It felt like coming home.

Lyra felt her eyes burn slightly at the familiarity of this situation. Grayson always gave her this sense of comfort. Did she really have to let it go?

You brought this upon yourself. Apologize.

Lyra took a deep breathe, "Grayson."

Grayson kept staring at her which made it hard for her to focus, "Yeah?"

She looked up and met his gaze, "I'm sorry."

Grayson's eyes widened slightly.

"I-," she took another deep breathe to try and calm herself, "I shouldn't have lashed out. That was stupid of me."

She tried to keep the tears at bay, but one fell anyway.

"If you hate me now, I completely understand. But I want you to know that when I said us-" her voice cracked, she kept going.

"When I said I was tired of our relationship. I-" She calmed herself. Lyra needed Grayson to know that she truly meant this.

Lyra's gaze steadied and she met his eyes.

"I didn't mean it. Not in the slightest."

Silence.

"I'm not telling you to forgive me or anything, I just need you to know I'm sorry and-"

"Stop." Grayson said finally, Lyra did.

His voice sounded deep, hoarse, guttural. As if it was taking everything in him to keep firm. He looked both confused and surprised.

"Lyra, why are you apologizing??" Grayson finally managed, his breathing was slightly shaky.

Lyra paused.

"Why-," he ran a hand through his hair and walked closer to Lyra, making her heart beat pick up again, "Don't apologize Lyra. Its not your fault."

Lyra stared at him, she couldn't process what he said at first.

Not my fault?

Lyra turned the phrase over in her head as her eyes widened, what did he mean?? It totally was her fault?

"Lyra, you weren't the only one who lashed out. I did too, and that was dumb. As hell." He let out a breath.

Lyra couldn't believe her ears, was Grayson blaming himself?

"And no matter what you might have said, Lyra, I was the one that told you to leave."

Lyra's breathe caught once again.

"I told you to leave like I wanted you gone, like I was tired of you. I acted like that freaking penthouse was mine alone."

Lyra gulped, "It is yours, though, Grayson."

"No. No its not. Its not just mine. Lyra, when I asked you to move in with me, the place became ours. Its yours just as much as its mine."

If Lyra wasn't crying before she certainly was now.

"I shouldn't have told you to- fuck. I-"

Lyra didn't let him finish, she threw her arms around his neck. Grayson went still for a moment before his arms wrapped around her waist tightly.

They stayed like that for a while, with nothing but the sounds of Lyra's sobs slowly dissolving into nothing but silence.

Just them

"I love you." Grayson said, finally.

Lyra thought she was done crying but she had been wrong.

"And you don't have to say it bac-"

Lyra pulled away from him, looking him dead in the eye, "I don't have to do anything Hawthorne. I chose to come to this party. I chose to follow you here. I chose to apologize to you and-"

Lyra smiled, "I choose to love you, Gray."

The wind sped up, making the room slightly chilly, but Lyra didn't care because, god, Grayson was looking at her like that again.

Like she was the entire universe and he didn't need anything but her.

Grayson closed the space between them first, taking her chin and prying it upwards. She closed her eyes and they were kissing.

It wasn't a slow kiss, not at all.

All of the pent up emotion- heartbreak, anguish, regret, lust and love- all of it spilled out in their intimacy.

Neither of them were holding back, Grayson picked her up with practiced ease and set her down on the singular table in the room, Lyra wrapped her legs around his waist as if they were always meant to be there.

They finally broke apart gasping for breathe. Lyra's head was on his shoulder and she could feel Grayson's breathing by her ear.

Butterflies flew around in her stomach.

Lyra lifted her head and met Grayson's eyes, he looked at her- his chest still moving up and down, trying to catch his breathe.

Her hands went to his face, she started from his forehead, moving down to his cheek bones to tracing his jawline. She committed the moment to memory.

"That girl was fucking annoying." She said finally.

Grayson paused before he burst out laughing, Lyra couldn't help but smile at the warm noise.

"I can sympathize with that, though, the guy was worse." Grayson said. Lyra groaned.

"God don't remind me." She said, exaggerating as she put her head back on his shoulder.

Grayson pulled her closer.

"We aren't going to get anywhere here." Lyra said.

"..what?"

Lyra pulled back again, her eyes alight with something new, "Well? Won't you give me the chance to make up for being away for so long??"

Grayson's entire demeanor changed. He grabbed her hand, "There's a short cut."

Lyra laughed. She couldn't believe it.

She looked at Grayson's beautiful face, his eyes taking on a bluer shade in the moonlight.

She had been sure that she had lost Grayson forever, that she didn't deserve him in the slightest, but she had been wrong.

Because in the end, Grayson chose her and she chose him.

Isn't that really all that mattered?

------------------------------------------

UM?? WOW- THIS IS MY LONGEST FIC YET. I AM BLOODY PROUD.

Personal belief that Lyra can be just as freaky as Grayson, try me.

I hope u enjoyed ahahah :DD (Grayson's POV was a challenge, pls don't come at me.)

Constructive Criticism: @lyrakanefanatic @musiwashere @inkstainsonmyfingertips @alwaysthefangirl @talahsaudiobooklibrary (newest author on the block <3)

[bilscherry]

desires II

use of inappropriate language, teasing, flirting, & sexual

"Girl, you better go and give her that lap dance," Nessa says in excitement, jumping up and down.

"She said she'll pay me a whole lot of money, but I just don't know because I'm so scared and nervous," you say but then feel a hand placed on your lower back.

Before Nessa could say anything else, you slowly turned your head to see who was behind you.

Of course it was her.

Billie was standing there, arms crossed, the same cocky smirk painted on her lips. "Didn't mean to interrupt," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Just came to check if you've made up your mind."

You froze, unsure what to say, but Nessa? Oh, she wasn't frozen at all.

"She's doing it," Nessa chimed in quickly, giving you a gentle shove forward. "Ain't that right, y/n?"

Your mouth opened to protest, but no sound came out. Billie raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying every second of your internal panic. "Well?" she asked, stepping closer. "One dance. Nothing more... unless you want more."

You felt your pulse quicken, your throat dry, but you nodded slightly more from pressure than decision.

"Good girl," she whispered close to your ear, her breath warm against your skin.

Nessa squealed behind you and gave you the most dramatic wink of all time before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you alone with Billie.

"Come on," Billie said, motioning with her head. "I booked the red room. It's private, quiet... and I brought cash."

You followed her, heart thudding wildly, questioning every step but somehow, your feet didn't stop. The hallway felt longer than usual. The red lights lining the walls cast a sultry glow, matching the heat rising in your body.

When you reached the room, she held the door open for you like a damn gentlewoman. You walked in, unsure where to look, but she didn't rush you.

She just leaned back against the wall, watching

"So," she began, pulling out a wad of bills and tossing it on the small table beside the couch. "Show me what I paid for."

You swallowed hard. This was it.

You took a deep breath, gripped the pole in the center of the room, and tried to remember everything you'd practiced-every slow roll, every confident move. But her eyes, those sharp blue eyes, made your skin tingle.

As you started to move, she didn't say a word. Just sat back and watched.

Her eyes were darker now, her smirk gone. She was paying attention and not just to your body, but something else too. Something deeper.

And that was the part that scared you most.

then you stopped

Not because the dance was done, but because the air had thickened too much to keep pretending.

You stood there, chest rising and falling, sweat curling at your neck. "That what you wanted?" you asked, voice quieter than you expected.

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, Billie pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding whether to pounce or just watch a little longer. She crossed the room in a few steps, stopping inches from you. One hand came up, brushing your hair behind your ear.

"What I wanted," she murmured, eyes on your lips now, "was to see if you'd actually do it."

"And?"

Her thumb skimmed your cheek, so soft it barely felt real.

"And now I want more."

You didn't move. Couldn't. Her presence wrapped around you like a second skin-heavy, electric, undeniable. Your body buzzed with adrenaline, but your mind was chasing shadows, unsure if this was thrill or danger or both.

Billie's hand lingered at your face, her fingers tracing down the side of your jaw, slow enough that it felt like a promise. Or a warning.

"I thought you said one dance," you whispered, though your voice betrayed you more breath than bite.

She tilted her head, lips quirking like she knew exactly what she was doing to you. "I say a lot of things."

That hand slid down, brushing your collarbone, pausing right at the dip of your sternum. Her touch was maddeningly light like she was testing you, measuring your reaction.

"You always listen this well?" she asked, almost playfully, but her eyes still hadn't softened. If anything, they'd grown hungrier.

You swallowed again, mouth dry. "I'm not some toy you can throw money at and expect to perform."

Billie grinned slow, dangerous. "Oh, I know that. That's why I paid. Not for the show..." She leaned in until her mouth brushed your ear. "For the chance."

You shivered.

The room suddenly felt too small, the music too soft, her proximity too much.

But still... you didn't back away.

"You trying to prove something?" you asked, voice steadier this time.

Billie leaned back just enough to meet your gaze again. "Yeah. That you want this just as much as I do."

Your heart tripped over itself. You wanted to deny it, wanted to hold onto whatever logic had brought you this far. but the way her eyes searched yours made lying feel stupid. She could see right through you.

So instead, you asked, "And if I do?"

Her smile vanished.

Then she stepped forward, closing that final inch between you.

"If you do," she said, her voice low and certain, "then I stop pretending." And then she kissed you slow, deliberate, with none of the teasing edge she'd worn all night. It was real. It was claiming. And it was terrifying how much of yourself you gave up in the space of that breathless second.

You kissed her back anyway.

Her lips moved against yours like she'd been waiting like every word, every glance, every slow smirk had been building to this. And maybe it had. Maybe this wasn't sudden at all.

Your hands found her waist before you even realized you'd reached for her, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt like you needed something to hold onto. Billie tasted like trouble and confidence, like she'd been planning your unraveling from the moment she laid eyes on you.

When she finally pulled back, barely an inch, her breath mingled with yours

both of you slightly stunned by the shift.

"I should walk away," you said, though you didn't move.

Her eyes flicked between yours. "Then go."

It wasn't a challenge. It was honest. A door left half open.

But you stayed.

"You're dangerous," you whispered, not entirely sure if it was a warning or a confession.

"And yet..." she murmured, thumb brushing your cheek again, "you're still here"

A beat passed between you. The silence said more than either of you were ready to.

Then she took your hand no command, no pressure. Just her fingers lacing with yours like it had always been that simple.

"Come sit," she said, nodding toward the couch. "I'm not going to push. Not tonight."

You blinked. That surprised you more than anything.

She sat first, legs spread comfortably, arms draped over the back of the couch like she owned the room, like she'd own you if you let her. But there was patience in her posture now. Space. Permission.

You stood there for a second, searching her face for the game, the angle.  but it wasn't there.

So you sat beside her. Not pressed close. Not tangled up.

Just... beside.

"Okay" you said quietly.

Billie glanced over, one brow raised. "Okay?"

You nodded. "Let's see where this goes."

And for the first time all night, she didn't smirk.

The smile she gave you wasn't cocky or smug, it was soft. Unexpected.

Like she wasn't used to showing it, like it surprised even her.

"Alright," Billie said, her voice lower now, almost gentle. "We'll take it slow."

You weren't sure if she was reassuring you or herself.

A silence settled between you again, but it wasn't uncomfortable this time.

It was charged, yes but it hummed with something new. Possibility.

Restraint. A truce between want and caution.

You leaned back against the couch, your head tilted slightly toward her, trying to read her without staring. Billie's eyes stayed ahead, fixed on the far wall, like she needed a second to reset. Her thumb was absently brushing against your knuckles, back and forth in a rhythm that steadied your breath.

"This isn't just a game to you, is it?" you asked after a moment, voice quiet.

She exhaled through her nose, the barest laugh. "Not anymore."

That made your stomach flip.

You glanced at her, and she finally looked back at you no walls, no masks.

Just her.

"I push," she said, almost like an apology. "It's what I do. Makes it easier to know where the lines are."

"And if someone doesn't push back?"

"I lose interest," she said. "But you... you pushed. And you stayed."

You felt the weight of that. The way her words weren't coated in charm or seduction. They were honest. Maybe even vulnerable.

Billie turned toward you slightly, her knee brushing yours. "Tell me to back off, I will."

You didn't.

Instead, you shifted closer, just enough for your shoulder to touch hers.

"I don't want you to," you said, steady this time. Certain.

She looked at you again, like she was memorizing this version of you the unguarded one. Then she nodded slowly.

"Okay" she said. "Then let's see where this really goes."

And just like that, the air changed again not heavier, not tenser. Just warmer. More real.

No act. No performance.

Just the beginning.

[kiame-sama]

Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU pt 50

(Grim is an honorary member of every dorm, just as the Human is. He isn't overly fond of Octavinelle due to not liking water- and not being able to swim- but he does like the abundant sea-food the dorm has at their disposal. Almost every fish he sees, he asks if he can eat it or if the Human can cook it up for him. Azul is acutely aware of the fact that Grim is the Human's kit and the Human will not tolerate anyone being cruel to their kit, so he is keen to make friends with the little feline.)

Warnings; yandere, yandere behavior, platonic and romantic yanderes, competing yanderes, jealousy/envy, swimming lessons, sprinkled in lore, Selkies, Hellcat, Merfolk, Cecaelia, Genie, Shinigami, mention of Nemean Lion,

~~~~~~~~

You sat quietly in your dorm, the new fur wrapped around you comfortingly as you cuddled down into it. Grim purred contentedly from where he was curled up on your lap, kneading his paws into the incredibly soft fur as he nuzzled through it. The fur likely made him feel like he was snuggling another Hellcat- as you were his mother in his eyes- so it put him at ease. Where you wanted to question why your fur was so soft like that of a Seal pup, you figured there weren't many answers to your questions.

All of the mishaps led to where you were now, listening to the elder Shinigami bustle and fret over this transformation you have undertaken.

"Foolish younglings can't even remember what they had grabbed to make that potion."

"Papa Hades, what does this mean for (Y/n)? I was under the impression that Humans couldn't take transformation potions without intense negative side effects."

"They can't. The fact that no side effects have occurred is intriguing and highly irregular. Little One, how are you feeling?"

You tried to not frown, genuinely feeling fine- if a little irritated- and wanting to explore just what that Selkie form of yours did. Azul did say he would be keeping the Mostro Lounge closed for the day in favor of getting himself and the Twins situated in Ramshackle. It was clear he didn't intend to keep it closed, just a temporary adjustment for the day. That also meant you only had so much time to try out your Selkie form in the Octavinelle dorm.

Despite having heard of the Mostro Lounge and the Octavinelle dorm prior, you had not visited the dorm and wanted to take a look for yourself. Azul said it was an oceanic dorm, but you didn't fully understand what that entailed. From what you saw of the other dorms, they were contained spaces of reality that differed from the environment of Sage Island. Perhaps Octavinelle was actually beneath the ocean somehow.

Beyond just the dorm, you were interested in learning about your three new guards outside of the few interactions you have had with them. You spent time with Floyd when you visited the Queendom of Roses and spent some time with Jade even after the Wolf attack. Azul was more of an enigma beyond protecting you during the Spelldrive tournament.

"I feel fine."

"Still, we should check to make sure."

"Papa Hades, I'm sure it's fine. You would be the second to know if I wasn't fine, because Ortho would be first. I know he keeps track of me through my collar even if he is not physically present."

The elder seemed to pick up the irritation in your tone as you cuddled yourself deeper into your fur. There was something soothing beyond the temperature regulation- neither too hot, nor too cold- of the fur coat you wore. Like being held by a friend you could fully trust with everything in your life, even the darkest parts. You were now beginning to understand the significance of Professor Divus always laying his fur over you.

"You make a fair point, Little One, but I am not worrying over nothing. Severe illness or even near allergic reactions were some of the more tame things I have seen befall a Human who took a transformation potion. Yet again, you seem to effortlessly challenge everything I understood as truth when it came to Humans. If you are alright with it, I would like to run a few more diagnostics-"

"More testing? ... I guess..."

He observed you for a moment, seeing how crestfallen you had become at the idea of yet another round of the seemingly endless testing. Though you understood his curiosity and shared that same interest in many ways, that didn't mean you were thrilled by the prospect. The way even thinking about more testing left you feeling drained and dissatisfied was more than obvious.

"... You are right to be frustrated, Little One. Go enjoy this novel experience. We can work on understanding why you are so adaptive to the transformation potion later. Ortho will ensure we are kept aware of your wellbeing. If your vitals become concerning, I will come to your aid."

His acquiescence actually made excitement run through you, almost immediately perking up. Azul did say he would be in Octavinelle if you wanted to come by prior to his arrival with the twins.

In your excitement, you failed to noticed the worried look Alexandros exchanged with Papa Hades. The elder simply shook his head as the younger Shinigami took it as a sign to keep his concerns quiet. They had already slipped up once by reverting to their native tongue while within earshot of you. Your cautious behavior emerged immediately, behaving akin to a prey animal around predators.

None of them wanted to see such hesitance and fear in your eyes again. Especially not while looking at them.

"Thanks, Papa Hades!"

You picked up Grim and happily scampered off with the Kit in tow.

~•§•~

"What was all of that about, Papa Hades?"

Alexandros looked to his elder for guidance, not sure why the older Shinigami would be so lax despite the less than favorable situation. The younger Shinigami was of the mind that caution was the best approach with your wellbeing, especially after your sudden illness. You were an unusual Human and therefore it took unusual methods to crack this new code.

"... Someone is interfering with her life force, Young Alexandros. A change has begun to come over her and I feel I know the cause. She is constantly wrapped in magic from an outside source. Tell me, young one, does that Magestone she wears mean anything to you?"

"I can't say it does. It does carry a heavier presence with it... In fact, I believe I recognize that presence. The Dragon Prince had a similar magic to that Magestone."

"I agree. Where it is unlikely every change is a result of that magic, it would be foolish to not take it into account as a possible source. Fae always were more resistant to blot than others. For now, the Little One deserves whatever time she can get to choose what she does and where she goes. Who knows what the future ultimately holds for her, and if it makes her happy, why not indulge where she is safe? I shall contact Young Ortho to keep a keen eye on her wellbeing. Perhaps she was shielded the worst of the effects."

~•§•~

You moved through the halls with a small smile on your face, happy to be free to explore as desired. Despite knowing the twins and Azul would be happy to teach you swimming as a Seal, Divus was the better choice thanks to him actually having experience and not relying on gills. Being later in the day meant the Selkie was free to join you and he had already offered to teach you what you needed to know.

As Grim continued to cuddle into your arms, you noticed that someone had fallen into step next to you. Due to his near silent footsteps, you almost didn't realize that Kalim was walking by your side with an excited smile on his face. He almost looked Human given the fact that he had legs now instead of his typical Genie tail.

"Hey there, (Y/n)!"

"Hi, Kalim."

"Good to see you are feeling better! How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright. How are you?"

"Good. You know, I actually wanted to come see you! I know you're going to choose your next dorm guards soon, so I wanted to see if you were going to pick someone today or not."

There was a kind of unveiled interest in the way the Genie spoke to you. Something about his oddly genuine behavior reminded you of the Harpy Neige. As you regarded him quietly, you noticed the tattoo eye on his forehead moved to stare at you. It had been pointed up above the two of you when he walked over, but now it stared at you intensely.

"I already chose Octavinelle due to a little mishap today in potions class."

"Oh no, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Ace just slid into a cauldron while we were making a potion and I got dunked into it. I don't even know why it caused such a change. It was supposed to be a color change potion and not... This. Now- for whatever reason- I'm a Selkie."

"Wow, I'm glad you're okay! Guess that means you want to learn how to swim and be a Selkie though! I can see why you chose Octavinelle. I was wondering if you wanted to come over to Scarabia for a party sometime soon? Jamil is a great cook and we were both thinking we could invite you over. Of course, Grim is allowed to come with too!"

You smiled at the playful Genie who had extended his hand in friendship to you. Unlike many of the other monsters you were around, Kalim was giving you a choice to spend time with him and the choice to turn him down if you wanted. There was a kind of genuineness in his actions that made you want to trust him despite knowing how all of these bests would eventually fall into obsession with you. The simple fact that Kalim seemingly had not yet fallen into obsession interested you, but he could always be putting on a front to seem more detached than the others.

While you walked, you were so focused on Kalim you didn't even realize that the twin Eels were waiting for you when you got to the Hall of Mirrors. The pair glared at the Genie that was happily chattering away to you, both underwater predators glancing at one another before moving forward to greet you. Jade was quick to come up next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist to push you towards the Octavinelle dorm mirror. Floyd moved to your other side to hit Kalim with his shoulder, shoving the Genie to the side.

"Oops. Sorry, little Otter, didn't see ya there!"

"Oya, you should be more aware of your surroundings, Kalim. Regardless, it seems our lovely Selkie-Human has graced us with her presence."

"We got it from here, Otter."

Floyd flashed an intentionally fanged grin towards Kalim who seemed more thrown off than normal by the Eels behavior. You didn't have much time to watch Kalim's reaction as the pair ferried you towards the dorm mirror. Behind you, Kalim scowled for just a moment before a teeth-bearing grin pulled back onto his lips, the Genie quickly disappearing into the mirror of his own dorm.

"Come on, Shrimpy! Leopard Seal is already waiting for us in Octavinelle!"

~•§•~

Kalim felt tears bite at his eyes and sting with the unwelcome feeling of frustration as he hid in the shadow of the Scarabia dorm. He was okay with waiting for whenever Scarabia was selected to guard that precious Human, but this was becoming too much for him. The Genie understood that he was not the best when it came to protecting someone or even when it came to using magic, but he had been working hard to become better.

Truth was, (Y/n) had been haunting his thoughts ever since he successfully granted that wish for her. Both waking and asleep, Kalim had been plagued by all manner of imaginary scenarios that occupied his mind. From being selected as guards to being able to marry that precious Human, the heir to the Al-Asim family was consumed.

Even Jamil had taken such a sweet interest in the Human and longed to have her over to Scarabia for a meal. He had been practicing his cooking for the sole purpose of impressing (Y/n). Kalim was happy to use his own wealth to supplement funds for these cooking endeavors, just so the two could impress that magnificent Human. Though Genies did not need to eat food- as their true sustenance came from the residual magic other species let off in abundance- he still enjoyed the many things Jamil created.

He would just have to keep being patient. That kind Human would visit Scarabia soon enough... Jamil may have to keep Kalim entertained until then, though.

~•§•~

"Take your time, Puppy."

Divus soothed, next to you in the water and holding your smaller form up with his stomach. He had been thrilled when you reached out to him to learn how to be a Selkie. Where he wanted to take you on a fishing trip to catch whatever colorful creatures you two could find beneath the waves, he needed to ensure you could swim and hold your breath well enough first.

It was a harder adjustment for you than you expected, the flippers working differently than you anticipated when it came to swimming and general locomotion. Divus made it look so easy when you first started out, and his help was more comforting than you could even say. Even as he stayed next to you in the large salt-water tank, it was clear he was keen to make this a soothing experience for you.

Your seal body was smaller than his own so he used his size to help you navigate the water. Currently, his head was above water, but the rest of his tail was working to keep you elevated enough that your nose remained above the depths. Instinctually, you somewhat understood the aspect of swimming in this new form, but you were unfamiliar with the instincts themselves.

While you worked to learn how your body moved and functioned in water, your three newly appointed guards were close by. It was Azul who had suggested the tank be used first, knowing it only had harmless fish and corals within. It was the safest place for you to start your swimming journey and he was content to observe from the deeper parts of the water.

"Shrimpy makes a cute little Seal, doesn't she?"

"Quite the cute Seal. Why, I would even wager that fur coat of hers would sell for more than any other Selkie coat."

As the twin Eels spoke, their eyes never left the form of the Human-turned-Selkie. They were both rather predatorial when it came to other oceanic life, so it only made sense the pair were feeling some level of frustration to be relegated to simply observing. Azul was keen to prove himself and his dorm as competent when it came to guarding you, so he knew he would have to grab the tails of the twin Eels if they became too interested.

For now he simply watched, also keeping an ear out for that Kit of yours. Grim had wanted to stay with you but had a clear aversion to the deep waters, so Azul- begrudgingly- called in Leona to keep the young feline entertained while you swam. It burned to ask the Nemean Lion for help and that damnable grin the Lion flashed was seared into Azul's mind.

He had a golden opportunity- a singular chance to prove himself- and he was going to take it with both hands. The Cecaelia just needed to find a way to endear himself to Grim and (Y/n) without making himself look desperate. He couldn't let such an opportunity pass him by.

No matter what, Azul needed to win your affections in that short week, lest he lose his sanity for forever chasing your footsteps.

[swivi]

A NEW ADDITION TO THE FAMILY

This will have around 10 parts if I have enough motivation

(Where Wanderer, {{name}} and Durin reunite.) I tried to make this genderfluid and please be warned I forced myself to write this because I wanted them to interact again..which means there might be mistakes since I'm tired from my exams.

When Wanderer and {{name}} heard about Durin's transformation into a human, they both had mixed reactions. {{name}} was excited, practically begging Wanderer to go to Mondstat while Wanderer was silent. Even tho he looked blank on the outside Wanderer's thoughts were all over the place. He felt happy but also worried for Durin.

It took about two days to convince Wanderer with the help of Nahida, and finally, the two were allowed to go to Mondstat to visit Durin. When they first arrived, {{name}} was looking around in excitement, dragging him around the city to look around, while Wanderer only sighed in annoyance. This continued for a few minutes before he had enough.

"You do remember that we came here for something else, right? Or did you get sidetracked again." His words were laced with annoyance and impatience which seemed to catch {{name}} attention. A smirk played on their lips as they took the chance to tease him.

"So you do miss him? I knew some part of you missed Mini Durin." This seemed to catch Wanderer's attention as he scoffed, quickly denying it.

"What are you on about? I'm just here because you dragged me to this stupid city.." Wanderer grumbled under his breath, turning his head to the side. This made {{name}} amused, but before they could tease him anymore, a voice caught there attention. {{name}} and Wanderer turned around just in time before they were smacked over by a force, a small grunt leaving their lips.

It all happened in a blur one second two voices that sound familiar to the Traveler and Paimon called out to them, then the next second, they were on the floor with someone hugging them. {{name}} took the time to recover while Wanderer glared at the source, only to pause. The boy who knocked them down looked no younger than 13. His red eyes clashed with Wanderer's as the two had a stare off before Paimon's voice pulled them from their thoughts.

"Oh no, Durin, are you okay? Quick Traveler Albedo's gonna kill us if Durin gets injured..he just woke up a day ago. Didn't he say something about him needing time to stabilize..oh my god-" The Traveler covered Paimon's panicked murmurs with their hand, sighing to themselves before they could speak {{name}} wrapped their arms around Durin with a smile, pure excitement in their face.

"This is Durin now? Oh my archons..hes so cute, Wanderer look!" They exclaimed in excitement, turning to Wanderer, who only remained silent the entire time, watching the scene with a blank look before he sighed.Durin, however, was excited, staring up at him expectantly.

"Hatguy, look! I'm human now, just like everyone." Durin turned around, showing off his new human form. His hair was a light shade of purple, two black horns peaking from his head. His red eyes that now shinned with excitement, staring up at him expectantly. His clothes consisted of a simple white shirt that looked a little too big for him, making him look even more adorable. {{name}} looked seconds away from crushing him, their hold on him tight as they complimented him left and right.

"You guys are gonna make a scene if this continues." Wanderer complained, standing up with a sigh before brushing off his clothes. After a few seconds, the two also got off the ground, but there was something wrong with Durin. His once excited look now looked gloomy as he stared up at the Wanderer with sad eyes.

"Did you not miss me, Hat guy?" The sad look in his eyes seemed to make Wanderer pause, his expression softening slightly before he crossed his arms with a sigh.

"Good to see you too, I guess.." His voice was calm yet held a slightly gentle tone in it that seemed to make Durin perk up slightly, his bright smile returning. Before he could speak {{name}} but in,

"Don't mind Wanderer.. we both missed you, that's why we are here, right Wanderer? Are you okay now? Have you eaten? You're not hurt, right?""

Their voice was filled with relief and happiness as they doted on Durin, who seemed to smile even more, nodding along with their questions.

The Traveler and Paimon watched the domestic scene before Paimon turned to whisper,

"Don't they look like a family, Paimons so happy for them.." The Traveler agreed with a small smile, before glancing at Wanderer who was silent the entire time. His chest felt tight for some reason making him even more overwhelmed..why did he feel so happy? The Wanderer's thoughts were in a jumble before {{name}} waved their hands over his face with a concerned smile.

"Teyvat to Wanderer? Oh, you're alive.. The Traveler and Paimon proposed that we spend time with Durin today and since he doesn't have proper clothes yet.. we should definitely go shopping." Their excitement made Wanderer roll his eyes before he glanced over at Durin, who looked just as excited at the thought of spending time together.

"Can we, Can we!?" Durin looked up at him expectantly, his small black wings flapping slightly in excitement, making Wanderer pause, making a mental note to himself about them. After a few convincing words, he sighed in annoyance.

"You! Fine... just don't run off." *He grumbled before grunting at the feeling of someone grabbing his hand. He looked down in annoyance at seeing Durin before sighing silently, following him. {{Name}} was just as excited, holding Durin's hand as they walked around. To the folks in Mondstat city, they looked almost like family.

A young boy walking with his parents. What a sweet sight.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter eleven, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, feast, im TIRED I WANNA BE DONE WITH THESE GAMES HELP, lowkey jj dies here ok warning, me not knowing how to make this non cringe LMFAO im sorry ok its also fast paced bc idk realistically it would be too bc who tf drags out a death idk ok sorry goodbye

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

you pull your knees up tighter to your chest the second that fanfare cuts through.

you lift your head slightly, your eyes sore from crying. it’s not just for kie, but for everything. the stress, the cameras, the deaths surely, the mutts that could come back at any moment if they wanted. it’s all still clinging to you like sweat.

the death recap of the night begins.

the first face that flickers is that boy, the one who tackled you. turns out he was from district three. he’s got a scratch on his chin in his photo and his hair’s slicked back like someone took time to style him. he looks tired, even in that still image. he clearly didn’t want to be there in the first place.

a few seconds later, it flicks again. kie.

you feel your heart sink all over again.

her photo is clean. there’s no bruises, no blood. not the way you last saw her. not the way she looked when you heard her scream jj’s name through a mouthful of blood. in her picture, she’s confident. her chin’s lifted, her hair’s beautiful. she was ready. ready to win.

you frown, shifting your position, letting your chin drop onto your arm, then slowly leaning to the side until your cheek presses there instead. you don’t want to look anymore. you don’t want to imagine your face up there. or jj’s. or rafe’s. but you do anyway.

you think about the photos they made you take, the tribute profile shots they said. it’s necessary for your page, that photo is attached to your name everywhere. and you remember thinking, what’s the point of this? but now you know. the point is this. to see your face up there like some kind of announcement.

you press your lips to your arm and stare at the ground.

somewhere beside you, the leaves shift. an arm moves across your shoulders. it’s rafe.

he’s not awake, just leaning back against the tree behind you, his eyes closed, adjusting in his sleep. he must’ve thought it’d be more comfortable this way, slinging an arm around your neck rather than letting it get crushed between your sides. the weight of it is warm and grounding, and for a second, you don’t move.

you glance over at him quietly, careful, like you’re afraid even just looking will wake him. his face is calm, more relaxed than it’s been all night. maybe even the last few days. you don’t know if it makes you feel better or worse.

you shift your gaze again.

jj’s a few trees away, still as anything, his spear beside him in the dirt. he hasn’t laid down. he hasn’t even closed his eyes. he’s just been leaning against the trunk, his head tilted up slightly.

he didn’t eat earlier. not a bite. you don’t think he even could.

you chew the inside of your lip, watching him.

“good morning, tributes.”

light’s peeking in just barely. you stir awake with a tight ache in your neck and your knees still pulled up like your body forgot it could stretch.

you recognize the voice though. it’s a gamemaker. has to be. you rub your hands over your face and keep listening.

“we hope you’re well-rested, because today brings you an opportunity.”

you squint upward.

“as a reminder, the games are not only a matter of strength, but strategy. survival. will. resourcefulness. and today, we’re giving you a chance to show us all of that and more.”

you frown, your brows drawing together. something’s coming. you can feel it.

“there will be a feast at the cornucopia.”

your stomach knots and you shift upright more fully, palms against the dirt as you sit on your heels now, alert.

“each of you needs something desperately. you will find that something in a backpack marked with your district number, at the cornucopia, at dawn.”

you freeze, eyes widening slightly. it’s a trap. it has to be. at least that’s what your instincts tell you. but you’ve seen the games before, this feast is real. the remaining tributes make it a trap for others.

“think hard about refusing to show up.”

the voice is colder now, like they’re trying to root out your fear.

“for some of you, this will be your last chance.”

then silence. you stare straight ahead for a few seconds, the last words of the announcement ringing inside your skull.

you exhale and glance over your shoulder. rafe’s awake. he’s watching you already, one arm propped up on his knee. when your eyes meet, he gives you a faint little smile. one of those yep, we’re doing this expressions.

you blink back a tired laugh and sigh through your nose, shaking your head.

“of course we’re going,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

you sit in silence for a long time after, curled up beside rafe while jj stays off on his own. the three of you don’t speak at first. it’s just quiet nods, silent understanding, sharpened weapons. there’s no need for words when the stakes are this high. the bags will be there at dawn, and each one holds something vital. something the capitol knows you can’t live without.

you can’t risk not going.

but that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. there’s still two more tributes out there. they could be separated, could be together. either way, they’re a threat. they’re just as desperate.

you consider every angle. maybe they’ll try to take you out before you even reach the field. maybe they’ll be hiding in the cornucopia already. maybe they won’t show at all, just too afraid to try. it’s a gamble no matter how you look at it.

you move fast anyway. it’s nearly twenty minutes before the trees thin enough for you to glimpse the field. your body stills before your mind does , and there it is. the cornucopia.

four backpacks sit out in the open, perfectly aligned on a steel table placed right at the mouth of the horn. your district number practically glows against the fabric. it’s to the very left.

you expected a drop before you even got there, like hovercraft lights or a countdown. something. but no, they were ready for you. like the gamemakers knew you’d come early. they knew you’d want to stake it out first. they’re always a step ahead.

you drop to a crouch. no movement, no other tributes, not yet.

you feel rafe beside you. jj crouches on the opposite end of the brush, his spear steady in one hand. this is it. the plan’s simple. you just wait for the first sign of movement. whoever dares to step out first, they become your target. you’ll be faster, quieter. you’ll get there before they can blink, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

you dig your boots into the ground, press your back to the trunk of a tree, and breathe slow. the field is empty. it won’t stay that way for long.

. . . until it actually does.

and what the fuck? is no one coming for their bag?

you shift your weight again, your leg cramping a little from being crouched for so long. rafe’s still posted in place beside you, silent and still like he’s carved out of stone. and jj, well, jj’s lost his patience already. you can tell by the way he keeps standing up and sitting back down, like he’s daring himself to just go for it.

after thirty minutes, he was already pacing. now, he’s dragging a rock across the ground like he’s trying to carve out a new distraction. your stomach grumbles for what feels like the tenth time, but you ignore it. you focus on the treeline.

did the other tributes not hear the announcement? or are they just that scared?

it’s weird. you thought someone would be desperate enough to try. but now it just feels like the gamemakers are waiting, watching you all from their fancy screens in the capitol. watching to see who’ll make a move first.

you glance over at rafe sometimes to see if maybe he’ll finally say it's time to stop waiting. maybe decide that it's not worth it. just grab the bags and go. you’d listen. you’d follow. but he doesn’t move. he just stays still with that same quiet kind of confidence that’s started to gnaw at your nerves. you hate how calm he looks. like he trusts something about this.

you rub your eyes, your hand dragging slow across your face. the exhaustion clings to your skin.

jj mutters something under his breath and you hear the clink of something metallic as he digs around in his backpack. he’s clearly over it, the silence and the waiting. he looks like a kid stuck in a time-out who’s bored and ready to punch something.

you sigh and crawl over, sitting down beside him. you bump your shoulder into his gently, just enough to let him know you’re there. he doesn’t say anything, just shifts a little to the side, still focused on whatever he’s digging out.

you rest your head against his shoulder and watch his hands. he finally pulls something out. it’s small, sharp-looking, half-wrapped in cloth but clearly mechanical. your eyes flicker over the details, the way the wires wind tightly around a tiny trigger. it takes you a second before you recognize it.

“is that kie’s?” you ask. he doesn’t speak. just nods. you look at it for another second before looking away. it makes your chest feel too tight.

“there’s a few,” jj mutters, fingers adjusting one of the small pins in the trap. “gonna set them up at the table so if the others grab their bags, they get caught.”

he stands before you can say anything else, slinging his spear back over his shoulder and holding the traps carefully in one hand.

“do you guys want me to get yours too?”

rafe answers before you do, “we’ll get it.”

you look back once to see rafe watching jj with that same unreadable calm. but jj doesn’t argue. he just nods, turns, and heads off, jogging into the open like he’s daring the arena to try something.

you watch him move across the field. it feels like something should happen, like a cannon should fire, or someone should run out screaming. but nothing does.

you just track jj’s every move. your eyes flick back and forth between him and the trees. your fingers grip the hilts of your daggers, slow and steady as you pull them from their sheath. no sudden movements. not yet. not unless something gives you a reason. you just know you’re there to back him if he gets jumped.

jj makes it to the cornucopia easy, all smooth confidence in the way he drops his spear onto the table. it clatters against the metal, you can even hear it from where you are.

he’s focused, flipping the traps over in his hands, turning them this way and that, trying to find the right angles. he’s careful, faster than he should be for something that delicate. he tucks each one just behind the bags at the base where they’ll be out of sight. it’s smart. if someone tries to grab one without noticing . . . maybe they’ll lose a hand. or worse. you don’t know. they’re kie’s contraptions. you’re not even sure if jj knows what they do.

after the last trap clicks into place, he snatches the district four bag and grabs his spear again, then starts running.

and that’s when you see it.

movement. it’s not big or fast or anything. but something, someone, is at the treeline, across the way. your body locks up for a second. there’s a girl. she’s peeking out just barely, her head low, eyes squinting toward jj like she’s trying to calculate something. and you can tell by the way she flinches that she didn’t expect him to be there.

you don’t hesitate. you whistle. loud.

jj jerks his head up instantly, eyes locking on yours mid-stride. you point. your arm slices through the air, finger held out firm toward the girl.

jj skids a little as he slows, turning just in time to catch sight of her. and then he’s gone again, bolting, fast as hell, feet kicking up dirt behind him.

the girl panics. you can see it. she ducks back into the green like she wasn’t ever there at all.

but you know better. you and rafe move at the exact same time. you grab your pack, your fingers curling tight around the straps as you shove your daggers back into place and sprint after them both. you’ll get your feast bag later.

the field stretches too long, too wide, but you don’t stop. your backpack shifts against your shoulders with every stride, jostling uncomfortably, but you keep moving.

then—rafe. he veers to the left of you, yelling over his shoulder, “i’ll get it, just stay with jj!”

your head snaps toward him, eyes wide, but he’s already gone, racing straight for the cornucopia table like it’s the only thing keeping you both alive. you almost call his name, but you trust him. you turn your focus back forward and push harder, legs burning now.

jj’s just barely ahead, fast and reckless, tearing across the field. and you, you chase him. every time you think you’re catching up, he’s already ducking through the trees again, vanishing like a shadow just ahead of you. you keep your eyes locked on him.

you’re in the woods now, leaping over exposed roots. ducking under low-hanging limbs. things graze your arms and catch your clothes, but you barely feel them. you know where he’s going. you’ve been this way before. there’s water up ahead. he’s chasing her there. it’s the only reason to head this deep, this fast.

the girl, she’s gone from view. she’s been too far away from you for you to see her anyway.

you move faster, your feet hit the ground harder. your legs ache like they might give out, but you grit your teeth and tear through the forest like something wild, something hunting. you feel like a predator closing in, tracking every sound and movement, heart pounding loud in your ears.

then, jj disappears. he just slips through a patch of trees and just like that, he’s gone. your chest tightens immediately. you swerve between trunks, leap over a moss-covered rock, barely avoiding slamming into a branch.

then you hear it. there’s a scream. it must be hers, but it’s short and panicked.

there’s a struggle. you can hear it, rustling, splashing, the sound of someone grunting, fighting back. and you know you’re close. you know this is the water. they’re here.

you shove through the last of the brush, branches snapping around you. your hand grips the hilt of your dagger just in case. the leaves claw at your skin as you force your way past, and then you see them.

jj’s with the girl, thrashing, tangled up in each other by the edge of the water. your breath catches.

is that diamonte?

jj’s eventually waist-deep, soaking wet, his arms locked around someone who doesn’t want to be touched. diamonte is twisting in his grip like a feral thing, her fingers clawing for anything, her feet pushing off the muddy floor of the lake, trying to lunge deeper, like submerging herself is going to somehow make her invisible or safer.

it’s pathetic, the way she thrashes. stupid, even. and for a second, you think: how the hell did she make it this far?

but you already know. she probably ran, laid low, waited. but it was only a matter of time before someone got to her.

jj tries to drag her back toward shore, but the moment his grip slips, she turns on him, faster than you expect. her elbow jams into his ribs and before he can recover, she’s on his back, wrapping around him like a snake. her hand goes to his throat, the other to the knife at her hip.

you run forward but stop at the edge, frozen.

she’s got the blade pressed just under his chin, not enough to bleed yet, but it wouldn’t take much. jj’s hands go up immediately, his chest rising fast, not struggling. he’s watching you. his eyes are locked on yours like a signal.

you swear that if she does it, if she really does it, you’ll kill her.

you take a step forward, heart pounding. “diamonte.”

she doesn’t look at you. her breathing’s ragged. her face is sunken, her skin pale. she’s still probably gone days without food, maybe more. her cheekbones look sharper than they should. her eyes are sunken.

jj winces slightly under her arm, but doesn’t move.

finally, she speaks. “this is what they want.” her voice is hoarse like she hasn’t used it in days. “they want me to slit his throat, and then you’ll come at me, and then someone else will come at you. and it’ll go on. until we’re all fucking dead.”

you don’t say anything. not yet.

she tilts her head slightly, like she’s listening for something only she can hear. her jaw flexes. her eyes finally cut to you. she’s literally unstable.

“you still don’t get it,” she says, laughing once, breathless. it’s not funny. “you still think this is about districts. about bags. about who kills who.”

she presses the knife a little deeper. jj holds perfectly still. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something.

“they’ve taught you so well,” she hisses. “you really think dying out here means something. you, topper, jj, what were you trying to prove? that you’re strong? that you’re worthy?”

she notices when your eyebrows furrow at their names. she smiles. “topper thought he was brave. that if he just fought hard enough, they’d let him go home. and now he’s, what? dust in a cannon? a body that the capitol has to do whatever they please with it? i thought he’d win, if anything, but look at us. we’re still here.”

your hand clenches around your dagger.

“my brother thought the same thing last year,” she mutters. “district one’s golden boy. volunteered like it was his birthright. the kind of kid they throw a parade for before the blood even dries. said he wanted to die for something.”

her lips curl, but it’s not a smile. it’s something bitter.

“you know what they sent back to my mom? a pin. a fucking pin.”

jj’s breathing harder now. the knife hasn’t moved. you can tell he’s trying to stay calm, but his hands twitch slightly, like he’s getting ready. or like he’s asking you again to do something.

“you’re just like them,” diamonte says, her gaze pinned to yours. “just better fed.”

“i’m not here to give them what they want,” she whispers. “i’m not dying for their cameras. and neither is he.”

her grip tightens, the knife shifts. you know that if you so much as try to move, she’ll kill him just to prove a point.

you’re watching her come undone in real time. and still, jj doesn’t fight. he just looks at you like he’s already decided what’s going to happen. like he’s already accepted it.

no. no, no, no.

if she does it, she better be ready to die. you’ll drag her down into that water yourself.

you barely hear her as she’s still talking. it all blurs together. something about how they’re watching, something about how they’re not showing this part, how panem doesn’t get to see the truth. “they’re probably cutting to a fucking squirrel climbing a tree while i tell the truth,” she spits, mouth foaming. “they won’t show this. they never do.”

you tune it out.

your eyes are on jj, only him. he’s trying to stay still, but you see the tension in his arms, the way his fingers are inching upward, like he’s thinking of grabbing the blade or twisting out of her grip. idiot. don’t be a fucking idiot.

he’s looking down at the knife like he’s studying it, calculating, plotting.

he will. you can feel it in your gut. he’ll try something, he’ll take the risk. maybe he doesn’t care if he dies here, not after kie. not with that guilt still carved into the back of his skull. maybe he thinks this would be justice, or redemption, or an escape.

you shake your head once. don’t move.

he sees it. his jaw tightens. his lips purse and his hands stop rising, but his eyes stay on yours, and it’s like he’s saying, she’s not gonna let me walk away. you know that.

you do. but there’s something else. you glance at the water. you try to come up with something, anything. work under pressure, under a minute, you need to analyze everything.

this isn’t just some random lake. this is the lake. the first one that helped you washed the bloodbath off of your body. it’s the one kie was sitting on the edge of with you. the one with the trap. the snare.

it’s still there, probably sunken under the surface, tangled at the bottom. she doesn’t know it’s there. neither does jj unless he remembers kie setting it there too. but you do.

if they shift just right . . .

“you think this is a game?” diamonte yells suddenly, head snapping toward the sky like she’s screaming at the gamemakers. “you think this is entertainment? say something!” she bellows. “show me the red light. show me you’re watching. come on, i know you’re watching!”

jj’s eyes flick down to the water, then back up to you. did he figure it out too?

don’t, you think again.

there’s a crunch behind you. a single bootstep. it must be rafe. you hear him before you see him, but it’s too late. she reacts.

diamonte’s head jerks, body twisting, and she shouts something incoherent as she yanks jj’s head back. the knife jerks forward—

but jj’s faster.

your hand reaches back instinctively, finding rafe’s arm like it’s the only solid thing left to hold onto as it all unravels too quickly. your other arm stretches out in front of you, as if somehow, reaching far enough could stop it.

jj’s elbow slams into diamonte’s stomach, the knife dropping with a soft splash, her scream piercing the air as her body jerks backward.

her leg snaps back like it’s caught in something, and you already know what it is before she even stumbles. kie’s trap is still there. she’s too distracted to notice, too out of it to realize she’s already marked.

and jj doesn’t wait. he’s spinning, grabbing, his hands snapping around her throat. diamonte freezes. and just for a second, uou can see the fear in her eyes. she looks at jj like she sees something final in him. and maybe she does. maybe they both do.

he drives them both under with one brutal movement, his arms locked around her as they vanish into the water. it all blurs after that, with the splashing, bubbles, flailing, but you can’t see who’s winning, who’s still breathing, who’s drowning who. the water’s too clouded and the light is too bright. your eyes even burn from staring too hard.

you step forward, already bracing to run in after them, heart jackhammering against your ribs as you call out, barely louder than a whisper, “jj—” but you don’t get any further.

rafe’s hand closes around your upper arm and hauls you back. you stumble for a second, caught between fight and freeze, and then you look at him.

he doesn’t speak. he just meets your eyes like he knows the concern inside you, like he’s asking you not to give in to it. you can’t, you shouldn’t. these are the games.

you want to believe jj’s okay. you want to believe he knows what he’s doing, that he’s strong enough to win this and come back up. but the longer you stare at the surface, the longer it stays undisturbed, no gasp for breath, no victorious shout. he’s doing this on purpose.

rafe gives your arm a pull. and somehow, your body starts to follow. you run.

the trees blur past in streaks, your backpack bouncing heavily against your shoulders, and rafe’s footfalls thudding just in front of you. your breath comes fast and uneven, not from the sprint but from the weight in your chest that keeps pressing down.

and then it happens.

one cannon. one of them is dead.

it echoes through the entire arena. your feet falter mid-step. not enough to fall, but enough to make rafe glance at you.

you flinch, visibly, and something inside you folds in half. the tears prick your eyes instantly, but you don’t let them fall. you swipe them away with the back of your hand, jaw clenching as you force your legs to keep moving. another cannon just a minute later.

you don’t speak, and neither does rafe, because what would you even say?

you just keep running, back toward the field, toward the cornucopia. jj’s gone, so is diamonte. it’s just you, rafe, and the last tribute. only three left.

two more people and the victor gets to go home.

but even after all of this, for the first time you start wondering, do you even want it to be you?

a/n: i keep forgetting that as a district two kid y/n is supposed to be a little brainwashed so oops ! idk how to properly show that thru the behavior but ermm

sry smtimes idgaf because im so excited to get to the 75th games timeskip. this is a huge moment bc jj dies but i wrote it so poorly in my opinion (like i couldve done better) but atp its like a filler chapter in my head LMAO

ALSO idk if anyone noticed that itty bitty detail but since jj comes from four itll be canon that he can swim, even hold his breath for longer than someone in another district. his death cannon comes later than diamontes which shows he was purposely drowning himself for a whole minute after he killed her, putting himself thru that struggle n killing himself omg ok im done

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[cbeargyu]

ok so, this is based off a game called married in red but i want beomgyu to be the mainlead/bestfriend 😛😛 So basically you got invited to your old uni bestfriend (bgyu) by his fiancee w/o him knowing, and basically beomgyu is shock to find you at his wedding and gets nervous. A little back story for why beomgyu is shocked to see us again, basically beomgyu your one snd only bestfriend betrays you during a surgeon practice and tells the authorities that your the one that killed the patient and not him (girl...) so you then get sent to jail for a few years. OK, PRESENT TIME... You then planned to get revenge on him by killing his fiancee and frame it on beomgyu, telling everyone that he killed them because he heard a rumor that they cheated on him. anyways, that's it. I'm not really sure if you would actually reply to this, but at least i tried

MARRIED IN RED

summary: you return to the life you lost—uninvited to beomgyu’s wedding, dressed in blood-red and driven by revenge. what begins as a seductive game of manipulation ends in murder, deceit, and the destruction of everything he built. you’re not just here to haunt him. you’re here to end him.

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: dark romance, psychological thriller, smut, angst, revenge, murder mystery.

warnings: smut, graphic murder, knife play, manipulation, blood, gaslighting, medical malpractice, false accusations, power imbalance, obsessive behavior, psychological trauma, emotional abuse, toxic dynamics, gore, suggestive content, unhinged reader, death, infidelity, mention of sexual assault (attempted), violence, mental breakdown, imprisonment, explicit language.

wc: 12K

notes: hi anon!! ok so tbh i’m not super into video games normally BUT the one you mentioned??? omg the premise got me sooo hooked 😭 i ended up watching a bunch of lore vids + different endings and literally got obsessed lol. i used a lot of the gameplay as inspo to build the story and added my own lil touches to make it ✨spicier✨. i really hope you enjoy it and that it came out close to what you were picturing!! i had so much fun writing it — definitely stepped out of my comfort zone a bit (even tho i've done yandere/violence themes before, i never went this deep 👀) so thank u sm for the request ily 💌

FLASHBACK: THE BETRAYAL

the room smelled like metal and nerves. antiseptic clung to your skin, the sterile kind that never quite washes off, no matter how hard you scrub. overhead, the surgical lights buzzed faintly, casting halos on everyone’s heads, ironic little crowns of fluorescent glory. you stood there, gloves tight against your hands, mask hiding the shape of your mouth but not the panic rising in your throat. this was supposed to be routine. a practice session. supervised. safe.

but then something went wrong.

you saw it first — the drop in heart rate, the tremble in the patient’s pulse. the resident nurse called out numbers you didn’t want to hear, and beomgyu froze. you remember his hands. how steady they used to be in class, always precise, always admired. but not now. now, they shook. not violently, not enough to notice unless you knew him like you did — like someone who once memorized the cadence of his breathing, the rhythm of his thoughts. you saw it in the twitch of his fingers, in the split-second delay when the arterial clamp slipped. the bleeding started then. red spilled into white, too much, too fast. you moved, instinct taking over, reaching for the sutures, trying to stop the flood before it became irreversible. beomgyu didn’t move.

and then he did.

but it was too late. the alarms screamed. the attending ran in. hands pushed yours aside. someone shouted. another called for help. and beomgyu… beomgyu took a step back. just one. just enough.

you didn’t sleep that night. didn’t eat. didn’t breathe without hearing those monitors flatline inside your skull. you thought maybe it would be labeled a mistake, a tragedy, an accident born from youth and pressure. you were wrong.

two days later, they came for you.

you were mid-shift, mopping sweat off your temple, when the white coats and sharp eyes cornered you in the hallway. they didn’t say much. they didn’t have to. someone had already spoken. someone had already placed blame. your name had been written in ink, cold and black, on a report you never saw. beomgyu’s name was nowhere.

when you were questioned, they said beomgyu had expressed “concern” over your technique. they said he “regretted” not speaking up earlier. they said you panicked in the OR. that you tried to take over. that your recklessness had cost a life. they said so many things, all carefully worded, all sharpened with just enough truth to make the lie believable.

you remember sitting in that empty room, steel table in front of you, hands trembling. not from guilt. from rage. from betrayal. from the image of his face on the other side of the glass, watching. silent. expressionless. not even sorry.

he didn’t visit you. not once. not during the trial, not after the verdict, not when they took your license, your dreams, your freedom. he vanished. became a name you couldn’t say without tasting ash.

years passed.

but you remembered.

you remembered how he looked at you right before the doors closed behind you — not with shame, not with pity, but with relief. you remembered that silence like a scalpel against your spine. clean. deep. final.

and you decided.

if he could tear your life apart to save his own, you could do the same. only worse. only slower.

and this time, you’d smile while doing it.

ACT ONE: THE INVITATION

you were in the middle of folding laundry when you found the envelope. cream-colored, thick, the kind of paper that crackles when bent, expensive just to touch. no return address. no hint. but you recognized the handwriting immediately — soft, rounded, a little too careful to be truly effortless. feminine. polite. unfamiliar.

you slid a finger under the seal and pulled the card out. gold lettering, embossed. a wedding. no — his wedding. the name hit your stomach first. choi beomgyu. and beside it, a name you didn’t recognize. yoon hana.

you stared at it for a long time, longer than you'd ever admit. your fingers clenched around the edge, and for a moment you imagined tearing it in half. but you didn’t. not yet.

the call came the next day.

“hi, is this…?” her voice was as pretty as her name sounded. delicate. sweet. almost translucent. “i hope this isn’t too forward, but i’m hana — beomgyu’s fiancée.”

you said nothing for a moment. your breath stilled.

“i found some photos of you two in his old albums,” she continued quickly, nervous, like she thought you might hang up. “college days. i had no idea you were so close. he… he never mentioned you.”

of course he didn’t.

“i wanted to surprise him. you were his best friend, right? i think it would mean so much to him if you came to the wedding. it’s not the same without people who really know you.”

you let out a breath — not a laugh, not quite — more like a quiet exhale of something heavy, bitter, ancient.

“he’ll be very surprised,” you said, voice steady, lips curling into a smile she couldn’t see.

“that’s what i’m hoping,” hana said, laughing softly, innocently, like a girl who had no idea she was dangling over a pit. “please say you’ll come.”

and you did.

not because of her kindness. not because of the sweetness in her voice, or the elegance in her words. but because you could already feel the pulse of something deep and dark moving beneath your skin. it had waited years for this — coiled and patient, like a snake in the grass. beomgyu had buried you once.

this time, you’d return the favor.

you spent the next few days preparing. not obsessively — not in the way you used to when exams loomed and futures were built on how steady your hands could be. this was different. calm. surgical. everything folded into neat little thoughts. what you’d wear. what you’d say. the tilt of your head when he saw you. the exact moment his perfect little world would begin to shake.

you imagined the way his eyes would widen, the hitch in his throat, the cold wash of memory creeping up his spine. he wouldn’t scream. no, he’d smile. he’d pretend. because beomgyu always wore his mask better than anyone — the gentle prodigy, the golden boy, the fallen angel with soft hands and a halo of innocence. no one ever saw what he really was underneath. but you did.

you always did.

you touched the edge of the wedding card again, ran your thumb across the gold print. not out of sentiment, but calculation. it was almost poetic. the beginning of the end would be wrapped in white and flowers and promises neither of them deserved.

he thought he could bury you in silence. in time. in absence.

but the past always shows up — dressed in red, smiling sweetly.

ACT TWO: THE REUNION

you arrive early, but no one notices.

it’s the kind of venue that whispers wealth from every corner — marble floors that gleam like water, tall windows draped in soft linen, crystal chandeliers heavy with light. a string quartet plays something romantic and forgettable in the background. waiters float by with champagne flutes, their hands practiced and empty-eyed. everything is too clean. too white. a blank canvas begging to be stained.

you stand near the edge of it all, watching. not hiding — just waiting.

then you see her.

hana.

she moves through the crowd with soft hands and a practiced smile, like she’s been trained her whole life to be looked at. beautiful, delicate, a doll dressed in ivory and pearls. but her eyes are kind. too kind. she spots you almost instantly and lights up.

“you came!” she says, breathless, rushing forward to embrace you like you’re old friends. you let her. her perfume is light and floral, almost childish. she pulls back to look at you, smiling. “he’s going to be so surprised. i didn’t tell him. i wanted to see his face.”

you nod once, lips curling upward. “i can’t wait.”

she doesn’t hear it — the venom under the silk. she sees only what he once saw: a calm surface. nothing underneath.

they call everyone to attention soon after. the ceremony is about to begin. you take your place among the crowd, quiet, unmoving. your hands rest in your lap, still, like in the operating room — composed. patient. ready to cut.

the music swells.

then he walks in.

beomgyu.

the groom.

your breath doesn’t catch — it sharpens. like a blade meeting stone. his suit is ivory, his tie pale gold. his hair is soft, curled just enough to look effortless. he smiles as he walks, bowing slightly to a few guests, charming and angelic, the boy wonder all grown up.

then his eyes find you.

he stops.

just one second. a stutter in time. a heartbeat dropped.

he blinks, once. then again.

the world keeps moving, but he doesn’t. his face doesn’t change, not fully, but you see the fracture — the faintest flicker behind his eyes. recognition. fear. memory clawing its way up his throat.

you tilt your head slightly. not a wave. not a nod. just enough.

he walks again, faster now, as if motion can erase you.

but you know better. you always did.

the ceremony proceeds like a play. vows exchanged, rings slipped onto fingers. hana glows beside him, her smile radiant and pure. and beomgyu… beomgyu plays his role with perfect grace. every look, every touch, every whispered promise is choreographed. from a distance, they’re flawless.

but you know the truth.

he doesn’t love her.

you learned that before the wedding, in whispers and reports, in quiet murmurs from mutual acquaintances. yoon hana, daughter of dr. yoon — the man who owns half the hospitals in seoul. a legacy family. power, influence, prestige. marrying her isn’t romance. it’s strategy.

he wants her name. her wealth. her father’s empire.

and once he has it, once he’s tied deep enough into that network of hospitals and private clinics, she won’t matter. she’ll become another discarded tool. maybe she already is.

you wonder if she knows. you wonder if she suspects. or if she’s just like you once were — enchanted by his gentle voice, his soft laughter, his hands that never shake until they do.

they walk back down the aisle, hand in hand, applause washing over them. but his eyes flick toward you again. not long. not obvious. just enough to remind you — he knows.

you slip away during the reception. not far. just to the back hallway where the staff come and go. it’s quiet there. cooler. your heels echo softly on tile.

you don’t wait long before you hear footsteps behind you.

“what are you doing here?”

his voice is low. careful. not angry. not yet.

you turn around slowly.

he’s already dropped the act.

the mask is still on, but you can see the cracks in the porcelain — the too-still eyes, the slight tension in his jaw, the twitch of a muscle near his brow. beomgyu stands in front of you like a man facing a ghost he thought he'd buried deep.

“your wife invited me,” you say simply. “she thought it would make you happy.”

he laughs. just once. bitter. sharp. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“why?” you ask, stepping closer. “because it ruins the fairytale?”

his silence is answer enough.

you study him — the expensive watch on his wrist, the perfect posture, the way his wedding band already looks foreign on his hand. he’s beautiful. always was. but it’s a cursed kind of beauty now, the kind that hides poison beneath petals.

“congratulations,” you say, letting your voice drip just enough to make him flinch. “must be nice, marrying into a dynasty. hospitals. connections. endless funding.”

“you don’t know anything,” he snaps, too fast.

you smile. “i know everything.”

he steps forward, suddenly closer than you expected. “what do you want?”

the question isn’t a plea. it’s a warning.

you reach up and adjust the lapel of his jacket, slow, intimate, mockingly gentle.

“i haven’t decided yet.”

his breath catches for just a second.

you both know what’s happening. it’s already begun. the dance. the descent. two people standing in the wreckage of a friendship, building something twisted from its remains.

because the truth is, you and beomgyu are not so different.

he ruined someone for power.

you came back to ruin him.

and hana? she’s not the love between you. she’s the blade you’re both gripping from opposite ends.

ACT THREE: THE BRIDE

you find her near the garden, tucked in the back where soft lights string between trees like artificial stars. hana is laughing with one of her bridesmaids, hands clasped around a champagne flute, veil tucked back behind her shoulders. she looks like a dream — fragile, glowing, floating in a bubble she believes is happiness. but dreams burst easily.

she sees you and waves. “there you are! i was wondering where you disappeared to.”

“just needed air,” you say smoothly, stepping beside her. “everything’s beautiful, hana.”

her smile grows. “thank you. i wanted it to feel… perfect.”

you both look around. and it is perfect. the venue is opulence carved into architecture — carved archways, marble fountains, flower arrangements taller than people. every inch glows with money. not taste. wealth.

“how did you two meet, anyway?” you ask, tone light, harmless. curious.

hana sips her drink, a soft blush blooming on her cheeks. “mutual friends. well, not really friends — one of my father’s doctors. he introduced us at a benefit.”

of course.

you nod, letting the silence stretch just enough before asking, “and… did you fall in love right away?”

she laughs. a real one. “oh no. he barely spoke at first. but once we started talking… it was easy. he listens. he’s kind.”

you hum softly. “he used to be quieter. i think the years made him louder.”

hana tilts her head. “you really knew him that well?”

“better than most,” you reply, a quiet truth soaked in something heavier.

her eyes glimmer with curiosity. “he never told me about you.”

you smile. “he wouldn’t.”

you don’t let the pause linger. you slip your arm through hers gently and steer her toward the inner hall — not the main ballroom, but a side corridor filled with portraits and silence. your voice lowers just a bit.

“this place is… extravagant,” you say, fingers brushing the polished wall. “how did you manage to book it? i heard it’s almost impossible.”

hana beams. “oh — it was a favor. one of my dad’s oldest friends owns the property. it’s usually reserved for very exclusive events — politicians, ceos, you know.”

you arch a brow, feigning awe. “must’ve taken strings to pull that off.”

“not really,” she says. “he offered it as a gift. it’s the kind of place where everyone already knows everyone. it feels safe, like… like no one’s watching. just happy people, no noise.”

you stop walking.

“no cameras?”

she shakes her head with a small smile. “none. my dad doesn’t like them. he says they ruin intimacy.”

you let the words settle. no cameras. no recordings. no proof. no eyes. just soft walls and trust.

hana sees none of the weight behind your silence. she keeps smiling, sipping from her glass.

“besides,” she adds, “what’s there to see? it’s a wedding. everyone’s happy.”

you look at her then, really look — at the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle eyes, the way she sees this world as clean, unshaken. she thinks love built this. but it was ambition. strategy. you know the taste of it because you once wanted the same things — and maybe, deep down, you still do.

“you must trust him a lot,” you say quietly.

“i do,” she replies without hesitation. “he’s everything i ever wanted. he saved me from this cold, business world. my father wanted me to marry a man with power — i found one with heart.”

you almost choke.

but instead, you laugh, soft and low. not mocking. almost affectionate.

“then i hope you’re right,” you whisper. “and i hope he never gives you a reason to doubt that.”

hana looks up at you, touched. “you’re so sweet. i’m glad you’re here.”

you lean in, kiss her cheek, and breathe her in — that perfume, light and harmless. the kind of scent you could forget.

but you won’t.

because now you know the hallways. the exits. the blind spots. and now, hana trusts you.

and beomgyu?

he knows you’re close.

you can already feel the tension pulling tighter — like piano wire strung between three necks. someone will bleed.

you’re just deciding who goes first.

ACT FOUR: THE SERPENT IN RED

you find him just past the marble corridor, outside, where the laughter and clinking glasses can’t follow.

he’s standing by the edge of the balcony, fists clenched, jaw tight, like he’s holding the world together by sheer force of will. the night air swirls around him, but he’s too tense to feel it. beomgyu looks like a man cornered by ghosts — one in particular.

his eyes snap to you the moment he senses your presence.

and you see it.

not just surprise. not just discomfort.

fear. hatred. panic. all bleeding together in those pretty eyes.

he looks like he might be sick.

you step into the moonlight, slow and deliberate, the crimson fabric of your dress catching the light like liquid sin. the color hugs you — dark, seductive, unapologetic. and he sees it. god, he sees it.

his expression twists instantly.

“what the fuck are you wearing?” he spits.

you tilt your head, smiling sweetly. “a dress.”

his gaze sharpens, voice lowered. “that’s not a dress for a wedding.”

you glance down at yourself, brushing invisible dust from your hip, tone soft and cruel. “why not? i think it suits the occasion.”

“it’s red,” he growls. “blood red.”

you hum. “hm. so it is.”

he takes a step forward. “take it off.”

you laugh. sharp. amused. “aw, gyu. if you wanted to see me out of it, all you had to do was ask.”

he flinches at the nickname. his hands curl at his sides.

“this isn’t a fucking game,” he hisses. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“oh, but i was invited,” you remind him, voice dipped in honey. “your lovely bride said she wanted to surprise you.”

his nostrils flare. “she doesn’t know what you are.”

you lean in, just enough for him to smell your perfume — dark florals, velvet musk, danger. “no,” you whisper. “but you do.”

he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes drag over you — slow, reluctant, like he hates what he sees but can’t stop seeing it. there's something sour behind his gaze, something like... regret? no. it's older than that. something between rage and fascination.

“i didn’t think you’d get out so soon,” he says eventually. “they said five years minimum. good behavior, huh?”

you tilt your head. “what can i say? prison taught me discipline.”

his jaw tightens. his fingers curl slightly around the glass.

beomgyu stiffens. his eyes dart toward the ballroom doors and back to you, like he’s counting the seconds before someone else joins, or worse, sees you both like this.

you take another step, your heels echoing softly against the marble. he doesn’t move.

“what’s the matter?” you ask, gaze locked on his. “nervous?”

his mouth twists, but his jaw— god, it clenches so hard you can almost hear it pop.

you glance down at his hands, tense and trembling slightly. “you always did get shaky when things got out of your control.”

“don’t push me,” he warns, low and shaking.

you ignore the threat. “it’s funny,” you murmur. “you wear the same expression you did in the O.R. that day. remember that? the moment everything went wrong and you had to choose— your future or mine.”

he breathes in sharply.

you smile wider. “you chose well. now you’re marrying a woman with power. hospitals. status. all the things you’ve always wanted but could never earn. and she’s just so sweet too. so trusting. so willing to give you everything.”

beomgyu doesn’t speak. his silence is louder than shouting.

“tell me, gyu…” you lean closer, lips almost brushing his ear. “do you plan to kill her like you did the patient? once you get your name on the deed?”

his breath catches, sharp and violent. and for a terrifying second, you think he might hit you.

he lunges forward — fast, teeth gritted, eyes wild with fury. his hand lifts slightly, but it stops halfway. frozen.

his face is inches from yours now.

his breath hot, furious, desperate.

your lips curve, soft and mocking. “god, i missed this,” you whisper, letting the tip of your finger trace the lapel of his suit. “your warmth. your anger. the way your body shakes when i get under your skin.”

he snarls quietly. “you’re insane.”

“maybe.” your eyes shine, unblinking. “but at least i’m not a coward.”

you let the silence stretch, the air between you charged like a live wire. you feel the storm in him, the battle behind his eyes. part of him wants to end this — grab you, break you, erase you. but another part… the part you remember… wants to taste this. wants to feel something. anything.

you lean in, your breath ghosting across his mouth, and say it, clear and cold:

“you don’t love her. you love what she has. and you want to take it all.”

his shoulders tighten. his lips part, but no sound comes out.

“that’s why you hate me,” you continue. “because i see you. the real you. and you know exactly what i came here to do.”

his hand jerks slightly — like he might finally snap — but just as fast, he freezes. a voice laughs nearby. footsteps. guests.

he blinks, breath shaky. control returns like a choke chain.

he steps back, eyes burning, chest heaving. “get out of my fucking wedding.”

you smile, slow and venomous. “make me.”

and then you turn your back to him, deliberately, daringly, walking back into the warmth of the celebration with his fury at your heels. the red of your dress flares like a warning — or a promise.

and beomgyu stays frozen behind you.

because he knows:

you’re not done.

and this game is just beginning.

the moment you turn your back to him, you know it’s not over. not by a long shot. the air between you both is thick, taut with something unsaid, something alive, crawling under your skin. you can feel his eyes on you, burning a hole in your back. his breath shallow, labored, like every inhale is a war he’s losing.

you hear his footsteps behind you — slower, cautious, but still there. he’s following you.

you smile to yourself, letting the sound of his pursuit draw you closer to the door. it’s all so predictable, all so easy. the rage, the fear, the denial — it’s exactly what you knew would happen. beomgyu doesn’t want to admit it. doesn’t want to admit how much he needs to be near you. not after everything. but his body betrays him.

just before you turned to walk away, something caught your eye — a flash of silver in beomgyu’s hand. you watched, silent, as he pulled a small key from his pocket and slipped it into the door of a room tucked away behind one of the elegant hallways. he glanced over his shoulder, cautious, before pushing it open and stepping inside. you didn’t follow immediately, but your mind registered it. a key. not just any room — a private one. the kind you’d return to later, when the world wasn’t watching.

you don’t look back. not yet.

inside, the room is empty except for the small details of a wedding — bouquets, mirrors, chairs — but it feels like the eye of the storm, calm before the inevitable. you step inside, your heel clicking against the cold floor, and you feel him follow.

his presence is heavy, but you make no move to acknowledge it. not yet.

you stand in the middle of the room, your back to him, and let the silence stretch for just long enough to make it unbearable.

and then, as if on cue, you hear the door close softly behind you.

his voice comes low and strained. “you’re pushing your luck.”

you don’t answer at first. instead, you let your hand graze over the table, the reflection of your own eyes in the mirror catching you off guard for a moment. his presence is so close now. you can feel the heat of his body like a shadow. you’ve always known how to make him lose control. and tonight, it's too easy.

finally, you turn to him, a slow, deliberate motion, your eyes catching his in the reflection. you don’t need to see his face to know what’s there. it’s all in the tension of his jaw, the way he stands — tense, but drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

“you know,” you say softly, your voice slipping into that dark, alluring tone, “there’s something about being close to you again.”

his fists clench. his voice trembles, barely contained. “shut up.”

you step closer, just enough to make him shift, but not enough to let him break that thin thread of restraint. “why? don’t you like it, gyu?” you whisper, barely audible. “don’t you miss the way we used to be?”

he takes a deep breath, his lips trembling with a fight he’s losing. “i told you… get the fuck out.”

but his body betrays him. you see it in the way his eyes flicker down to your lips. the way his breath hitches when you take that last step toward him, close enough for your chest to brush against his. his eyes lock with yours in a mix of fury and something darker.

you smile, sweet and dangerous. “you can’t walk away from me. not now. not after everything.”

he presses his lips together, his entire body tensing, as if he’s holding back something primal. then, his hand grabs your wrist — not rough, but tight, possessive. like a warning. and yet…

he doesn’t pull you away.

you let him hold you there, the tension so thick between you that it feels suffocating. and then, you tilt your head up slowly, just enough for your lips to brush his ear as you whisper:

“you hate me, don’t you?”

he doesn’t respond, but you can feel it. his pulse against your wrist, the rapid beating of his heart, the heat radiating off his skin.

“you hate that I’m still here, still alive,” you continue, your voice a soft, slow poison. “you hate that I’m in your fucking head.”

he squeezes your wrist harder, like he wants to crush the words, crush the thoughts swirling in his mind. “get away from me.”

you smirk, finally stepping away just enough to look at him directly. “but you still want me, don’t you? that’s why you’re standing here. still watching me. pretending you’re not imagining everything we could’ve done.”

his breath hitches.

you let the space between you grow — just enough for him to feel the distance. but you can see the truth in his eyes now. he’s unraveling. he’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t need this, but his body gives him away.

he takes a step toward you, closing the space, and for a moment, you wonder if this is the moment he’ll finally break. but instead, he lowers his voice to a dangerous growl:

“you really think you can get away with this?”

you step forward, your body nearly touching his, and you whisper it low, with enough heat to make the words burn:

“i’m going to take everything from you. everything you care about. and you won’t stop me.”

and just as you say it, he crashes into you — not with force, but with a desperate, controlled need. his lips meet yours in a kiss that isn’t gentle. it’s angry. it’s hungry. it’s raw.

you kiss him back, letting him take the lead for a moment, tasting the rage, the longing, the betrayal. it’s not love. it’s not passion. it’s something else. something darker.

he pulls away just as quickly as he came, breath shallow. his pupils are blown, wild with something that might have been a confession.

but neither of you says a word.

you stand there, close enough to feel the heat of him, and you know this game is far from over.

he won’t walk away. not yet. not when the fire’s already lit.

his lips crush against yours again — this time harder, more brutal, like he’s trying to punish you with his mouth, trying to erase everything you’ve said, everything you’ve ever done. his hands dig into your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the sharp line of his control snap between your teeth.

you moan into his mouth, a dark, breathy sound that makes his grip tighten.

he hates this. he hates that he’s kissing you. hates that he wants it so fucking bad. but his tongue parts your lips like a man starved, tasting every inch of what he’s craved in silence for years.

you drag your nails down his back, slow and deliberate, and feel him shudder.

“you’re disgusting,” he mutters against your lips, voice hoarse, trembling. “so are you,” you breathe back, licking into his mouth like sin itself. “but at least i admit it.”

his hands are on your thighs now, hiking up your dress — and you let him. you don’t stop him when he pushes you back against the vanity, knocking over flowers and makeup, wedding details crashing to the floor like a funeral bell.

his lips move down your jaw, your throat, biting a path like he’s branding you. “you shouldn’t be here,” he growls into your skin. “then stop me,” you whisper, breathless, eyes daring. “go on. push me away.”

he doesn’t.

he pushes your dress up further, bunching the fabric at your hips, exposing the soft skin of your thighs. his fingers tremble as they move to your panties, his breath hot against your neck.

“fuck,” he hisses when he finds you already wet. “you’re so—”

“say it,” you pant, threading your fingers into his hair and yanking. “say it.”

he bites your shoulder. hard. a bruise blooms there instantly.

“wet for me,” he spits. “still. after everything.”

you laugh, low and wicked. “maybe i never stopped.”

he yanks your panties aside and sinks two fingers inside you without warning, and you arch into him, crying out — not from pain, but from the sudden, obscene stretch of it. your body clenches around him like it remembers him, like it always belonged to him even when he didn’t deserve it.

his other hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eye. “tell me you don’t want this.”

you smile with your lips parted, a mess of heat and venom. “i want everything you’ll regret.”

he curses, low and filthy, before replacing his fingers with his cock — thick, hot, angry — slamming into you in one brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. your back hits the mirror, and it rattles with the force of him.

“fuck—” you gasp, holding onto the edge of the vanity for balance.

“so fucking tight,” he growls against your ear, thrusting hard, fast, punishing. “you came here for revenge, huh? to ruin me?”

“i am ruining you,” you moan, legs wrapping around his waist, digging your heels into his back. “you’re already fucking mine.”

he slams into you again, harder — like he wants to shut you up. but it only makes you scream louder.

each thrust is rougher than the last. your bodies slap together, heat and sweat and fury. this isn’t love. this isn’t tenderness. this is war. this is two people trying to burn the other alive and moaning into the fire.

he grips your hips and fucks into you with something close to desperation, as if he’s trying to forget, to rewrite history with every thrust. but you won’t let him. you claw at his skin, mark him, own him.

“gonna come,” he pants against your throat.

you squeeze around him, smile laced with malice and lust. “then do it. come inside me. like a good little liar.”

he bites your lip, snarling — and with one final thrust, he breaks, spilling into you with a guttural moan that echoes off the walls. you hold him there, feeling him twitch inside you, feeling him fall apart in your hands.

you come moments later, shaking around him, gasping his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

he doesn’t move right away.

just stays there, inside you, breathing hard, forehead pressed against yours.

and for a second, the room is quiet again.

but then you speak, voice low, dangerous.

“you’ll regret this.”

he opens his eyes. they’re glassy. red-rimmed. terrified.

“i already do,” he whispers.

ACT FIVE: THE MURDER

you stumble out of the room, legs trembling, lips still tingling with the taste of him — hatred, lust, regret. all tangled in one bite. behind you, beomgyu breathes hard, still trying to compose himself, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see him pull that same silver key from his pocket and quietly lock the door behind him. neat. clean. calculated. he doesn't want anyone discovering what just happened between you two.

perfect, you think. even better.

but this story isn’t done — not yet. you’ve got the tension. the sweat. the kiss of his guilt on your tongue.

now you need blood.

the reception is loud again. music swells, laughter floats, and the soft sound of champagne flutes clinking fills the air like wedding bells. but none of it touches you. not as you wander past the kitchen doorway, not as you see that towering wedding cake in the distance — pristine, elegant, the kind of perfection they probably spent hours agonizing over.

and there, beside it.

a knife. long. sharp. glinting with the reflection of white icing and overhead chandeliers. you stare at it. still. calculating. nobody notices you. not the chef, not the staff — you're just another woman in a blood-red dress at a wedding.

you smile sweetly, take the knife, and in a single smooth motion, slide it up under your gown and tuck it beneath the band of your garter.

your thighs press together. it holds.

you breathe.

and walk back into the storm.

hana spots you before you even reach her. she waves, face glowing with delight, but that joy falters when she sees your expression. a calculated melancholy lingers on your features — just enough to look real, just enough to pull at her concern.

“y/n?” she says, approaching quickly, her hands gentle as they cup your forearm. “what’s wrong? did something happen?”

you let your lips tremble. just slightly. “i don’t think… beomgyu was happy to see me.”

her eyes widen, immediately protective. “no! no, no, don’t say that. he’s just… surprised. you two were so close in uni, weren’t you? he’s probably overwhelmed. you know how emotional he gets.”

you almost laugh. emotional. sure.

“i don’t know,” you whisper, looking down, twisting the ring on your finger — a fake one you wore to sell the illusion. “maybe i shouldn’t have come. i feel like i’m intruding. like… like i brought something bad with me.”

hana squeezes your hand, eyes soft with worry. “don’t be silly. i’m so happy you came. really. and i know he is too — he just doesn't show it well.”

you sniff dramatically. “do you think we could talk somewhere more private?”

she hesitates, then nods with a smile. “of course. there’s a room upstairs — where beomgyu and i get ready. it’s just ours.” she reaches into her clutch, pulling out a familiar glint of silver. the same key. “we’re the only ones with access.”

your heart skips.

jackpot.

“come,” she says sweetly, linking arms with you. “you’ll feel better after some quiet.”

you let her lead.

the room is silent. untouched. dimly lit by golden sconces. a soft scent of rosewater lingers in the air. and once the door clicks shut behind you, hana turns to you again, ready to offer another excuse on beomgyu’s behalf.

“i’m really sorry if he came off cold,” she says. “he’s been so stressed with the planning, and—”

“or maybe,” you interrupt, stepping closer, letting your voice thicken with suggestion, “he’s upset about something from the past.”

she pauses, confused. “what do you mean?”

you sit on the armrest of the lounge chair, looking at her with mock softness. “we haven’t seen each other since university, hana. back then, i was quiet. focused on med school. no friends, no distractions. just books and labs.”

she nods, leaning in, intrigued.

“and then he found me,” you continue, voice dreamy now, almost nostalgic. “he was charming. open. wild. he showed me that life wasn’t just about excellence. that it could be messy… chaotic. thrilling. he wasn't the best student, but he had this… charisma. everyone loved him.”

hana smiles. “that sounds like him.”

“he’d invite me to join him on hospital rounds,” you add, “especially when staff was low. we’d cover shifts together. just the two of us. late nights. adrenaline. it was like a bond. a secret, you know?”

she nods slowly.

“did you two ever…?” she asks cautiously.

you shake your head. “not like that. but we were close. inseparable. until something happened. something he doesn’t want you to know.”

“what happened?” hana whispers, eyes wide with unease, hands clutching her dress like it could protect her from what’s coming.

you step closer.

not threateningly.

no — softly. gently. like a friend about to tell a secret.

“beomgyu and i,” you begin, voice low, “were more than just classmates. we were inseparable back then — best friends, maybe the only ones we had. we were in the same program, same surgical rotations. but he… he wasn’t always careful. not like me.”

hana blinks, nervous now. but listening.

“it was a simple procedure. nothing risky. barely a challenge,” you continue, your eyes flicking to the soft gleam of the knife beneath your gown, still hidden. “but he messed up. badly. i warned him to slow down, double-check the vitals. but he thought he could handle it.”

you pause. the room is dead silent except for your voice.

“he cut too deep. ruptured something. blood started pouring out, and he panicked. dropped his instruments. froze. he looked at me like a scared child — ‘help me,’ he begged. and i did. of course i did.”

you smile, bitterly. hana doesn't speak.

“i tried to stop the bleeding. i gave everything. my hands, my mind, my training. but it was too late. by the time the others came, the patient was gone. and i was drenched in red. completely soaked.”

you can still feel it — the warmth of it. the shock. the chaos.

“his mother came in. screaming. crying. she saw me first — covered in her son’s blood. beomgyu said nothing. then, like a coward, he pointed at me and said i made the mistake. that i’d panicked. that i killed him.”

hana steps back slightly, a hand over her mouth. “no…”

“the staff believed him. he had no blood on him, just a mask of grief. and i was… in shock. couldn’t even defend myself. they expelled me from the program, and then the charges came. criminal negligence. i spent years in prison, hana. years.”

you tilt your head, gaze sharpening.

“do you know what that does to someone? being caged for something you didn’t do? he ended my future. my life. all to protect his own reputation.”

hana opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

you smile.

“and today, he’ll pay for it.”

and that’s when you move.

one second you’re smiling — the next, the knife is in your hand, slicing the air.

a gasp.

a soft sound, wet and gurgling. blood blooms across her throat like a twisted rose. her hands fly up, but it’s useless. her body crumbles to the carpet, her eyes wide and unblinking.

you kneel beside her, breathing steady.

“it was never about love,” you whisper in her ear. “he only loved what you could give him. and now it’s mine.”

ACT SIX: THE EVIDENCE

the room still reeked of perfume, lilies, and now — blood. thick and metallic, it hung in the air like a cruel fog. her body lay awkwardly against the plush carpet, blood seeping in slow, lazy tendrils from the wound in her neck. hana’s expression was stuck somewhere between shock and confusion, as if her soul hadn’t quite caught up with her body in death. her hands were slightly raised, instinctively defensive, but there was no one left to plead with. not anymore. not after what had been set in motion years ago.

you stood over her in silence for a moment, letting the weight of it settle into your bones — not guilt, but satisfaction. cold and heavy and deliberate. this wasn’t chaos. it was choreography.

with clinical precision, you leaned down, your gloves still in place, your breathing steady. slipping your hand into the folds of her bridal gown, you found the small silver key she’d shown you earlier — the one she had said only she and beomgyu shared. perfect. you took it and tucked it away into your own bodice, but not before retrieving the knife, still warm, still wet, and carefully returning it to its hiding place beneath your garter. the steel met your skin briefly before disappearing back into the safety of lace and silk.

you weren’t finished.

you moved quickly now, not rushed, just efficient. hana’s lifeless form was heavier than you expected, but you managed to drag her toward the grand antique wardrobe tucked into the corner of the room. with effort, you arranged her inside, folding her gently as if she were porcelain. her arms fell to her sides like forgotten ribbon. from your bag, you pulled out a slim, black silk tie — beomgyu’s. you tied it around the wardrobe handles, tight and exact, the knot crisp. when someone found her, they’d see that tie and wonder. they’d question.

still wearing your gloves, you crouched again, inspecting the floor. blood had begun to dry at the edges, but it wasn’t too late. from your oversized purse, you pulled a small cloth and a diluted cleanser. you wiped every trace, every drop, every footprint. when the floor gleamed again — soulless and clean — you exhaled, but not in relief. this wasn’t over.

you walked to the mirror, peeled the gloves off with a slow, meticulous grace, and washed your hands in the basin nearby. the water ran pink, then clear. you changed next — stripping out of your blood-smeared gown and slipping into an identical one, pristine and untouched, as if nothing had happened at all. the contrast was jarring, beautiful even. you folded the ruined dress neatly and stuffed it back into the depths of your bag.

your escape wasn’t through the door. instead, you approached the tall window, unlatched it quietly, and climbed out with the elegance of someone rehearsed. the soft thud of your shoes on the grass below didn’t draw a single eye — the courtyard was mercifully empty.

and then, fate handed you one final gift: the dog.

a large, well-fed retriever — probably belonging to the venue’s owner — padded across the lawn near the back entrance. its tail wagged, oblivious. with a quick gesture, you undid its leash and nudged it gently in the direction of the banquet hall. you didn’t need to say anything. the second it caught scent of sugar and buttercream, it bolted.

from a distance, you watched the chaos unfold.

the animal barreled into the hall, diving toward the extravagant white wedding cake at the center. shrieks rang out from the staff, followed by gasps from the guests as the massive dog leapt, knocking plates and champagne flutes in every direction. the distraction was beautiful. orchestrated. all eyes turned, all bodies rushed forward.

you slipped back inside, unnoticed, and made your way to the small parlor by the fireplace. the chimenea crackled with welcoming heat. pulling the blood-soaked dress from your bag, you tossed it into the flames and watched as it curled and blackened, then disappeared. no ash, no trace. nothing left but a faint scent of smoke and finality.

when you stepped out again, you were just another guest, a woman in red, blending back into the celebration.

a ghost with blood on her hands and no soul left to haunt.

ACT SEVEN: THE ALIBI

you adjusted your dress — perfect, pristine, untouched — and found yourself drifting through the hum of music and small talk that buzzed under the glittering chandeliers. the ballroom seemed to pulse with distraction. no one had noticed the weight that had disappeared from the upstairs room. not yet.

your eyes landed on him — the father of the bride. chairman yoon. tall, composed, his tailored suit stretching across a chest built by pride and decades of success. the man was practically royalty in the medical world, owner of several hospitals across seoul. you approached him with the softness of silk and the poise of someone who belonged.

"mr. yoon," you began with a smile as polished as glass, "your daughter... she looked beautiful today. truly radiant."

his chest puffed with the pride of a man who had provided everything for his only child. he nodded solemnly, his glass of champagne catching the light as he raised it slightly in a silent toast to his own bloodline.

"and beomgyu," you continued, your voice low, reverent, like a hymn. "he's... incredible. passionate. dedicated. you know, not every man would love so deeply, so completely. he’d go to the ends of the earth for hana."

his eyes twitched with something unreadable, maybe curiosity, maybe relief. you pressed on.

"i think you'd be proud to know she chose a man who sees her as more than just a wife — he sees her as his purpose. his reason. i’ve known beomgyu for years, and... he’s always been like that. full of heart. always willing to sacrifice himself for someone he loves. it’s rare to find someone that good anymore. especially in our field."

you watched the old man’s face soften, a flicker of sentiment warming his otherwise calculating expression. you kept it going, slowly painting beomgyu as the martyr, the hopeless romantic, the picture of the devoted son-in-law. no one would ever suspect a thing if the story was sculpted just right — and your hands were already elbow-deep in the clay.

but then... your ears twitched.

a burst of laughter from across the room caught your attention — the kind of giggle that tried too hard to be subtle. you turned your head and caught sight of hana’s bridesmaids, huddled close together like schoolgirls sharing a forbidden secret. their eyes sparkled with the thrill of gossip. you drifted closer, steps measured, heartbeat steady. their voices dropped a little when they saw you, but it was too late — you had already heard the name.

"soobin."

one of them whispered it again, as if afraid the very word might catch fire. and then, another voice, hushed and breathless.

"they kissed. i swear to god, they kissed."

"at the bachelorette party?" a gasp.

"yes. she said it was just the heat of the moment — he was her crush back in college, remember? and after all these years… it just happened. god, she said she forgot what it felt like to be wanted like that."

your stomach didn’t turn. it twisted with dark joy.

this was it. this was gold. betrayal, lust, opportunity. everything you needed to sow the perfect storm.

you didn’t waste a second. turning smoothly, you made your way to a small group near the bar — men in sleek suits, clustered together like a pack of wolves dressed in cologne and wine. they must’ve been beomgyu’s university friends, the ones he met after he burned your life to ashes. they wouldn’t know you. they wouldn’t question your role.

you approached with the gentle confidence of someone who had every right to be there. "hi," you smiled, polite and slightly sad. "i’m... one of beomgyu’s closest friends. from before med school, actually."

they turned toward you, nodding with vague recognition. one of them offered you his hand. "nice to meet you. i’m hyun. beomgyu never really talked about his old friends. but i guess he’s pretty private about that stuff."

"yeah," you said, letting just the right note of sorrow seep into your voice. "he’s... been through a lot."

they leaned in instinctively.

"i just…" you hesitated, casting your eyes downward. "i needed to say something, and i don’t know who else would understand. he’s a good guy. a really good guy. he doesn’t deserve what hana did."

their brows furrowed instantly, curiosity piqued. "what do you mean?"

you glanced around the room before leaning closer, lowering your voice. "look... i shouldn’t be saying this. but during her bachelorette party... hana kissed someone. someone she used to have a crush on in university. i think it was... soobin? and, well... maybe it didn’t stop there. maybe it went further."

they exchanged glances, jaws tightening.

"you’re sure?"

you nodded, slowly. "i didn’t want to believe it either. but hana told one of the girls herself. she was drunk. said it just... happened. like the past came rushing back and she forgot about everything else."

they muttered under their breath, disbelief and disgust curling their lips. one of them scoffed. "i knew it. she always looked too perfect. like the kind of girl who smiles sweet but keeps knives in her purse."

another one chuckled bitterly. "and beomgyu? that poor bastard... he’s really into her. like, really. he doesn’t deserve that."

"no," you agreed. "he doesn’t."

they looked at you again, this time with a different kind of respect. not suspicion, not doubt. alignment.

"thanks for telling us," hyun said after a pause. "we won’t... say anything yet. but someone should. eventually."

you nodded once more, then turned away, letting the weight of your words hang in the air behind you like smoke.

the story was unfolding exactly as it needed to — not as it was, but as you designed it. slowly, subtly, beomgyu’s world would collapse in on itself. and when the flames reached his feet, the only thing left for him to do would be burn.

ACT EIGHT: THE CONFRONTATION

you feel his eyes on you long before he reaches you. they trail your every move across the ballroom—how you tilt your head as you speak to hana's father, how you laugh gently with his old classmates, how your hands rest politely against your wine glass, calm and clean and deceptively innocent. it must be driving him insane.

and it is. because when he finally storms across the golden-lit room and grabs you by the wrist, there's no hesitation, no softness, no mask left. the smile you wear is poison-laced sugar, the kind that rots the soul.

“come with me. now,” he says through clenched teeth.

you don’t resist. instead, you raise an eyebrow, deliberately taking your time to place your glass down on a table. “so demanding. is that how you treat your guests on your wedding day?”

he doesn’t answer. just pulls you along the corridor, back through the twisting hallways, until you reach that room again—the one where secrets are born and buried. he unlocks it with the silver key, the same one you saw earlier, the same one his fiancée had.

he slams the door behind you, breath ragged. “stop playing games.”

you lean against the edge of the makeup table, unbothered. “who says i’m playing?”

“cut the act.” his voice cracks, sharp and low. “what the hell do you want from me?”

you walk slowly toward him, arms draping lazily over his shoulders, fingers trailing up the back of his neck like a ghost he thought he buried. “you,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “i want you.”

his jaw tightens, but his hands tremble. “don’t do this.”

“why not?” your breath brushes against his ear. “because you’re scared you’ll fall again? or because you already have?”

he grabs your wrists and pulls them down. “this isn’t real. it’s never been real with you. you twist everything—”

“and yet, here you are,” you cut him off, stepping even closer. “following me, dragging me into dark rooms, asking me what i want. what does that say about you, beomgyu?”

his silence is deafening.

you smile, slow and venomous. “you don’t love her,” you say, voice flat now, cutting. “you love what she gives you. her father’s empire. the title. the access. you’re marrying a name, not a person.”

his lips part to argue, but no words come out.

“you betrayed me to save your future,” you continue, no longer seducing—now dismantling him piece by piece. “and now that i’ve returned to claim what’s mine, you think you can just tell me to stop?”

“what did you do?” his voice is hoarse, shaken, almost afraid.

you tilt your head. “you’ll find out soon enough.”

he lunges forward then, fists clenching like he might strike, but stops inches from your face. you don’t flinch. you want him to hit you. you want the mask to fall completely. instead, he breathes harshly, veins pulsing in his neck.

“you ruined everything.”

“no,” you correct, brushing invisible lint off his suit jacket. “i balanced everything. this was never your story alone, beomgyu. i was just patient enough to wait for the climax.”

from outside, you hear laughter, music, the clink of glasses. a celebration built on lies, already cracking.

he looks at you like you're the devil, but deep down—he knows he invited you in the moment he sacrificed you for his own survival.

and now the devil wants her due.

beomgyu’s gaze pierces through you as he stands just a few steps away. his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, and his hands, clenched at his sides, tremble ever so slightly. it’s not fear—no, you recognize it now. it’s guilt, swirling just beneath the surface of his icy demeanor.

he knows you’re hiding something. his eyes narrow, his brow furrows in frustration as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

“i can see it,” he says, his voice laced with suspicion, “you’re hiding something. you always have been. i won’t let you get away with it.”

you don’t flinch. instead, you lower your head, letting your hair fall over your face as you allow yourself a small, bitter smile. “what more could you possibly do to me, beomgyu?” you ask, feigning a hurt tone that feels foreign on your tongue, but you know it works. “you already took everything from me. my career, my future. what’s left? what could you possibly take from me now?”

he takes a hesitant step back, his eyes flickering with something dangerous. “you still think i’m the villain, don’t you?”

your voice drops to a whisper, but it’s cutting, slicing through the silence with a sharp edge. “you were always the villain. from the moment you betrayed me, you sealed your fate. do you feel guilty now? do you finally understand what you did? how many lives you’ve ruined because of your mistakes?”

beomgyu’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as if to hold back a storm. “i’ve improved,” he snaps, the words spilling out quickly, defensively. “i’ve gotten better. i don’t make those mistakes anymore. i’ve worked harder than anyone to—”

“you’ve lied,” you interrupt, your tone icy. “how many patients have died because of your negligence? how many diagnoses have you gotten wrong? you can lie to yourself, beomgyu, but not to me. i remember. i remember everything.”

he freezes. the air between you thickens, heavy with the weight of your words. you can see the storm brewing behind his eyes—the frustration, the fear, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. but there's something else, too. something far darker.

“i’ve changed,” he repeats, his voice low, as though he’s trying to convince himself. “i’m not that person anymore.”

“you’ll never change,” you whisper, your gaze hardening. “i’d never make the mistakes you did. i’d never let anyone die. but you? You don’t even care. you never did.”

the tension builds between you, thick as smoke. his hands are clenched into fists, and for a moment, you think he might lash out. but then, his voice cracks, desperation lining his words. “you need to leave. now. i never want to see you again.”

ACT NINE: THE REVEAL

you feel your lips curl into a smile. the air between you feels too tense to breathe in, yet you move closer, not backing down. you raise your dress slightly, just enough to reveal the glint of bloodied steel tucked into the garter on your thigh. the knife, still slick with the evidence of your actions.

beomgyu freezes, his eyes going wide, his face draining of color. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. his voice trembles when he finally whispers, barely audible, “tell me... you didn’t—”

“didn’t what?” you ask, leaning closer, almost savoring the fear in his eyes. “you think i’d let you get away with it all? after everything you put me through?”

his breath is shallow, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. “tell me it’s not true... p-please.”

you step closer, your fingers brushing over the hilt of the knife, feeling the cool metal under your fingertips. “it’s true, beomgyu. it’s all true. but don’t worry,” you continue, leaning in so close your lips almost touch his ear. “i won’t blame you for what happened. after all, you did it. you killed her. you killed hana. and i just helped you clean up your mess.”

he stumbles back, his face ashen, eyes wide, pupils dilated. his voice cracks as he whispers the words he’s most terrified to admit, “you... you really did it, didn’t you?”

you smile, slow and deliberate, feeling a twisted satisfaction at the horror in his eyes.

“you?” he whispers again, barely able to breathe. “you killed her?”

you laugh softly, your voice a low, dangerous hum. “me? oh, beomgyu, it wasn’t me who did all of this. it was you. you just never saw it coming.”

you take a step closer, until you’re so near that his breath mingles with yours, but this time, there’s no more mask. there’s no more façade. just the reality of what’s happened and what’s to come.

with a wicked smile, you press your lips against his ear and whisper, “i didn’t kill her, beomgyu. you did.”

his face goes pale as he finally realizes the magnitude of what you’ve done. the game is over. there’s no escaping it now.

beomgyu’s denial hangs heavy in the air. “no,” he mutters, almost like a prayer. “no, i don’t believe you.” his voice shakes, but there’s something desperate behind his words, like he’s begging the world to disprove you, to make this some elaborate lie.

without breaking eye contact, you reach for his hand. he resists at first, stiff with unease, but you’re insistent. delicate fingers wrap around his wrist, and you guide his palm down your thigh, brushing past the smooth fabric of your dress until it finds the cold steel nestled against your skin.

his breath hitches the moment his fingertips graze the knife.

you press his hand harder against it, watching his face contort. “there,” you whisper in a voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “do you feel it, beomgyu? that’s her blood. your bride’s blood. your future. your lie.”

his eyes widen in disbelief, but that disbelief quickly twists into something far darker. the veins in his neck bulge with tension, his jaw clenched so tightly you hear the grind of his teeth. he jerks his hand away as if the touch burned him, but it’s already too late.

something inside him snaps.

with a choked roar, beomgyu lunges at you, fingers reaching—not for your throat, but for the knife. his face is a mask of rage, the lines once softened by charm now carved into something feral and unrecognizable.

beomgyu rips his hand away like it’s been scorched. his eyes go wide—then dark. the denial in them crumbles into something monstrous. fury consumes his features like a wildfire, burning away any remnants of the composed, gentle man he pretended to be.

“you bitch—!” he snarls, eyes wild. “you fucking psycho! i'll fucking kill you!” he growls through clenched teeth, and in a blink he’s on you, grabbing your arm and yanking the knife free from your leg.

the cold kiss of steel flashes in the dim light as he raises it.

but you’ve anticipated this moment. always one step ahead.

before the blade can meet its mark, or can close around your throat, your arm lashes out. you grab the black tie wrapped around the closet’s ornate handle—the very one he wore earlier that day—and yank it with all your strength.

the closet door bursts open.

and with a sickening thud, hana’s lifeless body tumbles forward, crashing into beomgyu’s chest like a broken doll. her dress is still pristine white, but soaked crimson around the neck, where the fatal wound rests like a grotesque necklace. her head lolls unnaturally as she falls directly onto beomgyu, knocking him back several steps.

his arms instinctively catch her, and for a split second, the world stops.

the blood.

the weight.

the coldness of her skin.

he staggers, knees nearly buckling, and the knife—your knife—slips from your leg and clatters to the floor between them, the blade nearly piercing hana’s side as she collapses fully into his trembling arms.

beomgyu doesn't scream. he can't.

the silence in the room is louder than anything. his breathing turns erratic, like a trapped animal finally realizing it's been lured into the cage. his trembling fingers touch the blood on hana's chest. his own hands, now red.

the walls are closing in. fast.

and all you do… is smile.

a slow, merciless smile as you step back into the shadows of the room. because now the stage is perfectly set.

and he is holding the murder weapon.

ACT TEN: THE MAN THEY'LL BLAME

for a moment, beomgyu doesn’t move.

he just stares—stares at the body cradled in his arms like it might still blink, might still breathe, might still whisper his name and laugh at this cruel joke. but there’s no laughter now. only the warmth of her blood soaking into his sleeves, her dress, the scent of iron clinging to every inhale. his face collapses into a grotesque mask of shock and pain.

“no,” he breathes out. “no, no, no—”

then the scream rips out of him, raw and gut-wrenching, a sound that doesn’t even sound human. he screams until his throat burns, until his lungs rattle, until the air around him trembles from the sheer force of it. the knife—your knife—still rests in his hand, stained and gleaming. his knuckles are white from how tightly he grips it.

that’s when the footsteps thunder outside.

the door bursts open.

gasps. screams. chaos.

guests flood the entrance like a wave—confused, horrified, stunned. among them, mr. yoon, hana’s father, stares into the room, frozen at the threshold. his eyes fall on his daughter first. slumped overcovered in blood. then on beomgyu—drenched in it, knife in hand, eyes wild and red.

and then… you.

you’re on the floor, trembling, hair disheveled, dress rumpled as if you’d struggled. tears streak your cheeks—perfect, practiced tears. you crawl backward, as if trying to get away from the man who supposedly tried to hurt you.

“mr. yoon—!” you cry out, voice cracking beautifully. “h-he killed her! i—i saw him! he found out about the affair, and—and when i tried to stop him, h-he tried to force himself on me!”

gasps erupt behind you. someone cries. another person retches.

beomgyu looks up, eyes darting from face to face, from you to the crowd. “she’s lying!” he shouts, hoarse, frantic. “she did this! it wasn’t me—!”

but mr. yoon’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and trembling with rage. “get away from my daughter!” he roars, his eyes blazing with grief. “you monster! YOU STAY AWAY FROM HER!”

“no—please—listen to me, she—!” beomgyu tries to speak, but no one hears him. no one wants to.

they only see blood.

they only see a man with a knife and a woman sobbing on the floor.

phones are already out. someone is screaming for the police. others are backing away in terror. and the walls begin to close in on beomgyu.

he staggers to his feet, unsteady and splattered in red. the knife falls from his hand, clattering to the floor in a sharp ring of metal. he looks down at himself, the blood dripping from his fingers, painting a path of guilt behind him. his breath shortens, panic setting in like a chokehold.

“no… no, this isn’t happening…” he whispers, stumbling backward.

then—he runs.

out of the room. down the corridor. leaving a long, damning trail of crimson footprints in his wake.

and as the screams echo behind him, you stay on the floor… weeping just enough to keep the attention. just enough to keep the lie alive.

because now the world believes the story you wrote.

and beomgyu?

he’s already halfway to becoming the villain in everyone’s eyes.

FINAL ACT: THE PRICE OF BLOOD AND SILENCE

outside, the air is heavy with the weight of disbelief. voices cut through the night like blades—frantic, confused, disoriented. the manic hum of whispers grows louder the further you descend the stairs, like insects crawling over a rotting truth. people are gathered in tight little knots, their faces pale, tear-streaked, their eyes darting toward the mansion windows where the blood still clings to the glass.

you pass them quietly.

you hear the words that float around you like ghosts, each syllable another stone sealing beomgyu’s fate.

“he always said he loved hana. i didn’t think he meant… like that.”

“he was obsessed. did you see his face?”

“i told you something was off about him.”

“they say he found out about her and soobin… that she cheated during the bachelorette trip. maybe it pushed him over the edge.”

“he was crazy in love.”

you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your eyes stay low, your expression soft—an echo of grief stitched delicately across your features. every gesture rehearsed. every breath measured. inside, your heart is still. not peaceful… just empty.

you cross the lawn, past the wilting flower arrangements, past the shattered champagne glasses and chairs left crooked in haste. the wedding arch stands crooked now, fabric swaying like it’s mourning. you follow the trail of red stains, droplets growing thicker the closer you get to the garden altar.

and there he is.

beomgyu.

collapsed on the grass like a marionette with its strings cut. his knees are drawn to his chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other pressed to his temple as if trying to hold his skull together. his suit is drenched—shoulders, chest, cuffs—sticky with the blood of the woman he thought he’d marry. he’s murmuring to himself, over and over, lips trembling, voice cracking with disbelief and despair.

“i didn’t do it… i didn’t do it… i didn’t…”

he looks like a shell. like a man who’s forgotten how to exist.

you step closer, the heels of your shoes pressing into the wet earth, and he lifts his head. slowly. his eyes find yours and the second they do, you see the shift—the dilation of his pupils shrinking into pinpoints, his body freezing.

you smile.

just a faint little curve of your lips. delicate. deranged.

he knows now.

he knows.

and when you crouch in front of him, slowly, your eyes never leaving his, your voice slides out like a silk ribbon soaked in poison.

“now you feel guilt?” you whisper. soft. intimate. cruel.

he doesn’t answer.

he can’t.

his chest rises and falls like he’s drowning. and maybe he is. drowning in blood, in betrayal, in the realization that everything he thought he controlled has crumbled. that you were never the fragile shadow of the past. you were the storm waiting to devour him.

your head tilts.

he stares at you like you’re no longer human.

because you’re not. not anymore.

you’re wrath with a smile. vengeance wearing perfume. the end of his world in a velvet dress.

his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

and then—

sirens.

flashing lights.

the wail of justice arriving too late.

officers push through the crowd, guns drawn, shouting orders. hands grab him, dragging him up, cuffing him. he doesn’t resist. there’s no fight left. just wide, ruined eyes and hands still stained in red. he looks back at you one last time as they pull him away.

you wave.

not mockingly. not sweetly.

just… goodbye.

and as they drive him off into the night, all you can feel is the stillness.

not peace. not victory.

just silence.

and in that silence, you smile.

because your story is over.

and it ends in red.

EPILOGUE: CONFESSION IN THE DARK

the cell is cold.

not just in temperature, but in the kind of silence that settles under your skin and eats at the edges of your thoughts. beomgyu sits on the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp like they don’t belong to him anymore. they’ve scrubbed them—his hands—but the blood feels permanent. it’s in the creases of his palms, beneath his fingernails, deep in the lines of his fingerprints. nothing washes off guilt.

he hasn’t spoken in hours.

they asked him questions. detectives. officers. even a therapist. he answered in whispers at first. then stopped answering altogether. because what is there to say when the world you thought you built was nothing more than glass—and someone finally shattered it?

his mind replays the moment again. and again. and again.

the weight of hana’s body crashing against him. the scream caught in his throat. the slick handle of the knife in his hand. the look in your eyes.

that look.

not fury. not hatred. something worse.

triumph.

he knows now. all of it. every piece he missed. every warning he ignored. he knew you’d come back, but he thought you wanted closure. he thought you’d mourned the past like he had.

he didn’t know you’d return as ruin.

he remembers what you said. about the patients. about the mistakes.

and he remembers their faces, too. the ones he lost. the ones whose lives slipped through his hands when he was too arrogant, too inexperienced, too afraid to say “i don’t know.”

but he never thought you’d find a way to make the world see him the way you did. a killer. a fraud. a man too weak to carry the weight of a life, yet too proud to admit he dropped it.

his breathing is shallow now.

he leans back against the wall. lets his head rest there. concrete against bone. he thinks of hana. of her smile, her voice, her secrets. he doesn’t know if she really loved him. doesn’t know if she really cheated. he doesn’t even know if it matters anymore.

because all that’s left is silence.

you didn’t just take his future.

you took the last piece of himself he believed was good.

he’s not crying.

he hasn’t cried.

but something inside him is unraveling slowly, like a thread pulled loose in the dark.

the light above him flickers.

he closes his eyes.

and somewhere, buried deep in the quiet, he hears your voice again—soft, mocking, triumphant.

“now you feel guilt?”

and this time, he does.

with every heartbeat, he does.

and as the door to his cell clicked shut behind him, echoing like the toll of a final bell, the world outside kept turning—unaware that sometimes, the perfect crime wears a smile, walks in heels, and whispers love like poison.

[haliexn]

Midnight Surprise! ♡

Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader +18.

Warnings: explicit sexual content, established couple, suggestive language, vanilla, oral, penetration. (English is not my native language so sorry if anything reads weird, it's my first smut so I hope it's acceptable, I'm not a literal professional I'm writing it out of boredom)

Synopsis: You were bored and decided to try on a lingerie set. You didn't expect Satoru to arrive just at that moment… let alone react like that. ♡

It was about midnight. You were on the couch, watching a random documentary just to kill time. In fact, the only thing keeping you awake was waiting. He should have arrived an hour ago, but about twenty minutes ago he had sent you a message saying he was delayed and would be home as soon as possible.

Fighting sleep, you decided to get up and walk to your room, looking for something to help you stay awake. As you mentally reviewed your options, you remembered that lingerie set you had bought three days ago.With a naughty little smile, you went straight to the closet, pulled out the bag and looked at the pastel pink set you had barely had time to try on. You quickly undressed and started to put it on. When you finally saw yourself in the mirror, you could hardly believe your eyes. You had never worn lingerie before, and the way it enhanced your figure took your breath away. You were so distracted looking at yourself and playing with a strap that you almost didn't hear the front door open. -I'm home…" Satoru's voice echoed from the hallway. Your heart skipped a beat. Without thinking, you went out to meet your boyfriend, completely forgetting how you were dressed. Only when you had him in front of you, with his ice blue eyes directly on your body, did you realize what you looked like.

Gojo was silent for a few seconds, clearly surprised. The fatigue he was carrying disappeared instantly. His eyes ran up and down your body, and his tongue barely peeked out from the corner of his lips. -So… you were waiting for me," he murmured with a mischievous smile, while his gaze became more intense. You, completely blushing, tried to cover yourself with your arms, but he took a step forward before you could move too much. -Don't hide now," he said in a soft but commanding tone, "You look amazing… and this," his fingers brushed the thin fabric of the lace, "won't last long on if you keep looking at me like this. Gojo caressed your cheek tenderly, contrasting with the desire burning in his gaze. -You had no idea how much I needed this today…" he whispered, and then leaned in to kiss you. His lips, soft but hungry, caught yours with a perfect blend of urgency and affection.

His hands descended down your bare back, brushing the thin fabric of the lace until they reached the curve of your waist. A shiver ran through your body as you felt his fingers trace slow, firm lines, exploring you as if for the first time. -This color looks so fucking good on you," he murmured against your mouth, before slowly bending down. Let me try it on properly. Before you could say anything, he was already on his knees in front of you. He held you by the hips as his lips began to leave a trail of soft kisses down your inner thighs. Every brush of his mouth was an electric shock. Gently, he pushed the lace aside, exposing you to his hungry gaze. -So pretty… and only for me," he said before diving between your legs.

A soft moan escaped your lips as you felt his tongue, warm and expert, caress every nook and cranny of you with slow, deliciously torturous movements. He knew exactly how to touch you, where to stop, where to press. His hands held you steady as your knees trembled slightly. -Sa… Satoru…" you whispered between gasps, losing yourself in the sensations. -Yes, love? -he asked without stopping moving, looking at you with those burning blue eyes. The pressure grew inside you, the rhythm of his tongue became firmer until, unable to help it, you collapsed against him with a restrained cry. Your body trembled as he was still there, holding you and murmuring sweet nothings against your skin. He stood up slowly, wiping the corners of his lips with a satisfied smile. -I need to be inside you… now. You didn't have time to respond. In a second, he had already lifted you with ease, as if you weighed nothing, carrying you to the bed. He hurriedly got rid of his clothes, and when you had him completely in front of you, naked and visibly aroused, you couldn't help but bite your lip.

He stood over you, supporting himself with one hand while with the other he guided his erection towards your center, barely grazing your entrance with the tip. He looked you straight in the eye. -Are you sure? -he asked, though his voice was already trembling with need. -Always," you answered with a soft smile. He entered you with a low, deep moan, and you both exhaled in unison. His movements began slow, intimate, as if he wanted to savor you. His lips found yours once more, and his hips moved in rhythm with your agitated breathing.

Each thrust was deep, rhythmic, as if he wanted to mark all his love deep inside you. He filled you completely, again and again, with movements that were not hurried, but precisely calculated to make you tremble. The grinding of his pelvis against yours, the wet sound of your bodies colliding, and his increasingly ragged breathing created an intimate symphony just for the two of you. His forehead rested on yours, his eyes barely open, looking at you as if you were the only real thing in the universe. -You're perfect… so fucking perfect," he murmured huskily, his breath warm against your lips.

His thrusts became more intense, more desperate. With each thrust, you felt the knot in your belly tighten dangerously. Your nails dug into his back as your hips moved instinctively, seeking more, wordlessly begging him not to stop. -Satoru… -you whimpered against his neck- -Don't stop… please.

And he didn't. He reached down with one hand to rub your clitoris in slow, firm circles, synchronizing the rhythm with his movements. Pleasure shot through you like an electric current. You arched beneath him, lost, completely his. Everything in you trembled: your legs, your voice, your chest, your thoughts. -Come for me," he whispered in your ear, his tone as sweet as it was commanding. I want to feel you break for me. And you did. Your orgasm came sweeping, tearing, stealing your breath. Your body contracted around him tightly, and that was all it took for him to follow you. Satoru moaned your name with a mixture of devotion and need, sinking one last time as he unloaded inside you, hot and deep.

You lay panting, still connected, your skin sticky with sweat, trembling from the last spasms of pleasure. A few minutes passed and you could still feel him inside you, even after your bodies slowly separated. A mixture of his scent and yours slid down your thigh, warm. Satoru lay next to you for a moment, one arm across your belly, feeling your soft tremors.

-Don't move, he whispered. Let me take care of you. He got up lazily, but his gestures were attentive. He took a warm, wet towel, and returned to the bed to wipe you carefully, kissing your belly as he did so. Each rub was slow, reverent, as if caressing you after sex was just as important as bringing you to orgasm. -Are you all right, love? -he asked, leaving a kiss on the inside of your thigh. Too much? -I'm floating…" you whispered with a sleepy smile. But I'm fine. Very well. He smiled too, visibly relieved. He lay down next to you, now completely naked under the freshly arranged sheets. He drew you against his chest, and your legs automatically entangled with his. His warmth wrapped around you like an extra blanket, safe, protective. -I'll never get over it," he said softly, kissing your forehead. The way you feel, the way you look at me, the way you tremble for me… you've got me all fucked up, you know? It made you smile even more. His fingers caressed your arm, drawing soft circles on your still sensitive skin. -Then stay fucked up. I'm fucked up for you too. Gojo laughed softly, that laugh of his that vibrated in his chest and that you loved to hear so much when you were the one to provoke it. -I will… every day, every night. For you. You both stayed like that, entangled in warmth, soft words and slow caresses, until sleep began to overcome you. The last thing you felt was his hand on your waist, his quiet breathing against your neck, and his voice murmuring: -I love you more than anything.

And so, you fell asleep. Satisfied. Secure. Loved.

[petrichoravis]

So in love. | s.r.

masterlist | navigation | PART ONE

summery: you and Spencer finally talk over oranges and bandages.

word count: 3k

what to expect: ex!spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, mention of a bullet wound and wound water, fluff, angst?, hurt/comfort, reader has hair, this also accidentally turned into a little bit of a spencer character study? don’t know how that happened, spencelle implication because I love them!! slow moments and not much happening besides them trying to navigate their relationship. English is not my first language.

a/n: you asked, so I shall deliver!! ex!reader and spencer kissing and talking it out (totally did not consider making this super angsty and letting them stay broken up🙂‍↔️🙂‍↔️)

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Something tickled Spencer’s nose. In the haze of being half asleep, he swatted it away.

A groan startled him awake completely.

When he opened his eyes and was met with your sleepy face, he realized that it had been your hair that woke him. The feeling of your head under his nose, a feeling he wasn’t used to anymore.

For a moment, he was in the blissful state of disremembrance. His body remembered the moment and filed it away as something familiar and safe.

Until it all came crashing down on him, like the rain knocking against the window—your window, your apartment. Your bed that he was in. The smell of you engulfed him and softened the punch of the memories coming back.

You and Spencer were broken up, had been for a while. You had coped with it through anger.

Then, slowly, everything that had happened yesterday came back. A bullet had grazed your arm. The thought made him sit up abruptly. The frown on your face told him that you had misread his worry as regret.

“How is your arm?” He asked gently.

Sitting up too, you replied, “Yeah, it’s okay. I don’t feel it anymore—in a good way.”

Your voice was still raspy from sleep. Spencer didn’t realise how much he had missed the sound of it. There was something about having you in the morning—before your brain was awake enough to put on a performance—that made him fall in love with you deeper every time he was blessed to experience it. 

He reached out carefully, giving you space to pull back. “Can I look at it?”

When you didn’t pull back but gave him a hesitant nod, his fingertips grazed your arm carefully, unwrapping the bandage. His eyes flickered up to your face every few seconds to check that you were comfortable.

The fabric finally slipped from your arm to reveal the wound. “Does air feel good on it? Or is it uncomfortable?”

“It’s good.” You mumbled. 

“Lov—” He stopped himself before the slip-up was fully formed. “Can you please be honest with me?”

The words made you flinch even though they were said softly, without any malice. Spencer thought he had an idea why.

(“Do you even still love me?”

Silence. Nothing but the ringing in your ears.

“Spencer, can you please be honest with me?”)

“I am. It does feel okay.” You sighed. A few hours ago, you would’ve snapped at him for questioning you, but the fight had left you, and anger finally gave way to hurt and exhaustion. “I’m being honest.”

(“No, you’re not, Spencer. I can tell.”

“I just don’t know if this is the right thing for us right now.”)

Spencer watched you for a moment longer, trying to figure you out, then he stood up from the bed without another word. His footsteps faded until you were alone in the bed, next to the shape of him in your bed that you thought you had rid yourself of.

Spencer flipped the switch of your bathroom light. The medicine case was still under the sink, so he took it from its place carefully. In the kitchen, he filled a bowl with water and searched for a cloth.

When he came back into your bedroom, you were still where he had left you, staring into space. “I don’t know why I asked you that when I knew I wouldn’t want to hear the answer.”

He set the bowl on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. “It was a valid question. You had the right to know.”

“You never let me know, though.” You directed your eyes to his face.

“I—Can we talk about this later? I want to make sure your wound is clean and healing well first.”

“Fine,” You agreed reluctantly.

Of course he’d dodge the question for a second time, why would he not?

“But don’t think I’ll let you off the hook this time.” Your eyes shone with the promise. Or threat, Spencer couldn’t tell.

“Wouldn’t dare,” he said without protest, and started to unpack the first aid kit.

“Wait, not on the bed.” You stopped him with a hand over his. Spencer’s eyes stuck to the sight like glue, and he swallowed before humming noncommittally. You weren’t sure if he registered what you said, so you added, “I don’t want any exudate on my sheets.”

Spencer tried not to smile at your choice of words. He had been the one to teach you the medical term for wound water. 

“Okay.” He nodded, his eyes finding yours.

He led the way to the bathroom with familiarity.

You hopped onto the counter of your bathroom—not without Spencer scowling you for putting too much weight on your arm, to which you replied with a roll of your eyes and a sarcastic, “It’s just a bullet graze, not a broken bone.”

Spencer shook his head, but you could see his lips twitch with the effort of holding back a smile.

He dipped the cloth into the water and patted it softly along the skin outside of your wound, removing first the blood that had stained your skin.

You watched his face and hand alternately. You were so distracted by the creases of his face, the brown of his eyes as their whole attention was on you, that you didn’t notice he had applied rubbing alcohol to the piece of fabric and begun to clean the wound.

“Fuck, couldn’t you be a little rougher? It doesn’t hurt enough already. A warning would’ve been nice.” You gritted out through clenched teeth. 

It wasn’t so much the pain that made you snap at him, but the embarrassment of having caught yourself admiring your ex-boyfriend. Who you very much made a point of fighting with for the better part of this year.

“Snapping at me won’t make this hurt any less.” Spencer frowned at you.

He would tell you that he was being the gentlest he could be in this situation, but that sensitizing a wound hurt because the pressure and moment could irritate the injury, and that the antiseptics interact with pain receptors, which caused the burning sensation.

Instead, he lessened the pressure as much as he could.

You blew a breath out of your nose in exasperation, but refrained from speaking further.

“I’m almost done,” he assured you with a soft murmur, subsequently wrapping the bandage around your arm. “Too tight?”

With a shake of your head you denied his concerned question. “It’s okay.” 

You tried to swallow down the bile of snarky comments that festered in your mouth, Spencer could tell. By the way your jaw muscles twitched and your fingers were wringing themselves into knots. 

But he knew it was only a defensive wall that you had built to keep him from hurting you again.

He wanted nothing more than to take your hand into his, kiss you, and tell you that he would endure even those if it meant spending time with you. But he knew it would be a dysfunctional thing to say and a foundation for a second try that was destined to crumble.

Spencer busied himself with packing the supplies away while you stayed frozen in your seat on the countertop.

After putting everything away and soaking the bloodied cloth into cold water, he suggested going into the kitchen to eat, and you agreed too quickly, happy to have something else to do than watch him know your apartment by heart.

“What do you have?” He asked, entering the room.

“Cornflakes, but they might be stale. Forgot to close them properly before we got called in.” You fished the package from the cabinet and a cornflake from it before crushing it with your teeth. “Yep, definitely stale.”

A laugh escaped him at the scrunch of your nose. It felt almost normal, but a kind of false sense of normalcy. Like having to ask someone an important question after having an unresolved argument.

Both of you were dancing around the real conversation you should be having.

“I also have oranges?”

“And they’re not putrid?” He asked sceptically with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t think they are.”

Spencer reached for one at the same time that you did. For the smallest moment, you let your hands stay touching, yours around the fruit, Spencer’s fingertips brushing against your knuckles.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pulling his hand away as if you had given him a delayed shock. “They look okay.”

His words were an invitation for you to let the moment pass without any awkwardness, but you chose to ignore them. It was like the touch had given you the courage to face the conversation.

Spencer’s touch tended to have that effect on you.

“Can we cut this short? Please, just answer the question. Be honest, did or did you not still love me when we broke up?” You blurted out as you turned to face him with a shyness that was so unlike you when you were with him. Perhaps shyness was the wrong word. Alethophobia seemed more fitting. The fear of the truth.

For a guy with a high IQ and a very big vocabulary, Spencer was stumped on how to answer. Of course he loved you, but when had love ever been enough? It didn’t save his mother from her schizophrenia getting worse and worse day by day. It didn’t stop his father from leaving, didn’t prevent Gideon from leaving Spencer that letter. Elle, it didn’t make her stay either, did it?

Love wasn’t enough, but he wished it to be when it came to you. And for the first time, whoever was in charge of his happiness listened to his desperate pleas.

Until something else seemed not to be enough.

He wasn’t Derek Morgan—muscles and charm, he wasn’t Aaron Hotchner—intimidating and protective. He was Spencer Reid—intelligent and…he couldn’t think of a second word that was synonymous to him. All of his life, that was what he was, an aberrational kind of smart. But that didn’t pull the ladies, did it? 

But something about Spencer Reid—his stupid rambles, his nonexistent charisma, his social unawareness, awkward, lanky Spencer—made you fall in love with him, he tried to tell himself. 

Was that enough to make you stay? Asked another, crueler voice in his head.

It was a never-ending story of wanting that made his love dishonest. It made him chase what he thought would be enough until he overlooked what really was. And in the end, it made him not enough.

The cases had gotten more, and with them grew the tension in your relationship. You had gotten more reckless in hopes of making Spencer care, and he stopped showing you care as a result of his worry.

It was a spiral that led to the fight that day.

He thought breaking up would be the best decision, with the cases putting stress on your relationship. He had never been this wrong.

“Of course I still loved you,” He said because it was true, and the rest seemed ineffable. So instead, he took the orange from your hands and began peeling it whilst telling himself it was purely for the comfort of having something to do with his hands. (You hated the sticky feeling of orange juice on your hands.)

There were so many questions you wanted to ask. All of them, you knew the answer to. 

You had broken up because the stress had gotten unmanageable, together or apart, but the only way to loosen the knot was to cut the rope. You didn’t stay friends because you simply weren’t friends. You were here right now because you still loved each other. 

“Why didn’t you answer the question on the day?” You asked because it was the only question you had no answer to. Your eyes were fixed on his hands peeling the orange.

“It didn’t really matter in the moment, did it?” He said onerously. 

“I guess not.”

Silence, only filled by the clattering of plates as you gave one to Spencer, and a quiet mumble of thanks from him.

He hands you the plate filled with the orange peeled into slices.

You clear your throat and put the plate on the table in front of you. “Share it with me?”

He knew that you knew what you were doing. You had talked to him about symbolisms, one quiet night when neither of you could sleep. About what it meant to share an orange.

It was a peace offering, an ‘apology accepted’, subtle enough to go ignored in case he had forgotten or didn’t want the acceptance.

But he never did. Never would, not about you or all the things you said to him. They were ingrained somewhere deep in his neocortex. 

And he would always want your forgiveness.

“Yeah,” he replied, sitting down first. You followed his lead, sitting opposite him.

For a moment, you just ate, just existed in the moment of quiet understanding, but Spencer had to be sure that you actually knew.

“I love you now, if that’s the real question.” He said carefully. He wasn’t one to read social queues perfectly, and he wasn’t sure if that’s what you were leading up to. But he wanted it to be this, wanted to get it off his chest, anyway.

You looked up at him from the lice you had been surgically dissecting. “I know.” You said with a kind of reticence. “I know.” You said a second time, more to yourself than to him.

Spencer nodded. He was glad that you knew; it was all he hoped for.

It was hard to find a way to move on from this. Neither of you seemed to like the option of staying just friends, but the doorstep of the conversation that could lead to a second try seemed too big to overcome.

You only spoke when you were washing the plate, handing it to Spencer for him to dry it. An activity that was as simple as wanting to be helpful, but shared between two people with a history, it became a heavy anachronism.

“I do, too.” You sighed, turning to face him so your right hip was pressed to the counter. “But we both know that it wasn’t the reason we broke up. Unrequited love. If anything, it was the opposite.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed, his throat burning from the sour juice of the orange or the agreement, he didn’t know. “But we’re wiser now, we could—stand a chance. What you said to Theodore—you said that his mother couldn’t be mad forever, that she just wants him in her life, and I thought…maybe you were…”

Spencer took his time drying the plate, longer than it needed tending to, but his fingers needed something to busy themselves with.

“I was.” You confirmed quietly. “It’s hard, Spence.” You watched him perk up as you spoke the nickname. “I want to be with you, but it—I can’t do this again.”

With a gesture between the two of you, you confirmed that you meant the tension, the fights, the heartbreak.

“I don’t want that either. Can’t that be enough? That we want to try again?” He set the plate into its original place and turned to you.

“I hope so. I want it to be enough.”

“Then can we try?” Spencer took a bold step towards you, his left hand found the counter’s edge. Both of you now facing each other.

“Spence, nothing about our circumstances changed. We’re still FBI agents who definitely do not have normal working hours.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, no, definitely not.” His smile wore off quickly. “So, what? We just keep our distance? Like we did before?”

You hesitated. It was definitely not what you wanted either. God, why was it so difficult to just say no to him? Why couldn’t you be strong enough to carry the best for both of you through?

The hesitance in your eyes was enough for Spencer. It made him bolder to know you wanted this as much as he did.

“I’m not trying to pressure you into this,” he said softly. “I just want you to know how I feel. I think me not letting you know what I was thinking was half the reason why we didn’t work out.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I think that I was a fool for ever thinking that we wouldn’t end up here again. I was scared that the imminent would happen before I could stop it. That I wouldn’t be able to do something that proved I deserve this kind of love before you realized that, really, you deserve someone better.” He said without missing a beat.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he beat you to it.

“Right now I’m thinking that you’re beautiful and that I don’t care about any of the things that I just said because I just want to kiss you.”

Your mouth stayed agape, with the protests you were about to speak stuck in your throat. All you could manage was a nod and a quiet, desperate-sounding, “please.”

Spencer’s lips were on yours in seconds. With the speed he closed the gap and cradled your face with, you’d think his kiss would be desperate, rough and fast, but it wasn’t. He kissed you with gentleness and integrity.

The taste of orange fresh on your lips, shared between you two like the fruit. Spencer had missed the feeling of your skin under his hands and your hair tickling his fingertips as they buried themselves in it.

He sighed into your mouth and angled his head to the side a little more to kiss you deeper.

The day was spent with hushed whispers and uncontrolled laughter, all while ignoring phone calls because you were too caught up in each other.

As you lay in bed, Spencer tracing shapes on your collarbone, he whispered with a grin. “You know…a little bird told me you were quite dramatic about the breakup.”

You shot up. “Penelope Garcia—”

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thank you so much for reading! reblogs are the only way to promote posts on here, so please consider supporting me if you liked it!! feedback is appreciated 𝜗𝜚

second a/n: for those who don’t know what sharing an orange means and don’t want to google it, it symbolizes love, intimacy, and connection. If you want more of these two please send me requests (like before the breakup, during, after they got back together…)!! I love writing for them so much

[mirrorballpages]

Star-Crossed + Guilty as Sin for Elriel Month 2025

Azriel stood on the balcony, looking out over the Day Court city, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. The sun bathed the rooftops in gold and amber, the ocean glittering in the distance. His wings were slightly outstretched, catching the light like shadowed stained glass, his stance relaxed but alert. The shadows were quiet. So quiet.

Elain spotted him the moment she stepped into the sitting room. Her heart stuttered. It was their final day in the Day Court. They’d been there for a week—Elain, as emissary, meeting with courtiers, advisors, minor nobles. Azriel had come as her protection. Not her partner. Not anything else.

Rhys had hated the idea, his shadow singer escorting the one woman he was careful not to discuss. But Feyre had suggested it, and that had sealed it.

It had been awkward, at first. Too many silences. Too much left unsaid since Solstice. But maybe it was something in the water here, or the sun that made everything seem more vivid, more real, but Elain didn’t care anymore.

She wanted to be close to him. The sight of him standing there, black leathers in stark contrast to the warmth and shimmer of this place, was almost too much. He looked like a fallen star, carved from night itself.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, stepping onto the balcony.

His head whipped toward her, startled. He hadn’t heard her approach.

“I know things have been... quiet between us.”

He blinked, caught off guard, by her voice, maybe. Or by the way her Day Court gown clung to her figure, the sheer trousers beneath flowing and scandalous, thanks to Helion’s chosen tailors. His gaze flickered down before he caught himself.

“You two might just be the most attractive couple in Prythian,” came a voice behind them.

Helion. His presence burst into the room like sunlight through stained glass, his voice loud enough to rival Cassian’s. Azriel’s wings rustled in irritation. Elain laughed as his face turned red.

“You know, he is quite handsome,” she said, surprising herself. Something bold had taken root in her this week. Maybe it was the freedom of the sun. Maybe it was just him.

“And you, Lady Elain, are the most beautiful fae in the land,” Helion said with a roguish grin.

“Oh, you’re too kind, my lord,” she replied with a wide smile.

“Although,” Helion went on, “Azriel is a close second. I’m sure he’s told you how I’ve tried to get with the three of them for years.”

Elain laughed. “Illyrians truly are handsome,” she agreed. “I remember the first time I saw all three, I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Especially this one.” She nudged Azriel gently with her elbow.

His face darkened even further, mortified.

“If the two of you got together,” Helion said, raising his glass, “I fear every male and female in Prythian would go into mourning.”

Azriel muttered something under his breath and turned away. “I need a stronger drink.”

“But you’re drinking straight whiskey!” Elain called after him.

“It’s not strong enough,” he grumbled as he stalked down the hall, shadows slipping behind him, though a few lingered by her side.

Helion chuckled and sank into a chair. Elain took the couch beside him, still smiling. She liked Helion. Yes, he was bold, shameless even. But he was honest. There was no mask with him. Which is why his next words landed like a stone.

“How long has he been in love with you?” he asked, raising his glass again. “Two weeks after meeting? That’d be my guess.”

Elain stared at him. “What?”

Helion shrugged. “Azriel doesn’t do casual. I saw how he carried you after you were taken. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. And I’ve seen how he looks at you now.”

She blushed furiously. “Don’t be ridiculous. Azriel doesn’t love me.”

“Oh, please.” Helion waved her off with a grin. “He has it bad. And this is coming from someone who watched him pine for Morrigan for centuries.”

“I…” Elain swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You haven’t even kissed?”

She shook her head. “No. Well...almost. But he stopped. Said it was a mistake. And then he left. That was months ago.”

Helion frowned. “And he’s been avoiding you since.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “He’s very good at avoiding people.”

Helion took a long drink. “He’s a damn fool.”

“Illlyrians really are dramatic,” she said, unable to help the laugh that bubbled up.

Helion grinned. “I don’t know why all of you Night Court types insist on making things so complicated.”

She smiled, but her thoughts were already drifting, back to Azriel. To the look in his eyes before he turned away. The heat of his stare when he thought she wasn’t watching.

And then, quieter, Helion added, “It’s not like he’d lose the Blood Duel.”

Elain went still.

“Lucien would put up a fight,” he continued, his gaze distant now. “But Azriel was built for that kind of thing.”

She didn’t reply. She wasn’t sure she could. “What if Lucien wasn’t of Autumn?” Elain asked, feigning casual curiosity. She kept her tone light, careful. “Would he still be able to enact it?”

Helions head snapped to hers. The sharpness in his eyes made her heart jolt. “What are you suggesting?” he asked, voice low and laced with rising anger.

Too far, she thought. She hadn’t meant to poke so hard. Not yet.

“Nothing at all,” she said quickly, lifting her hands in a gesture of innocence. “I just know very little about how the courts work still. I wasn’t sure if other courts had it as well. You know how Rhys is, so secretive. I couldn’t believe he even told me about the Blood Duel to begin with.”

A carefully placed lie. She wore the mask well. Sweet, naive, still adjusting to court life. But of course Rhys hadn’t told her anything. She’d found out on her own, buried in old tomes, her curiosity about mating bonds leading her to spending hours in the library. The twins had confirmed it, reluctantly. Sworn to secrecy. And now she wielded that knowledge carefully. Helion’s eyes softened, the edge of suspicion fading as he seemed to remember who he thought he was speaking to.

Sweet Elain. Beautiful Elain. Too soft for politics. Too soft to scheme.

“The only court with that antiquated rule is Autumn,” he said with a huff, waving a hand. “And it should have died out centuries ago.”

“Please tell me it’s safe to return,” Azriel called out as he stepped back onto the balcony, his voice rough but faintly amused. Elain turned to find him striding toward them, the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly, though his shadows still curled around him like smoke.

“Ah, we were just discussing how handsome you’d look in color,” Helion said with a grin. “Perhaps something bold. Red, maybe?”

“Oh yes,” Elain said, catching the thread easily. “He would look lovely in navy. It’s close to black, isn’t it? I mean, do you even own anything other than black?”

Azriel stopped beside her, giving her a look that was half-brooding, half-smirk. “No,” he said simply.

“A shame,” she sighed. “Perhaps if you wore something other than black, you’d get more marriage proposals.”

His only response was to sit down beside her, slow and deliberate, one arm draping across the back of the couch behind her shoulders. Casual. But not accidental. Her breath hitched just slightly. He was close.

“You have two hours to finish up your brooding before dinner, Azriel,” Helion said, rising with his drink in hand. “I don’t want you showing up to my party looking all pissed off like that. Although, it is a very good look on you.”

Elain bit back a smile as Azriel muttered under his breath, “Know-it-all High Lord…” And then he took a long sip of his drink, shadows trailing lazily along his arm.

And because, at this point, Elain was very much in the mood to abandon every last shred of restraint—it had to be the wine—she leaned up and swung her leg over Azriel’s lap, settling herself down to straddle him.

The shock on his face was glorious. So shocked, in fact, he dropped his drink. His shadows, loyal and swift, caught the glass before it hit the floor and placed it gently on the table beside them.

“Elain, what in the—” he stammered, eyes wide, voice hoarse. His scent changed in an instant, arousal blooming around them like smoke and heat. She could feel him hardening beneath her, could feel her own body heating in response. But still, she smiled sweetly.

“Now I can see you better,” she said, shifting slightly to adjust herself, doing her best to ignore the undeniable bulge pressed between her thighs. Her heartbeat fluttered, but she forced herself to stay calm. Bold. In control.

Azriel smirked, recovering just barely. His left hand came to rest on her waist. The other reached up to twirl a strand of her hair between his fingers, as if anchoring himself. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to be around you in any other position now,” he murmured, eyes drifting down to her lips.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe she was pushing too far. But he wasn’t stopping her. Neither of them were showing much restraint now.

“So,” she said, voice deceptively light, “when were you going to tell me about the Blood Duel?”

His hand tensed at her waist. “What?” he asked, tone sharp. His shadows stirred, no longer playful.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Az. I’ve known for months. And Helion just confirmed it.”

“He what?” he snapped.

“Don’t worry. I acted all surprised,” she said with a little shrug. “Played my part.”

“How did you find out?” he asked, his voice low and deadly serious now.

She arched a brow. “Did you really think I wouldn’t research mating bonds? That I wouldn’t dig until I found everything?”

His throat worked as she continued, calmly, evenly.

“It’s not like Autumn’s blood duel law is a secret. I came across it when I started reading about how to end a bond.” The words hung between them, sharp and impossible to ignore. Elain felt him freeze beneath her. She’d never said it out loud before. But it was the truth. She had needed to know what was possible. What her choices were.

And maybe… what Azriel’s weren’t. Her voice softened as she asked the question that had been living in her chest for months.

“Is that why you called it a mistake?”

His eyes closed for half a second. His wings gave a shuttered twitch behind him. And when he opened his eyes again, they were full of pain.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he said roughly. “You could never be a mistake.”

“Then why did you stop?” she asked, her voice trembling now. “Was I wrong in thinking you wanted me as much as I wanted you?”

He let out a low, shaking breath. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life, Elain. You are all I will ever want. All I will ever need.”

“Then why—”

“Rhys stopped me,” he said bitterly. “He pulled rank. Reminded me that the last thing we needed was a blood duel. That the political fallout of me… of us… could be catastrophic. That we had bigger things to focus on.”

Her mind reeled. Rhysand. He had interfered. The same Rhys who smiled so warmly at her, who acted like she was precious to his wife, to their court. He had stopped this?

“I would do it,” Azriel said then, voice quiet, but razor sharp. “I would kill him if I had to.”

His eyes met hers, daring her to flinch. She didn’t. Because Elain already knew. She had always known what Azriel was capable of, for her. “I know,” she said softly, her fingers running slowly up and down his arm.

His eyes widened. “You do?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “But I can’t ask that of you. Of anyone. Lucien might not be my favorite person in the world… but he’s Feyre’s friend. And the rightful heir to Day Court.”

Azriel went still. “How did you know—?”

She groaned. “Why does everyone assume I don’t know anything?” She leaned back slightly, exasperated. “Just look at him. It's obvious. But yes, I saw it in a vision.”

His expression turned sharp. Alert. “What did you see?” he asked, sitting up straighter beneath her.

“I saw Lucien as High Lord,” she said calmly. “But it wasn’t me beside him. It was someone else. Someone I’ve never seen before.”

“You weren’t there?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Lucien is never in my future.”

He was quiet for a long beat.

Finally, he asked, “Then… what do you see?”

Elain paused. She saw too much. Her hand in his as he thrust into her again and again in her bed at the Townhouse, as he whispered how much he loved her. Her screams echoing through the house. An estate with acres of rose gardens, his hands in hers as they walk. The sound of a twin babies laughing as he held one with his scarred hands, Elain holding the other. A sapphire and diamond ring on her left hand. 

But she didn’t say any of that. Not yet. Because he needed to choose her. Not because fate had declared it so. Not because of what would happen.

But because he wanted it. Wanted her.

“I’ll tell you someday,” she said quietly. “But not now.”

“El...”

“No,” she cut him off, voice trembling with more truth than she’d ever dared speak aloud. “I’m tired of being the only one who is ever open. Honest.” She was still straddling him, but the air between them had shifted, charged and crackling. “I get that being secretive is your thing. I do. But it’s not fair to me.” Her breath shook as she leaned in, her voice low but fierce. “Either you want to be with me, or you don’t. It’s as simple as that.”

Azriel stared at her. And she could see the war within him. One part of him—the soldier, the shadow singer—calculated, restrained, loyal to a crown that had asked him to bury his own heart. 

But the other part—the man—was looking at her with hunger. With longing. With a need that had been restrained too long. His hand moved slowly to the side of her neck. His thumb brushed her cheek, so gentle it made her ache.

Her face flushed. Her body ached.

Touch me, her soul whispered. Touch me like you mean it.

“Elain,” he said, her name breaking from his mouth like a prayer too long unspoken. “I have loved you for longer than I should admit.”

“I loved you before I had the right to,” he whispered, voice low and ragged. “Since you were still human. When you looked at the world like it might still offer you beauty… even after everything it took from you. Your light has always called to me. It stills my darkness. Eases my shadows. Fills my soul.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, as if the truth was a blade he’d been carrying too long. “It has always been you, Elain. You're the only one my heart keeps coming back to. You’ve seen all my darkest fears,” he breathed. “All the parts I’ve hidden from everyone else. Like you’ve known me for a thousand years.”

Her heart clenched.

“You see the boy beneath the blades and shadows. The one scarred and silent and scared he’d never be worthy. You look at him—and still, you stay. Gods, Elain… I swear you were sent to save me.”

His shadows crept down his arms, curling around his wrists like they, too, had softened under her light. Like they were finally at peace. “I know I’ve hurt you,” he said, grief edging every word. “By staying away. By not saying this sooner. I thought I wasn’t allowed to want this. That I didn’t deserve you.”

He shook his head, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And I don’t. I never will. But I want you. I love you. And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

He cupped her face fully now, voice breaking as he whispered, “Take me. Please. Be mine. Let me be yours. I will do anything—anything—just to be close to you again. Say the word, and I will follow it to the end of my days.”

Her heart thundered. She could barely speak. But still...still...there were things that needed to be asked. “What about Rhys?” she whispered. “What about Lucien?”

His eyes darkened. “I don’t care what they say. Or what the Cauldron says. I only care about you. About the words you give me.”

His hands were trembling now. Just slightly. Elain saw it, felt it, and reached up, laying her hand over his chest. “Say it again,” she whispered.

His eyes locked with hers, and then....

“I love you.”

Azriel’s lips crashed into hers the moment the words were out. There was nothing gentle in that first kiss, only desperation, years of aching tension unraveling in a single, gasping heartbeat. Elain clutched at his shirt, fisting the black fabric over his chest like he might disappear if she let go. He growled into her mouth, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her tight. His wings flared behind him, shadows slipping free for the first time in hours, dancing in the space around them.

And yet, his hands trembled as they cradled her face, brushing reverent strokes along her cheekbones. Even amid the storm of need, he was gentle.

Elain’s mind raced, her soul thrumming with something luminous and wild. She felt… full. Whole. As if she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life. It was nothing like kissing Graysen. Or any of the human boys who had touched her before.

This was something else entirely.

This… was love.

“I love you,” he rasped again between kisses, the words rough and aching. “I love you, Elain.”

Her knees nearly buckled. If she hadn’t already been sitting on him, and if his arms weren’t wrapped so tightly around her, she might have crumbled beneath the weight of it. She whispered his name like a prayer, lips brushing down his jaw, his throat. And then, without breaking their kiss, shadows wrapped around them like silk.

The balcony, the golden city, the cool evening air, all vanished. In a blink, they stood in the quiet of his guest room, her legs wrapped around him. The walls glowed with the peachy light of the Day Court’s setting sun, soft warmth spilling through gauzy curtains. It painted everything in gold and rose and shadow.

Azriel didn’t let her go. He walked them slowly to the bed, his eyes never leaving hers. He held her like she was something rare. Precious. When he set her down on the crisp sheets, it wasn’t just with care, but like placing a holy thing on an altar.

And for the first time in her life, Elain felt beautiful not because of how she looked, but because of how he saw her. She sat up, hands already moving to the hem of his shirt. He let her lift it over his head without a word.

Her eyes traced over him, every inch. The scars. The muscle. The Illyrian tattoos, ancient and sacred, inked like a map of who he had once been and who he had become. And she touched him. Not in haste. But in awe. He was scarred. Weathered. A warrior made from shadow and steel.

But she didn’t see a weapon. She didn’t see a threat. She saw him. The male who held her so gently, who never asked for more than she could give, who waited beside her in silence when she didn’t have the words.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured.

Azriel’s breath caught. And then, he broke. It was soft. Subtle. But she felt it. Saw the way his shoulders curved inward, as if her words had carved deeper than any blade. He bowed his head.

“Elain,” he whispered, her name a prayer, a plea.

She leaned in, pressing her lips to the center of his chest, right over his heart. His skin jumped beneath her mouth. Her hand followed, settling there. Steady. Sure.

“I’ve wanted this,” she breathed. “You. For so long. I think I’ve been falling in love with you since the moment you refused to ask anything of me… and still gave me everything.”

He groaned, low and broken, and kissed her again. His mouth found hers like a man starved. Then he kissed down, to the curve of her neck, his hand sliding beneath her shirt, fingers trailing up her stomach. The roughness of his touch was a perfect contrast to the silk of her skin. Calloused fingers slow, like he needed to memorize her.

Elain had imagined kissing him before. In stolen moments. In dreams she’d tucked away like pressed flowers between the pages of old books. But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for this.

Her heart thundered like it had waited years for freedom. Every brush of his lips against hers, every sweep of his tongue, was an unraveling. A breaking of chains. His scent wrapped around her, heady and dark: night-chilled cedar, and mist.

She had longed for him. Through seasons and silences. Through Solstice nights and garden mornings, when she reached for someone who was never there. And now, he was here. Real. Solid. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her thighs parting to welcome him closer. She kissed the line of his jaw, the strong column of his throat, tasting salt and shadows and home. @elriel-month

Read The Rest on AO3

[unlikeable-female-character]

In which I kill off Logan

Sort of gave the game away there with that title...Have been trying to write and this came to me a while ago. I hope it's something.

Set in some AU where you and Logan are married and have lived a long and happy life together.

tw: character death.

Outside, the sounds of joy, laughter, splashing and excited screaming is a wonderful soundtrack to the day. Logan, tired out by the whirlwind of grandchildren climbing over him wanted a few moments of peace and so after planting a kiss on your cheek, had taken himself inside.  You see him through the window, sitting on the couch, eyes closed, a faint smile playing upon his lips.

When you enter the lounge an hour or so later, you know.  When you look over at Logan, you know. He is gone. The how of it will remain a mystery. Just that he was here and now he is not, a long overdue peace and a quiet end to a long and violent existence. You and he, and the children, had long since come up with a plan, what should be done should this happen and should you out live him. It was unanimously agreed that he did not need to be cut up and examined and studied. He’d suffered enough of that in life and if you could offer him nothing else in his death then you could offer him the dignity of being buried quietly and not put on display as a specimen. No one else needed to know the why of him. You knew the why of him and that was enough. You’d known it for over forty years now. This mutant. This monster. This man. Who you loved and who loved you back.

You sit down beside him and take his still warm hand in yours, pressing it to your lips, smoothing back his now nearly white hair. You couldn’t remember how old he was now. Too old he always said. Too old and too tired and ached too much. The stick he has taken to using over the past ten years or so was propped up against the arm of the couch, the handle worn smooth from use. As you moved your hand down over his face, still unshaven, you sighed at the thought of all that pain having gone. He was still handsome, to you at least, he refused to believe that you still thought so.  He looked younger now.  You wished you could have done something more to remove the pain in life for him but you both knew that was impossible. All you could do was love him. Love him and hope that love was enough to make him forget everything else, for a while at least.

You hear footsteps behind you and look up to see Laura. She stops in the doorway for a moment, staring, before coming to sit on his other side.

You watch as Laura takes his other hand and gently touches the scarred knuckles, the claws within not having seen the light of day for so many years now. The last time you had seen them was when Logan had sat your four children down, all of them then adults, and shown them who he really was. You hadn’t wanted him to, mutants no longer being anything but a long dead myth by that point, but he felt that they needed to know the truth.  His truth. He unsheathed his claws because it was necessary to make them believe. Having Laura to back up his story helped but seeing the dull metal jutting out from their father’s knuckles was a shock it took them a while to process. To see the hands that had cradled them, picked them up, held them so tenderly concealing such weapons. They watched as you cleaned and dressed the now almost impossibly slow to heal wounds, gently wiping away the blood that lingered there.  They had questions, of course they did, and Logan did not shy away from any of them.  It took time, but they accepted who he was, where they themselves had come from.  Both you and he made sure to let them know that whatever else, they should never doubt how much you loved them.  How much he loved them and how much they had transformed his life into something that he never felt he truly deserved. They had all held him, wept with him, told him that he deserved every second.

After that Logan would never show his claws again. After that he was another man.  Possibly released from a burden he had carried for so long and he was not required to hurt anymore.  He was just required to be Mr Howlett, the kindly but grumpy man who lived at the end of the quiet cul-de-sac.  The man who would sit on his front step and watch his children and eventually grandchildren learn to ride their bikes around and around the small turning circle in front of the house.  A father, a grandfather, with no reason to ever unleash his claws again.  You knew his hands ached and often saw him unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fist.  Sometimes you would take his hand and gently massage them, his fingers and his knuckles, hoping to ease whatever pain he felt there.  To anyone who saw you were just helping to alleviate his arthritis (which you thought he likely did have by that point) and no one else would ever know.  

Both you and Laura knew that you would need to go out and tell the others, let them know that Logan was gone. This man who would get down on his hands and knees even though they creaked and ached and let his children tumble over him, this man who would carry his grandchildren on his back like little monkeys. This reader of innumerable bedtime stories, builder of dens and fixer of flat bicycle tires.  They would mourn that man.

You and Laura alone would also mourn the other man.  The one who fought the world that made him but didn’t understand him.

As far as the world was concerned there were no more natural mutants being born. You weren’t so sure. Laura existed but she was made to be the way she was by men and while she had children of her own now none of them has exhibited any signs of mutation, neither had your own children. Your grandchildren however. James, your first grandson named for his grandfather, seemed to have the ability to bounce back after any bump and tumble with an ease that his brothers didn’t posses. He never seemed to suffer the same roll call of childhood illnesses, and any he did contract never lingered for more than a day.  You had tried to talk to his parents about it, but they didn’t want to.  Whether they feared for him or feared him, you didn’t know, and you weren’t sure their attitude of ‘lets just pretend this isn’t happening and it will go away’ was the right course of action.  Clearly his grandfather didn’t either. You had once found him and Logan huddled together once, talking in low whispers, the boy’s small hand in his grandfather’s huge one. Did he also have claws, you had wondered. Had Logan shown him his? So far you had seen no sign of them.  You watched them talking but didn’t listen in.  Whatever Logan had to say to the boy was for his ears only.  You had watched James stand and throw his arms around his grandfather’s neck, holding him as tight as a small boy could.  Logan’s big arms enveloped him and squeezed him back.  They stayed like that for a while before parting and James ran off to join his brothers.  As far as you knew they never spoke about it again.  

James was outside now leaning against the tree he had fallen from inumerable times (the one that had claimed many a broken arm but never one of his) and he was growing into a fine young man, his face almost a carbon copy of his grandfather’s, his hair as unmanagable.  You had asked Logan once if that was what he looked like as a young man.  He smiled softly and nodded.   

You stare out of the window, watching him and the others.  Your two boys and two girls, their many children.  You close your eyes and feel the first of a lifetime of tears falling down your cheek.    

‘God I’m going to miss you,’ you whisper, bringing his hand to your lips again and kissing each scarred knuckle in turn.  You could hear Logan’s voice as clear as day, telling you not to worry darlin’, feel the ghost of his calloused thumb wiping the tears away.  You were not actually sure how to carry on without him.  When you and he had first met, you could never have imagined that this would be your futures together.

Some years ago Logan had started to write down his story, what he could remember. He was beginning to worry that his mind was starting to fail him as well as his body. You agreed that it likely was, but you both just carried on and pretended things were fine. The children expressed concern that maybe he should see a doctor and maybe he should have done but you were both terrified of the spectacle he would become. They reluctantly saw your point. Their love for their father was too great to go against his wishes, the fear they had for the doctors and scientists who would use their father - had used their father - for their own means.  Logan never said who he was writing his story for - himself, you, the children maybe.  Those thick leather books were sitting on the desk in the corner.  One day you would read them.  One day you would open them up and flick through the pages.  One day your hand would still on the message that he had written to you and as you read it your tears would fall and the faded ink would spread and blur.  One day.

You didn’t notice Laura leave the room.  When you felt the couch next to you dip, and a pair of arms encircle you, you knew then that she had told the others.  You watched as your children bent to place kisses on their father’s forehead, to grip his hands, to hold him for one final time.

[ikeupied]

7:00 AM

My alarm went off, but I was already awake. I’d barely slept at all—I was too nervous.

I got out of bed quickly and headed to the kitchen. Taesan was already having breakfast.

“You didn’t sleep?” I asked as I poured myself a glass of water.

“Barely. You?”

“Same.”

“You should eat something, Y/N.”

“I can’t. My stomach’s a mess.”

He looked like he was about to say something else but stopped himself.

I rushed back to my room to get dressed. My bag had been packed for days.

Taesan knocked on my door. “We leave in ten.”

I came out right away, dressed, bag in hand, and shaking with excitement.

“I’m ready.”

Heejin appeared at the door too, dressed and ready.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“No,” Taesan and I answered in unison.

“God, me neither,” Heejin groaned, flopping down onto the couch.

While Taesan finished packing up a few last things, I sat beside Heejin. My phone buzzed—Riki.

I’m outside.

I stood up immediately and left the apartment to meet him.

“I thought you were going with Heeseung,” I said as we waited for the others.

“I was supposed to, but they left early and didn’t even tell me,” he sighed, clearly frustrated.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Riki. Don’t stress,” I told him with a small smile. He gave me one back.

Taesan and Heejin finally came down, and we all piled into the car.

When we arrived at the venue, Leehan, Heeseung, Jungwon, and Sunghoon were already there.

We greeted them quickly and headed over to the warm-up area to go over our routine one last time.

I tightened my shoelaces and tried to focus on breathing steadily.

Taesan was quietly rehearsing the steps, Heejin stretched beside me, and Riki… Riki couldn’t sit still. He paced back and forth, chewing on his lip.

“You remember everything?” Heejin asked, watching me closely.

I nodded. I lied.

The choreography was in my head, sure, but my body was shaking. Everything still ached from the fall. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me.

Just as Leehan came over to give us final notes, Gowon appeared.

With her signature fake smile, she stopped a few steps away and crossed her arms, eyeing me from head to toe.

“Are you sure you can dance today?” she asked sweetly—but her voice dripped with venom.

I didn’t even bother answering. Heejin glared at her like she could set her on fire.

Leehan called us for a final run-through. Time was running out.

“Group number seven, get ready,” a voice said over the mic. “Once the current performance ends, you’re up.”

My heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t rehearsal anymore.

The music from the previous group began to fade out. We looked at each other one last time.

Taesan took a deep breath, Heejin squeezed my hand, saying nothing.

Riki stretched his arms out like he could shake the fear right off.

We moved to the side of the stage.

From there, we heard our name echo through the speakers:

“Please welcome… Vortex Crew!”

We stepped onto the stage. The lights were blinding for a moment.

I found my spot and focused on breathing.

My hands were freezing, but my legs felt steady. I fixed my gaze forward.

The music started.

For a few seconds, all I could hear was the pounding of my own heartbeat.

One, two, three… breathe, I told myself.

And then, like something inside me switched on, my body just moved.

The steps came naturally. The routine flowed. I wasn’t thinking anymore—I was feeling.

The floor beneath me no longer felt uncertain. I focused on the rhythm, on my teammates’ faces, on every beat we hit together in perfect sync.

When the music ended, a heavy silence hung in the air.

Then, slowly, scattered applause began.

We had finished.

I took a deep breath. My legs trembled beneath me.

Now all that was left was the judges’ score.

The venue went dead silent again. Time slowed to a crawl.

Without thinking, I reached for Leehan’s hand beside me. He didn’t pull away.

After what felt like an eternity, the first judge lifted their sign.

8.

I exhaled in relief—it was a good score.

The next scores followed: 7, 7, and 8.

30 points total.

It was a great start.

We bowed and left the stage. As soon as we were out of sight, the celebration erupted.

Heejin threw her arms around me.

“We did it!” she shouted.

Taesan high-fived everyone, and Leehan was smiling proudly.

The joy in the room was infectious.

First Round! (wc; 3266)

SYNOPSIS: Y/n and Riki were inseparable. The kind of friendship everyone envied, the kind that felt unbreakable. But somewhere along the way, something shattered. Now, every word they exchange is a fight, every glance a silent war. Neither of them wants to admit how much it hurts. Neither of them wants to be the first to let go of the anger. But how long can you hate someone who once meant everything to you? Because the line between love and hate has never been thinner.

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note: sooo, hey! im really sorry for being so inactive, I wasn't feeling well and it took me SO LONG to write this, idk why honestly, I feel like it's kinda weird how it ended up being, but I don't dislike it. but hopefully this is my comeback! i really want to be active again, so I'll try my best. ALSO, my birthday is almost here! so I'm thinking of changing the theme :3. anyway, enough with all this talk. I love you all, and thanks for being here. 💗

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