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servicpop · 30 days ago

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showing rookie the ropes⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ callahan ( detective oc ) & alastair ( police oc ) x criminal ftm reader

NSFW ⓘ⠀coninuation of this , threesome , degradation ( from callahan ) , use of cunt & pussy

Being caged in Callahan's house wasn't all bad.

Who knew the detective would so lovingly take care of you like a stray cat that's too adorable to walk by? Before you're even awake and on your feet, you can hear Callahan busy in the kitchen, making breakfast for the both of you.

He serves you food with a ceramic plate and silverware for each meal despite spending months on end trying to find and arrest you. Yet you're here, under his watch, his care, because you—apparently—are the key to his ongoing case. Whether that was true or false, not even Callahan knew the answer.

The faint chirping of birds reminded you of how early Callahan routinely woke up at. The soft flickers of sunlight streaked across Callahan's floors; the white specks of dust floating in the air had entertained your eyes like a morning warm-up.

“I have a day off,” Callahan grumbled as if he had to force those words out, “Do whatever you want today.” He skewered the fried egg onto his fork and brought it to his mouth, chewing quietly as an awkward blanket of silence draped over the both of you.

He watches your head shake up and down sleepily, like you're about to nod off back to sleep.

“If you're that fucking tired just go to sleep.” He stood up abruptly from his chair, the wooden legs screeching along the floorboards. He circles the table to reach you, hooking his hands under your thighs to hoist you up over his shoulder. “You can heat it up later when you're not about to fall on the damn plate.”

He hears your retaliations, just chooses not care. Callahan's struggling with the way you're wriggling in his grasp, hitting his chest, caging his waist with your legs to try and wrestle him off, and whining about how you're awake enough to eat.

“God damn it, just stay still alright—” He pauses when he sees you pant underneath him, cheeks flushed, and hands up in surrender. Now, if that doesn't get him all worked up.

He stares for a heartbeat too long before he pushes himself off of you, shifting his gaze to anything else but your face. Callahan reachs for one of his pillows, chucking it over your face as he grabs your legs and pulls them up.

“Don't give me those eyes, I know what you want,” He grunts as he watches you move the pillow off your face just for him to push it back down, “We'll make it quick.”

His fingers loop under his belt buckle, undoing the hold clasp enough that he could unzip his pants. He let your legs rest against his left shoulder as he turned his attention to your clothing, slipping your pyjama pants off and all the way to your slide off your ankles.

Callahan pulls his own boxers down enough so his dick could spring out, sighing at the shameless sight of his own erection. He never understood how you could get under his skin this much.

Binding your legs with a hand squeezing your calves together, he pushes them up a little bit more until they're a 90 degree angle to your body.

“You get wet so quick,” He chastises you as if that's a bad thing. As if he isn't eagerly sliding the underside of his cock along your slit, scoffing at the way your legs jump from the contact. “Keep still, don't kick me,” he groans, breaching your cunt with his tip before shoving the rest of himself inside you.

He comes to cage your thighs with the curl of his arm as his chest presses flush against the underside of your legs. From this angle he can look down at how your fingers dig into the pillow, holding it to your face just to ground yourself. A little part of him wants to murmur praise, but he pushes that down when he remembers the whole reason why you're here.

You were a criminal.

That thought alone triggered the muscles in Callahan's hand to clench around the soft skin of your leg, imprinting the pads of his finger into you. He bottomed out, leaning forward so he could thrust even deeper past the warm clutch of your body.

“Fuck.” Callahan curses beneath his breath as the vulgar sound of wet flesh slapping against flesh rung through his ears like a high frequency. Your small whines and whimpers were drowned out by the fluff of the pillow while he continues to pound into you as if it were punishment for seemingly nothing.

He let out a louder groan, head tilting off to the side as he loses himself in you, relishing in how your pussy clenched around him like a warm embrace. He mumbled about being close paired with a few degrading words that you could barely hear behind the pillow.

Callahan's hips still as he grips your legs just a tad tighter, stuffing you full of his cum. He keeps himself plugged in your cunt, taking a breather to come down from the high. Through post-orgasm bliss leaving the both of you dazed and satisfied, neither you or Callahan could hear the gentle click of the door opening.

“Sir? Are you alright? i hear grunting—”

That almost whimpish voice—which you didn't recognise—was enough for you to peek over the pillow to see a man with tacky platinum hair and black rimmed glasses standing in the doorway. He seemed to be dressed in a police uniform of sorts, too crisp to be anyone of high authority.

Though you can feel the gradual stiffening of Callahan's dick still nestled inside of you, which undoubtedly pulls a cocky remark from your mouth, “You're into that?” You manage to speak your mind before Callahan is pressing the pillow against your face once more.

“Oh. Woah— Uh, I mean... I didn't mean to intrude I just—” The officer's stammering pulled a long sigh from Callahan and a pinch to his nose bridge.

“If you keep pressing the pillow to his face you're going to suffocate him...” He shifts awkwardly on the spot, eyes darting everywhere but where you and Callahan are connected.

You—dramatically—gasp for air once Callahan removes the pillow from your face, turning your head to look at the man standing in the doorway.

“If you care about this criminal so much why don't you look after him?” Callahan scoffs as he scrutinises Alastair, observing the way the platinum haired officer shuffled around on the spot like a restless dog. Though Callahan may find it highly irritating, the way Alastair is so carefully averting his gaze from your half naked form is somewhat endearing.

“What are you still staring at? You want a turn?” Callahan pulls out of you, suppressing a groan as he sees white leak out of your hole the second he's not stuffed inside you. He haphazardly wipes himself with a tissue before stuffing his still stiff dick into his pants.

“Seems like you're a fucking virgin at your age,” Callahan doesn't even bother to clean you up before he's shifting his spot on the bed to sit behind you. He grabs your waist as he handles you in a position where your back is against his chest. Its oddly domestic, too affectionate for you to relax against him.

“But would your— companion, want... that?” He circles the bed to stand at the end of your feet, covering his eyes so he's not staring at your crotch.

“If he didn't he'd be scrambling out of my grip.” Callahan's hand curls around your side, digging into the skin beneath your ribcage.

“Do something,” Callahan growls. He can feel you tense awkwardly under Alastair's quiet gaze, and he hates that. “Or do I have to teach you?”

Alastair lowers his hand from his eyes, pupils dilating enough to cover the color of his iris. He gawks for a bit—can't pull his eyes away from the erotic sight of his superiors cum dripping out from your slick cunt. It's vile, unprofessional, and yet Alastair can't help but stare.

Callahan drawls out a sigh, fingers descending your body as he roughly plunges them inside your pussy. The curl of his fingers makes you writhe, mostly out of the abruptness of it. He scoops out his own seed, the sticky substance coats his fingers like honey, and he brings it to your mouth. He prods at your lips with the tips of his hand, half smearing the white along your mouth before you part them enough to take it.

Alastair stares, frozen like a deer and growing an inexplicable boner from the sight. The way you let Callahan to do that, and even swirl your warm tongue over his knuckles, evokes a strange warmth in his gut.

“Lean your head down,” Callahan is already barking out commands before Alastair can snap out of his lewd fantasies. He follows accordingly, its an order after all. Alastair lowers his face until its just shy of your body. He can feel the gentle heat radiating off of you.

“Don't get all too excited, rookie, make him feel good before you stick your tongue in,” it's like scolding a disobedient dog with the way Alastair pulls back into his shoulders as if to hide away from his harsh tone.

He places one hand on your inner thigh, immediately retracting it when he feels the muscle twitch under his touch. Alastair's mouth slowly opens and his tongue darts out to sample a taste. You can feel Callahan's fingers tighten around your body absent-mindedly as he practically seethes at how wimpish Alastair is.

“I'm about to die of old age before I can hear him moan,” Callahan grunts, finally caving in as he snakes his hand to your front, roughly pressing on your clit with his index finger. The sudden pressure to your nerves gets a whine bubbling in your throat.

There's something so alluring to how your eyes flutter shut, lips parted and the prettiest noises spill from your mouth just from one touch. Alastair's only seen your face from blurred security footage or low quality images, but never this close and this expressive.

There's a small fluttering in his stomach before he moves without second thought.

Alastair's tongue meets your folds, delving in-between the crevices like he's licking syrup off of his morning toast. His tongue delves out to brush against your opening like licking along your bottom lip when kissing. The stark contrast between the two confuses your body. Callahan is so ruthlessly circling your bundle of nerves with just one finger, yet Alastair is so gently exploring every dip and crevice of your cunt.

“You're enjoying this aren't you?” A deep rumble comes from behind you as Callahan's free hand curls around the column of your throat. “Being tongue-fucked by some cop? What kind of thief are you?”

Though, Callahan doesn't squeeze, nor apply any pressure. He just holds, feeling your pulse quicken as Alastair's tongue delves past your hole and into your wet channel.

“I bet you he's no better than a machine,” he growls “You know I'd do better, but I wouldn't want to put my mouth anywhere near this dirty pussy.”

Callahan lifts his hand up just to bring it back down with a sharp slap to your clit, musing at the way Alastair flinches upon having Callahan’s hand come down so quickly right in front of his face.

You’d feel bad—

If he wasn’t currently sucking you off like his life depended on it.

Alastair is pathetically hard by now; his pants are straining so much he swears he can hear the rip of thread from it. He drags his tongue along the warm walls of your cunt, savoring the way you clench and groan from the sensation—he’s so shamefully picturing how his superior would break through the clench of your pussy, drive himself deeper until he hits your cervix, and how you’d let all those sweet, deliberately loud noises to provoke him further.

You see Callahan’s free hand—the one that wasn’t cradling the curve of your throat—move down to Alastair’s hair, and for a moment, you believe he’s going to thread his fingers between those platinum strands and brush the hair out of his face.

He didn’t.

It wouldn’t be Callahan if he did.

His fingers curled into Alastair’s scalp, grabbing a fistful of hair like pulling roots from the soil. With a sharp tug, Callahan pries Alastair off of you, holding his head up like he’d just dunked the man in a bucket of water. Alastair doesn’t fight it—in fact, he lifts his head to meet eyes with you, dazed like he’d taken his first sip of alcohol when he was eighteen.

Callahan merely scoffs at the sight as he moves his hand from your throat, down your stomach, and to your reddened sex. He doesn’t care for foreplay, especially from how close you were to the end. It slid in a little too easy, his fingers entering with a sickening squelch. Knuckle-deep, Callahan curls just enough to bump your g-spot.

“Ah– fuck.” You jolt, jerking against the weight of Callahan’s arm draped over your body. He alternates between curling his fingers and thrusting his fingers shallowly before he widens the thrusts, fingering you with a new found energy.

He sees Alastair, all round eyes, dumber than a deer in headlights.

And he can’t help but get a little irked at that.

“Open.” Callahan curls his fist tighter in Alastair’s hair, shaking him a little to get him out of that daze. When Alastair finally comes to his senses he rolls his mouth open, tongue slicked with saliva like he was fucking salivating.

The back and forth movement of Callahan’s hand gets more intense, drawing out your orgasm with each press against your walls, punishing your sweet spot. Your incessant squirming and whining grates on Callahan’s nerves; you’re enjoying yourself a little too much. He slams his palm down harder with each thrust in, deliberately hitting your clit with a force that bordered pain. “Just cum already, I’m done dealing with you.” He growls lowly in your ear, yanking Alastair closer to your body as he hooks his fingers inside of you, harshly pressing against that one spot. Your restrain slips, and the next thing you know, Callahan is angling Alastair’s head to catch your orgasm in his mouth. Alastair’s left eye flickers shut, feeling the warmth of your cum splatter across his face as he eagerly swallows what he’s given.

Callahan’s grip loosens, falling away from Alastair’s hair before he chucks a blanket over your body, wrapping you up in the fabric like he was shielding you from Alastair’s wandering eyes.

“Go get yourself fixed up. We’ll talk when you’re done.”

#servicpop — fics/drabbles #bottom male reader #x bottom male reader #ftm reader #uke reader #sub male reader #oc x male reader #x ftm reader #oc x reader #afab reader #mlm nsft

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tacoguacamole · 2 months ago

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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 3

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Chapter Word Count: 7k+]

[Chapter Summary: Some things return in quiet ways — a coffee, a crooked smile, the way his arms still know where to hold you. It isn’t the past, not really, but it lingers at the edges. And as you sit across from him again, you start to wonder if memory alone is enough to make something feel like it’s still here.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The morning air feels different today — crisper somehow, even though the sky outside the kitchen window glows the same pale blue as every other morning.

You don’t flinch when the doorbell rings. You knew he’d come.

When you open the door, Jeongguk is standing there, awkward in his usual work button up and slacks, a small bouquet of purple tulips in his hands. He looks like he wants to say a thousand things but can’t settle on a single one. His eyes flicker down to the purple tulips, then up to you.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leans forward and presses a brief kiss to your forehead, his arms coming around you in a hesitant, practiced hug — one that used to mean comfort, but now it’s just obligatory. His grip is gentle, almost too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already cracked.

Still, you hold on to him a little longer, hanging on to the bit of happiness your heart feels.

Stepping aside, you let him in. The scent of eggs and toast floats lightly from the kitchen, where your mother busies herself with the stove. Her clattering is pointedly loud, each clang sharper than necessary. She doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t even glance his way. Stays silent. Keeps her promise. Lets you have this.

Sitting across from him at the dining table, a plate of toast is left untouched between you. There's a heavy silence, like you're both waiting for someone to call cut on a campaign shoot you’re both working on. He twirls the tulips nervously in his fingers before you gently reach over and take them from him, burying your nose into the petals.

"You remembered," you say softly, a little laugh escaping.

“I’d get sued if I forgot,” he murmurs, lips curling into a faint ghost of a smile—one you haven’t seen in a long time.

Neither of you speak. It's just the clinking of silverware filling the awkward space between you. There’s no pressure to talk, not yet. The list said conversations are optional, and maybe that’s mercy for both of you this morning.

So you just observe him. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just keeps his eyes on the table or the clock or the edge of his coffee mug. But his hand twitches a little, like he's trying to grasp for something. Finally, he asks,

“Am I…” He pauses, clears his throat. “Am I allowed to ask why you’re doing this?”

You knew this question would come at some point. The revised and signed agreements that Seokjin brings to you by morning after you had them delivered to Jeongguk's lawyer, made you figure out just as much. Your own lawyer was shocked with how fast things were progressing.

Setting the fork down carefully, wiping your fingers with a napkin, you reply, “No. No questions throughout the days. You signed, had the chance to counter, but you didn’t.”

Jeongguk swallows hard but says nothing else. Simply goes back to the breakfast he has a hard time digesting.

You breathe in deeply, searching for something easier to talk about. “Wanna tell me about work? What’s been going on lately?”

That pulls a reluctant smile from him. “Mingyu’s the new face of Calvin Klein. I’ve been working on the campaign with him.”

You grin, genuine this time. “Look at you. Still the golden boy.”

He chuckles under his breath, tapping his fingers against his mug. “Just trying to do my job. You know how it is.”

You nod, sipping your coffee. “Work’s just about to get crazy for me, too. Seora’s landed a spot at Paris Fashion Week again.”

His eyes widen, a spark of pride flickering there. “Seriously? That’s…that’s huge.” The excitement he shares almost feel real. “Two years in row. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Mark’s been working really hard to keep getting us the spot. He’ll head to Paris soon with the team to prep.”

His gaze softens a little at the mention of your business partner. “You’re not going this time?”

You shake your head, casually swirling the coffee in your cup. “Someone’s got to hold down the fort here.” The lie comes out smoothly.

“But… Paris is your favorite,” Jeongguk says, quieter this time. “You used to call me at three a.m. just to show me the Eiffel Tower lights.”

Your heart skips a beat, hearing how he remembers the better times of your lives, the soft smile across your lips you don’t hide. “Things change, Gguk. Priorities, you know?”

He watches you longer than necessary, like he’s trying to see through your carefully placed calm. “And Mark’s okay with you staying back?”

There’s a shift in his expression you don’t quite pin point. Jealousy? Sadness?

You laugh, ignoring the possibilities, shaking your head. “Mark’s job is to travel and secure global opportunities for us. It’s what we pay him to do. He’s always been my business partner. You know that.”

Leaning back in your chair, cheek resting on your knuckles, you study him. There’s a hint of relief on him that you catch.

“Were you hoping I was secretly dating him?” The faintest shade of red on his ears makes you chuckle. “Or…wait, Jeon Jeongguk, are you jealous?” That thought would’ve been a miracle. But for now, it’s just a good joke to share over breakfast.

He chuckles, shaking his head, voice barely above a mumble. “No. Just… curious.”

It breaks some of the remaining tension between you. The rest of the breakfast is filled with easier conversations. Updates about mutual friends, industry rumors, the chaos of wrangling Seventeen’s troublemaker into a shoot.

“Thought photographers were supposed to be calm under pressure,” you tease, tapping your spoon lightly against your cup.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. “Try staying calm when your model’s flexing so hard he knocks over the entire backdrop.”

You laugh harder than you should, and for a moment, it feels like you're twenty something again — sitting cross-legged on your old apartment’s rooftop at midnight, talking about dreams and futures you thought were set in stone.

The scent of iris, white musk, and soft leather clings to the air — the signature fragrance of Seora, your second home for so many years.

Your mother walks beside you, silent but steady, her presence a pillar against the invisible weight pressing down on your chest. She’s dressed sharply, as always — an elegant blazer, pearl earrings, her posture straight and proud. But you see the way her hands tighten briefly around the strap of her handbag.

You pretend not to notice.

Employees bow as you pass — some with genuine warmth, others with careful restraint. Still, you return every bow with a polite smile, polished and practiced, a mask you've worn too long to forget.

Mark is already waiting just outside your office – leaning lazily against the wall like he owns the place, as usual.

“There she is. Queen of Seora.” He greets you with wide grin, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. “Her Royal Highness finally graces us with her presence.”

You huff a laugh, and even your mother’s lips twitch with reluctant amusement. She’s long since accepted your dynamic with Mark — chaos and comfort stitched together.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Tuan,” you reply, brushing past him.

He shrugs, falling into step behind you. “Worth a shot.”

Inside, your office is unchanged — glass desk, curated shelves, years of framed achievements, the photo of you and your mother at your first gala.

But something feels off today. The air, maybe. Or the way the room echoes in silence a little too much.

Setting your bag down, you smooth the creases out of your skirt, take a seat after behind your desk. Your mother sits across from you – dignified, composed – her eyes scanning the folders Mark has already placed neatly at the center of the table.

“Preliminary turnover documents.” He explains, voice light, still professional. “Contracts, executive summaries, shareholder agreements. The ones needing your signature are flagged.”

You nod, flipping open the top folder. The pages blur for a moment before your vision clears.

You focus. One step at a time.

Across from you, your mother doesn’t speak. But you feel her eyes — weighted, patient. This was her legacy, once. Then yours. Now returning to her hands again only because it was necessary.

Forgetting the folder, she takes your hand in hers. Gives a hesitant but assuring smile as much as she can. “I’ll take care of it, darling. Don’t worry about a thing.”

You swallow thickly as you try to return a smile.

Mark leans back in his chair, trying to break the heaviness taking over the room. “So,” he says, stretching exaggeratedly, “does this mean I get majority of the shares now that the queen is abdicating?”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up brighter than you expect. “If you’re willing to handle future meetings with Jeongguk. He’s getting a nice chunk once the papers go through, in case you’re forgetting.”

Mark groans, dragging a hand down his face. “So he gets the shares and visitation rights to you?”

“Didn’t realize this was a custody battle.”

Your mother chimes in dryly, eyes still on the new folders spread across your desk. “Funny how he always ends up with the best part of things he barely worked for.”

Mark’s expression tightens, a mix of humor and something sharper. “Always been the lucky one.”

The next hour is all motion. Documents reviewed, initials scrawled, strategies adjusted. You talk vendor relations. You approve final budget notes. When the paperwork is finally stacked neatly in three clean piles — Pending, Signed, Review Again — you lean back in your chair with a sigh.

Your mother rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blazer. “We’ll go over the audit reports tomorrow. For now, let’s go home.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment — searching, aching — before she composes herself again.

You stand too, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of your desk.

Mark doesn’t move. You look at him. The silence stretches too long — too full. “I’ll handle the Paris accounts. Send you photos soon.”

You manage a soft smile, grateful for everything he’s doing without saying it. “Make sure the lighting at our booth doesn’t wash out the models this year.”

“I’m offended you’d even think it.”

You roll your eyes.

But you’re grateful — so grateful — for the way he keeps the edges of this afternoon from cutting too deep.

The evening settled quietly over the house. No peace lingering – more like a tension waiting for the first person to break. The table was already set when Jeongguk arrived. Steam rose from the dishes laid out — galbi, japchae, kimchi jjigae, and a small stack of neatly rolled egg omelettes.

Picking up his chopsticks, he hesitated before speaking. “So…how was work today?”

You chew slowly, buying yourself a little time before answering. “Busy. Meetings here and there. Some finalizing needed for fashion week. A few contract turnovers. You know, the usual things when companies shift hands.” You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the entire afternoon sorting years of hard work.

Jeongguk’s brows furrow slightly. “You’re…handing things over?”

You’re too quick to answer. “No, no—just…just creating a little space to breathe. Was thinking I want some time to myself.” The assuring smile you give Jeongguk was convincing enough for him to move on to lighter things. “Nothing major.”

“Mark still driving you crazy with last-minute changes?”

"Who else do you know works with me, that loves throwing in new ideas when deadlines are hours away?”

Jeongguk’s mouth quirks into a smile, the first genuine one since he sat down. “Mark. Mark Tuan. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The night falls into a soft stillness, the kind that follows when the laughter fades and the last dishes are cleaned. Soft light spilled from the kitchen, casting a warm glow that barely reached past the doorway, leaving the front hall in shadow.

Jeongguk stands by the doorway, his hand resting on the frame, fingers lightly touching it like he needs something to hold onto. His eyes drift – over the neatly hung photos on the wall, the soft rug that shows signs of time, the wide staircase that curves the way he remembers.

One photo catches his eye—bigger than the others and set a little apart. Two people in white, laughing like nothing could ever go wrong, with the ocean in the background—Gwangalli, if he’s really looking. You wonder if he missed it this morning. Don’t blame him if he did. The nerves must’ve been burying him six feet under.

“Sorry. I’ll have Eomma take it down,” you clear your throat, breaking the quiet.

“It’s fine,” Jeongguk shifts. Glances at you and then away. “So…the hugs and forehead kisses,” You notice the small smile tugging on the corner of his lips, feeling thankful for the shift from the awkwardness. "That really had to be on the list, huh?"

A soft laugh slips from you, unguarded. “It did.”

“Was it a punishment?” It’s a joke, but you don’t miss the uncertainty flicker in his eyes.

“Is that how you feel?”

Your bluntness catches him off guard. Guilt flashes. The breath he lets out like a quiet surrender.

Slowly, he steps forward, arms coming up in a hesitant, careful hug. His chest brushes yours, his forehead resting lightly against your temple – a touch familiar, but no longer easy.

Your eyes slip closed as you let yourself lean in, not because it feels natural, but because for a moment, it’s enough to remember how it once did.

“Goodnight,” Jeongguk murmurs, his voice low and close.

You smile, the kind that’s felt more than seen. “Goodnight, Gguk.”

He lingers just long enough to press the lightest kiss to your temple — so fleeting it’s almost not there, and yet, when the door clicks shut behind him and the quiet stretches in, it’s the one thing that stays.

You sit on the edge of the bed later, hair still damp from a quick shower, your fingers curled around the corner of the old photo album you'd told yourself not to open tonight.

The room is filled with nothing but the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint ticking of the wall clock. You don’t know what you’re hoping to find in these pages. Something soft, maybe. Something easier than the quiet goodbye at the door.

The pages smell like dust and faint vanilla — the kind your mother used to tuck into the drawers when you were younger. You flip until your fingers still on a picture, one that had always made you laugh.

You’re on a picnic mat, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off beside you. Jeongguk’s in the next one — lying flat on his back with his arms thrown wide, squinting at the sun. There’s a juice box pressed to his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping him alive in the heat. He’s smiling wide, without shame or thought. His hair’s longer, lighter — summer had bleached the tips — and his shirt has ketchup on it.

You can almost hear it again.

"You're the worst picnic planner ever," he groans, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically.

"You said you wanted hot dogs."

"Not molten lava ones!"

You laugh at the memory. Remembered, he’d still eaten two more after that. Said they were terrible with his mouth full and asked for a third.

You remember how he used to love loudly. How he’d pull you into hugs like he never wanted to let go. The way he’d lean in to kiss your forehead in the middle of a crowd without caring who saw. The time he ran to the other side of the beach where the ice-cream kiosk was, just to bring you a mint chocolate cone he badly wanted you to try, holding it above his head like it was sacred.

"It’s ugly and green."

"You love ugly things."

"That’s why I’m dating you?"

"Exactly," he’d said, grinning, rain dripping from his lashes, "you’ve got great taste."

You close the album slowly.

Tonight, his arms were careful. His kiss, light as a breath. Back then, there was no hesitation. No pause before he touched you, no weight between your names.

You lie back on the bed, pressing your palms over your face, hoping to bury the pain that feels like it has made a home in your chest.

You didn’t think the time would come that you’d have to miss a version of Jeongguk who used to laugh into your shoulder and whisper stupid things to make you snort in public. The version who always held you a little longer, like he could make time stop if he tried hard enough.

You always thought that version of him would stay for a lifetime.

Now, the only way you get to see that side of him is through a list—through something he feels he has to do.

But you’ll take what you can. For now, you’ll accept whatever life hands you.

The sun hasn’t climbed high enough to chase away the gray. The streets are still damp from the night, and your breath clouds faintly as you step outside, coat collar turned up against the early chill. There’s something about mornings like this — quiet, half-lit — that makes everything feel softer around the edges.

You hadn’t slept much. Rest felt like a visitor you forgot to greet last night, slipping past you somewhere between the click of the door and the ache that settled deep in your chest. Still, your steps are steady as you make your way through familiar streets, ones your feet could trace even blindfolded.

The shop appears like a memory made solid — tucked between a florist and a tiny dry cleaner, its awning still a little crooked on one side. The glass is fogged near the bottom, and someone’s taped a doodle of a smiling sun on the door.

Inside, it’s warm. Familiar.

The left wall is still lined with notebooks and sketchpads in soft neutral tones, racks of pastel washi tape, pens arranged by gradient. You let your fingers skim the edge of a purple sketchbook on display — the same brand you used to hoard during finals week. The same ones Jeongguk used to scribble dumb little nothings in just to annoy you.

You claim your usual seat by the window, near the radiator that still hums faintly when it kicks on. The light here is gentle, and the table still has the faint outline of a coffee ring etched into the wood. The café counter sits snug beside the stationery section, and for a second, it’s easy to believe no time has passed at all.

You order for two. Wait. Don’t check your phone. Know Jeongguk’s on his way. Not like you’ve given him a choice.

Your gaze drifts — over the shelves, to the corner where a worn beanbag still sits, slouched as always. Something about the moment folds in on itself, slipping back in time.

You were running late. Again. Hair barely brushed, laces undone, your tote bag unorganized and overflowing with books needed for classes today, jammed under your arm.

The bell above the door had barely finished ringing when you stumbled in and spotted him already there, halfway through a chocolate croissant and bent over your sketchbook – the one you’ve been looking for hours this whole morning, the reason why you were late.

“Seriously?” you’d huffed, dropping into the seat across from him. “Flipped our dorm upside down looking for that and it was with you this whole time?”

“Page 14,” Jeongguk ignored your dramatic flair, eyes not even lifting. “Your mannequin’s missing a head.”

“That’s on purpose,” you muttered, grabbing the sketchbook and flipping it shut. “It’s avant-garde.”

He finally looked up, eyebrows raised in mock seriousness. “Ah. The Headless Collection. Bold.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile pulling at your mouth. “You’re annoying.”

“Thank you. I rehearse.”

You’d kicked him lightly under the table. He’d stolen a bite of your sandwich in retaliation. You’d retaliated harder, dropped three sugar cubes into his coffee knowing he only liked it black and snatched the entire croissant off his plate.

“Hey!” he’d gasped, scandalized, mid-chew. “That’s a war crime.”

You shrugged, all innocence as you took a deliberately slow bite, crumbs tumbling down your chin. “Shouldn’t have touched my sandwich.”

His eyes narrowed. “That croissant had layers.”

“So did my patience,” you replied, mouth full.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice like he was delivering a threat. “You realize this means war.”

You grinned. “Then choose your weapon wisely, Jeon.”

“Fine. Sketchbook turned doodle board it is.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would.”

And just like that, he was scribbling something on your sketchbook, tongue poking out in concentration while you lunged to grab it back.

The stationery café had always been your reset button — notebooks open, drinks warm, pencils rolling off the table because Jeongguk couldn’t sit still. He always left little doodles on your margins – stick figures with six-packs, dramatic cape swirls, and when he’d feel to be more annoying, he’d scribble a crown your head.

“This one's you,” he said once, pointing to a tiny sketch of a girl shouting at a sewing machine.

“She looks like she hasn’t slept in three days.”

“Art imitates life.”

You snorted into your latte. “I’m replacing you with someone quieter.”

“Impossible,” he grinned. “You’d miss me by lunchtime.”

He was right.

You always did.

And now, it wasn’t just during your chaotic uni lunch breaks that you missed him

The chair across from you slides back gently.

You don’t look up right away — just fumble with your phone before meeting his eyes.

Jeongguk shrugs off his coat with one hand, ruffles his hair like the wind annoyed him, then sits. Tie loose around his collar, shirt wrinkled just enough to tell you he dressed in a hurry. He glances around, then places a single stem of purple tulips on the table, the soft color a little too bright for the morning. “They still sell those overpriced gel pens?”

You nod, sipping your drink. “They’re too smooth to resist.“

His eyes flick toward the shelves. “I used to steal yours.”

“You used to steal everything.”

He smiles faintly — just the corner of his mouth lifting. “You let me.”

“Was being generous.”

The waitress sets down your orders — one pastry each, two drinks. You watch as Jeongguk breaks a corner off his croissant. Eats it with quiet precision. He never used to do that. Used to make a mess.

You don’t comment on it.

“So,” he says after a moment, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “still designing things with no heads?”

You didn’t think he’d remember. A smile slips across your lips. “Wow. Callback.”

“I’m nostalgic.”

Your eyes meet. There’s something light there, flickering — not quite the warmth from before, but you’re glad to see something at least.

You reach into your bag and pull out a thin sketchpad, sliding it across the table. He lifts the cover slowly, eyes scanning your latest work. “You gave her a head this time.”

You lean back, arms crossed loosely. “Growth.”

He chuckles under his breath, fingers smoothing the paper. “She looks like she’s running.”

“She is.”

Jeongguk doesn’t ask from what. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just taps the edge of the page twice, then closes it.

The silence is comfortable. A little cautious. But not cold.

You tear off a small piece of your pastry, drop it on his plate like old habit. Used to do it when you still had some left from his that you’d stolen. Even if you’d stolen his precious croissant, you never actually finished it, always left most of it for him – knowing breakfast was the only time he’d actually eat properly, your favorite meal of the day – before the two of you start your own classes.

You knew he’d run on caffeine and stubbornness alone until evening. Then he’d video call you during one of his lectures looking like a grumpy, overgrown bunny with a camera strap digging into his neck and a frown set between his brows.

He blinks at it, then at you. “What’s that for?”

“For luck,” you simply reason.

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in luck.”

“Thought maybe I could this time.”

Jeongguk looks at you as if he’s trying to read you. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Ends up not saying anything. Just eats the piece.

Your drink’s gone lukewarm, still you sip away hoping to drown in the energy it’s supposed to give with the day that’s waiting ahead of you. Jeongguk’s gaze lingers out the window for a moment, watching a cyclist roll by, the soft clatter of gears audible through the glass.

“You still come here often?” he asks, voice casual.

“Every now and then,” you say softly. “Some places just… stick.”

Jeongguk doesn’t press. You’re thankful he doesn’t.

“I used to think the owner hated me,” he says instead. “Always caught me doodling on the napkins.”

“She didn’t hate you,” you reply. “She thought you were wasting perfectly good napkins.”

A small chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I was creating modern art.”

You roll your eyes. “You drew a chicken with sunglasses.”

“Exactly. Groundbreaking stuff. I’m the direct descendant of Van Gogh.”

The laugh that escapes you is softer this time — real, but quieter than it might’ve been years ago. You catch him watching you then. Not intensely. Not curiously. Just… there. Present. It slips away quickly when he looks down, wiping off his side of the table in random circles.

You glance over your shoulder at the display shelf by the counter — a glass case where people leave notes, scraps of things from past visits. It used to be empty. Now it’s cluttered and full of lives layered on top of one another.

Jeongguk follows your gaze. “We never left anything in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “We never needed to.”

He nods slowly, and you wonder if the weight in your words settled somewhere in him too.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a pen. Those smooth gel types you always fell for even when you promised yourself you wouldn’t spend another won on stationery. You slide it across the table toward him.

He looks at it, then at you. “For me?”

“Figured you’d want to deface another napkin.”

Jeongguk tears off the corner of one of the paper placemats and scribbles something. You reach over and take the pen back before he can set it down, slipping it into your pocket like it was nothing. He folds the scrap once and tucks it into his jacket.

“You’re not putting it in the case?” You ask, confused why he’d even want to keep something like that – something you’re sure doesn’t matter to him anymore.

“Maybe next time.”

You finish the last sip of your drink as the hour pulls closer to what’s next — work, the rest of the day, the return to whatever this routine is becoming between the two of you.

You stand, slipping your bag over your shoulder, grabbing on to the purple tulip after.

Jeongguk rises too, fingers brushing the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself again – a new habit you started noticing from him.

“Thanks for showing up,” you say lightly, adjusting your scarf.

I had to. He doesn’t say it, but you can see the words hovering in the hesitation behind his eyes — quiet, but impossible to miss.

The sky’s a little brighter when you both step out. The cold still clings to your skin, but the café warmth lingers at your back.

As you turn to go, Jeongguk calls out, “Hey.”

You glance back.

“I liked the new sketch,” he says. “She looked like she knew where she was going.”

“She doesn’t.”

He smiles faintly. “Neither did we.”

You don’t say anything. Just tuck your hands into your pockets, gave one last nod, before walking away.

As you pass the glass, you catch a glimpse of something slightly out of step, tucked into the reflection. You, a little lighter, and the boy beside you who used to draw chickens with sunglasses and mumble dumb jokes just to see you pretend not to laugh.

And for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just another morning in the middle of an old life that never cracked at the seams.

The office is a mess. Papers piled up like threats, some teetering close to the edge of his desk. The inbox blinks like a warning light. Jeongguk sits in the middle of it all, elbows pressing into the surface, fingers rubbing at his eyes. The screen blurs. Photoshoots. Edits. Meetings he’s already missed. His coffee’s gone cold. The tremble in his hand says it’s his third cup — or fourth. He’s lost count.

And on top of it all, a notification from Taehyung flashes across his phone.

K. Taehyung: Lunch date with Jiwoo.

Jeongguk swears under his breath, chair scraping against the floor as he stands. He grabs his coat on the way out, not bothering to fix his hair in the hallway mirror. As he shrugs it on, something light slips from his pocket and lands near the leg of the desk—a torn bit of paper, edges smudged faintly with purple petals drawn from a gel pen. He doesn’t notice. Leaves the office without checking if he’s forgotten anything else.

The drive to the café blurs by. Taehyung’s voice crackles through the speaker, rambling about a rookie group, a broken light, a late shoot — but Jeongguk only half-listens, mind drifting far away.

Muted light through tall windows. The smell of ground coffee, old novels, and notebooks. The gentle scrape of a cup across a wooden table. A sketchbook lying open.

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The café he pulls up to now is different. Newer, glass and steel, designed for aesthetics more than comfort. Inside, everything gleams. Clean lines. Polished floors. The hum of conversation blends with quiet jazz in the background, curated to feel effortless.

Jiwoo’s already at the table when he enters. She stands when she sees him, her smile brief, eyes scanning his face like she’s trying to gauge the weather. She leans in for a hug, light and cautious.

A waitress appears, takes their orders — sandwiches, two coffees. Then the silence settles between them, brittle and careful.

“You texted me,” Jiwoo speaks first. “Didn’t say much.”

Jeongguk exhales, straightens the napkin on his lap. “It wasn’t something I could explain over the phone.”

She nods slowly. “I figured.”

He runs a thumb along the rim of his water glass. “She found the divorce papers.”

There’s a pause. Jiwoo’s gaze drops for a moment, something unreadable settling in her expression before she nods again. “I thought that might happen. You waited too long, Gguk.”

“I know.”

“How did she take it?”

Jeongguk stares at the edge of the table. “She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Just… agreed. Agreed to sign on her terms.”

Jiwoo raises an eyebrow. “What kind of terms?”

“Meals together. Flowers. Staying close. Old habits. Forehead kisses,” he finishes, voice lower now. “Just… things we used to do.”

The words sounded simple when laid out like that, but they weren’t. They were heavy, drenched in old love and broken memories.

She looks down at her drink, stirring it even though it doesn’t need stirring. “And you agreed?”

Jeongguk nods. “I owe her at least that much.”

The noise in the café comes like a blessing. Somewhere behind them, a coffee grinder whirs to life. A baby laughs. Jeongguk’s eyes flick toward the window, to the glint of sun on glass, anywhere else except on Jiwoo, too scared of what he might find — anger, jealousy, resentment.

But he finds none of it when he finally turns to her. Only sadness. And love. And guilt.

“I hate that we hurt her,” Jiwoo says after a moment, her voice thick with guilt. “I never meant for it to turn out like this. I hope I can tell her that.”

Jeongguk’s gaze drops to her hands, still, folded tightly together. There’s a quiet ache in the way they sit, almost like they’re waiting for something. He doesn’t pause to think—just moves, his hand gently covering hers. It’s not an answer. Not an apology. Simply a comfort he hopes she feels is enough from his touch.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Neither of us did.”

The words hang in the space between them, soft but solid. Like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward. They don’t shatter anything. Not yet. But they make everything shift.

Jiwoo lets out a breath she’s been holding. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. “Sometimes I think maybe I deserve to lose everything.”

“You didn’t make me love her less,” Jeongguk says. “That’s on me. And you’re not losing anything. I’m here. I’m still here.”

His words are calm, certain—like if he says it gently enough, it’ll stop the noise in his head.

The hard office couch pressing into your back wakes you up with a sharp breath and neck sore from where you’d curled up with your throw blanket. The room is dim and quiet, the evening air is calm and something warm and tasty drifts through the air.

Your eyes flutter open, confusion tightening in your chest.

Jeongguk.

He’s there, kneeling by the coffee table, unpacking takeout containers with quick, careful movements. The soft crinkle of paper bags and the light tap of chopsticks on plastic fill the still of the room. His hair falls over his forehead, his sleeves pushed up, jaw tight and sharp in the fading light.

“Jeongguk… what—” you rasp, voice rough from sleep, “what are you doing here?”

He stills for half a second, fingers pausing on the lid of a box.

When he looks up, his eyes flick across you quickly — too quickly. “You’re kidding, right?” His laugh is soft, faintly bitter. “You called me here. Dinner. List.” He lifts a takeout box slightly, then lets it fall back with a soft thud. “Just following orders.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he holds himself, something tense in his shoulders, in the tired set of his mouth. But you can’t name it. Only know it’s been this way for the past few days.

Silence was acceptable, clearly you stated that on the list, but meals lately went on without your slight playful banter. Just when you thought your conversations could last more than five sentences now.

Jeongguk was never the type to waste food – something about a silly belief that the Gods would take away his perfect sculpture if he even dared – but you’ve been cleaning up for him lately, giving away his leftovers to the homeless you’d find after your dinners.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharply. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, voice rougher now. “Forget it.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look at you. Just pushes a pair of chopsticks toward your side of the table, carelessly, like he doesn’t want to talk. Then you catch it – subtle, but present.

A scent that doesn’t belong here. Sweet, citrus, expensive – far from the lavender one that sticks to your blazers for weeks – one that you’d sense clinging onto his shirts when he came home too late. The same scent hovering in the car when you borrowed his since yours was in the shop one time. The scent that told you something had shifted before the universe decided to slap you with the truth.

You shift your legs beneath the blanket, voice gentle. “You were with her today, weren’t you?”

Jeongguk stops mid-movement. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

Still, you smile—small, sad, and real. “It’s okay. I just… noticed.”

He exhales, short and stiff. “You always do.”

“You’re acting like you got caught doing something wrong.” It’s meant to tease, to warm the cold edge creeping in – a light touch to remind him that he doesn’t have to walk on egg shells around you anymore.

He finally turns to face you, expression tired. “Didn’t I?”

“No,” you say, quiet. “Not really.”

Jeongguk stares at you, like he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness you’ve been showing. Eyes flicking away for a second like he’s searching for a reason to deserve it. But there’s nothing—just you, sitting there, still choosing to stay soft when it would’ve been easier not to.

You pat the spot on the couch beside you. “Sit down. Eat something. Then talk to me.”

“Kind of hard to do when our wedding rings are right here and well –“

A small laugh echoes from you, unsure if it’s meant to ease the tension or just fill the silence.

“Think about you and me, back in Uni, two dumb teenagers whose biggest crisis was whether to stock up on strawberry or banana milk for finals week."

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of the old Jeongguk you remember. “Banana Milk wins, by the way.”

“Nuh-uh. Strawberry milk.” You chuckle, slowly drifting back to your point. “You’ve got to let out whatever you’re holding in there, Gguk. Sulking through the remaining twenty-two days will make you feel like there’s twenty-two years left. I can’t have you hating me for that long."

It’s a soft joke, still, it curls in your chest like smoke.

“I don’t hate you.” he says, like it never even crossed his mind.

Eyes focused on the blanket, you nod, holding onto the words quietly—they’re not much, but they’re more than you thought you’d get.

“If it helps, I’ll turn around and you can talk,” Shifting slight, folding your legs beneath, you face the other way. “You won’t get to see me, won’t get to worry about how I’ll react. Maybe I’ll nod, just to let you know I’m listening, and promise, I will.”

The air is filled with stillness. You think Jeongguk might’ve left you in the office but you hear his soft breaths as he lowers himself beside you, slowly but heavy with the weight he’s been carrying for the past few days.

“I was with her today.” He starts, quickly stops, unsure if he should continue but does anyway, the weight burning in his chest. “We talked earlier this week. About you. About…everything.”

You wait. Because if there’s one thing you still know how to do, it’s wait for him to speak when he doesn’t want to.

“She feels guilty,” he goes on. “Wants you to know that she never meant for it to happen this way. That we hurt you.”

You nod slowly, not because it helps, but because you’re too tired to hold it against her, against them. Most importantly, if it eases something in Jeongguk, then that’s more than enough.

Your heart stumbles but you let him continue, keeping that promise to listen.

“Told her about the list you set up before we…”

“Divorce. You can say it.” There’s a quiet laugh that escapes you.

“Right. That. Uhm…so I told her that and she’s scared.” Jeongguk says, voice cracking in between. “Thinks she’s going to lose me.”

“Will she?” You question a little sharp. Didn’t mean to. Just blurted it out in the spur of the moment.

“No.” he answers too quickly. Your heart silently cracks too quickly. “I mean…fuck, I don’t mean to sound –” You begin to hear sniffs and the slight tremble of his hands that are too close to your back now, as if he’s trying to reach out to you, trying to apologize to you.

“Hey, Gguk, breathe. It’s okay. It’s just me. Eighteen-year-old me, strawberry milk. Focus. I know you’ve got this.” You smile even though he can’t see it. Hoped he hears it in your voice the comfort you want to give him.

And you think it might’ve worked when you catch that soft, boyish laugh, just like the one he had at eighteen.

“It’s why I’ve been seeing her more often these days. Wanted to make her feel that I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s good you’re trying for her,” you manage to say. “But you sound more exhausted than relieved that you’re trying.”

He lets out a breath, ragged. “Because I am exhausted. Feels like I’m not trying enough. Feels like I broke something." He pauses. "No, I know I did. Her. You. Me. And now I feel stuck pretending like I know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything, Gguk.” You say softly. “Not for me.”

The quiet in the room makes you hear him clearly swallow the lump in his throat. “What do I do?”

“Focus on you and her, if that’s what you want. Save what you can. Fight for what you can. Don’t carry all of the weight.” You pause, staring ahead, on the shelves behind your desk. “You may be the golden boy, but you’re not God.” The words sit between you for a second. “Can’t save everybody. Simple as that.”

A small silence settles, like peace finding its way.

Behind you, the shift is clear when you hear Jeongguk move closer; leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. His arms wrap around you, gentle, like old times. You’d like to think it is and not because of some stupid terms you listed on paper.

“You always knew how to keep me off the ledge.” His grip around your waist tightens for a second. Your heart tightens too. “Why did you let me talk to you like this?”

You let out an unintended shaky breath. “Because you’re trying.”

“Trying what?”

“To be good.” You don’t move, just sit there with him holding on, blanket in between, your hands curled into the fabric to keep them from shaking.

You wanted this—for him to feel lighter, even just a little. And you meant every word. You really did.

But each word that slipped out left a mark, small and invisible, like paper cuts. You blink, slow, but a tear still slips free, soaking into your lap before you can stop it.

Jeongguk doesn’t see. You don’t let him.

The deal was for him to open up to you. No one said anything about you needing to open up in return.

And some things are better left quiet.

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

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gracexthoughts · 11 months ago

Text

the strong

jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!oc

warnings; slight canon divergence, cussing, canon typical incest, fighting, implied smut at the end (i cannot actually write smut to save my life sorry), s1ep8 spoilers ig summary; after vaemond's petition, aegon’s jesting, and aemond’s taunts, jacaerys is furious and seeks solace and advice from his step-sister and betrothed. inspired by tyrion telling jon to wear his bastardy “like armor so it can never be used to hurt'' him in the first ep of GOT (I’ve been rewatching to feed the brainrot) a/n; daenera is daemon’s eldest daughter from his first marriage, in my head daemon didn’t kill rhea and she died in childbirth just before rhaenyra’s wedding so daeny is about half a year older than jace but you can use your imagination as it doesn’t really matter.

“I dare you to say that again!” Jacaerys growls from the dancefloor. Daenera turns in her seat to see Jacaerys with his fists clenched, his eyes dark and glaring daggers at his uncle. The feast had been amicable considering the events of the day, but while the adults’ words of peace ring honest between them, animosity between the young princes, princess and ladies nears its boiling point. Prince Aegon has spent most of the evening cooing foul and crude jests to Jacaerys and Daenera about their soon approaching wedding. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Prince Aemond has added his own taunt to the pile: a thinly veiled comment on the Velaryon brothers' true parentage.

“Why? Twas only a compliment,” Aemond defends, lowering his goblet to face Jacaerys, stepping towards him as he does. “Do you not think yourself Strong?” Jacaerys answers by bringing his fist up to Aemond’s jaw, the sound resonating through the hall. Lucerys leaps up from his seat, Vaemond’s slanders still heavy in his ears, but Aegon intercepts him, slamming him down on the table and sending food and silverware clattering from the impact. Daenera, ever protective of her siblings, leaps from her seat and wraps her arms around the eldest prince’s neck, putting all her weight against him to remove his hands from Lucerys. He grapples with her for a moment before she is ripped off by a Kingsguard. Knights separate Aegon from Luceryrs, Jacaerys from Aemond, and Rhaena pushes Baela back from leaping into the fray as well.

The Queen pulls her second son back, muttering angrily to him but he pulls away from her as Rhaenyra moves towards her sons and Daemon to his daughters. “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family. Though it seems my nephews aren’t so proud of theirs!” Aemond continues to taunt, leveling a snide one-eyed glare at Jace. Jacaerys wriggles out of the guard’s grip and steps menacingly towards Aemond.

“Wait, wait,” Daemon says, holding a finger up and stopping Jacaerys in his tracks, forcing him back to stand next to Daenera.

“Go to your quarters, all of you. Go now!” Rhaenyra commands sternly, her eyes holding a warning as she stares down her eldest son and motions for the rest of her children, by blood and by marriage, to leave.

“Come on,” Rhaena says softly, pulling her sisters along with her and out of the hall by their hands. Daenera relents with a sigh but not before squeezing Jacaerys’ and flashing him a sympathetic smile.

“Are you alright, Daeny?” Baela asks as they make their way to their rooms.

“Fine, worried about the boys,” she mutters in reply.

“I’m sure Jace and Luke are alright, sister,” Rhaena says softly, wrapping her hand around Daeny and Baela’s arms. Daenera nods agreeing but still can’t shake the worry in her chest.

Near an hour later, a knock sounds on the door to Daenera’s chambers, pulling her from the depths of the book in her hands. “Come in!” she calls expecting one of her maids and, not bothering to stand from her comfortable position on the settee in front of the fire, turns to see who enters. “Jace,” the lady says softly as her betrothed steps into her chambers, his eyes still dark with rage.

The pair have been betrothed for nearly ten years, the announcement made soon after their parents married, and as they grew up together they have grown a deep love for each other: a bond of unconditional trust and adoration between the future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Jacaerys comes to crouch in front of her, placing his hands on her knees and caressing the joint over the silk of her night gown. His tunic is gone, leaving him in just his white undershirt and trousers, Daenera’s eyes trail to the bit of collarbone she can from her vantage point.

“Are you alright? Did Aegon hurt you?” the prince asks, searching her deep purple eyes that snap back to his face at his words.

“I’m fine, Jace. If I can match you in a spar, I can handle myself against that drunken lecher,” she chuckles slightly, setting her book aside and reaching up to brush a stray curl away from his brow. “Are you alright?” She asks, reaching for his hand with its already darkening skin. She’d let her hair down to hang around her shoulders and even clouded by anger as his mind is, Jacaerys notices her etherealness. She has always been a sharp and unsettling kind of beauty, her eyes seeming to have the ability to gaze upon your soul, but Jacaerys relishes her softer side. The side she so rarely shows others.

“Wish I’d gotten more blows in,” he grumbles, standing and pacing in front of the hearth, his shoulders tight and face scrunched in anger.

“Maybe you’ll have a chance before we return to Dragonstone,” she offers with a smirk. “The cunts deserve it, the pair of them.”

“Will I never be free of this? Of these slanders that are whispered in my wake? Will they sneer at me when I sit on the throne? Ignore my rulings and snicker-”

“Jace, breathe,” Daenera pleads, concerned with the rising panic she sees in his eyes.

“I cannot, Daeny!” the prince exclaims, “How am I meant to be a King, a leader, when I am not respected?”

“Darling, we are barely eight and ten, you are second in line at present. Respect will come with time. Once your mother is Queen the people will become familiar with you, with your grace, your kindness, your justness,” she says, placatingly, reaching out for his hand, forcing him to stop his pacing and look at her. “They will forget the slanders the Hightowers murmur because you will be a good and just King. Besides, it's your mother’s blood that makes you royal, not your father’s.”

“And yet there will always be those who call me a Strong. The King cannot take every single one of their tongues,” he says with a heavy sigh, running a ringed hand through his hair in distress. Daenera considers this for a moment, knowing it is true enough, and Jacaerys sighs, turning to face the hearth, planting his hands on the stone and gazing down into the flames.

“So make it a compliment,” the lady says after a long moment, leaning back on her arm on the settee, her deep amethyst eyes watching the prince.

“Make the doubt of my paternity a compliment?” Jacaerys scoffs, turning to her. “How in the Seven Hells-”

“If they shall call you ‘Strong’ no matter what, the more you rage against it the more power the slight has. The only way to take away its power is to show it cannot be used to hurt or diminish you. Take it as your moniker and wear it like armor so all know tis not a weapon they can wield against you.”

“Jacaerys the Strong?” he asks slowly, the wheels turning behind his eyes, unable to deny the intelligence of her council. He sits down slowly next to Daenera, his eyes fixed on a point on the rug.

“King Jacaerys the Strong, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” she purrs, leaning towards the prince, a smirk on her lips. She watches as a firelight dances in his eyes, his pupils dilating at her proximity.

“Hm, not bad,” he smiles, and leans down, connecting his brow with Daeny’s, running a finger calloused from years of practice with a blade across her jaw.

“What is it?” Daenera asks softly after a moment, pulling away to look into Jace’s eyes, sensing he is still feeling troubled.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, not meeting her eyes.

“Jacaerys,” she chides, cupping his face in her hands and forcing him to look at her.

“Just… fucking Aegon… I fear he is right in his jests. I have no idea how to please you as you deserve,” Jacaerys confesses shyly, pulling his face from Daeny’s hands as heat creeps into his face.

Daeny cannot help the laugh that escapes her lips, of all the troublesome worries that the day has brought, her sweet betrothed worries of her pleasure. Sex is not something the pair have discussed in length yet, even though their wedding is a little more than a moon away. The pair tend to flit around such topics, even when they steal secret kisses in dark corners of Dragonstone and come away with scarlet cheeks and racing hearts.

“And now even you laugh at me!” He exclaims exasperatedly and stands to move away but Daenera quickly stands as well, stepping in front of him and stopping him from leaving. She pushes him back to his seat and kneels before him, her hands on his shoulders.

“No, my love, I’m not laughing at you, I’m sorry. Tis just that you should not concern yourself with such worries,” she says gently, running her hand from his broad shoulder to the toned expanse of his chest, feeling his heart beating under his skin.

“But I-”

“I have no more knowledge on how to please a man than you do a woman, Jace,” she continues, her voice placating and soft. “We shall learn together and be stronger and better for it.” Jacaerys meets her amethyst eyes, finding comfort in the truth and lack of judgment he finds in them. “Besides, I cannot believe that Aegon knows any more than you do. He has never had any care for anything besides his own pleasures and you heard poor Helaena’s toast. He targets you because he knows you are more generous and loving than he could ever hope to be.” Jacaerys chuckles at this, knowing she speaks true of his uncle and melts into her touch at last.

“You truly do not care?” He asks, toying with the ends of her silver hair that brushes against his knee.

“Shall I prove it to you, my prince?” she purrs, a teasing mischief in her eyes as she runs a hand up his chest to the nape of his neck, pulling him down to meet her lips in a kiss. He sighs into her embrace, his hands finding purchase on her waist as he deepens the kiss, his tongue darting between her lips. Realizing she is still kneeling on the floor in front of the settee, he grips her hips tightly and pulls her to straddle him, pulling a gasp from her lips which eggs the prince on. Jacaerys’ hands brush through Daeny’s hair, pushing it away from her face, and trail down her back to explore her figure; Daenera weaves one hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the roots and eliciting a groan she feels through her other hand which rests on his chest.

Without warning, Jace stands and without breaking their kiss carries Daeny with him as he makes his way to the bed, resting her gently on the linen sheets and covering her smaller body with his. All his insecurities and rage momentarily forgotten as he loses himself in her, the only girl he has ever had eyes for, and proves to her, and to himself, just how strong a lover he can be.

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saturnville · 5 months ago

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one way | kelvin harrison, jr.

part one

pairing: kelvin harrison jr x black fem oc (nia) summary: nia has kelvin wrapped around his finger. so much so that when he misses her, he goes above and beyond to do something about it. warnings: none wc: 5,341 an: listen to one way by 6lack & tpain. also, I decided to make this a mini series. so, this is some time (an unspecified time) later. remember: likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are encouraged! tags: @kirayuki22 @greedyjudge2 @notapradagurl7 @irishmanwhore @honeytoffee @theogbadbitch @jazziejax

Work trips usually thrilled Kelvin. The allure to explore the world on his company’s dollar sparked child-like glee. First-class seats with heated eye masks and champagne, king-sized beds with duvets white as freshly fallen snow, and cuisines so rich in flavor they inspired his dinner menu for his evolving dinner menu back home.

But this work trip was different.

The clatter of silverware in the hotel restaurant felt deafening. The nightlife of the city below grated his nerves like nails on a chalkboard, mocking him. His eyes found a couple, smiling and twirling on the sidewalk. He was green with envy as visuals of their love blinded him. Even cheesy romantic comedies on free streaming felt empty without someone to giggle over the awkward scenes.

For the first time, Kelvin didn’t bask in the thrill of the escape from his life back home. He was drowning in the stillness of loneliness. And he hated it.

Once a month, Nia took a Friday off. She dedicated it to deep cleaning her home, doing laundry that may have gotten caught in the crossfire of work and other responsibilities, self-care, and anything else that fit on the long list stamped on the front of her refrigerator. The reset day was often intense and busy. It took a toll on her body, but having everything done by early afternoon was an accomplishment—an accomplishment she celebrated with Chinese food and peach-infused wine.

Nia sat in the corner of her L-shaped couch, laundry scattered to her left and folded piles on her right. The Lion King played softly in the background as she worked through the last of her baskets, humming along to "Be Prepared." Well, humming might be generous. Kelvin would call it her "tone-deaf symphony," but she didn’t care.

Folding clothes was tedious—her least favorite chore. Four baskets of proof surrounded her. Her mom loved laundry, but Nia avoided it like the plague, only tackling it when she had no choice.

Mid-hum, her ringtone blared, ear-blitzing and obnoxious.

She stretched over a pile of clothes, her eyes still glued to the screen, and patted around until her hand found her phone. She swiped and accepted the call without looking at the caller's identification. “Hello?” Her voice was soft but curious, still folding.

“What are you doing?” Kelvin. His voice was low and easy, like a Sunday morning. She shifted in her seat at the sound of his tone scratching a part of her brain she didn’t know could feel an itch. She heard the life of the city bustling in the background. She smiled softly as if he could see her. "Laundry," she replied, still focused on the task.

“Why? She asked cautiously, wondering why a response didn’t come from him for multiple minutes. Kelvin didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she was met with the pitter-patter of his thumbs against the screen that sounded a lot like her mother’s keyboard when she angrily typed emails to her teachers for not letting her use the bathroom.

Then, calmly as if it wouldn't change her evening: “Smooth. Pack a bag.” Kelvin had a certain way with words, she noted. Sometimes, he spoke in a way that expected a response to keep a conversation going. But an assertiveness in his voice left no room for response; it was like a four-word monologue that made her stomach clench with equal parts curiosity and the kind of flutter only Kelvin could.

In her shock, she paused. A silence so complete that it hummed through the hair. Then: “What?”

The breath he huffed out told her he didn’t like repeating himself. But, he would have to. He went from sending her cute messages with strings of emojis, declaring he missed her and couldn’t wait to see her, to firmly telling her to pack a bag.

“Pack a bag,” he repeated, his voice unwavering. Her eyebrows raised, and her head jerked back. “Your flight leaves in four hours.”

Nia startled out a laugh, the kind that started in her throat but didn’t quite reach her chest. He had to be kidding. He was quite the jokester, always finding a way to pull her leg. But this was a joke she didn’t want to partake in. “Kelvin, are you—dude, what? Are you serious?”

“I told you I don’t like to lie, Nia,” was his response. She swallowed. “I already booked the ticket. I sent it to your email.”

Silence on the other end stretched again, but he could hear her faint exhale, the sound of a laugh she fought to suppress. “You didn’t even ask me.” How did he know she didn’t have any last-minute plans? Not that she did, but the question would’ve been nice. Her eyes darted to the laundry, trying to determine how many outfits she could make if she decided to go.

She could hear the smug smile stretching across his lips like a Cheshire cat. Wide and arrogant. “I didn’t have to. But feel free to say no. I can always get a credit. Take a solo trip to Europe, or whatever the hell y'all be doing.” Bastard.

Nia swallowed thickly. “You’re very sure of yourself,” she managed, but her voice betrayed her without a second thought.

Kelvin hummed like a preacher in the church.“Yeah,” he replied, the lazy confidence in his voice matched only by the image she conjured of him leaning back, probably smirking like he’d won something big. "I don’t leave room for guessing when it comes to you.” Had God answered her prayers? To have a man be serious about her to where he’d pulled out that heavy-ass credit card and made accommodations for her to be beside him for the weekend.

Her breath caught. The kind of confidence left her toes curling and her heart sprinting like FloJo. She shifted in her seat again, the sudden heat between her thighs growing warmer by the second. She tried to find her footing and gain a sense of self-control to push back against the storm of him. Nah, he wasn't a storm. He was a hurricane--intense and uncontrollable, with the power to consume her whole. She'd let him.

"Anyway," he sighed, a soft grunt following as his chair creaked. "The Uber will be there in an hour."

Nia chuckled breathlessly. Her eyes fell on the half-folded shirt in her lap. He was serious. "You, Kelvin, are impossible."

Kelvin’s laugh rang through the phone like he knew exactly how she was fighting the urge to drop everything and get to it. "You should probably get to it, Nia. Time's ticking."

"Yeah, yeah," she said as nonchalantly as she could. She carefully slid off the couch, praying he wouldn't hear her moving at his command. "Now, get off my phone so I can finish what I was doing. Bye, Kelvin."

"You know, I like how you say my name." Her gasp pulled a chuckle from him. Before he could reply, she pulled her phone away from her ear and pressed the end, her eyes staring blankly at the wall. He played too damn much.

She dropped her phone on the couch, ignoring its soft click when it collided with the remote, and paced in the living room. Glancing at the clock, she saw forty-five minutes. She could do this. She wasn't a last-minute packer, but Kelvin's urgency made her second-guess every outfit she pulled from her closet.

"Pack for a weekend getaway," she muttered, grabbing a handful of clothes from the pile. "It's not that hard." Panties, bra, satin pajamas. Would a dress be needed? Of course; what if they went to dinner? Short, long, slit, or no slit?

Nia dropped her phone, pacing in the living room, pretending this wasn’t the most nerve-wracking thing she’d done all week.

She tossed another shirt onto the bed and squinted at it. Was this cute enough? She didn’t even know what they’d be doing—he could’ve been sending her to the middle of nowhere for all she knew. Still, she folded it carefully, like she wasn’t imagining how his arms would feel around her when she landed.

Don’t think about him. Don’t think about how much you want to be with him already.

With one last glance at the time, she grabbed her bag, mentally telling herself that she could pull this off. She didn’t need to panic. But as the seconds ticked away, she realized one thing was for sure—she wasn’t packing fast enough.

Kelvin leaned against the sleek, black SUV, arms crossed and a smile tugging on his lips as he waited. He couldn't remember the last time he was this eager to pick someone up--probably never if he was being honest with himself.

It wasn't just that she was flying in to see him, though that part made his heart leap. It was the fact that she'd be his in a way she had never been before. No distractions, no hiccups, nothing pulling them away from one another. The thought had been driving him mad since he booked her flight. He imagined every detail his brain could come up with--hearing her call his name from the bathroom as she got ready, watching her nose scrunch as she giggled at awkward scenes in corny romantic comedies, feeling her body against his as she slept, tasting the mint on her lips as his tongue caressed hers. He closed his eyes briefly. He couldn't lose his composure in public, but he was teetering on the edge.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him out of these thoughts. He grabbed it, a text from her awaiting his attention.

Almost there. Don't make me wait.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. Nia wouldn't let him get away with anything, mainly not a tease. But he had no plan to keep her waiting. No, there was no time to waste. It wasn't a casual meetup between two old flings because he couldn't keep it in his pants long enough to wait to get home. This was the physical manifestation of his heart's desire coming to fruition.

It was the culmination of restless nights replaying her laugh in his head, wondering if she fell asleep thinking about him, too. It resulted from careful, meticulous planning, cautious restraint, and self-control that worked together to write a story unfolding better than he could have imagined.

He typed a quick reply.

Never. I'll be waiting.

Everything seemed to slow down when he saw her stepping out through the terminal doors. All he saw was her. She in all her angelic glory. The sun shone brightly, and her nose crinkled as she squinted. Her hair, let loose to do its thing, blew across her face. He could hear her giggle as she swiped the unruly strands from her face. Her eyes darted left and right, looking for him in the sea of bodies. But when her eyes met him, the slight smile on her face grew so big that he could hardly see her eyes.

"Hey, pretty girl," the words slipped out before he could stop them. His voice was lower than usual, a little raspier, the affection undeniable.

Nia took a final step toward him, almost chest-to-chest with the man who'd turned her life upside down. She visibly softened beneath his gaze, like an invisible weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Her shoulders rounded, her complete lips parted, and her eyelashes brushed against the high points of her cheek with every blink she made. God, she was so damn pretty.

"How was the flight?" Kelvin’s words came muffled as he grabbed her carry-on and put it in the backseat, the body of the large truck decreasing the volume of his words. He moved to open the passenger door, which brought 24 white roses, and her favorite candy stopped her in her tracks. Her bottom lip poked out in a slight pout, and she looked at him with gleaming eyes that sparkled like stars.

“Kelvin…” Her voice broke slightly, soft and full of something that tightened his chest. E

“I figured you’d need a proper welcome,” he replied, feigning nonchalance, though the amusement in his voice betrayed him. Her reaction was priceless. If only he could’ve snapped a photo to have it with him forever. “Come on, get in.” Kelvin moved the flowers from her seat, waited for her to adjust, and placed them in her lap. Nia tried to say something, but the words didn’t come. She laughed softly and looked at him like he hung the moon and the stars. Her fingers caressed the delicate petals in awe.

Kelvin closed the door behind her and slid into the driver’s seat, quickly drifting out of the airport parking lot. A comfortable silence settled between them, wrapped around them like a hug. Nia unwrapped the gummy nag, popping one into her mouth. He glanced at her, the dim streetlights playing across her features like a spotlight. She was a one-woman show, and he, her audience, was captured and enticed by everything she did.

Her soft voice broke through the silence. “Can I hold your hand?” He saw her looking at him through his peripheral vision. She was curious to hear his response but already knew the answer.

Kelvin blinked one, two, three times. His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Huh?”

She turned her head toward him, her expression steady but expectant. “Your hand. Can I hold it?”

His breath hitched like he’d been snatched back, and he fought the smirk tugging at his lips. He reached across the center console without a word, letting his hand fall into hers. Her fingers laced with his, petite and warm. It was simple, but how she looked at their joined hands had him swallowing hard. What could be going on in that pretty little head of hers? His thumb brushed her knuckles, a small act that felt wildly intimate.

“You’re dangerous, girl,” he murmured, his voice low enough to blend with the hum of the car. Nia tilted her head, brows lifted. “Me? Dangerous?”

He momentarily tore his eyes from the road to look into her eyes as his lips brushed against her knuckles. “Yeah. Got me acting all kinds of soft.”

It was Nia’s turn to smirk. She hummed, off-key, might he add, and said, “Good. You should be.”

“Not bad,” Nia teased as she circled the hotel room, tossing a small smile over her shoulder. She’d been in her fair share of hotels, but this one took the cake. “It’s beautiful.” Her boots kissed the carpet, which looked new, as none of the fibers were out of place and smelled fresh like daisies. Her purse slid off her shoulder with a thump as she let it fall against the couch. Her fingers ran across the top of the pillows, her nails catching slightly in their loose threads.

Kelvin leaned against the doorframe, his eyes following her every move. He couldn’t help but feel like the smile she tossed over her shoulder was meant for him, and he couldn’t help but smile back, even if she weren’t looking.

Nia turned left and took two steps, her stride slow and deliberate as she approached the window. Her eyes widened like she’d seen Christmas lights for the first time as she drank in the wonder of New York City. With her forehead pressed against the cool glass, she craned her neck back and forth to embrace the beauty of the fast-paced life. The muffled sound of car engines and honking horns hummed harmoniously, with the air conditioning system blending into the background. She was in awe of New York. He was in awe of her.

“This is my first time in New York,” Nia said once she sensed his presence behind her. She sighed softly, her breath creating a small circle of fog on the glass. She drew a smiley face in its wake, then wrapped her arms around herself, massaging her elbows in a twisting motion as if she needed comfort. “I dreamt about it, but it always seemed out of reach.” Kelvin acknowledged her with a nod that she couldn’t see. She felt the warmth radiating from his body and leaned back to experience just a spark of the flame. His chin on her shoulder made her knees buckle, to which she leaned back, letting his firm body carry her weight.

He knew she’d never been. Though he selfishly wanted to see her, he knew she’d never been to New York. In his mind, killing two birds with one stone seemed feasible. It made sense. He got what he wanted, and she got to experience an environment that seemed a universe away. But she didn’t need to know all of that. So instead, he let his hand trail down her arm and settle hand as he whispered against the shell of her ear, “I know.”

The sound of the water shutting off echoed through the hotel suite, and Kevin was there, adjusting his suit jacket in the mirror. Nimble fingers stumbled over each button, trying to force it between each loop. He didn’t hear her step out, but he knew the moment she did—there was no mistaking it. The soft rustle of the towel and the scent of vanilla and cedarwood filled the room like a gentle caress. His pulse quickened.

Turning his head slightly, he caught sight of her reflection. She stepped out of the bathroom, her towel barely hanging, just low enough to tease. His eyes traced the curve of her silhouette, the way her skin glowed, damp and soft as she had just walked out of his dreams. There was something about the way she didn’t rush to cover herself. She moved confidently as she knew exactly what effect she had on him—and she wasn’t shy about it.

He couldn’t help but watch as she glanced at him through the mirror, her brown eyes locking with his. Her lips twitched into that playful smile he adored, and for a split second, he wondered if she could see how badly he wanted her. He cleared his throat, running a hand over his jacket again, though the tension in the room wasn’t about fabric anymore. It was about the two of them, the space between them shrinking by the second.

She shifted, pulling her towel just a little tighter, though she didn’t seem to be in a rush to move away from him. She knew exactly what she was doing. "You're still here?" she asked, her voice teasing but soft like she was giving him the green light to stay. The soft pitter-patter of her feet against the tile floor made his eyes drop. Her nails were painted red, a rich shade that complimented her skin beautifully. His eyes fluttered closed briefly as he inhaled deeply.

“Yeah,” he said, opening his eyes, his voice low, full of intention. “I’m admiring the view.”

Her gaze flickered over him, and for the first time, he saw her let her guard slip. She didn’t avert her eyes or try to hide how she was taking him in. No, she leaned into it—allowing him to see the hunger in her gaze, the way her lips parted slightly. Any other day, if he caught her gaze lingering longer than usual, she’d stall like a deer in headlights, like a criminal caught for petty theft. She was letting him watch her.

A beat passed, and she caught his eye again in the mirror without warning. And just like that, something shifted. The way Nia held his gaze told him she was just as comfortable with him in the room. The quiet, simmering tension between them cracked, and she said it—soft and unexpectedly as if it had slipped out without thinking. “Help me with my zipper?”

Kelvin didn’t have the chance to answer. The casual nature of her movements let him know it wasn’t a question but an expectation to be fulfilled. And yet, even with her confidence boiling over like a kettle too whole, he had not expected her to release her towel like she was the only one in the room. Kelvin’s lips parted to release a shuddered breath he prayed only he could hear.

She was brilliant; she’d already shimmied her way into her panties, presumably in the shower, but everything else was exposed, well, almost. He’d seen more skin than he’d ever had throughout their relationship, which was deliciously overwhelming. Her hips bit the waistband of the thin panties and hardly held everything she had.

Nia held the towel over her breasts and looked around for her moisturizer. She mumbled incoherent words to herself, lost in her world as though the man she shared a space with wasn’t losing his inhibitions with every passing second. “Kel.” He was pulled out of Lalaland. “My dress is on top of my suitcase. Can you grab it for me?”

Gladly. He needed a moment to collect himself before he went ballistic. Turning on the balls of his feet, Kelvin did as she instructed. The dress was nothing he’d ever expect her to wear, but he was more than ready to see how the sleek, green dress would accentuate her curves and glisten against her skin.

“This is nice,” he mumbled, carrying it back into the bathroom. Nia turned over her shoulder and smiled. That Colgate-white smile. His right released the hanger from the confines of the dress, tugging softly at the zipper. She took it from his grasp gently, whispering her gratitude, and shimmied into it. Dear God.

“I think you have a staring problem,” Nia teased, locking eyes with him in the mirror as she adjusted the dress to cover her breasts. Kelvin’s head tilted to the side and his tongue ran over his top row of teeth. He shook his head. “Like I said, admiring the view.”

“Zip me, please?” She asked to his reflection in the mirror, shamelessly dragging her eyes down his frame. How much tighter could his clothes get in one night? Kelvin’s steps were slow and calculated as he inched closer to her. As the distance between them closed, the tension amplified further than it had thus far.

Nia shuddered in anticipation as she felt his warm hands against the small of her back. His hands were large, palms covering a quarter of her lower back. His thumb caressed the skin there, pausing over the faded tattoo. “Cute,” he murmured. Lover, written in a cursive script. His left hand found her waist, holding and cupping in an almost possessive manner, while his right slowly, almost agonizingly slow, pulled her zipper up. His fingertips lingered at the back of her neck, enjoying how the skin raised and how her pulse quickened beneath them.

His lips parted, but the words were lost. Here she was, back pressed against him, chest heaving, eyes fluttering as she anticipated what would happen next. Hell, he didn’t know either, but what he was sure of was the way she tasted had to be glorious. “You look beautiful.” His sentiment came out in a hushed whisper against the shell of her ear, to which she whimpered. “So beautiful.”

Kelvin’s lips hovered over her neck, just hardly grazing her hot skin. Once by her side, her hands gripped the countertop to steady her weak knees. Kelvin saw them in the mirror, and a devil-may-care smile threatened to curl on his lips. He could take her right here. Take off her dress—better yet, have it bunched around her hips as he took her from behind, forcing her to watch how pretty she looked when she was begging for more. But it was too early for that. He’d turn her every way but loose, but the time wasn’t right, no matter how badly he wanted to yank the clock off the wall and force its hands forward.

“I thought you had manners, Nia, what happened?” He teased, nibbling on the shell of her ear. His hand slithered around her back and toward her stomach until it settled at her pubic bone, dangerously close to where the slit of her dress was. One deliberate move, and she’d be his for the taking. “I said, you look beautiful. So pretty.”

Nia inhaled deeply, and her voice broke slightly. Her head fell back against his shoulder, and her tongue darted out to dampen her dry lips. “Thank you, baby.” Baby? That was new. He smirked against her skin. He had her where he wanted her, yearning for him, but not to where a line would be crossed. A happy (temporary) medium. Before he got too deep and said screw the reservation, Kelvin announced: “Reservation’s in 30. I’ll let you finish.” With one last peck on her neck, he peeled his body away from hers and walked out of the bathroom, but not before digesting the low moan she released once she thought he was far enough. Ravishing.

She determined Kelvin would be the death of her. He was too much for her to handle, too hot for her to handle. She’d done well thus far, but as the night progressed and the fiery tension between them loomed like precipitous clouds, ready to rain down upon them, she didn’t know how long she could hold out.

She had a rule, and he knew it. But goodness gracious, she was ready to renege on everything she said when she stepped out of the bathroom and saw him posted against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, neck dropped, to better access what was on his phone.

Blue was his color. And it happened to be her favorite. Part of her assumed his sneaky ass wore the rich shade of blue to get her bent out of shape…or bent over. But this was Kelvin—cool, calm, and way too aware of the effect he had on her. The tailored suit he wore accentuated broad shoulders and a trim waist.

Her throat went dry as she traced his slim form. The low light from the chandelier shone on him like a spotlight, his waves catching the rays. He had an alluring presence that she was desperate to be wrapped in.

Kelvin glanced up, sensing her presence before she could speak. He smiled small, acknowledging her presence. His eyes swept over her frame, nodding in appreciation of the art before him. Somehow, she managed to look even more stunning than she did before. Her dress pooled at her ankles, but the slit on her left thigh allowed the gold accents on her shoes to shine. Her curly hair was in a slick bun, showing her neck and gorgeous collarbones. “You good?”

Good? Was she good? Hell no, she wasn’t good. Her body was buzzing like an electric wire. She was losing self-control and hardly wanted to go to dinner. She’d much instead release everything she’d been attempting to suppress. But he’d already seen her crumble. She couldn’t fully unravel yet. His head was already big; Lord forbid she gas it further.

“I’m good,” Nia lied, tucking her clutch under her arm. “You clean up nice. I like the blue.” Kelvin’s head dropped to examine his suit. It was as if he had dressed in the dark and hoped all the pieces matched. “This old thing? Thank you. But you, Niani…look like trouble.”

Her eyes closed briefly. No one said her full name. She didn’t like how anyone else said it—too much emphasis on the second A or insufficient focus on the first I. She liked how Kelvin said it, like a subtle praise she desired to hear on repeat.

Kelvin tilted his head, pushing off the wall to invade her space. She opened her eyes when his cologne wafted her nose. He noticed it. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, and her chest rose slightly higher on her next breath. One by one, the walls began to fall. Her reaction wasn’t lost on him. The first time she admitted Nia wasn’t her first name but rather a nickname derived from Niani, he tested it like an unusual food, rolling it around, tasting it until he felt right. He remembered how her pupils dilated, and her eyes darkened when it rolled off his lips.

She liked it when he said her name. And only he could say her name.

His hand grazed hers, intertwining their fingers. She flinched. He smiled knowingly, but her request took him aback: “Say it again.” Her breath was caught in her throat, and her voice trembled.

Kelvin leaned in just a little, his breath warm against her ear. The way he said it, low and possessive, made her shiver. Nia swallowed. Her knees were weak, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand there, teetering on the edge, waiting for the right time to fall into him entirely.

He smiled again, pulling back just enough to give her a glimpse of what was coming. "Dinner’s wait—“

“—take me to bed.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a request. It was a demand as if she knew exactly what would happen next, and yet... part of her still wanted to hold on just a little longer.

Her words were not hesitant, but he could hear how her voice trembled. She’d permitted him to take things further. He wouldn’t go too far but far enough to leave her satisfied.

Nia hummed lowly as her heavy eyelids opened and closed slowly, and she struggled to regain her vision. The chandelier grew tired, leaving the room dimly lit with the city lights. The low buzz of the air conditioning system regulated her overwhelmed body.

She sat up with a soft grunt, bracing her body with one arm while her other kept the angelic white duvet over her bare chest. Her head craned to the right, seeing the bed bare, and frowned. Her eyes followed their clothes trail, leading to him standing in the corner of the room, back to her, and the hotel phone up to his ear. Like her, his evening attire was long gone, and sweatpants became his uniform. Nia bit her lip as she watched his back flex with each subtle movement.

She swung her legs over the bed, bending down to fish for an article of clothing to put on. He may have had a show, but with the windows wide open, the last thing she needed was her bare body on display for everyone to see. What she had was for his eyes only.

Nimble fingers curled around his white dress shirt, sliding it over her long arms. She buttoned it enough to keep her chest covered, then tip-toed to where he stood, eager to feel him against her again.

Slowly, she wrapped her arms around his bare waist, taking note of how he shuddered when the tips of her nails glided across his abdomen. Nia’s lips brushed against his shoulder, and then she pressed her cheek against his back, appreciating how the low rumble of his voice lulled her back to sleep. “That’s fine. Appreciate it, thank you.”

Kelvin dropped the phone back on the receiver and peered over his shoulder. “Hello to you, too.” Kelvin turned one foot over the other in her arms, taking in how relaxed she looked. Her makeup was smudged, and her lipstick stained the pillow, leaving her lips bare and waiting to be kissed. “Food’s on its way up.”

Nia nodded and made a noise, something between a content sigh and a low moan. He couldn’t decipher, but she sounded pleased, and that’s what mattered. “Come back to bed in the meantime?” She looked at him with those pretty brown eyes that had gotten him into trouble lately.

Kelvin nodded, leaning down to brush his lips against hers. “Lead the way.”

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#saturnville #saturnville writes #kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr. x black oc #kelvin harrison jr. x reader #kelvin harrison jr x reader #mufasa the lion king #kelvin harrison jr. fic #x black oc #black fanfic writer

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silverware-is-interesting · 1 year ago

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Another OC!! this is Patches, the, well, scarecrow! i made them a while ago, but i still like them!

#silverware's art #silverware's ocs #scopophobia #<- for the last one (and kinda the first one)#ut oc #undertale oc #i basically am just making my own Undertale iteration at this point-#y'all get 2 qued posts tonight! how kind of me (joke. i don't actually think that-) but uh. Patches!! my little scarecrow!!!#the last two are me being cringe because i head bad feeling a few too many times and decided “yeah. hay. like the stuff in scarecrows with.#i am not good at making black and white sprites. but y'know. it is what it is #wish me luck on the test i have to write about 8-ish hours (if this gets posted at the right time) after this is posted if ya want??

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chilling-seavey · 2 months ago

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Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —SEVENTEEN

↳ A/N The big night is upon us!!

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 9.1k

↳ Chapter Warnings: 18+, smut, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, edging, slight overstimulation, some dirty talk, lots of praise, clumsy and slightly tense 'first time' moments, pain, blood, some crying, self-consciousness, consent and reassurances!!, protected sex.

Rosaline came to decree that the dormitory showers were not equipped for the level of preparedness she needed to be that Saturday night. In her miniscule corner shower of her equally as miniscule dorm-room bathroom, it came to be known that shaving and exfoliating your legs was not quite an easy task. With her foot hiked up on one acrylic wall of the shower and her back pressed against the opposite one, hair plastered over her forehead with the water pelting down on her, she carefully dragged her razor up the entire length of her leg from ankle to thigh. After contorting herself into a myriad of different positions until she was as sparkling as polished silverware, Rosaline progressed from shower to vanity and desperately prayed that the fuze wouldn’t blow while she dried and styled her hair.

She told herself it was just another night out—maybe to keep from overthinking it and risking cold feet or a change of heart—all she had to do was get ready (nothing too extravagant, just enough to feel good about herself), take the bus to George’s house, where she would spend the night. She had followed that same routine a few times already this term so it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, and yet, the weight of what tonight truly meant sat heavy in the back of her mind, impossible to ignore.

Tonight was the night she was going to lose her virginity.

It was a completely made up social construct, she had always told herself on those nights where it felt like everyone around her had been having sex and, now, what she told herself as she sat on the bus and fidgeted with her purse in her lap, trying to keep the nervousness at bay. Sunset was falling upon Oxford and Rosaline distracted herself with the colourful bath of light that stained the ancient city and shadowed the streets. A comfortably warm, clear skied evening. Calm.

As the bus drew closer to the outskirts of the city, thoughts of how the night was going to play out, if she was going to be awkward, lingered in her mind, despite the fact she knew that George had never and would never judge her. Still, vulnerability settled in her chest, making her heart race. They had shared so much already, but this next step—this final step—felt entirely new, a threshold she had never crossed before. No one had ever been this close to her, not like this. She trusted George, cared for him deeply, and was certain of her choice, and yet, a quiet awareness stirred within her: after tonight, she would never be this version of herself again.

Once she disembarked the bus at the stop down the street from George’s house, she lingered there a moment, staring at the white brick townhouse just a few short blocks away. The front porch light was on as if becoming her home. With a deep breath, she crossed the street before she could overthink herself into a tizzy.

George’s house smelt delicious when she was welcomed over the threshold into the familiar foyer, and it wasn’t simply due to his usual tasteful cologne he wore. It smelt like supper, like a delicious home cooked meal, and George was barely able to close the door behind before she was complimenting it.

“It smells so good in here,” she smiled despite the nervous energy bubbling in her stomach as she toed off her shoes.

“Why, thank you,” George replied politely. He then set a hand at the small of her back to bring her attention properly to him with a soft, “Hello.”

“Hi,” she said softly and met him halfway for a quick kiss in greeting.

He gestured her farther into the house, “After you.”

When she turned the corner into the main living space, she noticed that the usually empty dining room table was set with two full place settings and a row of flickering candles, the chandelier dimmed to an almost romantic warmth. The speaker on the sideboard was playing soft classical music just to make the whole thing feel more cohesive and peaceful. Rosaline swore for a moment she felt tears prick at her eyes and her breath shuddered in her chest, her dizzying worriedness fading away little by little. It was just George.

George slipped past her towards the kitchen, giving her hips a squeeze on his way past, “Dinner is almost ready.”

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked, lingering in the passageway to the kitchen.

“No, no,” George assured her, “I have everything under control.”

The counters were crowded with cutting boards and food scraps and used mixing bowls and measuring cups and a half-soiled recipe book propped up against the coffee maker. George was bent over and reaching into the oven, donning an oven mitt on each hand as he checked the temperature of the meat. Rosaline couldn't help but eye the way his slacks fit over the curve of his ass or how his cream button-up pulled over the flex of his back as he reached into the oven. Was this the thrill of domesticity?

George had made a full English roast of beef, julienned root vegetables, quartered potatoes, and yorkshire pudding beneath a homemade gravy and as they settled at the dining room table together, George poured them each a small glass of red wine. Rosaline set her napkin on her lap as she took in the feast.

“This looks amazing, you really outdid yourself,” she said softly.

“Hopefully it tastes as good as it looks then,” George chuckled modestly, “I could never quite make it as well as my nan could.”

“I bet you did her proud,” Rosaline assured him with a smile.

They were quiet as they started to eat, settling into each other’s company and the comforting ambience of the candlelight and quiet music. Rosaline kept stealing glances at him from across the table, feeling those butterflies in her stomach now fluttering in her heart as she sat there at what could have arguably been the most romantic moment of her life. A homemade meal, candles, music, how he even dressed up a little as if wanting to look good for her. It felt like a dream.

Despite the way she felt comfortable around him at that moment, the awareness of what was to come was still lingering in the back of her mind and stealing her appetite. She didn’t want to be rude so she tried to keep eating, cutting little bites of roast beef or carrot at a time, nudging things around her plate to make it look more empty than it was.

She was silly to have thought George wouldn’t notice. He watched her for a moment, eyeing the way she shifted things around her plate with her fork, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth as if she were deep in thought.

His voice broke her out of her trance with a concerned, “Is it okay?”

“Yeah…yeah, sorry,” Rosaline set her fork down and dropped her hands to her lap, fiddling with the edge of her napkin, “I’m just not really hungry, that’s all.”

“Oh,” George frowned slightly, “Is…everything alright?”

Rosaline nodded, meeting his gaze as she nudged up her glasses with the back of her index finger as she confessed in a near whisper, “Yeah, just a little nervous.”

George’s features softened and he reached a hand across the table towards her, his voice as gentle and patient as always, “Like always, we do nothing you don’t want to do. You hold the cards. And just because I made you dinner doesn’t mean I…expect anything. Alright?”

She knew that but she appreciated hearing it, that little bit of reassurance to ease her mind. She nodded in reply and set her hand over his, watching as his fingers collected hers and his thumb caressed her knuckles. Oh, she was utterly infatuated with him, and that simple moment only reaffirmed her certainty that he was the perfect person to share this final, defining step with.

The meal continued quietly, only the odd conversation lingering here or there, the shared moment housing the impending night to come. After a while, with Rosaline only having finished half her plate, she set her fork down and lifted her napkin from her lap to wipe her mouth, trying to distract herself from the nervous anticipation buzzing beneath her skin. George, resting back in his chair comfortably with his entirely empty plate in front of him, had been watching her in that quiet, knowing way of his, the candlelight catching in his eyes as he swirled the last sip of wine in his glass.

Noting her pause, he asked, “All done then?”

“Yes, it was delicious,” she said kindly, “Sorry that I…couldn’t finish it.”

George shook his head as he stood up to start to clear their plates, “Don’t worry about it. I understand.”

“Can I help—”

Rosaline moved to help clear the table, but he gave her a look—one that told her to stay put, to let him take care of it. They exchanged a silent smile and she settled back into her chair again to let him clear the dishes himself.

She lingered, alone, in the dining room, listening to the clink of the dishes and the running of water from the kitchen as he cleaned up, her fingers toying with the bottom hem of her blouse. Rosaline knew she was nervous—hence her lapse in appetite—but there was also a layer of impatience that was steadily growing as time ticked by. She checked the time on her phone out of habit, as if she had anywhere to be other than right there.

From the kitchen, George called, “Shall I put the kettle on?”

She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment before replying, “I’m fine without, thanks.”

When he appeared in the doorway from the kitchen again, she couldn’t help but notice the slight concern on his expression. He tucked his hands in the pockets of his slacks with a gentle, “There’s no pressure, darling. Please don’t worry yourself sick over it.”

Rosaline shook her head, “I’m not worried. It’s just the anticipation, really.”

George pushed off the doorway and walked across the dining room to stand beside her at the table. He offered out his hand for her to take and spoke with a soft conviction, his words giving her space to change her mind, “Come upstairs with me?”

It was the invitation she had been waiting for.

She exhaled slowly and set her hand in his, “Okay.”

She stood from the table and followed him across the living room and up the stairs. It was a path they had taken many times before, one she was all too familiar with, and she found herself subconsciously counting the steps as they ascended them. Fourteen. And then nine steps down the upstairs hallway to his bedroom. The same as always.

His bedroom was just as tidy as she had always seen it with the bedsheets pulled tightly and the decorative pillows dotting the bed, not a single piece of clothing on the floor or tossed over the back of the chair in the corner. It wasn’t unfamiliar—she had been here before, had spent nights wrapped in his sheets, tangled in him. But tonight was different.

Their hands parted once they stepped inside and Rosaline lingered in the doorway as he walked over to close the curtains and then switched on the warm lamps on the bedside tables. When he turned back to her, his expression was soft, contemplative, as if trying to read her.

She took another step into the room and, knowing what he was thinking, offered a murmured, “I’m okay.”

George’s lips quirked slightly, “Yeah?”

Rosaline shared in his timid smile and they met in the centre of his room, “Yeah.”

Their hands met between them, careful and slow, as if they were touching each other for the first time all over again. Rosaline watched how his fingers traced hers, following the contours of her hands, until he captured her fingers and raised them to his lips to kiss her knuckles. His eyes raised to hers with their hands held between them, his gentle breath falling against her fingers as his thumbs delicately traced the shape of them.

The warmth that his gaze inflicted into her bloodstream had her taking a half-step towards him, pulling her hand out of his to grasp the back of his neck, and she pressed her lips to his in a gentle yet sure kiss.

It was as if a majority of her nervousness settled the moment their lips met, as if the familiarity of his kiss grounded her in the moment and kept her from spiraling into a mess of hypotheticals. She lost herself in it for a while, sharing kisses in the middle of his quiet bedroom as their hands wandered and lips and tongues explored, enjoying the moment of closeness with him. It wasn’t until she was suddenly being cradled by the plush mattress of his bed that she realized just how distracted by his lips she had been.

Clothes were slowly shed between passionate kisses, George taking his time to undress her and kiss over her skin as more of her body was exposed to him. It seemed to be a familiar routine by then as she relaxed into his mattress and let her fingers slide through his hair and over his shoulders as he moved down her body. She didn’t feel quite as anxious about being naked in front of him anymore, not even as he lowered his head between her thighs and started to lap at her pussy.

Rosaline’s eyes fluttered closed as she succumbed to the feeling of his mouth on her—something she had really grown to love and crave over the weeks, and something he clearly enjoyed giving her just as strongly. He took his time with it, kissing and licking and suckling at her cunt like they had all the time in the world. He never made her feel rushed and that night in particular was no exception; he had promised her that he was going to make it special for her.

And as he found home between her legs, he certainly succeeded in that, as the minutes drifted by and her skin grew flushed with pleasure. He kept luring her closer to the edge before easing up, keeping that anticipation and need building and building, wanting her to be as willing and wonton as possible. She withered at the addition of his fingers, one at a time, slowly, easing her into it, calmed by the steady pace of his tongue on her clit.

Her back arched off the bed and her fingers tightened in his hair and across the sheets as he started to thrust his fingers into her in firm, shallow, angled nudges while his tongue flicked at her clit simultaneously. She let out a small cry of pleasure, wrinkling the sheets in her white-knuckled grip, trying to nudge herself up against his mouth even more. George moaned against her pussy at her eagerness, the vibration of the sound making her shiver, and, as he lay splayed out in only his briefs between her legs, he subconsciously rutted his hips against the mattress beneath him.

But just as Rosaline felt that tight coil of pleasure starting to build in the pit of her stomach again, George’s fingers slowed to a stop. She whined faintly in dismay but before she could complain, he eased his two fingers a little deeper before spreading them apart in a v-shape inside her a little. She pulled in a sharp breath at the faint stretch as his slender fingers pressed against her tight walls and slightly tense muscles.

“Good girl,” he breathed, words slightly muffled by his mouth on her and the soft wet kisses he pressed to her clit, “Just breathe for me.”

Rosaline panted as she lay splayed out over his bed, legs parted absentmindedly and fingers threaded through his hair, buzzing with pleasure. George leaned his head back a little to get a proper look at her and, at the same time, pursed his lips to dribble some more spit onto her cunt so he could smear it in with his fingers.

“I’m going to add another finger, okay?” he asked lowly.

She had never taken more than two before but she trusted the process and nodded to him, following it up with a soft, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed, gently easing in his ring finger along with his middle and index.

Rosaline winced slightly but more so in anticipation than anything as the stretch was tight but not overly uncomfortable. He was gentle and patient and his tongue met her clit again to help relax her with the good feelings as his trio of fingers carefully prepped her.

George’s breath was hot against her cunt, “There you go, good girl. Gonna get you nice and stretched out and ready for me.”

She could hear how wet she was as he started to thrust his fingers into her in cautious movements, the tight squeeze only seeming to make the sound of the lewd wet squelch more obvious. Her jaw was slack as she took his fingers, eyelashes fluttering in near awe at the feeling and how full and warm it felt before anything had even really happened yet. If anything, it eased the last of her nervousness and replaced it with an eager desire to satisfy her curiosity and her craving of what it would be like to finally and properly have sex.

Rosaline tried to be patient as George fingered her and tongued at her clit in slow, sloppy motions, dragging it on and blurring her senses with rising pleasure yet again; those taunting waves of rising euphoria before he backed off again were starting to drive her a little crazy. So, she splayed her hand flat over the crown of his head and gave him a tiny push with a soft, “Please…I’m ready.”

George’s eyes snapped up to hers and he pulled away from her cunt with flushed cheeks and his mouth and chin glistening. He licked his lips—although it did nothing to help the mess—and then spoke gently, “You sure?”

She nodded and he carefully retreated his fingers and she adjusted herself on the bed with a soft, “Yeah…”

He leaned down over her to kiss her lips and her hands instinctively gravitated to his sides, feeling the muscle beneath his warm skin as he held himself up overtop of her. They shared a few sloppy kisses before he was moving off of her and shifting to the side of the bed to pull open his bedside table drawer. Rosaline took a breath, watching him as he fished out a modest bottle of lube and a brand new box of condoms. With his pinky, he broke the tape sealing the box and then opened the top to fish out one of the square foil packages inside before setting the box on the top of the bedside table.

In the warm light of the bedside lamps, Rosaline watched as George set the condom packet between his lips so he could shuffle out of his underwear and drop them off the side of the bed, leaving him as naked as she was. It wasn’t the first time she had seen him like that but he was just as gorgeous as ever and her gaze shamelessly traveled down his toned figure and lingered on his hard cock that stood up and out from his body, ready. For her.

George held out the condom to her with a gentle offer, “Do you want to do it?”

She nodded and sat up a little more before carefully ripping open the first condom she had ever touched outside of high school health class. She set the empty wrapper with the box and George shuffled a little closer on his knees to position himself between her legs so she could reach him. He wrapped a hand around his dick to pull back the foreskin just enough, exposing the leaky head to her wide-eyed gaze.

His other hand reached out to help her turn the condom the proper way up, instructing her in a warm whisper, “This way up. Pinch the tip there.”

She set her thumb and forefinger over the tip of the slippery condom as he instructed and then moved her hands closer towards him as he held his dick steady. His hand covered hers, helping her to set it in place.

“Now roll it down,” he said.

Her technique was slightly ungraceful from her inexperience, taking a few extra strokes to unroll it down around the shaft of his cock, but he didn’t rush her. When she removed her hands, he just rolled it a little bit farther towards the base but didn’t call her out on it.

Instead, he offered her an almost proud smile and a soft, “Great job.”

She held up her hands between them with a shy giggle, using the back of her hand to nudge her glasses farther up her nose, “My hands are covered in it now.”

George chuckled softly and leaned forward with his hands against the mattress on either side of her, “You can wipe them on me. I don’t mind.”

Rosaline hesitated a moment but then set her hands on his biceps, letting the small amount of lubricant from the condom smear onto his skin rather than lingering on her hands. She had to admit, she wasn’t crazy about the feeling of that substance. At the same time, George had popped the cap on the bottle of lube and squirted out a generous amount onto his fingers and over the protected shaft of his cock, taking his time to smear it all over and then applied some to her pussy too, slipping his fingers a little inside her to make sure she was plenty wet.

When he reached over to grab a tissue from the bedside table to wipe off the worst of it from his hand, Rosaline took that moment to ask timidly, “Do you want me to take my glasses off?”

George’s expression furrowed momentarily as he settled back between her legs, “Why would I want you to do that?”

“I dunno…is that a thing people do?” she mumbled nervously, still gently caressing his biceps and shoulders as if soothing herself, “Like, will they get in the way? Do they ruin the mood?”

George smiled down at her and before he even spoke, that look alone was already easing her nervousness. He assured her softly, “You look beautiful with your glasses. Please leave them on.”

Rosaline shared in his smile, a rouge to her cheeks as she breathed, “Okay.”

George leaned down to kiss her again, swallowing her lips up with his in sensual, passionate kisses, and her hands slid up to the sides of his neck to keep him there. She focused herself on his plush lips against hers to distract herself from the storm of anxious anticipation that was starting to swirl in her stomach again, her butterflies creating a tornado with how fast they were fluttering. The soft hum she let out against his lips was accidental, almost as if she were soothing herself, but George didn't flinch.

Their kiss only broke once she felt something much larger than his fingers pressing against the slick skin of her cunt. Her little gasp had him dusting a kiss to her cheek.

“You still okay?” he checked in with her.

“Yeah,” Rosaline’s arms went around his back to hold him close, her legs pitched outwards on either side of him.

“You’re comfortable like this?”

“Yeah…this is good.”

George’s eyes met hers, speaking seriously to her although his words were gentle and kind, “If you need to stop, tell me, alright? No hard feelings.”

“I know,” Rosaline breathed.

George nodded ever so slightly once. She mirrored it; the both of them sharing the silent affirmations.

“Take some deep breaths for me, darling,” he whispered, his voice rich and soothing and it seemed to work wonders to ease her racing heart.

Rosaline stared up into his eyes as she took in a deep, cleansing breath and then slowly let it out, her hands pressed securely against his shoulder blades and the muscle of his upper back, holding onto him. Oh God, this was it; the moment she had been anticipating since high school. Everything else they had done so far had far exceeded her expectations so, despite her natural nervousness, she was also filled with a hint of excitement to truly and wholeheartedly experience everything.

George took a few more deep breaths with her, connecting them in the moment, and then he was moving his hips a little closer, just enough to start to press inside of her. The first little bit didn’t feel like much of anything as her labia spread to accommodate him, welcoming him in for that first half-inch. She kept her eyes on his, motionless, speechless, trying to focus on the feelings, the moment. Him.

But then, as he eased a little deeper, there was a sudden ache that pushed between her legs and had her instinctively tensing up with a surprised, “Ow.”

George stopped immediately, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry…” Rosaline’s exclamation had even taken herself by surprise, “Sorry, it just…kinda hurt there a little. I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, “Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting it. Keep going.”

George leaned down to kiss her once more before he started to push into her again. But he barely got any farther, held back by the resistance of her tight cunt, when she let out another small “ow”. He stopped again.

Rosaline frowned and lifted her head up to look down between them as if she could see why it was hurting this much. People had told her that the first time would hurt but she swore that this was almost unbearable; was she just a complete wuss or did everyone else feel like this? Okay, she was only starting to panic a little.

“Maybe we should stop. I don’t want to hurt you.” George offered. There was almost a slight fear in his voice, a vulnerability Rosaline had never heard from him before.

“No, please, I’m okay,” Rosaline almost pleaded, resting back down on her back. Her hands grasped onto his back as she stared into his concerned eyes. “I want this. Please, I want this.”

“Okay…” George exhaled as if steeling himself for this just as much as she was. He started to push himself in some more, getting just a little bit farther, and Rosaline clung onto him tightly, holding her breath, trying to ignore the intense ache that shot between her legs. George must have seen the obvious wince of pain on Rosealine’s face as he stopped once more with a nervous sigh, “You’re in pain, love.”

Rosaline, getting absolutely fed up with her body not just doing what she wanted it to do, huffed in frustration, demanding desperately, “Just shove it in or something!”

George’s eyebrows raised in surprise, “I’m not going to shove it in, darling, blimey.”

Rosaline covered her flushed face with her hands to try and take a deep calming breath, muttering, “Fuck, this is stupid.”

George eased back—even though he had been barely inside her—and he leaned down to kiss her forehead with a small sigh before whispering right to her, “It’s not stupid. It’s your first time; it’s bound to hurt.”

She removed her hands from her face and met his concerned gaze, a small pout on her swollen lips. As much as she wanted it, it felt like the world was against her, not willing to give her what she desired. It almost brought her to tears. Rosaline took a trembling breath and wrapped her hands around his biceps, confessing softly, “I want this so badly. I want you so badly.”

George’s fingers gently played with the ends of her hair that was splayed out over his pillow and the pitied look on his face had her heart in her throat. He sighed softly, as if at a crossroad of how he should allow that moment to progress, before finally offering in a soft, worried whisper, “Maybe if we try a different position, it’ll be easier and hurt a little less…would that be okay?”

Rosaline relaxed a little at his words, thankful that he wasn’t just going to give up on her that easily. She nodded, “Yeah…we can try.”

George shifted out from between her legs and she followed his guidance until they had switched spots so he was laying out on the bed, head on the pillows, and he helped her to get on top of him. She straddled his thighs and stared down at him and his handsome body beneath her. It almost felt like this was a dream; some crazy out of body experience. Her hands rested against his pecs.

“This is a little intimidating,” she giggled nervously.

George’s hands found their way to her hips to position her over him properly and his thumbs rubbed gentle circles against her skin and he chuckled softly at her statement. He stared up at her with a comforting smile and a breathless whisper, “You’ll be fine, darling. Just take your time…do what feels right for you. There’s no rush.”

Rosaline shifted from her knees on either side of his waist to her feet, struggling to stay balanced on the soft mattress but George was right there to hold her waist and help to keep her steady. With one hand, he reached down to grasp his achingly hard cock and angle it properly for her, holding it in place as she ungracefully situated herself. When she got herself into position enough to feel the protected head nudging against her cunt, she shivered, her hands pressing against his chest.

“Nice and easy,” George whispered softly.

Rosaline took her time to slowly sink down on him ever so cautiously, trying to breathe through it. The burning ache returned as he reached only about an inch in and her face scrunched up a little and she eased back up slightly with a quiet, anxious whimper.

George’s voice was tight, “Does it still hurt?”

“A little,” she muttered, hands still flat against his torso for stability, “I’m sorry.”

He sighed, “Oh, Rose, darling, you have nothing to apologize for. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“No, it’s embarrassing—”

The words were barely out of her mouth before he was reaching a hand up to gently take her chin in his grasp and he guided her eyes to his. There was an unmistakable seriousness in his kindhearted expression as he said, “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. If you want to keep trying or if you want to stop, whatever you want, it’s completely fine with me.”

“I really want this,” Rosaline breathed, her voice shaking. “Please…I want to keep trying.”

A small smile grazed George’s lips and he stroked her cheek with his thumb, “If you’re sure. I just can’t bear the thought that I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not hurting me,” she mumbled, although her attention was already turning back to the task at hand.

She reached down to make sure his cock was angled properly against her and when she started to sink down again, her palms fell flat against his chest. She could feel him watching her, silently, his hands tight on her hips to stabilize her but not rush her, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over her skin. The pain was obvious but her determination was stronger as she breathed deeply and started to move in tentative little bounces as if to work her way down.

George’s breath caught slightly but he played it off with a tight, “That’s it…”

Despite his quiet encouragement, she didn’t speak, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth and nose scrunched as she eased herself down little by little, pushing aside the pressure that ached across her hips and between her legs. The warmth that flowed through her veins was unlike anything she had felt before and, finally, once her bum met his thighs, she felt on fire. Rosaline stilled, then blinked, and then raised her gaze to meet his as if in complete disbelief that she had really truly succeeded, that they were officially and entirely joined together.

George smiled at her, a dreamy, lopsided, handsome grin, as if he were holding himself back from showing her just how incredible it felt, and his hands gave her hips a little squeeze. His voice was hoarse and strained, “How’s that?”

She could feel his rapid heartbeat under her hands, the feeling of his skin against hers feeling more intense than ever before. Rosaline raised a hand to set against her abdomen, right over where he was tucked inside her, “It’s…fine. It feels…strange.”

George’s eyes scrunched closed through a warm, low laugh, and his hands tightened on her hips as she shifted a little on top of him, choking his chuckle into a tight groan. His eyebrows furrowed in the middle, head tilting back just slightly, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. There was an unmissable look in his eyes when he finally opened them again, the blue of his irises saturated by the dilation of his pupils, staring at her with nothing short of desire, something so intense she had never seen before. But she wanted more. She wanted him to look at her like that until the end of time.

He spoke finally, “Darling, you…you have no idea…you feel so good.”

She gasped at the unexpected feeling of his cock throbbing deep inside her and her hand pressed down against his abs again with a breathy, “Oh my God…”

George’s next inhale was shuddery, his hands kneading the flesh of her hips as if a way to distract himself from just taking over. Rosaline knew the logical thing to do was move but she was frozen in place, staring down at him, her mind feeling fuzzy.

“I don’t know what to do now,” she giggled shyly, rubbing her hands over his chest, “I’m gonna look ridiculous and clumsy.”

George’s lips perked up at the corners and his hands trailed down from her hips to her thighs, rubbing gentle lines into her skin, “You won’t look ridiculous, darling. Just move however feels good for you, alright?”

Rosaline shifted off her feet to rest on her knees on either side of his waist instead and then slowly started to roll her hips against his. She wasn’t completely oblivious to some of the techniques—she had written plenty of erotica to understand the basic mannerisms—but doing it herself felt so strange and unfamiliar. Her hips rocked in lazy back and forth motions, testing the water, figuring out what felt good, her attention focused on George’s face as if also wanting to make sure he was enjoying it too.

“Yes…” George exhaled, his eyes focused all on her like nothing else mattered, his hands firmly on her thighs, “Yes…just like that…you’re doing so well.”

“Is this okay?” she asked softly.

“Yeah, it’s perfect. Does it feel good for you?”

“Uh huh,” Rosaline barely replied before she changed up her movement from rocking to little bounces, her mind racing and curious to try everything she possibly could.

That simple change had George’s eyes nearly rolling, his head tossing back against the pillow with a handsome groan, fingers pressing into her hips and starting to give her a little help finding a bit more of a rhythm as he groaned out a tight, “Ohh, good girl.”

“Fuck,” Rosaline whimpered.

Everything felt like so much, so overwhelming, like suddenly every single nerve-ending in her entire body was ablaze. She had experienced pleasure before—by her own hand and also by George’s guidance—but this? This was a whole new world. It still hurt just a little as her body worked to accommodate the stretch it had never been exposed to before but there was something about that pressure that felt so insanely good at the same time. As she fell into the pleasure, into the lust, she stopped caring about what she looked like and started prioritizing getting more out of the moment.

She moved her hands off his chest and they fell on either side of his head, causing her to be leaning over him as she rocked back and forth on him, her clit now able to rut against his pelvis. She choked over a moan, hair falling over her face.

“There you go,” George purred, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ears before his hands were sliding down the curves of her body to wrap around her waist, grabbing onto her hips, her ass, “Perfect girl. Look at you taking all of me. Does that feel good?”

Rosaline could only nod.

“Yeah? Just like you wanted?”

The whimper that forced itself past her lips was almost completely involuntary, as if it were answering for her. His words and the weight they carried only spurred her on, more sweet sounds tumbling from her lips as she rocked herself back and forth on him a little faster, fueled by inexperienced desperation.

“That’s it—” George groaned lowly, hands gripping her hips, “Oh, god, darling….just like that….move your hips for me…oh, you feel so good—”

“Oh my God,” Rosaline wrapped her fingers around the headboard, trying to use something for leverage as her thighs were starting to burn, a wince across her face as she shifted on top of him again, trying to adjust herself to keep going with those messy bounces.

George caressed her thighs tenderly, speaking to her in a warm breath, “Slow down, love. You don’t have to push yourself.”

“But I want it,” she whimpered, and then huffed as she shifted again to try and get back on her feet despite the way her thighs were trembling, “My legs are just so fucking weak, oh my God.”

He chuckled softly, understandingly, “Would you be open to changing positions then? Let me take over for a bit?”

The pitch had something in Rosaline’s chest taking flight and although she tried to play it off, the instinctive clench of her cunt at his words had a smirk playing at his lips. Of course he could feel it. With a bashful bite of her lip, she nodded.

“I’m going to move you onto your back, alright?”

“Okay.”

With her consent, he guided her down to rest chest to chest before hooking an arm around her back and rolling them over. He was so smooth with it that Rosaline gasped in surprise, now laid out on the bed again with him gloriously over top of her, still inside her, and bathed in the soft warm glow of the bedside lamps. That handsome smile of his was ever present on his lips.

“Comfortable?” he checked in.

“Comfortable,” Rosaline echoed in the affirmative. Her hands magnetized to his chest, sliding over his pecs and the faint dusting of chest hair between them, and then her fingers traced his collarbones and finally rested on his broad shoulders. She gave him a little tug and he took the hint, leaning down to capture her lips with his in a searing, passionate kiss. Tasting herself on his tongue would never get old and although it had grown to be a recurring theme, the added pleasure of doing so with him buried deep inside her made it all the more thrilling. She wondered if he could hear how hard her heart was beating.

When their kiss broke, a thin string of spit broke between their lips. His eyes skimmed over her face as she laid out beneath him, hair fanned over the pillow and she was sure her cheeks were flushed a brilliant pink. George leaned down to nuzzle his nose against her neck and he placed a soft kiss against her pulse point, “Mm, you look so good like this, my darling. You feeling okay so far?”

“Mmm,” she hummed dreamily with a small smile at his affection, her hands sliding around his waist to caress his warm skin, “Yeah, I’m good. I’m really good.”

George’s lips grazed across her jaw as he slowly pushed deeper into her before easing back out, starting to find a gentle, shallow pace to start them up again. Rosaline’s breath shuddered and her eyelashes fluttered as he started to move, her hands pressed firmly around his back as if to cling onto him as he set a slow pace. He ghosted kisses across her jaw and her cheek with his forearms on either side of her head, keeping their bodies close as he made love to her for the first time.

“You’re so tight, darling…so warm…God, you feel so good—” his words were shiver-worthy against her ear, his voice like honey.

Her ragged breaths were falling with every gentle thrust of his hips against hers as if he were pushing the air into her lungs at the same time. Their eyes stayed locked in their close proximity, sharing oxygen, sharing pleasure, sharing the moment that was only theirs to have. Rosaline’s legs naturally parted wider, permitting him deeper, and although his gentleness felt good, she was burning for more.

“Please,” she breathed, barely recognizing her own voice, “Please, sir.”

“What do you want?” he asked her against her cheek, his voice thick with pleasure, “Tell me.”

Rosaline squirmed underneath him, back arching and head tilting back and her hands wrapping around his biceps, “Mm, please, go faster. I want…more.”

“You want more, baby?” he purred tauntingly. He punctuated his words with a bit more speed, not wanting to give her too much for her first time but still wanting to be good for her. “Like that?”

“Mmm, yeah, fuck—” Rosaline’s fingers pressed into the muscle of his arms, fluttering eyes still locked on his.

“Yeah?” George stared back into her eyes as his body moved against hers in slow but sure thrusts.

It was almost clear across his expression that he was holding himself back but, at the same time, the way he looked at her made her feel like she was absolutely everything in the universe to him; like nothing else mattered. Oh, she wanted to live in that moment forever with him, wanting to keep him inside her for the rest of time. And when he leaned down to kiss her again, her whole body shivered with pleasure.

They kissed languidly, sloppily, tongues meeting between swollen lips and off-centered kisses, all their focus on the way he slid into her and back out almost all the way, giving her every last inch in tender, generous, almost loving, strokes. His fingers tangled in the ends of her hair that splayed out across the pillow, gently touching her like she was an angel incarnate. Her hands were all over him like she didn’t know where to touch, like the sensations she was feeling were so intense that she desperately needed something to hold onto, her fingers dragging helplessly across the smooth skin of his back as she writhed beneath him and tried to keep kissing him.

As if sensing her struggle, he blindly guided her hands down to the pillow on either side of her head so he could lace his fingers with hers in a snug grip. Rosaline could have melted on the spot at the gesture and if they weren’t still kissing, he would have been able to see the way her eyebrows quirked as if in a sweet pout. The bedroom was a steamy mess of body heat and pleasured sounds—their kisses, moans, the faint creak of the bed frame—and Rosaline was attuned to everything all at once.

The taste of his mouth was like heaven and she kissed him back with a hunger that was unquenchable, clashing of lips and tongue in a dance of desire and passion and lust, her fingers tightening around his to clutch onto him, grounding herself in him. Deep inside her, the pressure of that glorious fullness sparked heat in every single nerve ending, luring him in with a warm and sure grip with every thrust. Part of her couldn’t believe this was really happening, that everything she had fantasized about was coming true right then and there. And with him; such a perfect vision of a man that her most elaborate fantasies couldn’t even comprehend.

It sounded silly but she felt like so much had been leading up to this moment, a journey of self-discovery and freedom of passion and independence. The realization that it was all hers had her unable to hide the small whimper that fell into their kiss. She turned her face away from his kiss, letting his forehead rest against hers as he kept his tender pace and she desperately tried to blink away the tears of pleasure and relief that were blurring in her eyes.

“You’re so perfect, you know that?” George whispered adoringly, “Such a good girl, so beautiful…taking all of me. Does it feel good, darling?”

“Yeah,” Rosaline choked out, voice quivering, hands tight in his, “Yeah, feels so good. Please don’t stop.”

“Won’t stop,” he promised, leaning down to lick his way into her mouth again before capturing her lips with his own. After a second, he spoke again, against her lips, “Won’t ever stop, baby. You have all of me.”

She could feel that pressure building within her, that familiar coil of pleasure tightening a little more second by second, but it didn’t quite feel like enough to get her there. She tried to scrunch her eyes closed to focus on the feeling, get herself in that mindset, wanting so badly to allow herself to come from this and this alone. Her needy whimpers muffled against his lips, hips trying to push up against his, desperate for more.

Reading her like a well-loved book, George spoke, “You wanna come for me?”

Before she could protest that she likely couldn’t without more stimulation, he let go of one of her hands and snaked it down between their bodies to get his fingers on her clit. She was so fucking sensitive that only the first graze had her entire body shuddering, mouth falling open in a soft gasp, eyes locked on his. Between the lube and her own arousal that had only grown tenfold since they finally successfully started, his fingers could glide easily in quick precise circles over her swollen clit while not faltering the pace of his thrusts.

Rosaline’s free hand flew to the back of his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his forehead right back down against hers with a choked moan. Her other hand, still clutching his against the pillow, only tightened its grip. The tears that brimmed in her eyes took her by surprise, not having anticipated that tears could come from pleasure; yet here she was.

“Please,” her voice sounded unfamiliar with how quivering and pathetic she sounded but that was the last thing on her mind. “I want more of you. I want all of you.”

“You have me. You can have as much of me as you want.” George replied in an easy breath.

Rosaline squirmed and panted beneath him, desperate to be satisfied.

George, like he so often did, spoke her right into it, whispering auditory pleasure right to her, “Come on, darling. I know you’re close. I know you want to come for me.”

“Please, please—” she cried out shakily, tightening her grip in the roots of his hair.

“Fuck, Rose, you’re getting so fucking tight—” George groaned lowly as if they were words he had been trying to swallow back, desperately trying to keep himself going, thrusting into her at that same dizzyingly tender pace, “Come on, darling, that’s it.”

His fingers slipped over her clit far too easily, helping lure her closer and closer and starting to tighten that boiling hot coil in the pit of her stomach more and more. It was getting harder to hold back her whimpers and moans and ragged breaths yet alone the tears that blurred her vision no matter how much she was trying to keep his eye contact. Forehead to forehead, they laid entangled on his bed, joined as one, both striving to reach that perfect peak.

“I got you. I’m right here. Come on.” George whispered right to her, “Come for me.”

The sob that broke past Rosaline’s lips the moment her orgasm washed over her startled her. Her whole body trembled with it, shuddering under him, a single tear slipping from her eye and carving its way down her cheek as she writhed and moaned and cried out his name in waves of pleasure. George held her tightly through it, his words of praise a haze in the background of her euphoria, everything so red, hot, perfect.

He didn’t last much longer after her, as if how fucking tight she got when she came around him being far too much for him to bear. The feeling of his cock throbbing inside her had her mouth falling slack, fingers clutching onto his hair, hips rolling up against his instinctively as if to chase every second of his orgasm. George always sounded like angels singing when he came but, in that moment, the sound of his moans sounded extra good, his panted breaths falling against her cheek as he released into the condom, nestled deep inside her.

He slowed after a second, finally coming to a stop, still tucked inside her, giving them both a second to catch their bearings. Rosaline blinked up at him, staring into his dilated blue eyes that stared back at her with so much compassion that she almost shivered.

“Was that…are you…” he stumbled out, clearing his throat to rid the rasp of his words, “How was that?”

Rosaline couldn’t help the honest to God smile that spread across her face and she pried her hand out of his to allow it to join her other around the back of his neck, replying with an angelic, “Incredible.”

George mirrored her smile, almost a hint of relief on his face, “Good. Good, I’m glad.”

He dipped down to kiss her again, sharing that moment of breathless euphoria together for a few seconds longer. Then, he was carefully sitting back from her arms to kneel between her legs and he carefully pulled out.

The feeling of pulling out felt so strange, almost a bit of an ache in itself, the sudden emptiness more of an adjustment as her muscles had to ease back into their normal state. She bit her bottom lip at the feeling, lifting her head up from the pillow to glance down to look at the both of them in their aftermath. The bit of blood streaked on the condom didn’t go unnoticed but George didn’t bring any attention to it as he carefully rolled it off and then reached over to the side of the bed to wrap the soiled condom in a tissue to be disposed of.

Rosaline watched his simple action, asking softly, “Did I bleed a lot?”

George glanced back at her as if surprised by her question. But he took another glance between her legs and let his fingers slide across her messy pussy before shaking his head casually, “Not a lot, no. Just a tad. Is it sore?”

“A bit,” she mumbled.

He settled down beside her and she instinctively snuggled up close to him, letting him pull her into his side under his arm as he pressed a kiss to her temple. Her eyes fluttered shut, her intense high fading into a pleasant, warm lingering buzz in the comfort of his arms.

“You’re incredible,” George whispered into her hair, leaving another kiss there before speaking again, “Can I get you anything?”

Rosaline tucked her arm around his middle as he pulled the covers up around them and she replied softly, “Not right now.”

“Just a cuddle?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay,” he breathed into her hair as he pulled her body impossibly closer.

The heat of his skin felt like home beneath his soft bed sheets, snuggled up at his side and in the protection of his strong arms. Her glasses sat slightly crooked on her face from how she was resting her head against his chest but neither made a move to adjust them, preferring the imperfectness of their perfect moment. Besides, the sudden feeling of exhaustion that was overcoming her made her feel like nothing more than jelly in his arms.

Rosaline felt inexplicably tied to him in that moment; as if they had just sealed themselves together in a sense of emotional permanence. She never wanted to leave that room, that bed…him. Nothing felt like this. Ever.

After a moment of their peaceful silence, she spoke into the warm air of his bedroom, “Thank you.”

George’s hand gave her shoulder a squeeze, “Why are you thanking me, darling?”

She turned her face towards his, still cuddled against his chest, meeting his gaze as she explained, “For being someone I can trust enough like this…and for being patient with me through this whole journey…while I figure myself out.”

He let out a soft hum in acknowledgement and pressed another soft kiss against her temple, “You don’t have to thank me for that, my love, I should be thanking you. I should be thanking you for placing your trust in me, for bestowing upon me this absolute honour.”

She leaned up just enough to steal a kiss from his lips and then another before he was cradling her head in his hand and guiding her to rest back down against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. Her eyes fluttered closed to bask in the moment, settling into the sound of his heartbeat.

Then, she asked a question that had been prying at her for who knew how long, “Have you ever taken someone’s virginity before?”

“No, I haven’t,” George replied honestly, simply, the weight of it hanging in the air for a moment, “You’re the first.”

“So, we’re kind of like each other's firsts…in slightly different ways.”

She could feel the way he smiled against her temple, “Yeah, I guess you’re right, darling.”

He held her against his body so firmly, grounding her in the moment and his presence, his fingers gently threading through her hair and over her shoulder as his breaths fell calmly against the crown of her head. Rosaline, despite having come down from her orgasm, could still feel her heart racing from just being held by him. She didn’t expect to feel so at peace afterwards, so calm and relaxed and content, feeling safe and sure in ways she had never quite experienced before.

After a moment, George spoke softly into her hair, words so gentle and so honest, “I’m so happy I got to be your first.”

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goodlucktai · 3 months ago

Text

hold the world to its best (4/?)

rottmnt word count: 2k pairing: raph & OC, raph & leo title borrowed from light by sleeping at last part of the archer au

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April comes through for them, as always, with some of her younger cousin’s old baby clothes.

All of the turtles were much smaller than human kids in their earlier years. Splinter described them as small enough to fit in his palm even after their mutation. Once they each hit their initial growth spurts, they seemed to grow twice as fast to make up for their slow start, but Gio isn’t quite there yet. He’s still, as Mikey puts it, all of two apples tall.

So the toddler hoodie that April pulls over his head immediately falls past his knees, and she has to roll up the sleeves that trail over his hands, and it’s adorable. So many pictures. Gio might never forgive them for this when he’s himself again.

Gio loves the big pocket in the middle. It’s where his ladybug lives, and where Leo constantly sneaks in a treat or two with the sleight of hand that Gio is endlessly impressed by. It’s also a convenient place to hide his hands when he gets nervous, which is still more often than Raph would like.

But the kid is coming out of his shell more and more, trailing along behind his brothers like a duckling that got slightly bolder every time it wasn’t shooed away. He reminds Raph of a much younger Leo, who wanted to be a part of everything all the time and hated to be excluded in any way for any reason.

Somewhere along the line, Raph got the idea that Leo outgrew that, but it turns out he never really did. He just got better at acting like nothing his brothers did could ever bother him, and being alone was super enjoyable, actually. Restful, even.

Gio at this age isn’t fooling anybody, wearing his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And what his heart told them loud and clear was that he wanted to be wherever his brothers were, doing whatever they were doing. Unlike when they were all kids together, when it was sometimes annoying to have a baby brother tagging along and demanding to be involved in everything Raph ever did, Gio couldn’t bother them if he tried.

If anything, they’re probably more annoying than he is. No child anywhere has taken more selfies with their overbearing big siblings than Giorgio Hamato, and definitely couldn’t have been as good-tempered about it even if they had.

The first time he dared to reach up and tug on the hem of Raph’s shirt, signing a hopeful ‘help?’ when he had Raph’s attention—wanting to be included in the table Raph was setting for lunch, apparently, even though it was barely enough job for one turtle, let alone one and a half—Raph reached down and scooped him right up, passing every plate and cup and piece of silverware to Gio for him to place instead.

There was a space for him here already, they didn’t have to make one.

Mikey currently has custody of Gio in the kitchen, supervising as the little spotted turtle presses cookie cutters into an absurd amount of chocolate chip dough rolled out to perfect even flatness. Mikey sneaks him a bite every so often like it’s some big secret, like it isn’t obvious they’re in there eating as much of the cookie dough as they’re cutting out, but Gio loves every second of the attention and soaks it up like a sun-starved plant.

When the cookies are in the oven and Gio has been gently dusted free of flour and held up to the kitchen sink so he could wash his hands, Leo appears like clockwork.

“Hey, Georgie-Porgie,” he says. “You’ve been a busy little bee today. Do you have a minute to spare for your favorite second-youngest brother?”

It’s as good as a rhetorical question, because Gio doesn’t have to fully understand what Leo is saying to simply nod along with him. Mikey is less than graceful about surrendering the kid, because he’s never had a little brother to carry around before and he’s loving every second of it, but Leo and Gio don’t go far.

Leo sits them at the table, himself in the chair and Gio on the tabletop. His first order of business is poking one of the spots on Gio’s cheek because it always makes him smile. Then he pulls a small tube from his pocket, unscrewing the cap.

“This is a type of medicine,” he says, letting Gio hold it. “It’s a gel that we put on scars—on ouches when they leave a mark on us. Raphie—” Leo casts around for him, and waves him over. Raph gets up from where he and Donnie were both pretending not to watch from the sofa and parks himself in the chair next to Leo’s instead, and Leo says, “Raphie has some, too. On his eye, and his shoulder.”

Gio’s dark eyes follow where Leo points. He doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t put the tube down to sign anything. As an afterthought, Leo scoots his chair back from the table and rolls up the left leg of his joggers, revealing the vivid scarring around his knee.

Raph has figured out where this is going. Gio usually keeps his hands closed into fists or tucked out of sight completely, but practicing sign language made it impossible to keep that up, and Raph saw what must have Leo so disquieted; the pale scars on Gio’s gray-green palms that shouldn’t be there.

“See?” Leo says, and waits for Gio’s nod. “Has anyone put medicine on your hands before?” This time Gio shakes his head. Leo, who became a criminally good actor when no one was looking, doesn’t let his expression change at all. “Can we try it out this once? If you don’t like it, we’ll stop.”

Donnie has stopped typing on his laptop, and Mikey has stopped wiping down the kitchen counters. Raph watches Gio come to a decision none of the rest of them are privy to and then hold out his little hands, palms up, eyes down.

For such a small gesture, it feels impossibly daring. It feels like a trust too big for any one person to hold. It probably feels to Leo the way Gio resting his head on Raph’s shoulder that first night had felt to him.

But Leo, who knows a thing or two about being brave when brave is the last thing you feel, scoops those offered hands up and kisses each tiny palm with a silly mwah! sound. It wasn’t what Gio was expecting and surprises him into a shy smile.

Leo doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He squeezes some ointment out briskly and massages it into Gio’s scars with his thumbs, explaining what he’s doing as he goes. His tone has been calm and breezy since they sat down at the table together, and Gio is following his cue. Gio isn’t going to get upset if no one else is.

He still takes his hands away as soon they’re finished, but not as quickly as he might have a day ago.

“You’re a much better patient than anyone else in this family,” Leo tells Gio, so serious it loops back around into playful. “Donnie would have taken a bite at me by now.”

“Perhaps,” Donnie intones flatly from the living room.

“That’s why you get a treat, Jorgito,” Leo goes on, lifting Gio down from the table before reaching into his own pocket for a frankly ridiculous handful of wrapped chocolate truffles. He pokes them into Gio’s hoodie pouch one by one while Gio watches with starry eyes. “Don’t share any with Dondon, you earned these fair and square. But go make him open all of them for you. Doctor’s orders!”

Gio takes off at a run, and the evil eye Donnie is giving Leo dissolves into his usual neutral expression by the time Gio has clambered gracelessly up onto the sofa beside him, signing ‘candy’ and ‘please’ like the earnest little angel he is.

Leo makes tracks back to the infirmary, because if he’s going to be upset about something it’s going to happen where no one else can see.

“He better not eat more than three of those before dinner, Dee! I know where you sleep!” Mikey singsongs in a bright tone that manages to sound like a direct threat of bodily harm, swinging around the kitchen island to plop into the chair Leo vacated. “That spell he’s under is so strange,” Mikey goes on in a quieter tone. “It turned him back into a baby, but he kept all his scars from his older years?”

Raph can follow that logic, because it’s the only thing that makes sense, right? But Raph had a front-row seat to Leo’s little pop-up clinic, and he had watched Leo rub a careful thumb over a spot on Gio’s arm that they had had to stitch up after a fight with the Foot Clan three months ago. It left a small scar that Leo had treated regularly with the same tube of gel sitting on the table in front of him now.

That scar on Gio’s arm isn’t there anymore.

And Raph abruptly understands why little Gio hides his hands when he gets nervous. It’s the first thing he always does. He thinks of his older brother, who rarely leaves the lair without his gloves, who still crosses his arms when tensions are high, as if he never fully outgrew that particular knee-jerk reaction that was taught to him when he was very small.

It’s an understanding he’s poorly equipped for. What does he do with it? That sweet little boy in the next room isn’t really here. It isn’t actually possible to rescue him from whoever left those angry, raised marks on his hands, or do anything that will make any sort of difference. In a few days, he’ll be himself again, their Gio, strong and steady and unflinching in face of monsters and the actual apocalypse, and he won’t remember anything Raph tells him today, even if Raph managed to think of the right thing to say.

“God dammit,” he mutters to himself at the table.

“Swear jar,” Donnie and Mikey chime instantly.

Raph literally can’t deal with them at the moment. He stands up and announces that he’s taking a nap before dinner, and unless your name starts with a G, don’t bother him. Gio blinks at Raph, and then up at Donnie, and signs ‘C’. Donnie corrects his handshape, saying, “No, ‘G’. He means you. You’re the favorite. You have unimaginable power.”

Leo slips into Raph’s bedroom moments after Raph has buried himself beneath his weighted blanket. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the springs dipping slightly beneath his insubstantial weight. How someone as big and bright as a supernova can manage to seem so small at times is one of the universe’s worst jokes.

Anxiety thrums in the back of Raph’s mind, never really going away, only making itself small and quiet when Raph manages to distract himself with other things. Now it’s spilling out of the box he put it in, stretching to fill more than its fair share of the space.

Raphael was a child at the same time Giorgio was. It wasn’t Raph’s responsibility to protect him. He didn’t even know Gio existed back then, and they were an entire dimension apart. So why does it still feel like Raph failed him?

“I’m sorry,” Leo finally says. “I should have kept it to myself.”

“No you shouldn’t have,” Raph replies immediately, because the root of ninety-percent of Leo’s issues is that he keeps them all to himself. One of these days Raph is going to convince him that there will never be a problem that belongs to his little brothers that doesn’t also belong to Raph. It won’t be today, but one day. “I just—I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I don’t know exactly what happened to him. And he’s never going to tell us, is he?”

Leo taps his fist against Raph’s shell, gathering his thoughts. Out of the entire family, he knows Gio best, if only because of all the late nights they sit up together, talking until night terrors are made small, until the dragging weight of insomnia isn’t quite so bruising.

“I think living through it once was enough,” he says. “You know?”

Raph does know. He’s never really talked about the Krang parasite that dug into his head, about what it wanted him to do to the people he loved most in the world. About what he almost did to the brother sitting next to him right now. About the fragile shape of Leo’s neck in a stranglehold and the knowledge he lives with now of how easy it would be to snap it in his hand.

The thought of speaking any of those thoughts out loud, of possibly speaking something horrible into existence, makes Raph’s stomach turn sharply. He buries his face in his pillow and breathes in for five and out for five. He does it again, hearing Leo’s taps on his shell keep the count with him.

Put this way, he understands why Gio would never say a word. Living through it once was more than enough.

“I just wish none of it had happened,” Raph says. It sounds childish and he instantly feels stupid for saying it. But Leo curls up a bit, sinking down until his head comes to a rest on Raph’s shoulder.

“Me, too,” he says quietly. It takes the sting out of Raph’s self-recrimination immediately, because nothing Leo wishes for could ever be stupid.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there together for, but at some point the sound of his little brother’s steady breathing beside him, and the oscillating fan ticking back and forth in the corner, and the indistinct laughter from the living room pool together and lull him into a dreamless sleep.

When he wakes up, Raph feels as if he’d been hit by a truck and also dragged behind it for a couple of miles, groggy and disoriented. But the anxiety is back to its usual low simmer instead of the bubbling, boiling over state it was in earlier. Leo’s spot on the bed is empty, and Mikey is talking to someone right outside the bedroom door.

He has about two seconds to establish these facts before his door is slammed open and Michelangelo bellows, “RAPHIE! WAKEY-WAKEY!”

Oh my god I’m going to have to kill him, Raph thinks grimly, refusing to lift his face from his pillow. If he doesn’t react, maybe they’ll go away. Historically, it has never been true, but there’s a first time for everything.

“Before you shoot the messenger,” Mikey goes on sweetly, knowing exactly where the line is that he can’t cross—a line that, for him, admittedly stretches out farther than anyone else’s but still has its limits, “I have a special delivery.”

Raph peeks out with one eye to find Mikey holding Gio out to him at full arms’ length. Gio is dangling in his grip agreeably, but now that Raph is awake and looking at him, he starts to squirm insistently, pawing at the hands holding him up, trying to get to Raph.

It works better than a bomb going off in waking Raph the rest of the way up. He pushes himself upright on one arm and reaches out for the kid with the other, cradling Gio against his chest once he has him.

“A Georgie? Just for me? Exactly what I always wanted,” he says playfully, nuzzling the top of that spotted head and earning a sound halfway between a toddler’s giggle and a turtle’s pleased trill. He looks up at Mikey, lingering in the doorway with a cheesy grin on his face, and adds through gritted teeth, “Does your name start with a ‘G’?”

“Food in ten!” the brat says cheerfully, before shooting off without bothering to close the door behind him.

“Ugh,” Raph says, letting his head fall back onto his pillow. He’s careful not to squish Gio under his plastron, the baby turtle tucked safely under his arm instead and seemingly content with the state of things. He mirrors Raph, folding his arms and tucking his chin in them, all wide eyes and white spots and sweet little face.

It’s not the worst way to be woken up, Raph admits to himself grudgingly.

And then Gio whispers, “Hi, Raphie.”

His voice is small and soft, almost inaudible over the sound of the fan. Raph picks his head up fast and stares down at him, uncertain if he actually heard that, or if part of his brain is still asleep and just making stuff up.

Gio gazes back. He’s waiting to see what Raph will do, but he doesn’t look afraid. He looks like he knows how safe he is. Tiny and trusting, willing to reach out his hands again even though he’d been hurt before.

We don’t deserve you, Raph thinks, but his older brother would hate to know Raph thought that even once. We’re lucky to have you, he thinks next, which his older brother still wouldn’t like, but would have to live with, because it’s true.

“Hi, Georgie,” Raph whispers back.

#rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #hamato raphael #hamato leonardo #hamato giorgio #the archer au #my writing #tmnt fic

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slytherin-pen · 4 months ago

Text

Season of Shadows II

paring: Azriel x OC!Ivy

word count: 6.5k

warnings: aftermath of war, burning of dead child (not mc), mentions of dead people, protective Az

a/n: i went crazy with the word count on this one, whoops! things are gearing up though!!

Part 1

Ivy sat in front of her vanity as she swept half of her blonde hair away from her face and braided it. Today she was traveling to the Spring Court with Azriel, and as she got ready, she tried to ignore how her knee bounced or hands shook. Whether out of anxiety or excitement, she couldn’t quite decipher.

The last time she went to Spring she was alone. Completely, utterly alone. Sure, she had been with the Inner Circle for six months by then, but she didn’t know them that well. Ivy still didn’t feel she could claim to know them. Compared to their 500-year-old friendships and their mating bonds, Ivy felt like a stranger living in their home. She couldn’t even call herself a roommate as she, shamefully, didn’t pay any rent. Rhysand refused to accept any money from her and smoothed it over by stating it was only logical she kept her money while she saved up for an apartment of her own. Not that Rhysand hadn’t offered that Ivy could stay permanently at the House of Wind, but she never had the chance to live on her own, and what better time for firsts than while living in a new city?

Ivy smoothed her tunic as she padded over to the window facing the streets of Velaris. She still couldn’t believe it was real. Fitting for a secret city that outsiders weren’t supposed to know about. Outsider. Ivy banished that thought. She fought alongside them—lack of fighting skills be damned. She stayed out of the way, thankfully her magic worked long range and was more of an assist than anything, but she was there. And she protected this city just as they had. She belonged here. Once she had an apartment, it would feel more permanent, she’s sure of it.

She grabbed her brown leather satchel off the dresser and triple-checked that she packed everything they would need for today. Ivy had something up her sleeve for today, and the fact he was the Spymaster made her feel less confident in her ability to keep it a secret. Nothing got past Azriel. Not that he needed to be expertly skilled in reading people to know that when she couldn’t bite down a smile or a nervous giggle, she was lying through her teeth. Ivy never lied about anything serious, of course, but trying to outsmart the Spymaster became a bit of a game between them. Well, it’s a game for Ivy. She wasn’t sure if Azriel was aware of his participation or not, but the idea of him playing along made it all the more fun.

It started simply with moving an item out of place to see if he would notice. Of course he did. Ivy supposed a three-branch candlestick meant to be the table centerpiece wasn’t the most subtle object, but she took on the challenge valiantly. Next, it was swapping the side of his plate the silverware was on, rearranging the pillows on the couch, and replacing his book about war tactics on the table beside the armchair he favorites with a romance novel. She always waited for him to step away, then rushed to move the targeted object before placing herself back in her previous position. Hair swooshing as the air blew past her and cheeks flushed with a childlike glee, she’d cross her legs and pick up the book she was pretending to read. Whenever Azriel questioned her about the obvious difference, she’d feign ignorance and joke about house faeries. Ivy suspected he had caught onto the game when his brief exits became more frequent and he seemed to come back right as she finished patting down her hair. Almost as if he had been waiting for her.

A knock on the guest room door pulled her from her thoughts. Ivy fixed the satchel strap over her shoulder and turned the knob. “Hey, you,” she smiled warmly.

Azriel stood in the doorway, his wings slightly unfurled and shadows swirling casually on his shoulders. The morning sun reflected off his Illyrian leathers and cobalt siphons, as if freshly cleaned.

He returned the smile as his eyes roamed over her appearance. A pale pink tunic tucked into black pants, her feet clad in black riding boots. The perfect mix of her old Spring Court and new Night Court wardrobe. “Ready for an adventure?”

“You have no clue what I have in store for you, Shadowsinger,” Ivy drawled as she brushed past him towards the stairs, flicking blonde strands over her shoulder as she walked.

“That sounds awfully ominous, Miss Meadows. Should I be concerned for my safety?” he asked as he followed her down the stairs.

As Ivy entered the dining room, she greedily sniffed the aroma of pancakes and cinnamon porridge. “The only time you should be concerned for your safety around me is if I’m hungry, but thankfully our wonderful High Lord has that covered.” She plopped down in a chair and began shoveling food onto her plate.

The aforementioned High Lord chuckled as he sipped on orange juice, already dressed in his crisp black suit. “Don’t thank me, thank the House. She does it all herself.”

“She?” Azriel questioned as he sat down next to Ivy and reached for his servings of food.

“Nesta decided the house is female,” Feyre supplied across the table from Ivy. Feyre wore Illyrian leathers, ready to join Nesta and Cassian’s second round of training after breakfast, Ivy presumed.

Ivy swallowed her mouthful of syrup-covered pancakes. “Quite fitting, if you ask me. I don’t see any males cooking or cleaning around here.”

Rhysand placed a hand on his heart. “I’ll have you know I washed my whiskey glass last night,” he retorted.

“Oh, the poor, powerful High Lord had to wash his glass himself! The blasphemy!” Ivy added extra flair by pretending to faint on Azriel’s shoulder with the back of her hand covering her face.

Azriel chuckled as he looked down at Ivy’s terrible attempt at acting unconscious—if the dimples in her cheeks and vibration of giggles were any indication. “It appears you have competition in the dramatics department, Rhys.”

“Mother, help us,” Feyre laughed as she placed a loving hand on her mate’s arm.

“Dramatics can be a wonderful battle strategy,” Rhysand mused while raising a single finger. “Your technique against the Hybern forces impressed even me, Ivy. Slapping them with tree branches added some pizazz to the battlefield,” Rhysand said, a smirk growing on his lips.

Ivy forced a smile as she straightened in her seat. “It was nothing,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Nothing compared to Feyre’s water wolves, that’s for sure.”

Feyre reached across the table and grabbed Ivy’s hand, wide blue eyes meeting her own. “Are you kidding? When the vines wrapped around their ankles and slammed them into the ground back and forth, Cauldron, I was having trouble paying attention to my opponents. I would’ve been content to sit there and watch you smack them silly,” she giggled.

“It’s true,” Rhysand interjected. “Even Cassian fumbled in the sky laughing when he first saw what was happening.”

Before Ivy could invent another excuse to end the discussion, Azriel spoke up. “It was brilliant,” he whispered, making eye contact with her as he graced her with a rare, toothy smile.

She looked down at her lap to hide her blush before returning her attention to Feyre. “I’m just glad I could help at all. I can never thank you enough for allowing me, a stranger, to tag along with you.” If Ivy dug deep enough, there was some resentment for her High Lady. The reasons behind Feyre’s infiltration of the Spring Court remained a mystery to her, but regardless, Spring would have fallen to corruption because of High Lord Tamlin granting Hybern access. Feyre may have just exasperated that process for whatever her motives were, but Ivy was grateful to have a home, even a beating heart. That’s more than most of her old neighbors can say.

“That’s the only time I ever looked into your mind, mostly because I didn’t even know how to control that power yet,” Feyre said sheepishly. “But either way, I knew you didn’t have bad intentions. We're all just trying to save our people in whichever ways we can.”

Ivy nodded as Azriel rose from the table. “We should get going now. It’s almost ten o’clock,” he said.

“Oh,” Ivy gasped. “I almost forgot.” She scrambled out of her seat and adjusted the belt around her waist. She would regret eating all that gluten later.

“I know the Spring Court is your home,” Rhysand started hesitantly, “but be careful. Home court or not, don’t let your guard down. There could be stray soldiers or Mother knows what other creatures are lurking about. I want you both back in one piece.”

Ivy mocked a salute. “Aye, aye, High Lord.”

Azriel shook his head as he placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the balcony doors. “I’ll keep her out of trouble,” he shot over his shoulder, earning a swift elbow in the ribs from Ivy. It tickled.

As they stepped onto the balcony, the anxiety settled in Ivy’s bones. She was going back to the Spring Court, overgrown bat in tow. She still hadn’t decided whether Azriel was adding to or relieving her nerves. He’d make a good bodyguard, no doubt, but something about showing him this side of herself—a side no one else in the Inner Circle had seen–rattled her. Everything they knew about her was from her word alone, and brief images through Rhysand and Feyre’s daemati powers to ensure they weren’t allowing a traitor into their precious city. Azriel was about to get a firsthand account of where she grew up, or what’s left of it. That vulnerability made her gut churn. She’d gotten comfortable being a mystery since she fled everything she’d ever known.

Azriel watched as Ivy stared out at the view of the city, lost in thought. He presumed today would be a hard day for her, much like every time he returned to Illyria was hard on him. Though Azriel was angry at the culture of the place he used to call home, he couldn’t begin to fathom what emotions Ivy felt about returning to her ransacked court. He had caught flashes of emotion across her face at the table—discomfort, longing, and even a little anger. Ivy couldn’t hide from him even if she tried, but she seemed to default into a tight-lipped smile when topics about the Spring Court or her powers came up. It was enough of a cover for the rest of their family, but Azriel knew that’s all it was. A mask over what she truly felt. He’d spent more time than he’d like to admit wondering what she honestly thought of her new life here, beyond the hospitable ‘thank you’s’ for not leaving her to sleep on the streets, as if the bare minimum was above what she expected.

When she first arrived in Velaris they were in the months leading up to war, then they were in the midst of war, and Azriel wasn’t sure whether to consider the present a part of the aftermath of war or some part after it, but it seemed to blend into one for Ivy. Since that night they returned to the House of Wind together after a family night at Rita’s, Ivy hadn’t let her emotions slip again. That was the first time she had confided in him since they met, and he wouldn’t let it be the last time. So far, they have a surface-level friendship with great banter, much like she does with the rest of the family. Though Ivy didn’t seem to recognize that even that was abnormal for the Shadowsinger with fresh faces, he couldn’t deny he wished to grow closer to her.

Since the day they met when he and Cassian came to rescue the trio of Spring refugees from Eris and his brothers, her wit and humor had ensnared him. Even moments after a battle to the death, she joked and squealed as her stomach lurched mid-flight. She laughed while Cassian hauled Feyre and Lucien into the sky, and bombarded Azriel with questions about his shadows—like if the wind could blow them away. Azriel had remained stoic, ‌answering a few questions with curt words or a sidelong glance. He had chuckled later though, after returning to his room and his shadows repeated the questions about them.

No one had ever dared inquire about his shadows as much as Ivy had, and his shadows appeared to love the attention on them and chided him about his reluctance to entertain her. As time went on, it became more difficult to reign in his shadows around her. Even now, they swirled around her feet and hid in her hair. She didn’t seem to mind—on the contrary—she referred to them as cute. Azriel had considered informing her about the atrocious males his shadows had strangled, but thought better of it. Instead, he opted to answer her more subtle questions about them to quell her curiosity. That was apparently the equivalent of leaving food out for stray cats. Her curiosity and comfort in interrogating him only grew, and she kept coming back for more, like each answer might be the last she ever gets. He didn’t dare tell her that his shadows would sooner learn how to communicate with her themselves than let that happen.

Azriel didn’t resist admiring Ivy’s beauty as her back faced him, only a small portion of her face visible through her mess of golden locks dancing in the wind around her face. Her face tilted up towards the sky, eyes closed as she stood on the edge of the roof. The golden glow of the sun reflected off the rocks of the mountain and cast hues of yellow, orange, and red upon her pale features. The way she drank in the sunlight reminded him of flowers blooming in spring, desperate for the warmth it brought after a harsh winter. Breathing new life into it, into her, as she banished a blizzard of thoughts from her mind.

“Sorry about that, spaced out for a bit there,” she muttered sheepishly, making slow steps towards him as she stared at her feet.

“I don’t mind,” he reassured her. “You’re the one who has us on a schedule.”

“Shall we go then?”

Azriel nodded, and his reflexes kicked in as she jumped into his chest, arms wrapping under her legs and around her waist. He grunted and glared at her innocent, fluttering eyelashes. If Azriel was not a male with impeccable self-control, he’d kiss that smirk right off her face, but alas, he was. So he flapped his wings and took to the sky, ignoring the devious giggles caressing his neck.

He knew it was another one of her games. Try to catch him off guard and see if he failed to catch her. After he caught on, he thought about testing how she’d react if he hesitated and let her fall, but then he considered that maybe this meant something. He hadn’t a clue what. Didn’t know enough about her past to come up with that conclusion on his own, and opted to continue letting his instincts take over. Prove that he would catch her every time, even if she flung her body at him like a lunatic trying to defy gravity.

“Are you excited to be stuck with me for a whole day?” Ivy inquired over the roaring winds.

Azriel kept his gaze straight ahead, but the corners of his lips twitched. “Am I considered stuck if I chose to come? Not to mention I am the one carrying you. If anyone is stuck here, it would be you.”

Ivy groaned and nuzzled her face further into his chest. “Don’t remind me of how I would inevitably splatter on the ground should you choose to drop me.”

“I would never,” Azriel stated firmly, his tone laced with so much conviction even Ivy’s intruding anxieties could not doubt it.

She nodded and tightened her arms around his neck, deigning to remain silent for the rest of the flight, lest she try to catch his gaze and instead find the ground thousands of feet below them and hurl her guts. Her tolerance to flying heavily relied on her mood, and right now, anxiety was already bubbling in her stomach. She prayed to the Mother that Azriel didn’t notice how sweaty she was, or Cauldron help her if he could smell her. Who was she kidding? He could definitely smell the stress radiating off her, thanks to his Fae senses. She was certainly drowning in his scent of night-chilled mist and cedar.

They landed in a clearing in the woods a couple of miles south of her village, Cloverhill. Azriel gently placed her down on the ground and folded his wings, his shadows immediately darting through the trees to scan for signs of danger.

“Well, we’re here,” Ivy sighed heavily, glancing around at the trees. Woods that used to be filled with the sounds of birdsongs and skittering paws were now eerily silent.

Azriel’s eyes roamed over her tense form, frowning for a second before resuming his neutral mask. “How are you feeling?”

Her hands found the end of her tunic and pulled. One of her many nervous tics Azriel had gathered. “It’s—I don’t know what I feel. I’ve seen it as it is now, but my brain kept showing me images of how it used to be, knowing that wasn’t what I would find. It’s strange.”

“Our minds are powerful and tricky,” Azriel said. “I’ve seen warriors who have PTSD plagued with both images of things that happened and things their minds made worse than it was. I’ve seen families with denial that their loved one had passed so strong that they demanded we show them the body.”

Ivy nodded slowly and adjusted the satchel over her shoulder. “Standing here won’t change anything, so we best get going,” she said, then slid her tight-lipped smile in place.

Azriel gave a curt nod and followed right behind her as she weaved through the overgrown grass and gnarled tree roots. Some of his shadows returned with the message that all was clear, and he prayed to the Mother it remained that way. This trip was emotional enough for her, and Azriel couldn’t stand the thought of anyone, or anything, making it worse. Least of all Tamlin possibly coming across them while in beast form. He hoped that bringing her here would give her some closure, enough to ease her heartache until Spring was rebuilt or whatever came next for the Court.

He selfishly held onto the idea that she wouldn’t return here permanently one day, once all was restored and prospering again. That she would call the Night Court her home and never look back at the Court that caused her so much pain. Azriel didn’t know what it was like to miss your first home, to have all the wonderful memories replaced with horror, and to want nothing more than to fix it for your sanity’s sake. But he understood the feeling of being helpless. That was all he knew as a child, every time he was wrenched away from his sobbing mother after their hour-long weekly visits.

They trudged through the forest, twigs snapping and leaves crunching under their boots. Through a gap in the trees, Azriel saw the first signs of life–smoke rising from a cobblestone chimney.

“It’s just up this way,” Ivy called over her shoulder.

As the outskirts of the village came into view, Azriel’s heart sank. The smell of rotten and charred flesh assaulted his senses. Ivy pulled the collar of her tunic up to cover her nose, sending him a horrified glance. Scattered around the village were burn pits which, judging by the smell, Azriel assumed were for bodies. He watched as a male in tattered clothes approached one pit with a small lump wrapped in cloth. Tears streamed down his tan face, washing away the dirt in their path.

Ivy pulled down her collar from her nose as she gasped, “Mother, spare us.” Her head whipped towards Azriel, her blue eyes wide and bloodshot. He sidled up to her side and rested a hand on the small of her back. A child, his shadows whispered to him. His face crumpled. The male kneeled before the pit and his mouth moved frantically as he clutched the body to his chest. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of the child’s head and placed them in the fire. Azriel and Ivy did not move as the male stood in front of the fire, watching the flames spread over the cloth and rise above his shoulders. Ivy glanced around, noticing that she and Azriel were the only ones who stopped. The villagers carried on with their tasks as if nothing was happening. As if a child hadn’t just been tossed into a fire. A female continued to hang wet clothes on a laundry line–another female with a child in tow carried a basket of bread as they walked down the gravel path, and a male sat on a boulder sharpening his sword. It was as if this was an everyday occurrence.

Ivy exhaled a shuddering breath, grabbed Azriel’s hand, and guided him down the path. They passed cottages with busted down doors and collapsed wooden walls. Shattered windows and broken fences on land that used to hold livestock—now empty bar the odd carcass. The remnants of blood still stained the ground. Puddles where people either bled to death or streaks where others were drug out of their homes after the injury.

The sound of Ivy’s sniffles filled the silence. Azriel squeezed the hand that still held his and spread his wings to offer what little privacy he could as they passed the fae milling about.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Ivy wiped her nose with her other sleeve and offered him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s hard to see it like this,” she admits, her voice cracking. “I don’t know what the traditions for death are in your court, but in Spring it is vital that we’re buried. That we’re laid to rest in the soil where the flowers bloom. That we continue the cycle of life and rebirth. We believe that if we’re buried, we will one day return as something else–someone new. It could be as a youngling or as a fawn. It is why we have so many restrictions on hunting–certain species and specific woods. We believe that after so many centuries, if we are reborn, we will know about the Hunting Wood whereas normal game will not. Our ancestors will avoid it and no one has to worry about possibly killing their late grandmother. Burning them–” her breath hitches, and Azriel swipes his thumb over her knuckles in smoothing motions. “To burn them breaks that cycle. They will not be reborn. They will not enter the afterlife. They will be stuck wandering the place in which they died for all of eternity.”

“That sounds horrible,” Azriel said softly.

“It is. It makes me wonder what happened to Wells. I never found his grave when I came last. They likely burned him too,” she sighed.

Azriel took another look at their surroundings. “This is–” he started, trailing off as his eyes snagged on more and more destruction. His shadows drifted through blades of grass and whispered every detail in his ear. It is truly worse than he ever thought imaginable.

“A disaster. A massacre,” she finished. Ivy divided her gaze between Azriel and her steps as they walked. “Before Tamlin allowed Hybern to enter, he offered for people to move to the eastern border, but it wasn’t feasible for those of us this far west. Especially here in Cloverhill, where most of his soldiers and their families reside. The western villages, Verdant Bay and Oak Valley, are half the size of Cloverhill and Thornwood and simply can’t house the populations. Those in Petal Brook, the village nearest to the High Lord’s manor, consist mostly of his personal sentries who would rather fight an Attor alone than leave their positions. Spring is very conservative and we hold honor in the highest regard–it’s more valuable than gold. To flee, even for the safety of your family, is as good as a death sentence. Soldiers would refuse to follow their orders, villagers would scorn them as they passed through, and businesses would blacklist them from receiving services.”

Azriel regarded Ivy thoughtfully, strands of his black hair falling in his face as his head tilted. “You seem to know a lot about the inner workings and culture within the Court. Not to underestimate you, but it is uncommon for your average female.”

Ivy smirked, but the usual light in her eyes wasn’t there. “That’s because I am not average. My father was a Commander under General Aeron. He’d discuss battle plans and political gossip every night at dinner. When I couldn’t sleep as a child, I’d sneak into his office and sit in his lap while he went over reports and whatnot.” Ivy waved her hand dismissively. “I learned a thing or two over the years. I wanted to be like him when I grew up, commanding armies and swinging swords. He always dissuaded me from it, though. ‘Little girls aren’t meant for bloodshed,’ he’d say.”

“You proved him wrong when you fought against Hybern.”

Ivy huffed a laugh. “I suppose. I can’t imagine it was that impressive from the afterlife.”

A crease formed between Azriel’s brows. “Why do you do that?” he inquired.

“Do what?”

“Diminish yourself.”

Ivy’s head snapped toward Azriel. “I do no such thing.”

“Yes, you do. Every time someone praises you or your powers, you brush it off or change the subject. Why?”

Ivy kicked a rock with the toe of her boot as she attempted to ignore the holes Azriel bore into the side of head. He was incredibly patient. More so than Ivy. Eventually, she succumbed to the awkward silence. “It’s just–I don’t know, I just do. I don’t like the attention or the expectation. I wasn’t praised much as a child. Whenever I did something my father deemed good, it became expected of me. Anything less was a disappointment. Now, after the war–what happened in Spring–I already feel like a failure. Like I let everyone down. I don’t want to add to it. If no one expects anything of me, then it’s impossible for me to let them down.”

Azriel hummed contemplatively. “Do you feel as if you let your father down a lot as a child?”

Ivy felt her throat tighten, eyes prickling with tears. She blinked them away. “Hard to say. My father was a male of few words and stern-faced. Courtesy of the military, I’m sure. If I disappointed him, he’d just shake his head and walk away. If I did something right, he’d nod and occasionally pat me on the shoulder. Are you done interrogating me, Spymaster?”

“Sorry,” Azriel grimaced. “An old habit. I would like to get to know you better, though.”

A small smile spread across Ivy’s lips as she shook her head. “You do know me.”

“What you decide I am allowed to know.”

“You have some catching up to do, if you ask me. Care to share?”

“Touche.”

The sun was high in the sky when they reached Ivy’s part of the village. Despite the high stone walls surrounding homes and their fortress designs, they were not immune to damage. Soot covered the walls, a sign of past fires, and the stones were nothing more than crumbled rock in some areas.

“My home is around here,” Ivy announced. Her skin was sticky with sweat, and her frizzy hair clung to her face and neck. Azriel, to no one’s surprise, still looked as immaculate as ever. His tan skin practically glowed in the afternoon light, and his hair didn’t look the least bit ruffled. It was wildly unfair, Ivy thought. This was her home, and yet he looked better in it than she did.

Some of her old neighbors were outside their homes, gawking and whispering. Ivy kept her head down and picked at her nails. Azriel’s sharp gaze scanned the fae, he and his shadows picking up on their agitation. His free hand moved to Truth-Teller sheathed at his thigh.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Spring Court’s little deserter,” an elderly fae with crooked fingers from her job as a seamstress drawled.

A male, dressed in blacksmith garb with a long beard scoffed. “Didn’t think we’d see you again, Ivy. What, got tired of playing pet to the Night Court?”

Ivy’s jaw tightened, and she tried her best to keep her voice even. “I’m here on business, not to entertain your gossip.”

Another female, closer to Ivy’s age, laughed mockingly. “Business? Since when does a traitor get trusted with anything? You turned your back on us, abandoned your home—”

Azriel stepped forward, his voice dangerously calm. “Choose your next words carefully.”

The female straightens, and the flicking of her eyes betrays her nerves. “Well, it’s the truth isn’t it? She left us for your kind.”

The male spits on the ground at Ivy’s feet. “Your family doesn't belong here anymore.”

“You don’t know what I went through. What happened at Tamlin’s manor.” Ivy’s eyes burned, but she kept her chin lifted.

The elderly female spoke up again, glaring at Ivy with dark eyes full of resentment. “We survived. We stayed. And you ran.”

Azriel stepped fully between them then, his wings flaring to hide Ivy behind him. “She made a choice to save herself, to try to save her people, and she doesn’t owe you any explanation. If any of you speak to her like that again, you’ll regret it.”

They regarded Azriel with wary looks, the scent of their fear blowing in the wind. Heat crawled up Ivy’s neck and spread across her cheeks, her hands trembling. Azriel glared at the fae, and his shadows hissed and poised to strike. The fae backed off, but that didn’t stop the dirty looks that followed Ivy’s back.

“Kind neighbors you have,” Azriel said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ivy cleared her throat. “I told you Spring Court is conservative. I fled, therefore I am a traitor.”

“Maybe if you were a soldier, but you weren’t. You were just a citizen. Last I checked, citizens don’t make oaths to stay during times of war.”

Ivy shrugged and kept her face turned away from his all too knowing gaze.

Azriel tilted his head up as they approached a brass gate between two stone walls. Pine trees towered over the white painted house, casting enough shade for the rest of his shadows to come out from under his wings and survey the area.

The gate creaked as Ivy pushed it open, revealing overgrown weeds and dead shrubbery. Peach and pear trees had lost their leaves, their rotten fruits laid on the ground with flies swarming them. Sandspurs caught the fabric of their pants as they trod toward the house.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Ivy muttered.

Azriel hummed. “I can tell it was beautiful once.”

“It was.”

The wooden steps leading up to the porch shifted with Azriel and Ivy’s weight, weakened from the test of time and war. Dust flew in their faces once Ivy pushed the front door open.

“Cauldron,” Ivy coughed, waving her hand in her face.

When Azriel finished clearing his lungs, he asked, “What exactly are we looking for?”

Ivy turned in a slow circle, eyes roaming over the damage with her lips twisted to the side. “I didn’t have any time to pack when I left with the High Lady, as we had been at Tamlin’s manor, so anything sentimental that survived, I suppose.”

Azriel nodded as he followed her through the house. It was a decent size, two-stories of what he could tell had once been a lovely home meant for a family of status in the village. A kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and an office on the first floor. Upstairs there were five bedrooms, the extras for servants or other help, he surmised.

The stair railing jerked as Ivy grabbed hold of it, and Azriel’s shadows rushed to support her back for balance. She looked back at him with a grateful smile. Her room was so Ivy, he thought to himself. Pale green walls, pink bedding, white furniture, and plants hanging from the ceiling. Despite the dust and damage, it had more life than her room back at the House of Wind.

Ivy immediately went to her bookshelf, pulling out books and opening them to scan the pages quickly. She started making a pile of the ones she wished to take with her. “Can you look under my bed?” she requested. “I should have a larger bag somewhere.”

Azriel’s shadows slithered under the bed, pulling out a tan canvas backpack, and held it up in the air.

“Oh!” Ivy beamed, grabbing the bag from the shadows’ hold. “Perfect.”

Azriel’s lips twitched upward as he continued to survey the room while Ivy packed her things. The view out her bedroom windows was of the backyard. The stone walls surrounding the yard had spots where they were nothing more than crumbles of rock like the front, and what used to be what looks like a stable was empty. Beyond that was an expanse of field, now charred, but he could imagine the wildflowers that used to grow there.

Ivy tied off the strings of the backpack and slung it over the shoulder that wasn’t carrying her satchel. “Okay, we can head back downstairs now. I have something I want to show you.”

She took the stairs two at a time, much to Azriel’s dismay, but his shadows swarmed her lest she fall. Ivy dropped her backpack by the front door and led him toward the back of the house. The backdoor opened up to the expansive yard Azriel saw from her bedroom window.

She pointed to a large patch of dirt. “This is where my father and his soldiers would train sometimes.” She continued walking through the yard and Azriel dutifully followed, eyes roaming over every spot she pointed at. “That used to be the stables,” she said, pointing at the wooden structure. “I had a Thoroughbred named Honey, because she was golden and sweet. My father bought her for me when I was a youngling and could barely swing my leg over the saddle—even with a stool.”

Azriel chuckled, his mind conjuring a vision of a young Ivy clawing her way on top of a horse three times her size.

“I imagine you don’t ride horses much,” she mused. “With the wings.” She swatted at a bug that flew in her face as she trekked through the grass.

Azriel’s wings twitched with the acknowledgment. “No, I’ve never ridden.”

“Would you even want to?” she asked, looking back at him.

He tilted his head to the side in thought. “I don’t foresee it going well. I might spook the horse.”

“Or you’d topple right off,” Ivy giggled.

“I would not,” Azriel scoffed. “Learning to balance with your wings is the first step to learning how to fly.”

“Sure, but have you ever had to balance them while on top of a moving animal?”

Azriel made a face that said ‘no, but I will not say it aloud’ and she laughed.

“Finally!” Ivy exclaimed as they left the area of charred grass and found a small patch of flowers near the woods. She pulled a pair of gloves and a glass jar from her satchel before crouching down.

The flowers were silver, glimmering in the sunlight with thorns down the stems. “This is called Altheia’s Kiss,” Ivy informed him. “It is my gift to you.” She dropped the batch of flowers into the jar and tightened the lid before standing up.

“I appreciate the thought, but how are flowers that must be handled with gloves a gift? Lest you are planning my demise, Miss Meadows,” Azriel said with a smirk.

Ivy scoffed and swatted his shoulder. “Altheia’s Kiss,” she said, holding up the jar, “when brewed in tea or cooked into anything, can act as a truth serum. So, whenever you get bored with interrogating people, you can just slip them a small portion of this and they cannot lie. You must be careful, though, more than a petal or two, and they may never stop yapping. Or worse—die.”

Azriel’s jaw dropped, and even his shadows seemed to pause to examine the flower.

“I know, I know. You have a High Lord and Lady who can read minds, but I imagine you only call upon them when you’re desperate. With this, you won’t have to be,” she said, placing the jar and pair of gloves back in her satchel.

“You—” Azriel started, then glanced back and forth between Ivy and the patch of flowers she had picked from. “That’s incredible,” he said with a smile.

She smiled back. “Come on, we’ll head back to the house to grab my things and return home before nightfall. I’d rather not find out what beasts are roaming the Court these days.”

Azriel couldn’t agree more and followed her back to the house. As soon as they entered, though, the hairs on Azriel’s neck rose. His senses were on high alert–even Ivy had paused just beyond the threshold. She looked at him, trepidation written all over her face. Someone had been here. His shadows dispersed throughout the house and Azriel rose a single finger to his lips, signaling to be silent. She nodded as his remaining shadows swirled around his feet, preventing the floors from creaking as he stalked through the rooms.

By the front door, where Ivy’s bag laid on the floor, was an envelope with an emerald wax seal addressed to Ivy. Once his shadows returned to him with confirmation the intruder was no longer in the house, he called her over.

“What is it?” she asked, striding toward him, her hair flowing behind her.

He handed the envelope to her with his gloved hand.

She ripped it open, tossing the envelope aside as she held up the note. She gasped, reading over the scrawled ink again and again as she felt the color drain from her face. Written across the scrap of paper, as if someone had been in a rush, were the words ‘He’s alive’.

Azriel read over the letter himself after she handed it to him. His shadows couldn’t pick up on anything other than the faint scent of rose and strawberries, a signature scent for most citizens of the Spring Court. Even though Ivy had her own scent of peonies and the breeze, there was still the slight note of the Spring Court beneath it. “What do you think this means?” he asked, eyes boring into hers.

She blinked the tears away from her eyes and took the note back, reading it again with wide eyes. “I think it means Wells is still alive.”

#acotar #acotar fic #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x original character #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #azriel fic #sarah j maas

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dahliah-blackened · 5 months ago

Text

The Golden Boy

Ahhh this is a long one! I've had this idea cooking for a while so forgive me for indulging. This is a hungerfic about two of my other OC's, Julien Lee and Kobi Theres. They both attended the same culinary school and that's where their rivalry began, but those feelings are soon pushed aside when Julien begins to overwork himself. Contains hunger that is eventually satiated, stomach rumbling, and food as comfort. Let me know if you'd like to see part 2 where we stuff Julien to his limits :))

Kobi wiped her hands on the front of her apron and glanced up at the clock on the wall. The ice cream parlor had just closed, and the soft hum of the refrigerator was the only noise in the otherwise quiet space. The sweet scent of vanilla and caramel still hung in the air as she began to pull her jacket over her uniform. It wasn’t a glamorous job by any means, but Kobi didn’t mind. At least she was on her own terms. The other job offers after culinary school had all felt like a trap—a stepping stone to something that wasn’t hers, something that wasn’t her dream. She shoved her hands into her pockets as she stepped outside into the crisp evening air.

The bright lights of Le Ciel, the fine dining restaurant, gleamed across the street, catching her attention like a moth to a flame. Through the large windows, she could see the bustle of service—silver trays in hand, waiters weaving expertly between tables, the quiet elegance of it all. But then her eyes found him.

Julien Lee.

She remembered the way Julien used to walk into every room with the confidence of someone who knew they were always going to get the top grade. The way he always had the best knives, the finest ingredients. The best of everything. Meanwhile, Kobi had scrimped and saved just to get by, working part-time jobs and never feeling like she could catch up. She’d spent hours laboring over dishes that he would finish in half the time, his pristine work barely breaking a sweat while she wrestled with the pressure. He had it all, she thought, the bitterness creeping up in her chest again. The day they graduated from culinary school, they promised they’d never speak to each other again. Kobi’s luck, however, ensured she ended up working just across the street from him.

But as she continued to watch him, something past her resentment made her furrow her brows. Julien looked much different. He wasn’t the confident, untouchable figure from school. His movements had lost their precision; his face was too pale, and there was something about the way his shirt clung to his frame that made him look even thinner than before. Her arms crossed instinctively as she leaned against the bus stop sign.

Kobi’s silvery eyes rolled as a smug smirk tugged at her lips. It served him right. After all, this was the guy who always thought of her as an underachiever. Who always got what he wanted. He deserved to know how the struggle felt. “Sucks, doesn’t it, Lee?” She muttered under her breath into the chill air. But as the minutes passed, and as she saw how ragged he looked, something about the way he hunched over the counter, wiping his brow, felt wrong.

He moved frantically, dashing from one end of the restaurant to the other, adjusting silverware, delivering dishes, coordinating with the kitchen. His dark brown hair was slightly disheveled, his dress shirt too loose over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up in a half-hearted attempt at efficiency. The stress that flashed through his eyes sent a pang of pity through Kobi’s chest, much to her annoyance. “It’s not your business.” She mumbled. Yet, she couldn’t pull herself away.

She let out a huff and pushed off from the bus stop sign. It wasn’t her business, but something told her she couldn’t stand by and watch him crumble without at least saying something. She marched across the street, ignoring the discomfort that crept up on her at the thought of facing him. Just a few words, nothing more.

Stepping into the restaurant, she felt all the familiar weight of the place, the high-end decor, the clink of fine china. She wasn’t supposed to be here—wasn’t supposed to be this close to the world Julien had created. She was just a speck in it. Kobi waited by the entrance, watching him scurry across the room. Then, finally, he looked up, and their eyes met. Julien’s face went stiff, and his eyes narrowed. He didn’t have time for her now.

His eyes darted around the room before quickly making his way towards the girl standing in the middle of his dining room. “Do you need something?” he said, voice cold, clipped, chocolate brown eyes scanning her as if trying to figure out what she was doing here. Kobi smirked, though it felt hollow. “I was just passing by. I noticed you’re not lookin’ so hot.” She tilted her head with a teasing grin. “Not that you looked any better before.”

Julien’s jaw clenched. The briefest flicker of frustration crossed his face. “Go away, Kobi. I don’t have time for your crap.” She caught the words and took a small step forward, her smirk faltering slightly as she looked him over again. There was something about him that felt different. More fragile than she remembered. His hair was too messy, his eyes sunken. But instead of pushing those feelings away, she pressed on.

“Are you getting enough to eat?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it, and for a moment, they both stood there in silence.

Julien blinked, taken aback by the question. His lips parted, but the words got caught in his throat before coming out. “What kind of question is that?” he finally scoffed, though the sharpness in his voice didn’t match the exhaustion in his eyes. “I work at a restaurant. I’m literally surrounded by food.” Kobi didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his sides, nor the slight hesitation in his tone. He was offended. And yet, she could see something else beneath it—something raw.

“Yeah?” she challenged, arms crossing over her chest. “Then why do you look like you’re about to pass out?” Julien bristled. His mouth opened, but before he could fire back a retort, the low, painful sound of his stomach rumbling filled the space between them. Kobi almost thought she imagined it. But the way Julien stiffened, his entire frame going rigid, told her she hadn’t.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Kobi raised an eyebrow. Julien’s face burned. A flicker of panic crossed his features before he turned his head away sharply, jaw tight. “Tch. It’s just—” “Oh, this is rich.” Kobi smirked, tilting her head. “Julien Lee, starving in a restaurant? You see the irony, right?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, too quickly, too defensive. But Kobi wasn’t buying it. She had spent too much time competing with him, too much time watching him, to not notice when something was wrong. “You’re running yourself into the ground,” she muttered, her voice lower now, not teasing anymore. “Are you even—”

“Excuse me, madame?”

A voice cut through the air, and Kobi turned to see one of the waiters eyeing her with mild confusion. The man, a polished and poised server with a neatly pressed vest, flicked a glance between her and Julien. “Is there a problem?” Julien straightened immediately, as if shaking off whatever vulnerability had slipped through. His lips pressed into a tight line before he turned to the waiter. “No,” he said coolly. “She was just leaving.” Kobi scoffed. “Oh, come on—” Then, just as subtly as ever, Julien shifted his foot—just enough to nudge her ankle. It wasn’t forceful, but it was enough to send a very clear message: Drop it. Kobi shot him a glare, but the waiter was already waiting for her to move along. Julien didn’t look at her again. With a sharp exhale, Kobi rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” She spun on her heel, throwing a pointed look over her shoulder as she walked away.

But as she stepped out of Le Ciel and back onto the quiet street, her smirk had faded completely. She knew what she saw. She knew what she heard. And whether Julien liked it or not, she wasn’t going to let this go.

Another day, another close.

Kobi wiped down the counter of the ice cream parlor one last time before tossing the rag into the sink. The shop was already dark, the lights dimmed save for the neon sign flickering outside. It cast a soft glow onto the sidewalk as she locked up, stuffing her keys into her pocket. The night air bit at her cheeks as she made her way to the bus stop, but for once, the relaxing ride home wasn’t the first thing on her mind. It was Julien.

Kobi scowled to herself, arms crossing over her chest. She hated that he was taking up so much space in her thoughts. It made no sense. She didn’t care about Julien Lee. He was an arrogant, insufferable workaholic who had spent all of culinary school one-upping her at every turn. Yet she couldn’t shake the sharp cut of his cheekbones that hadn’t been there before, or the way his stomach had betrayed him with that awful, hungry growl. It nagged at her—biting, insistent.

With a huff, Kobi reached the bus stop, but she didn’t sit. Instead, her gaze drifted across the street to Le Ciel, the restaurant’s pristine glass windows revealing the usual flurry of movement inside. But before she could spot Julien—

Bang!

The glass doors of Le Ciel swung open violently, crashing against the frame as a figure burst through them. Kobi’s breath hitched. Julien.

He staggered forward, his steps unsteady, his chest heaving. His hair was a mess—strands sticking to his forehead with sweat—and his normally pristine uniform looked disheveled, the sleeves rolled up unevenly. Then, without warning, his knees buckled.

“Shit,” Kobi whispered, already moving before she even realized it. The Maître d' rushed out after him, his polished demeanor cracking just slightly as he hovered over Julien’s collapsed form. “Lee!” The older man’s voice was clipped, impatient, but there was a sliver of concern beneath it. “Are you alright?” Julien pressed a trembling hand against his temple, trying—and failing—to push himself upright. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but his voice was hoarse, barely above a breath. The Maître d’ didn’t look convinced. “Should we call an ambulance?” Julien’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp with something close to desperation. “No. I don’t— I just need to… Stay here for a moment.”

Kobi felt something twist in her chest.

The Maître d’ exhaled through his nose, clearly weighing the situation. But after a beat, his shoulders relaxed, and the concern in his gaze dulled—like Julien’s insistence was enough to settle the matter. “Well then,” he said, straightening his sleeves, “catch your breath, but I expect you back inside in ten minutes. Understood?”

Kobi froze. Seriously? Julien didn’t even have the strength to stand, and this guy was still expecting him to work? Julien, for his part, said nothing. He only gave a small, tight nod, his fingers curling into the pavement beneath him. The Maître d’ took that as confirmation, brushing nonexistent dust off his cuffs before turning on his heel and heading back inside. The glass doors shut behind him, the restaurant returning to its usual elegance, as if nothing had happened at all.

But something had happened.

Kobi didn’t rush. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because she knew Julien would bolt if she came at him too fast, or maybe it was because she still wasn’t sure why she was doing this in the first place. Either way, she took slow, deliberate steps toward him. Julien was still on the ground, one knee bent, his palm braced against the pavement as he tried to steady himself. When he caught movement in his periphery, his head snapped up. His shoulders went rigid. Kobi stopped a few feet away. She wasn’t close enough to crowd him, but she wasn’t far enough to ignore, either. For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—something raw, unguarded—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. His features smoothed over, his usual mask slipping back into place, though there was a crack in it now. A fracture.

“I don’t need your pity,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. Kobi almost rolled her eyes. Typical. Even now, when he was at his absolute lowest, he still had his pride. She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she let out a slow breath before lowering herself down beside him, stretching her legs out like she had all the time in the world. Julien’s gaze snapped to her, eyes narrowing. Kobi didn’t look at him. She just stared straight ahead, arms draped over her knees. “I don’t pity you,” she said simply. “But I do know when something’s seriously wrong.”

Silence stretched between them. Julien’s jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly. His hands curled into his pant legs, as if trying to physically hold himself together. Then, before he could come up with another excuse—

Grgggllrrrrk.

The sound that tore from Julien’s stomach was long, raw, and absolutely miserable. Kobi blinked. Julien stiffened, his entire body going taut. His hands clamped over his abdomen like that would somehow take back what had just happened, but there was no hiding it—not from Kobi, and certainly not from himself. His face burned. “…Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible. Kobi arched her brow. “You talkin’ to me or your belly?” Julien groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “For the love of—”

Another deep, pained rumble rolled through his gut, cutting him off. He clenched his teeth as his stomach twisted, curling in on himself slightly as tears pricked his eyes. Kobi didn’t smirk. Didn’t taunt. Didn’t take the easy win. Because for the first time, she wasn’t thinking about the guy who had beaten her at everything back in school. She wasn’t thinking about the smug, arrogant, privileged chef who had looked down on her. She was looking at Julien—the person. The man who was clearly in need of help, too exhausted to even eat. And something inside her softened.

“How long?” she asked. Julien blinked up at her. “What?” She didn’t waver. “How long has it been since you’ve had a real meal?” His lips parted, but no words came out. He looked away, his grip tightening on his slacks. Another slow, hollow growl gurgled from his stomach, dragging out into the night air. Finally, in a voice so quiet it nearly got lost to the wind, he admitted: “A few days.”

Kobi exhaled through her nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Julien let out a bitter, humorless chuckle. “I wish I was.” He leaned his head back against the wall behind him, shutting his eyes. “I get home, and I’m too damn exhausted to cook anything. So I just… sleep.” His stomach clenched again, the sharp pang pulling a small wince from his lips. Kobi saw it—saw the slight twitch in his brows, the way his fingers dug into his knee.

She sighed, running a hand through her strawberry blonde hair. “…Alright,” she muttered, pushing herself up. “C’mon.” Julien cracked an eye open, wary. “What?” She rolled her eyes. “You need food, dumbass,” she said, extending a hand.

Julien didn’t move right away. He glanced at her outstretched hand, then back at the restaurant. The golden glow of Le Ciel’s grand entrance spilled onto the pavement, its pristine glass doors shut tight, but inside, Kobi could see the movement of staff weaving between tables, the ever-rotating dance of fine dining. Julien exhaled sharply through his nose. “I need to be back in a few minutes.” Kobi snorted. “No, you think you need to be back.” He shot her a look, but she crossed her arms, unimpressed.

“Come on, Julien,” she said, tilting her head toward the restaurant. “With your degree, your qualifications, your reputation—do you really think they’d fire you over one meal?” He hesitated. She could see the war waging in his mind—the deeply ingrained fear of failure, of being seen as anything less than perfect. But then—

Grgghhhrrkk.

Julien flinched as another slow, dragging groan rolled through his stomach, louder than the last. Kobi grimaced at the sound. His ears burned red. “…Shut up,” he mumbled, more to himself than to her. Kobi sighed, shaking her head. “That thing’s practically begging you to eat, dude.” She extended her hand again. Julien let out a quiet, defeated breath. His shoulders sagged slightly, and after a moment’s hesitation, he reached up. His fingers curled around hers, his grip weak but warm. Kobi steadied him as he shakily rose to his feet, his body sluggish, stiff from exhaustion and the deep hunger that curled within him. He wobbled slightly, and her grip instinctively tightened. “…Fine,” he muttered, voice low. “Where are we going?” Kobi smirked. “I know a good place.” She gave his hand a small tug, and this time Julien followed.

Kobi led Julien down the street, her pace slower than usual to match his sluggish steps. The crisp night air carried the distant hum of the city—passing cars, muffled voices, the occasional flicker of laughter from a late-night wanderer. Streetlights buzzed softly overhead, their glow casting long shadows on the pavement. Beside her, Julien walked in silence, shoulders slightly hunched.

Kobi’s eyes flicked toward him. His stomach had been growling non-stop since they started walking, each protest more insistent than the last. He kept his gaze forward, jaw clenched, but she didn’t miss the way his hand twitched toward his midsection before balling into a fist. Kobi hesitated. For a brief, fleeting second, she considered reaching out—placing a hand over his stomach, a quiet attempt to soothe the ache. But she quickly stomped down the thought. She was just making sure he didn’t keel over from sheer stubbornness—that was all. She wasn’t here to coddle him. She shoved her hands into her pockets and picked up the pace.

A few minutes later, they arrived. Kobi’s favorite 24-hour diner, just as dingy and reliable as she remembered. The warm glow of neon signage flickered above the entrance, casting a soft pink hue onto the sidewalk. Through the glass windows, Kobi could see red vinyl booths, a long counter lined with spinning stools, and a few scattered night owls nursing mugs of coffee. A bell chimed as she pushed open the door, stepping into the inviting scent of butter, bacon, and maple syrup. Behind her, Julien froze. The smell of food hit him like a freight train. His stomach let out the loudest growl yet—an aching, hollow sound that made him recoil slightly as it rippled through him. Kobi glanced over her shoulder, watching as he stiffened, his ears tinged pink with embarrassment.

She smirked. “Guess your stomach likes the place.” Julien groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Kill me.” Kobi chuckled. “Eat first. Then I’ll consider it.” She grabbed his wrist and tugged him inside.

They slid into a booth near the window, the red vinyl cool against Kobi’s arms as she leaned forward. Across from her, Julien settled in stiffly, his fingers absently tugging at the cuffs of his dress shirt, as if trying to compose himself. A middle-aged waitress with a warm smile approached, flipping open her notepad. “What can I get for you two tonight?” Kobi stretched her arms above her head with a yawn. “I’ll take a cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake.” The waitress jotted it down with a nod before turning to Julien. “And for you, sweetheart?” Julien hesitated. His eyes flicked to the menu, scanning it as if searching for the smallest, least intrusive option. “…Just a—” He cleared his throat. “Just a side of toast.”

Before Kobi could say anything—

Grrrrrrrggggghh.

Julien shut his eyes, exhaling slowly as his stomach let out another deep, drawn-out groan.

The waitress raised a brow, biting back a smile. Kobi didn’t even try to hold in her laughter. Julien slumped, dragging a hand over his face. “…Sorry.” Kobi grinned, nudging his menu toward him. “Don’t be modest, chef. You’re not impressing anyone.” The waitress chuckled. “She’s right, hon. You sound like you need more than toast.” Julien sighed, clearly reluctant to let himself indulge. Kobi rolled her eyes and plucked the menu from his fingers. “He’ll take a double stack of pancakes with extra butter, scrambled eggs, and a side of bacon.” The waitress hummed approvingly as she scribbled down the order. “That’s more like it.”

Julien shot Kobi a look. “I didn’t agree to all that.” She smirked. “Your stomach did.” Julien groaned, slumping against the booth as Kobi grinned in triumph. The waitress chuckled, flipping her notepad closed. “I’ll have that out in a jiffy.” As she walked away, Kobi rested her chin in her hand, watching Julien with an air of amusement. “You’re so bad at taking care of yourself, Lee.” Julien sighed, shaking his head. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

The diner hummed with late-night chatter, the clinking of silverware against plates filling the comfortable silence between them. Kobi tapped her fingers against the tabletop, debating whether she should let the quiet linger or dig a little deeper. Against her better judgment, she chose the latter. “So.” She leaned forward slightly, watching him. “Why are you running yourself into the ground? Neglecting your poor belly like it’s some kind of inconvenience?” Julien exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against the booth. “It’s just… expected of me.” Kobi raised a brow. “To starve?” Julien quickly shook his head. “To work myself to the bone.” He rolled his shoulders as if trying to shake off the weight pressing down on them. “My family has high expectations. They invested a lot in me. It’s my job to meet them.”

Kobi studied him. His exhaustion was so deep, the kind that seeped into a person and made a home there. This wasn’t the Julien she knew from culinary school—the arrogant, well-fed prodigy who seemed to have everything handed to him. No, this was someone else entirely. The person underneath what his family wanted him to be. A pang of something uncomfortable twisted in her chest. Pity? Sympathy? She shoved it down before she could give it a name. Julien’s stomach let out another miserable groan, louder and longer this time. He shut his eyes, as if that would somehow block out his body’s very clear demand. Kobi sighed, shaking her head. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Julien let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “I know.” His voice was quieter now. More unsure. “I just… I don’t know what to do about it.” Kobi watched him for a moment before leaning back against the booth. “Well, for starters, you can stop acting like you’re above basic human needs.” Julien shot her a dry look, but before he could retort, the waitress arrived, balancing two plates stacked high with food.

The waitress set the plates down with an easy smile. “There you go, hon. Get some food in that belly, yeah?” Julien lowered his gaze, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.�� His voice was barely above a whisper, but the sincerity in it was clear. Kobi didn’t comment on it. Instead, she picked up her burger and started eating, figuring it would make him feel less like she was watching his every move. From the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitantly take his fork, twirling it between his fingers before spearing a small bite of food. Slow. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure if his stomach would accept it. The first bite went down fine. Then another. His chewing was methodical, almost reluctant, as if some part of him still thought he didn’t deserve this.

But then something shifted.

The moment the warmth of the food settled in his stomach, his body seemed to realize just how deprived it was. His hunger fully awoke, clawing at him from the inside, and before he could stop himself, he was eating faster, each bite filling a void that had been gnawing at him for days. Kobi glanced up briefly, watching as his careful restraint crumbled under the sheer force of his need. He wasn’t just eating—he was devouring, as if he were afraid the food might disappear if he didn’t finish it fast enough. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease or make some smart remark. She just let him eat.

Julien set his fork down with a quiet clink, his plate wiped completely clean. For the first time in what felt like days, his stomach wasn’t hollow and aching. Instead, it was pleasantly full—maybe even too full. Kobi, still working on the last of her meal, glanced at his empty plate and let out a low whistle. “Damn, you really were starving.” Julien stiffened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. He sat back in the booth, exhaling slowly as his overworked stomach settled heavily against his shirt. The comforting warmth of the meal was quickly giving way to a dull pressure, and he shifted in his seat, trying to discreetly ease the strain.

“I don’t usually eat food like this,” he admitted, rubbing his fingers along the seam of his cuff. “I think it… sat a little heavier than I expected.” Kobi leaned her chin against her palm, studying him. She could tell he was trying not to grimace, and that only confirmed her suspicion—his body wasn’t used to eating this way, not with how long he’d been depriving himself. Idiot. Still, she decided not to call him out on it. Not directly, at least. Julien reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills and setting them on the table, but before he could push them toward the check, Kobi reached over and snatched it up first. “I got it,” she said simply.

Julien frowned. “Kobi—” She gave him a look, daring him to argue. “You can get the next one.” His brow furrowed, processing the weight of that statement. The next one. For the first time since this night started, he allowed himself to believe—just for a second—that maybe this wasn’t the last time they’d share a meal.

As they stepped out of the diner, the night air hit them with a crisp chill, a stark contrast to the warmth of the meal settling in Julien’s stomach. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before instinctively glancing down the street. The glowing sign of Le Ciel flickered in the distance, the restaurant still alive with movement. “They’re gonna be pissed,” he muttered, more to himself than to Kobi. She barely spared the restaurant a glance, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. “They’ll be groveling at your feet by morning,” she said with a dismissive snort. Julien huffed but didn’t argue. As much as he wanted to dispute it, the truth was… she wasn’t wrong.

They fell into step beside each other, the quiet hum of the city filling the space between them. Julien still couldn’t quite understand how they got here, how they went from barely tolerating each other to this—whatever this was. Then Kobi spoke up again. “You should come over.” Julien turned his head sharply. “What?” She shrugged. “My place,” she clarified, her tone casual—too casual. “Figured you could use a proper night’s sleep.” His brows knitted together, suspicion creeping into his expression. “Why?” Kobi rolled her eyes, feigning exasperation. “Because somebody has to nurse that stomach ache of yours. And, well…” She shrugged. “Thought maybe you could use some company.”

Julien studied her for a beat, searching for an ulterior motive. But there was no smug amusement in her voice, no teasing glint in her eyes—just an easy sort of honesty that made something shift uncomfortably in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to say to that. But before he could overthink it, his stomach gave a soft, residual gurgle—nothing painful, but just enough for Kobi’s lips to twitch into a smirk. “See? You’re still a mess.” She nudged him lightly. “Come on. Let’s go.” And for once, Julien didn’t fight her on it.

#hunger fic #hunger kink #stomach growling #oc #oneshot #stomach kink #stuffed stomach #hungry

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hagrove · 2 months ago

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RADIANT ━ chapter two

Summary: Raine Coleman had long since learned to live with the uncertainty. Since she became a vampire the fragments of her human life seemed almost too small, too insignificant. It was as if her mind was trying to block out her past on purpose, occasionally showing her glimpses of what she used to be, only for those moments to slip through her grasp before she could fully understand them. At some point in her life she stopped caring too much about it — her new coven and a new way of life proving to be the most important.

But when years later Raine met Rosalie Hale while passing through Forks and felt an instant connection, kind of an inexplicable pull that both intrigued and unsettled her, she strayed from the peaceful life she and the Colemans created for themselves. What she didn't know, however, was that the blonde vampire was the exact same person she used to love so dearly as a human.

Pairing: Rosalie Hale x fem!oc Word count: 11.9k Masterlist ・Part 1・Part 3

The next few days following the banquet passed in a blur. Both Raine and her family had no real time to rest, as the aftermath usually took a lot of their time — everyone was already very much used to it, however. While both her and Royce took on replying to the incoming mail full of thankful notes and appreciation of the small gathering, the people who earlier only roamed the corridors with hands full of decorations now switched to attempting to turn the makeshift ballroom back into a regular dining room. Multiple servants worked tirelessly to return everything into its proper place, rolling up oddly extravagant and colorful carpets, and moving tables that had been put together in an effort to fit all the food in one place. What once had been a space full of glee and fake smiles now stood empty, echoing with the sounds of clinking silverware instead of idle chatter and soft sounds of violin.

The silence was heavy. Even more than she expected.

But it was, or was supposed to be, normal. She was used to her life looking like this after every bigger event.

And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. There was something weird lingering in the air, a change that was just beyond her reach. No one else could feel it and she knew it — because if anyone apart from her did, then the effort to put everything back in place would go to waste. The world kept turning and the people around her carried on as if nothing happened, nothing changed. Perhaps it was the first impression she had of Rosalie and the intimate moment they shared on the balcony, or the look her mother kept giving her while talking in a hushed voice to her father, probably about something she dreaded for the past few months.

Whatever it was, she sure as hell didn’t like it.

And the fact that her mind was almost constantly spinning didn’t help at all. She tried so hard to push away vile thoughts but her efforts proved to be futile pretty much immediately, sending her into a slight spiral. It was almost as if she, every single morning since that one evening, was reliving the inner turmoil that started when she first locked eyes with Hale. The feeling unfortunately refused to dissipate and clung to her like an annoying shadow, a memory that just didn’t want to leave her head no matter what. Even now, when she had something to focus on, meaning the huge pile of letters to reply to, she still found herself absently tracing the coarse edges of the envelopes with her fingers, her mind in a completely different place. All she could see, all she could feel was Rosalie’s warm breath on her skin when she pulled her closer during the dance and the soft touch of her cold fingers. It was excruciating and yet also somehow addicting in a way she was unable to explain.

However the letters in front of her still provided a welcome distraction. Maybe she wasn’t completely focused on them, thanks to the blonde haunting her mind, but it worked at least to some extent. She really could care less for the forced gratitude penned by people who had likely already forgotten half of the night, the hosts included, but as long as her mind could rest, even for a few minutes, when reading the mail and laughing about the sycophantic words, all of her reluctance seemed to ease up.

Royce sat beside her in the study, barely glancing at the contents before drafting quick, efficient responses. Sometimes he stopped for a while, letting his gaze hover over the paper and the corners of his mouth to curl up in a mischievous smile, in disbelief. He often shared the contents of the letters with her, especially the more absurd ones. One of them came from an elderly lady she saw maybe once during the banquet and who, with a straight face, called her a ‘delightful young lady with a pretty face and the gaze of a hawk”, which was also mentioned also in the letter her brother showed her as, apparently, she had no idea her name was Raine.

“She meant it as a compliment,” Royce had said, eyes dancing with amusement. “Although I’m not sure if she thinks you’ll hunt or waltz your way through marriage.”

Raine had smirked, a little too tired to fully commit to the banter. “Maybe both. Depends on the day.”

And, somehow, the presence of her brother also seemed to soothe her nerves. They were siblings after all, merely one year apart, so they knew each other better than anyone, perhaps excluding Jolene. Even despite the fact that it felt weird sitting here with him when her thoughts were full of a person so dear to him. It did make something inside her twist with guilt, however, because she loved and respected her brother, so while she was hopeful that the attraction she felt might turn into something more, she also couldn’t imagine doing it to him. To someone from the outside, just like her, who knew nothing about the nature of his brother’s relationship with Rosalie, it looked like he loved her and strived to make her feel like the most gorgeous and cared person in the entirety of their town.

“The banquet was a success,” he said then, breaking the silence. “More or less. People are still talking about that disastrous waltz the Hawthorne’s did.” There was a smile on his face and he looked like he really was trying not to laugh at the memory people kept bringing up. Especially that he, too, was there when the couple graced the dance floor with their presence.

“Are they now?” she chuckled. The performance, if one could even call it that, really was a one to remember. She might’ve even called it, jokingly, the highlight of the evening if it wasn’t for that one moment she shared on the balcony with the girl she called a moon.

“You know it.”

But she really wanted to do something about it. Push away her duties and formalites, all the expectations weighing on her shoulders, and all the increasing rumours about her engagement, just to chase her own happiness. She wondered what it could’ve been if not for the fact that Rosalie’s hands lingered on his waist and not on hers. If not for the whispers and the laughs they shared while nobody was looking, and that electric connection between them. She wondered what it would be like to be loved, to be cared for. She knew her for a few days, yes, but she couldn’t push it away so easily. Rosalie Hale to her felt like the exact person she was looking for, the soulmate she read in books about.

She knew that this thought should never get out of her head and reach someone else. No one could guess at it and she had to try to hide it from everyone, no matter what. Especially from poor, completely clueless Royce. So she let him joke, let him read the letters aloud and exist beside her in this small bubble of half-lies because it was easier. Easier than confronting reality and easier than what she really wanted to do. Acknowledging it would make it real. Would make it cruel.

Suddenly Royce nudged another letter her way with a smirk.

“Dear lord, please do read this one,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “From Lord Danford. I think he might be trying to convince us he invented wine.”

And so she forced herself to push the vile thoughts away once again.

They didn’t matter. They couldn’t.

The ornate, old clock in the corner of the room striked four when Raine’s family sat down on four ends of the way too long table, decorated with a pristine white tablecloth and an elaborate centerpiece, which in theory was just a vase of fresh, red roses. The chime of the clock echoed off the tall walls, eventually fading into a silence so brittle that Raine feared even the soft clink of a fork might shatter it. Food was already served, placed strategically so that no one had to be forced to ask for something, as every bowl was at one's fingertips. This weird, almost eerie atmosphere was a standard element of their daily dinners, but this time something really seemed to be off.

She couldn’t quite place it, however. Not yet.

Her mother sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, focusing her gaze on her husband and, at the same time, carefully averting it from Raine’s, while Royce, uncharacteristically silent, examined the contests of his plate with far too much interest, as if the mere sight of roasted turkey could spare him from the conversations that loomed ahead. It wasn’t that bad of an idea, however, considering the fact that it didn’t really involve him, but he knew, which was almost bound to fuel Raine’s rage afterwards. Only the head of the house, Mr. King, seemed to be in an unnaturally good mood. Unlike everyone else at the table, he was cutting into his portion with deliberate ease and measured movements, which added a¹0n odd theatricality to the otherwise stale routine. One could say that he just enjoyed the food, but it was more like he was savouring the anticipation that everyone, even the servants, could feel in the air.

Something was about to happen, to be said, and Raine wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear it.

Maybe she knew her father a bit too well, or his actions turned predictable after many years. She wasn’t sure, but she could sense it just from watching him carefully from her seat. The odd shift in energy, the small, almost missable prelude before an announcement made with the tone of a business proposal, so common in her father’s actions lately, instead of the one of a concerned parent, or just a d a d.

Finally, after what felt like ages, he laid his silverware down with a soft, deliberate clink against the porcelain plate. Her stomach twisted, not with fear, exactly, but with the heavy certainty that whatever was coming next was either already decided long before this dinner, or something that she was not going to like.

And she was starting to get an idea of what it might be.

“Ezra Dwyer is expected to return by the end of the month,” he said at last, lifting his wine glass. “His father believes an engagement between you two would be beneficial for both families.”

There it was. The heavy silence that lingered in the air finally found its true reason.

Raine did everything she could to keep her expression neutral, even though her mind already started to race. She had expected this, of course she did. Hints of the upcoming alliance coming from both her parents and, at the same time, most of her father’s friends who knew Mr. Dwyer, weren’t as subtle as they thought. And yet she was hoping it wasn’t going to happen so soon, or that they would at least discuss it with her before making a final decision.

Because both sides, which meant her’s and Ezra’s father, probably already agreed to it a while ago.

And it most definitely didn’t happen just the day before.

“And what do you believe, Father?” she asked after a while, forcing a calm she didn’t feel. There was no good answer to his words, or at least not one she could come up with on the spot.

Mr. King looked at her with a smile before answering, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “That you won’t find a better match.”

Simple and direct. As if that was all there was to it.

Nothing else seemed to ever matter when it came to things like these. Her feelings, just like everyone else’s had to be put aside as emotions had no place in the matters of wealth and social standing. Love was a luxury, one that people like her weren’t meant to indulge in.

Her mother remained silent, but Raine felt her watchful gaze on her.

“Ezra has spent the past year abroad,” her father continued, cutting his meat with precision. “He’s well-educated and, most importantly, well-connected, which will undoubtedly help us secure our standing.”

Raine’s hand tightened around her fork. “And if I refuse?”

Her father sighed, setting his knife down. “You won’t.”

It wasn’t a threat, not outright, but a statement of inevitability. A reminder that this was not a conversation. It never had been.

Once again she glanced at her mother, searching for at least some trace of sympathy, but found none. There was only quiet expectation, the same silent compliance that had shaped every decision in their household. Pauline, as that was her mother’s name, already knew. Even worse, she must’ve been extremely happy to hear that she has yet another wedding to plan. Which, by default, meant that Royce also heard about the news.

And that hurt like hell, because they swore ages ago that they would tell each other absolutely everything, no matter how old they would get, or how hard the situations were. They both knew each other better than anyone else and yet, despite that, he didn’t seem to think that a decision about her life, a marriage contract, was important for her to know. Or, at least, to find out on her terms and not during family dinner where everyone was watching. She felt betrayed.

“I understand this is difficult,” Mr. King continued, though his voice lacked the softness the words implied. “But the agreement with the Dwyers is a wonderful move. With the volatility of the current market and uncertain future, this decision is strategic. It will secure ours and your future.”

Raine felt like she was about to throw up. Her appetite was already gone anyway, but now she knew that there was no way she was going to touch the food on her plate. All she wanted was to l e a v e.

“Strategic,” she repeated his words, eyebrows raised. “You make it sound like I’m one of your stocks, Father. An asset to be moved and married off for stability.”

“You’re not just an asset,” he said, as though that made it better. “You’re my daughter. And I wouldn’t put you in the care of anyone I didn’t trust.”

Just an asset.

Just.

She wasn’t surprised by his words but she still felt as if something was currently tugging at her heart. She didn’t matter in the long run and she knew it, but hell, it still hurt terribly. Same went for her opinions and the ability to choose for herself.

“I’m not asking for your trust,” she said flatly. “I’m asking for a choice.”

There was a beat of silence so profound it almost echoed.

“You’ll learn to appreciate this, in time,” he said at last, sipping his wine as though the matter was already resolved. And to him it probably was, but not to her.

Raine didn’t respond right away. She glanced at Royce who finally dared to look up — just long enough to meet her eyes, his gaze full of something halfway between regret and shame. That fleeting moment, that single look, told her everything she needed to know and confirmed her earlier assumptions. He knew.

That was the worst part.

Not the deal, not Ezra Dwyer, not even her father’s cold detachment.

But the quiet complicity of the person who claimed to love her.

“I hear he’s handsome,” her mother remarked after a while, finally allowing herself to join the conversation and, at the same time, breaking the awkward silence. “Well-educated and a gentleman. A proper match.”

“A stranger,” Raine countered, keeping her voice neutral.

Her mother smiled softly. Perhaps she understood her daughter’s frustration, or she just considered her words to be naive, rather than accurate. “Strangers can become partners with time, honey. You’ll realize it sooner or later.”

If Pauline thought that her words were of any help, she was wrong. They only made the redhead more upset, which, in result, made her feel even worse about the engagement. Perhaps Raine was jealous, just a little bit. Mostly of the fact that Royce could do whatever he wanted and, most importantly, be with anyone he felt attracted to. It wasn’t just about Rosalie, who she considered the most gorgeous woman she has ever met and a perfect match for her in another life, but about the choice and the freedom. Something that she just couldn’t experience herself.

“But why am I being forced to build that relationship?” she asked, her voice a bit firmer than earlier. “And with someone already chosen for me?”

Her father’s eyes flickered with a hint of irritation. A first crack in his composed demeanor and probably the last one. “Because that’s how things are done, Raine. You were raised to understand your role in this family. You were raised to understand the meaning of responsibility.”

“No,” Raine said, her voice cool and deliberate. “I was raised to obey. That’s different.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have snapped, shouldn’t have said anything after hearing the news about engagement and just finished the dinner in peace. She knew that her parents were right, that she should’ve expected this, but she just couldn’t keep herself quiet. Throughout the entirety of her life, which was a bit over twenty one years, she was a watcher and all she ever wanted was to finally be seen.

But apparently in this family, in this world, it was too much to ask.

Royce shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The clink of his knife against the plate seemed louder than before, though he still hadn’t taken a single bite. Raine didn’t look at him again. She couldn’t bear it. The silence that fell over him had now become an accomplice to her father's plans, and she wasn’t ready to forgive that.

Mr. King leaned back in his chair. “Ezra is arriving in two weeks. There will be a formal dinner that you will attend without any excuses. Otherwise there will be consequences.”

“And pretend I’m thrilled?” she asked bitterly. “Smile and nod while you parade me like a trophy?”

“You will be respectful,” he said, not raising his voice, but letting the sharpness come through to show off his authority.

Raine swallowed the rising anger in her throat. Every part of her screamed to get up, to leave the table, to slam the door behind her and run until the weight of this life fell off her shoulders. But she didn’t. Not yet. She had learned long ago that open rebellion rarely worked in this house. Strategy was her father’s game and she would need to learn it, too, even if she didn’t want to.

“Two weeks,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “That’s not much time.”

“Time for what?” her mother asked.

“To learn to smile convincingly,” Raine said, and stood up. “Thank you for the dinner.”

Without another word, she turned and left the dining room, the click of her heels sharp against the polished floor. She didn’t hear anyone call after her. Not her father, not her mother, not even Royce.

Only the ticking of the ornate old clock followed her, a cruel reminder that time, unlike people, did not ask for permission to move forward.

It was an unspoken tradition that every year when the weather got a bit warmer, and the sun finally started peeking through the dense clouds, most citizens of Rochester would meet up at the local park for a stroll or, eventually, a friendly chat with others who enjoyed sitting on a bench a little bit too much. It was almost as if the green communal areas came alive overnight, leaving the unpleasant gloom of winter behind and embracing the upcoming warmth. Raine usually tried to never miss out on that moment, especially now that her bond with the sun seemed to grow even stronger, but there were times where her duties back at the estate held her back, forcing her to watch the season’s arrival from behind tall windows instead.

If she could make it, however, her mother would sometimes join her with a parasol in hand to shield herself from the sun. On those days they would walk slowly along the dirt paths, laughing at the words coming from people they passed, sometimes even engaging in short conversations with them. It was obvious that almost everyone tried to enjoy the first warm days as much as they could. Raine loved those moments, even if they were mostly fleeting and never lasted for too long. Not only because of the great weather and the bucolic atmosphere that accompanied them, but also because sometimes, when her mother was next to her without a hint of worry on her face, King could feel like a kid again.

And it was something that she has very dearly missed.

Today, however, Raine was alone. Her mother had been too preoccupied with wedding preparations, which had unfortunately already started. And yet, she wasn’t exactly disappointed — especially after what happened during dinner three days before. The memory of that evening still left a bitter taste in her mouth and even the gentle, almost soothing rustling of leaves couldn't make it go away. The thought of the sudden, albeit inevitable, engagement and Mrs. King’s reluctance to say anything that wouldn’t sound like the weirdly rehearsed formula her father used, too formal to be included in a conversation with his daughter, or a praise towards the infamous Ezra, made her stomach churn.

That night had marked a subtle shift in her behaviour. She felt as if something in her had retreated inward, folded like a letter tucked away into a drawer no one would ever open again. She should be happy about it, because she knew that the engagement was inevitable, and at least her father didn’t pair her with someone twice her age, but it still felt weird, still hurt. Especially now that her mind was occupied by one particular blonde that she was supposed to forget about right after the banquet.

And the way the news was announced to her also didn’t help.

Her parents seemed to forget about her little act of rebellion, but it made her realise that it was because of the fact that they, or mostly her father, expected her to behave and never, under any circumstances, talk back to them again. She still, however, hasn't talked to Royce, who seemed to avoid her to postpone the inevitable confrontation. King wasn’t as mad at him as she was three days ago, but she still didn’t understand his reluctance to share the news with her earlier. Their father probably told him not to, but it wasn’t like she would tell him that she knows. It would ease out her reactions and, besides, they used to break rules all the time as little kids.

Raine shook her head gently, as if to chase the annoying thoughts away, but they clung to her stubbornly. It was hard to forget about it, since she was supposed to meet her future husband in a little over a week, but she really was trying. That’s why she came to the park despite not being in a great mood — she wanted to take advantage of good weather and the soothing atmosphere to calm her nerves.

Warm rays of the sun caressed her skin as she walked on the once deserted pathways, smiling fondly at the children chasing each other across the grounds. Her hands were tucked behind her back, her fingers brushing against the edges of her dress. A sharp gust of wind finally pulled her from her thoughts, sending a few loose strands of her hair whipping across her face, and forcing her to, once again, look up. What she didn't expect, however, was to see a much familiar figure right across from her — Rosalie. She probably shouldn't be able to recognize her so quickly, but there was something a bit too remarkable in her features, making it hard not to. She took a few steps towards her but didn’t get a chance to say anything, as Hale turned around right as she heard someone walking behind her.

“Raine? Didn't think I'd find you here,” the blonde called out, slowly approaching Raine with a polite smile. There was a slight hint of confusion still visible on Hale's face which made Raine think that either she really didn't expect her here, or she struggled with recognizing her at first.

Or, perhaps, both.

“Why hello, Rosalie,”

If only she knew that her words, a simple greeting, made Rosalie’s heart flutter and it took a lot of willpower to keep a very red blush from creeping up her neck. Rosalie glanced away for a second, pretending to fix the straps of her dress, hoping Raine didn’t notice the change in her expression.

“Please, Raine, call me Rose,” she replied with a slight smile. There was something about this subtle request that made her heart flutter. They didn’t know each other for long and, apart from that balcony encounter that made her think about her for days, haven’t really had the chance to talk. And yet Hale trusted her with a nickname, a name, which was most possibly reserved purely for the people close to her.

“Well then, Rose,” she replied after a while, shaking her head to get rid of unnecessary thoughts. She extended her arm instead, in a completely friendly manner, forcing herself to smile at the woman she once called a moon. A slight hint of hesitation could be seen in her eyes, but she didn’t consider her gesture to be weird or out of place. Her and Jolene always walked around the same way, albeit the general coldness of Coleman’s hands sometimes made it hard to keep it up for a longer time. “Would you like to join me?”

Rose’s expression changed, softened, her gaze flickering down to the outstretched arm. Then, with a quiet breath, she looped her own through Raine’s, her fingers brushing against the fabric of her sleeve. It was a delicate touch, almost imperceptible, but King felt it nonetheless. Rosalie’s hands felt warm, almost like the sun’s most delicate rays, which was a welcome change after the icy skin she was used to and a colder breeze that occasionally swept through the park. It was grounding in a way Raine hadn’t expected.

So simple and yet so significant.

They fell into step together, their arms loosely linked, as if they had done this a hundred times before. “How have you been?”

Rosalie tilted her head slightly, wondering whether she should reply truthfully or quickly make up a white lie. “Busy,” she replied at last. A soft sigh escaped her lips, almost missable, and it made Raine think. She had a weird feeling that something was bothering her but she really didn’t want to pry.

Because who was she to interfere with Rosalie Hale’s life?

A stranger. The sister of her beloved fiancè.

Not a friend. And most definitely not a lover.

Similar thoughts raced through Rosalie’s mind, although a bit less intense.

Rosalie couldn't explain, or even simply understand, the weird pull she felt towards Raine since the night of the banquet. She knew that they were supposed to meet one day, of course she did, as Royce mentioned her multiple times in conversations, even going as far as suggesting his sister's help in their wedding preparations, but didn't expect that the, as one would call it, obligatory presence in her new life, will be so captivating, so intriguing. There was something oddly familiar about her, something that made her feel safe despite having spent almost no time together, which was much different from how she felt about Royce. It made Rosalie’s chest tighten in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

Raine’s presence made Rosalie want to talk to her, tell her more, e v e r y t h i n g, but it was as if her tongue got stuck in her mouth, not letting her say too much in case she went too overboard. It was different from conversations with Vera, even though she also considered the redhead a friend of hers — not as close, of course, but a friend nonetheless.

Even the rush she felt during the banquet when she asked her to dance seemed to disappear.

Maybe because they were in a vulnerable spot. People were watching their every step even if it didn’t seem like it.

Or maybe she was afraid of what she might discover if she let herself get too close.

The thought made Rosalie’s stomach churn, and she tightened her grip on Raine’s arm without realizing it. It wasn’t much, just a small, instinctive reaction, but Raine noticed. She didn’t turn her head towards her, however, deciding to ignore it instead. King wasn’t exactly sure if she could call Rosalie her friend, but that didn’t stop her from trying to enjoy her company as much as she could. It was almost as if her mind seemed to quiet down in her presence. The attraction she felt towards her was still there, of course, but she knew that there was no chance for that weird feeling to turn into something more. No matter how much she wanted it to.

It all seemed so complicated to her. Fate surely must’ve been playing tricks on her since the day of the banquet, because there was no way she’d develop such an attachment to someone who was meant to marry her brother.

And yet, here she was. The feeling she felt deep down wasn’t just fascination and she knew it. It was something deeper, something more dangerous.

For a while, they walked in silence, letting the murmur of the park surround them. There was no rush, no need for hurried words. The warmth of the day, the crisp scent of spring, and the quiet understanding between them were enough. Raine found herself stealing glances at the blonde, observing the subtle expression that flickered across her face. There was something about the way the light hit her face that for a few seconds made her look like she too belonged to the sun.

She might’ve called her a moon when she first met her, but now she really wanted to say it was the other way around.

"You must be looking forward to the wedding," Raine said when they finally stopped by a short fence, keeping her tone light, though something in her chest tightened at the mere mention of it.

“I am but… it’s overwhelming. Your mother puts a lot of pressure on everything, me included.”

King could only nod her head in response. Pauline King strived for perfection and she didn’t care if it affected people around her. Everything was supposed to go according to plan and the wedding was a perfect opportunity for her to, once again, be in charge and make something beautiful.

“She’s a lot, isn’t she?” Rose’s reaction only confirmed her words. She could only fear what would happen during the planning of her wedding. She would, once again, get to experience the perfectionist craziness of her mother in person in unfortunate circumstances that just didn;t feel right. “Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” Raine proposed, leading Rose towards a wider path. Mostly because she couldn’t stand more wedding talk, but also because she didn’t want to make her friend uncomfortable.

“Gladly,” the blonde agreed with her almost immediately.

King needed a second to think. She pitched the idea of a different conversation but she had no idea what topic would be suitable. Especially here in public.

An idea did find its way into her head, however. A great and a painful one at the same time.

“Do you have any dreams, Rose? Something that keeps you up at night?”

To Raine it was a simple question. Something that would help her know Hale better and perhaps make the blonde forget about the wedding for a second.

But it made Rosalie realise that she never talked about anything like this with Royce. They had a lot of topics to discuss, but they never were about something that interested her or her future plans. Her fiancé unfortunately loved talking about either himself, or his job, and eventually his family, but he very rarely asked about her. He showered her with compliments, of course, and made her feel like the prettiest person to ever live in Rochester, but all of it was shallow.

She loved him and so did he, but she wished he asked her about her wellbeing at least once.

“I always wanted to have a family,” she said then, letting out a sigh. “A big one with a husband who comes home with a smile and children that run around the garden. Two, if possible. A girl and a boy,” there was a shift in the tone of her voice. Raine could tell that Rosalie became more dreamy, like it was the only thing she ever wanted. “I was even thinking about the names once. Louise and Lawrence. Or, maybe, Florence.”

And well, perhaps it was. Her words were genuine and her eyes glimmered with excitement. She understood it, really. Raine’s dreams once were also full of things like these, the idea of love so rooted in her head that she idealised it which only made her wish for a life full of love and a big family.

But now it was only something that she just couldn’t give her.

Only Royce could.

The house Jolene Coleman moved to two years prior, when she ended up in Rochester after a long time of travelling, conveniently was right across the street from the King estate. Both her and Raine, as she was the first person she met here, constantly took every advantage of that fact. They were best friends, after all, and the proximity only contributed to their friendship — even if Raine’s parents weren’t exactly fond of it. She heard them talk multiple times about how odd it was for Coleman to live alone, and how they thought that she didn’t have a life outside of her house. According to the gossip they’ve heard, or perhaps just their own speculation, people heard of her and knew she lived in the heart of Rochester, but almost never saw her outside of her house.

And if only she could, Raine would probably laugh right in their face and call them ridiculous.

She knew Jolene and the way she always had a lot to say, how she cared for the people that actually made the effort to get to know her. She knew how Coleman could sometimes disappear into a book for days, or into her covered patio, or into some wild art project that the world would never see. She used to jokingly call herself the second Paul Cézanne, since her works apparently resembled his, but Raine was convinced that she was more like the wannabe artist tutor her parents hired when she was twelve. She didn’t have a heart to tell her that though, or at least not in a serious way.

Jolene didn’t live a quiet life because she had nothing to do — she lived one because her world was already full.

And so was her personality.

Coleman wasn’t really shy, more like selective. She didn’t offer her friendship to everyone, giving out polite, mostly fake smiles instead. She was exactly the kind of person who looked you right in the eye when she spoke and somehow made you feel like she already knew something about you that, somehow, you haven’t figured out yet. And her words seemed to flow seamlessly, almost as if she always knew what to say, even if it was forced and rehearsed. Raine admired that about her. Envied it, sometimes.

The way her world worked was also very much intentional and King learned that in the first month that she knew her. Every book on her shelf had been read and reread, every plant in the small pots on her porch had a story behind, and every corner of her house felt like it contained a part of her life and the things that mattered to her. Sometimes she would tell her about the places she visited before arriving in Rochester, which usually made her wonder how a person so young could have traveled so much, but she didn’t question it, drinking from her teacup instead.

They didn’t know everything about each other, as it was pretty impossible, but she could, without a doubt, call Jolene her confidant. She could see right through her anyway, so every ever so small struggle that happened in Raine’s life quickly became also a problem of Coleman’s. That was just the way it was with them. Raine never had to ask for help — Jolene noticed and acted, often before King even fully admitted the issue to herself. It was the kind of friendship that didn’t ever demand explanations — their presences seemed to have a soothing, softening, effect and it went both ways. They weren’t perfect, of course, and so wasn’t Jolene, as she sometimes disappeared into herself for days and temporarily cut contact with Raine.

But King has long since learned that she shouldn’t take it personally. Jolene just was like that and friendship with her meant accepting all the rocky moments, the tides, and accepting that she, too, had her own secrets.

Still, in all their time together as friends, Raine never managed to unravel the full story of Coleman’s past. There were clues scattered all around her house and subtle hints in her words or expressions. Whether it was a trinket from a tropical country, the lack of framed family photos on the walls, or the sudden change of mood when someone asked why she lived alone, the clues were definitely everywhere. But whenever Raine asked her more directly all she got were soft deflections and charming half-truths. Jolene was an open book only in the parts that she herself chose to show and share, but the rest of her life was a shut tight mystery.

And yet she didn’t push. It was enough for her that she knew the version of Jolene that existed in Rochester, the one that she dared call her best friend. And if some days it felt like Jolene was carrying something heavy behind her easy smile, Raine never said it aloud. She just stayed, listened and made sure she was there when Jolene needed her too, even if Coleman would never admit that she did. It was what she liked most about their friendship. Whatever happened, whatever it was, it would find its solution. Everything did, with Jolene. Eventually.

They haven’t spoken since the banquet, although she did see her outside a few times, and she really needed to see her again. There was too much happening both in her head and in her life and she needed someone to share it with.

Because if she had to act like a perfect daughter and, at that, a fiancée, there was no way she could do it alone.

So she passed a message to one of the workers that she’s heading out, given that only Royce was home that evening and they still haven’t talked, and practically ran across the street to her second home. The lights inside were on so King was pretty sure that her friend was there and not outside on a walk somewhere, like she used to sometimes do. With her long hair tied at the back of head and a floral dress on, that made her feel the coldness of the upcoming night, she knocked on the door with a smile. She didn’t have to wait for too long — Jo’s steps could be heard from the moment her hand touched the wooden surface.

“And here I thought you started avoiding me, darling,” Jolene laughed as she opened her door. “Come in, I’ll make you tea.”

“Avoiding?” Raine gasped dramatically, putting a hand over her heart. “Who do you have me for, Jo?”

Jolene stepped aside, letting Raine into the place that felt more like home than her real house. There was a heavy scent of cedar in the air that easily mixed with the warmth of the interior, wrapping Raine in a weird, and yet comforting hug.

“The future Mrs. Dwyer, perhaps?” There was a wide grin on Coleman’s face and a teasing glint in her eyes. She had heard about the news already, of course, as Raine’s father made sure to pass it along to others after the dinner. There was no backing out now, no matter what she tried to do.

“I hate you.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

Raine smiled at their antics but didn't say anything else, sitting down on one of the armchairs instead. Jolene disappeared in the kitchen for a few seconds and returned with a cup of tea and a platter of muffins, which forced the ginger to raise her brow with confusion. There was no way that Jolene baked it herself, she barely even touched anything food related that wasn’t the fridge.

Almost as if she read her mind in that moment, Coleman remarked with a smile, “They’re edible, don’t worry about it. Didn’t bake ‘em myself.”

“Oh?” Raine tilted her head to the side. “Then who did? Last time I checked you weren’t friends with anyone who wasn’t scared of kitchen utensils.”

“Carlisle’s wife,” she shrugged, setting the plate on a side table. “Feel free to take one. I ate so much already that I think I might as well burst.”

“Sorry?” If only Raine was drinking something at that moment, she probably would’ve spat it all out. “He has a wife?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? Of course he does.” Jolene laughed in response, clearly amused by her friend’s reaction. She didn’t blame her for not knowing since she didn’t know anything about Cullen or his family, but it was still pretty hilarious. Every time she accompanied him somewhere people always assumed he was single but, truth be told, Esme just didn’t want to risk blending in with crowds so she usually just stayed home. Her bloodthirst still wasn’t under perfect control.

So she turned to baking, which provided her a sense of comfort despite not being able to eat it herself. Her and Carlisle, who usually had to go out with it alone, and sometimes also with the help of Jolene, gave it out to other people who needed it more, so nothing ever went to waste. Coleman was actually supposed to bring those baked goods to the town square later, but since Raine popped by in a worse mood, she figured nothing bad would happen if she gave her some.

They were Esme’s work, they had to be good.

“Just… Probably just didn’t expect it. I don’t talk about private matters with people I just met, you know,” the redhead countered, picking up one of the muffins.

“Really? Because that’s not how our first conversation went.”

“Oh shut up, Coleman.”

They both laughed this time and Jolene sat down on a seat across from Raine. Her expression had softened slightly, though there was that curious flicker in her eyes. The same one that showed up every time she was trying to figure something, someone, out.

“So,” Jolene said, tapping her fingers on the armrest. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or are we pretending the muffins were enough to make you forget whatever storm’s brewing in that head of yours?”

Raine didn’t answer right away. She peeled the muffin gently, more for the distraction than the treat itself, and stared down at the small crumbs collecting on her lap. The silence stretched just a bit too long before she finally looked up. The jokes were long over and this time she actually had to answer. Just to get a little bit of peace and quiet, even if only for a split second.

“I can’t do this,” she said, her voice quiet. “I can’t marry him.”

Jolene didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. She just nodded, her eyes full of compassion.

“I know.”

That was all he said. And somehow it was more than enough.

“I should be happy, shouldn’t I? Father always could’ve chosen one of his associates that are twice my age, but he didn’t, and I’ve dreamed about falling in love since i was a little kid. And yet the fact that I don’t even get a say in that matter now feels worse than a few months back when I first heard the rumors about my upcoming engagement,” the words poured out of her so easily, as if Jolene was the right person to hear them all. And she was, but her presence didn’t make the confession any less raw.

Raine knew that it was her duty to marry someone of a high rank, her mother made sure to tell her that the moment she was old enough to comprehend the words that were spoken to her. But as much as she loved her life and thrived in social circles like a true centre of attention, that one thing, one duty, proved to be too much. “Everyone’s acting like this is some kind of fairytale ending. Like I should be grateful. And I.. I feel like I’m standing in someone else’s story.”

All this time Coleman looked straight into her eyes, as if to let her know that she’s got her full attention. She didn’t even move when King spoke and, for once, she felt like she was being listened to. That’s just how their friendship was and Raine was sure as hell grateful for it.

“You should be happy. But you’re not. And that’s not something you owe anyone an apology for,” Jolene replied finally to break the heavy silence that fell over them.

Raine swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to chase away the tears starting to nab at her eyes. She had expected Jolene to offer some sarcastic quip to ease out the atmosphere, but instead, she offered truth. Simple and painful.

“My mother told me yesterday that Ezra is so kind and so wealthy, and that he’ll take care of me. As if I can’t take care of myself.” She gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t know who she was trying to convince. Me or herself.”

The expression on her mother’s face that day made her question whether her words were actually genuine. She might’ve been just trying to make her feel better about it to avoid further slip ups. “But that’s not the only reason, which is even worse.” she added, more quietly, but Jolene heard her clearly.

Jolene leaned in slightly, her brow furrowing with concern. “What do you mean?”

Raine hesitated. The truth clung to the inside of her mouth like something sour, but she knew she couldn’t carry it alone anymore. She needed someone to understand, and if anyone would, it was Jolene. Besides, she already saw how she looked at her during the banquet, it wasn’t hard to notice who was her gaze focused on.

“Rosalie,” she said finally, barely louder than a whisper. “You know, my brother’s fiancée? We met at the banquet. People seem to think that she and Royce are the perfect match, almost the true golden couple.” She let out a shaky breath. “But it’s not. It’s not perfect. Not to me.”

“The one you were looking at the whole night? And then one that went after you when you left to stand at the balcony?” It was a rhetorical question. Jolene knew exactly who her friend was talking about. “Then yeah, I do. To be frank, I thought it might be something like that.”

“How-” she didn’t get a chance to finish her question.

“Don’t worry, I only saw you because I was escorting Carlisle to the front door. But I know you, Rae, and I noticed the way you looked at her. I’m not as stupid as all of those drunk halfwits.”

Raine let out a relieved sigh, although there wasn’t really a lot that could be seen. They danced together and shared some touches, yeah, but the tension was stuck inside of her. No one could see it apart from her. And, well, Rose.

“I don’t know what it is,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t want it. But it’s there. Every time I see her, it’s like something in me just…” She faltered, looking for the words. “It wakes up. And I don’t think I can go back to pretending that it doesn’t.”

Jolene nodded. “You shouldn’t have to.”

But they both knew that she had to.

“She’s marrying my brother,” Raine snapped, not at Jolene, but at the weight of the truth. “And I’m marrying someone I don’t even…” she paused, putting a hand over her face. “God, I barely even know Ezra. I only met him a few times as a kid when he would visit our house with his parents.”

“It still can be fixed somehow” Jo replied gently. “You know, Rae, you’re allowed to feel this way. What’s right shouldn’t matter at all times, anyway.”

Raine blinked hard again, brushing away a tear that threatened to fall. “And what if it does matter? What if I keep trying to ignore it, and it just… swallows me whole?”

“Then I’ll throw you a rope,” Jolene said without missing a beat, offering her a smile. “Or a bottle of wine. Whichever works faster.”

That earned her a small laugh.

“And then we can both run away. Wherever in the world you want, just not the desert.

Suddenly that offer didn’t sound as surreal. It almost felt like the best solution to this situation.

But she shouldn’t run. She wasn’t a coward.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Jo.” Coleman winked at her when she heard her response. “I really should forget about it, though. I appreciate that you’re not judging me, but we both know that I shouldn’t feel any attraction to a woman. My parents would disown me on the spot. Hell, I don't even know why I feel like this. But when I think about marrying Ezra, all I can see is Rosalie. And how wrong it feels to be someone’s wife when your heart’s already tangled somewhere else.” She let out a bitter laugh.

Raine blinked slowly, a single tear escaping before she could stop it.

“And she’s going to be my sister-in-law.”

She didn’t get a chance to say anything else. She felt the coldness of Jolene’s arms instead, wrapping her in a tight embrace. Her friend didn’t say a word, didn’t try to reason with her or offer an easy answer, because she knew there wasn’t one. Jolene just held her and in that moment, it was the only thing that made sense. That made something stir deep in Raine’s chest. She looked at her best friend, at the woman who knew all the worst parts of her and stayed anyway, and felt something unsteady but real settle in her bones.

She didn’t know if Rosalie felt the same. She didn’t know what would happen if she confessed the truth. But for the first time in days, maybe weeks, she felt like she didn’t have to walk through it all alone.

“I don’t understand how you do it,” Raine muttered, shaking her head. “You live so freely, without a care for what people think.”

Jolene grinned, moving back to her spot again. “That’s because I have no one to answer to.”

“You have yourself.”

“And that’s enough,” and those words gave her a perfect idea. “Come on,” she exclaimed, getting up from her seat and extending a hand towards Raine. “I want to show you something. Maybe that will make you forget about Dwyer. And Hale.”

King perked up at her words and a soft smile appeared on her face. “What is it, more fake Cézannes?”

“Rude,” Jolene said, feigning offense. “And no. Not a painting. Not exactly.”

Raine paused and tilted her head. “Then what?”

“You’ll never find out if you don’t get up.”

And those words made her grab Jolene’s hand and follow her upstairs, the tea still steaming hot on the coffee table.

On some evenings the residence Raine's family lived in was oddly quiet. Even the workers seemed to disappear as there were no footsteps heard on the halls, or the idle chatter that followed them everywhere they went in groups bigger than one. Her father spent most of his time at the bank, so the lack of his presence was understandable, but it was a rare occurrence for other members of her family to leave at the same time. Royce worked with their father, yes, but he usually was back home in the evenings, and her mother didn’t really leave the estate if it wasn’t necessary.

She did have more work with the upcoming wedding, however, and the engagement dinner in two days, so she spent most of her time with family friends or hired professionals, and that’s exactly what happened that evening. She took Royce with her, too, needing an opinion on some decorations for his, as she used to call it, big day. Which, in result, left Raine to attend to the matters of the house. It sounded worse than it actually was, as there wasn’t much to do and she quickly ended up back in her room with a book in hand, but her father always made a big deal about it.

For once in a long time she could enjoy her peace and quiet, at least for her body, as her mind was still racing, even after the talk with Jolene. There was a hot tea on her table and only one light on, allowing her to sink into the shadows of her room without feeling completely in the dark. The stillness should have been soothing, but it only gave her more space to think. Her eyes skimmed the lines of the book without truly understanding the words. Which also meant that the same paragraph had repeated itself twice now, and she didn’t even notice until the third time. She still tried, though.

“Miss Raine?” There was a subtle knock on the door, but loud enough to get Raine’s attention. She looked up from her book, focusing on the source of the noise. No one usually bothered her when she was alone, unless there was an important matter to attend to that couldn’t wait, or an impatient visitor that she had to greet, as everyone here was taught that it was impolite to keep anyone waiting. She also respected the people that worked for her family so she opened the door every time someone knocked.

“Yes?”

The door creaked open and one of the housemaids stepped inside, hands neatly folded in front of her. “You have a visitor, miss.”

Raine straightened in her chair, her mind already starting to spin. Could it be Jolene with something to say that she forgot about last time or perhaps one of her father’s business associates checking in? She knew there was one more option, also extremely realistic, but as much as she wanted the guest to be Rosalie, she also was aware that she shouldn't get her hopes up.

Not anymore. Not ever.

She sighed softly, closing her book and placing it aside. “Who is it?”

The maid hesitated for a brief moment before answering. “Miss Hale. Rosalie, if I’m not mistaken.”

Raine froze. The name struck her with such force that for a moment she couldn’t tell if she’d heard it right.

It took her a moment to regain her composure but when she did, she only smiled at the maid, hoping that she didn’t notice the slight change in her demeanor. “Thank you, Dolly. You may go.”

When the door closed and the girl disappeared, King rose from her seat far too quickly, brushing a hand over her dress to steady herself as if that could do anything about the nerves suddenly building in her chest. It felt different from the encounter at the park. Here she was in the comfort of her own home, and Rose was probably just a guest passing by to visit Royce, but yet it felt like there was no escape. Like something was bound to happen.

She moved across the hall with grace and went downstairs, her walk coming to a halt when she saw the door to the drawing room. Her pulse ticked loudly in her ears and she hated it. She shouldn’t react like this to the mere thought of meeting with Rosalie — it wasn’t okay. Wasn’t proper. Wasn’t following the social norms and rules she was taught since a very young age.

And definitely not her moral code.

That’s why it took a few minutes before she dared to open the door.

Rosalie stood in the center of the room, out of place in a way that made her look even more striking. She felt like something broke them when their eyes met and made them both freeze for a second.

“Hi, Rose,” she greeted her with a smile, taking a few steps towards her. She was cautious, wary, but it would be weird for her to stand still by the door. Especially now that she was the host. “Royce isn’t here if it’s him you’re looking for,” a fake smile graced her features, the tone of her voice perfectly matching it.

Oh, how she wanted to be the one that Rosalie came to visit.

Rosalie replied almost immediately, surprisingly stumbling over her own words. “I’m so sorry to bother you then, Raine. I thought Royce was already ho-”

But in reality, Rosalie did come here to see Raine. Not her fiancé.

She didn’t have to know that though. Or shouldn’t.

“It’s okay,” she interrupted her, extending her hand forward as if to try and stop Rosalie from apologizing. “Please, Rose, have a seat. Would you like a cup of tea?”

She saw how Rosalie pressed her lips together, how her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve and how her gaze seemed to constantly flicker to the floor like she was trying to avoid something. Or someone. Her, perhaps. She didn’t know her yet, not as much as she wanted to, but she was observant, so those gestures unfortunately didn’t go unnoticed.

And it made her heart drop.

“Yes, thank you.”

A short reply and a short breath. Raine studied Rose’s expression once more with a concerned look on her face. This encounter was much different from the walk in the park a few days back. Much different.

What could’ve happened?

Hale finally sat down and Raine gestured to one of the remaining maids to bring them a pot of tea and then leave them alone. She didn’t want anyone to listen in to their conversation, no matter how connected to her family they were. She took a seat across from her hesitantly. “Do you want me to wait with you? It might be a longer while before he comes back.”

Rosalie shook her head gently, a strand of hair slipping over her cheek as she looked down at her hands. “No,” she said, her voice a little too quiet for someone who should already feel at home in this house. “Actually I…” A beat of silence. “I didn’t come here for Royce.”

There it was. The words hung in the air like mist, heavy with meaning, with implication, with something neither of them dared name. Raine’s breath caught in her throat for a moment, her fingers tightening around the armrest of her chair.

“Oh,” she said after a pause that stretched just a little too long. “Then… what brings you here, Rose?”

Rosalie didn’t answer right away. The maid came in before she could anyway, placing a pot of tea with two cups on the table. The quiet between them settled again after she left, not awkward, but intense, almost like the silence before a storm.

“I just…” Rosalie exhaled slowly, her voice shaky. “I needed to see you.”

The admission was so soft it could’ve been missed, but Raine heard it. She felt it. It wrapped around her like a thread, pulling her in tight.

“Me?” she repeated, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Hale pondered for a while as if searching for a suitable answer. In her opinion there wasn’t anything she could say that would fit this description. She decided to change the topic then. Make sure that she was at least slightly right.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different?”

Raine stilled for a second before she tilted her head, looking at Rosalie with interest. She wasn’t expecting a different question but an answer to hers, a confirmation of her assumptions. She didn’t want to push her, however, so she just went with it. “Different how?”

Rosalie didn’t answer immediately. Instead she looked at something behind Raine’s head, as if the painting on a wall was the most interesting thing in that moment. “If we had met under different circumstances. If things weren’t so… complicated.”

King felt her breath hitch but quickly masked it with a quiet chuckle. “I try not to think about impossible things.”

Rose’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say more, but in the end, she only offered a small nod. “Right. Impossible.”

This small interaction, the otherwise planned question, made her think. It was dangerous, that kind of thought. It went right along the edge of what Raine was allowed to feel, or worse, want. But there was a weight behind Rosalie’s words that couldn’t be ignored. Like they were here, in Rochester, but belonged to some other parallel universe that neither of them had access to. And yet she, both of them, could imagine it vividly.

She sat up a little straighter in her seat, trying to keep a refined posture but failing miserably. She also tried not to stare, but Rosalie had a way of pulling her gaze in like gravity. Her eyes traced the soft angles of her face, memorizing the subtle crease in her brow, the way her lashes lowered when she was deep in thought. Raine told herself it was just curiosity, just observation — the same way both her and Carlisle watched the painting of a woman behind them.

Most people don’t look at something, someone, so intensely when they’re simply ‘observing’.

Jolene said those words to her during the banquet and now she finally understood what she meant by it. None of this was ever going to be completely innocent or platonic. Raine was meant to fall for Rosalie and the way she carried herself since their very first meeting and that, more than anything, terrified her. It didn’t matter if she wanted it or no, fate intertwined them together a long time ago and they have yet to realise that.

To her they were just confused friends who met under wrong circumstances.

But to the universe they were much more. Two souls bound together. Fated hearts.

Soulmates.

They didn’t know it yet as life loved to play tricks even people who were sure they lived a perfect life. It brought Rose together with Royce when Mrs. Hale sent her all dressed to the bank where her father worked, and pointed Ezra towards Raine when their engagement was announced, but no one ever said that one’s partner had to be the last. It was almost as if no matter how long or good the other relationships were, the pull was inevitable. Raine was starting to get a slight idea of it when she recalled Jolene’s words and when she thought about how weird it was for her to feel that strong of a pull towards someone so early on, while Rose couldn’t stop thinking about how better, how more at ease she felt when she was around King. It was much different from how it was with Royce — he treated her like a beauty queen and she made her feel human.

The silence between them stretched, occasionally disrupted by the clink of porcelain as Raine slowly filled their cups with tea. It wasn’t uncomfortable, however, but quite enjoyable and soothing. Maybe they couldn’t find answers to their questions in it, but they could at least find a bit of comfort.

King gently pushed one of the cups towards the blonde, a soft smile on her face and their fingers brushed for a brief moment. The contact was entirely accidental, it had to be, but it still sent a ripple down her spine. Hale’s eyes met her in an instant as a response, startled and unsure. There was something oddly familiar in her gaze that Raine recognized. Hunger, maybe. Or perhaps the restrained longing and hesitancy. A mirror of her own emotions.

“I think about it too, you know,” she whispered, suddenly getting enough courage to continue their conversation. “What it would be like if things were different.”

Rosalie’s head turned then, slowly, as if afraid of what she might see in Raine’s expression. “And what do you see?” she asked.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” It was the truth. This time she didn’t feel forced to lie or to hide anything that was going on in her mind. She felt bare and vulnerable in the presence of Rosalie, but somehow safe in it too. And it made her want to tell her everything. “But what I know is that I can’t seem to get you out of my mind.”

The confession took a lot of bravery and, for a split second, Raine didn’t believe she said those words out loud.

But she did. And there was no going back.

Rosalie’s breath caught in her throat, her finger still wrapped tightly around the cup of tea she didn’t even try. The warmth emanating from the drink had nothing on the heat rushing to her cheeks and yet she didn’t look away. Not this time.

Something between them changed in that moment. Like a secret that got cracked open.

Her voice trembled as she answered, “I thought it was just me.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. Rosalie’s words settled between them silently and Raine’s lips parted slightly. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, pounding against her ribs like it wanted out, like it needed to leap forward and meet Rosalie’s halfway. .And in that suspended moment, it felt as though the whole world around them had gone quiet.

I thought it was just me.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Raine admitted, her voice quieter, heavier. “With you.”

She sighed. “What I feel…” she paused, not sure if she should only speak for herself at that moment. “What we feel doesn’t even matter now. You’re getting married to Royce and I’m supposed to become a wife of someone I haven’t seen since childhood. A stranger.”

They both knew that, unfortunately, she was right.

“But then again, you make me forget what I’ve been taught to want and to do,” she said softly. “And I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.”

Rosalie chuckled dryly and then got up from her seat to join Raine on the loveseat. She moved carefully, as if unsure, but didn’t back out. The King heiress shivered when the blonde sat beside her as she felt her touch on her skin — there wasn’t too much space so they had to

She turned to face her, a soft smile on her face. The proximity was dizzying, yet comforting. It was much different from how she felt at the balcony that day. This time she craved this closeness, dreamt about it at night when she actually got a good night of sleep.

“You say that,” Rosalie whispered, “But you don’t seem cursed to me.”

Raine’s breath faltered. Her gaze dropped to Rosalie’s lips for a moment too long, and the realization of it made her look away. “Maybe not,” she said, “But it feels like I’m standing at the edge of something. And if I fall, I don’t know where I’ll land.”

Rosalie tilted her head, watching her. “Then don’t fall,” she said. “Not unless I fall with you.”

It was too much. Too honest. Too dangerous.

And still, Raine found herself whispering back, “Would you?”

Rosalie’s eyes met hers then. She didn’t answer with words and hesitantly reached out and tucked a loose strand of Raine’s hair behind her ear, instead Her fingers lingered near her jaw.

“I think I already have,” she said.

King raised her hand and let her fingers brush over Rose’s jaw. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” Raine murmured. “I’m trying so hard not to hope.”

“But I don’t want to lie anymore,” she replied.

Raine leaned in before she could stop herself, drawn in not by desire but by something deeper. Her forehead touched Rosalie’s, barely grazing, as though asking permission through proximity. And Rosalie didn’t move away.

This time Hale was the one to speak first. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it? What we’re doing right now?”

“It is. And I-” Raine hesitated, moving away from Rosalie. Her gaze fell on her lips again, just for a second, and then focused on something on the opposite wall. “I can’t do this to Royce, Rose. He’s my brother, after all. Family.”

Rosalie nodded slowly, her expression clouded with something that looked like both understanding and devastation. “I know,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t ask you to. But now I’m also not so sure if I can get myself to marry him.”

The space between them felt even heavier now, as if every unspoken word they didn’t allow themselves to say filled the air with weight. “I just needed you to know,” Rosalie continued after a beat. “Before everything gets too far. Before it’s too late to say any of it.”

Raine looked at her with a sad smile. “I’m glad you did.”

“And I too want you to know that even if it all is so new and unusual to me, and even if we don’t know each other for long, the moment I heard about my engagement all I could think about is that I would prefer to marry you instead of Ezra.”

The attraction turned into something more pretty quickly and it made Raine feel terrible about it, but she couldn’t stop her heart’s needs. But now, somehow, when she said it outloud and realised that none of it can ever go past the drawing room or the already intimate enough touch, she felt even worse.

Rosalie laid her head on Raine’s shoulder with a sigh. “I guess we’re both in trouble now.”

“That we are,” King forced a laugh and took a deep breath, wrapping her arm around the blonde’s shoulders. And they stayed like this for a while, waiting for her family to come back to actually say their goodbyes. Because even if they couldn’t fall for each other now, or possibly ever, they both would never forget that conversation.

No matter what.

dividers: cafekitsune gifs: hagrove

Part 1・Part 3

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