#warnings: brief mentions of self harm | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

soaps-mohawk · 9 months ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 38: Shattered

Summary: Things aren't okay. They never will be again.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,520 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, PTSD, nightmares, POV changes, depression and anxiety, medical stuff, injuries, brief description of a possible death, language, mention of weight loss due to medical stuff, emotionally heavy chapter (again), slightly graphic imagery, illness, so much crying

A/N: I just want to make something very clear here since there's a scene in this chapter that might be interpreted this way, but 'mega is NOT suicidal. That's not something that's going to be in this fic, and neither is self-harm. It would have been well warned in advance if that was going to be something coming up in this fic. She's struggling a lot, but she's not suicidal, she's not going to become suicidal, nor will she self-harm even off screen. So don't worry. That's not what's happening. It won't be happening.

Okay, just wanted to make that clear. Enjoy the suffering!

11/30/24: **This chapter has been edited and rewritten from its original version**

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

The scream slices through the silence seconds before chaos erupts.

John is on his feet and out the door before Kyle is even fully awake. Simon is on his heels down the stairs, the two of them nearly colliding in their rush. His heart thuds in his chest as he sees your door open, the overhead light on. It’s bad. It must be bad if the overhead light is on. You hate the overhead light.

He barrels in like a bull, ready to fight. The screaming has stopped, but it still rings in his ears. The fear, the panic. Something has happened. Someone got in. He should have made you take the room upstairs. He should have put a barrier between you and the door. That window. Someone could break that easily and grab you before they even noticed.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

The screaming has stopped, but gut-wrenching sobs have taken its place. He takes a moment to scan the room. Nothing is misplaced. The window isn’t broken, there’s no bodies, no one that shouldn’t be in there.

“You’re okay.” Christine soothes you as you sob. “It was just a nightmare.”

The bright fluorescent overhead light burns his eyes as he stands there, staring at the bed. Christine is right there, having beaten them across the living room, or perhaps she had already been in there, having heard you in your distress before they could. You're tucked in her arms, your face against her shoulder as she holds you.

Nightmare.

The safety and security the cottage promised has faded, leaving you at the mercy of the horrors your mind can conjure up in your sleep. Something twists deep in John’s stomach as he turns, motioning for the others to back up and give you some space. You won’t want them there, and things will only get worse if you notice them.

His heart is still thudding in his chest as he stands there, the sharp sound of your scream still ringing in his ears despite his confirmation of your safety. The other three look just as startled as he feels, standing there tensely in the dark living room. He brings himself to move, turning his back on them for a moment to try and gather his thoughts as he flips on the lamp in the corner. It casts a warm light across the living room, far too warm for how he’s feeling. He’s trying not to panic, trying not to be sick on the floor from the worry. His heart is in his throat, trying to choke him. He’s trying so hard to be strong, not just for him, but for his pack, for you.

He sinks down on one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face. He had been so sure something had happened, that their safe little bubble had been breached and someone knew about their whereabouts. He had been so sure someone was trying to hurt you with a scream like that.

Maybe someone was, but not in reality.

What is it you dream about now? Your nightmares about your father and your traumatic presentation must seem like nothing now compared to what must haunt your mind. Do you dream of Graves and his torture? Do you dream of them leaving you behind? Do you dream of dying because of their failures?

A hand settles on his shoulder, a body sinking onto the couch next to him. Arms are wrapping around him, easing him against a solid chest.

He’s crying.

He didn’t even realize the tears had started flowing.

He can hear the reverberating voice in his head, yelling at him, telling him not to show such weakness in front of his pack, in front of his team. He’s supposed to be the strong one, he’s supposed to be the stable one keeping the pack afloat and steady. Yet here he is, breaking down in front of them.

“It’s okay.”

Kyle.

His sweet Kyle.

How he’s been neglecting his sweet beta, and yet, how willing Kyle still is to reach out and comfort him in such a time of visible distress. That’s what betas are supposed to do. Mediate and balance the emotions of the pack. How have they been coping with all of this? How have Kyle and Johnny been managing in such a time of disarray and upheaval? Have they been managing it? He doesn’t even know. He doesn’t even know the state of his pack, of the members of his team.

What a failure he is.

He lets himself lean against Kyle, something filling his chest as Kyle’s soft scent seeps into his senses. He’s projecting it, not just for John but also for the whole room. Johnny is crying too, soft sobs tearing from his chest as he sits on the other couch. Simon is on his knees in front of him, trying to get him calmed and breathing.

They’ve been ignoring and denying each other for days, fraying the bonds further while trying so hard not to. The pain they’ve been causing in their emotional constipation and intentional neglect is almost worse than the pain caused by their infighting. At least fighting they were feeling something. At least fighting they weren’t cutting each other off so willingly.

“We can’t do this anymore.” He says, his voice thick and shaky from his tears. “Cutting each other off. It’s not helping anything.” He doesn’t move from where he’s tucked against Kyle’s chest, letting the comfort wash over him for the first time in a week and a half.

How he’s missed this.

“It’s not doing any good for any of us.” Simon says, shifting onto the couch next to Johnny.

“Especially not our omega.” Kyle says, voicing the thought flashing through all of their minds.

“We may not be able to do much to help her right now, but we can focus on each other. That is something we can do.” John swallows thickly, his alpha starting to come back to life, his instincts aware again as he stares at Johnny and Simon. “Doing nothing isn’t good for any of us. We need to have something to focus on, something tangible we can do. Denying each other comfort isn’t going to help anyone.”

“I full-heartedly agree.”

John whips around, Christine standing in front of your closed door. He hadn’t even noticed her enter the room, hadn’t sensed her standing behind them. Johnny and Simon are the only two that don’t look startled, but they must have seen her come out from their position facing your door.

“Sorry.” The corner of her lip twitches up in a smirk. “Thought you would have noticed.”

John clears his throat. “How is she?”

“Settled again.” Christine says, moving over to the chair.

“How long has she been having nightmares?” Kyle asks.

“Since that first day in the med center in Dallas.” She says, sinking into the chair. How heavy this must all be on her shoulders. “I’d almost call them more sleep hallucinations. Mostly of Graves. Seeing him in the room, being attacked by him.”

“Is there anything that can be done to help?” John asks.

“For these kinds of nightmares? Not really.” Christine folds her hands in her lap. “Her brain is trying to process what happened. Until she feels safe enough to truly begin working on processing the trauma, it’s likely the nightmares will continue.”

“Is there anything we can do to help her feel safe?” Kyle says.

Christine’s lips purse as she looks between the four of them. “I’m not sure any of you could do anything right now directly, at least. She’s not open to that yet. Working on your bonds with each other, though, could help her omega finally settle and allow her emotions to even out again. That can help her feel safer, remove that instability and the fear of losing control again.”

All of them share looks, John and Simon staring at one another. They hadn’t even thought about that. Well, at least he hadn’t. Christine had told him months ago that omegas need their alpha when they distress, when their omega takes over. They can come back from it with the help of an alpha...their alpha. Without one, the chances of survival were slim. Yet here you are, trying to do it all on your own. Having to do it all on your own.

That ache in his chest starts again as he stares at Simon. He sent Simon after you, he made Simon go through that process of seeing you in that state and scruffing you. He made Simon be the one to help you through that. He made Simon be there when you needed an alpha most because he couldn’t face the fact that he abandoned you, he left you behind like you were nothing but another faceless soldier.

He wipes his face as the tears start falling again. He truly is a failure of an alpha.

Despite Christine’s reassurances, John can’t help the automatic reaction to your screams. On his feet instantly, his heart pounding in his chest ready to fight bare handed whatever might be causing such a reaction. Whoever might be causing such a reaction. He can’t fight the demons in your head, though, and he’s always greeted by the sight of Christine by your side, comforting you as best she can.

He wants to hate her, wants to be angry at her for taking his place, doing what he should be doing. His alpha scratches at his mind every time he sees her by your side, giving you comforts he should be giving, but it’s his fault. It’s his fault she’s the one there with you. It’s his fault you’re suffering so much. Those thoughts send his alpha crawling back into its cage with its tail between its legs.

It doesn’t matter the time of day, whether it was a nap or the middle of the night, your screams have a pain throbbing deep in his chest. His heart is constantly racing, waiting for that rush of adrenaline at the sound of your terrified scream, at that rush of instinct to protect and fight. He’s not sure how much his heart can take.

He might have a heart attack by the end of their stay at the cottage.

That’s something he’s been trying not to think about.

They can’t stay here forever, no matter how much he knows you’ll want to, how much the others will want to. Eventually they’ll begin to go stir-crazy, itching for something to do. They still have jobs, and Kate can only keep them off the radar for so long, and can only give so many excuses. Eventually they’ll have to go back. Eventually they’ll have to make that decision of what comes next.

He’s going to delay that as much as he possibly can.

They can’t go back while Shepherd is still out there. They can’t trust that anywhere is safe while he’s still skulking around, while he still has contacts that could put them all in danger. That could put you in danger.

That’s not a risk he’s willing to take again.

But what comes next?

What will they decide to do? Can they go back, knowing what the inevitable will be? Can they take that risk of having to leave you again, put you through that constant fear and worry that they might not come back? What if they all leave again? Could you survive the fear that something might happen while they’re away again? Not to them, but to you?

Could they leave you alone again?

Those are thoughts for another day when they’re inevitably faced with the fact they have to return to society and their lives and jobs.

They have time.

He has to make sure you’re okay first.

You’re not okay.

You’re so very far from okay.

The bedside lamp is on, casting a golden glow around the room.

There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there.

It’s one of the rare times you’ve woken before you can react, before you can scream and alert everyone in the house that you’ve had a nightmare. They’ll all come running. All of them.

You hate it.

You hate the nightmares, you hate the fear, you hate the constant pain and worry and the constant knowledge that your pack is right there. They want to go back to how things were, they want things to go back to normal, but they can’t. They expect you to forgive them, to go back to loving them, but how can you after everything?

They left you.

They let this happen to you and they just want you to pretend like nothing happened. That’s what they would do. Go back to normal life after being tortured and forget it all happened because that’s what they do.

You’re not them.

You don’t want to be like them.

Cold. Heartless. Uncaring. Unwilling to put anyone but themselves first.

Fuck them.

The only thing keeping you here is the fact you’re bonded to them. That, and you’re an omega. You’d get picked up off the street and brought right back here to your owner. Or, worse, you’d get picked up by someone looking for a cute little omega to add to their collection.

Or worse.

You’d get picked up by someone else.

Graves. Shepherd.

If you’re lucky, they’d kill you instantly. Leave your body on the front porch for the others to find. You won’t care anymore. You’ll be dead.

You hastily wipe the tears from your cheeks, wiggling yourself back until you’re leaning against the headboard. Your shoulder doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore. It still throbs, still aches, still occasionally almost puts you on the floor when you try to reach over your head with it. Your throat is healing too. Soup isn’t quite as horrible as it was a few days ago. Solid food makes you ache, but at least you can get it down without feeling like you’re swallowing glass.

You still haven’t spoken to them, though.

You can hardly stand to look at them.

Fuck them.

Just the thought of them makes you want to scream.

Dr. Keller says it's normal, being angry. ‘It’s all part of the process.’ The anger, the fear, the pain, the depression. It’s all normal. It’s all part of the process. It’s all necessary. You won’t get better holding it all in. You won’t get better numbing yourself. You won’t get better if you don’t allow yourself to feel everything.

You hate it.

Why should you have to go through all these feelings, all this pain? Why should you be the one suffering because of their decisions? It’s not fair. They should be suffering. They should be in pain. They should be the ones on the brink of insanity because of the fear and the pain and the suffering and their omega constantly screaming at them.

It makes you want to scream.

Screaming will only draw them in, force them closer. Screaming will alert them all, make them all come running. You don’t want any of them near. You don’t want to have to see them again.

Fuck them.

You let out a huff before wiggling back down the bed until your head hits the pillow. You won’t go back to sleep. You never do. At least you have the pain and exhaustion and tumultuous emotions and your very nature to excuse your constant naps, constant sleeping during the day. They don’t need to know you’re not sleeping at night. They won’t care. They don’t care. None of them do.

Fuck. Them.

You want your phone, you want something to keep you occupied. It’s probably lying somewhere on the side of the road shattered beyond repair. That, or it’s back in the barracks. The barracks. Fuck that place. You’ll rip your hair out strand by strand if you have to go back there. It’s not safe, it’s not happy. There’s nothing good about that place anymore.

It’s just a place of pain. You might as well have been tortured by Phil there.

You were tortured there.

It wasn’t a physical torture, but a mental one. The entire experiment was just torture for you. No one thought of you, no one cared about you.

Dr. Keller cares.

It’s her job to care.

Still, you can’t hate her entirely. She’s the only one that understands. She’s the only one that can help. She’s the only one that’s been helping. Not just now, but back then. She cared, she fought for you, she did her best with what she had. Sure, she made mistakes, but so did you. She’s the only one you can forgive.

She’s the only one you want to forgive.

Fuck the others. Fuck your pack. Fuck those fucking soldiers who were never going to care about anyone but themselves, who were never going to care about anything but their jobs and their duties and the good of the world.

You should have been their world.

They couldn’t put you first. They wouldn’t put you first. They didn’t want to put you first.

They won’t change. They can’t change. There’s no hope for change.

You’ll just go back to the way things were before and be forced to pretend everything's okay and that you’re happy and fine and content. Were you ever really content or were you just trying to make the best of the situation? Were you deluding yourself into believing you loved them and cared about them and that they loved you and cared about you to numb the fact you knew deep down that they never would, that they never could. Were you deluding yourself into thinking everything was fine and dandy to hide the constant pain from the knowledge that you would never come first?

The pain begins to burn in your chest again. It’s hot like acid, rising in your chest to your throat, threatening to choke you. It’s a deep pain, one nestled right in against your soul. Tears leak out of your eyes again as you squeeze them shut, pushing your right hand against your chest in an attempt to get it to pass.

You thought you were dying the first time.

You could only be so lucky.

The bond.

It’s trying to break, trying to sever itself, trying to free you from the constant pain, but it can’t.

Maybe because deep down you don’t want it to. Maybe deep down you want to forgive them and move past all of this. Maybe you want things to go back to normal, even if normal means pain and distress and fear. Maybe you want to believe them that they’re finally going to put you first.

‘Maybe’ is only a doorway to disappointment and pain.

Fuck yourself.

Fuck your omega.

Fuck your pack.

Hell, fuck Dr. Keller for not fighting harder, for not doing more.

Fuck Graves and his haunting of your nightmares.

Fuck Kate for choosing you.

Fuck Shepherd for creating the initiative in the first place to try and cover his own ass.

Fuck them all.

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, rolling onto your right side.

Fuck. Them. All.

You don’t want him here.

He does it now, usually in the mornings.

You hate it.

You like it. It’s nice. He’s the only one making an effort.

He never says anything, surprisingly enough. It’s silent as he sits there, steaming cup of coffee in hand. Always coffee, never tea. He won’t sink that low. He brings you a cup, but you can never bring yourself to touch it. You feel like a mental patient stuck in a straight jacket. You could free yourself, but that would bring too much awareness, too many questions, too much pain.

You don’t want to.

So instead you sit there in silence, staring out at the sea. It’s so far away still, yet it’s right there. You can hear it and smell it and see it.

The sea.

They brought you to the sea.

John remembered. He did it for you.

The thought has something stirring in your chest, and it’s not pain or anger.

You hate it.

Johnny leans back in the chair, his eyes on the horizon like yours. He sits there in that chair every chance he gets, usually in the mornings when Dr. Keller takes time for herself and leaves one of them watching you through the sliding glass door. You do feel guilty for forcing so much on Dr. Keller’s shoulders, yet you need her.

You’re not ready for the others yet, no matter how loudly your omega screams at you.

You don’t want them.

Fuck, you desperately need them.

Your eyelids flutter frantically as you try to keep the tears at bay. You can’t cry. You can’t let him know how close you are to breaking down. You can’t.

You can’t reach out.

You can’t take his hand.

How desperately you want to.

You nearly breathe a sigh of relief when the sliding door opens, Dr. Keller’s soft footsteps crossing the wood planks of the porch.

“Ready to go inside now?” She asks, pressing the back of her hand against your cheek. You don’t say anything, don’t react, frozen in fear of everything coming tumbling out in front of Johnny. “You’re getting cold.”

Johnny glances your way and you immediately turn to look at Dr. Keller, scared to look him in the face. That desperate hold you have on the gaping wound in your abdomen will open and your guts will come spilling out like some gory scene in a horror movie.

Disembowelment thanks to your own weakness.

Dr. Keller holds the crutch out for you as you push yourself to stand. Your legs are strong enough you could probably walk without it, but it’s still nice to have it in case you get tired.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

It’s the weakness from your liquid diet over the past week and a half. The weakness of being unable to eat solid foods, to properly nourish. You’ve lost weight, your clothes hanging from your body in a way they never did before. You’ve lost the softness that marks you as an omega, but it feels fitting. You don’t feel like an omega anymore.

You don’t feel like anything anymore.

You’re fighting your instincts out of pain and suffering and stubbornness. You keep taping your omega’s mouth shut despite how loudly she screams at you. You don’t want your instincts. You don’t want that need. Eventually it has to go away. Eventually it has to recede and your omega has to go back into her cage and sleep. Eventually you can numb yourself to it and force it away forever.

That will certainly make things easier.

But will it make things better?

No. Probably not.

It’ll make things worse.

But if it allows you to keep your distance, allows you to avoid them, you’ll risk it. You’d take numbness over anything right now.

How you miss those long days of depression while they were away. How you took those days for granted.

Who knew those hours spent worrying about them and their distance and what might happen to them would be for nothing?

What you wouldn’t give for all of them to disappear right now.

How badly it would destroy you.

“She’s at war with herself. That instinctual need is screaming at her, but that emotional pain is keeping her shut away. If anyone is going to get through to her, it will probably be you.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his jaw as he stares at Christine. As much as he wants to hate the doctor and her ability to see straight through him, he can’t deny how necessary her presence has been. She’s the only one you tolerate, the only one you’ll let close. Without her you’d probably be rotting in bed, stuck and unable to do anything out of stubbornness. You won’t let them close, yet you need them close.

You’re going to rip yourself in half, metaphorically and possibly even literally.

He shakes that mental image from his mind. The horrifying images his mind has conjured up over the last few days have his stomach churning. Even his tea no longer looks appetizing.

He put milk in it this time. Almost how he likes it. Almost how he wants it.

“Johnny’s the one actually trying.” Simon says, staring across at her. She doesn’t shy from his gaze, doesn't even flinch. “You should talk to him.”

“While I agree, reintroducing a beta from the pack is the first step, eventually she’s going to need an alpha.” Christine says.

“She needs her alpha.” He argues.

“She doesn’t want her alpha.” Christine counters. “He’s going to be the last she lets close, but she’s going to need some kind of stability.”

“I can’t give her that.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Simon clenches his hand around his mug, his knuckles going white. She’s infuriating, yet he can’t be mad at her. Not completely. The good she’s doing for you, for the pack, far outweighs his annoyance with the doctor. She’s right. He knows it deep down, but he can’t. He can’t do that, he can’t put you through that. He’s already done enough. He did his part, he faced his fears, he saved your life. That’s enough for him. It’s up to John now.

John has to do the work to fix it. He broke it, it’s no one else’s job to fix it.

“Maybe both.” Simon finally says, pushing himself up to stand. “It’s not my job to fix this.”

He leaves his mug behind as he stalks out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. He can’t stand being in the house any longer, cooped up with the same five people. Four people and a ghost.

He shakes his head, jogging down the steps into the gravel. He should go for a jog. A long jog. He could jog to town and back. That will clear his head.

That’s a long jog.

If something happens while he’s away, he won’t get back in time. It’ll be his fault because he took the time to do something selfish. He can picture it, coming back to find five bodies laying in pools of blood, dead because he wasn’t there to help, because he wasn’t there to fight.

It’s a ridiculous thought. There’s three other highly trained soldiers in the house. If anyone tried anything, they wouldn’t make it past the door. He can see it now, Price’s alpha coming out in a rage because someone dared try to enter and hurt his vulnerable omega. He’d probably win in a fight ten to one if that happened, and he has Kyle and Johnny to back him up. Christine would take you and run the first chance she could. She wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not again.

Still, he can’t shake that fear. If he can’t sprint back, then it's too far. If it will leave the pack too vulnerable, he can’t.

To the beach and back, then.

She’s like an angel.

The soft sunlight streaming through the clouds makes her glow. You wouldn’t be surprised if the sun was shining just for her, sending down a beam just to illuminate just how ethereal she is.

The Garrick beauty is genetic.

Kyle is beautiful in terms of a man. He shares the same ethereal glow as his sister, but Ashley? You don’t feel worthy of looking upon her.

“Kyle never mentioned an omega, but then again, he never says much about his job.” She gives another dazzling smile, your heart rate picking up just slightly. “Can’t, I should say. You haven’t been with them long, huh.”

“About nine months.” You say, your voice still a bit hoarse. It’s not quite healed yet. It might be that way forever.

“Such a short amount of time to go through so much.” She says, giving you a soft, sympathetic look. You don’t know how much she knows, though it’s still fairly obvious you’ve been through hell. That you’re still going through hell. “Christine told me a bit about what happened. I don’t blame you one bit for being upset at them. I would have left them, but I know. In a perfect world, right?”

You make a quiet sound. Indeed in a perfect world where omegas have rights and can make their own decisions and could leave and have support in doing so. You’d leave with Dr. Keller or even Ashley, even though you’ve only known her for ten minutes. She has the same magnetic energy as Kyle, so much so you don’t mind the way the scent blockers burn your nose. She probably smells like something warm and soft, something comforting.

“So, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do?” She says, settling in the chair. It’s cool outside, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it one bit.

You scramble for something, anything. What is it you like to do? What are your hobbies? You’re drawing a blank, your mind searching through its filing cabinets to find where you shoved all the things you like to do.

“I like to read.” You finally say, remembering the stack of untouched books on the dresser across from the bed.

“Oh? What do you like to read?” She asks.

What do you like to read? What is a genre? What are books?

“Oh, I read anything, as long as it’s interesting.” Is that the truth? You’re not quite sure.

“I see, I see. Well, there’s quite the collection on those shelves inside. I’m a reader too. Read through those entire shelves over the years.” She grins at you. “We could do a little book club, if you’d like. Read some books and talk about them over some tea. We could get Christine in on it too. Have a little thing just for us girls.”

You nod, staring at her in awe. This is the first time someone outside of your little circle has offered to do anything with you, for you.

You want to do it.

You want to spend time with someone who isn’t your pack, who isn’t Dr. Keller.

“Okay.” You say, still staring at her in awe.

“I could come over on the weekends, or we could do a call if you’re not up to seeing anyone.” She continues, and you’re not sure if she made this plan before she came, or if she’s coming up with it on the spot. Regardless, you're still impressed by her and her dedication to a complete stranger.

“Would...would that be too much?” You ask, your brain starting to wake up again, the wires connecting once more.

“Not at all.” She shakes her head. “I live and work in Exeter, so I’m not too terribly far away.”

You’re not sure where Exeter is off the top of your head. Your mental map isn’t even sure how far away London is...or even where you are on a map of England. Are you even in England right now?

“What do you do for work?” You ask, realizing you’ve been silent for an awkward amount of time.

“I’m a finance lawyer.” She says. “Mum used to say ‘you love to argue so much, you should become a lawyer.’” She laughs. “So I did.”

“You must make a lot of money.” You say. You don’t know how much lawyers make in England relative to the US.

“I make enough to be comfortable.” She says. Enough to travel back and forth every weekend. “Seriously, though, if you need or want anything, let me know. I’m more than happy to come sit with you and give you a break from those stinky men.”

You’re not quite sure what happens to your face. It contorts, muscles shaking off the dust and starting to move before you even realize it. Your lips are tilting upwards instead of downwards. Something is happening. Something that feels good, something that you’ve been missing.

You’re smiling.

You’re smiling. You haven’t smiled in a long time. Weeks. Not since the cameras. Not since your pack left. You haven’t felt like smiling in so long you’re certain you forgot how to. But yet, here you are, smiling at Ashley. It’s not a genuine smile, one that crinkles your eyes and shows joy, but it’s a smile. It almost hurts your face after so long.

She’s funny too.

Stinky men.

They are that.

Your smile falls as soon as the sliding glass door opens, your head whipping around to look. Ashley turns to look too, perhaps out of instinct at your sudden movement.

You’re half expecting it to be one of the guys, maybe Kyle out to ruin the moment, but it’s only Dr. Keller.

“How are things going?” She asks, stepping up beside you.

“Good.” Ashley says. “We’re planning a book club.”

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises a brow, looking between you. “I think that would be fantastic.”

“You’re welcome to join in if you’d like,” Ashley says, giving Dr. Keller a smile.

You stare up at Dr. Keller, watching the way her lips turn up a smile, her eyes shining with...something. Her hands open and close, tugging at her pants almost nervously. Your brows raise as you look back up at her face. She almost looks...flustered.

Oh.

Another grin forms on your face as you stare between them, Ashley still smiling and Dr. Keller still looking a bit flustered.

Oh.

“You could join us if you want.” You say slowly, still looking up at Dr. Keller.

She seems to snap out of her daze, her gaze darting down to you. She gives you a soft smile, back to her composed, professional self. “If that’s what you’d like.”

You nod. Even though you see her constantly every day, you’re not tired of her existence yet. She’s the only one whose existence in the house doesn’t make you want to gouge your eyes out, the only one you want to talk to, to see, to have around. If you had the choice, you’d be here alone with her.

That’s not possible. You know it’s not.

“A thing for just us girls.” Ashley says. “On the weekends. No pressure whatsoever.”

“I think that would be fantastic.” Dr. Keller says. “A nice little distraction.”

“A nice break from those stinky men.” You say.

Both Dr. Keller and Ashley erupt in laughter.

Another smile tugs at your lips.

You don’t want to be here. You can feel him staring at you from behind. He hasn’t moved since Dr. Keller left, still just standing there like he’s not sure he can approach you or not. You hope he doesn’t. You want him to.

You don’t say anything, still staring out at the ocean, but you can see him reflected in the glass, obscuring your view of the horizon. Hatred burns inside of you as you have no choice but to stare at him, even when you’re trying not to. He’s like a ghost, always haunting you. He always will be.

“I didn’t want to try to rush into this.” He finally says, knowing you’re not going to say anything. You won’t greet him, welcome him into your space. It already feels like an intrusion into your safety, him being here.

Is this becoming a safe space? A nest? No, not that far. It’s becoming sacred to you, though, and having him in it without invitation feels wrong. It makes you uncomfortable.

You hate it.

“But I just wanted you to know that we’re all feeling the weight of what we did, I’m feeling the weight of what I decided to do. We all feel guilty for putting you through that, for forcing you to endure things you never should have.”

He swallows thickly, falling silent for a moment. You almost feel like laughing at his attempt at an apology, another attempt at an apology. Why is he even bothering? He knows you won’t forgive him. He’s probably doing it for himself again, to make himself feel better.

“I know it’s not an ideal situation, being forced in such a small space together, but we all wanted you to know that you’re the one setting the boundaries. If you don’t want us to be somewhere or do something, then you can tell us, or have Christine tell us. If you don’t want to see us at all, we can make our best attempts at that.”

“That would be ideal.” You say, breaking the silence you’ve held for days. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the hospital, since his first sad attempt at an apology.

It shocks him to stillness and silence.

The words hurt, burning your throat like acid as you stare at his reflection in the glass. You hate it, how pathetic he looks standing there. Where’s the big, tough alpha? Where’s the strong protector? Where’s the person that’s supposed to take care of you and care about you?

He never existed.

He left you behind.

He never cared.

Anger begins to bubble within you.

“I’m sorry.” He says, his voice shaking. “I never meant for this to happen-”

“You think your sad attempts at apologies are going to work?” You hiss at him through your teeth. You push yourself to stand, turning to face him. “You left me. You fucking left me there knowing full well what was going to happen!” You’re shouting now. All the quiet movements on the other side of the wall in the main area stop.

They’re all listening.

It’s not like you’re giving them much of a choice not to.

Fuck them.

“I know,” He says, his eyes wide as he stares at you.

“Do you? Do you know?” Your voice is wavering, your throat starting to ache but you can’t stop. Not now. It’s all coming out and there’s no stopping it. “You. Left. Me. You willingly turned your back on me time and time again even when I was being tortured! You leaving was torture enough and you still chose me second. I’ve always been second. I’ve never mattered enough for you to even question anything!”

You let out a sob, the sound cracking in your throat. It hurts, but it will always hurt. You’ll always carry this hurt with you, so you want him to hurt too.

“I asked you once if you would ever leave for me. You said if things got dangerous, if my life were ever at risk because of you, you’d leave in a heartbeat.” The tears are falling, streaming down your face. “Was that a lie?”

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, staring at you. Does he even remember that conversation?

“Was that a lie?” You shout, making him jump.

His eyes drop to the floor, his scent souring. Good, you think. Let it hurt.

“Answer me.” You say, pushing him to give some response to your question. You need to know. You need him to say it.

“I didn’t intend for it to be.” He says quietly.

“You didn’t intend for it to be.” You say, bitterness coating your tone. “What the fuck does that mean? You said you wouldn’t let me go even if the initiative failed. Was that a lie too? Was it all a lie to keep me happy and complacent? ‘The job always comes first,’ even when my life is in danger, right? The job always comes first over everything, even me. You lied to me.” You swallow the sob threatening to come up. “I want to hear you say it.”

He stands there, tears brimming in his eyes. He hasn’t moved hardly a muscle, still frozen like a statue.

“Say it!” You scream at him, your throat tearing around the words. You’re surprised you’re not tasting blood yet from how raw it feels.

“I lied.” He says, swallowing thickly. “I lied to you and I couldn’t keep my promise. And I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologize.” You cut him off starting to pace as the anger burns hot in you. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me, you don’t deserve to apologize. You don’t deserve the chance at forgiveness. You’re a shitty alpha and you always have been!”

You let out a sob, wiping at the tears streaming down your face. There’s a tear sliding down his cheek, and it brings you some sort of relief deep down. So he can feel things after all.

“I don’t know what I expected, though.” You let out a sardonic laugh. “You military men are all the same. It’s always about the job and the image and the ‘greater good’ and making sacrifices, even if that means sacrificing your pack. You’re just like my dad. You never wanted an omega, you never wanted me. You cast me out and let me suffer when I needed you most.”

The anger burns hot in you again, shooting through your veins until it’s choking you as you stare at him standing there pathetically. He thought he could apologize, he thought his groveling would mean anything to you. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

“You left me.” You grit out, your hands starting to shake. “You left me! You abandoned me, you let me get hurt! You didn’t care, you never cared about me!” You storm over to him. “Fuck you!” You scream, hitting his chest. “I fucking hate you!” You shove him back, sending him stumbling. “Get out!” You shove him again, pushing him back towards the door. “Get out! I never want to see you again!”

He stumbles back out of the door and you slam it in his face so hard it shakes on its hinges. You click the lock as you sob in pain, pain both physical and emotional. Your chest aches, a tearing feeling burning through it.

The bond.

You don’t care. You don’t give a fuck anymore. You hate him, you hate them all.

The tears and sobs threaten to choke you but you don’t care. You don’t care anymore. You don’t care about anything anymore except the anger burning hot through you, making your hands shake. Your legs give out and you slide to the floor against the door, sliding until you’re laying down on your back on the hardwood. It’s cold against your skin but you don’t care. You can’t care anymore.

If you fall, you’ll never get up again.

John stares at the wood in shock. The slam of the door still echoes in his ears as he stands there, frozen. He knew the chance of a negative reaction was high, but something like that? Something to that magnitude?

Your words cut into him like a knife, searing his skin and leaving blisters behind.

Hands push him out of the way. He stumbles to the side, his brain still catching up to his body.

“Sweetie, I need you to open the door.”

The words are muffled from the ringing in his ears, the ringing of your screams as you cursed his very being.

Liar.

His legs are shaking as he turns, his body moving automatically towards the door. The other three members of his pack are frozen, watching him as he crosses the living room, as he wraps his fingers around the handle of the sliding glass door, as he pushes it open just wide enough to slip through.

The thud of it closing feels like a seal being stamped. He’s cut himself off, fraying that bond forever.

Your words still ring in his head as he stands in the middle of the porch numbly.

Liar.

He is a liar. He made a lot of promises that he couldn’t keep, promises that he broke because of his decisions. He should have made you feel comfortable enough to reveal those cameras right away. He should have gotten you off base as soon as you revealed them. He should have never trusted Shepherd, or even Kate in that moment. He should have fought harder, he should have sent you away from base as soon as he made that decision to leave.

So many things he should have done differently.

You can’t change the past.

Liar.

He left you when you needed him most. He proved time and time again that he’d always choose the job over you, no matter what he promised. You’re not a soldier. No matter how much he tried to prepare you, train you, you’d never be able to fight like them.

Not without taking drastic measures.

He saw the blood. He saw the bodies. He saw the proof of an omega pushed too far, an omega forced into its primordial state.

You did it because they left you.

You did it because you thought the abandoned you.

Those words ring out the loudest in his mind. Above all the others those words linger, replaying over and over again.

‘You let me be tortured.’

Christ.

He runs a hand over his face, the realization shocking him as a cold chill settles under his skin. There’s a weight dropping in his stomach, threatening to sink him straight through the planks of the porch and into the ground below.

You think they left you.

He turns on his heel, shocked to find Simon standing behind him. He can’t read his face, hidden behind the mask that hasn’t come off since they arrived at the cottage. He doesn’t need to see his face to read the giant alpha. He’s known Simon long enough to be able to read him just based on his body language.

He’s angry, frustrated. John half expects him to start yelling too, but that’s never been Simon’s style. He only gets loud when he needs to. Instead he’ll stew and glare and darken the room with his rage. The target of his anger will feel it and know, and that’s almost worse than if he’d express that anger through words.

Despite the cold chill of Simon’s stare, John’s mind is reeling too much to care. It all makes sense now. Your distance, your turmoil, your own anger.

“She thinks we left her.” The words come tumbling out before he can stop them.

“We did.” Simon says, the words short and sharp.

“No, no,” John shakes his head. “She thinks we left her with Graves.”

Simon shifts on his feet, the planks of the porch creaking under his weight.

“Of course Graves would fuck with her head, make her feel like she had been abandoned. It was never about following orders for him. He would have tortured her no matter what.” Anger burns hot in John, at himself, at Graves. Of course you’d assume the worst, of course you’d believe Graves because he was playing on your own doubts.

They left you so easily at the barracks, of course they’d leave you to be tortured.

“She’ll never believe you.” Simon says. The squaring of his shoulders has deflated a bit.

“No, she won’t.” John shifts on his feet, staring straight at Simon. “But I’m not going to be the one to tell her.”

Her hand presses against your forehead, wiping some of the sweat beading on your skin. Despite your shivers, you’re burning hot. A fever. You worked yourself up too much earlier in your outburst. She had been proud of you for finally releasing some of it and showing some emotion, but she knew the consequences of getting so worked up would be high. Your omega is still unstable, on top of still trying to physically recover. You hurt yourself doing that, even if it was necessary.

She shushes you as you whine, fingers grasping at the blanket clumsily. She pulls it higher over you, your body shuddering underneath the pile already stacked on top of you. She’d put every blanket she could find over you, and yet you still shiver. Worry floods her again as she stares down at you, your eyes pinched closed. You must be aching, your show of anger taking its toll.

It was necessary, but at what cost?

If your temperature continues to spike, the risk of distress heightens. You can’t handle distress in your current state, which would mean your omega would come out, finally be freed again from the unprotected cage it's been pushed back into. If your omega comes out, that will require John to help, which may only drive you further into distress.

She needs to try and stop this before the situation continues to deteriorate.

But how?

How can she move you past this without the help of your pack? She can’t give you the comfort you need. Medicine or any therapeutic methods can help solve the issue at its core. Sure she can try and lower your fever with medicine, but you need your pack. You need that comfort and stability that only they can offer.

You need someone, and it can’t be her.

If your omega comes back out, they might never be able to get it back in. It’ll be the end of you. All of your recovery, the fight you’ve put up against your body and your instincts and your mind will have been for nothing.

You need someone.

An idea begins to form in her head, her hand resting against your forehead. It’s hot under her hand, your skin burning. You might hate her later for this. It’s risky, but sometimes risks have to be taken in dire situations. Sometimes those risks pan out in the end. What will happen if it fails? The inevitable that’s going to happen if she doesn’t try. It’s a lose-lose situation, but if it works, it could be a win-win.

She can’t help you, but maybe she has someone who can.

She tucks the blankets around you, cocooning you in an attempt to keep you warm and still while she steps away. She won’t be gone long.

She leaves your door cracked open just in case, even though she doubts you’ll be moving much while she’s away.

Just in case.

One can never be too careful.

She heads up the stairs quietly, going slow to avoid startling any of them. She’s intruding on the safe space they’ve made in their solitude. It feels like invading sacred grounds, but it's a necessary invasion. Their omega is in danger. They’ll forgive her.

The bathroom door is closed at the end of the short hallway, a light on inside. The lights are on in both rooms too, glowing beneath both doors, and she takes a gamble. Based on the heaviness of the footsteps above the kitchen she can guess the room on the right is the one Simon and Johnny are staying in. If she’s wrong, she’ll have some explaining to do before she’s ready, and she knows John will have his thoughts about this. Though, with what happened earlier, perhaps he’ll agree. You won’t see him, but maybe...just maybe...

She lets out a deep breath before knocking firmly, waiting a breath before she calls out.

“Johnny, I need your help.”

She just hopes you don’t hate her too much later.

NEXT ->

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#call of duty #call of duty fic #task force 141 x reader #poly 141 x reader #John price x reader #captain price x reader #Kyle Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Ghost x reader #John mactavish x reader #soap x reader #alpha/beta/Omega dynamics #a/b/o #omegaverse

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starboye · 9 months ago

Text

Kinktober Day 1

starring: john price x male reader

request: Older!Captain Price fucking femboy!younger!male reader

warnings: smut, cursing, femboy!reader, kinda age play, praise, pet names, unprotected sex, somewhat blowjob, perv!141 team, mentions of masturbation, daddy kink, creampie

how did the team ever get so lucky with a young bun like you, so helpful and cheerful around the base as the assistant to price, always helping the team out even when they tell you no because they don't want you overexerting or even worse hurting yourself so no matter how much you say you could help they make sure you're out of the way when they work on the cars around the base or something else.

hell, sometimes they use you as eye candy while they work, glancing over at your beautiful ass self dawned in some tight shorts with a little skirt around it because price said you couldn't wear that short of a skirt with nothing underneath it around the base so you just settled with putting some shorts under it with a tight button up shirt that had a couple buttons popped open to help with the hot weather.

and each time you caught them looking they would quickly act like they were talking among each other but just to give them what they want a little bit you would pretend to drop some papers then bend over to pick them up, giving the boys a clear view of you pretty ass, letting their thoughts run wild as they thought of the many ways the would use you if given the chance, to the dismay of price who was watching from a nearby window.

so he calls you into his office, you walking down the hallway nervously before stepping into his office, the air was tense as he sat in his chair, arms folded across his big chest "you wanted to see me sir" you were nervous as hell and it showed on your nervous stance "c'mere love" he said patting his leg and you slowly made your way to him before lightly sitting down on him, his hand caressing your lower back.

"y'know i can't have you runnin' around here lookin' like that and distractin' all the guys from their work right" he asked, his eyes glued to your face as you tried to find anything else to look at "yes sir" you stammered "just think of what some old dog like them or me happens when we see you lookin' like a beaut'" his hands now trailing up and down your spine making you shudder to his rough yet soft touch.

"im sorry mr.price" you were getting hornier by the seconds with his longing touches and soft words you just didn't want to embarrass yourself in front of him "no need to be sorry, just where this stuff f'us okay, me and the team and no one else" he wasn't being coy anymore he wanted you and you caught onto that quickly so what would be the harm in acting in your slutty way "so just you and the team, all my ass for you guys" you ask tuning at him fully and straddling his lap, his hands finding and holding your waist.

"ah ah i didn't say the team could have this ass now did i, this ass is just f'me but i'll let the guys fuck you with their eyes" he assured beginning to kiss your neck and feel you ass, your arms draped over his shoulder as you began grinding on him speedily "now how about i get a taste of this jaw dropping ass i've seen so much" he said pulling your shorts off but leaving the skirt for the pretty look of it.

you slowly pull down his jeans down to see the outline of his hard on, palming him through briefs making him rock hard while you both made out "m'gonna need that hole now lovie" he panted slapping your ass and kneading it intently so you did as he said and pulled his briefs down to let his girthy cock fling out, as you spit into your hand and began working on lubing up his dick price took off your shirt and littered your chest in little bites and hickeys, further adding to his boner.

he lifted you up and angled you over his cock before plopping you down, drawing a loud moan from you that price swallowed with a deep kiss "stay quiet now, wouldn't want the others to hear would ya" price urged pulling back to lean into the chair and watch this cute sight "yes sir" and with that you were off, hopping up and down on his dick like a desperate puppy, needy for every inch of your boss and price? well price was just happy he could get some action after so long i mean he could only go on so long with jerking off to some porn.

and with a pretty young thing like you, he was happy as hell to be fucking you, groaning lowly with each plap from your ass against his lap "a young thing like you with an old dog like me, almost like a match doomed to meet" price smirked throwing his hands behind your head and making you do all the work in pleasuring his cock and you were to out of it to even reply, your tongue lolling out with drool dripping from the corner of your mouth "ha m'dick so good can't even reply" price snickered, enjoying the sight of your little skirt flying up and down.

the real reason he didn't want you wearing just a skirt is because he was nervous the others would be so desperate to fuck you that they'd do anything to get in your bed (and hole) so he told you to cover up more, you were now leaning into him, arms wrapped around his necked as you fucked yourself on him like your life depended on it but no worries price loved the sight of your ass bouncing against him and you moaning in his ear like a whore.

"you want daddys cum" price asks now controlling your ass, his hands tightly holding your cheeks in his hand and lowering you up and down on his cock "mhm i want it so bad" you whined, price couldn't believe that with a few words he'd have you begging for his cum and he was so happy that he finally got to fuck you after so long of only imagining it, mentally bragging about how he got to fuck you before the rest of the boys.

"right there sir please keep going right there" prices' cock was hitting every one of your sensitive spots bringing you right to the edge of cumming with price who was loving every second of this so much that he blew his load without even thinking, filling you up with his warm cum making you cum on the spot, littering his shirt with your cum "oh no pup you ruined my shirt" price said looking all pouty but he was joking but you took it seriously.

"im so so sorry sir i'll clean it up" you quickly said getting to your knees and licking the cum from his shirt, every drop of it and making it all clean again, you down below him between his thighs was making him think some thoughts, mainly ones that were questioning how much of his cock could he fit down your tight throat, he started thinking even nastier perverted thoughts when you started cleaning his cock.

tongue swirling around his dick to lick up all the cum and saliva that you made, and damn i must say you were looking insatiable, hole still dripping with warm cum and looking fucked out but still wanting to do good boy for your boss "this is definitely adding to your performance evaluation" price joked as he put his dick back in his pants and helped you clean up with some napkins he had lying around and put your stuff back on, leaving some lingering touches on your ass before kissing you and watching you walk out the door.

you saw the boys running back to their rooms with their pants shimmied down their thighs, knowing they listened to the whole ordeal and jerked off to it, nice to know you basically had them wrapped around your well manicured finger.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft

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angellcherry · 1 year ago

Text

— home.

» pairing: jungkook x reader

» genre: fwb to lovers, hurt/comfort, nsfw

» synopsis: “show me your thorns, and I'll show you hands ready to bleed.”

» warnings: allusions to depression, brief mentions of self harm (nothing graphic!), a little bit of angst, cuddling, reassurance, jungkook is a big green flag, talks of therapy and healing, confessions, lots of kisses, he's down bad and so in love :( (they both are), pet names, soft!dom jk, slight size kink, missionary bc he needs to look at her and kiss her 😩, praise, dirty talk, choking, creampie, aftercare

His hand curled around the nape of your neck the moment your lips touched. Warmth trickled down your spine, and he titled his head; tongue prodding at your soft lips, like he wanted you down to the marrow. Like he wanted to dip into your soul, kiss after kiss, until he was completely submerged; until he's explored every nook and crevice, felt every bump and crack.

He pulled away from the heat of your mouth slowly, reluctantly, eyes half lidded and dark. Lungs expanding to take in more air, voice coming out hoarse.

"You weren't answering your phone..."

"I know," you whispered, "I'm sorry."

Jungkook shook his head.

"No need to be sorry, baby," he lifted your hand to his lips, leaving a kiss on the soft skin there. "I was just worried."

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in closer. You sank into his embrace so easily; like you just came home. In a way, you have. He hasn't seen you in over a week...

It may not have seemed like much, but your absence was tangible. Suffocating. Especially when he didn't know if something was wrong.

"I'm glad you're here," he murmured.

You turned your head to peck his shoulder, fingers entwining, and then you were walking towards his bedroom as though it was second nature. The change in your demeanor had the corners of Jungkook's eyes crinkling from smiling. You practically skipped over to his bed, hopping onto the large mattress.

"Can I get a shirt, please?"

He didn't think you comprehended how fucking cute you were. He turned to open his closet and began rummaging through it.

"At this point, I'm pretty sure I'd kill someone if you asked me," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing, baby."

Flushing, he ignored the curious tilt of your head and threw you his favorite t-shirt.

God, how could someone be so fucking cute?

You were always excited to nap in his bed, share food and wear his clothes. The fact that it brought you comfort made his already lovesick heart swell up and ache. Something so simple, but so domestic — it fucked with his head. He wanted this every day, in every life. You were his comfort, too. Why couldn't you see it?

He leaned against his closet, arms crossed, watching you slip out of your clothes, the heap landing on the floor. It was art. You were so beautiful; inside and out. He couldn't help the way his stomach stirred and heart fluttered, yet instead of acting on his urges, he just walked over to you and bent down to pick up your clothes.

While you got into his shirt, he folded them neatly and placed them on his gaming chair.

"I missed this bed so much," you sighed.

Jungkook glanced over at you, taking a moment to drink in the image of you lying there, the black cotton of his shirt slightly too wide and too long for your body; but fuck, it looked perfect to him. He bit his lip, making his way to climb onto the mattress beside you.

"What about me?" He asked, delighted by how you opened up your arms, instinctively scooting closer to him.

"Hm, what about you?"

Jungkook pouted, eyebrows furrowing. His arms wrapped around your waist.

"Hey."

You giggled, peppering his face with kisses, and he wished he could live in this moment forever, stop all the clocks, kill time. To hell with what that would do to the universe.

"I missed you, too."

Just like that, he melted. Somehow, it hurt so bad; he had you right there, and yet he didn't. Disappearing and reappearing. Out of reach, like a mirage.

He lifted your hand to his lips again, momentarily distracted by how small it was compared to his.

"So tiny."

Amused at the scoff you let out, he turned it to kiss your palm, then paused abruptly.

A raw shade of red caught his attention.

Narrowing his eyes, he examined the wounds around multiple fingers — or at least tried to, before you caught on and pulled your hand away like you got burned.

His heart dropped.

It's been a while. Why were you doing this to yourself again?

Fuck. He felt like a failure of a man.

He swallowed thickly, then pulled you in closer, as if treading on thin ice. Terrified of making a mistake and feeling it crack under his weight. Once he was under, once it all fell apart, he didn't know if you'd let him in again.

"Baby..." he whispered into your hair.

"I'm so tired, Jungkook," mellow, you answered the question he didn't get to ask. "I don't know what's wrong with me..."

"Talk to me," he pleaded. "I can't help you if you shut me down."

You sniffed quietly. There was a loud crack. Not in the ice, but in his chest.

"You can't help me either way."

Jungkook tried to lift his head to look at you, but you gripped his hoodie, bunching up the fabric in your hand.

"Baby—"

"Not everyone deserves help," you insisted, a wet sigh following. "What's wrong with me? Why can't I help myself? E-everyone else seems to be doing just fine, a-and I'm just rotting away, filled with these ugly thoughts and feelings, I can't do anything right."

Jungkook hugged you tighter, like he hoped he could mold you together, give you as much of him as you needed to feel whole again. He'd let you rip him to pieces to fill the void.

"Stop saying that," he breathed, his eyes burning, "fuck, stop saying that."

He stroked your back as you cried into his chest, softly, feeling helpless and furious at the same time.

"When you're always in the dark," he whispered, "you learn to make friends with monsters to survive. It's all you know, so it's what feels most comfortable."

He heard you inhale, felt your head lift with hesitation. Eyes swollen, glossy, lower lip still trembling.

Jungkook cupped your face, wiping at the wet streaks.

"When you're always in the dark, sometimes... it feels like it's all you deserve. But it's not your fault. You're not a bad person," he said softly, his thumb rubbing your lower lip. "Sometimes, it's just the monsters you know talking."

You blinked, small and vulnerable, like a child who just woke up from a nightmare.

"I... I don't know..."

Jungkook squeezed your waist, so close his nose almost touched yours.

"But I know," he promised. "I know."

He stared into your eyes, watched them well up with more tears. He wished he could kiss them all away.

"Let me be there for you—"

You kissed him, and once again, it hurt. Because he wanted you, he wanted you so bad, but not like this — why didn't you want him, too?

Outside of the bedroom, when you weren't tangled in sheets, it seemed like you had no interest in letting your walls down. He's spent so much time trying to climb them, only to end up with broken bones, back down on the ground again.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He pulled away from your lips, denying you the oblivion you craved. He wanted to let you use him, he'd do it every day if it meant he could see you again. But he was afraid that if he didn't speak up now, he'd never find the courage to do it.

"I want to be with you," he breathed out. "Why won't you let me love you?"

There was an instant change in your expression that made his stomach lurch.

"I— I..."

A pause, filled with uncertainty.

Jungkook searched your eyes. The windows to the soul, they said. Broken, and the interior was dark. Nothing good lurked in there.

"I love you," he repeated.

His heart pounded in his chest. He stared right into this endless darkness, crawling with insecurities and fear. As though he was hoping the warm whisper would chase away the frigid, haunted air breaking through, make all the other voices come to a halt.

He was no longer a boy, but a man, and he feared no monsters. He wanted to flood the space with light.

"Move in with me," his palm settled on your cheek, thumb brushing your skin. "I'll help with your classes and therapy. I'll take care of you. You can lean on me until you're strong enough to stand on your own. And even then, when you do — I still wanna be there. I wanna make you happy... Every day."

There it was. His heart, right in the palm of your hand, like an offering. Bleeding through your fingers. Willing to be crushed, if it meant at least he tried.

But you cradled it instead.

Fresh tears, sticking to your eyelashes, and then a rush of warmth in the dark. Your lips pressed into his, tender, and he shut his eyes, tasting a mixture of salt and your sweetness —

"I love you," a shaky exhale, right into his mouth.

It sank into him like sunlight, pulsing, nourishing and bright. And he swallowed it up with a kiss, his teeth clashing with yours.

He shifted to hover above you, finding rest in between your legs, goosebumps erupting when he felt your hand slip under his hoodie, inching it up.

A giggle slipped past his lips, and he disconnected himself from you only to take it off, throwing it aside carelessly before he was kissing you again.

He felt you smile. You went straight to his head like wine. Your taste, your scent — your touch, exploring the muscles of his back, his shoulders.

He was already hard, aching to get lost in you; dizzy on want and love.

Hands groping over clothes, wherever they could reach, hot lips trailing down your neck. He wanted to do so many things to you; kiss every inch of your skin, make you come on his tongue.

But you had the whole night — a whole eternity, really. And the way you squirmed beneath him, arching your back, legs parting, hips raising to feel him, urgent and breathy, wiped his mind clean off anything but the need to be inside you.

Jungkook groaned, his cock twitching, leaking precum into the cotton of his boxers. He remained still, however, letting your hand wander in between your bodies.

His eyes were glued to the way it traveled down his tensing abdomen, pausing to lower his sweats; then dipping inside.

He tried to stay quiet, though his chest was heaving, the sight and the feeling of your hand wrapping around his girth making it twitch again.

He watched you pull your panties aside, wet and ruined, revealing your pretty, glistening folds and the small entrance below.

So fucking small.

It looked almost obscene compared to his cock, long and thick and pulsating in your hand. But you fit him perfectly, like you were made just for him.

The moment you guided him forward, and the wet tip touched the heat of your cunt, he lifted his eyes to yours.

He felt so fucked out, but he was gentle as he pushed inside. The tight, wet muscle welcomed him eagerly, inch by inch, until his hips touched yours and he couldn't breathe.

For a moment, time stood still.

His head fell into the crook of your neck, inked hand squeezing your thigh.

"I missed you so much."

He sounded broken, but he's never felt so whole before.

"I missed you too..."

You clenched around him, prompting his hips to move off their own accord, coaxing the most beautiful sounds out of your body. The wetness, the smack of his skin against yours; the soft whines that fueled the heat boiling deep in his gut.

"Mmm," he moaned, raspy, "doing so well, baby."

He tried to stretch you out slowly, preoccupy himself with biting and sucking at your neck; anything not to focus on how you clenched around him.

But he was doomed, and he understood that the second you moved your hips, fucking him back.

"Oh shit," he gasped, "baby..."

He stifled another moan into your cheek, picking up his pace, so deep inside you he wondered if you could feel him in your tummy. The thought alone made his cock throb, every vein and ridge.

Long, ringed fingers wrapped around your throat, the pressure soft, but definitely there. In return, you grasped his shoulders, nails digging in, and Jungkook knew he wasn't going to last long.

"Good?" He breathed, slamming into you a little faster, stuck on your shining eyes and eager nods. "Yeah?"

The mattress began to protest under the force of his thrusts, but the sound was drowned out by everything else. Jungkook felt your cunt tightening, so warm and so fucking sloppy, his own little personal heaven.

"Almost there? Hm? Gonna make a mess for me?"

Clench.

He groaned, his tummy twisting, the moans spilling past your lips making his head spin.

You merely nodded again, as though you couldn't speak. It made the corner of his lips quirk upwards.

"Yeah?" He tightened his hold on your neck, staking his claim with a coo. "My girl's gonna make a mess on my cock? Pretty angel's gonna cream all over it?"

Your breath hitched, thighs beginning to quiver around him.

"Y-yeah," you uttered, breathless, "yours—"

Jungkook's tongue slid into your mouth, his rutting becoming desperate. He wanted to mark you and brand you and oh god — he was about to see stars.

"Yeah, fuck— mine, my good girl," he stuttered out, "oh, baby, mhmm, I'm gonna come—"

His hips bucked as your pussy spasmed around him, sucking his cock in deeper, restricting his movements. Still, he fucked you through your orgasm, letting himself go with a loud groan. A burst of stars, the tension snapping; and he spilled inside you, white ropes of hot cum that filled you up to the brim.

He slumped against you after a drawn out moment, his body thrumming with bliss. Careful not to crush you, however, he rolled over to the side, his arms automatically enveloping your frame.

With his nose in your neck, he waited for his breathing to even out, lazily rubbing your hands.

"So good," he mumbled, "fuck... Are you okay, baby?"

You hummed, snuggling into him.

"More than okay."

Jungkook smiled, opening his eyes and pressing a kiss into your cheek.

"I'll wash you up in a sec."

"In a bit... Stay with me."

"I'm staying with you forever. Good luck getting rid of me now."

Your laughter sent a pang through his chest. He wanted to keep hearing it.

He brought your hand up to his lips, gently kissed each wounded finger, muttering his I love yous and praises until you both drifted off. Sated and warm under the sheets, tangled up in each other; with a single promise echoing through his head.

Never again would he let you hurt like this.

And whatever was happening outside of these four walls hardly mattered.

This was all that mattered.

This was home.

#hi! 👋#I literally made this blog just to get this fic out of my system lmao 💕#jungkook x reader #bts x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts scenarios #bts imagines #bts reactions #bts fluff

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clairewritesfanfics · 4 months ago

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Inside an Otoge: Mister Dragon, Let Me Love You Chapter 1

Pairing: Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader

Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

Synopsis: A depressed, transmigrated fan dedicates their life worshipping their favorite character. (Because not everyone can be a badass like MC.)

Trigger Warnings: depression, mentions of self-harm and suicide attempts

Imagine being a depressed and overworked person, on the brink of throwing away your life, when your attempt is interrupted by an ad of Sylus' voice saying, "I adore you. There is no love purer than mine." Broken and alone, the words of a fictional character sends you to tears and you stop yourself from doing the unthinkable.

Finding hope again, if only in the brief moments spent playing a dating sim, you decided to give life a chance. You continued with the same routine, waking up, going to work, eating the same cheap meals from the convenience store and finding happiness with your favorite character. You used any spare money you had to buy Sylus merch and get all his cards. Life wasn't perfect, but you were content.

Until one day, you were sucked into a mysterious wormhole that transported you to a familiar, otherworldly room filled with rare metals, sparkling jewels and all sorts of weapons.

Lying on a bed of velvet is a back that is all too familiar.

You’ve taken over a hundred photos of that back and have memorized every vein, every muscle, even the way the spine dips oh so deliciously.

Is this heaven? Paradise?

A place that grants all your hedonistic desires?

Did God take pity on your pathetic existence and decided to give you a second chance?

No, this is probably a dream–”Ow!” You pinch yourself a little too hard. Nope, not a dream.

You glance at your hands and body, you are still you. In the game, this part should be when the Main Character attempts an assassination, but you aren’t the MC here. There is a chance–no, the probability of you dying here is as good as 99%. You have no powers, no system, skill or cheat to help you here.

But if you were going to die, at least you can go on your own terms.

“Um, excuse me? Hello?”

The dragon says nothing and you opt to crawl towards him. “Mister Dragon? Are you awake?” Knowing that death is almost certain, you decide to throw away all inhibitions and reach out to trace the curve of his spine. “Hello–!”

His cold, spiked tail wraps around your waist until the tip rests on your chest. You cannot help but gasp when your favorite turns to face you.

No 3D rendered model or painting from your world could capture even a tenth of the true thing's magnificence. Official sources said he was 6'2", but the real thing looks like he surpassed two meters. He towered over you completely. Maybe it isn’t height alone but his very aura that makes you feel so small.

He is so beautiful.

“My, what do we have here? A stray puppy?”

That voice is as smooth and deep as melted chocolate. You want to thank God, Buddha, Satan and all other powerful entities for letting you witness this moment.

He stares down at you, assessing everything. If you had known you’d end up here you would’ve taken a bath and worn something better.

“How odd. You have no magic power and you lack any muscle that most assassins and warriors have. It’s almost as if you’re an ordinary person.”

Okay, ouch. But he isn’t wrong.

You raise both hands. “You’re right, I’m as average as they come.”

“Then tell me what an ‘average’ citizen such as yourself wanted with me.”

You tilt your head in thought before answering, “I wanted to meet you.”

“Surely, you’re joking.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“You must take me for a fool.”

“No, I truly did want to meet you.”

“Why are you here? Surely, you didn’t come here to die.”

“No.” Though you were prepared. “I just wanted to see you.”

The fiend watches you closely. His eyes can pierce through any lie, but your gaze is as clear as a cloudless sky and without a trace of deception. He is unsure how to feel about this.

“You’re quite bold. But an ordinary person wanting to meet me for the sake of it feels too odd to be true. Quite stupid, even. Did it ever occur to you that I may not be so polite and just end up taking your heart?”

You raise your head, steady and unfearful as you ask, “Will taking my heart make you happy?”

You want to tell him that every part of you belongs to him now, but even you would cringe at such cheesiness. You decide to be normal about this. “If my organs will make you happy then take them, but I do have a request.” You wriggle closer. “When you take my heart, please look into my eyes until I die.”

You’ve met your favorite, your savior. In a way, Sylus gave you a second chance at life. It seemed only fitting to perish with him being the last thing you see.

Sylus stares at you with guarded curiosity. “I’ve never met someone so eager to die before. Either that or you are an excellent liar.” Some humans are trickier than others, they will say anything to get the upper hand.

“Don’t get cocky, human.” His tail tightens around you. “I don’t know what you’re planning but it’d be all too easy to kill you.”

He expects you to resist, to scream or cry or seduce him.

Instead, you cover your mouth, the edges curling upwards despite your efforts to appear serious. But it’s not your fault, he’s so cute when he tries to be menacing! You have no doubt that he’d just kill an NPC, but he will always be attractive to you, even as he threatens to rip your heart out.

“This is no laughing matter. Dragons are territorial, you should’ve thought twice before trespassing into my domain.”

“Sy–ahem, Mister Dragon, please remember my request when you end my life.”

“... I’m really going to do it.”

“I know!” You nod your head vigorously, the grin you try so hard to suppress looks ridiculous to him. Compared to throwing yourself in front of a train or overdosing on pills, this is your ideal way to die.

“...”

“... tsk.” He releases you and you can’t help but miss the feeling of his tail choking you. Oh, well.

“Mister Dragon?”

He returns to lying on his treasures, back turned away from you.

Not wanting him to think that you were going to backstab him, you get down on all fours and crawl towards the fancy bed. “Sir Dragon?”

He remains silent.

"Amazing, extraordinary, most handsome and venerable Lord Dragon–”

"Enough. Don't call me those embarrassing titles." He sighs and proceeds to give you his name. In the game's canon, the MC couldn't pronounce his name properly and called him Sylus instead. But the MC and Sylus have yet to meet.

Before you are two choices: 1) use his proper name, or 2) pretend that you can't pronounce it and ask to use "Sylus" instead. With the first option, there would be a connection between the two of you due to being the only person alive who knows his name. With the latter, you'd be stealing a defining moment for the heroine. Either way, the consequences will result in you forming a bond with Sylus.

The dragon waits for you to reply.

There is no need to complicate things, so you beam stupidly. "Your name is kind of hard to pronounce... can I just call you 'Sylus' instead?"

"Do what you want."

"Thanks."

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” He can’t believe he was teaching etiquette to a human.

“Er, right.” You give him your name. Though with that voice, he can call you whatever he wants.

“I won’t stop you so go back the way you came and leave me be.”

“I can’t.”

“This isn’t a request. Get out while I’m still being patient.”

“I mean, I literally can’t. I’m not from this place and I don’t know how to get back home.” To be frank, you have little interest in returning. Aside from the next LADS update, you aren’t going to miss anything. No friends, no family, only superiors who took advantage of you and a cold, barren apartment with a rent that was two months due.

Sylus sighs and rolls over. He lays an arm over his torso, looking gorgeous as he looks at you with eyes full of disdain. “Trying to get me to pity you, isn’t going to work.”

“I’m not.” You don’t need his or anybody else’s pity. You are simply tired, and you were sick of pretending that you aren’t. When Sylus does lose his temper, then at least you could be honest in your final moments.

Part 2: here Masterlist: here

Edit: Had to tweak the part where Sylus gives his name to Y/N.

#lads #love and deepspace #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x y/n #non-mc!reader #non-mc #non-mc!y/n #dragon #dragon sylus #fan #transmigration #drabble #isekai #reader #xreader #xy/n #yn #x yn

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clare-875 · 10 months ago

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Doubt (Zoro x Reader)

_____ Pairing: Zoro x Female Reader Summary: An offhanded comment makes you insecure, but Zoro is there to reassure you in his own way. Warnings: Angst to Fluff, Ussop's unintentionally mean in the beginning? [One Piece Masterlist] ______

It was a passing comment; one you knew you shouldn't look into, one that meant no harm. But the words hit you harder than you thought it would. You had been talking rapidly about your adventures from the last island you and your crew had visited. There, you had all fought enemies, saved new friends and eaten together; the same old. Luffy, Chopper and Usopp had been listening eagerly matching your grin with keen interest in your tale as the crew had once again been split up on your journey. You spoke of the obscure things you saw on your side of the adventure, the enemies you faced and how they compared to those your crew had fought, the new fighting methods you had mastered, the people you met; everything. You hear Luffy's laugh brimmed with light humour as Chopper's eyes gleamed when you spoke of how you dealt the finishing blow on your opponent. You probably should've noticed how long you had been talking and exclaiming but you were lost in your glee, so much so that you didn't realise until Usopp spoke out with a teasing grin.

"Damn [y/n], you can sure talk a lot." You stop your story short at his teasing words meeting his mischievous gaze with a roll of your eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?" Chopper nods eyes determinedly looking to Usopp as Luffy starts to doze off once his initial interest has passed. "Yeah, I wanna hear [y/n] tell their story!" Chopper exclaims from beside you as you smile at his excited and adorable form. Usopp sweatdrops at the sudden ridicule aimed at him and tries to backtrack on his words, only to make things worse. "I didn't mean anything bad about it- I just mean like you're so talkative and outspoken- and you know Zoro's-" Your eyes turn to him in surprise as he mentions your boyfriend. "Zoro?" You ask as you raise your brow. What has he got to do with this? "Yeah well, Zoro's so reserved and nonchalant, I just guess it surprised me that you got together- I mean, Zoro doesn't seem like one to tolerate people that- I mean, that came out wrong-" You can't help but frown at his words as he continues to ramble and you listen to what he implies. Was that really what Usopp thought; was it what the crew thought? That you were "too much", that Zoro was just tolerating you?

"I just meant-" Usopp starts to panic now as he sees the fall of your features at his misplaced words, making it seem that you were a burden, but Sanji's voice rings through to cut him off before he can try to redeem himself. "[y/n]-san~ dinner's ready!" You turn to see the love-lost cook burst out from within the kitchen now looking down to you from where you sat on the deck of the ship. His facade quickly falls however as his eyes sharpen towards the men that surround you. "Oi, Usopp, Chopper, wake Luffy and hurry or there'll be none for you!" You turn to your friends as Sanji whizzes away in search of the other female members of the crew. You give Chopper and Usopp a smile despite them seeing how it didn't gleam as it usually did. "Come on, let's go. Hey Luffy!" You then nudge your Captain purposefully as he sits up in confusion. "[y-y/n]?" You sigh at his drowsy state but go towards the kitchen. "Dinner!" You say, and the three all promptly follow to the dining room.

When you sit down at the dining table, you would have thought you'd forget the brief inclinations of Usopp's words just moments earlier, but you didn't. It suddenly made you self-conscious, made you think so deeply into the conversation you had, despite you knowing better; it was just Usopp taking things too far as usual. But then it made you think about all the interactions you had with your boyfriend. You remember all the instances you would speak animatedly about your day, talking while he trained or lay around the ship. Was it annoying to him? You think of his reaction, he didn't seem too fazed when you did. But he never seemed invested either, merely a nod of his head or an odd grunt of acknowledgement. Then, your thoughts go deeper. You think of the instances you would seek him out, you think of every time you showered him with affection behind closed doors, thought of every brush of your hand against his and every move you made.

Was it too much? Was I too much?

Tolerating; is that the word you would use to describe Zoro's demeanour to you? But the more you thought the more you saw how you were the one seeking him out the most, the one talking the most, the one giving affection the most. And the more you thought the more you realised you never took the time to see if Zoro actually enjoyed it; your constant want to be in his presence. You knew you were being stupid. You knew that there were more than enough ways that Zoro showed his love to you in return. You would hear his murmured words, notice small actions, would see affection deep within his eyes. After all, Zoro was nothing if not confident; he would never agree to a relationship unless he truly wanted it; unless he truly adored you. Yet you let the small comments churn within you, buried insecurity rising as you notice your differences. You feel dread next. He wouldn't leave you for it, would he?

You are so lost in your thoughts you don't notice said man walking into the dining room, skin slick with the efforts of his afternoon workout as he makes a beeline for his spot; his spot next to you. Zoro sees you absentmindedly sitting in your seat and nudges you causing you to realise that he is now present. You smile at him then, "Hey Zoro," you grin but Zoro sees slight hesitance in your eyes and your lack of prying words or subtle affection. He nods but decides not to question it as Sanji then puts out the dinner for everyone to share and soon everyone around you is lost to the prospect of food. As you go for your share watching as crew members devour Sanji's new creation you find yourself timid as you look around you. Your friends are shouting and talking and eating joyously, and though you would often be the centre of the overly animated show of dinner, you suddenly feel so drained from your thoughts; almost sad. There is a gnawing feeling of vulnerability in your chest pulled open by the words shared earlier, but you can't help but feel like you're overreacting.

"Oi, are you okay?" You turn in surprise at Zoro's passive words as he goes for another cup of sake sharp eye trained on you. He had noticed how you hadn't filled the air with your vibrant words, talking about all that had happened in the short time you had left him to his workout. He noticed how you, usually up and shouting with the crew as they did now, sat rooted to your spot just eating. He noticed how your eyes didn't shine with the usual mirth they usually did. Sure, he wasn't one to be as talkative as you, or openly share his affections as you did, but it was one of his favourite things about you. Being able to just listen to your joyous voice, feel your love in so many ways, and have you by his side; the one he would protect till the end of time. You, surprised to see that he had actually taken the liberty to notice feel your heart constrict at his care but shake your head nonetheless. "I'm fine."

Only, maybe you weren't.

When evening came, you merely kissed the corner of his face before turning to your side of the bed. No long nightly rants, no excitable or adoring words, no cuddling like you usually begged. Zoro shook off his concern however, thinking you just needed a moment like he sometimes did. That night he slept horribly without you in his arms. When morning came and you awoke to his absence as he left for his early morning workout, you didn't seek him out as you usually did. That morning, Zoro found it strange when you didn't grace him with your lively presence as you usually did. The teasing words as you watched him work, the abundance of plans you shared for the day, your sweet pout as you asked for his attention. Yes, he would merely blush fiercely or nod passively or roll his eyes but the chime of your laughter as he did made his heart warm. The lack of you left the empty spot in the crow's nest cold where you usually sat. These happenings became the entire day, which followed into the week, and despite Zoro putting off his concern earlier, now he was confused and annoyed.

Had he done something wrong?

On your end, you were merely trying your best. You tried to limit your conversations with him, the touch of your hand to his, the engulfing of his form, the kissing of his face. And it honestly hurt. You felt so urgently the need to be by his side, you craved him and yet each time you tried to push away your insecurity, it ate up at you and you hesitated. Was I too much? Would he be annoyed? Would he leave? Was I a burden? So, you didn't. For a week you tried, but you could feel yourself breaking. Currently, you were sitting at the dining room table as Sanji was prepping for the day's lunch. You let out a deep sigh full of sadness, and Sanji, with that woman-radar of his, turned at your blatant dismay. Many of the in-tune members of the crew had noticed the lack of vibrancy in your figure and the much more irritable form of Zoro. "What's wrong [y/n]-san?" You look up to see the blond-haired man looking at you with an unusual seriousness in his eyes; concern. You have seen that a lot this week.

"Nothing's wrong Sanji," you say with a tired smile. But Sanji frowns at you, seeing clearly through your words. "It's that damn Marimo isn't it?" You look up surprised to see that Sanji now has raging anger consuming him. There is literally fire in his eyes as he turns to the door readying to go beat up your boyfriend. "Damn, moss-head thinks he can take poor [y/n]-san's heart away from me and then break it so carelessly, I'll show him what-" You quickly get up stopping Sanji and hoping to prevent a seemingly unlawful murder. "Wait! Sanji it's not him!" Sanji sobers quickly at the gentle touch of your hand on his shoulder holding him back as he turns to you in surprise. He then frowns and surprises you when he looks at you with confusion, "Then what-" He is quickly cut off by the slam of the door as an angry-looking swordsman quickly enters the fray. His sharp eyes travel from your hand to where it still clutched Sanji's shoulder, then to your frozen gaze and then to Sanji's.

"Damn cook! Get your filthy hands off my girlfriend!" Sanji's eyes blaze instantly at that and before you know it the two are fighting like deranged idiots. You observe the suddenly escalated scene in surprise hearing insults thrown left to right and the flurry of limbs as they try to take a chunk out of each other. You then, laugh. It fills you slightly and then it hits you fully. How much you missed Zoro, how much you missed the normalcy even if it was just watching two overpowered idiots fight as they usually did. Zoro turns at the melodic sound of your laughter pausing in his fight as Sanji's eyes turn to hearts at the sound. It had been so long since he heard it; since he saw you as you usually were. A warm hand encapsulates your arm and you look up to see that it is Zoro, now taking you from the kitchen in silence much to the dismay of Sanji.

When the two of you reach your shared room, he turns to you, form tense once again as he forces his words to you. "Okay [y/n], what's actually wrong? You've been avoiding me all week. You haven't come once to the crow's nest. You haven't done the usual shit you do.-" You look up at your boyfriend's unusually frustrated form listening off the things you haven't done that week and you feel your heart brim at his concern. You feel stupid. "I'm sorry." You cut him off as he turns to you, and you look up to him hesitantly. "I- I just thought you know, it might've been annoying to you?" You advert your eyes when his eyebrows raise in surprise. "I'm just so used to sharing everything, and I sometimes get carried away, I just thought- what if-?" You stop yourself as a familiar tugging your heart weighs you down. You hear a deep sigh. "[y/n], is this what this week has been all about?" You nod as you trace the floor with your eyes. "I just didn't want you to leave me."

You feel it then, the strong embrace of your boyfriend's arms, toned with his training and warm against your form. He sighs once again at your words as he rolls his eyes despite you not seeing. "You're an idiot you know that?" You laugh slightly against his chest as you relish the feeling of him after what felt like so long. Zoro doesn't know how to comfort; it was out of his capabilities but you felt it within his arms. His reassurance, his love and the fact that he had missed you too. Suddenly you are overcome with emotion at the fact that you let such small insecurity cause you to waste so much time with the man you adored. "M'sorry, it's just Usopp was saying and I-" Zoro tenses at your words releasing you as he stares into the depths of your eyes. "Usopp?" You freeze then, realising your mistake as you see his signature murderous aura extend from his form. "W-wait Zoro." But he has flown through the door quicker than you can force him to stay and you hear the darkly uttered words at the crew's sniper.

"Usopp, so this was all your fault huh?"

"W-wait [y/n]- tell him I didn't mean it, I'm sorry-"

You watch as he tries to evade your boyfriend's wrath but he merely sees the reason you have been sulking all week; why he had suffered the whole week. You just laugh at the comical sight, free of your doubt and reminded that despite your differences the both of you would be just fine.

#roronoa zoro #x reader #reader insert #fem reader #one piece zoro #strawhats #zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x you #hurt/comfort #angst/fluff #one piece x reader #one piece #op x reader #luffy x reader #chopper #one piece x you #zoro x reader #usopp x reaer

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seospicybin · 4 months ago

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WORSHIP.

I.N x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: In the quiet halls of the church and the secrecy of the night, boundaries are tested, faith is questioned, and desires threaten to consume both you and Jeongin. Some sins are easy to resist—others, once tasted, become impossible to forget. (22k words)

Author's note: This is a verrrrry late Jeongin bday fic. Have holy water ready near you and hope you enjoy it ♡

WORSHIP Playlist 🎧

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are products of my imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Be aware that there are mentions of alcohol addiction and self-harm implicitly.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The confession echoes in the empty church, absorbed by the stillness of flickering candlelight. Yang Jeongin kneels before the altar, his fingers curled together in a desperate grip, as if holding himself together.

"I have broken my vow."

The weight of those words settles heavily on his chest. He exhales slowly, but the guilt does not leave him. The silence stretches, pressing in on him, waiting for him to continue. But how does he put it into words?

How does he confess that, despite all his prayers, despite the years of devotion, he let himself want something—someone—he should never have?

Jeongin closes his eyes. Images flood his mind, unbidden and relentless. A voice, teasing yet thoughtful. Fingers brushing over the pages of his manuscript. The way you looked at him—not as a priest, but as a man. Your touch on him, your warmth around him, your heat pressed against him and that sweet, sweet taste of you that flooded his tongue.

Lowering his head, he lets out a slow, unsteady breath and murmurs—

"Lord, have mercy on me."

But mercy does not come. Not in the silence of the church, not in the warmth of the candlelight, not in the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat that refuses to quiet. He waits, as if expecting some sign, some force greater than himself to strip him of this longing, to pull him back from the edge before he falls again.

Nothing comes.

Jeongin forces his eyes open, staring at the altar before him. The crucifix looms overhead, a reminder, a warning—yet all he can think about is how your hands felt gripping the front of his shirt, how they felt against his skin. The way you pleaded so desperately to please him.

Please, please, please.

A shudder courses through him. He grips the rosary tighter, the beads biting into his skin. He should repent. He should beg for forgiveness. He should erase every trace of you from his thoughts before he condemns himself further.

And yet—

And yet, when he closes his eyes again, all he sees is you.

The scent of old paper and polished wood lingers in the air as Jeongin walks through the quiet corridors of St. Peter’s Church, making his way toward his office. The afternoon sun filters through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto the stone floor. A familiar stillness settles around him, the kind that has become second nature over the years.

He steps inside his office, closing the door behind him. His desk is neatly arranged, save for the stack of handwritten pages resting beside his laptop—his latest manuscript, still unfinished. With a quiet sigh, he glances at the bulletin board pinned to the wall, eyes lingering on the ad he had posted just days ago.

Looking for a part-time assistant. Flexible hours. Must be organized and comfortable with transcribing and editing. Contact: 010-XXXX-XXXX.

A simple request, nothing more. He hadn’t expected much, maybe a few inquiries at best. So when his phone buzzes against the desk, he barely glances at the number before answering.

"Hello?"

There’s a brief hesitation on the other end before a voice—soft, uncertain yet clear—fills the silence.

"Hi, um… I saw the notice about the part-time job? I just wanted to ask if it's still available."

Jeongin leans back in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest. There's something about the way you speak—the quiet curiosity, the faint edge of hesitation—that makes him pause before responding.

"Ah, yes. It is. Would you be able to come by this afternoon? We can talk more in person."

A beat of silence. Then, "Sure. Where should I go?"

"St. Peter’s Church," he replies smoothly. "Just ask for Father Yang when you arrive."

The pause is longer this time, and Jeongin can almost picture the way your expression must have shifted—surprise, confusion, maybe even disbelief. He waits, letting the weight of it settle.

"Father?" Your voice is quieter now, cautious.

"That’s right." He doesn’t elaborate, simply lets the word linger between you.

But despite your hesitation, you don’t back out. "Alright. I’ll be there."

"Good. I’ll see you then."

The call ends, and Jeongin sets his phone down, exhaling slowly. He isn’t sure why he feels the faintest trace of amusement lingering in his chest. Perhaps it’s the subtle curiosity in your voice or the fact that, even through the phone, he could sense the moment your perception shifted.

Either way, he knows one thing for certain: You don’t quite know what you’ve signed up for.

The church is quieter than usual when Jeongin steps toward the altar, dressed in his white and gold vestments. The scent of burning candles and aged wood surrounds him, a constant companion. He speaks with the steadiness that years of practice have given him, his voice echoing through the high ceilings as the congregation listens.

He doesn’t think much of the new presence seated at the back of the church at first. It’s only when he glances up, catching a pair of unfamiliar eyes watching him a little too intently, that something shifts. Recognition flickers.

The service continues, undisturbed, but Jeongin is aware of you now—the slight fidgeting of your hands, the way you shift in your seat, the lingering way your gaze keeps returning to him.

When the mass ends and the last murmurs of prayer fade, Jeongin descends the steps from the altar, moving through the thinning crowd with quiet purpose. He doesn’t need to search.

You’re still there, watching him.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly as his gaze meets yours. There it is—the look he had anticipated. That moment of realization.

"You must be here about the job."

Your lips part slightly, a breath caught in your throat. "You’re Father Yang?"

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, amusement flickering at the edges of his lips. "I am. Were you expecting someone else?"

"I—um—I guess I just didn’t recognize you right away."

"That happens." He doesn’t press further, though he can see the questions forming behind your eyes. Instead, he gestures toward the hallway leading to the back of the church. "Come on. We can talk more in my office."

You hesitate for only a second before following. Jeongin leads the way, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor, the hum of the church fading behind you.

Inside his office, the space is dimly lit by the glow of his desk lamp, the scent of ink and old books settling in the air. Jeongin takes his seat, but before he gestures for you to do the same, his gaze flickers over you—your clothes, the expensive bag resting on your shoulder, the delicate pieces of jewelry on your wrist and neck. Everything about you speaks of wealth, of a life where money is never a concern.

He doesn’t ask. Not yet. But the question lingers in his mind. Why would someone like you be looking for a part-time job at a church? If it’s just about building your resume, there are a hundred easier ways.

Still, he doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, he gestures toward the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

You do, sinking into the chair, only to immediately sit up straighter, as if trying not to appear uncomfortable. It doesn’t help that the setup feels almost interrogative—him behind the desk, composed and collected, while you sit stiffly across from him.

"So," Jeongin starts, leaning forward, hands resting lightly against the desk, "tell me a little about yourself."

You straighten, clearing your throat. "Well, I’m in my last year of college. I major in literature, and I do some freelance work—mostly editing and transcribing—so I thought this might be a good fit."

Jeongin nods but doesn’t drop his scrutiny. "Will this job interfere with your studies?"

You shake your head quickly. "Not at all. If anything, I need something to do other than just studying all the time." A small, sheepish smile. "And honestly, I need the experience for my resume."

That doesn’t explain it. Not entirely. But Jeongin lets it slide, for now. "That’s fair."

A beat of silence. Then he tilts his head. "Do you have experience working with writers?"

"A bit," you admit. "I've helped a few authors organize their drafts and notes. Are you working on a book?"

"I am." He watches your expression closely. "A detective novel."

Your eyebrows lift slightly. "Really?"

Jeongin leans back, lips curling slightly at your reaction. "Something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all," you say quickly. "I just… didn't expect a priest to be writing crime fiction."

"You’re not the first person to say that," he replies smoothly.

You shift slightly, and though you try to hide it, Jeongin can tell you’re still unsure about him. That’s fine. He’s used to being studied, just as he’s used to studying others.

He finally leans forward, folding his hands together. "If you take this job, you'll be assisting me with research, organization, and transcriptions. Some of it will be straightforward, some of it might require a little patience." His voice remains calm, steady. "Is that something you're comfortable with?"

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding, this time more firmly. "Yeah. I can handle that."

Jeongin studies you for a second longer, then gives a small nod. "Good."

You exhale, as if only now realizing you had been holding your breath.

"You can start this Monday."

Jeongin doesn’t usually like surprises, but he has to admit—watching you linger by the confession booth is an unexpected sight.

He had only been passing through the church hallways when he spotted you, standing just outside the small wooden structure, your fingers ghosting over the carved frame. Your expression is unreadable, but there’s something pensive in the way you stand there, like you’re considering stepping inside.

His lips quirk slightly. “Thinking about confessing?”

The way you jolt at his voice is almost comical. You turn sharply, eyes widening just a fraction before you compose yourself.

“I was just looking,” you reply, shifting slightly under his gaze.

Jeongin raises a brow, amused. “You sure? I can take your confession right now, if you’d like.”

For a brief second, your face betrays a flicker of flustered hesitation before you shake your head, smiling shyly. “Maybe another time.”

He chuckles softly, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

He nods toward his office. “Come on. You have work to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, simply turns on his heel, fully expecting you to follow—which, after a brief pause, you do.

Jeongin watches you carefully as you step into his office, noting how your gaze flickers over the space. It’s a little cluttered but not chaotic, a mix of stacked manuscripts, theological books, and a few scattered notes he keeps meaning to organize. The air smells faintly of old parchment and candle wax.

You don’t seem entirely comfortable here. He wonders if it’s the religious setting or just him.

Settling into his chair, he leans back slightly, hands clasped together. “Your tasks are straightforward,” he begins. “You’ll be editing, transcribing my handwritten notes, proofreading drafts, and organizing my files. Occasionally, you might have to handle emails from my publisher or literary agent.”

You nod, listening intently, but he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker toward his desk—toward the mess of papers he has yet to sort. If organization is part of your job, you’ll have your hands full.

“I don’t expect you to know everything right away,” he continues, watching for your reaction. “But I do expect you to be efficient and ask questions when necessary.”

“Understood,” you reply, your tone professional, composed.

He nods in approval before gesturing toward the chair across from him. “Then let’s get started.”

You settle in, pulling out your laptop, and soon enough, the only sound in the office is the rhythmic tapping of keys as you begin working through his notes.

Jeongin doesn’t speak much after that, but he keeps a quiet eye on you as he works through his own writing. The job itself isn’t difficult, but he can sense your unease.

It’s not the workload that unsettles you. It’s him. He’s used to that. Even now, after seeing him lead an entire mass, after watching him step down from the altar with practiced ease, you still seem unsure about him.

Maybe it’s because he’s younger than you expected—sharp-eyed and composed, but not in the soft, gentle way most priests are. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, calm and deliberate, with none of the detached serenity that people usually associate with men of the cloth.

Or maybe, it’s because despite sitting across from you in full priest attire, he looks more like a professor than a man of God. Someone intellectual, analytical. Someone who doesn’t just preach scripture but dissects it.

He wonders if you even realize you’re staring. Instead of calling you out on it, he lets the silence stretch between you until, finally, he speaks.

“You don’t feel comfortable working here, do you?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard for a split second before you quickly shake your head. “What? No, it’s fine—”

He tilts his head slightly, a knowing look in his eyes. “You don’t have to lie.”

You press your lips together, clearly unsure of how to respond.

Jeongin exhales softly, leaning back in his chair. “It makes sense. A church office isn’t exactly the most comfortable workspace.” He twirls a pen absently between his fingers before glancing back at you. “Come to my apartment tomorrow instead. It’s where I do most of my writing anyway. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

You hesitate but then your eyes flicker around the room—the heavy bookshelves, the religious paintings, the ever-present scent of incense and candle wax—and Jeongin knows you’re considering it.

“If that’s what you prefer,” you say carefully.

His lips curl slightly. “It’s what makes the most sense. I’ll text you the address later.”

And just like that, the first day ends with a shift neither of you were expecting.

The next afternoon, Jeongin opens the door to find you standing outside his apartment, looking hesitant.

He takes one look at your face and smirks. “Did you expect me to answer the door in full priest attire?”

You blink, clearly caught off guard, and only now seem to realize that he’s not dressed in black clericals. Instead, he’s wearing a loose sweater and sweatpants, looking significantly more casual than the last time you saw him.

“No—I mean, I just…” You trail off, visibly struggling to phrase whatever it is you’re thinking.

Jeongin leans against the doorframe, amused. “I don’t wear that all the time, you know.”

Your reaction is enough to entertain him for the rest of the evening. But after a few more seconds of watching you flounder, he gestures for you to step inside.

His apartment is neat and minimalistic, lacking any unnecessary decor. But the first thing you notice isn’t the furniture.

It’s the wooden altar against the wall.

Your eyes linger on it for a second before you turn to him, brows raised. “So instead of a couch or a coffee table, you took an altar?”

Jeongin chuckles. “It was free.”

You exhale a small laugh, shaking your head as you take in the rest of the space. He watches as you carefully observe everything, adjusting to this new environment.

Finally, he nods toward the desk by the window. “Your workspace is over there.”

You walk over, running your fingers lightly over the surface before glancing back at him. “Where are you going to work if I’m using your desk?”

He shrugs, leaning against the wall. “I’ll be doing other things around the apartment.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Like what?”

His lips twitch. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The first time Jeongin sees you, he knows you’ll be trouble.

Not in the way most people would think—there’s nothing outwardly rebellious about you, nothing loud or disruptive. No, your trouble is quieter, buried beneath the surface, where only those who bother to look closely can see it.

And Jeongin always looks closely.

You’re smart—he can tell from the way you speak, how you choose your words carefully, never giving more than what’s necessary. You’re meticulous, precise in your work, never making mistakes. A model assistant.

But Jeongin doesn’t trust things that are too perfect.

And you—you are undeniably beautiful. It’s a beauty so pure that it almost feels sacred, like stained glass catching sunlight or the flicker of a candle in a silent chapel. And yet, instead of making him want to protect it, it makes something inside him stir.

A need—subtle but insistent—to ruin it. To stain it. Just to see what would happen. And that is dangerous.

He’s spent years learning restraint, carving discipline into himself until it feels like second nature. But you… You tempt him just enough to make him wonder what you’re hiding.

Because there’s something—a flicker of secrecy behind your composed expression, a hesitation in your voice when you speak of your life. He sees it in the way your fingers press into your thighs under the table, in the way your smile never quite reaches your eyes.

Jeongin likes writing mysteries because he enjoys uncovering things—secrets, motives, the hidden truths people don’t want to admit. And next, it’s going to be you.

"Father?"

Your soft, melodic voice cuts through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality and God, he likes it when you call him that. Too much. The way you say it—gentle, reverent, like it means something—only makes it worse. He wonders, briefly, if you’ll ever say it in a different tone. Maybe a little rougher, maybe breathless—maybe—

"Father," you call again, stepping closer. Your hands are clasped neatly in front of you, a picture of innocence, of obedience.

Jeongin looks down at the manuscript in his hands, gripping it just a little tighter to keep his thoughts from straying too far.

"Do you mind if I leave early today?" you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly.

"Yes," he says immediately. Maybe too quickly. But he knows—knows it’s dangerous to be around you for too long.

You smile, grateful. "Thank you, but—there’s one more thing.”

Jeongin lifts his eyes, wary. "What is it?"

"Can I use your bathroom to change?"

Another easy request. Another easy yes. You excuse yourself, taking your bag with you, and disappear behind the door.

And Jeongin—he should go back to work. He should focus on something else. But he can’t. Because the only thing on his mind now is you. You, just beyond that door. Undressing.

He swallows hard, gripping the manuscript even tighter, but it’s useless. His thoughts are already running wild—imagining the soft rustle of fabric as you pull that dress over your head, imagining the bare expanse of your skin, the places he’s never seen, the places you keep hidden—

His breath catches and then his eyes dart to the crucifix on the wall. The sight of it stings, as if God Himself is watching, and Jeongin quickly reaches for the cross necklace hanging around his neck. His fingers tighten around it as he closes his eyes, whispering a quiet prayer.

But what is he even praying for? Not to stop—because he can’t stop. Not for forgiveness—because he doesn’t deserve it.

All he can do is stand there, gripping onto the fragile thread of his self-control, until the soft click of the bathroom door opening pulls him back to the present.

He turns swiftly—only to see you already pulling on your coat, concealing whatever outfit you’ve changed into. A small mercy, perhaps. But then he notices the deep red painted onto your lips. The scent of your perfume drifts through the air, warm and heady, curling around him like temptation itself.

You smile at him, utterly unaware of the war waging inside him. "Good night, Father. See you tomorrow."

And then you’re gone.

Jeongin exhales, slow and heavy, his gaze lingering on the closed door. He thought—hoped—that once you left, his mind would quiet. That he’d be able to breathe again.

But it’s harder now because your scent lingers in the room and so does everything else.

Jeongin does what he always does when temptation coils too tightly around his ribs—he leaves. He steps out into the night and the next thing he knows, it’s late, and he’s walking down an unfamiliar street, bathed in the glow of neon lights and passing headlights.

A group of girls passes by, giggling and chatting, their perfume lingering in the air. Jeongin keeps his head down, uninterested. But then—

"Father."

The word freezes him in place. Slowly, he turns around and there you are. For a moment, he isn’t even sure it’s you. The girl standing before him isn’t the same one he saw earlier in his apartment—poised, polished, careful in every movement. No, this version of you is different.

Your dress is short—too short—exposing far too much of your legs, hugging every curve of your body in ways that make his throat dry. The dim glow of the streetlights does nothing to hide the fact that you’re not wearing a bra, your nipples subtly pressing against the thin fabric. And your lips—painted that same deep red, like a mark of sin itself.

You smile at him, a little shy now, suddenly aware of yourself under his gaze. You clutch your coat tighter around your body, a small attempt at modesty, though it does nothing to undo what he’s already seen.

"I’m surprised to see you here," you say, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it—an uncertainty, a hesitance.

Jeongin exhales slowly, pulling his thoughts together. "I’m just as surprised," he admits.

A brief silence settles between you. Then, Jeongin asks, "Where are you going?"

You glance over your shoulder toward the club entrance, where bluish neon lights spill onto the pavement, casting strange shadows on the ground. Your lips part as if to answer, but the words trail off, and instead, you gesture vaguely in the direction of the pulsing music.

You don’t say it outright, but Jeongin can tell—it’s not something you want to talk about with him. So he nods in understanding.

You hesitate then, shifting slightly on your feet before drawing in a small breath. "Do you want to—" You stop yourself mid-sentence, breaking into a nervous laugh as you shake your head. "Never mind."

He knows what you were about to ask. "It’s too late for me anyway," Jeongin says instead, his voice careful, measured. "I have morning mass tomorrow."

At that, your brows lift slightly, as if the reminder of his priesthood catches you off guard. He watches your expression closely, waiting for the moment it clicks again—that no matter how different he may look outside of his collar, no matter how casual he may seem standing before you now, he is still Father Yang Jeongin.

"Don’t let me get in the way," he says after a beat. "Have fun."

You pause, your eyes lingering on him for just a second too long, something unreadable flickering in them. Then, without another word, you step away, rejoining your friends.

Before you get too far, Jeongin speaks once more. "Stay safe."

You pause, and when you respond, your voice is softer, more subdued. "Yes, Father."

And Jeongin—he stands there, watching. Watching the sway of your hips, the way the hem of your dress flutters with each step, the way the scent of your perfume lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

Jeongin doesn’t remember how it starts. One moment, he’s standing in the dim light of his apartment, and the next, you’re in front of him, close enough that he can count every slow rise and fall of your chest.

You look different—softer, unguarded, your lips stained that same dangerous red. Your dress clings to you, delicate fabric that threatens to slip off your shoulders with the slightest movement.

"Father," you whisper, and the way you say it makes something inside him snap.

His fingers twitch at his sides. Don’t touch her.

But then your hands reach for him first, trailing up his arms, slow and featherlight, until they slide over his shoulders.

"Do you want me to confess?" you murmur, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Jeongin swallows. His throat is dry, his chest tight. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this, thinking of you like this.

And yet, when your fingers brush against his collar, your touch barely there, he doesn’t stop you.

"You tempt me," you whisper, and your breath fans against his lips. "Do I tempt you, Father?"

His hands move before he can think—gripping your hips, pulling you closer until there’s nothing between you but heat. Your body presses against his, and he swears he can feel every curve, every soft inch molding into him.

"Say it," you breathe, tilting your head up. "Say you want me."

His resolve shatters and the moment his lips crash against yours, it’s over.

You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails grazing against his scalp in a way that makes him groan against your mouth. His hands roam down, gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you—he doesn’t know where he’s taking you, only that he needs to feel more, needs to—

His name. You moan his name, not Father, not the careful title he hides behind, but Jeongin—breathy, desperate, yours.

Heat. Softness. The scent of something sweet, intoxicating, wrapping around him like silk. Your delicate fingers trailing over his chest, down, down—

Jeongin jerks awake.

His breathing is uneven, his body flushed with heat despite the cool air in the room. The sheets stick to his damp skin, and when he shifts, discomfort coils in his gut. He doesn’t need to look down to know.

Morning wood.

His jaw clenches as he drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling as he pushes his hair back. The clock on his nightstand glares at him, the numbers glowing an unforgiving 5:32 AM. Morning mass is in less than two hours.

"Shit."

He swallows hard, forcing himself to sit up. His body protests, his muscles taut with the remnants of the dream—the dream he shouldn’t have had.

Not about you. Not about your soft voice whispering Father in that same breathy tone. Not about your fingers digging into his shoulders. Not about the way your lips had parted for him, not in prayer, but in something far more sinful.

Jeongin shuts his eyes tightly. No. No. No.

He inhales sharply and forces the words past his lips. "Lord, have mercy."

But even as he murmurs the prayer, images of you flicker behind his eyelids—your dress, your perfume, the way your eyes lingered on him last night.

His fingers twitch, and before he can entertain another thought, Jeongin throws off the sheets and stumbles to his feet.

The cold shower does little to wash away the lingering heat. And as he stands under the freezing water, hands braced against the tiled wall, Jeongin wonders if this is the beginning of his ruin.

Jeongin exhales slowly before unlocking the door. He knows you’ll be standing there, just as you are around this time in the afternoon, but nothing prepares him for the sight of you holding out a coffee cup, your soft smile disarming.

“I got you this, Father,” you say, your voice gentle.

He hesitates only for a moment before reaching for it. And that’s when it happens. Your fingers brush—just the barest, fleeting touch, but it sends a current straight through him. He nearly flinches. Because just like that, the memory of his dream resurfaces, vivid and unforgiving. Your warmth against him, your lips parting in a breathless plea, the softness of your skin beneath his hands—

He pulls the cup away too quickly. The heat seeps through the paper, grounding him back to reality. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice strained.

You tilt your head slightly. “How are you today?”

His grip on the cup tightens. “Fine,” he answers curtly.

Your eyes search his face, as if sensing something beneath the surface. Then, the question that nearly makes him choke on air—

“You look tired. Did you sleep well, Father?”

His breath catches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you. Do you know? How could you possibly know? The way you ask it—so casual, so innocent—yet it feels like a cruel trick.

He forces himself to look away. “I—” He swallows hard. “There’s a list of things I need you to work on today.”

He doesn’t answer your question. He can’t. Instead, he talks—quick, efficient, filling the space between you with instructions about editing, transcribing, emails. He needs distance. Needs to push you back into the safe boundaries of professionalism.

“I have a meeting with my parish soon,” he adds, relieved that it’s not an excuse. It’s the truth. The timing couldn’t be better—he needs to leave before he does something irredeemable.

You nod, obedient as ever, listening to every word, those wide, earnest eyes locked onto his. Your lips part slightly, as if you have something to say, but you stay quiet, waiting for his command.

And for a split second—just one—Jeongin feels the undeniable temptation to close the space between you. To reach out, cup your face, and press his lips to yours just to see if they’re as soft as he imagines. He jerks his head away, breaking the thought before it can go any further.

No. He needs to go. Now. He turns, already stepping toward the door when he hears it—

“Father.”

The sound of your voice stops him in his tracks. A rush of heat curls low in his stomach, his mind flashing back to the dream, the way you had said it—whispered, breathless, desperate. He clenches his jaw before looking back at you.

You smile, completely unaware of the effect you have on him. “Please take the coffee with you,” you say, nudging the cup toward him.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then, with a stiff nod, he grips the cup tighter, murmurs a quiet thanks, and walks out the door because if he stays any longer, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to resist the fall.

The meeting had done its job—Jeongin had managed to push you out of his mind, at least temporarily. Discussions about upcoming church events, budgeting concerns, and youth programs had kept him grounded in reality. By the time he steps onto the street leading back to his apartment, he feels a rare sense of relief.

You would be gone by now. He had been gone for hours. The thought steadies him. No need to walk on a tightrope, no need to police his own thoughts, no need to restrain himself from—

Jeongin freezes mid-step. Through the faintly lit window of his apartment, he sees a silhouette. His stomach drops. He fumbles for his keys, unlocking the door in a rush, and steps inside.

And there you are.

Sitting on his sofa, one leg tucked under the other, completely at ease, flipping through the pages of one of his novels. You glance over your shoulder at him, smile like you belong here.

“Welcome back, Father.”

The words make his breath hitch. It takes him a second too long to remember to respond.

“What… Why are you still here?” The question comes out more forceful than intended, his surprise laced with something dangerously close to panic.

You blink, tilting your head slightly as if his reaction is odd. “I've finished what you asked me to do,” you say simply, lifting the book. “And then I got curious.”

Curious.

Jeongin exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused.

“Are you enjoying it?” he asks, his voice more measured now.

Your lips curve, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “It’s different from what I expected,” you admit. “Darker.”

You skim a finger down the page, absentmindedly tracing over the words, and he wonders if you have any idea how that simple action makes his stomach twist.

“You write about sinners a lot, Father,” you muse, flipping to the next chapter. “Do you relate to them?”

Your voice is light, teasing, but something about the question unsettles him. You don’t look up right away, waiting, as if you truly expect an answer.

Jeongin forces himself to exhale, to shove down the flicker of heat curling in his chest.

“You should go home.”

The words come out firmer than he intends, but it’s the only way he can maintain control of the situation. You shouldn’t be here. Not after he had spent the entire day trying to cleanse his thoughts of you. Not when the way you’re sitting there, curled up on his sofa, reminds him far too much of—

You move. Closing the book with a soft thud, set it on the coffee table and rise to your feet. There’s something hesitant in the way you approach him, something almost uncertain, and Jeongin braces himself for whatever you’re about to say.

Then, softly, you ask, “Father… can I make a confession?”

Jeongin stills. The words send a jolt down his spine.

The dream. His dream had started like this. You, standing before him, hands clasped in front of you, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. Except in his dream, your voice had been breathless, heavy with something unspoken. And when he had stepped closer—

No. Jeongin clenches his jaw, pushing the memory away. This is different. This is real. His fingers curl at his sides, nails digging into his palm as he inhales deeply. He reminds himself of who he is, of what this means, of the line he cannot—will not—cross.

Still, his voice is quieter when he finally speaks. “…Of course.”

The air in the apartment feels heavier when you sit beside him on the sofa. The cushions dip slightly under your weight, and for a moment, Jeongin wonders if this is a mistake—if allowing you to stay any longer is only inviting more temptation into his already fragile resolve.

You’re quiet, hands fidgeting in your lap, your posture unsure in a way he’s never seen before. The confidence you usually carry—the soft smiles, the teasing edge in your words—is nowhere to be found.

“I… I don’t really know how to start,” you admit softly, glancing at him through your lashes. “Do I have to say, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned’ or…?”

Jeongin bites back a smile. “Not exactly,” he says, shaking his head. “You start by making the sign of the cross and saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’”

A quiet, nervous chuckle escapes your lips, and you lower your head slightly. “Right. Of course. I should’ve known,” you murmur, though there’s no malice—only a kind of shy awkwardness.

You’re not someone who comes to church often. That much is clear.

“Let me ask you something,” Jeongin softens, leaning back slightly as he shifts his approach. “Why do you suddenly want to confess?” he asks, his voice quieter now—gentler, as though he’s worried you’ll shut down if he pushes too hard.

You hesitate before answering. “I… I wanted to talk about something,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you seemed like the kind of person I could talk to. Someone who wouldn’t judge.”

The words sit heavy in the space between you. For a second, Jeongin doesn’t trust himself to speak. Because the truth is—he is judging. Not you, but himself.

“I’m not here to condemn you,” he finally says, fighting to maintain the calm steadiness in his tone. “And if you feel comfortable enough to tell me, then there’s no need to be nervous.” He tilts his head slightly, watching the way your fingers twist the hem of your dress. “Maybe you don’t want forgiveness. Maybe you just want to be heard.”

At that, your shoulders loosen a little. The tension in your frame eases, and after a breath, you begin.

“My parents,” you start, “are… difficult. They’re strict. Demanding. Controlling.” You pause, trying to gather your thoughts. “They expect a lot from me. I always have to be the best—the perfect daughter. I do what they ask. I always do. But sometimes…” Your voice wavers, just slightly. “Sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Jeongin doesn’t speak. He lets you keep going, his fingers curling against his knees as he listens.

“I know they want the best for me,” you continue, a touch more defensive now, as though you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “But it’s exhausting. The pressure. And the worst part is… I don’t get to enjoy anything. Being young. Being free. It feels like life is just passing me by while other people my age are out there living.”

You lower your gaze, your voice quieting. “That night… when I saw you. That was me blowing off steam.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw, the image flashing back with painful clarity—you, in that dress, with your red lips and bare skin, looking like temptation incarnate under the neon lights.

“I lied to my parents that night,” you confess, and there’s a thread of guilt woven through your tone. “I told them I was staying late for my part-time job. For you.” You glance at him briefly, your expression apologetic. “But I wasn’t. I went out with my friends instead. We drank. We danced. We—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head in frustration. “I know lying is a sin, but it’s the only way I get to do anything for myself.”

He should reprimand you. He should tell you lying is wrong, that deception is a slippery slope—but all Jeongin can focus on is the way your voice softens with something deeper. Something more fragile.

“I know it sounds stupid,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into your palms, “but sometimes, I feel… left behind.”

The words hit harder than they should. You’re not saying it outright, but he can hear what you’re implying. You’ve never had the freedom to explore. To feel things. To know the things others your age do.

He shouldn’t care. But he does. And it shouldn’t affect him. But it does. And yet—nothing tests his self-control like the question that leaves your lips next.

“Is it wrong…” you hesitate, your voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile, “to want to feel admired? To be wanted?”

Jeongin’s heart stutters.

“I like the way it feels,” you continue, eyes cast downward in quiet shame. “When I dress up, when I go out… the way people look at me. It’s like, for once, I’m not my parent's daughter and I'm just... me. I can see it in their eyes—how much they want me. And I—” Your breath catches, your lips trembling just slightly. “I like that.”

He swallows hard, the weight of your words pressing down on every weak part of him. Because God help him—he knows exactly what you mean.

And what’s worse? He wants you the same way. Maybe more.

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unspoken. The weight of your confession lingers in the air, and Jeongin feels it pressing down on him—on his chest, his thoughts, the fragile boundary he’s desperately trying to maintain.

You look at him expectantly, searching for something in his expression. Guidance, maybe. Reassurance. Or perhaps, you’re bracing for judgment, for him to tell you that what you feel is wrong. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I think,” he begins, voice steady, “that you’re searching for something.”

You blink at him, waiting.

“It’s not wrong to want to be seen,” he continues. “To be wanted. We all crave connection in some way.” His fingers curl against his knee, a grounding effort to keep himself composed. “But admiration—lust—it’s fleeting. It won’t fill the emptiness you feel.”

Your lips part slightly, as if to protest, but you hesitate.

Jeongin leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studies you. “You say you feel left behind, but… have you ever stopped to ask yourself what it is you’re truly missing?”

You frown, your brows drawing together.

“Is it the experiences themselves?” he presses gently. “Or is it the idea of them? The pressure to have lived a certain way, to match some invisible expectation of what youth is supposed to be?”

You lower your gaze, silent.

Jeongin sighs. “You’ve spent so long following the rules that now you’re swinging in the opposite direction, trying to grasp onto something—anything—that makes you feel alive.” He pauses. “But if you’re not careful, you might mistake empty attention for something more. And that kind of emptiness… it lingers.”

You exhale softly, your fingers stilling in your lap. “Then… what do I do?”

He hesitates. He could tell you to focus on the people who truly care for you, to find fulfillment in things that aren’t so temporary. He could remind you that your worth isn’t measured by how many eyes are on you, or how much you’re desired.

But saying those things feels… inadequate. Because deep down, he knows, he knows what it’s like to crave something he shouldn’t. To want something he cannot have.

So instead, he settles for something simpler. Something safer.

“Take your time,” he says quietly. “Figure out what it is you truly want, not what you think you should want.” His gaze lingers on you, softer now. “And don’t let anyone else define that for you.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a small, wistful smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re a good man, Father.”

Jeongin stiffens, not because of your words, but because of the way you say them—soft, warm, almost reverent. Like you truly believe it. If only you knew.

He swallows hard, steadying himself as he lifts his hand. His fingers hesitate for the briefest moment before he presses the pad of his thumb to your forehead.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

His voice is firm, even, betraying nothing of the storm within him. But as he traces the cross against your skin, something unfamiliar coils deep in his stomach.

You close your eyes at the touch, exhaling softly. There’s a quiet reverence in the way you bow your head slightly, in the way you let him bless you without hesitation.

But Jeongin—Jeongin feels like he’s the one being undone. Because in this moment, as his fingers linger just a second too long against your warm skin, he realizes something dangerous.

You are the blessing. And you are the temptation. Both, intertwined. A paradox that he cannot afford to unravel.

When he pulls his hand away, you blink up at him, smiling softly. “Thank you, Father.”

Jeongin forces a nod, swallowing past the dryness in his throat.

You need to leave. He wants to tell you. Now.

But you don’t. Not immediately. You linger, watching him with those wide, searching eyes—eyes that make him feel like you can see through him. And maybe you do. Maybe you know.

But then, after a beat too long, you step back, exhaling as you gather your things. “I should go,” you murmur.

Jeongin nods stiffly. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, Father. See you on Monday.” You give him one last look before turning for the door.

And just like before, he watches you leave, the scent of your perfume lingering in the air like a ghost.

When the door clicks shut behind you, Jeongin exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Then, without thinking, he reaches for the cross around his neck, gripping it tightly as if it could cleanse the thoughts already sinking into him like a poison.

He murmurs a prayer under his breath but deep down, he knows, he knows that no prayer will be enough.

The soft click of the door handle echoes through the apartment, and Jeongin hears your voice calling his name. He doesn’t respond right away. His mind is elsewhere—on the broken showerhead, the water that wouldn’t stop spraying, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

He steps out of the bathroom, running a hand through his wet hair just as he catches sight of you standing there, frozen in place. His white tank top is soaked through, the fabric outlining every muscle, and he can feel water still trailing down his arms, pooling at his collarbone before slipping lower.

“The showerhead’s broken,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh. Then, with an amused glance, he adds, “Not that you’d be using it anyway.”

Your expression flickers—something unreadable but fleeting. Then you chuckle, a little too quickly, and Jeongin catches the way your gaze briefly drops before you avert your eyes.

Interesting.

He doesn’t comment, but he files that reaction away as he gestures toward his room. “I should go change.”

You nod, already moving toward your desk, but when he reaches his door, he leaves it slightly ajar. Maybe it’s a habit, or maybe it’s something else entirely.

As he pulls the damp shirt over his head, he senses it—a presence lingering, a gaze that wavers but doesn’t entirely look away. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge it, but the thought makes his lips twitch into the faintest smirk.

Still, he takes his time, reaching for a clean shirt, slipping it on with ease before finally stepping back out. When he returns to the main room, he notices the way you suddenly seem very focused on your work.

Amusing.

“Ready to work?” he asks, watching as you straighten up, schooling your features into professionalism.

“Yes. Ready.”

But there’s something different in your voice, a slight hesitation beneath the surface. Jeongin doesn’t comment, only opens his manuscript, shifting his attention to the pages in front of him.

The work is straightforward—revisions, editing, transcriptions—but he catches the way your eyes drift every now and then, lingering on him longer than necessary. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he notices. He always does.

Then, after a particularly long pause, he glances up just in time to catch you staring at his hands.

More specifically, at the silver ring on his finger.

“It was a gift from my parents,” he says casually, tapping it lightly against the desk.

You blink, startled, before offering a small smile. “It suits you.”

He hums in response, but something about the way you say it lingers. A quiet observation, thoughtful but restrained. Like there’s more you want to ask but won’t.

Instead, you shift the conversation. “Father, what do you do outside of this? Writing and—” A quick glance at the cross hanging from his neck. “Priesthood.”

Jeongin leans back slightly, considering. “I play the piano when I have time,” he says. “And sometimes, I work out.”

At that, he hears the faintest murmur from you. A barely-there comment, but he catches it anyway.

“So that’s why you’re so—”

His gaze sharpens. “What?”

Your eyes widen slightly before you shake your head. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a moment, then smirks but lets it go.

Eventually, the work for the day comes to an end, and Jeongin glances at the time. “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he offers. “I have to head to the church for a Bible study anyway.”

You nod, and the two of you step outside. The air is crisp, the sky brushed in hues of orange and pink. As you walk side by side, he asks, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

“I want to be a writer,” you answer without hesitation.

Jeongin smiles at that. “And what do you want to write?”

A pause. A flicker of something in your expression. Then, you answer carefully, “Something like what you write.”

His smile lingers. “That won’t be too hard for you.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, I— I still have so much to learn.”

Jeongin meets your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes. “Then learn,” he says simply.

For a moment, the space between you feels different—something softer, quieter. But then the bus arrives, breaking the moment.

You flash him one last smile before stepping on. Jeongin watches as you take your seat by the window, your gaze flickering to him one last time before the bus pulls away. Only when you’re out of sight does he finally turn back toward the church.

And yet, long after you’re gone, he still feels the weight of your presence.

That morning, Jeongin is composed. Focused. His voice carries through the church with practiced ease, each word of the sermon spoken with reverence. He is leading the mass, guiding the faithful through their prayers, his heart steady in its devotion. But then his eyes sweep over the congregation, and he sees you.

You’re sitting in the third pew, dressed in black, the morning sun filtering through the stained-glass windows casting a golden glow around you. A halo of light. Divine. Tempting.

Everyone else has their heads bowed, lost in prayer. But not you. You’re watching him. And when your eyes meet, you softly smile.

Jeongin hesitates for just a second, long enough for his chest to tighten, for his grip on the open scripture in his hands to falter. It takes everything in him to look away, to steady himself before continuing, to remind himself where he is and what he’s doing. He forces himself not to think about the fact that you’re here, watching him, sitting in his church like you belong.

Thankfully, he makes it through the sermon. Through the prayers. Through the responses. Then comes the Holy Communion.

Jeongin steps down from the altar, his movements precise, the chalice steady in his hands. The congregation forms a line, each person stepping forward in quiet reverence. He should be thinking of the sacrament, of the body of Christ, of his duty to serve.

Instead, his breath catches the moment he sees you in line. There is something exhilarating about knowing that in just a few moments, you will be standing before him. That you will bow your head, open your mouth, and receive the host from his hand.

And that moment is here.

You step forward, slightly bowing your head before raising your gaze to his. Jeongin swallows. You are close enough that he can see the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way you look at him—soft and knowing.

He whispers the words automatically, "Body of Christ."

"Amen," you reply.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you part your lips and stick your tongue out just enough to receive the wafer.

Jeongin places it on your tongue, and for the briefest of moments, his fingers hover too close, almost brushing your skin.

Most people close their eyes during this moment, lost in prayer. But not you. You look at him through your lashes, through the quiet sanctity of the church, you keep your gaze on him as your tongue retreats, taking the wafer with it. And then you smile—a soft, fleeting thing—before turning away, kneeling at your pew, your head finally bowed in prayer.

Jeongin lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His clerical collar suddenly feels too tight around his throat.

Once he's done with his duty, Jeongin finds you standing in front of the confession booth, your head slightly tilted, eyes filled with quiet curiosity.

He approaches, hands tucked behind his back, and asks teasingly, “Thinking of making another confession?”

You turn to him, smiling softly, hands clasped in front of you in that familiar, obedient way that stirs something in him.

“Maybe,” you say, your voice light, playful.

Jeongin chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see you here.”

Your smile lingers. “Maybe I should come here more often.”

It’s meant to be a casual remark, but the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable—something daring—makes Jeongin pause. He can’t let himself dwell on it, not here. So he looks away, searching for something, anything, to ground himself.

“The canteen serves good food on Sundays,” he says instead, forcing normalcy into his voice. “I could get you something to eat.”

You shake your head, the movement small but certain. “That’s kind of you, but I actually came to tell you I won’t be able to work for the next two days. I have family stuff to attend.”

Jeongin nods in understanding. “That’s alright. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you when you’re back.”

“Thank you, Father,” you say, voice gentle as you slightly bow your head. Then, as always, you smile before turning to leave.

Jeongin watches as you walk away, the hem of your black dress swaying with each step. He exhales slowly.

Maybe it’s for the best that you’ll be gone for a few days. Maybe he’ll finally be able to clear his head. Maybe...

Jeongin is mid-way through typing a response to his agent when the unexpected knocking pulls him away from his screen. He frowns, pushing his chair back, not expecting anyone at this hour. When he opens the door, the sight of you stops him in his tracks.

You stand there, completely soaked, rainwater dripping from the ends of your hair and down your cheeks like tiny pearls. Your dress clings to your skin, outlining every dip and curve of your body. You’re visibly shivering, yet despite it all, you’re smiling, breathless as you mutter an apology.

Jeongin exhales, his grip on the doorknob tightening. You shouldn’t have come.

He steps aside, allowing you in. “You should’ve just gone home.”

Your smile doesn’t falter. “I felt bad for not coming to work.” You rub your arms, attempting to warm yourself. “I thought I should at least get something done.”

The two of you just stand there for a moment. Raindrops patter against the windows, your soft breaths filling the silence. Jeongin knows he should move, do something—anything—to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.

He clears his throat. “Wait here.”

He turns on his heels, walking to his closet where he pulls out a clean bathrobe, then returns to you, holding it out. “Your clothes need to go in the dryer. You can wear this while you wait.”

You nod, taking it from his hands. “Thank you.”

Jeongin watches as you head toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you. He releases a breath, dragging a hand down his face. You’re undressing in the next room.

He swallows. He turns sharply toward the kitchen to make a cup of tea for you. Focusing on anything other than the thought of you peeling that wet dress off your skin.

The bathroom door clicks open and he hears your footsteps coming. Jeongin barely has a moment to process the sight of you in his bathrobe before you're hesitantly handing him your wet clothes. He takes them without a word, nodding toward the sofa and the cup of tea sitting on the coffee table prepared for you.

“Sit down, have some tea while you wait.”

As he steps away toward the laundry room, he keeps his focus sharp, resisting the urge to think too much about how your scent lingers on the fabric in his hands or that he catches a glimpse of your underwear. He doesn’t even bother untangling the bundle—just shoves it all into the dryer, shuts the door, and presses start. The low hum of the machine fills the small space, grounding him.

When he returns to the living room, you’re no longer sitting but standing by his desk, cradling the cup of tea in your hands.

“You must’ve written a lot while I was gone,” you say, your voice warm, teasing.

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle. “I tried. My agent’s been relentlessly threatening me about the deadlines, so I had no choice but to be productive.”

You nod, taking a small sip of your tea. It’s in that moment that Jeongin notices it—a thin trail of red slipping down your thigh, stark against your skin.

His body reacts before his mind catches up. His hands find your hips as he pulls you close, lifting the hem of your bathrobe without a second thought. His first concern is that you hurt yourself—maybe you scraped your skin, maybe you tripped on the way here. His heart is in his throat, eyes scanning for the source of the blood.

Before he can see anything, you let out a sharp gasp and jerk back, pressing your hand against the fabric to stop him.

Jeongin lifts his gaze to yours, searching. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

His brows knit together, unconvinced. “What do you mean it’s fine?”

“It’s just—” You shake your head, clearly embarrassed. “It’s nothing serious.”

Jeongin isn’t satisfied with that answer. He can’t just ignore it. “Sit down,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Let me take care of it.”

You hesitate.

“Please.”

At that, you relent, perching yourself on the edge of the sofa. Jeongin disappears into the other room, retrieving the first aid kit. His mind whirls as he walks back.

Why did you react like that? And more importantly—what are you trying to hide from him?

Jeongin kneels in front of you, the first aid kit resting on the floor beside him. You’re clutching your thigh, not in pain but in an attempt to keep him from seeing.

“Let me take care of it,” he says softly, reaching for your wrist.

You hesitate before letting go, your hand falling to your lap.

Jeongin lifts the hem of the bathrobe slowly, carefully, exposing only what’s necessary. When he finally sees it—the crescent-shaped wounds pressed into your skin, fresh and oozing—his breath catches. He doesn’t need an explanation. He knows.

His hands move on their own, gentle and precise as he wipes the blood away with a clean cloth. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask why. Instead, he pulls out a cotton swab, dabs ointment onto it, and carefully applies it to your wound.

A sharp inhale escapes your lips, and instinctively, he leans down and blows a soft stream of air to soothe the sting. Your body trembles under his touch.

He keeps going, pressing gauze over the wound, securing it with a bandage to keep it sterile. The entire time, he hears your breathing grow uneven, the subtle shakes in your frame growing more noticeable. Then, he feels it—drops of warmth landing on your lap, one after another.

Tears.

Jeongin looks up, and his chest tightens. You’re crying. He says nothing but lets you cry, lets you break down in the quiet safety of his presence.

Then, with a voice raw and small, you speak. “It’s my mother.” You sniffle, a shaky exhale slipping from your lips. “She—she puts so much pressure on me. I can only take so much.” A bitter, self-deprecating laugh follows. “And when I can’t, this happens.” Your fingers graze over the bandage, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to stop it.”

Jeongin swallows, his own heart aching at your words. He shouldn’t touch you, but he does. His hand finds yours, firm yet gentle, anchoring you back to something solid.

“I just need to know,” you ask, lifting your gaze to his, “that everything will be okay.”

And that’s when he feels it—the unbearable pull toward you, toward the sadness in your eyes that he wants so desperately to replace with warmth, with something softer, purer, something that tells you that you are more than this pain.

So he lets himself. His hand moves to your face, cradling your jaw as he leans in. And then, he kisses you.

You’re softer than he imagined. Your lips taste like salt and sorrow, but beneath it, there’s something else—something fragile, something hopeful.

Jeongin is aware that he shouldn’t be doing this. But when he kisses you, truly kisses you, he feels something shift—something inside him unraveling, something he’s been trying to suppress for too long. It starts slow, soft, the press of his lips against yours nothing more than an unspoken question. But when you sigh into him, when your fingers tighten around his arms as if you’re afraid he might pull away, that quiet hesitation crumbles.

His hands move with purpose, sliding along the curve of your waist, parting the fabric of your robe like a sacred offering. His lips follow, pressing reverent kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down the delicate line of your sternum.

Every kiss is a silent promise, an unspoken prayer. You're more than your pain. More than the wounds carved into your skin. More than the weight you're carrying on your shoulders.

His mouth worships you, his hands tracing every inch of you as if committing you to memory. When he reaches your ribs, he pauses, breathing in deeply, as though he's afraid he might lose himself completely if he goes any further. His forehead presses against your stomach for just a moment, his hands gripping your hips as if grounding himself.

“God, you're beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, searching for any trace of hesitation, but all he sees is trust.

Jeongin has spent years searching for divinity in scripture, in prayer, in quiet solitude. But here, now, with you trembling beneath his touch, he wonders if he’s been looking in the wrong places all along.

Everything about this moment—the warmth of your skin under his lips, the soft gasp that escapes you, the way your fingers tangle in his hair as if you’re holding on for dear life—tells him that he's walking a line he cannot uncross.

But as his mouth moves lower, pressing reverent kisses to the fragile skin of your inner thigh, he realizes that maybe he's already crossed it. Maybe he's been crossing it since the first time he met you.

Your breath hitches when his lips linger just above the bandaged wound, and for a moment, Jeongin forgets everything else. Forget that he's a priest, forget the weight of his collar, forget the promises he made.

Right now, all he knows is that you are here, trembling beneath him, looking at him like he holds the entire world in his hands. And maybe that’s why he forces himself to pause.

His lips are barely an inch from where you need him most, his hands gripping the curves of your hips, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he fights the war waging inside him. His forehead presses against your thigh, his breath warm against your skin as he tries to remember who he is supposed to be.

"Just one taste," he whispers, almost to himself, as if saying it out loud will justify what he's about to do. "God, all I need is just... one taste."

But as soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes how weak of a promise it is and as his mouth moves ever closer, as your body arches in silent invitation—deep down, he knows one taste will never be enough.

Jeongin lingers for a moment, his lips pressed to the delicate skin of your inner thigh, his breath warm and unsteady. His hands tighten around your hips, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s trying to hold himself back, trying to steady the trembling restraint unraveling inside him.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t want this. But he does. His lips trace reverent paths along your skin, his mouth pressing slow, deliberate kisses, each one deeper, more lingering than the last. He hears the soft, shuddering sound you make—half sigh, half plea—and it undoes something inside him.

His hands slide up, parting you legs wider, exposing the thing between your legs to him, Gosh, your cunt is not just wet, it's soft and flushed, quivering right in front of his face.

He doesn't waste another second, he lowers his head, exhaling softly. The warmth of his breath makes you shiver.

“I shouldn't do this,” he rasps as he falls apart at the seams.

But then, he smells it, the smell of your perfume, of your skin and of that delicate smell of female scent that he didn’t know he's been hungering for.

Jeongin traces his way from your clit to your cunt with his tongue and he's right, you're sweeter than he imagined, sweeter than any alcohol he ever tasted and none of them is as intoxicating this.

“Please...” He pleads, asking himself for one more taste.

He flattens his tongue against your clit and sample you again. He feels it, the way your body reacts to him, the way you arch toward him instinctively, seeking more. His resolve crumbles further, his self-control fraying as he presses a gentle kiss just where he knows you want him most. Right on your pulsing clit.

And then, finally—he gives in.

His arms curved around your thighs, fingers burrowing into the flesh and holding them open for his assault. He thrusts into you with his tongue, his lips and at times, he uses his teeth, eating you like a starving man.

A sound escapes you, something sweet and breathless, and Jeongin exhales sharply against you, his own restraint breaking piece by piece. He moves slowly at first, tasting, savoring, learning the way you react under him, how your body responds, how you whisper his name in a way that makes him feel utterly, devastatingly lost.

Your cunt is exactly as perfect as he's imagined all those nights as he lay awake on his bed and truthfully, in his sleep as well. The cause of him waking up with a hard on and all the cold showers he took after.

This is what he's been imagining of doing to you so he decides that he needs to make you come, and he will, he will make you come on his face. The thought alone is enough to make his cock jolts in his pants and there's a possibility that he may orgasm without even touching it.

Jeongin figures it's time to use his fingers next, running them between the fold and then slides two fingers inside, curling them to find the soft, textured spot that would push you over the edge.

You're shamelessly grinding back into his face now, your hand tangled in his dark locks, fingernails scratching his scalp, little sighs and moans spilling out of your parted mouth.

His arms steadily hold you in place, his touch both gentle and unyielding. He’s worshipping you, drowning himself in the feeling of you, in the warmth of your skin, in the quiet, gasping breaths that fill the air.

And when he hears you break, when your body tenses and shudders under him... everything else vanishes except you and your smell and your taste and the feeling of you clenching around his finger. And then—

Jeongin looks up and sees the crucifix on the wall of his apartment and his heart lurched as he looks at himself, kneeling as if he was praying to your cunt, kneeling with his head buried between your legs. He slowly pulls away and mutters to himself. What have I done?

Jeongin’s breath is uneven, his head is still rested on your stomach as he tries to ground himself, to remember who he is and what he’s supposed to be. But then you speak, your voice soft yet filled with something he can’t quite place—vulnerability, sincerity, maybe even wonder.

“No one’s ever done that to me before.”

He stills. His eyes search yours as if trying to confirm what you just said, and when he sees nothing but honesty reflected back at him, something inside him shifts.

“No one’s ever made me come before,” you correct your earlier remark.

He doesn’t understand how that could be possible, how no one has ever taken the time to take care of you, to taste you.

“No guy has ever gone down on you?”

You innocently nod in response to his question.

It unsettles him, but more than that, it makes him feel something else—something dangerously close to pride. He was the first. He was the one to show you.

Before he can dwell on the thought for too long, you reach for him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, keeping him close when he instinctively tries to put distance between you.

“Let me return the favor to you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He knows what you’re asking before you even say it. “You don’t have to,” he replies quickly, shaking his head as he attempts to step back, but you don’t let him.

“I know.” You tilt your head, looking up at him, your eyes dark yet pleading. “But I want to.”

Jeongin swallows, his resolve wavering. “I don't think— I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” you whisper again, the word laced with something that makes his body betray him. Your lips brush over the sharp line of his jaw, featherlight, teasing, testing. “Please, please, please.”

He exhales harshly, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights the war raging within him. The way you say his name sends a shiver down his spine, makes him feel as though you’ve wrapped yourself around him entirely, pulling him into something he knows he shouldn't give into.

“We don’t have to have sex. I just need to see you come," you coax with your low, sultry voice, one hand slipping under his sweater. “Father, please...”

One last plea, one final whisper of please against his skin, and he feels himself crumble.

You pull him by the arms, making him sit on the sofa next to you and your hands swiftly working open his slacks. The second his cock is out of its confine, you immediately claim his lap, straddling him.

The bathrobe loosely hangs around your shoulders and you do nothing to fix it. Your breasts are merely inches away from his mouth, the hardening buds inviting him to wrap his lips around it so he does. The hardness of your nipples and the softness of your flesh is all he could feel in his mouth.

You hover over his lap for a second to reposition yourself on him, allowing your slick cleft sliding against the underside of his cock and you begin stroking him that way. You feel so soft, so warm, so... wet.

Jeongin’s hands grip your hips, his touch hesitant, torn between holding you still and letting you move the way you want. His breath is uneven, his head tilted back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“This is wrong,” he whispers, but his grip tightens when you roll your hips again, slow and deliberate.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear, your voice sweet, teasing. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he looks down to watch the way your flesh pressed against his, the way your clitoris peeking out, the way the weight of your body pressing against his cock gives him that similar feeling of having real penetrative sex and he thinks that maybe this wouldn’t count as a sin. Even if he was, he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know how even if he wanted to.

Everything about it is messy yet highly erotic, the way your bathrobe hanging onto your elbows now, the way his slacks are pulled down just enough to free his erection, the way you shamelessly angle yourself so that his shaft would press on you in all the right places, the way it's just your arousal lubricating the two of you and nothing else, and God, he suddenly gets the urge to own you, make you, take you. He wants this moment to last forever.

As if you hear his thoughts and see through his head, you smile, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint he’s using, and it only makes you want to push him further.

You move again, a little slower this time, watching the way his breath catches in his throat. His fingers dig into your waist, a sharp exhale leaving his lips.

“You should stop,” he tries again, but it sounds weaker now, unconvincing.

You shake your head. “Not until you let go.”

His hands tremble against you, and you know—he’s close to breaking. It's pure instinct that makes him grab your hips and work you harder and faster over him and then—

Everything flooding through him, you, your body, your legs caging his body, the taste and the smell of you that lingers on his tongue, mouth and face. A low moan escapes your mouth at the sight of his seed spurting onto his stomach and it feels like hours instead of seconds that he is suspended in pulsing, total-body release.

Jeongin stays still, his breath shaky as you press your forehead against his. The warmth of your skin, the way your body molds against his—it should be comforting, but all he feels is the weight of his own actions crashing down on him. What has he done?

His hands remain on your waist, fingers flexing as if debating whether to pull you closer or push you away. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his thoughts a chaotic storm. He shouldn’t have let this happen. He should’ve stopped. But instead, he let himself fall—let himself indulge in something he swore he would never have.

His throat tightens as he opens his mouth to say something—anything—but before he can, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to press a gentle kiss on his cheem. The touch is soft, delicate, filled with something he can’t quite name.

And then you whisper, “Thank you, Father.”

His entire body tenses. His stomach churns. His breath catches. The title feels heavier than it ever has before, suffocating him in ways he never imagined. He swore to be a guide, a shepherd, a man of God—and yet, here he is, lost in sin, drowning in temptation, unable to resist the warmth of you.

Jeongin shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. He doesn’t know if he should repent or pull you back in. And that terrifies him the most.

Jeongin has spent the entire morning convincing himself that last night was a mistake. That it was nothing more than a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness.

But when he thinks of you—your warmth, your touch, the way you whispered his name—it lingers in his mind like the burn of whiskey down his throat.

This… whatever this is between you and him, it feels dangerously familiar. Like alcohol. Like the thing that once consumed him, ruled him, made him forget himself.

Addiction.

Jeongin knows what addiction feels like. He knows what it means to crave something so badly that it overtakes him, that it becomes impossible to resist. And he knows that if he doesn’t stop this now, if he lets himself fall again, there will be no stopping it. He has to put an end to it before it becomes something he can’t control.

So when you walk into his apartment that afternoon, smiling as if nothing happened, acting like last night was just another moment in time, Jeongin knows something needs to be said.

You set your bag down and move toward your usual spot by the desk. “Good afternoon, Father.” There’s something teasing in your voice, light and unbothered. “Did you get some writing done?”

Jeongin doesn’t answer right away. He watches you, the way you move so effortlessly through the space, like you belong here. Like you weren’t wrapped around him last night, dragging him into sin.

“Please, sit down,” Jeongin firmly says, his jaws are clenched. “We need to talk.”

Your smile falters, but you quickly mask it. “Alright,” you say, moving to sit across from him.

Jeongin sits across from you, his fingers loosely clasped together as he exhales slowly. The weight of the past few days sits heavy on his chest, pressing down like an unbearable burden. He doesn’t meet your eyes right away; if he does, he’s afraid he’ll waver.

“I used to drink,” he finally says, voice calm but distant. “More than I should have. At first, it was just a glass or two. A way to relax, a way to take the edge off. But then it became more. I started craving it—not just the taste, but the feeling. The escape.”

Your gaze lingers on him, silent but attentive.

“I convinced myself I had control over it. That I could stop whenever I wanted. But addiction doesn’t work like that.” He lifts his hands, rubbing his fingers together absently. “Relapse is always a possibility. No matter how strong you think you are, there’s always a moment of weakness. A moment when the craving wins.”

He finally looks at you, and his stomach tightens.

“This… what’s happening between us—it’s the same,” he admits. “I told myself I could handle it. That I could keep my feelings in check. That I could stop before it became something I couldn’t control.” His jaw clenches. “But I was wrong.”

You shift slightly, and Jeongin forces himself to keep going before he loses his resolve.

“I know what I have to do,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost pained. “I have to stop before this becomes something I can’t turn back from. Before I start craving you the way I once craved alcohol.” He swallows hard. “I have to distance myself from you.”

The words feel heavier than he anticipated, but they need to be said. He waits for your reaction, dreading it. But he knows—if he doesn’t do this now, he might never be able to.

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice is quiet, cautious.

Jeongin meets your gaze then, his expression unreadable. “Because last night… it felt the same.”

The room stills. Your lips part slightly, as if to say something, but no words come out.

Jeongin swallows hard. “It felt like something I could lose control over. And if I let it happen again… I will.”

Something flickers in your eyes—hurt, confusion, maybe even frustration—but you keep your voice soft. “So what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, pushing his chair back as if putting physical distance between you will make it easier. “I need to stop before it becomes an addiction.”

You stare at him for a long moment, searching his face, trying to understand. And then, as if the realization finally settles in, your hands tighten into fists on your lap.

“So, you’re going to distance yourself from me.”

Jeongin clenches his jaw. He nods. “I have to.”

The silence is unbearable. When he stands, turning his back to you, it takes everything in him not to look back.

From that day forward, Jeongin keeps his word and distance.

He doesn’t fire you—doing so would be unprofessional, and more than that, it would feel too much like running away. Instead, he sets clear boundaries. No in-person meetings. Everything is to be communicated through email, with phone calls only when absolutely necessary.

And you, as always, listen.

Days pass, then weeks. His inbox fills with your messages—concise, professional, devoid of the warmth that once lingered in them. You do everything he asks, following his new rules without question.

It should make things easier. It should make it hurt less but it doesn’t. Because every time he sees your name on his screen, he remembers the way you looked at him that night. The way you whispered please like a prayer. The way your hands clung to him as if letting go would break you. And he hates himself for remembering.

Then, one Sunday, he sees you again. It’s unexpected. You’re seated at the farthest row of the church, hands clasped together on your lap, head bowed in quiet prayer.

Jeongin’s breath catches for a moment, but he forces himself to focus, to continue leading the mass as if your presence doesn’t affect him.

Yet, as he reads out the prayers, his thoughts stray.

He prays for you. He prays that you find peace, that you heal—not just from the wounds on your skin but from the ones buried deep inside you. He prays that you are happy. Truly, deeply happy.

By the time the mass ends, Jeongin searches for you again, but you’re already gone and he doesn’t understand why disappointment sinks so heavily in his chest.

Isn’t this what he wanted? To stay away? So why does it feel like he’s the one being left behind?

He retreats to the sacristy, changing out of his vestments with quiet efficiency. He folds each piece carefully, letting the steady rhythm of the task ground him. Once done, he makes his way to his office, his mind already preoccupied with what he needs to do next.

Then, he sees you standing in the hallway, waiting.

Jeongin freezes for a split second before something warm blooms in his chest—something dangerously close to elation.

You notice him immediately. A small smile lifts your lips as you give him a slight bow. “Father Yang,” you greet, your voice gentle, familiar.

And then, as casually as if nothing has changed, you ask, “Can I now take your offer to buy me something from the canteen?”

Jeongin exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips curving into an amused smile before he nods.

The canteen is bustling with people—parishioners fresh out of mass, staff enjoying their break—but Jeongin manages to secure two slices of pizza casserole and a cinnamon roll for you. With the plates in hand, the two of you step outside, choosing a quiet table overlooking the garden.

For a while, you eat in comfortable silence. The sun is warm but not overwhelming, the soft hum of conversation from the canteen drifting through the open air.

After a few bites and a sip of water, you reach for a napkin, dabbing your lips with practiced elegance. Then, you open your mouth to speak.

Jeongin already knows what you’re going to say so he beats you to it. “I’m sorry.”

But you stop him with a small shake of your head. “That’s actually why I came here,” you say.

A small grin tugs at his lips. “So you didn’t come here to pray?” he teases.

You chuckle, a soft, genuine sound. “I did. But… I also wanted to apologize.” You pause, eyes flickering down for a moment before meeting his gaze again. “I’m sorry for what happened that night. I—I guess it was because you were there, because you were kind and…”

You don’t finish your sentence, you look down at your plate and

Jeongin exhales, lowering his voice. “I appreciate you saying that. Because it means you know and understand what you're apologizing for,” His fingers graze the rim of his cup, a nervous habit. “I have a vow to uphold, I have to honor God. The oath that I took. But that night…” He swallows. “I blame myself for that night. I took advantage of you.”

Your eyes widen slightly, a flicker of frustration crossing your face. “No.” Your voice is firm. “You didn’t.”

You place your napkin down, sitting up straighter. “I may have parents who control me, but I’m also my own person and I'm old enough to know what I want. That night, I chose to let you do that. I wanted it.”

Jeongin stays silent, watching you, searching your expression for any hesitation. He finds none.

After a second, you add, “But I'll respect your vow, Father. I won’t bother you again.”

And Jeongin—he should feel relieved. He should feel grateful that you understand, that you accept the boundary he’s desperately trying to reinforce.

But instead, it stings. It stings more than it should.

Jeongin reckons that if his hands are occupied, if his mind is filled with scripture, if his days are structured down to the hour—there will be no space for thoughts of you.

So he keeps himself busy. He leads mass three times a week, his voice steady as he delivers sermons, as if he truly believes that his words can wash away the impurities he carries. Sundays are the most demanding, yet the easiest, because the church is full and there are so many people that it’s easy to forget the empty space inside him.

He leads Bible study once a week, listening to discussions about faith and virtue, nodding along even as a quiet voice inside him whispers: You’re a hypocrite.

He assists the youth group, guiding young minds, helping them find their path before they can stumble into temptation. Before they can become him.

And every afternoon, he sits in the confession booth, listening to whispered sins through the lattice, offering absolution in the form of quiet reassurances and memorized prayers.

It’s been going on like this for a week now. Jeongin does not give himself a chance to rest, because rest means silence, and silence means space for memories to creep in. For your voice. Your touch. The way you felt beneath him, the way you looked at him like he was something more than just a man wearing a collar.

Jeongin grips the edges of the wooden pew in front of him, his knuckles turning white. He bows his head, inhaling sharply, as if he can exhale you from his lungs.

He has been strong. He has been devoted. He has repented. Or so he thought until his temptation shows up in front of him.

Jeongin stops in his tracks. His breath catches, his fingers twitch at his sides, his heartbeat kicks up to an unforgiving pace.

He thought—no, hoped—that drowning himself in devotion would cleanse him of you. That if he buried himself in scripture, in sermons, in the confessions of others, he could somehow wash away the imprint you left on him. But now, standing here, looking at you, he knows it was all in vain.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag as he takes in the sight of you. His apartment door feels a thousand miles away, and yet you—you—are impossibly close.

His heart betrays him before his mind can intervene, a rush of longing surging through his veins. You’re clutching something—a big paper bag. He can’t tell what it is, not when his focus keeps flickering to the way your hands tremble slightly, the way your eyes lift to meet his with that same quiet intensity that undid him before.

Jeongin swallows. This is it. A fight or flight situation.

But what exactly is he trying to fight? You? Or the part of himself that so desperately wants to take a step forward instead of back?

What exactly is he trying to run away from? Sin? Or the possibility that he doesn't regret it the way he should?

Jeongin doesn’t move because the real question isn’t whether he should fight or flee. It’s whether he has the strength to do either when all he really wants—all he truly, desperately wants—is you.

All of a sudden, you shift, standing upright from where you were leaning against the wall, clutching a bag in front of you. And then you smile. “Hello, Father.”

It’s just a greeting—nothing unusual, nothing improper—but coming from you, it stirs something deep inside him. Something he has spent nights praying to silence. Something he has drowned himself in work to forget.

For a moment, he is back in the confessional, back to the first time he heard those words from your lips. And then, he is back in that dimly lit room, back to the way you had whispered Father in a voice so delicate, so devastatingly sweet, that it had unraveled something inside him.

He swallows thickly and keeps his voice steady. “How have you been?”

You tilt your head slightly, as if surprised by the question. “I’ve been doing well.” A soft pause. “How about you?”

Jeongin doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know how to explain the countless hours spent in the church, the prayers that never seem to be enough, the guilt that clings to him like a second skin. So he lies. “I’m doing okay.”

You nod, as if accepting it. Then, gently, you ask, “Do you mind if I come in for a while?”

Of course, he minds. Of course, he should say no. But instead, he unlocks the door, pushes it open, and lets you inside—knowing full well that he’s stepping into temptation itself.

You place the bag you were carrying on the small dining table and carefully pull out a box, lifting the lid to reveal a cake inside. “I wanted to congratulate you,” you say softly. “For finishing your book.”

Jeongin nods, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. “Thank you.” His voice is quieter than he intends, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will break whatever fragile restraint he has left.

He smiles, and it’s genuine—he is grateful for the gesture—but he’s afraid. Afraid of what will happen if he lets himself be grateful. Afraid of the thoughts in his head, the ones that threaten to spill out if he isn’t careful.

He forces himself to focus, “Have you received the last payment for your work?”

You nod. “I have, Father. Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he replies, shaking his head. “You earned it.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and uncertain. Jeongin isn’t sure how to carry this—how to hold this moment without it slipping through his fingers and becoming something he can’t take back. Should he stop it here? Should he say something that will make you leave? Or should he just let it happen?

Then, before he can decide, you speak. “Father, can I make another confession?”

His breath catches. He should say no. He should tell you to come to the church like everyone else, to sit in the booth and let the wooden partition separate you like it’s meant to. But that would be a lie.

Because the truth is, he wants to hear it. Whatever it is, whatever words you’re about to give him, he wants them.

The two of you sit facing each other. Jeongin sits motionless, hands folded neatly in his lap, as you take the seat across from him. The room feels too quiet, the kind of quiet that magnifies everything—the sound of your breathing, the weight of his own pulse.

"Are you ready?" he asks, voice steadier than he feels.

You nod and together, you make the sign of the cross, murmuring, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Your hands lower, folding over your lap, but your fingers fidget slightly, twisting together.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words hit him harder than they should. He has heard them countless times from countless lips, but from you, they settle differently—carrying something heavier, something more intimate.

"I'm not sure how to start but I'm okay," you continue. "I’ve been doing well. I still feel the pressure from my parents but I’ve managed to handle it without... hurting myself."

Jeongin exhales slowly. Relief is a strange thing—something he should embrace, something he should hold onto, but instead, it mixes with something else. A quiet, aching guilt.

"That’s good to hear," he says, and he means it.

"However, there’s something else," you admit, voice softer but carrying an edge. "Something that’s been bothering me."

Jeongin doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He only listens.

"I’ve been thinking about why I took this job in the first place." A pause. You lower your gaze for a brief moment before lifting it again, searching for something in him. "Clearly, I didn’t need the money. I have more than enough."

The way you say it—it’s not an explanation. It’s a confession.

"I think… I was looking for something. A distraction. An escape." Your voice lingers in the space between you. "And of all the flyers on the bulletin board, I saw yours first and I don’t think that was just a coincidence. I think it was fate that I found it. That I found you."

Jeongin feels something coil in his chest. Fate. It’s a word that should comfort him, should feel divine, but instead, it makes him afraid.

"I liked working with you. I liked being around you." You pause, your voice almost fragile. "You made me feel… safe. At peace. Like you kept my darkness at bay."

Jeongin wants to hold onto those words, wants to accept them without letting them mean too much. But how can he, when they already do?

Then there’s a shift in your expression. Something deeper, something almost… dangerous.

"But then that night happened."

The silence that follows is unbearable.

"It awakened something in me," you say, voice softer now. "A different kind of darkness."

Jeongin swallows, but it does nothing to ease the dryness in his throat. Because he knows. He knows exactly what kind of darkness you mean and worse—he feels it too.

Jeongin sees it all—the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twist at the hem of your skirt, the way your voice lowers, softer now, edged with something dangerous. He can hear it in your breathing, in the hesitation before you speak. And then, you say it. "I've been thinking about you."

Jeongin swallows, but the dryness in his throat lingers. He keeps his expression still, unreadable, though his heart betrays him, beating faster, harder.

"Just the way you look at me," you continue, voice almost fragile. "The way you speak to me… the way you say my name."

He exhales slowly, discreetly, as if releasing the pressure in his chest will steady him. It doesn't.

Then, your voice drops even lower, as if confessing something far worse. "Lately, I can't seem to focus on anything. I think about you constantly, and sometimes... sometimes that isn't enough."

His brow lifts—just slightly—but the movement feels like stepping closer to the edge of something irreversible.

"I've been getting off while thinking about you."

Silence. A deafening silence. Jeongin clenches his hands into fists in his lap. If restraint had a form, it would be the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. The part of him that should shut this down, that should guide you back into the light, is nowhere to be found.

Instead, he asks, "You've touched yourself thinking of me?"

Your nod is small, innocent, sinful.

"Mostly," you murmur, "I think of the way you look at me. Like you're trying to—" You stop. But he knows.

Jeongin exhales sharply, tilting his head ever so slightly, studying you. "And why did you come here tonight?"

You bite your lip. Hesitate. Lie.

He sees it before you even speak, and it almost makes him smile. "Remember, lying is a sin," he says, leaning forward, voice quiet but commanding. "So tell me—why did you come here tonight?"

The silence stretches between you. You hesitate, fingers twitching toward your thigh—the same spot where he knows you like to dig your nails into the flesh. The moment you realize he's watching, you quickly clasp your hands together in your lap.

"I want you to give me one more," you finally whisper.

His fingers twitch. "One more what?"

You shift in your seat. Your lips part, but no words come out at first. He watches, listens to the silence, lets it stretch until you can’t take it anymore.

"I want you to make me come again."

A slow exhale leaves him, steady, controlled, but something shifts inside him—something that tells him this moment has already spiraled past redemption.

Leaning back in his chair, Jeongin lets the tension settle into something almost… triumphant. He had suffered alone for too long, questioning whether he was the only one plagued by this torment.

And now—now, he knows. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His lips part, exhaling a quiet chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is calm, but edged with something darker. "You came here tonight, lying about your intentions. You said all of that in the middle of a confession." He tilts his head. "Do you know what that means?"

You lower your gaze, eyes on your clasped hands as if you've only now realized the weight of your actions.

"It means," he murmurs, "that you are willfully leading another person into wrongful action or thought."

A pause.

"And that," he continues, "is a sin."

Your breath shudders, fingers tightening around each other. "What do I have to do for my penance, Father?" you whisper.

Jeongin leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly, tilting his head back just enough to catch the crucifix on the wall in his peripheral vision.

Forgive me for I am about to sin again.

When he lowers his head again, his gaze finds yours—watching, waiting. And then—

"Get on your knees," he orders.

And you obey.

Jeongin looks down at you, his breath unsteady despite the effort to keep himself composed. You kneel before him, your hands resting on your thighs, waiting. There’s a flicker of hesitation in your gaze, but beneath it, something far more resolute. A silent plea. A challenge.

His fingers find your jaw, gripping firmly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you look at him, to ensure you understand the gravity of what you’re asking for. He tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. They are wide, expectant, full of something he shouldn’t acknowledge.

"So you want to me to make you come, huh?" His voice is lower than intended, almost hoarse.

You nod and he tightens his grip. "Use your words."

"Yes," you breathe, almost too quiet. "I want you to make me come."

He exhales sharply, his thumb tracing the seam of your lips, smearing the carefully applied lipstick as he studies the way your mouth parts under his touch. His restraint is thinning. He should stop. He knows he should. But your breath hitches, and something in your expression—so innocent, yet so utterly brazen—unravels him further.

"You know this is wrong to ask me that."

Another nod. "Yes"

Jeongin drags his thumb down, over the soft curve of your chin, his touch lingering before he lets go, sitting back. He should feel disgusted with himself. He should feel regret. But all he feels is this terrible, consuming desire.

"You're a filthy, filthy girl," he mutters, somewhere between scorn and wonder.

The words are barely out of his mouth before he sees the effect they have on you. Your lashes flutter, your breath stutters, your fingers tighten against your thighs. As if you’d been waiting for him to say it. As if you wanted to hear it.

The realization makes something dark coil inside him. Jeongin leans back, spreading his hands over his thighs as he watches you, watches the way you anticipate his next words, his next move.

"Take off your dress," he orders, his voice smooth, controlled, betraying nothing of the war waging inside him.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching behind you, unzipping the fabric and pulling it over your head. The dress pools at your knees, leaving you in delicate, cream-colored undergarments. His gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, but his first instinct is not to linger where he shouldn’t—it’s to search for what matters most. Your thighs.

He looks for the marks, the wounds he knows too well. The evidence of your pain, your struggle. His jaw tenses until he finds them—faded now, healing. No fresh ones. No new pain.

Only then does he allow himself to truly look at you. Every curve, every delicate line of your body—so fragile, yet so unyielding in your desire. You kneel before him, and for the first time in three years, Jeongin feels something crack inside him.

Temptation has never been this human. This devastating. This inevitable.

Jeongin rises from his chair, slow and deliberate. The air between you shifts, thickens, as he steps forward, his presence looming over you where you kneel at his feet. His sharp, foxy eyes bore down into yours, and you meet his gaze without hesitation—bold, unwavering.

He exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, with practiced ease, he lifts his hands to the collar of his shirt, loosening it just enough to ease the tightness constricting his throat. His fingers move lower, unfastening the first button, then the second, a calculated pause between each. Not out of hesitation. No, Jeongin is in control. He just wants you to wait.

His hands drop next to his belt, gripping the leather before he yanks it free with a sharp, deliberate pull. The sound slices through the silence, and he doesn’t miss the way your breath catches—just for a second. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.

Instead, he takes his time working the buckle open, then the button, then the slow, almost lazy drag of his zipper. He does it methodically, making sure you feel every second pass.

Anticipation is a game, and Jeongin plays to win.

When he finally pushes the fabric down, baring himself completely, he doesn’t miss a thing—the widening of your eyes, the quiet hitch of breath, the way your tongue darts out, wetting your lips like a creature starved.

Something about that look—hunger, reverence, surrender—makes his control slip, just a little.

Because, for all his restraint, for all the rules he’s tried to follow, Jeongin has always known one thing. He was never strong enough to resist you.

He watches you for a second, reveling in the way your lips part, how your breath quickens, how your pupils darken with need. But it’s not enough. Not yet.

His hand moves with purpose, fingers curling under your chin before sliding up to grasp your jaw, firm yet controlled. He tilts your face up, forcing your gaze to lock with his. “Eyes on me,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. It’s not a request—it’s a command.

You obey, though he can feel the way your breath hitches under his grip. He doesn’t loosen it. Instead, he presses his thumb against your lower lip, parting your mouth open wider. He holds you there for a moment, letting the weight of it settle, watching your lips quiver slightly under his touch.

“Keep it open,” he instructs.

And then, without warning, he slides two fingers past your lips, pressing them onto your tongue. Your lips wrap around them instinctively, your cheeks hollowing as you suck, slow and deliberate. He watches, fascinated, as your tongue moves against his skin, warm and wet, taking him deeper.

His breath comes heavier now, his restraint fraying at the edges as he feels the way you work your mouth around him, as if you’re showing him—wordlessly—just how much you want him, how much you crave him.

Jeongin swallows hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he pulls his fingers out of your mouth, hard enough that it makes a loud popping sound.

“Let's try that again,” he mutters with jaws clenched.

You keep your mouth open for him, ignoring how your saliva is dribbling from one corner of your mouth while keeping your eyes on him.

He wraps his hand around his cock, hard as it possibly gets and hot inside his palm. He gently rubs the tip with his thumb before aiming it toward your mouth.

“Keep it open,” he voice has an edge to it, rushed.

He puts his length inside and watches as his length disappearing into your mouth, little by little. When he deems he's deep enough, he swallows air.

“Now, close it.”

A hiss escapes his mouth the second you close your mouth around it. He's forgotten how good this is, how hot and slick a woman’s tongue could be, how perfect it feels around him. His eyes flick down and catches your hand going between your legs, caressing your clothed core.

For a second, he can’t believe this good girl, a trust fund baby and a taste for expensive clothes is nothing but a bobbing mess of head between his legs. He suddenly gets the urge to thrust into your mouth, he suppresses it but he decides to indulge himself just a little. He runs his hands through your hair, using it to keep your head still as he pushes deeper until he hits the back of your throat and immediately slides it back out.

Oh, he's never been harder than this before and when he pulls away, he can see every vein, he can feel the painfully swollen crest as it flares out. His cock is throbbing with so much need and that’s when he knows he has to feel you

But before that, he needs to taste you again.

"Get up and take everything off." His voice is steady, unwavering, though inside, restraint coils tightly around him like a vice.

You obey without hesitation. Standing up, fingers move with quiet precision as each article of clothing falls away, baring yourself to him piece by piece. He leans back in his chair, allowing himself a moment to take you in—the curves, the softness, the way candlelight casts flickering shadows across your skin.

Your body is a vision. His heaven. And yet, his ruin.

"Go to the altar," he instructs.

You turn, stepping forward toward the structure pressed against the wall, your back facing him. There’s something about the way you carry yourself—so trusting, so willing—that stirs something darker inside him. He waits, watching as you reach the altar, as your breath subtly hitches in anticipation as he makes you wait.

Slowly, deliberately, Jeongin begins to undress, shrugging off layers until only the dark fabric of his shirt remains, parted in the front, exposing the rise and fall of his chest. The cool air does nothing to ease the heat simmering beneath his skin.

He moves toward you. "Hands on the altar," he orders, his voice lower now, softer but laced with something unmistakable.

You comply instantly, palms pressing flat against the surface, body bowing slightly forward. He closes the space between you—not enough to touch, but enough for his presence to be felt.

Jeongin places a hand at the nape of your neck, his fingers spreading over your skin. The moment he makes contact, he feels the shiver that ripples through you, sees the way goosebumps bloom in his wake. He likes that. Likes the way you respond to him without a word, without even seeing his face.

His hand drags downward, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine at a maddening pace. You exhale sharply, your body betraying you in the way it subtly arches, in the quiet whimper that slips past your lips.

He lets his touch linger before withdrawing, dropping to his knees behind you. The first press of his lips against the back of your thigh is featherlight, a mere ghost of contact, yet your legs tremble as if he’s already undone you. And he hasn’t even started yet.

Jeongin lingers there, kneeling behind you, his breath ghosting over your skin. He watches the way your fingers curl against the altar, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your body anticipates him without a single word being spoken.

He starts slow. The press of his lips trails higher, along the backs of your thighs, over the curve of your hips. He savors the way you shudder, the way your breath falters. His hands follow, gliding over your skin, fingers kneading into flesh, learning every dip and softness like a prayer.

Then, with a firm grip, he coaxes you apart. A sharp inhale from you. A deep exhale from him.

Jeongin leans in, burying his mouth between your ass cheeks. The first touch of his tongue on your cunt is tentative, almost reverent, but he quickly finds the rhythm that has you trembling against him. His hands tighten on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He works you open with slow, unhurried precision, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he’s making up for every moment he’s denied himself this.

Your hands grip the altar tighter, your breathing turns uneven, your body tilts just the slightest bit forward. He takes it as permission. As confirmation.

The sounds you make, the way you try to stay quiet yet fail, send something dangerous surging through him. His nails dig into your skin as he holds you still, refusing to let you escape from the pleasure he’s giving you.

He used to kneel here, in front of the altar, hands clasped in prayer, head bowed in devotion. But tonight—tonight, he kneels for something else entirely. He kneels before you. Not in prayer, but in worship.

You're shamelessly arching your back more and as a test, Jeongin pulls away, he can almost hear your groan of complaints from the sudden loss of contact. He gets up, looming behind you, his breath measured, his control razor-thin and then he presses his mouth to your ear to whisper. "Turn around and sit on the altar."

You hesitate but obey, turning around to face him and lifting yourself onto the altar, your legs hanging over the edge. The contrast is almost poetic—the sacred and the profane, colliding in the dim glow of candlelight.

He steps closer, his hands bracketing you, his body caging yours. His gaze lingers on your lips before he tilts his head and presses his mouth to yours. Soft at first, testing. But you don’t yield. You keep your lips sealed, eyes flickering with something untamed, something that dares him to take more.

And Jeongin—God help him—rises to the challenge. His hand finds your throat, fingers wrapping firm but not unkind. He feels the pulse beneath his palm, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm hammering inside his own chest. A push, just enough to make you tilt your head back until it meets the wall behind you. He leans in again, this time kissing you with purpose, swallowing the sharp breath you take in surprise. He kisses you until you have no choice but to part for him, until resistance crumbles and submission tastes sweet on his tongue.

His body follows, pressing against you, his hips meeting yours in a slow, deliberate roll. The friction is intoxicating, pulling a soft sound from your lips that nearly undoes him. He pulls away just as abruptly, his hand still firm at your neck, his lips hovering close enough that his breath fans over your parted mouth.

“Behave,” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous.

You nod, obedient, but it’s not enough. His fingers tighten, just for a moment—a reminder.

“Words!”

A breathless whisper. “Yes.”

Jeongin releases you, only to slide his hands down, pushing your legs apart with the same authority. His eyes drop, and for a moment, he forgets himself—no scripture, no vow, nothing exists but the sight of you bared before him.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath coming a little heavier. He grips your thighs, pressing your feet to the edge of the altar, opening you further. Every muscle in his body coils tight with restraint, but when he drags his gaze back to yours, the weight of his next words settles between you like a confession.

“Stay still.” He tilts his head, voice softer but no less commanding. “Stay very still.”

You nod, and this time, he doesn’t correct you because he’s already too far gone.

He leans his forehead against your and both of you looking down to watch as his tip presses against your entrance, and then slowly, he slips it inside. He stops when the crest of his cock is in you, and then freezes, muscles quivering.

And just like that, he has his first bite of the forbidden fruit and barely able to keep himself from eating it all.

Another moment passes with the two of you just stare down at it, at the sight of his cock inside you. You look away first, looking at him as you ask, “How do I feel?”

You're so tight it's squeezing him and honestly, there are no words to describe what that wet, velvety walls is doing to him. All he can think about is sinking deeper into you, deeper into this hell disguised as heaven.

Jeongin has to force his brain to work to form a coherent answer, “You feel... heavenly.”

Then, unable to help yourself, you move forward just the tiniest. Impulsively, Jeongin grabs your neck again and quickly calming himself down, refuses to come from that little movement. Instead of fear, he sees the glint in your eyes, wild and daring, you're enjoying this a little too much.

“I told you to stay still,” he reminds you.

Your eyes going back to the place where you and him connected. Then together, you watch as his big hand pressing into your delicate flesh, watching it quivering around the tip of his cock. His thumb hovers over your clit before rubbing on it.

As you draw a sharp breath, he feels you clenched around him and he hisses, grabbing the countertop to keep himself from losing it.

He knows you're trying to stay still and you want to see yourself come around him as much as he does. He quickens the pace of his rubbing, of his thumb applying gentle pressures on your clit.

You have your lips pressed into a thin line until you can’t help it anymore but moan and plead. “Please...”

“Please what?” He asks, his voice dark and heavy.

You can barely talk as moans constantly spilling out of your mouth, your head lolling to the side, you arched back shoving your breasts closer to him. He doesn’t waste the opportunity to lower his head and sucks on your nipple, loving the feel of it hardening on his tongue.

He drags his mouth to your neck, kissing and about to bite on the skin when you suddenly come undone before him. Your body rolls as if you move along to the waves of pleasure washing over you, again and again, all the while you keep tightening around him.

The thought that he can make you come with only the shallowest of penetrations drives him wild. You slump in his arms as you slowly come down from your high and resting your head on his shoulder.

Jeongin is about to pull out but you grab his hip, stopping him. You shake your head as you take another second to compute words. “I want you to come inside me next.”

“You know that I can't,” he breathlessly mutters, his hand grips the edge of the altar.

“You don’t have to worry, I'm on the pill,” you assure him, your hand grasping at his shirt now, afraid that he'll try to get away again. And then—soft, breathless—you say it. “Please, Jeongin.”

You’ve only ever called him Father. The title has lingered between you, a constant reminder of what he is, what he shouldn’t be. But now, with his body tangled with yours, the weight of his name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting to be spoken.

If this is the last time that he gets to do it then yes, he's going to give it to you, to himself and frankly, he would agree to anything, no matter how wrong it is because for some reasons, that's what makes it sweeter so Jeongin nods.

A sly smile blooms on your face as you lean back against the wall, digging your heels to the edge of the altar. The little maneuver doesn't move him any deeper inside, but it makes you tighten around him, and nudges him closer to his climax.

You run your hands to the undersides of your breasts, circling your thumbs on your stiff nipples and then pressing them together to the middle, showing him how luscious and ample they are.

God, he needs to move, needs to thrust. He needs to fuck.

He watches as your fingers go to your clit and you start to get yourself off again. You drown out your moans by shoving the other fingers and pumping them in and out of your mouth, the same mouth that has gotten his cock hard as rock.

And then, you move your hips ever so slightly, rocking them just enough to let him slipping in and out of you. Oh, he's only an inch and half inside you but he can feel how wet, how tight, and the next thing he knows, he shudders as pleasure is taking over him. His legs trembling, he can barely breathe as it rips through him, his first time coming inside a woman in years.

He does all his best to stay composed, not wanting to miss out on anything, he wants to imprint it in his memory, the sight of his seed filling and then dripping out of you.

Jeongin pulls out just enough as his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if letting go would mean losing something he can’t bear to lose. Your breath is warm against his collarbone, your cheek pressed against his chest, and he can feel the faint, rapid beat of your heart against his skin. His own pulse is just as frantic, yet his body is still—both of you caught in the quiet aftermath of what you’ve just done.

His hands skim down your back, fingers tracing over the curve of your spine, grounding himself in the reality of you. He notices that the two of you knocked a few things off the altar but all he can focus on is the way you fit against him, how perfectly you mold into him, like you were meant to be here, like this.

Jeongin exhales slowly, his lips pressing against the top of your head, almost unconsciously. A thought creeps into his mind, unbidden yet undeniable—sin has never tasted this sweet before.

Jeongin watches as you remain on the altar, your body still bathed in the afterglow of everything you’ve done. He knows he should step away, put distance between you, but instead, he moves with purpose—retrieving a damp cloth from the bathroom. When he returns, he kneels before you, his touch slow, deliberate, as he cleans the mess he made. He does it with care, with reverence, as if making up for all the ways he has defiled you.

Afterward, he gathers your clothes, shaking off the weight of sin that clings to them as if the fabric itself remembers. He helps you dress—zipping up your dress, smoothing the wrinkles. Every movement is unspoken penance, his way of giving back what he took.

When he finally meets your gaze, he braces himself before saying it. “This is it.” His voice is steady, but inside, something cracks. He brushes your hair to the side and holds it there as he continues, “There’ll be no more of this.”

To his surprise, you only nod. “I know.”

Something about your acceptance unsettles him more than if you had fought it. Before the weight of it can crush him, Jeongin pulls you in, one last time, pressing his lips against yours. It’s not hunger, not desperation—it’s something gentler, something deeper. A kiss that lingers, that memorizes. A kiss that means goodbye.

When he pulls away, instinct guides him. His fingers brush over your forehead, and before he can stop himself, he traces a cross against your skin. A blessing. A final act of absolution.

He then looks at you, memorizing every detail—the way your lashes flutter as you blink, the way your lips are still slightly swollen, the way your chest rises and falls with each quiet breath. He wants to believe that this is mercy, that ending it now is the only way to save both of you. But as he watches you, standing there in silence, he wonders if salvation was ever meant for him at all.

“Go in peace,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze, searching, waiting. But there is nothing left to say. Slowly, you turn and step away, your presence fading like the last flicker of a dying candle.

Jeongin stands there, unmoving, as the air between you turns cold. He has given you his final blessing, but as he watches you leave, he realizes—

He may have absolved you. But he has damned himself.

Jeongin's manuscript has been approved. His agent gave him the green light, the final stamp of approval before it moves toward publication. This should be a moment of relief, of pride. He’s worked tirelessly, pouring himself into every page, yet all he can focus on is what this truly means. He has no reason to see you again.

And he should be grateful. This is his chance to break away from his biggest temptation, to put you behind him, to return to the disciplined, righteous path he chose for himself. But instead, he feels devastated.

The feeling sits heavy in his chest, like an ache that won’t go away so he does the only thing he can think of. He goes out of the door and starts walking.

The cool night air bites at his skin as he drifts aimlessly, his feet leading him through familiar streets, turning corners without much thought. It isn’t until he stops that he realizes where he is.

Here. The street where he met you that night. Jeongin’s breath catches in his throat as memories flood his mind, as vivid as if they had just happened.

The way the neon lights cast a bluish glow across your face, making your skin look almost ethereal. The delighted surprise in your eyes when you spotted him. The way your dress hugged your figure, your coat slipping off one shoulder, baring just enough skin to make his stomach clench. And your voice—sweet, teasing, full of something sinful when you looked at him and said that word.

Father.

Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut, willing the memory away, but when he opens them, he’s still staring at the neon signs flickering in the distance. And then, something tells him to go inside.

He doesn’t know what it is. Curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe it’s something far more dangerous. His feet move before his mind can stop him.

The bass of the music reverberates through his chest as he steps inside the club, past the flashing lights and the scent of alcohol thick in the air. There are people everywhere—bodies pressed together, laughter spilling from lips, fleeting touches and lingering gazes exchanged under dim lighting.

But Jeongin isn’t looking at any of them. He’s searching. His eyes scan the crowd, craning his neck, looking for a face.

That’s when he realizes the truth. It isn’t curiosity that brought him here. It’s you.

He stands frozen in place, the chaos of the club fading into a dull hum around him. The neon lights flicker, casting a bluish glow over his skin, but he barely notices. His mind is too full of you.

You, with your soft voice and knowing smiles. You, who looked at him like he was more than a man of God, like he was just a man—fallible, weak, yours. You, who made him forget every vow he swore to uphold.

He should have known from the very beginning. From the moment you stepped into his life, there was something about you that made him uneasy in the most exhilarating way.

You weren’t temptation in the way sin usually was—dark, indulgent, full of guilt and regret. No, you were something worse. You were sweetness, a warmth that melted into him, that made him crave more, that made him forget why he was supposed to resist in the first place. And that was far more dangerous.

Because even now, standing in a place he has no business being, it isn’t the alcohol that tempts him. It isn’t the fleeting touches of strangers, the bodies swaying in reckless abandon.

It’s you. It has always been you. His greatest sin. His sweetest sin.

And if he were to fall again—if he were to let himself be weak—he knows, without a doubt, that it would be for you.

Four months since that night. Since the lines blurred between faith and desire, between duty and the undeniable pull of something he should have never allowed himself to feel. Since he last saw you. Since he let you go.

Now, Jeongin’s life has settled back into its rightful order. His book has been published, his parish duties continue as always, and the weight of his sins remains locked in the quiet chambers of his heart. He has done what is necessary—repented, prayed, convinced himself that he has moved forward.

The confessional is his sanctuary, a place where he is not Jeongin but Father Yang Jeongin. Here, he is not a man burdened by past mistakes but a servant of God, a listener of sins, a guide for those seeking absolution. Today has been like any other—whispered confessions of impatience, dishonesty, lapses in faith. Forgivable sins.

Jeongin shifts, preparing to leave, when the door creaks open. Another parishioner. He waits. For a moment, there is only silence. Then—

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

His breath stills. It is a voice he knows. A voice he has spent four months trying to forget. Yours.

His hands curl into fists, hidden in the folds of his robe. You. Of all the people who could have entered this booth, it had to be you.

Your voice is steady, but he can hear it—the tremor beneath the surface, the weight pressing down on every syllable.

“It has been… four months since my last confession.”

Four months. The exact amount of time since that night. Since you were beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer. Since he felt your warmth, your skin, the unbearable gravity of something he should have never allowed himself to want. Since he let you go.

Your voice cuts through the thick silence. “I have tried to forget. To move forward. But I think of someone I cannot see again. Someone I cannot meet again.”

Jeongin’s chest tightens. He already knows. But hearing it—hearing you say it—makes it real in a way that nothing else has.

“And I know that when we are together, it will only lead to more sin.”

The weight of your words settles deep inside him. He should not ask. He should not pry. He should do what is expected of him—forgive, counsel, absolve. But he is weak when it comes to you.

“Sin is not merely in the presence of another,” he says carefully, his voice calm, even. “But in the intent, in the heart.”

A pause. The air between you tightens. “Do you believe that being with this person is wrong?”

Silence. Then, so softly that it almost doesn’t reach him— “Yes.”

Jeongin’s grip on his robe tightens. There is so much he could say. So much he wants to ask. But this space does not belong to him—it belongs to God. And Jeongin, despite everything, still clings to his duty.

“You must seek absolution,” he murmurs. “To let go of what burdens you.”

A sharp inhale. A shift in the air. “I don’t think I can.”

Jeongin’s composure cracks and then—softer, more fragile than before—you speak again.

“I need to be around him,” you admit, the words raw, unguarded. “Because he gives me peace.”

His heartbeat falters as your voice wavers, thick with something unspoken. “I feel comfortable with him. I feel safe.” A breath. “And I... miss him.”

His eyes squeeze shut. You miss him. The ache in his chest sharpens into something unbearable. This is not just sin. Not just temptation. It is something deeper, something neither of you have been able to name, something neither of you have been able to let go of.

And God help him, he misses you too.

Jeongin swallows, his throat tight. “Then pray,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “And I will pray for you.”

You sniffle before saying, “I don't think that will be enough for me.”

Then, the faint rustle of fabric. A shift. You do not say goodbye but he hears the door clicks shut.

Jeongin remains seated, staring into the silence, knowing full well that no prayer will erase you from his thoughts. He should let you go. He should let you leave. But he can’t.

His body moves before his mind can catch up. The door swings open, and he steps out, scanning the dimly lit hallway. You’re already walking away, your pace hurried, as if putting distance between yourself and the confessional will make what just happened any less real.

His feet carry him forward. Faster. And then—he reaches out. His fingers wrap around your wrist.

You stop. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn to face him and when your eyes meet his, Jeongin feels his breath catch. Your eyes are glassy, unshed tears clinging to the edges of your lashes. The sight of it—of you, standing there, hurting—nearly undoes him.

His grip tightens, just slightly. Just enough to ground him, to remind himself that you are here. That he has you for this fleeting moment. Then, before he can stop himself, before he can think about what is right or wrong—he tugs you forward.

His fingers slide from your wrist to your hand, threading together, and he leads you down the hallway. Past the rows of pews, past the flickering candlelight of the sanctuary, past the open space where the weight of divinity looms overhead.

The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, sealing you both inside his small, dimly lit office. The air is thick with something unspoken, something fragile yet impossible to ignore. Jeongin lets go of your hand, but the warmth of your touch lingers, burning into his skin like a memory he’s afraid to hold on to—yet even more afraid to let go of.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

You stand there, watching him, your eyes still glassy with unshed tears. And Jeongin—he stands before you, his breathing uneven, his pulse an unsteady rhythm beneath his skin.

What has he done? What is he doing? He should send you away. He should open the door and tell you to leave before this goes any further, before this fragile moment fractures into something neither of you can take back.

Deep down, despite everything he has told himself, despite every prayer whispered into the hollow of his chest—he wants you to stay. He swallows, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. "You shouldn't be here."

A small, broken smile flickers across your lips. "I know."

Silence settles between you like a weight too heavy to bear.

And then, softly—almost pleadingly—you whisper, "Tell me to leave."

Jeongin stands there, staring at you, knowing exactly what he should say but unable to force the words out. If he were a stronger man, he would. But he isn’t. And the moment he steps forward, closing the space between you, he knows he’s already lost. His hands reach up before he can stop himself, fingers brushing against your face as if memorizing the shape of you—soft, warm, real.

You don’t move away. You don’t flinch. You just look at him, wide-eyed and waiting, as if you knew this would happen all along. And then, before he can second-guess it, before reason can drag him back into the light—he kisses you.

The second his lips meet yours, his resolution shatters. He was a fool to think he could resist you, a fool to believe that time and distance would erase the pull between you. Because the moment he has you again, everything else ceases to matter. The weight of his priesthood, the vows he swore, the life he built—it all dissolves into nothing compared to the way you feel against him.

You gasp softly, your hands clutching at his shirt, and that sound alone undoes him. He deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath shaky as he pulls you closer—too close. Closer than he should.

But he can’t stop. Not when you’re here, not when you taste like longing and quiet desperation, not when every fiber of his being is screaming for more. And in this moment, he knows—he will never be able to let you go.

Because this—you—is a sin he cannot repent.

And God help him, he doesn’t want to.

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always-just-red · 5 months ago

Note

Oh I forgot to add 😭😭😭 be it fluff like jelly sylus but fluff maybe he trying to make the mc jelly too ? I’m going wild with ideas, I will be quiet

(Part 1 of ask) FINALLY finished this fic oh my goshhh I've loved it so much but writer's block was my constant companion for this one 🫠 Thanks for your patience!! Sy is jealous but I'm still pushing my 'Sylus is the softest man alive and would die before hurting MC' agenda, so I had to get a lil creative! Hope I've pulled it off idk 😭😭

Be Mine

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus is getting a little tired of sharing you with the other men in your life (and he doesn't mean Luke and Kieran 🙃)

Genre: lil bit of angst, comfort and fluff

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, jealousy, other LIs mentioned, brief allusion to Raf's self-harm tendencies, cheating mentioned, some intimacy & kisses-- more soft than spicy!

| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Sylus has spent centuries waiting for you, so he’s going to give you another minute.

Patience is not a virtue; it’s an old acquaintance he greets with a false smile whenever he’s forced to pass it on the street. Sometimes outside your building, whilst you’re chatting with a neighbour from the apartment above yours. Sometimes when you’re running late from a doctor’s appointment.

Patience has been cropping up a lot these days and gods, he’s sick of its face. Even now, it sits with him at this table for two as he sips at a glass that’s almost empty. There’s poetry in stalling, in savouring what’s left, especially as a waiter hovers anxiously nearby, anticipating the need for yet another refill (it would be the third).

Dregs of blood-red wine swirl with solemnity. Sylus is a patient man, a man who waits, but he doesn’t want to be. He wants the reward of it: the pot of gold at the end of that insipid rainbow. Hasn’t he waited enough?

He lifts his drink to his lips again.

“Sylus!”

They curve as he swallows the final drop.

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer, flinging yourself into the seat across from him so quickly that he’s cheated of the chance to rise and help you with your chair. “Sit back down,” you usher, because he had made a start on it, “really, Sy, I’m so, so sorry. Things at work just got crazy, and I—”

“You don’t have to explain, sweetie,” he smiles as he signals the waiter. He’ll have that refill, now, and he orders your favourite drink as you shrug off your coat and fumble with your bag, looking for something. “I’m more than familiar with the Association’s… dedication to a cause.”

You glance up with an amused smile. “We’re keeping you on your toes, huh?”

“Mmm. There is one hunter who’s proving to be a real thorn in my side.”

“You on top of that?”

“Most evenings, yes. Some mornings, too.”

You poke your tongue out at him. You’ve retrieved a compact mirror and you use it to study your dishevelled reflection. “Is everything all right at work?” he asks as you fuss over your hair.

“Yeah,” you puff. “Long story.”

“We have time.”

With a warmer smile, you stash your mirror away and sequester your bag by your feet. “You sure?” He gives you a look. “Fine,” you chuckle. “Basically, Xavier forgot to write up some reports. He’s been away on an ultra-secret, special mission or whatever—” you tap your nose conspiratorially— “which I didn’t just tell you, okay? But yeah, the reports weren’t done, and they were due tonight, so…”

Sylus raises an apathetic eyebrow. “He asked you to help?”

“Begged me, more like.”

Of course he did. The waiter arrives with your drinks and Sylus has never been gladder for a distraction. His mouth is full of pettiness, bitterness, so he drowns it with wine. You could have called. Texted. “So kitten’s been playing secretary, hmm?” he goads instead.

“That would imply kitten could keep track of time,” you pout, “so no. And speaking of playing a part—” you poke his nose— “you’re allowed to be mad at me. I should have called you. Texted. So let me have it, yeah? I feel bad enough already without you being all… perfect.”

You’re only teasing, but Sylus doesn’t feel perfect. He’s thinking about you working late with your partner, laughing at his jokes, poking him with your pen to keep him from falling asleep on his paperwork. He smirks, regardless. “What if I want you to feel bad?”

“Oh, gods,” you slump forwards, face-down on the table. “How long were you waiting?”

“Years.”

You fake cry into the tablecloth. “Don’t, Sy. Just tell me the truth. How bad was it?”

“Really, years,” he insists again, folding his arms on the table and sliding forwards, too. His chin is resting on his hands, and he blows at the top of your head. “Look.” Your face lifts so you can peer at him. He pinches his hair. “I’ve even gone grey, see?”

You sit up the tiniest bit more and your noses are almost brushing. “It looks nice,” you whisper.

“You think so?”

“Mmm. Suits you.”

Your eyes are every gem— every jewel in an illicit auction Sylus has to steal away from the rest of the world, because something that pretty just has to be his; it will find no worthier home than his hands. His devotion fills vaults. Aren’t they spilling with emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds— those reckless imitations of your gaze? No-one else could deserve them, adore them like he does.

And they’ve nothing on the real thing.

Someone clears their throat and Sylus tracks the noise begrudgingly. The anxious waiter is back, clutching menus this time. You sit up fully, laughing to break the tension, and sure enough, Sylus feels less like hurling the man through the nearest window.

He’s still thinking about it though. He tells the waiter as much with a smile, and the menus are passed over with shaking hands. When Sylus says, “thank you,” it sounds like a bomb, ticking.

“Play nice,” you tut, once the waiter’s cleared the blast radius.

“Sweetie, when do I ever not play nice?”

You blink back at him disbelievingly. This should be good. “How about the time that you—?”

A familiar ringtone interrupts you, and your eyes widen in apology as you grab at your bag, rifling around for your phone. You find it— check the call and decline it— but relief is hiding, refusing to set foot on stage. Not yet, it confers to Sylus darkly, because it knows what comes next.

“Do you need to…?” he asks anyway.

“Nah, it was just Rafayel. Thanks, though.” You set the phone down. “Where was I?”

“You were about to tell me what a terribly bad man I am, sweetie.”

“Right!” you giggle. No, not yet. “So how about the time that you…” The phone rings again. You check it. Decline it. “How about the time that you—ugh!” It’s ringing again.

Sylus taps a finger on the table, impatiently patient. You can’t mute the wretched thing: the next call you miss would be a Wanderer, tearing through an orphanage or the like. It’s the reason you check, even when there’re no orphans at stake— just a pest of an artist with too much time on his hands.

Except… “Oh,” you say, glancing downwards, “it’s Zayne. I should probably—” Sylus gives a half-smile of blessing, but you weren’t waiting around for it— “hey, Zayne! I can’t talk right now, unless— Raf? What the hell? How did you get Zayne’s phone?”

You pull yours away from your ear as a string of whines come through:

“— ignore my calls, don’t even text me to ask what’s up, and then pick up his call right away? You hate me, right? Just say that you hate me, cutie.”

“I don’t hate you, Raf.” The phone is back to your ear. “I’m busy. Now seriously, how did you get— oh, hi, Zayne. Why is Raf…?” Sylus can hear a deeper voice answering your questions. “He’s at the—? Shit, is he okay? Ugh, tell him I can hear him. Tell him I know he’s not dying.”

You meet Sylus’s eyes as conflict erupts on the other end of the call. Sorry, you mouth as static filters through, interspersed with broken words and curses. The doctor’s voice prevails. “Yeah, Zayne,” you speak back to it. “I’ll call Thomas, get him to pick him up. Mmhmm? Oh!” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I forgot, he’s at that stupid art thing. Look, maybe later, I can…”

The artist’s shrill tone is protesting.

“I know it’s my job, Raf!” you counter. “But gimme a break, please. If it was any other night, you know I’d be there. Of course I wanna be there! But I can’t—”

It’s just a slip of the tongue— words you don’t even realise you’re saying— but Sylus still feels his heart sink. He hates it. A heart is so difficult to argue with: it’s long gone before you can talk any sense into it. He stands from the table, those priceless eyes of yours pursuing him. When you tilt your head, he musters a smile, then a weak excuse: “I’m just stepping outside for a moment.”

You nod, a follow-up question on the tip of your tongue, but then there’s a voice in your ear again— two voices— and you’re you, so of course you listen.

…

Sylus waits on a bench outside the restaurant, closing his eyes as he waits for his heart to come back.

It’s only been a few minutes. He’s thinking about your eyes, your nose and lips— an inch from his— and how he should have closed that gap before it grew treacherous. Shouldn’t he be done with this? This… longing? You’re his. You’ve told him you’re his, over and over again, but he finds himself needing to hear it once more; the ghost of your voice is starting to lack persuasion.

He is yours without exception, but you? There’s always a caveat. I’m yours, Sylus. But only so long as the city is quiet. I’m yours, Sylus. Until someone else calls. The door to the restaurant opens— he can hear it— but he doesn’t open his eyes. He wants to pretend.

I’m yours, Sylus. No caveats. No exceptions.

“Sylus.”

He swallows the dread in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” you entreat softly. His eyes open, and you’re wearing your coat, holding your bag. “I have to run to the hospital— it’s this whole thing. Raf, like, passed out or something. He’s not been eating again. Zayne said when something like this keeps happening, it’s a sign that… yeah. He just… needs someone. And he hasn’t got anyone else, you know?”

“I understand.” You’re worried about your friend. That’s all it is.

Why can’t he believe that’s all it is?

You come over and sink down on the bench beside him, looping your arm through his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Don’t you know that he’s afraid? That a selfish, spiteful part of him wants to hide you— with the rest of his treasures— away from the light, so he can love you in the dark?

There’s a sigh as you lean against him, savouring his touch like the wine one swirls in a glass when their thoughts are elsewhere. It’s gone in a mouthful; you check your watch, and he hopes it’s bitter.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

No, he would rather be sweet for you, but look at you— making him lie. “I’m okay,” he says, and it doesn’t have a drop of conviction. He’s tired of philanthropy.

…

“What are you gonna do? Come on, tell us. Tell us! What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know, Luke. Give me a second, okay? Jeez.”

You literally just got here. Your pace is brisk and the night air still clings to you— you shed a layer of it by peeling your arms out of your coat. Luke and Kieran are close behind, keeping to your heels like terriers hoping you’ll trip with a plateful of food. They’ll take even a crumb at this point.

“You gonna fight him?” Kieran nudges, but your lips stay tight.

“Oh, you’re so gonna fight him,” Luke takes away from the silence.

You don’t know what you’re going to do. You’ve reached a decadent lounge, lavished with black and gold, and you throw your coat over the arm of a chair before starting to wrestle off your combat boots. You’ve been off work for hours, but it doesn’t feel like it. One call-to-duty after another; first the hospital, now this.

Mephisto caws in greeting from a nearby perch. “I’m not gonna fight him,” you say as your second boot drops with a clunk. “I just need to—”

“Say no more,” Luke cuts you off. “We want in.”

With a tired sigh, you gaze up at the twins at last. Kieran is readying a fist: punching his hand softly, the beak of his mask low and threatening. Beside him, Luke swings a baseball bat over his shoulder. He didn’t have it a second ago. Where did he even—?

You put your hands on your hips. “You guys got a death wish or something?”

“Yes!” they enthuse together, nodding excitedly.

You haven’t got time to ask. Your focus drifts to Sylus’s bedroom door, where music is leaking with honeylike light. You can’t count the number of times you’ve fallen over that threshold, exhausted— always slightly broken. You want to crawl into cool silk sheets and a warmer embrace, but there’s one small problem.

The text that had brought you here, anxious and out of breath:

Boss is with someone.

“What’re you thinking?”

You’re closer to the door, now, and Luke’s whisper makes you jump. You spin, twisting the bat from his fingers and pushing him back until the tip is pressed to his throat. “Get back,” you hiss, before levelling the weapon at an encroaching Kieran, “both of you.”

Luke leaps behind his brother— swinging him between you for protection. The baseball bat stays hovering, and Luke peeks over Kieran’s shoulder, swatting at it like an indignant kitten.

“Stop it,” you scold, poking back at his hand and his masked face. “Begone!”

“Yes, boss!” Kieran goes to move, but Luke is holding him in place. He’s dragged backwards: a human shield until they can both scurry around the turn of a corridor.

You smile fondly. You forget, for just a moment, that you’re alone and full of uncertainty. The song in the next room lulls, at its inevitable end, and then you can’t forget. You’re stood in silence, staring at a door you’ve never had to knock before. Another song starts up.

Whatever this is, you can handle it.

You use the baseball bat to tap against the dark wood. “Sylus?” you call.

He makes you wait. You can hear him, moving around— unmistakably taking his time— but you don’t mind. You’re running scenarios through your head. Is he in on this, too? Or…?

He opens the door and oh, he definitely is. His silk robe hangs haphazardly over his figure, one side threatening to slip from his shoulder and the belt dangerously loose at the middle. A flush is tinting his face, spreading down through his neck, past his collarbone and lower, you think, but you’re trying not to look.

“Sweetie,” he purrs in the way that tells you he’s up to no good, “what a pleasant surprise.” His eyes flit downwards. “And you’re armed, too.”

There’s a breathlessness to the observation, and your ability to breathe briefly eludes you as well. His hair is damp and unkempt, his skin warm, his gaze hot. Is this a test? It feels like a test.

“Are you alone?” you snap, because he’s clearly put some thought into whatever it is, and you’re a good sport, so you’ll play along.

“No,” he says, but then: “You know you’re always with me in spirit, kitten. Even if not in—” another downwards glance— “body.”

“Sylus.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m going to ask you one more time.” You catch his chin with your free hand, forcing his gaze back to your face. “And I want a real answer.” He swallows thickly. “Are you alone?”

His submission is fragile. He lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around your wrist like a reminder of the fact. “Careful, sweetie.” His grip tightens as his voice drops. “Think about what you’re asking.”

“I know what I’m asking.” You snatch your hand free and step closer. “Get out of my way.”

Sylus narrows his eyes, but soon relaxes. He sweeps a hand through his hair, chuckling as he obeys— moving aside to let you past. You storm through, looking over every visible inch of his room. There’s nothing to see, of course. No clothes that aren’t yours pooled over the floor. No lover wrapped up in his bedsheets.

“Just what exactly are you looking for?” he asks smugly behind you.

“Save it, Sylus.” Your pretend patience is gone. “The twins told me everything.”

So you start searching more strenuously. You make your way over to his bed, baseball bat slung over your shoulder as you check behind the far side— even stooping to peek under it. You open the wardrobe. Nothing. Use the baseball bat to push back the curtains, letting in more blood-red moonlight. Nothing. You huff in frustration.

“You know, don’t you?” Sylus says quietly.

He’s leant against the doorway, arms crossed, and you spare him a glance. “Know what?”

“That there’s no-one here.”

It sounds like defeat. “I’m taking this very seriously, actually,” you dismiss as you roll open the drawer of his bedside table, where no-one is hiding. You move on to even more absurd places: lifting flowers out of their vase to glance about inside it, peering into the horn of his vintage gramophone.

You’d hoped your antics would elicit at least a short laugh, or a scoff of amusement. There’s nothing, though, so you plonk onto the bed— defeated, yourself— and look to the man as you set your weapon down.

He looks back with an insincere smile. “How did you know?”

“That you weren’t really with someone? Because you’re you, Sylus. The key to a good prank?” Your fingers twinkle in the air beside your head. “Believability. Besides—” now a forefinger taps at your temple— “nothing gets past this.”

“Your ego?” he guesses with a smirk that is sincere, if nothing else.

“My brain, Sy.”

“Ah.”

Your ego— tsk. Your feet are dangling from the bed, playing with a slipper they’ve fished out from underneath it, and you have half a mind to launch it at him. This doesn’t feel like one of your usual games, though, and you’ve had a whole ride through the N109 Zone to figure out why.

“I really hurt you, didn’t I?” you speak like a confession, staring down at the floor so you don’t have to meet his eyes. “That’s what all this is about, right? You wanted to get back at me for dinner?”

“No, I—”

“I get it.” Your feet find the second slipper. “I do. I mean, it was a really shitty thing to do— walking out on you like that. Especially after you waited for me. You went to all that effort, and I— ah.” You’ve toed one of the slippers out of reach.

“Allow me,” comes a voice that’s suddenly close. Sylus’s figure looms over you before he’s crouching, kneeling by your feet. He still looks like a mess of sin, but he’s gentle as he retrieves the slipper for you. Removes your socks for you. Slides a slipper onto each of your cold feet. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he mutters.

You let out a sigh. “Sylus.” You’re scolding him, and he gazes up at you, his eyes garnets of adoration only you could afford. “You can tell me anything, you know.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“So why won’t you tell me how you feel?”

He sits back on his knees, his thumb drawing circles on the inside of your ankle. The ministrations are mindless, and so are his words: “How I feel is not important.”

“Of course it is!” You pull away from him. “Don’t say things like that.”

“But I thought I could tell you anything, kitten.”

It’s a nick from a blade that could do much worse; he wants you to feel how sharp it is. His smile is a warning and he’s waiting for the hunter in you to strike back, because violence is what you’re good at. What you’re both good at. It hurts, but it’s easy.

You shift forward on the bed. “Sylus… you don’t need to protect me. Not from you. Not from anything you feel. I want you to be happy, to tell me if you’re unhappy. I don’t need you to—” your fingers skirt over his chest and you falter inexplicably— “to sacrifice yourself for me.”

Sylus looks down to where you’re tracing the shape of his heart on his skin. He lets out a long, beleaguered breath, then leans closer to you, his head turning away as he settles it on your lap. Your hands find his hair instinctually, threading through it in slow, meandering motions.

“I want you to be mine,” he admits on another sigh.

He can’t see you smile, but he’ll hear it in your voice: “I am yours, Sy—”

“No— just mine.”

He won’t make it a demand. Even asking you nicely has him breathless and still, like the drawn-out pause of a finished symphony. Your hands stop moving, out of respect for the quiet. You’re remembering the times you’ve been late out of your building because you’d stumbled into Xavier in the lobby. The doctor’s appointments that always overrun, and Rafayel’s ‘emergency’ phone calls.

“Come and sit with me,” you mumble, patting the bed beside you.

When Sylus does, it’s with the same reluctance a cat surrenders a sliver of sun. Lazy and listless— still warm from the light. The bed sinks under his weight and you turn to face him. His robe’s collar has fallen further, so you hook a finger under it to draw it back up to his neck. Then you straighten the lapels, smoothing them over distractedly.

He’s watching your face, not the movements of your hands. Your cheeks feel warm. “I was speaking to Rafayel earlier, and we—”

A groan, and Sylus is no longer at your fingertips; he’s flopped down backwards on the bed, his hand over his face. You can’t help giggling— you’ve broken the big, bad boss of Onychinus, it seems. Is that all it takes? You grin as you lie down with him, settling on your side, propped up on an elbow. He doesn’t stir when you fix a few stray strands of his hair.

“We talked about boundaries,” you continue. “How I can’t be on call twenty-four seven, and how he’s going to take better care of himself, so I don’t have to be.”

Sylus has moved his hand, ever so slightly.

There’s more: “I’m gonna call in sick to work tomorrow. I made a deal with Xavier, that’s why I stayed late today. He’ll cover for me.” You shift closer. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I know I can’t always be with you, but I am always thinking of you, I promise. You’re always with me in spirit, Sy, even if not in—” you press a quick kiss to his chest— “body.”

He chuckles at the words, or maybe the touch tickled.

You grin down at him. “I’m yours. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“No! Ugh, just—” Smart-ass! You flick his forehead as he laughs quietly. “Not the words ‘I’m yours’, say that I’m—”

His hand is at your face, pulling you in so he can kiss you. It’s slow and it’s patient; he’s taking his time, and you won’t slip away. You can feel his smile. “You’re mine,” he murmurs when he finally withdraws. One more kiss, lighter, on the tip of your nose. “Just mine.”

Always. You let him pull you into an embrace, snuggling into his warmth like you’ve been wanting to from the moment you last left it. You can hear his heartbeat beneath the lullaby of his breath. “Sy?” you whisper.

“Hmm?”

“You look really hot when you’re pretending to cheat on me.”

He scoffs, but a yawn comes before his response. “Don’t get any ideas, kitten.”

Your quiet is pensive. “I have this lunch with Zayne later this week. I really should text him to find out—”

The grip around you constricts, and a voice is in your ear, soft and possessive:

“What did I just say?”

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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rollinouttahere-writes · 1 month ago

Text

Breaking Point Chapter 4

Whitebeard Pirates x Teen GN Reader

7.2k words

First / Prev

Summary: Akainu realizes he has been duped, Whitebeard has a conversation with the mystery caller, and you are left facing your most dire foe yet. Boredom.

Warnings: choking, suicidal ideation, brief mentions of anxiety, depression, and self harm, descriptions of past child abuse, invasion of privacy, brief pregnancy mention

I made some major changes to chapter one since the last update, so please make sure to go reread it if you haven't already. Enjoy the extra long chapter lol

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

A trench was going to be imprinted upon the deck at this rate. Akainu couldn't stand still. Not when his mind was racing in every direction all at once.

Those pirates are fucking late.

Akainu stops sharply and shouts up to the crow's nest, “Can you still not see them?”

“No, sir! There's no one around for miles!”

His blood may very well be literally boiling. A vein in his forehead throbs uncomfortably, and he can hear a faint sizzling coming from somewhere on his person.

A hesitant, meek voice calls out to him, “The wind is pretty weak today, sir. Maybe they're just running behind because of that?”

“That didn't stop us from getting here on time!” Akainu snaps at the marine. He stomps closer to the man, easily matching his hasty steps back until he is towering over him. “They are damn near five hours late, and you want to blame it on the fucking wind?! What's next? Did they stop at an island because they were hungry, too? What other excuses are you going to make for those things?!”

“I-I-I wasn't trying to excuse them, sir, I promise!” The marine is bent backwards over the railing in a desperate bid to put some distance between them. “It's just- I have a kid at home, too! I know that I would be worried sick if I was in your shoes, so I was trying to say something encouraging!”

Akainu grabs the man's neckerchief and yanks him closer, not caring to notice that he was choking him in the process, “I don't need encouragement, I need those damned pirates to keep their end of their deal and get here already!”

“I'm sorry, sir!” The marine was clawing at the fabric around his neck and wheezing.

Such a pathetic display. Whatever. He wasn't worth the effort of dispatching. Akainu shoves him away, nearly sending him over the railing and into the sea.

The seething Admiral turns to face the bridge, “Return to port, they aren't coming.”

Surprise flashes across the helmsman's face. “Are you sure, Admiral?”

“Positive.” Akainu strides to where his private office is, “The longer we waste time here, the more time they have to scheme. We are returning at once.”

He doesn't wait for a response. His crew knows better than to disappoint him. He can hear a flurry of boots hitting wood as everyone rushes to unfurl the sails and raise anchor.

It's only because he's on a ship that he can't afford to sink that he's able to keep his magma in check. He can feel the flow of it under his skin, just begging to be unleashed. But, alas, he would be stranding himself in the ocean if he did.

He's too fired up to even consider sitting down right now. He rips open the drawer that his transponder snail is in and tunes it to the desired frequency before sending out the call. It rings twice, then the gruff voice of his superior answers.

“Let me guess. They never arrived.” Despite the conversation having only just started, Sengoku already sounded exasperated.

Akainu inhaled deeply in a vague attempt to calm himself. “They didn't. They violated the terms of our agreement.”

“Pirates didn't keep their word? How surprising. Should I tell the papers about this?”

Sarcasm was the last thing that Akainu wanted to put up with right now. His hand tightens around the receiver and he spits out, “This isn't a joking matter. My (Y/N) is still with them, and I haven't been given any proof of life since the initial communication.”

“I'm aware.” The sound of papers being shuffled followed by pen on paper trickles in from his side.

Teeth grind against each other painfully to the point that he should be concerned about cracking a molar, but he can't be bothered to focus on such a thing. “Is that all you have to say? That Emperor is holding a Commodore hostage, and all you can say is that you're aware?”

“An ex-Commodore.” Sengoku says plainly, as if it was nothing of note. Like he just fired a janitor. “I've already taken the liberty of terminating their position and reallocating their unit.”

“You can't be serious. You better not be serious.” The nails on Akainu’s free hand dig into the varnished wood of his desk and smoke begins to rise.

“I am. You were made privy to my stance on this matter beforehand. (Y/N) abandoned post and got themselves captured. That isn't the kind of behavior I want to see in an Ensign, much less a Commodore.” The sound of a pen being dropped can be heard. “And just in case you need to be reminded, my decision still stands on not permitting any action against Whitebeard. A civilian isn't worth that effort or trouble.”

The wood of his desk smolders, then catches to fire. “Do you honestly expect me to do nothing about this? Am I just supposed to leave (Y/N) in the hands of pirates and not do a single fucking thing to retrieve them? Is that genuinely what you are expecting of me?”

A deep sigh can be heard through the receiver. After a bout of silence, Sengoku speaks again, “I understand that this is your child, and that you have a duty to them as a parent. But, you also have a duty to the Marines. You have a duty to not upset the delicate balance between us and the Emperors. There is only room for one of those duties to be your top priority.

“I'm not going to reprimand you for being distressed, but I hope that you will make the correct decisions going forward. You're an excellent Admiral, and I want to help you where I can, but I can't continue covering your ass when you let your desires and impulses control you. You need to be wholly dedicated to the greater good, and let's be honest here, (Y/N) is no longer a part of that category.”

Sengoku allows him time to stew in what was said. To take it all in and try to force himself to come to terms with it. But he can't. This isn't right. You have always been a star soldier. You've given your life to the cause, and now you're getting chewed up and spit out because you were overpowered by a fucking Emperor.

“If it's any consolation,” Sengoku pauses as he carefully chooses his next words, “I anticipate that (Y/N) will be released eventually. Of all the pirate crews that could have abducted them, the Whitebeard pirates are about as tame as one can hope for. They don't have a history of executing hostages. Once they realize they've gotten as much out of this situation as they can, I'm sure (Y/N) will be released without incident.”

Loath as he was to admit it, Sengoku had a point. If a crew like Beast pirates had gotten ahold of you, it would practically be guaranteed that you would die in their custody. The Whitebeard's, as powerful as they were, didn't pose the same risk level. The worst that had ever happened involving them and Marines outside of direct warfare was the occasional conversion, but he knew that you would never fall for such a ruse. You were far too independent and intelligent to be tricked like that.

But even if you were released, that still begged the question, “Will you reinstate (Y/N)’s position once they've been returned?”

“What?” Sengoku sounds completely flabbergasted, “No. Where did you get the idea that I would? I already explained why (Y/N) is no longer fit for the Marines. Were you not listening to a word I said the other day?”

“I heard you, but that doesn't mean that I agreed with it. You aren't being fair. Anyone of their skill level would have lost against those pirates. I know my soldier, and I know that they have what it takes to do good for the Marines. You can't cut their career short before they've even reached their maximum potential.” Akainu exhales sharply and drags his hand down his face, “What would they even do if they weren't a marine? They would have nothing.”

The sound of Sengoku drumming his fingers makes it through the transmission. “(Y/N) is a sharp individual, I know that they would succeed in anything they applied themselves to. I did them and you a favor and labeled them as an honorable discharge. They should have no trouble finding employment elsewhere.”

That answer wasn't good enough. Akainu didn't want you to wander around until you found something else to do to get by. He wanted you to stay in the Marines and do what he knew you were meant to do. This is all so frustrating, he feels like he's talking in circles.

Without thinking, he barks into the receiver, “What's the damn point if they can't even be a marine?”

The drumming coming through the line stops instantly. “Pardon?” He can hear Sengoku's chair creak, followed by a hand slamming down on the desk, “The damn point is that you'll have your kid back alive and well! The point is that you won't be left to wonder what became of them as your mind fills in the blanks with nothing but worst case scenarios! You could stand to be a little more grateful for the fact that you have a very good chance of being able to see your kid again!”

Indistinct words are grumbled under the Fleet Admiral’s breath. He inhales deeply, then lets it out. He speaks clearly and concisely, “I'm done with this conversation. Do not bring this up to me again.” The line went dead.

This didn't feel real. It was like a nightmare. He's worked so hard to get you to where you were, and now Sengoku has callously ripped it all away based purely off assumption. Was his life's work not good enough to be worth fighting for? Was he insinuating that Akainu had raised a useless marine?

Did he have any idea how bad this would make Akainu look?

There's a tug on his hand. His transponder snail is trying to escape the flames encapsulating the desk but is being held back by the receiver still in his grasp.

… It would be inconvenient to have to make a trip just to acquire a new one.

Akainu picks up the snail and drops it onto a nearby shelf. He stares at the burning desk with apathy. Was there anything important in it? Probably not. Some paperwork at most.

Glass cracks and then shatters loudly. His eyes dart over to the source of the noise. A framed photo of you that was taken after your recent promotion to Commodore. Oh, shit! He lurches forward to try and salvage it, but he's too late. The picture singes and curls in his hands as flames consume it.

Your emotionless face distorts, then vanishes as it's reduced to a pile of ash.

—

Everyone had left the room upon Whitebeard's request to do so. Now it was just him, the transponder snail, and whoever was on the other side of this transmission.

Whitebeard situates himself comfortably and speaks in the commanding voice expected of someone of his status, “We're alone now. You can speak.”

There's a beat of silence, then a stern but feminine voice comes through, “Captain Whitebeard. I appreciate you agreeing to speak with me regarding this urgent matter.”

“It isn’t often that someone from Totto Land wants to speak to me. May I know whom I'm speaking to?” He was running all of the voices of Big Mom's children that he knew through his head, but none of them were a match. It could be one of her daughters that he hadn't met before, or maybe his memory simply wasn't as sharp as it used to be.

“You may have heard of me under the alias of Ms. Edmonds. I used to work with various pirates by giving them insider information on the Marines, but I've worked exclusively with Charlotte Linlin for some time now.”

Whitebeard had heard the name floating around several years back. A former disgraced marine turned informant, either out of spite or genuine necessity based on who you asked. The question still stood on why she was so insistent on getting in contact with him, and what exactly his most recent addition to the ship had to do with it.

“Is (Y/N) still aboard your ship?” Her voice had a noticeable tinge of desperation to it.

His arms cross over his chest and he leans back in his chair. “They are. They’re on the deck with my sons as we speak.”

A loud sigh of relief comes from Ms. Edmonds. Seemingly encouraged by his response, she begins speaking at a fast pace, “Whitebeard, I must implore you to not return (Y/N) to Marine custody. I am prepared to pay whatever ransom you deem necessary. Treasure, medicine, I could even connect you with new potential crew members. Just name it, and I will make it happen.”

“I have already decided that (Y/N) won’t be going back to the Marines.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, then a quiet, “Huh?”

“(Y/N) made it clear that they didn’t want to go back. I’m not in the business of forcing people to do things against their will, much less a child.” Whitebeard leaves the explanation vague. Ms. Edmonds hasn’t shown her hand yet, so he has no reason to either. She’s given him no reason to divulge precisely why he’s made the decision that he has. “What I want right now is to know why you are so invested in that child. I take it Big Mom is interested in them?”

A few theories are swirling in his mind, but one was especially prominent. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if Big Mom was interested in getting a turn using you as a bargaining chip. Linlin loved having leverage over others, and she no doubt knew that she could get a lot out of having you in her custody.

If that is the case, she is going to be sorely disappointed. He has zero intention of putting you in harm's way or triggering another attempt. You aren't going anywhere.

There is a lengthy pause as Ms. Edmonds mulls over her next words, and Whitebeard doesn't rush her.

She lets out a deep breath, then finally breaks the silence, “I'm their mother. I'm sure you've heard the… unsavory rumors about me. I was dishonorably discharged when the affair I was having with my superior came to light after I discovered I was pregnant during a medical exam.”

A bitter chuckle comes through the connection, “They raked me over the coals. Called me every name in the book and told me I had no right to my own child. They took (Y/N) from me the second they were born. I've never so much as held them.”

None of this had been what Whitebeard had been anticipating. Her story was extreme, so much so that he was dubious of how honest she was being. Especially since she had yet to give a real name. “Do you have any proof for this story?”

“I do.” Her words are firm and confident, “I managed to snag my file before I was thrown out on my ass. It includes details about everything I described to you. It will be under the name of Portgas D. Louise, and I can send it over to you right now if you will let me.”

Whitebeard wasn’t sure which struck him harder. Her having the same surname as his son, Ace, or the fact that she just admitted to having the Will of D. And if this tale turns out true, that would imply that you do as well. If he had to guess, you didn’t even know this about yourself.

This situation is becoming increasingly complicated by the second. It’s an insane story, but something in him is telling him that it’s true. He concedes, “Yes, I would appreciate it if you could send it to me at your earliest convenience.”

The woman, who he now knows to be Louise, can be heard shouting orders to mail the file to Whitebeard right away. The voice of the other person is too far away to be made out, but he does pick up on the sound of a door opening and closing.

“Thank you so much for being willing to entertain this. If it’s not too much to ask, I have another favor to request from you.” Louise’s voice is tentative as she asks.

“Go ahead.” Whitebeard can about guess what she’s after.

“I need to see my child. It may have been a bit presumptuous, but I have already begun preparations of a ship to make the voyage to get to yours. Can I trust that I will have your continued cooperation and that I’ll be allowed entry onto your ship?”

Whitebeard lets the question hang in the air as he thinks it over. It will likely be a few days before the evidence gets to him, but if Louise is coming all the way from Totto Land, there will be a wide margin of time for him to lose them if the proof proves itself to be illegitimate. He nods to himself and answers, “Yes, you will have our continued cooperation so long as the evidence confirms your story.”

She lets out a loud sigh of relief, as if she’d been holding her breath. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Think nothing of it.” At this point, he had as much of an interest in seeing this woman as she did in seeing her child.

Just as he was planning to end the communication, Louise speaks up again, “... How is (Y/N)? Are they well?” Ah. He had admittedly been hoping to avoid this question. He pauses to try and gather his thoughts, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. Her voice takes on a more urgent tone, “What’s wrong? Are they hurt?”

“Not physically… but I’m not sure that I can say that they are well, either.”

Louise urges him again, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s upsetting.”

That gives her pause, but she presses on, “My life has been upsetting. Tell me what’s going on with (Y/N). I’m their mother, I have the right to know.”

“Very well,” Whitebeard relents. He takes a moment to attempt to find the most delicate way to say what he needed to, but there simply isn’t a nice way of putting it. He’s just going to have to come right out and say it. “When we were still planning on trading (Y/N) for safe passage to and from an island, they became despondent. After they were told that they would be back with their father soon, they went into a panic. They managed to wrestle a knife away from someone… and then they attempted to end their life.”

Silence. He can’t even make out the sound of her breathing anymore. After a few seconds, he hears some shuffling and the flick of a lighter, followed by a long inhale. She exhales shakily, and her voice tremors just as much, “How hurt are they?”

“Ace caught the blade before they could do any damage. They are unharmed, and we have them under a constant watch to ensure it stays that way. (Y/N) is in good hands, I can promise you that much.”

“Ace…” Louise mumbles something under her breath that he can’t quite make out. She clears her voice. “Okay. Thank you for informing me. I need to leave to assist with preparations for our ship. I’ll be in contact with you later.”

He reaches forward to terminate the call, but she interrupts him, “Oh, one more thing. I don’t want you to tell (Y/N) that I’m coming. I don’t know what- if anything- they’ve been told about me. I would prefer to be there to plead my case in person rather than letting them stew in whatever Akainu has told them about me.”

The call comes to an end before he even has a chance to respond. She apparently had a good deal of faith that he would honor that request. Which she wasn’t wrong about. He would. You already had too much on your mind as it stands, he didn’t need to be adding more to your plate. The transponder snail’s eyes shut, and it promptly retreats back into its shell for a much needed nap after the lengthy back and forth.

Whitebeard leans back in his seat to take in everything that he just heard. While he still wanted to see the proof for himself, he already felt certain that Louise was telling the truth about who she was in relation to you. Frankly, the bigger question to him was who she was to Ace.

And what Big Mom was hoping to get out of this.

—

There have been many complicated hurdles in your life. Brutal training sessions, unforgiving missions, merciless foes, but now you’re facing a whole new beast.

Boredom.

Due to how heavily structured your life was as a marine, you were never left wondering what you should do. Everything was already pre-established ahead of time, and there wasn’t a single second that was unaccounted for. So what were you supposed to do when that schedule was ripped away from you?

During those few weeks on the run, you had been away from your usual routine, but you were kept plenty busy with surviving and making sure your path would be an untraceable one. But now? Now you have nothing to do, and it’s driving you crazy!

It’s been two days since your capture by the Whitebeard pirates, and it has been a wild ride.

Marco returned last night with the medication they used you as leverage to get. True to Elise’s word, he did not proceed to immediately drag you back to the Marines. Instead, what followed was a private interrogation between you and him where he asked you all sorts of invasive questions.

At first they were pretty tame. Have you eaten? How much? What has your sleep schedule been like recently? Then it started to get more uncomfortable. Do you have a history with depression? Do you often find yourself feeling anxious?

And then he asked the question that you knew was coming. Are you having any thoughts of self harm or suicide?

All of your answers were short. This wasn’t an exchange that you wanted to entertain. You gave vague answers where you could, and outright lied when you couldn’t. None of this was any of his damn business. And what the hell kinds of questions were these? Do you have a history of depression? As if you could have done everything you did as a marine if you were depressed and anxious. How absurd.

And self harm? Please. Akainu harmed you plenty. Why would you do more than that unless it was to end it all? Of course, you still had the desire to do just that, but there was no opportunity to. These people were watching you constantly.

There was a rotation of nurses that stayed up to watch you as you slept all night. If you wanted to go to the bathroom, someone had to be with you. A humiliating experience, but at least the nurses had the decency to turn their back. You declined to bathe last night because of that whole experience. You did not want to be completely naked around these people. Fuck that noise.

Ever since your release from the confines of the medical gurney, you’ve been hovering around the nurses. You didn’t exactly trust them, but they felt safer to be around than any of the pirates. In an attempt to stave off your boredom, you’ve taken to helping the nursing staff out. Cleaning medical equipment, organizing supplies, washing laundry for the infirmary. It kept you busy last night and into the morning, but they eventually ran out of things for you to do and even went so far as to shoo you out of the infirmary with orders to “relax already”, whatever that meant.

Ah, yes. You’re just going to kick back and chill out around a bunch of savage pirates that hunt your kind for sport. Who wouldn’t do that? What a silly goose you are for your apprehensions!

Much like yesterday, all of the pirates were being weird as all hell. The act they had going on yesterday was still in full swing. They were all pretending to be friendly with you and drag you into their games and hobbies to lower your guard. Thatch tried luring you into the kitchen under the guise of showing you how to make bread. You declined. His division had probably been lying in wait to stab you to death with kitchen knives. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. You’d much rather die by your hand than theirs, thank you very much.

The rest of the crew followed suit. Izou tried waving you over when he was making tea. A group of them tried to get you to join them in fishing over the side of the ship. Ace attempted to get you to play a game of cards with him. Admittedly, you had almost agreed to that one just to distract yourself, but you held strong.

Presently, you were sitting against the railing, staring blankly up at the sky while absent-mindedly fiddling with the seastone cuff on your wrist. Marco hadn’t taken it off. Your lackluster response to his questions were probably to thank for that. At least the IV was removed. You’d been anticipating a rush of energy and increased alertness now that there wasn’t a steady stream of presumed sedatives flowing into you, but that had yet to come. You felt just as aloof as you were. You suppose that the seastone exposure was preventing you from fully recovering.

This location choice of yours seemingly had the pirates on edge. You were still being watched closely, that much was obvious. As soon as you approached the taffrail, Namur abruptly declared that he was going for a swim. So killing yourself by diving over the edge was a no-go.

“You look bored.”

There went your peace and solitude. You look over to your left to find a Division Commander looming over you with a smile on his face. It goes to show how desensitized you’ve become that all you felt in response to a clear threat was annoyance.

Swift-Saber Haruta. You’ve seen his face on wanted posters, and you recall him being in the crowd yesterday, but this is your first time interacting with him directly. You aren’t interested in making a good first impression. You scowl at him, “What the hell do you want?”

It does nothing to dissuade him. He laughs and hops up onto the railing, “You sound like Ace when he first got here.”

“Don’t compare me to some damned pirate.” You scoff at the observation. How insulting.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your marine pride,” his mocking tone indicated that he was anything but.

That word bothers you, too. You huff and bring your knees to your chest while mumbling, “Don’t call me that…”

“What? Are you not a marine?”

“Not anymore.” Those days were long behind you. Arguably, you never really were a marine. Not in spirit. Not in the way that someone like Garp was. You never had the passion, the drive. You put in the effort, but it was just an obligation to you. A job that you were forced to do under duress of what would happen to you if you dared to underperform.

“Oh?” Haruta inches closer to you on the rail, “You want to elaborate on that?”

“Not at all, thanks.” You lean against the bars of the railing again and close your eyes, hoping that he’ll take the hint and leave.

That doesn’t happen. Haruta lightly nudges you with his leg, “Okay, well if you don’t want to do that, how about sparring?”

“What?” Did you mishear him? Your eyes open, then narrow at him.

“Vista’s usually the one I spar with, but he’s busy, so I was wondering if you wanted to take his place?” He looks to you, and when all you do is stare at him in confusion, he continues, “You don’t have to, I just thought you might want something to do. It’s your call.”

Sparring with a pirate would be a horrible idea. Suicidal, really. Lucky for him, that’s exactly what you are. You feign confliction, then sigh, “Sure, fine. Why not?”

“Great!” Haruta drops down from the railing and holds a hand out to you. You ignore it and stand up on your own. If he’s insulted by the display, he masks it well. He nods his head to the side, “The room we use for sparring is just over there, follow me.”

You trail behind him slowly in an effort to look casual and not like you’re planning to grab the first weapon you can get ahold of and use it on yourself. He doesn’t appear to be monitoring you as closely as the others. If you make it quick, you should be able to succeed.

As soon as you’re inside the sparring room, your mood sours. There are weapons here, but they’re all wood. Fuck. Taking yourself out via bluntforce trauma isn’t technically an impossible feat, but it would be difficult to do quick enough to be effective. You’ll either be stopped before you’re done, or you’ll just knock yourself out and have nothing more than a splitting headache to show for it.

Should you leave? You don’t really want to be here anymore.

“Any preference?” Haruta is standing by a wall lined with wooden swords.

… Well, this does beat being bored. You sigh and join him by the wall, “My specialty is hand to hand combat, but I’m well versed in many weapons.” You grab the nearest sword, one designed to resemble a cutlass. Standard issue for marines. It’s one of the first weapons you learned to use.

“Works for me.” Haruta picks up a wooden sword of his own and walks to the center of the room, “I’ll go easy on you since you’ve still got that cuff on you.”

You scoff, “Don’t you dare. I’m just as capable with this thing on as I am otherwise.” That was a boldfaced lie. You’ve been lethargic ever since it was slapped onto your wrist. But your pride couldn’t handle being seen as weak regardless of whether or not you had what could be considered a valid excuse.

The attempt to talk tough fell flat. Haruta chuckles at your response. “How feisty, you really are like Ace. Are you sure you two aren’t related?”

“Keep talking like that. See where it gets you.” You meet him in the center of the room and raise your sword into a front guard.

Haruta raises his sword, but when he fails to make the first move, you lunge at him and thrust the sword toward his chest. He easily parries and sheds the attack, then advances toward you with a strike of his own. A clean and beautifully executed riposte that has you retreating.

His smile remains, “You’re only making my case for me by talking like that, you know?”

“Shut up.” Such a witty retort. You’re really bringing your A game here. You guard yourself against an onslaught of attacks from your opponent. Much to your chagrin, you can tell that he’s holding back. This slow speed is nowhere near what you’ve heard he’s capable of, yet you find yourself struggling to hold your own regardless.

He shrugs nonchalantly, “What? I like to talk when I’m sparring. Give me something else to focus on if you don’t like the subject.”

You feint an attack to the left, then strike from the right, making him step back and successfully regaining some ground. Sparring has never been a social affair for you, but you’d rather entertain his request than continue being subjected to him spouting off his inane observations and speculations over your heritage.

Conversational skills have never been your forte. What do people usually talk about? The weather? Themselves? You pick the latter and run with it, “How did you end up among pirates? According to your file, you used to be a prince. That’s quite the dramatic career shift.”

Haruta brings his free hand to his face and closes his eyes, “Aww, you’ve been keeping tabs on little old me?” Despite his eyes being shut, he was still expertly deflecting your attacks.

“Don’t flatter yourself. The Marines keep tabs on all pirates, especially when they’re associated with an Emperor.” You charge forward to try and overwhelm him, but he disengages you with a circle parry and sends you stumbling back. Damn it all, he’s making a fool out of you! You grit your teeth and correct your stance, “Are you going to answer my question, or are you going to deflect that, too?”

“Temper, temper!” He laughs and backs off slightly, which only enrages you further. He isn’t taking you seriously at all. “I will answer it, so hold your horses. And straighten your feet while you’re at it, you’re going to trip over them again.”

This fucker. You straighten your feet, furious that he was right about your footwork being off. Your strikes become more aggressive, but your foe remains unphased. “Did you leave to become a criminal out of boredom? Were you too good for your cushy lifestyle?”

“Eh, something like that,” Haruta stands his ground, blocking each attack with a practiced ease, “but it had more to do with my father.”

That answer wasn’t what you had been expecting. “What? Did he make you leave?” That didn’t line up with the file. The king had put in a request to the Marines the day Haruta vanished, so it would seem that he did want the prince around. He wouldn’t have offered up such a handsome reward for his capture otherwise.

Haruta shrugs, “In a sense, I suppose.” He begins countering your attacks again. “He kept saying that I wasn’t doing enough. No matter what I did, he had a problem with it. My sword fighting skills weren’t good enough, my academics weren’t good enough, my etiquette around the other nobles wasn’t good enough, nothing was. So, since I was such a disgrace in his eyes, I did him a favor and left.”

A pang of familiarity thrums through you. Memories of Akainu criticizing, but never complimenting reared their ugly head. You didn’t appreciate the reminder.

He frowns and rolls his eyes exasperatedly, “And you would think that he’d appreciate that, but no! He got mad about that, too. There’s just no pleasing some people, am I right?”

That was painfully true. It made you feel strange to hear such a sentiment from a pirate. Since when were pirates relatable? You shake your head and throw yourself back into the match. You don’t want to dwell on that, “So did Whitebeard immediately pick you up like some sort of posh stray?”

“Ha, no! I was on my own for a while after that. Around a year, I think? I got by as a bounty hunter, and that worked pretty well for me.” He retreats in small steps as he takes your flurry of attacks. “But then I got a little too big for my breeches. I got greedy and thought for sure that I could take on one of these guys. Thatch seemed like easy pickings. I thought, oh, he’s just a chef, how tough can he be?”

Your swords clash again, and he holds strong as you put your full weight into trying to make him budge. He continues speaking as if this wasn’t a strain on him in the slightest, “As it turns out: very tough. He made a fool out of me and had me disarmed and on my ass in a matter of seconds.”

Haruta pivots sharply, and the sudden absence of resistance sends you tumbling forward. Your arms flail as your torso tips forward in a desperate effort to regain balance. It works, and you right yourself and whip around, visibly frazzled. Your combatant chuckles, “I bet I looked a lot like you do right now.”

Bastard. Why must he insist on comparing you to pirates? You scramble to correct your stance. He lets you, which has you feeling more angry than grateful. You were nothing more than a joke to him. You lunge forward and cut down at him, but he easily avoids it with a fade.

“Your story doesn’t make any sense,” you all but snarl at him. “I asked you how you ended up with the Whitebeard’s, and you tell me a tale of trying to kill one of them. You wouldn’t be here if that was true.”

“Come now, do you really think me a liar? You wound me.” Oh, how you wish you could! Calling his previous move a fade had been a mistake on your end, he quickly revealed it to be an empty one when he leapt forward again. You just barely manage to parry it in time. “I’m telling the truth! After my humiliating defeat, pops offered to let me become his son.

“I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Like you said, it didn’t make sense. He just saw me lose a fight spectacularly after trying to take the head of one of his sons, yet he wanted to keep me around? I thought for sure that it was some cruel joke or a plot to finish me off.” Haruta kept yapping carelessly, yet you couldn’t find a single opening. If you could just rip this fucking cuff off, you would be able to make him take you seriously, you’re sure of it!

“I acquiesced, but more so out of a morbid sense of curiosity than anything. For weeks I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Weeks turned to months, and now I’ve been here for years.”

This story was so baffling that you stopped just to stare at him, “And they just… let you? They were okay with what you did?”

Haruta lightly taps your sword to get you back in the game. Akainu would have taken such an opportunity to show you what exactly happens to someone when they lose focus like that. You’ve got scars for making that mistake around him. Why didn’t this pirate add to your collection of marks?

While you’re floundering in internal confusion, Haruta carries on, entirely unbothered, “I mean, I guess so? One attempt on Thatch was nothing in the grand scheme of things. Ace tried to kill pops like a hundred times, and he’s still here.”

“He fucking what?”

Rather than calling your attention back to the fight, your opponent exploits your shock. Before you can even blink, he hooks his sword around yours and breaks it from your grasp. Your weapon is sent clattering across the floor, and you fall down with it. The thin mat on the floor does little to cushion your fall, but it’s not too bad. Nothing you can’t walk off. Your pride is infinitely more bruised by this than you are.

There’s a gentle tap of cool wood on your sweat dampened neck, “Looks like I won this round.” You glance up and find Haruta grinning down at you. “You aren’t bad, but you could use some more practice. I’m guessing you didn’t keep up with sword fighting much since you prefer hand to hand, right?”

“Something like that…” It was exactly like that. Upon reflection, you’d only ever been shown the basics of other weaponry. Hand to hand combat was the only thing that you ever trained in consistently since that was also what Akainu favored. Your skill level in any weapon that wasn’t yourself simply couldn’t hold a candle to a real master.

A hand is held out to you. Haruta had a relaxed smile on his face as he waited to see what you would do. It was a stark contrast to the rage that would be plastered over Akainu’s face when you collapsed. Akainu would yell at you for the pathetic display. Akainu would kick you across the room if you didn’t get up fast enough, not caring if a rib or two was cracked in the process.

But Haruta wanted to help you to your feet.

You take his hand, and it proves itself to not be a trick. He pulls you into a standing position without incident. That doesn’t prevent you from taking a step back after he does. You aren’t about to be too lax around him.

“That was fun!” Haruta is practically beaming. It’s unclear why. You know damn well that you didn’t pose any real challenge to him. What was a full body workout for you was little more than a warmup for him. “Same time tomorrow?”

He… wants to do this again? He wants to spar with you more? Well, referring to this session as sparring was generous. He no doubt had to have felt as if he had taken on the role of a teacher, and with a very unimpressive student at that.. There was absolutely nothing for him to gain from engaging with you in this way. Yet he wanted to.

“... Sure.” You avert your eyes and pick at your nails. “If I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Excellent! I look forward to it!” Haruta slings an arm over your shoulder and brings you into his side as he makes way for the exit. You’re forced to walk awkwardly alongside him.

What the hell was he doing? You squirm against him, “Knock that off. I can’t walk with you holding onto me like this.”

Rather than relinquishing you, his arm tightens. One of his hands pinches your cheek as he speaks in a taunting tone, “You can’t? Ah, well, I suppose that isn’t too surprising. You could barely walk straight when we were sparring.”

“You asshole-” You flail in his grasp and manage to shove him away. You choose to tell yourself that it was because you overpowered him, and not because he let you.

Haruta laughs at your agitation, no remorse in sight. Piece of shit. How dare he? You storm away from him in a huff, eager to get the hell out of this room and away from him. When you look up at the door, you find it cracked open with several heads peeking through.

Ace, Marco, and Elise are all blatantly spying on you. How long have they been there? How much of that did they see? Your face heats up and you snap at them, “What are you three looking at?! Go away!”

Nonsense. This day was utterly ridiculous!

Taglist: @twotrucksinatree @tigerstarstorm @mu5hro0m @brooks-real @one-piecelover @ratchetprime211 @ithoughtthinks @simpfor2dpeoole @vinillies @selfindulgenceisthekey @deleted-1-800 @weirdothatreads @eravariety @qhevy

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ggirlthatgotaway · 5 months ago

Text

You Now Smelled of Flowers, and He Loathed how Perfectly it Suited You

summary: You had always known that, despite being wed, you and Aemond would have never gotten along, especially because none of you tried anything but staying as far as you could from one another. Weirdly enough, Aemond made your relationship changed by asking for help.

trigger warning: wrote this while on ovulation, explicit language, mention of self harm, mention of lost of virginity, sexual content, name calling(wife), pretty chill sex tbh

word count: 9.4k

supposed reading time: 38 minutes

note: BITCH THIS HAS A FUCKING VIBE. anyway, i love the dialogues in this. also, thnkx for more than 200 notes on the last one ARE YOU KIDDING. love ya

-💎

He couldn’t sleep, which was far from anything new, really. He took a deep sigh and stared at the ceiling. He could hear the soft rain falling on the stone walls outside his room, but he made no movement to check how much was entering his chambers like he normally would.

His head was killing him, and he could hear his heartbeat banging against his skull. He’d been loathing the night since the day he’d lost his eye.

That had been the fateful day that ruined his entire existence, and also the reason why he was awake in the hour of the wolf, when the entirety of King’s Landing should have been deep asleep.

He had often dreamed about cutting off his scarred skin. Surely, the action would provoke not only the risk of infection and an immense amount of bleeding, but also a wider- and so more irritating- scar on his face.

That was not what he had desired during the open-eyed dreams he’d had about slicing open his face once more, no. What currently appealed him was the tranquility that would come with the first stages of the healing process: no itch, nor irritation.

Just simple, pure pain.

He sighed and swung his legs off the bed. His eye did linger on the butter knife left on his table- it had caught the light coming from the hearth and reflecting onto the blade- but he got up and walked out of his rooms.

He wandered for a brief moment what you were doing. After all, a husband ought to worry for his wife’s whereabouts, whether he was loving or as Aemond was, which included a rather long list of disparaging adjectives- such as: abrupt, sharp-tongued, curt and cold when it came to those brief and definitely insignificant moments in which you two exchanged some words; unapproachable, uncaring and unresponsive when you needed his assistance (which happened only in one occasion, for the lesson was learnt fast); tense, silent and falsely indifferent when it came to your nearness.

Anyway, the thought of you being asleep brought an only slight sense of calmness in Aemond, for he reasoned that half of the couple- if one could call you two such- could find comfort in the confines of a bed in the darkest hours the night had to offer.

What he did not know was that you were far from asleep. Your life at the castle did not include much- quite the opposite, in fact. And you put your foot down so that you would never get used to such a disgraceful thing. You were, after all, the Rogue Prince’s daughter, and nothing in your body was ‘still’.

So, most of your nights were spent awake, walking around the interminable castle until the muscles in your legs hurt from tiredness or reading until your eyelids fell shut on their own.

Usually, the nights’ hours were not passed in the shared chambers you had with Aemond, but you found they had the perfect view of the full moon in that day’s clear night sky- despite the soft rain.

That was the reason you were there, your hands on the wet stone of the window ledge as you looked at the city below you. The rain was wetting part of your nightgown, but that was not your concern.

Rainy days in King’s Landing were not something usual this season, and it reminded you of Dragonstone in a slight way that you redeemed to be enough for comfort.

The chambers were beautiful, despite the obvious memory that surfaced in your mind: the wedding night. It hadn’t made you as excited as you and your sisters had dreamed them to be when you were younger.

You were aware that those hopes were a mere product of the fantasy of young and unaware children that loved to spend their days in the confines of the island, braiding their hair and taking about the dreams of the nights’ passed.

Still, hope hadn’t been a crime for your mind yet. You hated the mixed feelings you had felt that day. You recalled the unusual feeling of anxiety that had set into your gut in the morn and that carried through the hours of the day.

The memories of the ceremony were not many, aside from the grimace on your face that persisted through the wedding, celebrated under the Faith of the Seven and not in the tradition of Old Valyria, which you thought to be the rightful one.

What you remembered vividly, was the night. Hating Aemond Targaryen for what he’d called your cousins through the years of your childhood and early adolescence seemed nothing but rightful. And still…

You remembered his hand on your lower back as he’d walked you to your new shared chambers, and the way his warmth had seeped into the fabric of your dress.

You remembered the way he had not looked at you as you’d taken off the intricate wedding dress and left it on the floor after you’d stepped out of it.

He had put out the candles and told you to lie down on the bedding with a nod of his head before extinguishing the last source of light with a blow.

He had stripped completely before he’d also climbed on the sheets, making the mattress sink under his weight.

You had expected roughness and pain throughout the whole action, for many ladies of the court who had a friendly relationship with the Princess Regent, had told you what to expect would happen to you in the weeks preceding the wedding.

It did not come, that stinging sensation, the sharp feeling of the hardness entering you. He had worked you with his fingers the exact way you did when you were alone, almost making you think he had known your body despite having never seen it.

You had to repress your moans by biting the inside of your cheeks, and you remembered feeling glad that he could not see your face in the darkness that enveloped the chambers under his wish.

He had not kissed your lips once, but he had continued moving his fingers inside you until he had redeemed your cunt wet enough to be fucked.

That was when he had turned you around so you lied on your stomach and had pulled up your hips- the biggest contact he had offered you that night.

He had put a hand on your hip- it had been warm and comforting, despite it being distant at the same time, and it had stayed there for the whole time.

You had not come, for you forced yourself not to. His thrusts were determined: slow and steady at first, and grew faster as he continued taking your purity. But you had not finished, for the pleasure you had felt seemed so unexpected and abnormal you simply could not let your body do so.

But he had, and both of his hands were on your hips when he’d emptied himself inside of you. And then he had stilled, and you had heard his rough breathing and the sweat on his palms as he had slid them down and off your body.

He had walked out after his climax, leaving you on the marital bed, empty, still biting the inside of your cheek to withhold the moan you had let out once the heavy doors had closed behind him.

You remembered getting off the bed and feeling your legs weak. But you had still gone in front of the full length looking glass in the chambers, turned, and looked at your reflection from behind your shoulder. You had seen his seed trailing down the inside of your thighs.

You had touched yourself at the sight, thankful for being alone. You had done so many times after that night, and the mere thought sent a flush to your cheeks.

As you looked outside the window at the city below- still a number of candles burnt, but you could hold the number with your hands- and sighed, the sound of steps coming from outside made your head turn sharply to the dark wooden door.

Out of your deepest surprise, Aemond came in. He froze when he saw you, but made no move to step back, “Wife.” He greeted you, his eye falling from your face and finding an armchair.

“Husband.” you replied, tearing your eyes from what was his obviously tired form. But they found him again when you heard the sound of him sitting down. The way his hand was on his scar, the way his fingers traced it angrily, made your brows furrow. “Are you faring well?” you asked, for the silence was already starting to be uncomfortable.

Still, all he replied to your seemingly harmless question was: “Mh…” You could not resist to tut and turn once again to the sky.

Why did you even think you had the chance to have a normal opportunity for a conversation with him? Gods, you sometimes wished he were a mute, so he would have an excuse to substitute his words with those daft sounds.

You dug your nail into the skin of your finger and tried to contain the urge to walk away. After all, you were there first, and you would be the one who’d stay. What was he doing there, anyway? As far as you were aware, your shared chambers had been empty since that night of two moons ago.

Despite these thoughts, you started musing how lucky you had been to end up with someone like Aemond. He was far from the best husband, and so was clear to everyone, but he was also far from the worst.

He did not talk- even if it sometimes infuriated you; if he had lovers, his relationships were discreet; and, as he was rather far in the line of succession, especially now that Rhaenyra had birthed five children, he did not crave for an heir- testimony was the fact he had considered his duty fulfilled after taking your virginity.

“If I am correct…” His voice made you snap out of your thoughts and you turned around, looking at how his tapered fingers were still pressing onto the scarred tissue. The strain in his voice was obvious as he continued his request, “You have quite the experience with poultices?”

Your eyebrows raised at his words. How in his Seven Hells did he have that information? You may have flaunted yourself about your prowess now and then, but that had happened a long time ago, many years before your wedding.

“Y-yes.” you said, clearing your throat and turning to face him, leaning against the window ledge, “What is the matter?”

You saw how his eye avoided any form of contact, deciding to set on the stone floor instead. “I might need something to… Ease the pain from my scar.” You were extremely sure that Aemond Targaryen’s scar, in that exact moment, hurt him way less than his pride after having asked for help.

You bit the inside of your cheek to contain a grin at the thought. “Alright.” you pushed yourself off the ledge you leaned against and walked towards the door, “Come to the maester’s laboratory.”

He followed without a word, walking behind you and silently letting you know he had no intention of speaking another word for the foreseeable future. You had no intention of saying anything else whatsoever, so the walk to the laboratory was punctuated by the sound of your and Aemond’s boots on the stone floor.

His eye was stuck on your form as you walked in front of him, on your hands joined behind your back. He had not seen you so clearly since that night of two moons ago, for he had since then forced himself to stay as far from you and from the places you visited as was possible for him.

He tried not to let himself be bothered by the fact that you had decided to play his game and not try to initiate a conversation as you would have normally done. But mostly, he tried not to let his eye linger on the hypnotising sway of your hips and of your blood red skirt.

The colour annoyed him. You were supposed to be his wife, but the fabric and embroidery held nothing resembling the ones the women in his family wore, and everything to do with women he was not supposed to care about.

Once you reached the airy chamber, the rain rhythm had picked up, but the sky had begun to shift its colours to those that belonged to Dawn.

The smell of pot marigold began to fill the room once you put the plant into boiling water, and you had to gather the courage to take a small jar from a shelf and walk towards him. You did not know why he’d asked for your help when the highest maesters with the best training in all of Westeros were in King’s Landing to tend to any problem the royal family thought they had.

Also, why would he do it if, when you approached, he eyed the jar and the transparent gel it contained with wariness, his jaw tightening? And why had he said he needed assistance if he squirmed away when you raised your hand to apply the poultice on his cheek.

“Aemond-“ you sighed, but he interrupted you.

“What is that?”

His sharp tone made you bite the inside of your cheek so you did not roll your eyes at him. “Aloe. It could alleviate the irritation if you let me put it on the scar.”

Aemond had the audacity to tut at the words that came out of your mouth, but he complied and turned his head to the side. The small victory that filled your chest was shortly replaced by the need to be wary, for you had to take off his eye-patch.

There had yet to occur an occasion when he’d taken off the leather that covered his eye, and you did not know if your curiosity was strong enough to invade his privacy in such a manner.

But you reasoned it was him that asked your help, despite the truism that he did not crave for the touch that came with it. So, you took an internal deep breath and brought your hand behind his head to grab the strand of the patch and take it off.

He did not move, he seemed to be frozen with the cold of beyond the Wall. You thought his breathing had ceased, but when you saw the twitch of his jaw- which he was shutting so tightly his teeth might have snapped- you released a breath.

He was beautiful, and you had known so for a very long time, but nothing would have prepared you for the sight in front of you: the blue sapphire was bigger than you expected, and it caught the light of the few remaining candles right away, casting an eerie and soft light to his features. If anything, it made him more delightful to the eye, in a frightening way.

You told yourself to stop looking, or he would have definitely left. So you unscrewed the lid of the jar and took some of the gel onto two of your fingers before bringing it to his cheek.

His skin was scorching hot, so much so that you felt it even through the cold substance you were applying to the scar. His violet eye was fixed on the stone wall, not moving and inch, but you saw and felt the tension in his entire body, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it was your presence that caused such a reaction or the fact that you were touching his scarred cheek in a manner you had never seen anyone do, not even his mother.

You straightened up and screwed the lid back on the jar, turning swiftly around and walking back towards the marigolds. You closed your eyes shut and took a deep breath- that may have been the hardest thing you’ve ever done, on the same level of claiming your dragon.

He watched you, more insistently than he’d wished to as you strained the marigolds from the boiling water. The fresh sensation the aloe left on his cheek reminded him of your fingers, and that made him need to sink his nails into his palm. Suddenly, he felt the room was not airy enough, and he got up swiftly to walk to one of the tall and narrow windows. Taking a deep breath with his eye closed, he asked with words that came out more curt and strained than he’d intended: “What is it you are making now?”

“The poultice I was talking about.” you said quickly, your voice slightly higher than usual. It made Aemond wonder if he was what had your voice raise in such a way, if that was the effect he had on you, because the effects you had on him was making him bleed from his left palm.

Aemond nodded stiffly, letting out a deep breath and feeling the fresh air of the morning hitting the still not absorbed aloe on his scar. “And how often should I apply it?” he asked, hoping you would not notice the fact he was trying not to breathe the flowery scent anymore, because your skin definitely smelt the same way now, and he seemed unable to drift his mind to any other thought.

“As many times you feel you are in need of it.” you answered, putting the marigolds into a mortar, the action leaving a slight yellow tint on the tip of your fingers.

Why was he looking at you? When had he turned around and let his eye wander to your face? He cursed himself internally, for the only candle that was still burning- the one set on the counter where you were working- was casting a warm light across your features, making them even softer, prettier than they needed to be.

He wanted to put that fucking candle off- that was the reason why he approached, of course. “How will I know when it’s working?” he asked, uttering the most superficial and mindless question he could muster. But he forgot about it when he noticed your fingers stilling momentarily at his nearness, and when they started smashing the marigolds again, your movements were not as precise any longer, but more erratic.

You answered the obvious, “If your scar does not pain you as much…” but the softness of your voice almost made Aemond grin. He restrained himself, however, as he halted his steps and stood right behind you.

You felt the heat of his body seeping into you, and you felt foolish for the feeling your mind mastered up, because he was not touching you. “So,” he said, the leather covering his arms cracking when he crossed them in front of his broad chest, “can I come to you each time I feel pain, wife?” His tone was challenging, mocking even, but you heard the slightest bit of hope for you to accept that involuntarily slipped out of his mouth. "What if it's in the middle of the night?" he continued, stepping closer still, making his forearm brush against the middle of your back. "Will you rise from your bed and tend to your husband?"

You sighed and turned around so you were facing him. He was closer than expected, but you tried not to let the things his nearness provoked from showing on your face, despite the breath that caught in your throat. “If you so need it, husband, I will.”

You clearly saw his pupil dilate as you turned and looked up at him, making the purple of his iris almost disappear completely as it got swallowed by the purest black. The sapphire did not have any available source of light to catch, but Aemond was handsome nonetheless. You were completely aware of the blush on your fair skin, showing bluntly to his hungry gaze, but you told yourself that he was most obviously also affected by the closeness of your bodies.

“Good,” he said, almost spat. But then his hand raised and tucked a strand of hair that was left out of your tresses behind your ear. His hand lingered purposely, letting you feel the scorching heat of his fingertips as he trailed them down to your jaw. “I would hate to suffer needlessly.” You saw his eye drop to your lips.

The only occasion in which your lips had met had been the wedding ceremony, and the contact had been brief, chaste. The sudden memory made you wonder what he would taste like. You were aware that he drank green tea most morns and every evening, so that was certainly an option.

Aemond's thumb brushed your cheekbone gently, ghostly, tracing a path down to your neck, stopping just short of your mouth. He could feel the rapid beat of your heart pounding against his fingertips. "Perhaps you can apply it yourself tonight...wife." He whispered, his breath burning pleasantly against the soft skin of your cheek.

The words you spoke next made you doubt all the hatred you had felt all these years towards the man that was now in front of you, asking you to service him and making the undergarments covering your most intimate part wet. “If you wish me to.”

He stepped back, releasing you from his hold, but the heat between you remained palpable. “Yes,” he replied, his voice husky with barely contained desire. "I think I'll enjoy that."

Despite the need you now felt for his touch, you were extremely grateful when his hand fell from your face and he walked out of the maester’s laboratory, leaving you with the poultice you were making for him.

You had never felt like this, what was getting to you? Pleasing a man in such a way? Yield to his desires without hesitation? And he was not any man: he was the one who had married you against your will and fucked you from behind before leaving you alone for interminable days. And he was now deciding you worth of his attention?

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, and opened them again as you released it. You took the mortar back into your hands and continued on with the poultice, forcing yourself to forget who it was for.

Aemond arrived at your shared chambers with fast steps and faster breath. He needed to get a grip of whatever it was he was feeling and stop acting as if he actually desired you. It was an ignoble thought, the one he’d had back in the maester’s laboratory with you. Fucking without the sole intent of procreation was a sin, and he would not inflict such a stain upon himself for someone he had not cared to know for the two decades of his life.

Still, he poured two goblets of Dornish Red and did not touch his until you came back with the poultice in hand.

His eye fixed on you until you stood in front of him, and then he gave you one of the goblets. “Thank you.” you replied as you took it, brushing your fingers against his in the motion. His skin was still hot, but not as much as before. Your eyes stayed in his as you both drank the fresh liquid quickly.

Then, letting out a breath, you unscrewed the lid containing the marigold poultice and took some on your index and middle finger, bending over towards him. He tilted his head to the side, leaving you the space you needed right before your fingers came in contact with his cheek.

His nails dug once again into his palm at your nearness, and also because he had been right: you now smelled of flowers, and he loathed how perfectly it suited you.

Even as his nails stabbing his skin did something to distract him from your perfume, his thoughts were far from calm. He couldn't ignore the way his pulse quickened whenever you touched him, or the way his cock stirred in his breeches at the mere sound of your breath, which was also not the one of a tranquil individual.

“I am done.” you said with haste, straightening up and screwing the lid back on the jar and leaving it on the table, near his goblet. His eye moved to you, taking in your flustered expression and the pink colouring of your cheeks.

Silence stretched between you two as he sat on the chair and looked up to you as you stood in front of him. You did not know whether you wished to run away from him or sit on his lap and grind yourself on him until you shivered with pleasure.

He answered the question for you when he said, “You may leave now.”

You did stand there for a moment after those words exited his mouth, looking at him as his hand fished the eyepatch from his pocket and put it back to cover his sapphire eye. You pressed your lips together with strength to remind yourself what was happening, and you turned and left.

❀❀

What had been tormenting Aemond Targaryen the most, was that he was reminded of you each time he applied the poultice to his scar. He had tried to stop, but it had become almost a drug, both because it made him stop wanting to cut his face and because he smelled you each time. It made it way easier to fuck his hand thinking of you.

A month had passed since the time he’d last spoken to you, and the contents of the jar you had given him were completely gone. It was a perfect lubricant, and it also did something for his scar, which could have been a double win for you, if he’d told you.

It was the perfect occasion to seek you out again without seeming to have interest. He had used every remaining bit so as to show you he had waited as much as possible before coming to ask for help.

He squeezed the glass in his hand as he knocked at the doors of your private chambers, and when your sweet and calm voice told him to come in, he pushed them open. You were sitting in front of your vanity looking glass, braiding your hair simply as you prepared for going to sleep.

“Wife,” he greeted you, relishing in your surprised gaze that met his in the reflection of the glass. He showed you the empty jar, “I find myself in need of your services once again.”

Your brows furrowed, and he was aware that the amount of time in which the poultice had finished must have seemed incredibly short in relation to the quantity of the product. Fortunately, you stood from your chair and relaxed your eyebrows again, approaching him and taking the jar from his hand. His hands were scorching hot once again.

“Do you wish to wait for me here while I make it?” you asked, purposefully ignoring the way his eye was burning holes into your scalp, seeking for visual contact.

“I will come with you.”

As you walked, Aemond’s eye remained fixed on the tantalising way the skirt of your gown moved, and Gods forbid the thoughts that surged into his mind while you climbed the stairs before him.

It could be easy for him to bring you into his bed and satisfy his desire, but he had a completely developed need to strain himself until he could not take it any longer. It made whatever it took far sweeter, and you would have been the most palatable thing he will sink his teeth into. Because he will sink them.

Once you reached the maester’s laboratory again, Aemond sat down on a wooden chair, crossing his ankle over his leg and looking at you while you worked. You did not glance once at him, and you were proud of that as you boiled the marigolds into the water again. That was until he spoke.

“Do you have a lover, Princess?”

That made you turn sharply around, almost touching the pot. You blocked your hand against your stomach, “I beg your pardon?”

"I merely asked if there was another man who had the privilege of warming your bed on these cold nights." His tone remained even, but there was a tightness to it that he couldn't quite mask.” he cleared himself, before standing from the chair and walking towards you with his usual slow and measured steps. “There is nothing wrong with the notion.”

Your mouth fell open at his words, and you weren’t able to answer his question but with a small shake of your head. The notion made you feel slightly out of place. You had always thought Aemond had other women, but the question he asked almost assured you he did, and it made you feel betrayed in some way, because you did not have anyone else. Or, well, anyone at all, because you did not have Aemond.

“Hmm.” was his answer, before his eye moved from you to the pot behind you, “I believe the marigolds are ready.”

You cleared your throat and turned back around to continue with your poultice, draining the flowers and moving them to the mortar to smash them. The scent filled the room again, and you closed your eyes, repeating the motion mechanically and hoping he’d turn away and go sit back on that fucking chair.

❀❀

Three weeks later, Aemond Targaryen was once again at your door, demanding more of that poultice. You wanted to ask him how in the Seven Hells had he been able to finish such an amount of product in twenty one days, but you contained yourself and sighed, walking out of your room and towards the maester’s laboratory without a word, knowing he would follow.

Your strides were faster, and you held your skirt up so as not to trip on the fabric. You wanted to get this done as quickly as possible, so you ripped the stem off the marigold petals as the water boiled, throwing them into the pot before leaning against the countertop.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, knowing Aemond was watching you intently. Fortunately, your hair was down that day, and it covered your face completely.

It was when a soft breath hit your bare arm that you opened them again, and, tilting your head, silver strands came into view before a black leather eyepatch.

“You smell just like them.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear, so as to be able to look at his face without obstacles. “Is it a bad thing?” you asked in a small voice, and despite wanting not to care about his thoughts for he most certainly did not know you, you cared about his answer.

"No," Aemond replied softly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting moment. His hand twitched ever so slightly, as if he wanted to reach out and brush a loose strand of hair away from your face. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, maintaining his usual poised demeanour. He had learned long ago to hide his true desires beneath layers of stoic indifference. "Quite the contrary," he added, his voice low and husky. "It's... comforting."

You pressed your lips together and turned your head back towards the marigolds- it was time to drain them, not time to blush for the childish words that came out of the mouth of Aemond Targaryen.

Still, how did he do that? How could he always make you feel so small and incompetent with a mere stare. As you transferred the flowers into the mortar and began to smash them, you started thinking of any way, any question that could make him as uncomfortable as he’d made you.

“Do you have a lover?”

You saw him straightening up after the words left your mouth, and you realised you had hit the spot. His hands joined in front of his lap, and he stared down at you as you continued to smash the marigolds- your position made him seem even taller than he already was. “That is hardly any of your concern, wife.” he answered coolly, turning his gaze back to the crushed flowers.

Your movements halted, and you looked up at him, an unbelieving smile on your lips, “Why are you free to ask such questions, yet when I do so you are not willing to answer?”

His eye betrayed nothing of what he felt, except for the distaste he seemed to reserve to you when you talked to him. “You chose to answer, however pathetically.”

The smile, false as it was, faded from your lips. You preferred the version of him that asked you uncomfortable questions and stared at your every move, no doubt. This version made you want to slap him across the face.

And that’s exactly why you did it. He did not move much at the impact- he almost did not move at all- but you hoped it stung as much as it did in your hand. “Then ask a fucking maester for this daft poultice and leave me be.” you spat, grabbing your skirts and walking out of the chambers.

❀❀

You had never loathed and yearned someone in such a way.

The mere sight of his walk, so rhythmic and precise, made the hairs on your arm stick up, and the sound of his steps had your ears inevitably tense up, and they made you hope that he was walking to come to you, to make you go mental again. But he never did.

Even if you heard his steps outside your chambers at night, stilling in front of the door, even if he stared at you across the table during dinner, even if you found him occupying spaces he never used to be in, he did not speak a word to you. It made you incredibly frustrated, and the desire to slap his face again made itself palpable.

It was another full moon, however, and, having lost the last one for Aemond Targaryen, you decided you were not going to cower again. You made your way to your shared chambers despite you wished not to stand in the same room as him and pushed the doors open after taking a deep breath.

You found him there, but you were not going to give him the satisfaction of having a reaction to his presence. “Husband.” you greeted him with a curt nod, your eyes not truly meeting his as you walked to the window. You lent your hands against the window ledge and looked at the source of pale light coming from the night sky.

When he did not greet you, you felt a sense of pride, for that made him a childish man, a pathetic one. Although the urge to speak to him, to ask him if the poultice the maester made was working, to ask him if he could not sleep, was strong, stronger was the need to hate him. So you bit your tongue and stared out the window.

He crossed the room slowly, his boots echoing against the stone floor, making the hair on your neck stand up. However, you did not turn around. "I see you've finally decided to grace me with your presence." He spoke, his voice dripping with disdain. "Mind telling me what's so bloody important about that window?" his sharp voice cut through what could have been a pleasant ten minutes.

“Tonight is a full moon.” you answered, not taking your eyes away from the sky, although you swallowed heavily. “And I was not trying to avoid you, merely going about my day.”

He let out a dry, mirthless laugh. "So, you're here because of the moon, not for me?" His tone was laced with bitterness. Aemond stepped closer, standing just behind you, his warm breath brushing against your neck.

He placed his hand on the window ledge next to yours, his fingers so near yours you could feel the heat emanating from them. You took your hand away, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Bold of you to imply that I am here for you.” you said, feeling both repulsion and a strong arousal at his nearness.

“I imply nothing.” Aemond replied curtly, but his next words dripped with challenge: “These are the chambers in which we are supposed to share a bed. If you are not here for me, I do not see why you should be here at all.”

You turned to face him slowly after his words, your eyes going from his chest covered in dark green fabric to his face. “I will leave, then.” you announced.

Before you could do any move- which you were not going to, for those words were only spoken to make him react- his hand came up and grabbed your wrist. His hold was strong, but it did not aim to hurt. "No," he growled. "We are wed. You will stay." A flash of anger ignited in his good eye as he held your gaze. "If you're so determined to ignore me during the day, fine. But nights are mine." The words were spoken with a low, menacing undertone that left little room for argument. He didn't release his hold on your arm, waiting for your reaction.

But you did not give him the satisfaction, for you turned back around and faced the window, not uttering a word back to him. His grip tightened momentarily, making you feel how boiling his skin was, before he released you.

You heard the sound of his boots, and you turned around despite yourself, thinking for a moment that he was going to walk away. But he filled two goblets with red wine and brought one back to you.

“Am I to consider this a symbol of truce? Or the apology you cannot utter?” you asked him, taking the cold metal in your hand and bringing it up to have a sip.

“Consider it what you will.” he said, his tone still harsh as he did the same thing, but his eye moved to your lips, watching as the liquid slightly tinted the inner skin of your lips of a dark red.

You sighed and turned back around, keeping the goblet near your chest as you looked at the night sky with way less interest than you had when you had come in. You heard him putting the goblet on the windowsill, before he exhaled an intentionally deep breath, hitting your skin and making goosebumps rise.

He looked at the moon too, for some moments, and you wondered what he was thinking about. Then, out of the blue, he took a step forward, making his chest touch your back, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing his palm flat on your stomach. “I did not realise the moon was so much more captivating than I, Princess.” he murmured in your ear, standing so close your perfume filled his nostrils.

“I will continue to pretend it is.” you answered after hoping your voice would not come out broken.

You heard the brief chuckle he let out against your neck as he leaned in closer. “Is all this because I did not answer your question the past moon? Or for the words I spoke?” he asked, his hand moving left until it rested on your hip, “I will admit it might have been a slight overreaction.”

You let out a scoff at his words, taking a big swig of wine to try and forget about his hand on you. “At least you acknowledge it.”

When his hand moved to your arse, squeezing it softly with his warm hand, you thought yourself about to drop the goblet. You were glad when he took it from you with his free hand, that touched yours extremely more than necessary, and finished the few remaining drops before settling it down the windowsill beside his. “I also said you smelled of marigolds, did I not? I said I found it comforting.”

“You did.” you said with what was your remaining voice, before stating more confidence, “You brought me the wine as an apology.”

“I did.” he blurted out, his hand stilling for a moment before it went back to your hip, as did the other one. “I am sorry.” he confessed then, making you feel far from pathetic after having Aemond Targaryen apologise with no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

But when he squeezed your hips, brought you back to reality and pressed his erection to your back, he made you suddenly realise what was happening. His breath ghosted on your neck before the tip of his nose brushed your jawline. “Does my apology satisfy you, wife?” he asked in a husky whisper as his hands roamed your waist.

The warmth of his body seeped into yours and into the fabrics you were wearing. You imagined he felt the same fires stocking his insides when he breathed out as if oxygen was just given back to him. He brought you closer still, massaging his cock with the curve of your arse, as if the mere contact was enough to fulfill his burning desire.

You leaned over the windowsill and rested on your elbows, arching your back nonchalantly and looking at him from behind your shoulder. “I believe it appropriate.”

At your actions, his mouth fell agape, and he looked down at your arse, pressed against his lap in such a tantalising manner he seemed about to rip the fabric off in one tug, letting this game you played cease. His hand moved to caress your back, and it returned to your hip when his eye found yours once again.

He pressed himself harder into you, as if to be sure you felt the extent of his hardness, the full lenght of his desire. “Do you wish for me to show you just how sincere my apology can be?”

You bit your lip, looking at his strong hand covering your hip and wrinkling the soft fabric of your nightgown, and nodded.

Aemond let out a deep breath at your consent, and he bent over you slowly, eyes closed, as he massaged your hips roughly. “Shall we move to our bed, then?” he asked, using the possessive adjective purposefully.

It made you grin, and you straightened up as he did the same, before facing him. With a hand on the side of his neck, your nails grazing the contour of his jaw, you led him to the bed, before pushing him to sit on the softness.

You reached behind your back, and undid the bow that kept your nightgown tight. He spoke when your hands moved to the button at the back of the collar, “Can I be of any-“

“No.” you interrupted him, looking at how his violet eye darkened at your firm answer. You let the light fabric glide down your shoulders before you bared your chest to his view, and then your stomach, and your legs.

You took a step forward, completely naked before him. He breathed out again, raising a hand and placing it on your hip, almost testing if you were really not just a product of his fantasies. “Devine.” he said in a whisper, genuine and unfiltered, as he ate you with his eye as much as he could, taking in everything possible in the dim light of the full moon.

Your hand found his shoulder once again as you climbed on top of him, the softness of your thighs against his sides. Your hair concealed both your faces from whatever else was in the room, and you took off his eyepatch right before it fell discarded on the stone floor.

It was obvious the slight discomfort he felt, but he did not let it linger, for his tapered fingers trailed down your waist to your thigh and felt every dip and curve in its way. “May I touch you?” he asked, the purple in his iris completely replaced by the black of his pupil as he stared up at you, his thumb tracing the edge of your pussy.

One of your hands left his shoulder to find his between your thighs, and you guided two of his fingers to your entrance, letting out a breath as he began exploring your wet folds.

Aemond’s mouth parted at the feeling of your slick cunt, testament of your desire for him, and slowly pushed inside, relishing in the tightness around his fingers. He started moving slowly, curling his fingers before sliding out of you completely and filling you up once again.

You started to grind your hips against his hand, coating his milky skin with your arousal as you threw your head back and moaned. The sound made the grip of his hand on your hip tightened so much you were sure it would have left a bruise, but you did not stop him.

Your nails scratched at the base of his neck, giving him the signal to pick up speed. His fingers moved faster, making you cry out as he leaned forward and started tasting the skin of your neck like a man starved, nipping and kissing, licking and biting.

Another moan escaped your mouth, and his fingers went even faster, fucking your tight cunt until, added to the sound of your moans and his rugged breathing, there also was that of the wetness inside of you.

Heat flushed through Aemond as you moaned on top of him, the sound alone enough to make his cock swell with anticipation. He was mesmerized by the way you responded to his touch, each gasp, each little movement driving him madder with desire. He thought he might just release himself simply from watching you ride his hand, but he fought it back. He wanted more, so much more, and he wouldn't let his own pleasure interrupt this moment. The feel of your cunt clenching around his digits, your body writhing with ecstasy, was worth far more than the temporary relief of orgasm.

In a swift move, he picked you up and stood upright, keeping his fingers inside your cunt even as he laid you on the bed. He moved on top, one of his legs between yours, and he slipped his fingers out of you.

At the missing contact you whined, bringing him closer with a hand on the side of his neck. He let out a satisfied smile and leaned into your ear, “Patience.”

His lips found yours hungrily, then, making you taste the wine you had just consumed and the fire that burned on his tongue, while his hand still cupped your sex possessively. You moaned against his hot mouth, rolling your hips to tell him you wanted more.

He grinned and broke the kiss, and before you knew, his hands were gripping your thighs, sinking into the soft skin, and his mouth hovered over your dripping pussy.

You wanted to ask him what he intended to do, but it became quite clear when he replaced his fingers with his tongue, savouring every last drop of your juices, ready to bring you to the brink of pleasure.

You moaned loudly, finding his hair right away and pulling the silver and silky locks to urge him closer to your dripping heart. Your feet lied on his back as you closed your eyes, a sensation immensely stronger than the one you felt alone started to be felt in your lower stomach.

Aemond's breath was ragged, his lust evident in every touch, every kiss, every stroke of his tongue against your sensitive flesh. As he teased your clit, his one good eye focused intently on your face, drinking in the sight of your pleasure.

Your taste was intoxicating, your cries music to his ears. He craved this, this raw display of passion and trust, and he intended to make the most of it. He slid his tongue inside of you, thrusting in and out before returning to your clit and replacing it with his fingers, relishing the way your muscles contracted around them.

He felt your body tense, your breathing quicken, and he knew you were close. He increased his efforts, determined to make you scream his name- or whatever title you chose to give him in that moment- to the heavens.

You came undone, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Aemond continued to lick and suckle at your clit until the last tremor subsided, only then crawling up your body to claim your mouth in a possessive kiss, sharing your taste with you.

Your vision returned when his lips collided with yours, finding entrance to your mouth right away and caressing your tongue with his. You moaned into his mouth, willing your legs to stop shaking after your orgasm.

He broke the kiss, and brought his hand to his lips, tasting you on the fingers he’d used to bring you the best pleasure you had ever felt. He looked down at you as he did so, shifting position so as to remind you of his hard cock pressing against your thigh.

“Strip.” you breathed out in what sounded much like a plea to your ears, but the frantic motions in which he did what you said made you understand how desperate he was to stretch you out.

He quickly revealed his toned and flawless chest to your eyes, before taking off his trousers with equal haste. Stepping out of them, he locked his eye with yours as he slid off his breacheas. He took his hard cock in his hand, pumping it slowly as he positioned himself on the bed once again, the pressure of him on his knees making the mattress sink.

Precum leaked from his head, and you remembered how it felt to have his seed inside of you after your wedding night. He gripped your knee, spreading your legs apart guiding his cock over your still trembling pussy.

His breathing was extremely laboured as he looked down, “I do not have a lover.”

The confession made your eyes shoot up to his, wide and attentive for what he was about to say, but no other words of the matter came out of his mouth. “You… You do not?” you breathed out, needy for another reassurance.

His eye went to you, and he shook his head. Then he licked his lips and leaned down to your ear. He left a ghost of a kiss on your cheekbone, making the skin tingle, before moving to your ear. “No, sweet wife… But, if you must know, I have fucked my hand countless of times thinking of this perfect cunt of yours… And of your smell, most of all.” he whispered huskily, his hand coming to rest on your hip, squeezing the flesh.

He left you wordless and with ragged breathing as he straightened up. His hand found his hard shaft again, and he slapped it against your pussy, coating your clit with his precum and making you squirm for the touch on the still sensitive part.

He watched your reaction with dark intensity, a hint of satisfaction flashing across his features at your responsiveness. His thumb stroked the bundle of nerves lazily, even if completely aware, while his cock teased your entrance. He knew you were ready, yet he took his time, prolonging the torture for both of you. "Do you want me?" He asked, his voice low and gravelly.

“Yes!” you almost yelled, making his lips curve into a predatory smirk. With a triumphant grin, Aemond positioned himself at your entrance, feeling the wetness and warmth that awaited him. His hand left your hip, gripping your breast instead, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, teasing you even further.

When his hand moved back to your hip, but he made no sign of moving, you rolled your eyes, “Aem-” but you could not finish saying his name that he thrust into you with a ferocity that was just short of violent, and a groan escaped him at the sensation.

Despite the loss of gentleness that he offered to you as he took you for the second time, you could not deny that was exactly how you wanted him to fuck you. Your moan reverberated loudly through the walls of your shared chambers as he pounded into you with a ferocity that made your walls clamp down on his length.

His hips snapped forward with unrelenting force, burying his length deep within you, eliciting another loud moan. The sight of you writhing beneath him was enough to make him lose control, but he fought to keep himself in check.

He savoured the feel of your body tightening around him, the way your breasts bounced with each thrust, and the soft whimpers that fell from your lips. Aemond couldn't help the thought crossing his mind: she was his now. His to claim whenever he wanted, his to protect, and his to pleasure. It filled him with an unfamiliar sense of satisfaction that bordered on possessiveness. "Fuck," he growled, the sight of his cock disappearing into your depths driving him closer to the edge.

He pulled out abruptly, causing you to gasp in surprise and protest. He hooked both hands under your knees and spread you out to him. “Was I blind to wait this long to take you again?” he asked almost to himself as he drank the sight of you, glistening and trembling for his attention.

With one swift movement, he entered you again, making you feel another orgasm approach. You sunk your head on the pillows, your mouth opened as he started thrusting again, moans of pure bliss and satisfaction coming out of his mouth.

One of his hands moved to find your soft thigh, “I want you to look, wife.” he said almost pleadingly. “I want you to look as I claim you again, as my seed fills your beautiful cunt.”

You bit your lip hard but looked down at his cock as he moved fast, making you take it inside, which you did greedily. It all made your walls tighten around his length even more than before, making him grunt out a moan.

“Gods,” he whispered gravelly, furrowing his brows in pleasure but still maintaining his gaze on where your bodies joined, “It’s so fucking perfect.”

He slammed into you even harder then, but his erratic thrusts made you understand he was about to finish. “Fuck…” he grunted again, and he leaned over your leg, bending it and letting his cock deeper inside you.

Your hand found his neck, bringing him closer while applying pressure to it as your cunt spasmed around him. You closed your eyes shut in pleasure, but the iron grip on your thigh reminded you to look as he had ordered.

So you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip, feeling your throat going raw at the contained screams of pleasure while you came around him. Your grip on his throat loosened drastically, for your strength was now completely drained out of you, but then he buried himself inside your cunt to the hilt, sliding out to do it again, all accompanied by his moans into your ear as he emptied himself inside of you.

You saw the arm that he was holding upon to give up, and, spent, he lay on top of your chest, his skin glistening in the candlelight due to the sheer layer of sweat on it.

Your hand found his hair, pushing the silver strand away from his face. He sighed heavily in a weak attempt to regain his breath, and rested a hand on your ribcage, letting his thumb trace circles on the skin. “We will continue once we have rested a moment.” he announced, making you breathe out a laugh and raise your eyebrows.

“Aemond,” you said with a lingering smile, your free hand finding his back and tracing the same circles he was on you. “It has yet to pass a minute.”

“I am fully aware,” he replied, moving to rest his chin on your sternum so he could look up at you. “We have been married for five moons now, and this is the second time I have you… I need more.” he said, his eye serious as he bent to leave a kiss on your skin.

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s-4pphics · 6 months ago

Text

drenched in white. (e.w.)

SYNOPSIS: after all your time alone, you’re finally not, but you’re definitely not prepared for your new life. [jackson AU]

WORD COUNT: 7.1K

WARNINGS: readers mute and taller than ellie, death, murder, blood, mentions of alcohol/starvation/hypothermia, a bit of gore, near death experience, trauma and sadness, brief girls kissing, some fluff because kids :)

A/N: tbh idk where this came from but i missed ellie so yeah prob wont write anymore of this but yeah

—

Apocalypses are fucking stupid.

Humans are born into nothing, forced to run all their lives from blood-lustful beasts that can rewire their entire brain chemistry into one that sadistically matches theirs, and if that doesn’t happen, you die anyway with nothing but the clothes on your back and a horse with no rider. That’s fucking stupid.

You weren’t alive when the world was thriving… presumably so — whatever the old world considered thriving. Those history books you stole in adolescence would argue otherwise, but there were some happy moments. On occasion. Maybe? Whatever. But you weren’t there, and you can only imagine how you would’ve turned out if you were. Would you be married? Have children? Own property? Businesses? Whatever other luxury the old world prioritized although it all seemed exhausting?

Would you be an addict, a trainwreck, someone who had it all then nothing in the blink of an eye? That seems to be reoccurring in some of those biographies you found about people called celebrities. They have everything then die too young or way too old and eventually fade into a nobody, just like everyone else. History is so heartbreaking. Such cruel fate.

You’ve been by yourself for a long time. Some would still consider you young, but you feel like a zombie that’s risen from the grave most of the time. You steal and live selfishly and waste your life reading because you can. You’re lucky enough to no longer have anyone you care about. Your recklessness doesn’t hinder anyone but yourself, so you read read read. Sometimes, you hunt for books more than you do for food. You’re not a fighter — it surprises you every day how you haven’t died yet — but a decent amount of people would consider you book smart. This one group you crossed paths with some years ago called you a genius because you’re self-taught in practically everything: reading and writing, starting fires, planting food, sewing, mapping plains. Whenever you’re harmed, you can heal yourself kinda. When you were 14, you stepped on a rusty nail and, instead of living the short remainder of your life as an amputee, you heroed through a disgusting infection that left you ill for 2 weeks, then sewed your own wound up. You couldn’t walk for days.

That same group also called you mute.

You don’t think you are, but rightfully so. There’s no one for you to talk to, so you don’t talk, simple as that. Everyone you knew died when you were a kid, maybe 7 or 8 — spending the majority of your life alone and in hiding doesn’t make for much conversation. Plus, the fucks that rule the Earth are nosy as hell. Being as quiet as possible is needed.

Reading passes time. It’s the last phase of winter, but it’ll be Spring in no time, thanks to the bag you drag through snow: stuffed with one jacket, a rusted chef’s knife, and 46 different novels and counting.

Your body’s gonna shut down on you. It’s so fucking cold and you’re barely layered but you haven’t finished The Cable Companies, One Hundred and One Best Songs. The pages filled with piano notes are almost enough to make you hear the songs… Or maybe the lack of nutrients is making you hallucinate. Guess you’ll find out when you finish. Just 22 more pages.

No food, no water, no warmth, no antique piano. You’re fucked any direction you turn.

There was a small cave somewhere around here. You used to sleep in it during the summer; the dark was always cooler. Maybe it’s buried underneath heaps of snow. You hope not. Fuck.

The closer you get to the cavern, the grosser the air becomes. Death carries a certain mugginess. Why’d they have to die next to your one retreat?

You drag and drag on like your legs weigh a ton all the way to the cave and… Great.

Death and no entrance. Red coats the snow and it reminds you of the twisted tale of Snow White. The decaying carcass of a deer should alarm you, but you only sigh in defeat. Where the fuck are you supposed to read without disturbance?

You only make it two more steps before you collapse face-first into ice. Your lungs wheeze in pain and you’re trying to get yourself up but you can’t. When you blink, you see colors.

Is this death? Or karma? A squirrel runs past you just to rub it in. Furry little bitch.

It’s only when your brain whispers for you to give up that you fully submerge into the snow. Small cries of pain are the only proof of your survival.

Fuck everything. Fuck people, fuck people that turned into monsters, fuck all the stupid trivial shit that the other world loved so deeply. Call it jealousy. Everything’s for nothing nowadays.

Your final thought before the world goes dark.

—

Why is there annoying beeping in heaven?

Maybe you’re naive in believing you made it there. Maybe this is hell. You thought it’d be more fucked up than this. The beeping is irritating though. Besides that, it’s peaceful.

Is this an in between world? Half dead, half not. You remember being into paranormal shit in horror stories years ago. Ghostly entities and whatnot. Maybe you’re… that. There’s whispers in the background. Bleary and distant but you kinda hear them. Maybe someone’s conjuring you up. Why you of all people?

“— ne… de…”

Need? Your ears are failing. Why is everything suddenly hurting? Pain in your eyes and behind them and all the way down. It’s hurting everywhere.

“—Jus… there… Not sure.”

It’s hurts so bad everywhere make it stop make it stop —

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

White overtakes your vision. Too bright and too cold and you can’t stop heaving but you want to because it fucking hurts everywhere

“Hey! Hey! Calm—”

The voices are clearer and so is the beeping and so is the pain. Gentle hands land on your shoulders and you thrash when faces, needles and medical equipment clear in your vision. There’s something sharp in your arm. Where the fuck when the fuck how —

“You needa calm down—“

You try to tell this blonde freak to go fuck herself but your voice is shot, coughing and spit flying everywhere.

“The fuck is her probl—“

“Be quiet—“

A crackling scream ripples through you, tears streaming down your face because suddenly more hands are holding you down. Malicious intent or not it makes you fucking sick. The beeping only gets faster.

“MY — my name’s Maria! Listen to me! My name’s Maria! Some of mine went out on patrol a few days ago and found you almost buried. We’re tryna help you!”

You continue to sob but they’re a little less guttural. Her voice is nice. Very motherly.

“You were halfway dead out there,” She huffs like it’s funny and you wanna throw a chair, “What’s your name? Gotta name?”

All the hands are off you except Maria’s. Maybe because you’re not trying to kick her face in anymore. You’re trying to tell her you don’t fucking remember but nothing comes out. Just more coughing.

“Take your time. Deep breaths, shhh, you’re alright.”

You finally meet her eyes and they’re pretty. Pale blue like spring water. The beeping starts to slow bit by bit. It took you all this time to realize that’s your heart. You glimpse at the monitor and… those squiggly lines mean fuck all to you. Why couldn’t you just die?

Your eyes travel, albeit less frantically, but on high guard. Skeptical as ever. You couldn’t even defend yourself against these incredibly polite barbarians if you wanted to. Your bag’s gone. Everything that’s yours is gone. The beeps increase all over again. Maria must sense your anxiety.

“Hey, hey, we have everything. We just had to make sure you were… alright to come in. No bites or nothing, ‘k?”

… Fair. Whatever. Gimme my shit.

“We were snoopin’,” Your vision follows the new voice. A man this time, average sized and bearded, “Ya like t’read?”

You squint and nod.

“‘S a good habit.”

… Awkward. It’s quiet now.

“How ya feelin’? Any pain?” Maria pries gently. You shrug. Not as bad as it was 2 minutes ago. You eye everyone in here, study as much of them as you can. Face, hands, guns latched around their thighs and shoved in their belts. They’re all threats while simultaneously being unthreatening. For now, at least.

“Y’all can get on. I got it from here.” She waves the remaining people off and they leave with tense smiles. The door clicks behind them. The beeping is the slowest it’s been since you woke up.

“Bout that name…”

You only stare at her.

“Don't remember?”

You scratch at your neck, and she sighs, “Not much of a talker, huh?”

You mime writing in a notepad, and Maria quirks with interest. She searches the room before digging through a drawer on the farthest dresser. She returns with a small book and marker.

The aches in your fingers don’t halt your scribbling. You turn the book towards her.

ARE YOU GOING TO KILL ME?

The corner of her mouth lifts, “No point in fixin’ ya up if that was the case. No offense, but you’re not threatening.”

You snort.

“You been by yourself for a while?”

You ponder before scribbling.

I WATCHED MY FAMILY DIE. PRETTY FUCKED UP CHILDHOOD. I’M ALWAYS ALONE.

She stares sympathetically and shakes her head in apologies. All you can do is shrug. You’d be more surprised if a kid grew up in this world without experiencing mass destruction. Trauma practically raised you.

“There’s not many people that can do what you do, y’know? You gotta gift.” She jerks her chin at the booklet. “Somebody taught’cha?”

You point to yourself.

“Don’t let that head get big now.” She smirks and you smile sorta.

“We got kids…” Maria blindly points towards the door.

“A lot of ‘em, and we’ve been tryna get them to read more but… I don’t know, some of these old bastards think it’s pointless and that discourages them.”

Oh.

“I don’t know what you got goin’ on out there, but… If you choose to go back out there, I won’t fault you, but if you don’t…”

Uh oh.

“How do you feel ‘bout teaching toddlers their ABCs?”

… Shit.

You scowl.

“I know it’s not the best… position to be in but, I don’t know, I just want something they can look forward to everyday. A new story, some new conversations… anything to get their little brains crankin’.”

“They’re so sweet and I feel like they’d gain so much from someone who cares just as much as they do.”

You don’t write anything. Her pupils shroud with dejection.

“Think about it?” She’s quick to turn away, but not without one last look over her shoulder, “Rest up.”

And the door closes. Your eyes shut in no time, and a comforting darkness overtakes you once more.

—

Leave with nothing but your annotated novels or stay where you’re well fed and warm but surrounded by snotty nosed orphans. Something to think about.

You’ve been in Jackson — you learned the town is called — for less than 48 hours, most of which you were recovering from a severe case of hypothermia. You don’t remember the last time you had a meal that hot. Maria had to reassure you that no one would take your plate.

You still haven’t given Maria a clear answer for her teaching proposal, but she doesn’t bug you about it. She is very eager to show you the daycare though. She’s subtle. You respect it.

Your books are still couped up in the infirmary because, frankly, you hate dragging them everywhere. Maria offered for you to keep them in the library, but you refused. They’re not up for grabs; You nearly died for every single one of those pages and you’ll be damned if someone touches them under your nose. They’re yours. It’s all you got right now.

You might even leave with a horse if Maria still likes you after telling her no to teaching. Tomorrow morning will wrap up your little dead-then-alive journey. Couldn’t hurt to ask.

It’s your first time back outside since your near-death experience. The sun is barely peeking from behind the clouds and your face is so cold it’s almost retraumatizing, but it’s pretty out. Maria was nice enough to give you new boots that weren’t hanging on by their laces.

Jackson bustles like a real, non-apocalyptic town. Lights shine and pick-ups honk and people are fucking smiling? Maybe this is heaven.

Those walls… They’re still high and barricaded. Scouts babysit those gates like clockwork. To think you were on the other side of their scrutiny just a day ago. The twinkling sound of joy confuses the fuck outta you. Laughter. Not only that, but from children. Not starving, nearly dead children, but well-fed, genuinely happy kids. Why does your stomach twist with jealousy? They deserve peace, of course, but so did you. So does every child.

Your eyes search for them — curiosity overtakes your limbs and you step with determination, guided by your ears. The twinkles grow in volume — there must be at least 10 kids playing in the snow.

“HEY! GET OFF, YOU FU—“

“Language!”

“HOW’S THIS FOR LANGU—“

“BOYS! ENOUGH! I’M SICK OF YOUR SHI—!”

“LANGUAGE, MS. DINA!”

“I CAN SAY THAT! YOU CAN’T!”

What a sight this is. Happy kids. Your heart swells. Slightly; you’re glad Maria isn’t here to catch your fondness.

“Alright, vermins, get up, I’ll miss the party.”

“5 more minutes, pleeease!”

“I’m not freezing for you. C’mon!”

The kids seem to love Ms. Dina. They dangle off every single one of her limbs, begging her to throw at least 10 more snowballs. Maybe your ice-cold heart isn’t as frosty as you thought. The sight is disgustingly endearing.

“Ms. Dina… Who’s that?”

And the laughter stops. A bunch of eyes attached to tiny bodies all gawk at you, some with intrigue, others with fear as they cower behind their teacher… babysitter? Whoever she is.

“Not sure, dove. You all have 10 minutes!”

“20!”

“10 or freeze to death! Go!”

Excited screams filter through the wind when said vermins squabble in snow like puppies, pushing and shoving and chucking icy bullets at each other. You never had to worry about being the oddball out, but you sure do look like one now.

“Hey. Maria told us about a scrounger.”

Creases bunch in your forehead, and Dina raises her hands defensively, “Joking, relax. So, are you staying, or…?” You shrug unknowing, and Dina chuckles.

“I think you should. If I had the option to stay here 24/7, I’d take it in a heartbeat. We could use an extra hand with the kids. Maria said you read?”

You nod. “Cool. We have a decent amount of readers — more than most, but, uh… yeah. Our kids need help.”

Your lip twitches alongside your pondering. So many questions rest on your tongue but none can leave. Dina’s eyes are consoling. It shouldn’t spark irritation in your stomach but it does.

“Do you sign?”

You stare in confusion, and she elaborates, “Like… Sign language?” Her hands make a bunch of gestures you don’t understand and your head shakes.

“Darn. No worries. If you’re ever interested in learning, just holler. We got some people that are hard of hearing so we all kinda use it occasionally. But, umm… yeah. I’m Dina.” She extends a polite hand but you don’t accept it. Your head jerks in greeting, and she smiles.

She drops it back to her side, “What should we call you?”

You don’t know. You don’t care. You’re not staying long. Your shoulders rise and fall nonchalantly.

“Should I have them pick?”

Before you can oppose, she’s hollering for—

“DYLAN! COME HERE!”

A rascal with a beanie and bright red boots sprints towards the two of you. His cheeks are so plush and scarred. Dina fixes the color of his sweater, “Dylan, what’s a good name for a teacher?”

“Ms. Dina, obviously—“

“Another name.”

Chipmunk Boy ponders for a moment before snickering, “Mr. Octopus.”

“Fucking hell—“

“Language, Ms. Dina! SWEAR JAR—“

“We don’t even do that here!”

“Okay, okay… just call them Dove or something! Don’t think we don’t notice you calling us that when you forget our names!”

Dina’s eyes widen, “That’s not true! What the… freak!”

Red-Boot-Ranger smirks when Dina catches herself before getting pelted at the back of the head with a snowball.

“Little BITCH—“

Dina shouts, “HEY!—“

“MS. DINA, FRANKIE CURSED!”

“NO, I DIDN’T—“

Arguments break out between all 13 children, loud and boisterous and your head pounds. Too much for one day.

“STOP— sorry, I gotta handle this, but it was nice meeting you! BOYS—“

Dina throws you one last wave before rushing off to scold Dylan and his… bully? You think that’s what they were called in some books you read. A kid messing with another kid or something like that.

You take this last bit of alone time before you depart to explore.

Despite your eagerness to disappear, Jackson is nice. You don’t know what Christmas entails, but it’s often described as festive: a day for togetherness and family and whatever the hell else ‘can’t be bought’ yet everyone buys. Jackson is visually festive. Celebratory scenery. What exactly they’re celebrating goes over your head. There’s nothing to be joyous over. Death traps Jackson at every corner.

Loud music pulls you from your thoughtful stroll. One look through a very large window is enough to scare you shitless. A seemingly cozy space is filled to the brim with strangers who dance and drink and laugh their heads off; Their familiarity with one another makes you physically ill. The scene is like a bullet to the chest. Reminds you of what was once home.

Your nausea doesn’t overtake your curiosity, though.

The moment you step into the bar, warmth suffocates you, heat sizzling through your legs as your face defrosts. The entire bar screams out lyrics to a song you never heard while cups get refilled with burning liquid and it’s overwhelming. There’s so much movement. Too much.

Blonde hair swings out the corner of your eye and you’re instantly relieved. You hustle to where Maria chats with partygoers from across the bar. She’s shocked to see you.

“Hey! You’re up’n moving!”

You wave awkwardly. Gawk back at the people that gawk at you before Maria hands you a glass.

“You drink?” You deny with a raised hand, and she smiles.

“Probably not the best time to ask,” She hollers over the jukebox, “I’m hoping this is your initiation?” Her eyes are hopeful, and your throat dries a bit. Why are you hesitating to answer?

Maria’s nice enough… probably the nicest stranger you’ve ever met in your entire life, and it seems more comfortable in Jackson than anywhere you’ve been. It doesn’t seem so bad… but you don’t like children. You barely liked yourself at age 10; short and clumsy and vulnerable. Children are too exposed and trusting, even in this life. They get people killed because they’re not careful. It shocks you that a fortress like Jackson carries so many.

A pen and paper get slid on wood and placed in front of you. You eye Maria, and she nods encouragingly. You waste no time.

I DON’T THINK I’LL BE A GOOD TEACHER. DINA HAS MORE PATIENCE IN HER PINKY THAN I DO IN MY ENTIRE BODY. I’M SORRY.

You meekly hold the note up for Maria, and you know she’s disappointed. You patiently wait for her to tell you to get your shit so she can kick you out herself.

It never comes.

“I hope that girl didn’t scare you,” In reference to Dina, and you deny, “I had a feeling you’d say no. It’s alright. Kids are… a lot.”

You set the paper down in relief that she’s not angry. About that horse…

“Doesn’t hurt to ask… You still wanna leave?”

That stuns you. Oftentimes, large groups aren’t so welcoming to… scroungers, or whatever Dina made you out to be. The less mouths to feed, the better. If a newbie holds no purpose, they’re left out to die on their own. It’s happened to you countless times. Why does she care about a stranger so much?

Maria chuckles at your stunned expression, “It’s, um… it’s hard out there. We’ve all seen it, and we’re lucky to have found somewhere… stable. It doesn’t come often.”

“The choice is still yours, stayin’ or goin’, but if you’re scared I’ll kick you out… don’t be. We got nothin’ but space.”

Your mind races yet not one cohesive response comes through. Maria laughs at your slack jaw. “Here. Sleep on it tonight, and let me know in the mornin’. It’s a party! Let loose a little. Go mingle.“

You scribble on the last bit of remaining space.

I’M NOT A PEOPLE PERSON.

Maria huffs, “Neither’s my niece. She’s like a niece to me, that one, over there.” She points at the end of the bar to a woman, girl — looks around your age, babysitting a drink: tatted, hair pulled back, and sulking. She talks with a guy with a mullet that’s too movie-star ready. “You two’d get along, I think. Her name’s Ellie. Jesse’s the one next to her, he’s a sweetheart. Very helpful. If Dina was here, they’d be the Three Musketeers. She still with the kids?”

You nod, but your eyes are locked onto Ellie’s tattoo. You’ve never seen one in person. In romance books, people with tattoos are always trouble: good in bed with murderous tendencies. Maybe it’s wrong to assume, but Ellie doesn’t seem like that. No one that pouty would kill a fly. You wonder if her friend has tattoos. He’d fit the stereotype more.

“Wanna meet ‘em?”

Fire bursts underneath your cheeks. You vehemently shake your head at Maria, and mischief glints in her eyes.

“HEY, ELLIE, JES—“

You gawk at Maria, tugging at her wrist for her to stop, but she laughs, “Hey, you two!”

Your face falls into your palm. “Need somethin’, Maria?” A deep voice blares. Jesse, apparently. Fucking great.

“No, hun. Just introducing a new friend,” Maria whispers loud enough for you to hear before tending to other patrons, “Convince her to stay?”

Your eyes roll and your heart pulses.

“… Hey.”

You wave weakly. Annoyed, and Jesse laughs. “Yeah, she’s a lot sometimes. I’m Jesse.” You send him a thumbs up.

“… Gotta name yourself?”

You shrug with agitation. If someone else asks you that, you’ll scream.

“… Hm. Okay, then. I’m gonna get another drink. Want one?” You decline as politely as your attitude allows.

“You, El?”

“M’good.”

“Alright,” He hums too uppity, “Enjoy the quiet.” He goofs before following Maria to the other end of the bar. Silence ensues between you and Ellie, and it’s fucking awkward. It wouldn’t be if you were by yourself. You pick at the piece of paper in front of you.

Ellie adjusts her stance, attention on the dance that dominates the floor, her tatted arm propping her up against the bar. You can see the fine lines out the corner of your eye: leaves of a fern resting underneath a moth. A Polyphemus. Compulsive. A symbol of death, you once read somewhere. Regardless, it’s beautifully done.

“Want a picture?”

You stiffen and your gaze drops to the paper. Your eyelids squeeze shut in embarrassment.

Ellie releases a hefty breath before sighing, “You read?” She asks, and you shrug.

“You don’t talk?” You do nothing.

She already sounds annoyed by you. You hope she notices you’re in the same boat. “It’s better if you don’t.” She mumbles to herself. You throw a glare in her direction, but she pays you no mind. She’s focused elsewhere, eyes much more delicate. You discreetly follow her line of vision.

… Dina. Hilarious. Is she a god here? Good with children and the annoying and aloof? Everyone here claps and hoots at her being dipped by her partner like they’ve never seen dancing before. When did she even get here? Where are the kids? Maybe they’re all snowballed out and went to bed—

… What. What the fuck? You don’t care, what the hell.

You turn back to Ellie when Dina waves at her, wide-eyed and princess-y, before waltzing towards Jesse to throw her arms around his neck, which he eagerly returns around her waist. Ellie’s expression goes from lovestruck to tense in an instant, jaw clenched and eyes burning through the floor. You try to hide a snicker.

Ellie’s jealous. Adorable.

“The fuck are you smiling for?” She grumbles at you, but her cheeks burn under the yellow light. Your laughter finally bubbles over.

“Nothing’s funny. Shut the fuck—“

“Well, what’d I tell you! Two wallflowers hittin’ it off! Look at that smile!”

Maria graciously interrupts Ellie’s angered mantra. Your hand hides your grin before a light hand brushes your back. You flinch away on instinct. No one notices except Ellie.

Dina greets you first and you almost holler with joy, “Hey, Dove! Sorry I didn’t come over earlier! Had to get this circus goin’ since no one else did,” She casually takes Ellie’s glass and downs its contents with no problem, “Thank you.”

“Such a dick.” Ellie says slowly, and Dina smiles. “You love me.”

You pinch your smile away.

“Dove?” Maria inquiries.

Dina shrugs, “Better than Doe. Makes her sound like a corpse. Dove’s cute.”

“Cute for a bitch,” Ellie slips under her breath, and Dina slaps her arm in scolding. Tames her until she quiets like an actual bitch. This shit is hilarious.

“I like that. Dove.” Maria approves. “It’s… fitting. Joel found her buried in white, so.”

“Okay, Mrs. Poet—“

Maria’s married? Huh.

She hushes Dina playfully. The dark-haired girl interlaces Ellie’s fingers with hers before yanking her off the bar and onto the dance floor. The music slows as if cued just for them. Dina pulls Ellie into her, and Ellie’s hands rest on her waist.

Dina leads, surprisingly.

Ellie’s expression doesn’t scream delight. She’s nerve wracked and her eyes flit over every body that surrounds her with anxiety. Even yours.

Dina’s a good distraction. She's quite seductive when she brushes loose hair behind Ellie’s ear, caresses her cheek, touches her with tenderness that you’ve only seen described on paper. Only in your imagination was it real.

Kisses her.

Oh.

You turn away. Your skin’s hot. Maria’s distracted. Thank God. You’ve had enough mingling for tonight. You leave the bar without a trace, the pen and paper left on the stand the only evidence of your appearance.

“Hey! HEY! Ms. Dina’s friend!”

“They’re not friends, she just got here—“

“Shut up! Ms. Dina always said respect your olders—“

“Elders, dumbfuck. And she doesn’t look old—“

Ah, the potty-mouthed bully. Although, he doesn’t seem so threatening in the darkness. Children are the bane of your existence. You’re nowhere near the infirmary. Why are they out in the cold by themselves?

“Hey, Ms. Dina’s friend, how was the party! Ms. M said we aren’t allowed to go in because people are… drunk, whatever that means!”

The same voice from earlier. Red-boot-Ranger. Dylan.

“It means they’re alcoholics—“ A girl this time. Shorter than Dylan but just as expressive.

“I thought alcohol made people happy?“

“Could be, but my aunt drank herself to death so I guess it’s different for everyone!”

Goddamn.

“What’s your name, miss! … Ma’am?” Dylan corrects shyly.

“Ma'am means grandma—“

“Ruth, shut the hell up, Jesus!”

“NO, YOU SHUT UP—“

Dylan waits expectantly while the other two kids attempt to rip each other’s heads off. You flap your hands like wings.

“… Fly? Your name’s fly?”

You shake your head and point upward.

“OH! Sky!—“

You wave your hands in denial and flap your arms while squawking.

“… Bird? Bald Eagle? Um…”

You yank at your hair in exasperation before pointing down at untouched, white snow beneath your feet.

“Snow? Snow bird? Uhh… Swan… Lake?”

Decent guess. This fucking sucks.

“I don’t know what your name is, miss, I’m sorry.” Fucking Christ, the poor thing looks so upset. You’re suddenly the worst human being on the planet. “Are you mad at me?” Dylan asks, voice laced with insecurity, and something cracks in your chest. What the fuck. Your hands wave in denial apprehensively, and he exhales a held breath before smiling.

“I like you! Why don’t you talk?”

You sigh before scribbling on your palm like you did with Maria, and all three kids excitedly demand writing utensils from each other.

“I DON’T HAVE A MARKER!” Frankie hisses when Ruth slaps him on the shoulder.

“DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO BE SUCH AN ASS? FREAKO!”

“Freako! ARE YOU FIVE—“

“What are you kiddos still doin’ up?”

“MR. JOEL!”

Ruth and Dylan practically jump onto this old man and he groans mockingly. Joel. Hm.

“You’re all supposed to be sleep. Did Dina not tuck you in?”

“She did, but we snuck out. We’re bored! Please throw snowballs at us!” Frankie whines.

Joel calmingly caters to the children and their hyperactivity; his voice is very soothing. Gentle enough for the kids to accept that he’s not chucking snowballs at them this late at night.

Joel addresses you. “Maria decided to keep you ‘round?”

It was him. His eyes are calm and welcoming, but there’s a hollowness behind them. It’s hardly noticeable, but he’s bothered by something. He masks it well enough for the kids. He must be a dad. Maybe one of them is his. You just shrug, and he chuckles; crackles like fire. Breaks a bit. His eyes grow sadder the longer he stares at you. Is this man about to cry?

“I’ll, uh… I’ll walk ‘em back,” He nods at Dylan who’s already half asleep on his shoulder, and you nod. He gives you one last look before turning. You clutch onto his hand before he can go any further. He seems shocked by the gesture, but you squeeze it with all your might. You hope every clench reads as a thank you thank you thank you.

He swallows before nodding down at you, returning your gentle squeezes. The last breath he takes before leading the kids home is unsteady. Who broke that poor man’s heart?

You watch his back all the way down the trail until the door to the bar slams shut. It’s Ellie all bundled up and seemingly about to strangle somebody. You can see Dina and Jesse scrambling to follow her through the window, but Ellie’s determined to get the fuck outta range.

You don’t know why, but you whistle loud enough to get her attention. Her cheeks are blazing and her eyes are pained and angry.

“The fuck do you want?” Her breath frosts with each spit she throws. You’re not really sure, so you throw her a thumbs up. Two just in case she read it as good work instead of are you good?

She scoffs a laugh that sounds like a sob, “Fuck off.” And she’s off again. The opposite direction from Joel.

Alright. Fuck her too.

—

The past 5 days have been a blur.

The morning after the party, your brain wracked to put every single interaction together but came up short. So much happened that you can barely grasp it. You died, came back, met at least 100 people, experienced acute peer pressure, and got cussed out by some short, tattooed psychopath with an equivalent amount of people skills as you.

You’ve met teachers, medical professionals, rambunctious kids with a hunger similar to rhinos, a potential dad with an insane amount of patience, but all you can think about is Ellie and her fucking tattoo.

You think that same moth appeared in your dream last night, flapping around and pissing you off.

Maria’s been in a good mood, at least. Maybe because you’re staying in Jackson until further notice. You’re glad she didn't make a big deal about it: the inquiry was short and over breakfast the morning after the party. You slid her note that read CAN I STAY?, she said yes, and now you have a two story home all to yourself, floor stacked to the ceiling with your books and some she lent you.

The first thing you did after she left was scream bloody murder for no reason other than relief. After years of instability, you finally have something consistent. You don’t know how to react to that besides weeping.

There’s only one downside. Ellie’s your neighbor. Life will always humble you.

She’s the first person you see every morning and the last every night and you hate it. The only time you experience true peace is when she’s out on patrol. To think you assumed Ellie wasn’t violent. She returned one morning on her horse covered knee-high in blood as she wiped her switchblade on her dirtied jeans. Even Jesse seemed intimidated.

Meanwhile, you’ve been everywhere: tending the garden, handing beers out to men twice your age, fixing lights. Joel even asked for assistance on a car repair even though you’ve never seen one in your life. You both finished, though. Drives good as new.

You think Dylan’s grown attached. He’s very clingy and you hate it but he also has the chubbiest cheeks you’ve ever seen so you have no choice but to forgive him for his sins. Whenever he jumps on your back while you’re squatted in front of the garden, you just deal with it. He rambles enough for the both of you.

Now you’re serving dinner with a homophobe. Yippee.

Seth sucks gorilla balls. When Maria first introduced you both, he thought you were deaf and asked if you had to be put with him. When you glared at him, he went red in the face. You understand why Ellie hates him. Apparently he called her and Dina dykes at the party and she and Joel almost strangled him. The canteen’s already filled with people, but the patrol group hasn’t returned. They usually make it back before sunset, but it’s dark now. Seth’s set on closing the kitchen down, but you decline everytime. They’re probably starving wherever they are.

It’s not until an hour, then 2 passes when you wrap all 12 of their individual plates.

You’re scared shitless, but it’s time for Dylan’s bedtime story.

—

You always have to remind Dylan to keep his volume down during story time so he doesn’t wake the other kids.

“Why would anyone give up anything magical for a cow? Okay, sure, you’re betting that they actually are magic, but why on Earth? I’d never give away my magic! Am I wrong, Ms. Dove?”

You smile and deny.

“SEE! Exactly! Anyway,” He refocuses on the page. “You numbskull! I can’t eat! You ruined my appetite!”

Dylan’s a great reader, but he loses his place very often. You showed him the follow-your-finger trick and it’s helped, but the poor thing always has to comment on everything. At least he’s entertained.

You don’t realize you dozed off on the floor until you’re frantically awoken by a teary-eyed Dylan. The big and small babies cry while they barricade the door with blankets and dressers. Your heart sinks.

“Ms. Dove…” Dylan whispers.

Screams echo from outside and the windows have orange hues. Something’s burning.

“Someone bad is outside.”

The patrol group is back.

—

You don't meet Clickers often.

They come and go and kill as they please and you don’t bother them, simply take your plans in the opposite direction as stealthy as possible. Even with your avoidance, they somehow always find their way back to you. Back to everyone.

You hear everything from the daycare; hollering, gunshots, Clickers wailing, but you can’t fucking see. Protocol for a daycare lockdown is fairly simple: turn off the lights and take all the brats up to the nursery. It’s the most child-safe section of the building while simultaneously having a locked drawer filled with glocks. Great.

Now you’re locked up with whimpering toddlers with a weapon you barely know how to use. If Joel hadn’t done that runthrough with you yesterday, you’d be fucked and so would the kids. You rock Dylan who sits on your lap while hushing the toddlers. You’re doing whatever you can to keep them quiet, but they’re babies who cry a lot. You hum to them, braid their hair, roll scratched-up dice but nothings fucking working. You never thought you’d regret staying in Jackson this early on.

The younger ones start wailing when pounding on wood echoes from downstairs. Dylan holds you closer.

Protocol is simple.

Don’t open the door. Maria told you that. Keep it locked and don’t open it.

The thuds get louder and so do the children and panic bombards you. It’s starting to feel too familiar. Those bangs are so fucking loud. Toddlers to 13 year olds are looking to you for guidance while you’re crumbling. How do you make them stop crying why won’t they stop fucking crying—

Someone’s trying to beat the door down. Dylan’s practically choking you with his little arms as he sobs quietly into your neck. You don’t realize you’re crying until a small hand wipes your face and tiny bodies snuggle closer to you.

Are you going to die surrounded by children all over again? One time wasn’t enough, God? The best moment of your life turns to the worst in a matter of seconds. You’ll have to run away like you did the first time. You should’ve never slid the note asking for more time with the kids under Maria’s door, fuck fuck fuck—

3 deafening pops bang from outside, and then there’s silence. It sounds like wood is breaking and there’s footsteps rushing upstairs and the babies are screaming so loud. When the nursery door lock gets shot off, Dylan screams right in your ear.

“EVERYBODY OUT, LET’S GO!”

“Mr. Tommy!” Relief washes over your kids before they start hustling.

“OUT, OUT, LET’S GO!”

All the kids scramble to grab their coats and socks and boots before rushing out of the nursery. Your hands won’t stop shaking. You barely get onto your feet before Tommy shoves you against the wall with fire for pupils.

“You never fuckin’ wait to die when there’s kids around, you understand me!”

You’re nodding but you can’t hear because you’re still sobbing. “Whatever bullshit you learned outside is over with now. It don’t matter what happens, always give them a chance to live even if it means you’re done!”

Tommy doesn’t waste another second on you. He leaves with a tense back and a rifle and you allow yourself to break. You heave and sob because that’s all you could do when you were a child and your brothers and sister were all killed in front of you.

—

You vacate the daycare hours later. The doors need fixing.

Your head and eyes hurt terribly but nothing compares to the emptiness in your chest. Maria told you that the kids would be separated into different houses until the daycare is safe for them again. Even she stares at you with disapproval despite her indifferent tone.

You feel like a ghost on the walk back home. Your hands are clenched in fists and your breathings slow. Why didn’t you stay downstairs and check the windows to make sure there were no intruders? Why weren’t you holding the gun in preparation for battle? Why’d you allow the kids to believe you couldn’t protect them?

Because you couldn’t. In that moment, you were a child all over again, just as lost and confused and scared as they were. It was all too familiar.

Jackson’s asleep, minus the painful groaning coming from behind Ellie’s home.

You’re immediately in defense. So many patrol members had to go to the infirmary after their arrival. Maria never mentioned anything about Ellie.

Your concern carries your feet until you round the corner, and her gun’s already drawn and pointed at you. That barely shakes you; it’s what surrounds her thats confusing.

She’s leant back against the foundation of her home surrounded by towels, a large bottle of clear liquid, and her profusely bleeding, non-tattooed arm that wraps around her stomach.

When you take a cautious step toward her, her gun clicks. Her eyes are vicious and untrustworthy, and you know she’d kill you in a second. She watches every move you make down to the ragged rise and fall of your chest. You’re unsure how long you stand there before she winces in pain. It’s slight but you catch it. You slowly point to the open wound on her forearm.

“What.” She rasps. You mime wrapping a bandage on yourself. Her snicker is pained.

“Get the fuck outta here. You done enough for tonight.”

You swallow thickly, unmoving.

“Fuck off before I blow your brains out.”

You take 2 more steps.

“GET THE FU—“

When your knees hit the snow in front of her, she’s stunned silent. You’re already reaching for the bandage and bottle of disinfectant. You can’t see her injury that well, but she might need stitches if it’s still that bloody. When you reach for her injured arm, she pushes you into the snow. You groan in frustration before getting up and trying again.

Ellie swallows a pained noise and maneuvers her injury away the closer you get. You’re trying to help her! Why’s she being so difficult! You crack open the disinfectant and your nose instantly burns. You gasp before moving the bottle away from your face.

“Just go the fuck home, goddamnit—“

That’s not disinfectant. It’s acid.

Ellie’s gun is still on you, but she’s not as steady. There’s a tremor in her weapon and her bottom lip is pinched between her teeth. Any movement she makes seems to hurt her.

You move closer, and Ellie wheezes like an injured gazelle. It’s not until you see the small indentation when you realize her bleeding isn’t from a knife or a gun.

Those are teeth marks.

Ellie got bit. Your heart thrashes and your legs beg you to run.

You know, and she knows you know. It’s a misunderstanding, it has to be. A human or a dog or a bear bit her, not a Clicker, not one of them.

She smirks but it’s sinister.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll tear out your windpipe and feed it to one of those fuckers.” Her head jerks towards the gate, and as if on command, the lot of them squeal into the night like hyenas.

#ellie williams tlou #ellie williams #ellie the last of us #ellie williams au #the last of us part 2 #ellie x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie willams x reader #ellie tlou #tlou #works 𖧧࣪#lesbian

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onlymingyus · 8 months ago

Text

What's your favorite scary movie?

pairing; vernon chwe x f reader

genre; horror, smut (minor dni), angst, toxic

summary; The summer after graduating high school is supposed to be one last hurrah before you and your friends head off to college---none of you expected it to become a horror movie.

content warnings; PLEASE READ ALL OF THE WARNINGS! 90s au, multiple murders, police, alluding to self harm, drugs/alcohol (mentioned and usage), overdose, knives, blood -- detailed scenes of harm/murder, funeral/memorials, fighting, bullying/harassment, degrading names, "slut" shaming, mild alluding to sexual assault (past/present), self confidence/esteem issues, depression, alludes to other behavioral/mental problems being present, crying, stalking/spying, obsession, yandere!vernon. all main characters are adults -- just graduated high school (vernon & other svt cameos have been aged down). the reader has a classic small town suburbs nuclear family (mentions parents obviously), vernon's "mother" briefly mentioned. this fic is full of really horrible people.

smut warnings; virgin!reader, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), quick handjob, crying (pleasure), corruption/innocence kink, petnames, praise, pulling out, cum on skin -- aftercare, brief post-sex dysphoria.

w/c; 30k and some change (870 extra words for patreon bonus)

a/n; thank you to @junkissed for proofreading for me and giving me strength to push through and finish this despite all the shit that kept trying to knock me down. this fic is a lot, so please if you have made it this far in my notes make sure you read all the warnings -- keep in mind this is my halloween fic, so i didn't hold back. dark au mars is back strong.

before continuing remember reblogs are incredibly important and please read how to support me here

Trailing behind your friends, you laugh when your best friend Caitlin pulls at your arm, urging you towards the front of the group. “Y/N!” You roll your eyes as she whines your name, extending the last of it dramatically before laying her head on your shoulder and putting her arm through yours. “Can I sit between you and Christen this time? This movie is supposed to be hella scary.”

Hearing his name, the self-appointed leader of your group, slows his strides to match yours and, in turn, Caitlin’s. “What about me?”

You liked your friends but they could be a bit much. You had known Caitlin the longest. The two of you had been friends since middle school and she was the person you could rely on the most, but that all changed when the two of you went to high school and your bodies and personalities started to change. Boys started to pay attention to you more and Caitlin’s personality soured.

Christen wasn’t the type of person that you ever saw yourself being friends with before. He was the most popular guy at school and the captain of the football team, but none of those things mattered anymore. After graduation this year, you thought all of those trivial things would fall by the wayside, that your friends would start acting a bit less like they were still in high school and yet it was like they never left.

“Caitlin wants to sit between us for the movie. It’s supposed to be really scary. I don’t min—”

“You know I like the end seat.”

Furrowing your brows, you start to speak up again when Christen sighs and puts his hand around your waist, pulling you from Caitlin and causing the girl to scowl at you. “I like the end seat and you always have to piss like five times during a movie. Let’s keep the seats like we always do. That okay with you, Cat?”

Staring at Christen, Caitlin wants to be mad and tell him no, but the moment he calls her by the nickname he had given her, she swoons and just nods. “Uh huh… sure, Christen.”

“See.” Turning his attention back to you, Christen winks. “It’s all good, baby. Now, put a smile on that face; don’t be a buzzkill. If you get scared, you can just hold on to me.” Tugging you closer, he grins before finally letting you walk on your own.

From the time that you had met him your sophomore year, Christen had never been shy about how he felt about you. You wouldn’t call it a crush. A crush was something sweet and something that, if you didn’t reciprocate, the other person might move on. What Christen felt for you was possessive and like you owed him something. You were like a target or an end prize and he hadn’t won just yet, but to him there were still plenty of levels left in the game.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you glance back at Caitlin as she scoffs at her "boyfriend,” Jae. You felt bad for him. It was so obvious how much he liked Caitlin. He would follow behind her like a puppy, buy her anything she wanted, and be at her beck and call even when she was drooling over another guy. You had watched as Caitlin had belittled Jae in front of others and refused to call him her boyfriend but then gotten angry if he didn’t refer to her as his girlfriend. It was a complicated situation that you honestly didn’t understand.

“Just… Stop touching me. Did you bring money for candy?” Caitlin’s voice is sharp, still irritated from the interaction with Christen and now Jae was walking too close to her. In her mind, she always got second best while you did nothing and got first pick. You didn’t even act like you wanted Christen; it was devastating.

“Yeah, of course I did. You can get anything you want, babe.” Jae’s voice is a bit defeated, but at least he was going to be able to sit next to Caitlin. He had gotten nervous when she had asked to switch seats. It wasn’t like he could tell her where to sit... he wasn’t like that. She was a strong-willed girl; she always had been, but that was one of the things he loved about her.

Making a face at Jae’s words, Caitlin steps forward and sighs dramatically, not hearing the way Alanna and Juwon copy her just a few steps behind her. They were the lucky two out of the friend group in their own personal opinions. They knew exactly where they fit in the hierarchy.

There was the king, Christian, and his would-be queen if only you would accept his hand. The princess who wants to be queen, Caitlin, and her dog turned prince, Jae. Meanwhile, Alanna and Juwon belonged in the court together. They were happy to cheer each of you on and laugh when you failed.

They had been dating since freshman year and a day hadn’t gone by that someone was complaining about seeing Juwon’s tongue down Alanna’s throat. Another strong opinion that the two shared was that if you didn’t want to see them making out, you could look in the other direction.

“Babeeeee!” Alanna whines mocking Caitlin as she pulls on Juwon’s arm, causing the boy laugh as he looks at her fondly. “Buy me candy?” Batting her lashes, Alanna blows a kiss in his direction that Juwon pretends to catch before reaching into his pocket to take out his wallet, handing it to her.

“My money is your money, princess.” Another wave of laughter erupts from the back of the group as Alanna pushes Juwon’s wallet back towards him. Now the two have caught the attention of everyone.

“The hell are you two doing? Are you high?” Christen’s voice is stern, but the layer of his own amusement only serves to make Juwon laugh as he shakes his head and pulls Alanna forward towards the doors of the theater.

“Nope, not yet. Give me a few hours and I’ll be so fuckin’ chill I might not remember your name.”

Smiling, you lift your fingers to your lips to hide it as Alanna pokes at your side when she passes by you, giving you a wink. For all their heavy PDA and following the leader's behavior, you got along with them well. They had been nice to you, even when your best friend hadn’t.

“Ugh, as if. You can’t think now, Juwon. This is why you two are going to a community college. You’ve fucking rotted your brains with weed. It’s gross.” Caitlin watches as Alanna throws up her middle finger before blowing her a kiss and disappearing behind the theater door. “It is gross. I’m right, aren’t I, Y/N?”

You tilt your head and struggle with what to say as you all get closer to the doors that your friends had just gone through. “I—well. It’s their choice.” Feeling bad that you can’t just tell Caitlin to shut up and to leave Juwon and Alanna alone, you find yourself muttering as she scoffs, turning her attention to Jae for support who gives it willingly.

Feeling the weight of having to agree with Caitlin off your shoulders, you unzip your bag, the air conditioner hits you like a breeze when Christen opens the doors and steps inside. You purse your lips and fish out a five-dollar bill, not paying attention to what’s in front of you until you hear Christen’s and another guy’s voice.

“Wassup, man? Still manning this place like a fucking loser?”

“Still making money, so yeah, if that’s what you wanna call it. Just one?”

“Nah, two. Me and Y/N.”

Furrowing your brows, you lift your money up to show it to Christen just as you see who’s behind the ticket counter. Vernon Chwe, another member of your graduating class. You didn’t know him well, but as often as you and your friends came to the movies, you saw him in passing. He was always nice to you, and he was easy on the eyes.

“Already paid for. See…” Reaching over the counter, Christen rips two tickets for himself before winking at Vernon and passing one to you.

You can see the irritation written on Vernon’s face, but he manages to keep his cool. He wasn’t like Christen or anyone else in your group. He didn’t hang out in the commons area or at the mall like you did. You knew that he worked here and that he had a cool car. You found him intriguing.

Moving towards Christen quickly, you take the ticket and look at Vernon apologetically. “I’m sorry. That was so rude.” Looking up at your friend, you whine, “That wasn’t cool, Christen...”

Instead of offering his own apology to Vernon, Christen just laughs and taps you on the tip of your nose. “Whatever, baby. Don’t get mad about it. I’m just playin’ with Vern. Come on. Let me buy you a snack.”

Vernon watches as Christen tries to take your hand but you manage to keep it from him. Tilting his head, he finds it curious. He didn’t know if you were dating the guy or not, but he didn’t like him; he never had.

“Um, excuse me... Dodgy, loser, man? I need two tickets.”

Turning his attention back towards Caitlin, Vernon sighs and rips off two tickets before taking $10 from Jae. “Enjoy the movie.” The moment she is out of earshot, Vernon adds, “Bitch.”

He could hear you and your friends at the concession stand. It wasn’t a busy night and the theater wasn’t running a full staff. If it had been any other group, Vernon might have put a bit more pep in his step, making his way over from the counter, but he could already hear the bitchy girl complaining, so he took his time.

“Oh, my god. Does this place not have anyone else working?”

Muttering for Caitlin to hush, you rub your neck as Vernon sighs and moves to the middle of the concession stand before lifting his hands. “What can I get for you guys?” He didn’t really care; well, maybe he cared what you wanted. You had been kind to him and it wasn’t the first time. Every time he had seen you here or run into you at school, you were nice. You were also gorgeous, so that didn’t hurt your case either.

“Two large cokes, a medium popcorn, and some M&Ms. Also, could you like... not take all night? The movie is supposed to start in thirty minutes.” Leaning on the counter, Caitlin watches as Vernon shifts his head to the side slightly before grabbing two large cups and filling them with ice. She remembered him from school and the other times they had been here. He was weird. She had a few classes with him and he had always sat in the back and avoided talking to people except when he had to.

“Oh my god, Y/N, do you remember Miss Lewis’ calculus class from that last semester?”

Taken aback by Caitlin’s question, you look from her back towards the counter before tilting your head. “I—yeah? What about it?” This was the type of thing that you hated about your friends. They lived in the past; every day was still a day of the glory of high school, whereas you were ready to move on.

“This dude was in that class. We had that stupid ass icebreaker, remember? Like a weird fact about us? He said he was allergic to peanuts.” Cailtin snorts into a laugh as she meets Vernon’s eyes, his brow lifting to her memory.

“Well—I, I remember—”

“Man, that must fuckin’ suck. Can you eat anything? What happens if you eat a peanut? Would you die? Swell up like a fatass.”

Juwon had been doing so well until that moment, but he was good at following the leader and at that moment Caitlin was playing her best queen bully bee role. Beside you, Christen laughs under his breath before leaning on the counter as Vernon tries to ignore them, fixing the rest of the order before giving the total to Jae, who slides over the money.

“Anyone else want anything? I’d hate for you to miss the previews because you’re being assholes.”

Surprised by Vernon’s words, the laughter dies off. No smiles are left except a slight one on your face.

Christen doesn’t say anything before he reaches over to take a box of milk duds from the display showing them to Vernon and tossing a dollar bill on to the counter. “Thanks for nothing, bitch.”

You try to stay; you want to apologize to Vernon for your friends one more time, but Christen’s hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you forward hard. “Let’s go, Y/N. You can share a drink with Caitlin. She didn’t need a fucking large anyway.”

The movie theater didn’t have many others besides your group. After a few stragglers made their way in finding a seat, you tried to settle into your own and focus on the screen. You weren’t the biggest fan of scary movies, but there wasn’t much to do on a Thursday and you had already spent too many days staring at the same stores at the mall.

When the lights go off completely and the screen lights up, you find yourself trying to make yourself smaller in your seat to keep your leg away from Christen’s hand when he stretches his fingers and smirks over at you. “Chill, are you scared already? It’s just the previews, baby.”

You wished that you had the guts to tell him to stop calling you baby and that you weren’t scared. You just wished that he’d keep his fingers away from the end of your shorts. Shaking your head, you offer him a strained smile as you lean towards Caitlin, taking a few M&Ms she offers you before eating one of them. “Not scared, just a little cold.”

“You want my jacket?”

God, you couldn’t win, but maybe that would keep his hands off your skin. Nodding, you watch Christen stand up despite the groans from those behind you. Taking the jacket, you lay it over your legs and smile a bit wider at him. “Thanks, Christen.”

Now Caitlin was regretting sharing anything with you. Tilting the box of candy away from you as she watches you tuck the jacket around your legs, Caitlin scoffs and takes a long sip of her drink.

By the end of the movie, you find that you don’t have that much to be worried about. It wasn’t as much of a scary movie as you thought it would have been. The acting wasn’t great and the story had been predictable. You seemed to be the only one who seemed to think that way as the rest of your friends loudly discussed how good it was as you all moved through the theater lobby.

Taking up the rear, you hold Christen’s jacket in your arms, waiting for the right moment to give it back to him until you see Vernon sweeping some popcorn off the floor near the concession stand. Maybe you could get in that apology now. Watching your friends for a moment longer, you let them keep going as you hang back and head in Vernon’s direction.

“Hey… Vernon?”

Furrowing his brows, Vernon lifts his head, sighing when he sees you standing in front of him. He hadn’t expected that, especially seeing you alone. Glancing around for your entourage, he’s surprised to see them closer to the front doors instead of right on your heels. “Yeah, what’s up? How was the movie?”

Opening your mouth, you close it quickly, not sure how to answer him at first, but you shift on your feet and smile at him. “It was—it was okay. I mean, I think everyone could guess what they did last summer by how guilty they were acting.” Shaking your head, you sigh and glance down at your hands, gripping the jacket tighter in your hands. You weren’t sure why Vernon made you so nervous, his gaze making your cheeks heat up with how his smirk pulled up at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, not my favorite either, honestly.” Lowering his eyes to the jacket in your hands, Vernon takes a breath and shakes his head. He wasn’t an idiot; he had seen that jacket on Prince Charming—Christen, before the movie. “Did you need something, Y/N?”

You weren’t sure that Vernon even knew your name so hearing him say it startles you, but of course he did. You had graduated together and probably had several classes together. It was silly of you to think he didn’t know your name; even Christen had said it before the movie. Maybe it was more that Vernon was saying it. Why did it matter?

“Oh, no. Sorry, I know you are busy. I just—my friends, I’m so sorry. They aren’t always shitty.” Even you knew that was a lie, but that was what you did. You made excuses for them. You could see that Vernon knew it was a lie too, as he smiles and nods along with your words.

“Sure, it’s whatever. Didn’t bother me—”

“Y/N, what the hell are you doing?” Christen’s voice startles you with how close it is. Vernon watches how your body jerks in surprise and he furrows his brows, feeling a pang of anger taking over him at how someone could scare you so easily.

“I—I was coming. I just—” You weren’t sure what to say to Christen, especially when you meet his eyes and see him glare at Vernon. You had made it worse. Turning towards your friend, you sigh and laugh but even you can tell it’s fake. “Let’s go. We were going to get froyo, right?”

“What the fuck were you saying to her, freak?” Christen was fuming that you were talking to Vernon, but what pissed him off even more was that Vernon had been smiling at you. You had gone over to him by yourself and it looked like some loser was flirting with you. That wouldn’t happen, not while he was breathing.

Pushing at Christen’s chest, you whine his name before glancing over at Vernon apologetically as he shakes his head and leans on his broom. How wasn’t he afraid of Christen? You were friends with Christen and you were afraid of him at times.

The damage was done; the rest of your friends had made their way back over the concession stand, where the tension was growing thicker. Caitlin looked equal parts disgusted and amused as she watched Christen yell at Vernon. Jae stood behind her, confused look on his face as if he didn’t know if he wanted to be there or if he had to be there, and Alanna and Juwon were already laughing. That’s what they always did. They wanted to see a fight; that would be better than the movie to them. Meanwhile, you were horrified at the idea.

“Please, can we just go?” Your voice is strained as you push at Christen, unable to get him to budge.

His hand moves to grip your forearm, causing you to hiss in pain as he pulls you from in front of him and towards Caitlin, who wraps her arm around your waist, holding you closer to her and Jae. “I’m not leaving until I wipe this stupid smile off this freak’s face. I don’t like how he looks at you, Y/N. He’s a perv.”

Nodding along with his words, Caitlin hums against your hair as she keeps you close to her even as you groan in annoyance. “Totally, he was staring at her the entire time. Made me wanna hurl. Like, seriously, loser? You think you can look at my best friend and it’s okay?”

Now you were her best friend and she was protective of you? Only when she could make someone else miserable or make you miserable while doing it. Pulling from Cailtin, you tug on Christen’s shirt and beg for him to leave with you. “Please, can we go? You promised to buy me a snack and to get me home early.” Avoiding Vernon’s eyes as he grips his broom a bit tighter, his jaw clenched, you tug harder on Christen’s shirt.

Smirking at Vernon, Christen takes a step back, putting up his hands as if he’s being the bigger man. He moves towards you and Cailtin so he can wrap his arm around you and this time you let him. Vernon can see the discomfort in your eyes, his brows furrowing slightly, but what you are doing seems to work as Christen takes his jacket from you and sighs happily as if he’s won the girl, leading you out of the theater.

“You owe Vernon a night off.”

Wen Junhui looked bored as he watched Lee Chan leaning far too close to the television in front of him as he gripped the Sega controller in his hands. Vernon just sighs and shakes his head, dismissing his friend’s comment. He knew what Jun was getting at, but he wasn’t worried about it.

“I can work next week if you want me too.” Chan, or as he preferred to be called, Dino winces as his pixelated character is killed, taking him back to the beginning of the level. “What day were you thinking? I have an English paper due like Wednesday, so... if it could be after that—”

“It’s fine, dude. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“The fuck he doesn’t. Why didn’t you tell me those assholes were giving you so much shit, huh?” Jun knew that Vernon didn’t want to talk about what had happened at work, but he was getting tired of seeing his friend let people walk all over him because he was too nice. “Every single one of them is sketchy and I’m tempted to ask Seungcheol to get them banned.”

Now Dino was paying attention, the controller was back on the table and the game paused, letting the menu music play on repeat as he listened to his friends. Jun was pissed and Vernon looked as calm as always until Jun implicated everyone. That caused him to sit up and shake his head as he reached for one of the cheap beers the three had been sharing over the past week.

“Not all of them are assholes, alright? And I have it handled. I’m not fucking worried about Christen, his big ass ego or his little followers.”

Vernon had said it himself, Christen’s little followers. To Jun, that was all of them, and Vernon wasn’t changing his mind any time soon. “Yeah, whatever. Next time they come in and pull something, come get me from the box. Don’t just let them push you around. I don’t care if you think that one chick is hot or not. She’s still his bitc—”

“Hey!” There were very few times that Vernon raised his voice at either of his friends, so when he did it made the air in the room shift. “Just… Shut your damn mouth about her. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Y/N… She was trying to apologize for the rest of them and then Christen—you know what? It doesn’t matter. Here.”

Pushing the can towards Dino, Vernon stands when the youngest of their group takes the beer and puts it on the table, watching him pull on his leather jacket. Jun shakes his head and lets out a long sigh when Vernon picks up the keys to his car and searches for his beanie.

“I didn’t mean to piss you off. I didn’t—look alright? Vernon, I didn’t know all of that. Ya, know, what Y/N did? I’m sorry I started to call her his bitch. I’m just… I’m done with them messing with you.”

Pulling his black beanie over his hair, Vernon shrugs and shoves his keys into his jacket. “It’s fine. I’m not pissed; I’m just tired. I’m gonna get home; I’ll see y’all later.”

Watching Vernon walk out of the room, Jun rubs the back of his neck, feeling a bit of regret wash over him. He knew he had pushed a bit too hard but Vernon had been acting off for months. He had known him since they were freshmen and neither of them had ever fit in, but they found their own way together. It was just lately Vernon was different; Jun felt like he didn’t know the person he called his best friend.

Gripping the wheel of his 1989 Chevy Beretta, Vernon sighs as he leans his head back against the headrest hard. It was starting to get late, but he couldn’t seem to get himself to go home. Instead he kept turning on to familiar roads, his eyes scanning the houses.

Vernon knew where he was. This was your street. The house on the right was yours, and the window with the light on, second floor… that was your room. Slowing down to a crawl, Vernon swallows hard as he leans to look at the curtains covering your window. He wished they weren’t there, as bad as that was. Sometimes he wished he could just get one glimpse of you instead of a shadow of you crossing in front of them, but he would take what he could get.

Sighing loudly, Vernon pushes his foot down on the gas and takes a right, leaving your house behind. Tapping his thumb on his steering wheel, a smirk pulls at his lips as he eases by Caitlin’s house. He supposed this was why the two of you became friends. It was more a friendship of convenience living a street over from your best friend. Christen, however, didn’t live on the street.

In fact, Vernon knew that Christen lived at least a fifteen-minute drive away in a gated community. So why was his car parked outside of Caitlin’s house? Wasn’t this the same guy who was threatening Vernon for daring to look at you and acting like you were his property?

Narrowing his eyes at the only window with a light still on, Vernon lifts his brow when he sees Christen pull Caitlin back against him. He was seeing a lot more of her than he ever wanted to. It wasn’t like Vernon was shocked to find out that Christen was sleeping with Caitlin. That made more sense than Caitlin dating Jae, but it didn’t seem like they were even trying to hide it. Not from Jae and not from you. Did either one of you know? Now he was curious.

Ten minutes later, Vernon puts his car in park and purses his lips as he looks around the street. There weren’t many cars for this to be an uppity part of town. Turning his attention towards the house he had stopped in front of, he starts to think that no one is at home until he sees a light on the third floor. It seemed that the person he wanted to see might just be home after all.

Shoving his keys into his pocket, Vernon sniffs hard, the colder night air biting at his nose as he makes his way to the front door of the nice house. Pressing the doorbell, he waits for a few moments until the door opens and Jae gives him a confused look, tilting his head.

“Uh, hey?” Jae was surprised to see Vernon at his front door. That had been the very last person he expected to see, especially this late at night. He knew Vernon better than anyone else in his circle of friends, but he would never admit it to any of them. Before he had been brought into the inner circle, he had been in a similar situation to Vernon’s; the major difference had been that his family had money and he could—and did—use it to climb the ranks. “‘Sup?”

Nodding his head in Jae’s direction, Vernon glances behind him, scanning for anyone in the house, but it all seems quiet. It appeared that Jae was the only one at home. That was good. It was better for what Vernon needed to tell him. “Hey, can I come in? I, uh…” Rubbing at the back of his neck, he tries to smile a bit, but it seems as forced as it is. “Just wanna talk to you about something.”

Was this about what had happened at the theater? Jae’s stomach was in his throat. He didn’t really want to deal with this, but he did feel a little shitty about how that had all gone down. He could have reigned Caitlin in a bit more, but... even he knew he was lying to himself. “Uh, sure. Yeah, come in. My parents are out of town so I’m not really supposed to have people over but—” Sighing to himself at how stupid he sounds, Jae shakes his head and gestures at the stairs for Vernon to go up. “Whatever, we can talk in my room. I’m on the third floor; my doors open.”

Lifting his brows, Vernon smirks a bit as he lowers his head and moves through the door towards the staircase. Jae sounded like a kid who was breaking his parent’s rules, not like a recent graduate who was going to some Ivy League school in the fall. Vernon knew he shouldn’t find that as amusing as he did, but it was fitting with how Jae treated everything else in his life—including his girlfriend.

“Cool, nice fucking place, man.” Jogging up the stairs, Vernon barely gives the house a second glance as he makes his way to the third floor and turns towards the open door. The room was decorated just as he thought it might be and yet it was still shocking.

The bed was made perfectly, books lined pristine shelves, and there were pictures of Caitlin everywhere. What was even more interesting was that there were only two pictures in the entire room that included Jae and Caitlin. This wasn’t a room; it was a shrine to Jae’s cheating, whore girlfriend.

Watching Vernon look around his room, Jae finds himself feeling a bit embarrassed and overwhelmed at having another person in his space. He wasn’t even used to having Caitlin in his room often. She didn’t come over much and when she did, it was more of a rare treat for Jae.

"I—uh, what did you need to talk to me about? Is this—look if this is about what was said at the theater—”

“Nah, man. It’s fine.” Shaking his head, Vernon keeps moving around the room, picking up a picture of Jae standing behind Caitlin as she smiles brightly. What he notices the most about the picture is how they aren’t touching, not even his hand on her arm. “She’s a handful, huh?”

Tilting his head slightly before straightening it, Jae looks at the picture in Vernon’s hand before crossing his arms. Where was this going? He was feeling more and more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by, and he was wondering if he should regret letting Vernon in his house.

“I—she’s, sure. Sometimes. What’s this about? You said you wanted to talk about something.”

Putting the picture down, Vernon makes sure it is in the same place as it was before he rests back against the desk, his hands next to him on either side. “Yeah. You know, it’s funny. I drove past Cailin's. I was just driving around... You know how it is.” Tilting his head, Vernon meets Jae’s eyes as he sighs. “Anyway, it was funny ‘cause Christen’s car was at her house. I thought that was weird until I happened to see them in her bedroom window.”

Jae scoffs, starting to feel not only embarrassed but defensive of his girlfriend’s honor. What was Vernon doing looking in her bedroom window in the first place? Taking a step forward, he drops his hands, making them into fists at his sides. “Hey—”

“Not like she has up curtains. I wasn’t tryin’ to see your girl like that, scouts honor, but needless to say…” Moving his hands from the desk, Vernon puts them at his chest, cupping them like he would a girl’s breasts to make sure Jae understands, seeing the boy’s face flush. “Christen is banging your chick, dude. Just thought you’d wanna know.”

Taking a step forward, Jae stops and pushes his lips together, trying to think of what to say. It wasn’t like he didn’t know, but it was more the fact that Vernon was at his house and telling him about it. “Shut the hell up, you freak. First you spy on my girlfriend and then—then you come here to what? Try to—I don’t know what you want!”

“I don’t want anything, Jae. I was trying to help your stupid ass out.” Vernon’s voice is angry, a layer of malice the moment that Jae has the audacity to call him a freak. Everyone else had, but not Jae. The more that Vernon looked at him, the less he felt bad for him. Maybe he never had, how could you? He was pathetic. His room was a fucking shrine to a girl who probably only let him fuck her with his fingers so she could sit on another guy's cock. God… It was sickening, and yet he was the freak.

“I don’t need your fucking help! I want you out of my house.” As if realizing something—a metaphorical lightbulb coming on above his head—Jae moves towards Vernon, who shifts away from him, causing the two to move to opposite sides of the room. Jae stares at Vernon in front of the open bedroom door as he feels the breeze from the open window behind him as he glares at the other man with disdain. “How the hell do you know where I live anyway? You fuckin’ stalking all of us, freak?”

Vernon was seeing red; his jaw clenched tightly, he rolled his neck as a smirk pulled at his lips. His eyes move from Jae to the window behind him and all he can imagine is watching Jae fall out of it. How easy it would be to push him through the window and then the motherfucker wouldn’t call him a freak again. Taking a step forward, Vernon scoffs before speaking, his words quiet. “About that...”

His hands meet Jae’s chest hard, a surprised gasp slipping from the smaller boy’s lips as he tries to push back only to feel the desk beside him bite into his hip. The picture of him and Caitlin falls with a crash, glass shattering on to the floor, drawing Jae’s attention away from Vernon just enough long enough for Vernon to push him again, this time even harder.

Vernon listens to the strangled scream that leaves Jae’s mouth as the screen tears from the weight of his body before he falls through the window and three stories down. The deafening dull thud of his body hitting the pavement sends a shiver through his body even before Vernon leans out of the broken window frame to look down and see the blood pooling around Jae’s lifeless body.

In that moment, he knows he should feel bad. He should be scared. He should feel something other than a rush of adrenaline, but Vernon doesn’t. Looking around Jae’s room once more, Vernon moves back down the steps and out the front door, not giving the body another look. Getting behind the wheel of his car, he sighs to himself as he drives away, finally feeling like he can go home.

You wake up to the sound of the phone ringing from your desk. It sounds like a nightmare because surely no one is calling you this early. Even through your curtains, you can tell the sun has barely started to rise.

Groaning, you sit up with a groan as the phone rings again. Whoever was trying to reach you wasn’t giving up. Sliding out of bed, you sink down into your desk chair and pull the phone from the base, putting it to your ear with a sharp, “Hello?” If that didn’t make whoever was calling you regret it, you didn’t know what else would.

“Y/N!”

Caitlin’s sobbing voice makes your heart drop into your stomach immediately and you feel horrible for picking up the phone angry. Shifting in the chair, you switch which shoulder you rest the phone on, your fingers twisting into the already ruined phone cord as you anxiously furrow your brows, almost afraid to speak. “Wha—”

“He’s dead, Y/N! What the fuck? Like, seriously?” Sniffing hard, Caitlin rubs hard at her nose as she lays in her bed, her own phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. “The police said it could be an accident or he might have...”

You could hear the way her lips were quivering as Caitlin tried to speak, but you still weren’t sure who she was talking about. “Who, Caitlin?”

“Oh, my god! Jae! Jae’s dead!” Caitlin’s voice is shrill, causing you to pull the receiver away from your ear slightly as you swallow hard the reality of her words hitting you. “Why are you making me say it out loud? It’s already so hella depressing. I’m like a widow; it’s gross.”

Glancing towards your bedroom door, you try not to feel anything negative about your best friend while she’s grieving, but she was going about it in a strange way. You knew that she didn’t care about Jae, not in any way that she could claim widow-like status. She treated him like shit most of the time, but you weren’t going to say that to her now. You weren’t that type of person. You were the person who coddled. “I’m so sorry, Caitlin. Do you want me to come over?”

Whining, she nods before pouting into her words, hoping to make you feel even worse for her. “Yeah, could you? That would totally help me feel less shitty.” Before you can even reply, a single breath of a word starts to leave your mouth. Caitlin speaks over you. “Oh, and Y/N? Could you bring me Taco Bell?”

You lean your head back; the urge to roll your eyes is so strong but you keep it at bay as you nod to yourself. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be there in like an hour.”

Hanging the phone up, you close your eyes, your brows knitting together tightly once you can hear yourself think. Jae was dead? How? Caitlin had mentioned an accident, but you didn’t have any other details. You knew he didn’t like to drive, maybe something with one of his parents cars... Not wanting to picture anymore gruesome things, you force yourself to stand and move to your closet to get dressed.

Vernon tilts his head as he watches you cross your arms, your keys dangling from your fingers as you wait in line in front of him. You looked beautiful. It was rare that he saw you out like this on a normal day, but lucky for him, he had been craving some food, and tacos seemed like a good choice.

Taking a step towards you, Vernon takes in a deep breath and just enjoys the overwhelming scent of your perfume and body wash. He wished he had more courage to speak to you, to let you know how much he was into you, but you were the sun and he was like a dark cloud. Least that’s how it felt...

“Hey, uh…”

Vernon sighs as he listens to you place your order, your voice like the sweetest song on the radio. He'd play your voice on repeat if he could. Getting lost in listening to you, Vernon doesn’t realize you are done with your order until the boy at the register lifts his brows and hands in question. “You wanna order something, dude?”

“Uh… yeah.”

You knew that voice. Turning towards the source of it as you reach to take the cups in front of you, you can’t help the small smile that lifts at your lips as you see Vernon. You hadn’t realized he was behind you. It kind of made you sad that he was and hadn’t said anything, but it made sense after what had happened at the theater. You couldn’t blame him for being upset with you.

Meeting Vernon’s eyes, your smile brightens slightly before you look away and move out of his way so he can get a cup as you move to the drink machine to fill your drinks. You can feel Vernon’s eyes on you even as you move, your fingers pressing down the buttons. The heat of his eyes makes you feel shy and warm as you listen to him move closer to you until he finally stands next to you, filling his own cup with soda.

“Weird seeing you alone.”

Vernon watches your cheeks push up towards your eyes before you glance towards him when he does speak to you. You shrug and take a step backwards towards the lids and straws, taking two of each and letting Vernon move towards you to do the same.

“I do things alone sometimes. It’s weird to see you somewhere besides the movie theater. I almost started to think you lived there.” Keeping your eyes on Vernon, you bite subtly at your bottom lip as you move towards the counter to pick up your bag of food just as they put Vernon’s next to yours.

“Mm, that’s fair. I don’t do much besides that, but in my defense, you don’t really know me, so…” With his own food in his hand, Vernon grins at you and you feel your heart beat hard in your chest. You aren’t sure you have ever seen him smile like that and you aren’t sure anyone’s smile has ever effected you in that way before.

Vernon watches you look away, one drink in the crook of your elbow as you hold the other so you can hold the bag of food in your other hand. Gesturing towards the door, he takes a breath, letting it out slowly as if he’s gaining courage before speaking to you again. “I can help; you seem like you have your hands full. You, uh… Lunch for your family or something?”

He was sweet; this was the most you had probably ever really talked to Vernon and he was being a gentleman. It was nice not to have your friends hovering around you and being assholes to him. Letting him hold the door open for you while you maneuver through it, you glance back at him and shake your head, letting out a soft sigh. “No, I’m going over to Caitlin’s.”

Vernon notices how your words seem to fade off at the end and how your smile dulls. Following you to your car wanting to help you, he furrows his brows as he offers to take the food from your hands as you unlock your car, seeming to struggle with your words. “She’s—it’s a hard day. You know Jae, right? One of my friends?”

Of course he did, but Vernon keeps his cool and just shrugs his shoulders, letting you continue. “Uh, Caitlin’s boyfriend. The one who was following her around last time.” Getting a nod from Vernon, you lean in your car to put the drinks into the cup holders before taking your food from him. “I guess something happened last night—an accident. He passed away. She’s super upset. So I’m gonna go spend the day with her.”

You were a good friend, better than Caitlin deserved in Vernon’s opinion. He knew for a fact that Caitlin didn’t give a shit about Jae and the fact that he was dead. She was using this for attention, but you were giving into it because you were sweet and that was all you knew how to do. If he had his way, he’d take you away from it and give you attention. Shaking his head, Vernon furrows his brows, leaning against your car door, giving you a solemn look. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

It wasn’t lost on you that Vernon asked if he could help you and not Caitlin, but it still made your heart feel warm. He was such a good guy, so kind and soft. He didn’t deserve the treatment that the rest of your friends gave him. Shaking your head, you pout softly before letting it shift into a gentle smile. “No, I’m okay... I—this was really nice, Vernon. I like talking to you. Um…”

Leaning into your car once again, you put the food down and reach into your purse as Vernon watches you carefully with a raised brow. He agreed, it was nice to talk to you. He was trying to be respectful, but you made it a bit difficult. Your shirt was riding up your back and you were so fucking pretty. He couldn’t help the way his eyes were moving along your skin as you searched for—

”Ah! I was looking for a pen. Can I give you my number? Maybe you could call me sometime.”

You wanted him to call you? Vernon’s head was spinning. He must be in another dimension where he wasn’t a loser because you were looking at him expectantly as you held your cute purple pen. Nodding, Vernon smiles to one side, watching your smile grow in return as you reach for his hand, pulling it towards your stomach and turning his palm over. The pen tickles Vernon’s hand, but he can’t stop staring at your fingers and the way the pen glides over his skin as you put the numbers on his palm.

“It’s my own line, so like, my family won’t pick it up. As long as I’m not using my computer, you can reach me there, okay?” Tilting your head, you trail your fingers from Vernon’s as his lips part with a soft breath. He was so handsome it was almost devastating to you. How had you never noticed him in school? You knew the answer to that, but you wished things had been different in that moment.

“Yeah, I—sure. I’ll call you.” At least that’s what he was telling himself. Would he have the courage to actually do it? Vernon wasn’t sure in that moment, but he knew he wanted to.

“Cool. Thanks for helping me get to my car, Vernon. I’ll talk to you later.”

Standing there like an idiot for a moment longer, Vernon nods before taking a step back from your car as you slide behind the wheel, waving at him before backing out. Glancing down at his palm once more, he closes his fingers around your number and smiles to himself before turning on his heels towards his car with a bit more pep in his step.

“I’m literally fucking starving. What took so long?” Taking the bags from your hand, Catiltin pouts at you as she sits with her legs crisscrossed in the center of her full-size bed.

You could tell she had been crying. Her eyes were a bit swollen, with slight circles under her eyes, but there was still something about the situation that made you fully aware that Caitlin wasn’t mourning Jae as much as she was her reputation.

“I’m sorry, I got here as soon as I could. You know things are busier on Saturday.” Sliding on to the bed next to her, you furrow your brows before leaning in to hug Caitlin, feeling her shoulder’s drop. You were a good friend. Despite feeling and knowing what you did, you were still concerned about her. You hated that this had happened, and the truth of the matter was that you were sad. Jae was your friend.

“Has—well… Did anyone say what happened?”

Your voice is quiet and the question causes a new wave of tears to spill from Caitlin’s eyes as she chokes on her words, only managing to get out a couple before she’s cut off.

“Splattered on the sidewalk under his window.”

Horrified, you look over your shoulder towards the doorway where Christen leans against the frame. You didn’t even know he was there. Had he gotten to Caitlin’s before you? Just now? It didn’t matter, you supposed; you assumed everyone would end up here eventually.

Your eyes follow Christen as he moves to the bed, taking the bag of tacos to take one for himself. You hadn’t bought them for him, but that had never mattered in the past and it doesn’t matter now.

“You’re always so sweet, baby. Thinking ahead and getting lunch like this.” The bed dips at your side as Christen joins you both and Catiltin sniffles hard, getting the attention back on her as she opens her own food.

“Could we like... I don’t know, not say splattered? It’s so gross, Christen.”

Shrugging, the boy swallows a bite of food before sighing into his words. “Sorry, that’s what happens when you launch yourself out of a fuckin’ third-story window, babe.”

Babe? Furrowing your brows, you let your eyes move from Caitlin to Christen as your best friend blanches slightly and puts her taco on the wrapper to the side.

“He—that’s not what he did. The cops said it was an accident. He just fell somehow. Some freak accident—”

“I’m sure it was an accident. Jae would never… you know.” Your voice is softer than Caitlin’s and Christen’s combined, but it manages to draw both of their attention to you. You couldn’t say what Christen thought happened; you couldn’t get that word out. Not just because it was too hard to even think, but also because it just didn’t make sense. Jae wasn’t depressed. He had a charmed life.

“Sure, baby… But listen, you know Jake, the tight end?” Sighing softly, you tilt your head at Christen’s question. While you knew who he was talking about, you didn’t think it was important to label him as his position from the high school football team, but what was the point in arguing—so instead you just nodded. “Well, he’s lives across the street from Jae. Said the cops were out there all morning and he overheard one of them talking about some things that just didn’t add up with an accident—”

“Christen! Do you, like, hate me? I’m a fucking widow now and you want people to think that my boyfriend killed—” Lowering her voice, Caitilin whines when Christen furrows his brows at her, only for them to soften when he sees the hurt in her eyes. “Just—this is scary, okay? What—did Jake say why they said that?”

As much as you hated to admit it even to yourself, you were also curious as to what Jake had overheard. Shifting on the bed, you turn a bit more towards Christen, who straightens his back and lets a bit of a smirk pull at his lips, having so much attention focused on him.

“Yeah, so just what he heard, okay? But he said Jae’s nails were fucked up and that there were scratches on his desk. Like, maybe he regretted it just before he—” Seeing the look on your face, Christen presses his lips together and tilts his head, changing his words. “Like he tried to stop himself from falling out the window. Oh, and uh...” Furrowing your brows, you see a nervous look spread across Christen’s face as he meets Caitlin’s eyes. “There was a broken picture or frame. Could’a been thrown on the floor.”

“What picture?” Moving to sit on her feet, Caitlin’s eyes widen slightly, causing you to sit back a bit confused as she waits for Christen to explain.

“I—he wasn’t sure. All the really said it was of a couple, but seeing as it was Jae’s room…”

Even you didn’t need anymore explanation. You had never been in Jae’s room, but who else would be in the picture? Why would a picture of Jae and Caitlin be smashed? Your eyes move between your two friends as Caitlin falls back against the bed with a new wave of grief, as if she’s realized something. Christen, on the other hand, just sighs and reaches for your drink, taking a sip before meeting your eyes.

“You look freaked, Y/N.”

That was an understatement. Shaking your head, you rub your hands over your arms before scooting closer to Caitlin to rest your hand on her thigh, letting her know you were still close to her as she cries. “I’m just—this is really sad. It doesn’t make sense, and he was so excited about starting university. I feel really bad for his parents.”

Nodding along with your words, Christen leans to put your drink on the nightstand before leaning back on the bed, letting his hand rest near your leg. “It fuckin’ sucks. I mean… It’s fucked up. Like the weak ones, man. Why do they gotta die before they get the chance to make something of themselves?”

You stare at Christen as he speaks; his words are almost said as if he’s quoting something poetic or profound, though to you it’s heartless and ridiculous.

Leaning against the end of his bed, Vernon runs his fingers over the fading numbers written on his palm. Hours had passed, the sun had gone down, and now the only thing left to remind him that he had actually seen you today was slowly dissolving into his skin.

Jun and Dino were occupying the beanbag chairs in front of the TV as some movie played, something that Vernon had seen a hundred times. He knew he should be paying more attention to his friends, but instead he was trying to commit your phone number to memory.

“During the matinee today.”

“For real? Cops? What did they say?”

Vernon’s brows lift, realizing he hadn’t been even listening to the conversation until cops were mentioned. Shifting on the floor, he sighs and lifts his eyes to watch Dino pass the bowl of popcorn over to Jun as he shrugs.

“Were asking questions about that guy you all graduated with? I don’t remember his last name, uh—Jae, that’s his first name. He said he had a movie ticket in his pocket or something. Not sure why it mattered. They just—”

“They what?”

Vernon had been so quiet over the past hour that both of the boys had almost forgotten whose room they were in and that he was even there until he spoke up. Glancing back at him, Dino shakes his head and shifts in the chair, almost uncomfortable under Vernon’s gaze. Vernon could be intense sometimes; Jun might not notice it, but Dino always did.

“Nothin’ really. Asked if he seemed like himself when he came by. I told them I didn’t know him that well and that I had been off that night. They said they would probably stop by and talk to you tomorrow. Is—why? That not okay?”

Moving to his feet, Vernon shakes his head and shrugs. He didn’t like the idea of talking to the cops, but it didn’t seem like he had much of a choice. “It’s whatever. I didn’t know him either.”

“That’s not true.” Shooting a look back at Jun as he speaks, Vernon scoffs even as Jun lifts his hands and sighs into his words. “I mean—not like you were friends with him, but you knew him a bit.”

“Whatever, I didn’t hang out with him. I had a class or two with him and he came into the theater. Didn’t make me his best friend, Jun. Why the fuck does it matter anyway?”

Jun furrows his brows and shakes his head. He watches Vernon reach for a pen, looking at his hand as he transfers something from it to a piece of paper, then tossing it on the desk. “I–well… It doesn’t, but you might have noticed if he was acting out of his head maybe. People are saying he fell out of his window, or—you know. Maybe he wanted to fall out of it.”

Scoffing, Vernon turns to lean against his desk, an uncaring look on his face. “I mean, wouldn’t you if your chick was a lying whore? Not sure he ever acted like he knew what he was doing from the moment he started dating that girl. It was like putting one foot on a banana peel and his neck in a noos—”

“Jesus Christ, Vernon.” Shivering, Jun cuts Vernon’s words off before he’s able to finish. He had heard Vernon be callous before. He had seen him uncaring and perhaps act like a dick, but never like this. “It was an accident. It’s tragic…”

Nodding slowly, Vernon sighs as he tries to remember what he’s supposed to feel in a moment like this. He can see the look on Jun’s face—something akin to sadness. Dino, on the other hand, looked a little sick, horrified as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to be smaller.

“Yeah, it’s sad; you’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up with me. I’m just tired or something.” Shaking his head, Vernon moves back towards his friends, lowering himself back to the floor and offering them a smile that seems to soothe them both. “I saw Y/N earlier today; she seemed to be kinda tore up about it too. She was going over to—uh, Cailtin’s. She’s a good friend.” Gritting his teeth slightly, Vernon forces himself to say her name instead of anything else out of respect for you. In his head, Caitilin didn’t deserve anything but what she was going through.

Tilting his head slightly, Jun watches Vernon talk about you. There was a stark difference in how he mentioned you compared to anyone else. While he knew that Vernon had a crush on you, if he was talking to you, maybe he was wanting more. More could be dangerous.

“You saw her? Where? Was she alone?”

Vernon knew why there was a barrage of questions, but it only served to annoy him. Leaning his head back, he sighs and nods along with each one. “Yes. Taco Bell. She was alone. Why the fuck does it matter?”

“Because, Vernon. She's—look, I get it. She’s cute as fuck. She’s nice, but he’s got his claws in her. He’ll kill you if you try anything. Some ass isn’t worth it. I don’t care if the ass is prime—”

Glaring at Jun, Vernon bites at his cheek until he snaps. “Why do you talk about her like that? Do you even know her? Have you spoken a single word to her?” Shaking his head, Vernon rubs hard at the numbers on his palm now. “Of course you haven’t because you are too fuckin’ judgmental and too chicken shit. Just think that because she’s standing next to Christen, she’s just like him. Well, newsfuckin’ flash, Junhui, you aren’t the genius you make yourself out to be.”

Dino had been quiet—he always was, but he hated the tension and arguing between his friends. No one was worth putting a wedge between his best friends, especially some girl. “Hey! Stop it. Why are you two always doing this now? Every fucking week!” Staring up at Dino, Vernon swallows hard as the youngest stands up and points from Jun to him. “If he likes his girl, so what? Lay off! And you…”

Swallowing hard, Dino falters for a moment as he meets Vernon’s eyes. It takes a deep breath to calm down before he can round his shoulders and speak up to Vernon. “Jun is your best friend and you’ve never been such an asshole before. If you need to get your dick wet, do it. If you need to get high or drunk, please... Just do it before you say something you can’t take back.”

Vernon stared at his television for a long time after his friends had left, thinking about what Dino had said. To be a year younger than him, the boy was wise beyond his years and he had a point. He knew that he was wound up and he had been taking it out on Jun in particular for weeks.

There had been some relief when Vernon had left Jae’s, but then he would be reminded about Christen and his bullshit and be right back where he had started. The anger was building until he felt like he might just snap.

Glancing towards his desk, Vernon lifts his brow, seeing the piece of paper with your phone number written on it. It wasn’t incredibly late, but it was the weekend. There was a good chance you were still at Cailtin’s or worse... You could be out with the rest of them doing something, trying to take your minds off of Jae—but Vernon still wanted to try.

Pulling the phone from the desk along with the piece of paper, Vernon sighs as he leans back against the side of his bed. He rests the receiver between his shoulder and ear before carefully dialing your number and waiting. You had said it was your own line, and somehow that didn’t stop Vernon from letting Jun’s words get the better of him for just a single moment. What if you gave him a fake number? What if Christen picked up? But neither of those things happened.

“Hello?”

Your voice is beautiful, a bit sad, and confused. Vernon has to take a deep breath to stop himself from hanging up the phone when you furrow your brows and listen to the sound of breathing on the other line. Clearly someone was there; it wouldn’t be the first time you had gotten a crank call, but today really wasn’t the day for it.

“Hello? Look, seriously… I’m not in the mood—”

“Y/N… Sorry, it’s me, Vernon.” Wincing to his own voice, Vernon pulls on the phone cord in his lap and weighs his regret as he listens to you take a deep breath in response. You had hoped that Vernon would call you, but you hadn’t expected it. He seemed so different from you and the rest of your friends that he was almost like a life preserver at the moment.

“I—oh… Hey. I—I’m glad you called. I’m a little surprised.” Closing your eyes for a moment, you lean your head back, trying to think of how to salvage your conversation, thinking you might have ruined it before it started. “I promise I don’t always sound like a bitch when I answer the phone.”

Vernon’s laugh brings a much-needed smile to your face and warmth to your chest. Shaking his head, he tries to picture you in a room he’s never seen besides a light behind a curtain. “You didn’t sound like a bitch. I—I didn’t exactly start speaking so I get why you said what you did. I’m not really like, you know, a great conversationalist.”

And yet he had called you anyway. That wasn’t lost on you as you stood up from your desk and worked the cord for your phone around it so you could sit on your bed. Vernon listens to the sounds of you moving in your room and it brings a slight smile to his face. “How are you, by the way? You said you were going over to your friend’s house.”

He remembered. Leaning your head back against your headboard, you bite your bottom lip and nod. “Yeah, I spent most of the day at Cailtin’s. It was honestly exhausting.” Sighing, you close your eyes, realizing how bad your words sound, causing you to shake your head. “But—I… You know, I’ll do it anytime. She’s going through a ton right now. I’m—”

“Y/N… I didn’t ask about her. Sorry, that sounds really shitty, but I’d rather talk about you.” Vernon didn’t want to cut you off, but he couldn’t stand that you were spiraling because you felt bad for Caitlin. In his opinion, she didn’t deserve anything, much less you in her life. You were far too good for her, not that he could just say that out loud to you now. “Don’t get me wrong; it’s really nice of you to do what you did. Is it cool if we just talk about you?”

That was almost a terrifying prospect—someone wanting to focus on just you. Christen did it in his own way, but it always led back to him. There was always an ulterior motive, and yet it didn’t seem like Vernon had one. Shifting on your bed, you rest the cradle to your phone next to you as you pull your knees towards your stomach.

“Sorry, yeah… Yeah, we can do that, but only if we talk about you too. Is that okay?”

You were apologizing again. That seemed to be something you did a lot and usually not for yourself. Shaking his head, Vernon smiles into a sigh before lifting his brows. “Yeah, that’s okay. I—I kinda wanna get to know you. God, that sounds so fuckin’ lame.”

Warmth spreads along your cheeks at Vernon’s words and you are happy he’s just on the phone and not in front of you. Pressing your lips together, you swallow hard and bury a bit of a happy sound as you pull the phone from your ear briefly before calming yourself down and clearing your throat. “It’s not lame. Why would that be lame? I mean, I wanna get to know you too. I gave you my number for a reason... Like, obviously.”

Listening to how your voice trails off with a bit of shyness to it, Vernon can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips. There was no way you were actually into him the way he was into you. You probably just wanted to be his friend, and if that was the case, he’d have to deal... But the tone of your voice—the cute little giggle to it—made his stomach tighten with intrigue.

“Oh—oh, yeah?” Clearing his throat, Vernon lifts his hand to rub at his neck, feeling how hot it is under his touch. He knew if he were to look in the mirror, it would be red along with his ears. There would be no way he would have called you with Jun and Dino in the room; if he was this shy and embarrassed alone, he would have died in front of them. “Wha—what’s the reason?”

Despite being new adults, fresh into the world, there was still a layer of that schoolgirl and boy whimsy layered in the conversation that made you kick your feet when Vernon stumbled over his questions. You had a feeling he knew the answers to his questions, but he was just wanting to hear them out loud. The real question was, would you be able to say it out loud?

Whining Vernon’s name softly, you wrap your phone cord around your fingers and laugh under your breath, almost in disbelief. The sound of his smooth but shy laugh makes your stomach twist with that nervous new crush feeling and you feel almost like you could float off your bed. “I don’t know; it’s hard to say it out loud. You know what I mean... Don’t you?”

Pulling his beanie from his hair, Vernon rakes his fingers through his hair and scoffs into a laugh as you dodge his question. You were being so cute and coy that it was driving him crazy. Sure, he had dated in high school. He had crushes, but none of them quite stood the test of time like this one.

“Think I’d just rather hear it. This isn’t a conversation I’ve ever had before, Y/N.” Dropping the beanie on to the floor next to him, he bites at his lip and tilts his head, looking at the wall almost too intently as if it will give him the right words. “I—I mean, you know who I am. Let’s be honest, I’m not—I mean, fuck. I’m not Christen—”

“Stop it. I don’t like Christen. I think—I mean, I thought that was obvious, at least to you. He—” Furrowing your brows as you speak over Vernon, cutting him off, you bite at your cheek, feeling the frustration rising in your chest. “He honestly makes me really...”

Hearing how you seem unable to say the words, Vernon chews at his lips, feeling bad for bringing the other man up. It hadn’t been his intention to upset you, but he did feel inferior when it came to Christen in some ways, especially you. Now he wasn’t sure he should. Now Vernon could feel the same anger from before threatening to rise up as he taps his fingers against his leg and fills in the word for you. “Uncomfortable?”

Nodding, you sniff back your emotions and sit up a bit on your bed, as if talking about Christen will make him manifest in front of you like a demon. “Yeah, so you not being him is a good thing.” Wanting to get the conversation off of Christen, you take a deep breath and shake your head as if clearing the fog from it before speaking again. “‘Sides, I do kinda know who you are; that’s why I—you know... It’s why I like you, Vernon.”

Your words make Vernon feel like he’s stuck in a wind tunnel. He hears them, and yet they don’t seem real. “Me?”

Laughing under your breath, you nod at his question as your brows knit together. There was no one else you were talking to and you had used his first name. “I—yeah. I mean, you know… If you don’t like me, that’s totally—”

“Oh, my god... I do. I just—I’m a loser and I can’t even remember what else your friends called me.”

“I don’t care what they think. I mean, I care what they say, and they are so fucking wrong.” You weren’t sure why it was so hard for Vernon to understand that you liked him, and while you were glad that he liked you back, it was difficult to hear him call himself a loser. That wasn’t how you saw him. You hated hearing your friends call anyone that, but especially Vernon. “I know I make a lot of excuses for them, but the things they said the other night... I really am so, so sorry. That was my fault.”

Pushing his tongue against his cheek, Vernon lets out a breath as you once again apologize for your friends. It’s even worse when you take the blame for something that isn’t your responsibility. “Y/N, wh—no. I don’t blame you. Nothing that happened was your fault. Christen could have threw a punch at me and it still wouldn’t have been anything that you could have started or stopped.”

The idea of Christen hurting Vernon makes your skin crawl. You knew that Christen was just waiting for the opportunity and what you were doing right now... Pursuing something with Vernon would only make it worse. Frowning a bit to yourself, you stretch the phone cord between your fingers and Vernon seems to notice how quiet you’ve become, your soft breath on the other side of the line being the only thing that lets him know you’re still there.

“You thinkin’ hard about something? Wanna let me in on it?” Smiling a bit, Vernon shifts his legs, pulling his knees up a bit so he can rest his forearms on them as he leans his head back against his bed. “Or did you fall asleep?”

“No—no, I’m here. I just—I know you said none of that was my fault, but it feels like it.” You can hear Vernon start to speak and you know he’s going to argue your point, but still having more to say, you keep going before he can. “It’s just—Christen, he’s like weirdly been obsessed with me for a while, right? He's just my friend, but it’s like I can’t get him to see that. It makes it hard to date, well, like anyone. I—” Laughing under your breath, it’s clear there is no humor to it as you roll your eyes. “Like I haven’t even had a boyfriend or been on a date since freshman year.”

Letting your words sink in, Vernon tries to think about high school and when he first noticed you. It hadn’t been hard. You were beautiful from the first day, but he hadn’t been the only one who had noticed how much you changed over summer and that was when Christen had laid his claim. No wonder you hadn’t dated. Vernon could imagine that any guy that tried to get close to you was either scared away or knew you were off the table—even if you weren’t.

“So… I’m just saying that because if this goes anywhere, and I’m not saying it has to... Christen might freak the fuck out. He already got mad that you were talking to me.” Your voice is sad and quiet. You sound repressed like you had at the theater, and it bites at Vernon, making him almost feel antsy in his room. He wants to get up and fix it for you; change your situation so that you don’t have to feel so small...

“I don’t give a fuck what he thinks, Y/N. I’m not afraid of him. All I care about is what you think and want.” Vernon presses his thumbnail into the tip of his pinky hard enough to leave a divot as he grits his teeth. He had to calm down; you weren’t his—not yet. Christen had already done enough damage by laying a freaky claim to you; Vernon was determined not to make you feel worse by doing the same. “I’ll only do what you want. Like I told you, I like you.”

Unable to stop the smile from spreading on your lips, you bite at your lower lip and glance towards your window as the curtain moves with the wind. There was a huge difference in how Christen and Vernon made you feel. Christen terrified you and made you feel trapped in a box. Vernon, he made you feel almost free and desired. It was almost a bit dangerous the way you enjoyed that feeling, along with the smooth sound of his voice lulling you into a comfortable place.

“Yeah?” Now your smile was even in your voice and Vernon could hear it over the phone. “I—yeah, I like you a lot. God, I sound like a teenager.”

Smirking, Vernon looks down at his fingers and the red half moon on his pinky as he runs his tongue along his lips and tilts his head. “Well, I mean technically—”

“Stop it, I’m not. We aren’t anymore. I let high school go, like forever.” Sliding down in your bed, you rest your head on the pillow, sighing into the phone, causing Vernon to have to close his eyes to the sound. “Another reason I like you so much. You don’t seem to dwell on it. High school is over, and we can start something new. Like this, right?”

Fuck. Vernon has to pull the phone from his ear as his stomach tightens to the idea of you and the sigh you had made in his ear. You were so innocent to him and yet he wasn’t thinking completely with his brain at the moment. Nodding, he swallows hard and rubs his hand along his jeans to ground himself. “Hell, yeah.”

Partying wasn’t really Vernon’s scene. It wasn’t even the fact that he wasn’t in the “cool” crowd; it was more that his personality didn’t mesh with how loud a party could be. Not just the music or the talking, but the atmosphere. It was all so loud and made Vernon’s head feel like it was in a vice that someone was constantly tightening the longer he stayed—and yet a party is where he found himself tonight.

Jun loved to party. He liked the release of not having to think. He enjoyed the free beer and access to almost anything he might want to get his hands on. Jun didn’t go crazy, but if someone passed a joint, he wasn’t going to be rude and refuse a gift.

“Dude, try to enjoy this.”

Vernon rolls his eyes at Jun as he lifts his cup to his lips, nursing a stale beer he had picked up at the beginning of the night. Sometimes he wished he could be more like his friend. He did find watching people at parties interesting, even Jun. You could really see who someone was when they were wasted. Inhibitions were low and people’s true nature came out to play.

“I have about fifty other things I could be doing.” Vernon wasn’t lying. It was rare that he and Jun both had a night off from the theater and he didn’t particularly want to be spending it in the house of someone who probably treated him like shit in high school. You were on Vernon’s mind, and he had been letting his eyes wander around the crowd just hoping you might show up—though this didn’t seem much like your scene.

“Such a fuckin’ buzzkill, man. You gotta relax. That’s why I wanted you to come out with me. You gotta get out of your head. You’re spinnin’ your wheels.” Jun tried to focus on Vernon, but unlike him—who had taken the night slow, Jun had not. He was feeling just how he wanted to be feeling: light, cares were a thing of the past or a problem for tomorrow, and there was still plenty of shit to play with floating around this party.

Shaking his head, Vernon can’t help the scoff that slips from his lips, though between Jun’s current mental state and the boom of the bass echoing off the walls, it went unheard. “I’m gonna top off.”

Nodding, Jun turns his attention away from Vernon and towards the pretty girl with a joint resting between her fingers. Vernon, on the other hand, kept his head on a swivel as he moved into the kitchen and straight towards the keg to refill his beer. There was a mishmash of people he had gone to school with; a couple of kids he knew were still in school, but the two that caught his eye were leaned up against the farest wall.

Vernon wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed Juwon and Alanna until now, but then again they had probably found a room in this godforsaken house and defiled it. Bringing the cup to his lips, Vernon furrows his brows as he follows the direction of the couple's eyes as they laugh between themselves. Jun—they were watching Jun.

Everyone at this party was wasted—well, almost everyone, and it made no sense to Vernon why old habits had to die hard. Something you had said to him the night before was replaying in his mind as Vernon took a step back into the living room, carefully maneuvering through people as Juwon and Alanna made their way closer to Jun.

“They just all are mentally stuck in high school. The glory days, you know?”

Well, this wasn’t fucking high school anymore. There weren’t glory days for anyone. Vernon had never gotten any, and Jun sure as hell hadn’t, so why should a group of assholes get them?

“Thanks, fuckface.” Taking the joint from Jun’s fingers, Juwon passes it to Alanna as the girl who had given it to Jun in the first place shifts uncomfortably. “You living off scraps like a dog? Who invited you anyway?”

Juwon had always had an issue with Jun for seemingly no problem on the surface. He had gone out of his way to make his life a living hell in high school, and it seemed that wasn’t stopping just because they had donned a cap and gown a couple of months ago. The real issue was that Jun had almost dated Alanna first. Juwon had almost lost the “great love of his life” to someone else, and now that he had her, he had to remind Jun at every given chance.

Alanna eyes the girl sitting next to Jun harshly. She had no reason to, but she honestly didn’t like her so close to Jun. As much as she loved being at Juwon’s side and making sure that Jun remembered her as she egged the bullying on—she also enjoyed seeing him available. You just never knew if the wind would change.

“Cut the shit out, Juwo—”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Wen? Walking up in this place like you belong.”

Vernon was seething as he watched just a few feet away along with a small crowd of others. He wanted to give Jun a chance to defend himself, but he had seen this song and dance. Jun wasn’t a violent person; he wasn’t a confrontational person—and tonight he had been drinking and smoking. Juwon had an unfair advantage.

The moment that Juwon starts to lay his hands on Jun is when Vernon can no longer just watch. Taking a couple of steps forward, he pulls Juwon back, and the anger he is feeling is evident in his eyes. Stepping in front of Jun, Vernon’s nose almost touching Juwon's, he tilts his head as he speaks just loud enough for the man to head. “Touch him again and see what happens. Take your little bitch, and get out of my face.”

Juwon looks shocked at first, his eyes widening almost comically until a laugh bubbles in his throat. “Yo–you kiddin’? The fuck?” Alanna quickly joins in, her higher-pitched laugh grating at Vernon’s ears as the couple hangs off one another. “You’re a fuckin’ psychopath, Vernon. Almost had me scared for a minute. Shit… Seriously, you could almost pull off being a badass if everyone didn’t know you were a pussy.”

Juwon laughs again as he takes the joint from Alanna, the end of it burning orange as he smirks before inhaling deeply and blowing smoke into Vernon’s face as he pushes him out of his way. Vernon forces himself to keep his eyes open even as they burn from the smoke. He wasn’t going to let Juwon get the better of him, not tonight. Not while his nails were digging into his palms hard enough to break the skin.

“Goodnight, ladies…” With his arm wrapped around Alanna, the last of the joint resting back between her lips, Juwon grins at Jun as he shifts uncomfortably on the arm of the couch. He had succeeded in doing what he had set out to do. Jun and Vernon had always been the outcasts in high school and at any party they went to, but now they were being looked at like they were diseased. The pretty girl who had been sitting next to Jun was long gone, and anyone else who had been seen talking to Jun before had found better company.

“Fuck this party.” Vernon sighs, hearing how defeated Jun sounds. His eyes follow his friend as he quickly stands and moves past him, only to get a few feet before Vernon watches him fall flat on his face with a loud groan.

Searching for the source, Vernon’s anger boils over when Juwon laughs loudly once again, throwing his hands up as he meets Vernon’s eyes. “Not my fuckin’ fault your girlfriend can’t walk. Maybe he’s too fucked up, Vern. Get him home safe; tuck him in. Kiss him goodnight for me?”

Vernon tilts his head, refusing to respond to Juwon’s words as others around him laugh at the pathetic excuse for jokes. Instead he moves to Jun, trying to help him up, only to feel his hands get slapped away as Jun glares at him, his eyes quickly softening before he gets to his feet on his own. “I got it. I’m fine. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”

Following Jun, doing his best to keep up, Vernon sighs as Jun tugs open the door to his car, sliding behind the wheel and wiping under his nose hard. Glancing down to the wet, sticky feeling of blood running from his nose, Jun rolls his eyes and leans his head back before meeting Vernon’s eyes and shaking his head. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say a damn thing.” That was the truth. Vernon didn’t have to say what Jun already knew. It had been a bad idea to come to this party. From the moment they had walked in, Vernon had felt it, and now Jun was bleeding because of it. “You want me to drive you home?”

Grimacing, Jun shakes his head again and wipes under his nose, checking the heel of his hand for more blood. “No, I just—I appreciate the offer, but I wanna be alone. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Taking a step back, Vernon watches Jun shut his door,his eyes following the Toyota down the street until it turns the corner, leaving him alone as the sun starts to set. He knew that he should leave too. Logically, Vernon knew that it would be smart to get in his Beretta and drive off—leave all this bullshit behind, but then he hears the laughter from inside the house and logic is off the table.

“Did you see his stupid fuckin’ face?” Juwon mimics Jun falling forward as Alanna tips back her beer, her eyes bright watching him getting attention from the small crowd around them. They weren’t Christen and you, but when it came to this scene—this is when they were King and Queen.

Grinning as he slides his fingers along Alanna’s side, Juwon nods, agreeing to another drink as Jake slides off the couch, moving towards the kitchen to gather them for the group. “You having a good time, babe?” He knew she was; he could see that hazed, lazy look in her eyes. She was just high enough, just drunk enough, that the world didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was right in front of her, and that was how Alanna loved to exist.

“Mmm—so fucking good. Only be better if—” Leaning in to whisper in to Juwon’s ear, Alanna drapes her leg over his thigh, causing him to groan not only to her dirty words but also to the weight of her knee over his crotch. “Know what I mean? Can’t do that here.”

Juwon’s finger slid down further to grip at Alanna’s hip, her skirt sliding up slightly on her thigh, causing Jake to cough as he averted his eyes. “I—shit. Got more beers... I’ll leave ‘em here. Y’all wanna use my room or somethin’? Don’t fuck on my couch, alright?”

Pushing his tongue against his teeth, Vernon leans against the wall in the dark hall next to the bathroom as he watches the scene in front of him carefully. It was interesting how much people would let themselves go when they thought they were amongst friends or those who worshipped them. Vernon also thought it was interesting what people left just lying around—or at least what they kept in their medicine cabinets.

Jake’s mother had been in a car accident about a year ago. Vernon remembered when that had happened. It had been dramatic for the town. She was some important bigwig businesswoman that people thought others should give a fuck about, but Vernon didn’t even know her name until today. He had learned it when he had read her name on the medicine bottle before he had pocketed the pills inside of it.

Vernon had never been a good chemistry student, but he did know that certain things shouldn’t be taken in large dosages. The human body wasn’t made to accept opioids at an accelerated rate in large quantities. While Vernon hadn’t been great in school, he had enjoyed watching people and realizing how little they watched him. Like how Jake hadn’t paid attention as Vernon added the crushed-up pills to Alanna and Juwon’s drinks before he handed them off to the couple.

It didn’t take long for the drinks to disappear and for the expressions on their faces to change. There was a difference between being high and what they were feeling now. Moving to his feet, Juwon holds his hand to his head as Alanna shakes out her hands, trying to get a grip on herself. “Com—come on, baby. Let’s get out o—outta here.”

Nodding along with Juwon, Alanna moves to her feet, stumbling along side of him, finding herself holding him upright as the two make their way towards his car. Had they drunk that much? Trying to think back, Alanna blinks a few times as she counts the beers to herself before her attention is brought back to the present and to Juwon when he groans weakly, his legs giving out and pulling her down with him.

“Juwon… Shit. Wha—baby!” The euphoric feeling of fun that had been running through Alanna’s body just an hour before was long gone as she lazily swiped Juwon’s hair back, feeling warm tears running down her cheeks. All she could feel now was fear mixed with horror as she watched his eyes roll back, his breaths becoming more like choked gasps. “Baby, wake up!”

Tilting his head, Vernon took in a deep pull from his cigarette before letting it settle in his chest for a second and blowing it out into the wind. He knew that Alanna was trying to be loud enough that others from the party would hear and come to their aid, but she was exhausted and fading.

Shaking Juwon as hard as she can manage, Alanna sobs, unable to tell if he is breathing—the choking sounds no longer reaching her ears. Leaning back against the side of the car, she tries to focus and to find anyone to help them, but the only person she sees makes her blood run cold. Vernon smirks, flicking the last of his cigarette from his fingers before blowing out another deep breath of smoke, his eyes never leaving Alanna’s. It’s only when the girl’s head falls forward, her body slumping over Juwon's, does Vernon slide behind the wheel of his car and drive down the street.

At this point, you were becoming numb from going to funerals. It was two days after the morbid joint memorial that Juwon and Alanna’s family had held, and though you had cried—now you just felt numb.

You had watched Christen pass a flask back and forth between himself, Caitlin, and a few other friends in the church—that had only served to put you in an even worse headspace. To you, this entire experience should be a reason for your friends to clean up their act. Two of your friends had overdosed, and yet the others felt the need to celebrate that by trying to follow in their footsteps.

There had been a full day of you avoiding your phone and pager. You knew that Caitlin wanted you to spend time with her and that Christen would be right on your heels, but the numbness made it easy to say no, or at least nothing at all. It wasn’t until that second day when your parents had apologized for having to leave you alone for a few days that you felt like you could finally breathe.

You knew you should want their company. You should want the hovering of your mother and the protective shield of your father, but all you wanted was space from the usual. So, when someone knocks at your door just a couple of hours after you had gotten that space, you find yourself almost willing to let them get tired of knocking as you lay on the couch.

“Y/N?”

Furrowing your brows at the sound of your name, you glance towards the front door before sitting up and wrapping your arms around yourself. You had expected either Christen or Caitlin to come demanding your attention, or even someone from the local church to visit with a casserole, but you hadn’t expected to hear Vernon’s voice.

Opening the door slowly, you meet his eyes and Vernon’s soft smile almost makes you collapse at how easily he starts to seep through that numbness that had taken over your being. “Hi… Why—I mean… Do you wanna come in?”

Vernon isn’t surprised when you start to ask him why he’s there. He had tried to call you, but you weren’t picking up your phone. He could see the look on your face. You looked like you hadn’t slept well in a few days. He didn’t want to pity you, but there was something about that pout on your pretty lips that almost broke his heart.

“Yeah—yes, I mean sure. If you want me to, I mean, you know if your parents won’t freak the fuck out.” Vernon watches you shake your head as you take a step back and open the door more for him. Moving past you, Vernon takes in a deep breath, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the idea of being inside your house. He had wanted this for so long; he knew that if he went up those stairs and to the right, the last door had to be your room. God, he wanted to see your room.

“My parents aren’t here.” Sighing softly, you close the door, locking it behind you before watching Vernon as he looks around a bit. “They left this morning to go out of town. Should be back next week sometime.”

Raising his brows, Vernon looks at a picture of your family—your mother sitting in a chair as you stand beside her and your father behind you both, his hands on either of your shoulders. It was such a classic family photo, and yet to him it looked so fucking fake. Vernon could see you that weren’t as happy as you pretended to be in the picture; there was a fakeness to the smile. He had seen a real smile from you, and he wanted to see it again.

“Oh—that’s… They left you with all this shit going on? That’s kinda fucked—” Hissing under his breath, Vernon meets your eyes and lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business and I’m sure they have their reasons. I just worry about you in this big ass house alone with everything—this house seems lonely, Y/N.”

You wrap your arms back around yourself, suddenly feeling cold at all that Vernon is pointing out. The house was too big for just you, and it was a bit lonely... Yet you were still enjoying that solitude—minus him. You liked him there. “It’s not so bad; I mean, you’re here. It’s not lonely now. I—and honestly, they were smothering me. I needed a break from them. I needed one from every—that sounds bad.”

It didn’t sound bad to Vernon. That was something that he understood better than anyone. Sometimes you just needed a break from everyone and everything. If it wasn’t necessary, you had to rid yourself of it. He was finding out he was good at that—very good, in fact.

Taking one step closer, Vernon smiles slightly, his lips pulling up at one side as he tries his luck a bit to be in your space. He wants to be less of a coward and reach out, take your hand or pull you into his arms, but the fear of pushing you away keeps him just far enough away that you tilt your head and give him that sweet smile that makes Vernon’s stomach twist up in knots. “It’s completely fucking fair, Y/N. I—look, I was hoping that I wasn’t bothering you. I wanted to check on you and… Fuck I don’t know what I was thinking. I missed you. I just wanted to see your pretty face, honestly.”

Looking down, you press your lips together, trying to keep your reaction hidden. You feel the heat spread across your cheeks, and it only gets hotter as Vernon chuckles and takes one step closer to you. “Y/N?” Watching his hand tremble slightly, your lips pull up in a small smile as he works up the courage to lift his hand to your face, his fingers carefully tilting your head up so you will meet his eyes once again.

“I’m listening.” You knew you probably shouldn’t let yourself enjoy the feeling of Vernon’s calloused fingers on your cheek, but you were. You should be sad right now, hidden in your room mourning the loss of your friends. But as you meet Vernon’s eyes, all you feel are the butterflies in your stomach. “I—would…” Taking a deep breath, you close the distance between yourself and Vernon, causing him to take a deep breath in return. “Could you hangout for a while? I don’t think I wanna be alone.”

Vernon’s skin erupts with goosebumps as your fingers trace his forearm up to his rest, where you wrap your delicate hand around his wrist. He expects you to move his hand from your face, but instead you lean into his touch, your head tilted as you wait for him to answer you. Swallowing hard, he nods while tracing your cheekbone, feeling the soft skin under his thumb. “‘Course I will.”

Listening to the sound of popcorn popping a room away, Vernon runs his fingers over the couch underneath him. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t nervous. You terrified him just as much as you enthralled him. Finally reaching for the small assortment of VHS tapes on the coffee table in front of them, Vernon reads over the titles, trying to make a decision.

You had left the movie choice in Vernon’s hands, declaring that he would have the most expertise in that field while you would take care of snacks. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you tap your foot against the cold ceramic tiles as you gnaw at your thumb nail watching the popcorn bag spin in the microwave on the countertop in front of you. Your stomach was in knots. You wanted Vernon there, and yet there was that sense of breaking the rules hanging over your head. There was a looming air of risk weighing on you that made you feel like you were in another dimension as you thought about where the night could go—Vernon’s hand on your cheek, his lips on yours—BEEP BEEP BEEP!

Gasping, you put your hand to your chest, your eyes closed as the microwave comes to a stop, pulling you out of your daydream and back to reality. Emptying the popcorn into a bowl, you balance it on your arm as you carry two cans of soda against your stomach with your other hand making your way back to the living room and Vernon.

“If we want something to eat in a bit, I can order pizza. Jerry’s is open until 9 o'clock.” Putting the bowl onto the table, you smile at Vernon as he makes a sound, realizing you were so close. Letting him take the sodas from you, you sit on the couch near him, keeping a space between the two of you as you let out a sigh, your eyes moving over the tapes to see what he had picked.

“Whatever you want... I can always eat, but this is great.” Popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth, Vernon glances at you first and then down to the marginal space between himself and you. It made sense; it wasn’t like the two of you were dating really. Things had been discussed, but being interested and wanting to see where things went didn’t mean it was official. Still, the space made Vernon furrow his brows and caused his stomach to tighten with anxiety. “Yo—you good, Y/N? Is Seven okay?”

Smiling softly, you shift a bit on the couch, your fingers under your thighs, letting the end of your denim shorts catch between your fingers as you bite at your lips anxiously. “Mmm, yeah. I’m fine. I’ve never seen it; my dad buys most of the movies.” Moving back to your feet, you swipe the VHS from the table and kneel in front of the entertainment center as Vernon watches you carefully. “Is it really scary? I mean—it’s totally okay if it is. Brad Pitt is hot, so that makes up for my trauma.”

Vernon grins watching you put the tape into the VCR, your head tilting as you sigh and press the rewind button, realizing that your dad hadn’t done it after his last watch of the movie. “It’s not too bad. More thriller and a bit gory. If you don’t like it, we can cut it off and try something else.”

Getting back to your feet, you shake your head and move back towards Vernon, offering him the remote before taking your seat. “I’m not that much of a wuss. Besides, you won’t let the movie hurt me, right?” You knew it was a pathetic attempt at flirting, but the slight smile on Vernon’s lips and the flush running along his ears to his neck made you feel a bit better about how nervous you were.

“Nah… never. Wouldn’t let anything hurt you, honestly.” Leaning back against the cushions, Vernon doesn’t see your expression change as he presses play and pops a few more kernels of popcorn into his mouth. He doesn’t seem to understand how much his words effect you and how your heart beats quicker in your chest. It doesn’t seem to dawn on him until you slide closer to him, your legs tucked up under you so that you can rest your shoulder against his arm.

Struggling to watch the movie, Vernon stays in the same awkward position for the first forty-five minutes of the movie. His eyes move from the television to your face, the pout on your lips becoming more evident as time ticks by, until finally you sigh and reach forward to grab a handful of popcorn, letting Vernon take a much-needed breath.

He leans his head back, cursing under his breath as you stay forward on your knees for what seems like an impossible amount of time, when in truth it’s only a few seconds—long enough to take a sip of your drink to wash down your popcorn. When you lean back, you gasp quietly under your breath before lifting your eyes towards Vernon, finding yourself tucked into his side. Now your cheeks were burning, and you could feel Vernon’s fingers brushing together against your shoulder as he took a deep breath, seeming to need it for courage as he kept his eyes forward with his arm behind you on the couch.

You felt perfect against his side, and it was almost devastating to Vernon. You smelled sweet and just as warm as you felt; it was causing him to almost feel lightheaded. Lifting his free hand to his lips, Vernon rubs at them as he glances down at you, being careful not to move his head. God, you were so beautiful. He had looked at you so many times, and he had been close enough to look at you, but never this close. If he really wanted to, Vernon was almost convinced he could take the time to count your eyelashes or freckles while he admired your face.

Grimacing at the movie, you whine, finding yourself tucking your body and head against Vernon, wanting to get away from the sight of blood and filth in front of you. “So gross…” Fingers brush over your hair and Vernon smiles behind his fingers, finally moving them as he meets your eyes, knowing he has your attention.

“Is it too much?”

Rubbing your lips together, you can’t help the way you take in a deep breath of Vernon’s cologne, letting it invade your senses. Looking from his eyes to his lips and back, you shyly smile before you shake your head. “It’s okay.”

You were saying one thing, and your body language was telling Vernon something completely different—and yet the movie was beginning to not matter. Vernon could almost feel the path of your eyes as they move to his lips before his eyes take the same walk down your face and he feels your fingers gently trace the sleeve of his t-shirt where it sits on his bicep. Did you want him to kiss you? All signs were pointing to yes…

The feeling of Vernon’s fingers on your chin this time is almost electric as he gently keeps your head in place, leaning down to test the waters by brushing his lips against yours. Resting his nose along yours, he smiles when your fingers close against his arm, dragging your nails along his skin gently. “Y/N... is that what you want? I gotta know. I don’t wanna do anything you don’t want.”

God, your head was spinning. For your entire high school existence and the short time you have had outside of it trying to navigate being a woman, you had never been asked what you wanted. Christen never asked. He told and took, or at least he tried. There had been so many times when he had almost taken things from you that you would have never been able to get back, and now as you clung to Vernon, his lips hovering over yours and that question on his lips—you yearned.

“Please? Kiss me? I want it.”

Vernon’s brows furrow tightly, almost painfully so at how needy you sound. His lips meet yours gently, but not without meaning. He doesn’t want to scare you, but he also doesn’t want to risk you slipping through his fingers as he tastes your lip balm on his tongue.

To Vernon, you seem delicate, almost as if he were to hold you too tightly, he might break you. It’s almost frustrating to you when you whine into the most breathtaking kiss you had ever received and Vernon’s hand tightens on your hip only for him to shakily loosen his grip and move his hand as if he’s afraid of something.

Shifting on the couch, you open your eyes, moving your leg slowly along Vernon’s thigh to see how he will react. You furrow your brows, feeling a rush of arousal, your panties beginning to stick to your folds when Vernon groans your name from deep in his throat to the feeling of the warmth between your legs against his jeans.

“Shit—I… Y/N, I gotta—” Vernon leans his head back, his eyes searching the ceiling as you stay still, almost afraid to move based on his reaction and the feeling bubbling inside of you. Glancing over his face and down along his neck, you finally make up your mind, leaning forward to press your lips to the junction between Vernon’s jaw and his neck and listening to his breath quicken.

Hands slide along your legs to the end of your shorts, where Vernon forces himself to stop and let his hands rest even as his fingers knead at your soft thighs. He could feel how hard he was getting from the feeling of your warmth against his leg and your soft, plush lips on his throat. “Y/N…”

Your name was starting to sound like a prayer on Vernon’s lips, as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded and sitting on the couch. “I like you, Vernon. Like a lot, if that isn’t clear.” Groaning in a mixture of frustration and pleasure, Vernon lifts one hand from your leg to run his fingers through his hair, tugging gently to bring himself back to reality. You were making it hard for him to keep his head clear as you traced the collar of his shirt and adjusted your leg over his.

“I think it’s painfully obvious that I like you too.” Sighing, Vernon meets your eyes as you smile at him. Your face is so sweet, not a bit of malice or ill intent behind your eyes. There is something so innocent and pure about you that makes him equally excited and horrified. “I’m enjoying this. I’m ju—I’m enjoying it a little too much.”

You weren’t stupid or completely naive. You could feel how hard Vernon was as you dared to slide your leg further up his, resting your knee dangerously close to his crotch. It wasn’t like you hadn’t made out with guys or that you had been around Christen when he had gotten too excited, but this was different. You wanted to be here. You wanted more with Vernon, and you knew what it meant and how it would change things.

“That’s okay, right? It’s just—you know, just us here. Um, if we wanted to, you know.”

Tilting his head, Vernon can’t stop the way his lips pull up in a soft, amused smile at your phrasing. Were you embarrassed to ask him for more, or were you afraid to say the words? Or was it something else? Were you even more pure than he thought?

“Wanted to what, Y/N? Make out? We already were…”

Whining at Vernon’s words, you shift even closer to him as you shake your head no firmly. “I—no, I mean yes. I want to kiss you so much. Keep kissing me, but more. I mean, if—if you want me like that.”

The moment that your confidence seems to wane, Vernon’s brows furrow and his hand moves to your neck, pulling you closer for a deep kiss that once again takes your breath. Gasping into the kiss, you feel a rush of excitement run through your body as his other hand slips around to your ass, fingers slipping into your back pocket.

“You got literally no fucking idea how much I want you like that or how long I’ve—God, baby.” The pet name slips off Vernon’s lips as a soft whine before he can stop himself. A rush of fear moves through him quickly, but when you smile on his lips and shift over his lap to sit on his thighs, Vernon’s anxiety melts away. “Are you sure?”

Nodding, you let your knees slide to either side of Vernon’s legs, a soft gasp escaping your lips when you finally feel the bulge of his cock press against the center of your legs. “Uh huh, I’m sure, but—god, it’s so embarrassing.” Lowering your head to press your face against Vernon’s neck, you only feel shame for a moment before his hand slides over your back to join the other on your ass, helping you gently grind down over his jeans. “Oh…”

This had to be a dream—some perfect wet dream that Vernon would wake up from with his boxers sticky from cum. There was no way you were actually rolling your hips down over his cock, and those pretty little whines were real, but it all felt real. You were warm on his lap, your pussy almost hot even through your shorts. Your ass felt soft in his hands as Vernon tightened his fingers over the denim, trying to keep himself from throwing you down on the floor and fucking you right there in front of the family portrait over the fireplace. “Fuck—don’t be embarrassed in front of me, please? What’s wrong? Talk to me, baby.”

Kissing gently at Vernon’s neck, you furrow your brows, feeling his fingers run over your head as he asks you to talk to him. Taking his hand when he moves it to your neck, you link your fingers with Vernon’s before nodding. “I’ve never done this before, Vernon. I wanna do it. I wanna—I want it with you, but I just don’t wanna fuck it up.”

If there was a way for Vernon to die, go to heaven, and end up back on your couch in the span of seconds, it had happened. Staring up at you, he licks his lips, trying to come up with the right words before finally shaking his head and letting out a sigh. “You’re perfect. You couldn’t fuck up a single thing even if you tried.”

Patting your thighs, Vernon helps you to your feet and offers you his hand as you give him a confused look. “I’m not doing this on your couch in your living room, Y/N. You deserve so much better than that.” Gently tugging at your hand, he leads you towards the staircase, and you find yourself enamored by Vernon as he leads you to your bedroom.

While Vernon had thought being in your house was overwhelming, being in your bedroom was like being inside of his dreams. It was like being inside your head and learning how to understand you from the inside out. Dropping your hand for a moment, he moves to turn on your bedside lamp before turning back to you and offering you his hand as you tilt your head and laugh softly. “How did you know which room was mine?”

You watch Vernon’s eyes shift to your window quickly before he laughs and shrugs into a sigh, his arms wrapping around you while he walks backwards towards your bed. “Lucky guess and I followed my nose. It smells like your perfume.” Vernon wasn’t going to tell you that he had counted your windows hundreds of times and that he had guessed the layout of your house, perhaps knowing it better than his own. No, he wasn’t going to fuck up the best thing that had ever happened to him as you looked up at him like he had hung the stars in the sky.

“Oh… I bet I could find your room like that too. Your cologne smells so good; it’s my favorite thing.” Leaning forward, you rest your nose in the crook of Vernon’s neck, taking in a breath and Vernon thinks he could die right then and there. Yes, he liked you, but that wasn’t strong enough for the emotions that you made him feel—he loved you.

“Jesus, Y/N… You don’t even fucking understand what you’re doing to me. I—here, lay down. Let me—I gotta take care of you, right? Make this matter.” Carefully turning with you in his arms, Vernon walks you backwards until your knees hit your bed. “I got you.” Resting his knee beside you, Vernon keeps his eyes locked on yours as he helps you lay back on your bed, a pillow under your head—another picture from a dream he’s had a hundred times.

Trailing his fingers slowly along your side, Vernon shakes his head as you shift under him, squirming slightly in anticipation. “You’re telling me that no one else has touched you like this?” When you whine his name, Vernon smiles, the warm, soft feeling of your skin under his fingertips as he pushes your shirt up your torso towards your breasts, exposing your body to him... inch by inch.

“It’s just a question. I just can’t believe I’m this fucking lucky. Crazy to me actually…” Vernon’s words make your cheeks heat up, but any complaints you have die on your tongue when his lips gently brush over your stomach. “But I’ll take care of you... Make you feel good, I promise.”

You find yourself wondering how many people Vernon had been with before you, but before you can ask, a moan slips from your lips at the feeling of his warm breath and kisses moving along your skin. You knew this would feel good—having someone touch you, kissing you—but you had no idea it would be this good when he had just started.

“Please… please? Can I see you? ‘M so nervous, Vernon... Don’t tease me.”

Vernon could tell you were nervous. You were trembling under him. Every kiss brought out a new shiver and more goosebumps. He knew it wasn’t fear, because if he even for a moment thought you were afraid of him, Vernon would stop. That was his worst nightmare—a world where you weren’t safe and happy.

“Not teasing, baby. I’m exploring… I’m—mm…” Chuckling against your skin, Vernon hisses, almost afraid to say what he wants to, but a glance up to meet your eyes gives him the confidence he needs. “I’m loving you. Lift your hips for me, angel.”

Wiggling your hips from side to side, you grip at the bedding under you as Vernon works your jean shorts down your thighs and finally off your legs. In that moment, feeling Vernon’s hand running along your leg back towards your thigh, you find yourself happy that you had taken the time to shave your legs. The thought seems trivial and silly, but the feeling of his rougher hands on your soft skin is better than anything you’ve ever felt before.

“You’re so beautiful. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life, you know that?” Vernon grins as you let out a soft, happy sound to his words and also to the feeling of his lips against your knee. It was killing him to go so slowly, but it was what you deserved. He could just imagine Christen throwing you on the bed and shoving his cock in you. Some bastard who didn’t give a shit about anything other than getting his dick wet, watching you cry, not even from pleasure as he got his rocks off... No, Vernon wasn’t about to treat you like that. He would never treat you like that.

“Can I?” Sucking in a breath as you feel the back of Vernon’s finger trace the lace around your thigh near the center of your legs, you glance down between your legs and whine. You could see how wet you were and there was no way that Vernon hadn’t noticed too. He was being so respectful, and you loved that he was asking. “Hm? Can I take these off too?”

“Yeah…” Your voice is quieter than you mean for it to be so you nod, making sure that Vernon meets your eyes. Lifting your hips one more time, you quickly close your eyes when you feel air hit your wet folds and Vernon helps you lift your legs one at a time until your panties are discarded on the floor with your shorts.

All Vernon wanted was for you to look at him, but the embarrassment was written on your face like a book. This was the first time anyone had seen you like this and he wasn’t going to push you. He was going to help you and ease you into feeling more comfortable. “Pretty girl, it’s just us. I want you to know that you are perfect. Everything about you, from your head to your toes.”

Your quiet laugh causes Vernon’s lips to pull up in a smile. He loved that sound and he meant what he said. Slowly moving his hands along your legs, Vernon lets you decide when to spread your legs and he does his best to muffle his groan when he is able to take you in completely. “Shh—okay. Perfect, baby. You still okay?”

Whimpering his name under your breath, you open your eyes to meet Vernon’s and wonder if that was a mistake when you find him watching you closely. Lifting your arm to put it over your eyes for a second before raising it over your arm, you nod and wiggle down in the bed towards Vernon as his breath quickens. “Yeah… Still wanna see you.”

A scoff slips from between Vernon’s lips and he nods, forcing himself to pull his eyes away from you. It was difficult. You were every bit his wet dream a thousand times over as you lay on the bed naked from the waist down, your shirt bunched up under your perfect tits. “You can see me. Whatever you want.”

Sitting up on your elbows, you bite your lips as you watch Vernon stand at the end of your bed. Your instinct is your move—to help him as he pulls his shirt over his head or as he undoes his belt, but instead you find yourself frozen in a trance. It isn’t until Vernon pushes his thumbs into the top of his boxers, his eyes meeting yours, that you glance away only to hear him laugh under his breath and whisper your name.

“Don’t be so shy about it. Even if we just end up making out, I’m not gonna be disappointed, alright? You wanted to see me... Is that still true?” Nodding, you slowly move your eyes over Vernon’s body, letting out a deep breath. You felt childish, like you were still stuck in high school until the exact moment that Vernon’s boxers hit the ground and your eyes met his with want.

Running his hand over his mouth, Vernon stiffles a groan at the look on your face and to the relief of pressure being off of his cock. He wanted more; he needed more... but this was a start. You were looking at him like he was a full-course meal and he wasn’t planning on making you wait much longer.

“God, you can’t keep looking at me like that. Come ‘ere…” Helping you sit up more, Vernon meets your eyes with a smile before quickly pressing his lips to yours, his hands working your shirt over your chest. Humming against his lips, you lift your arms, letting him break the kiss to help you out of the shirt completely before his lips are right back on yours.

Skin meets skin and you find your thighs brushing together at the feeling of Vernon’s cock resting on your lower stomach as his fingers work the clasp of your bra open at the middle of your back. “Oh my god... Please go faster, Vernon.”

There was that want and need in your voice again. Vernon has already been leaking onto your skin, but with those words, he felt his cock jerk, a rush of pre-cum oozing along your stomach as he tugs your bra from your arms and tosses it over his head, not caring where it lands.

“Fuck.” There wasn’t much more that Vernon could think to say as he looked at you now. Your lips bitten and swollen from his kisses, your breasts rising and falling quickly with each deep breath, and your knee running along his hip. The moment he feels your warm, wet folds on his thigh, Vernon thinks he’s died one more time. It wasn’t like he had fucked many other girls in his life. A couple of hookups at shitty parties, but none of them had mattered and none of them had made him feel like he was going to lose his fucking mind. He had always heard that your first time, the one who took your virginity was supposed to be the one that you remembered forever… Right now he couldn’t even remember her name, much less her face, as you looked up at him and ran your fingers along his jaw.

“Are you gonna—” Swallowing hard, you struggle for the right word, but your cheeks bloom with heat and Vernon smiles. “Don’t make fun of me. It’s hard… I don’t know how to say it without sounding gross. I want you... Put it in.”

God, Vernon felt like he could cum on the spot hearing you say something like that. He wanted to be inside of you, but that wasn’t how this should work. He watches how you pout, a full frown forming on your pretty lips when he shakes his head. Pressing a kiss to your lips, Vernon groans before working the kisses to your cheek and down your jaw to your neck as he speaks quietly. “I will, I promise... Just not yet. I’m not an asshole, baby. It’s not gonna feel good at first, no matter what I do, but I gotta make sure you're ready either way. You understand?”

You weren’t a child; you had touched yourself plenty of times and Christen had tried to show you porn to see how embarrassed you would get. You knew what Vernon was talking about, but seeing and feeling was different. With a breath getting caught in your throat, you run your fingers through Vernon’s hair as he kisses the top of each of your breasts, glancing up at you to make sure you are okay before running his tongue around one of your nipples. Arching from the mattress, you moan behind tight lips, your brows furrowed as Vernon smiles against your skin, sucking the bud into his mouth gently.

“Holy shit… That feels so good. Your mouth…” It all felt so dirty, like you shouldn’t be able to experience it, and yet as Vernon’s fingers caressed your stomach moving lower, your head just got clouded with arousal. The first pass of his thumb between your folds is like being shocked by a live wire. Any attempt you had at being quiet fails, your lips falling open in a breathy moan that has Vernon groaning against your soft breast as he repeats the motion. “Please, please, please...”

Your pleads sound like a prayer—a song of worship sang by a true believer as you lift your hips and roll them towards Vernon’s fingers as he uses his knuckles and thumb to massage your clit. “You’re so wet, Y/N.” Vernon had said your name and he was talking about you, but you weren’t sure he was actually speaking to you. It was more that he was saying the words on his mind out loud in wonder as he finally eased his index finger into your tight hole, feeling you clench down around him like a vice.

“Baby… Fuck—” Vernon’s voice gets caught in his throat as he rests his forehead against your chest, working his finger into you, feeling your arousal seeping around it. “Relax for me. Let me help you feel good, huh?”

You were trying to relax, but Vernon’s finger was deep inside of you and you could feel every time he would bend his knuckle, raking the pad of his finger back towards your stomach. It was overwhelming how good it felt and how much you wanted more. To you, it made no sense how you could already feel so full and yet so empty. “Uh huh…”

“That’s my girl.”

Vernon’s voice had dropped an octave and as if that wasn’t hot enough, he had called you his girl. God, you wanted to be his girl. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted that until he said it. You wanted to be his, only his for the rest of your life. You knew it was silly, that this was probably that first time euphoria taking over you, but looking into Vernon’s brown eyes as he smiled up at you sliding down further into the bed... You were falling in love with his boy.

Using his other hand to separate your folds, Vernon groans under his breath as he glances from you back to what he is doing before leaning in to run his tongue from his finger to your clit. He hadn’t warned you, but being between your legs, his mouth level with your pussy should have told you everything you needed to know, in his opinion. Yet, when you practically scream his name, your mouth falling open in shock, Vernon just grins and latches on to your clit rendering you speechless.

This was like nothing you had ever felt before. You had fingered yourself before, played with your clit... but having Vernon’s mouth on you? That was pushing you over the edge so fast that you couldn’t think straight. There were no intelligent thoughts in your brain; the only thing that was there was Vernon, Vernon, Vernon...

Trying to lift your hips, you let out a choked moan when a second finger eases in to you next to the first. The feeling of being full and wet skyrockets you to the moon and back; your thighs shake on either side of Vernon’s head and before you can warn him, the coil that had been so quickly winding inside of you snaps.

Closing his eyes, Vernon groans loudly, feeling your thighs close around his head as you cum. He knew it was coming. He could feel your walls squeezing his fingers—the way you were pushing your hips down over his hand trying to fuck yourself. When you finally let your legs fall to either side, apologies slipping from your lips, Vernon silences them by slowly slipping his fingers from you so he can replace them with his tongue.

Fingers tightly grip at brown locks as you struggle to not trap Vernon’s head between your thighs once again. You sob out his name on a moan, tears running down your cheeks as your thighs begin to shake once again. “I can’t—oh, my god. It almost hurts, Vernon.”

Furrowing his brows, Vernon groans at how good you taste, but your words make him find his restraint. Licking his lips, he takes a deep breath and meets your eyes with blown-out pupils, his hips pressed firmly into your comforter to keep himself from rutting against it. “‘M sorry, baby. You taste so good. I don’t want it to hurt; I just want you to feel good.”

Vernon’s lips pull into a soft smile when you reach for him. Sliding up in the bed between your legs, he kisses your jaw and then your lips before gliding his tongue along yours, letting you taste yourself. Making a face, your brows knitting together, you pull back from Vernon to pout up at him and shake your head as his fingers lightly stroke your side. “Tastes awful… But I do feel good—so, so good. I—I want this. I want it all. Can I—you?”

A laugh starts to leave Vernon’s mouth, along with a comeback about how you taste like candy to him when your hand wraps around his cock and nothing he was going to say is left in his head. Groaning, he rests his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath before wrapping his hand loosely over yours and guiding it over his shaft in a slow stroke from base to tip and back.

“Tru—trust me… I want you to. I want so much with you, but fuck. If I let you do this or anything else…” A long groan of your name falls from Vernon’s lips as he meets your eyes, looking for mercy, when you break free from his hand and trace the slit in his head with your thumb, feeling pre-cum ooze around your finger. “Babe, I’ll cum before I can fuck you. I can’t bounce back as quickly as you and I really—don’t do this to me. Please, beautiful.”

You could see yourself getting addicted to the power of having Vernon’s cock in your hand. You loved how you were reducing him to breathy moans and begging, but you wanted to feel him inside of you. You wanted him to be your first and you wanted it today. You didn’t want to wait anymore. Lightly scratching your nails along the underside of his shaft, you pull your fingers from Vernon, watching him choke on his breath, his arms shaking as he struggles to keep himself above you. “Okay, Vernon, but I wanna do this next time.”

Next time. Those two words made Vernon feel like he was levitating. You didn’t want this to be a one-time thing. You wanted him in your life. Groaning deeply, Vernon nods, leaning down to capture your lips as he uses his left hand to pin your right wrist to the bed, keeping it away from his cock. “You can do whatever you want to me next time. I swear to god.”

Silence takes over the room; only your shaky breaths are left as Vernon’s thumb strums at your pulse point over your wrist. You had asked for this, and now that it was going to happen, you found yourself once again so nervous that you felt like you could faint. Vernon could see it in your eyes, all those nerves racing through your mind. There was enough stress on you; this should take it away, not add more… He’d do what he had to in order to let you know this wasn’t scary.

“Okay, baby? Rest your knee against my hip, keep your leg up... Should make it easier. I’ll go slow, and if you don’t like anything, you tell me right away. I’ll stop. I won’t be mad or sad.” Seeing the pout on your lips even as you move your leg like you were asked to do, Vernon copies it and shakes his head. “I like you so fucking much, Y/N. I liked you before we got in this bed and I’ll like you once we are out of it. This is a goddamn dream come true, angel.”

It was almost like you could hear him telling you that he loved you, and while it scared you, it also made you relax under Vernon. The brush of his thumb over your warm cheek, his lips lazily moving over yours as he lined himself up with you and began to ease himself into you—it was all overwhelmingly perfect.

Furrowing your brows to the stretch and then a stinging pain, you hiss on Vernon’s lips, causing him to look down at you as he finally bottoms out in you, feeling you clench around him. “Wait—” Nodding, Vernon bites at his lips, watching you closely as you seem to try to work out some internal problem, but as the pain starts to fade and your face relaxes so does his anxiety. “Okay, I’m okay. You can move.”

He wanted to. Vernon’s brain was telling him to fuck you hard and fast, but his heart reminded him who you were and where he was so he kept it slow. Each thrust smooth and steady so he could keep his eyes on your pretty face, watching for any signs of discomfort, but the deeper and longer he went, he only saw bliss. “Is it good? You like it?”

There weren’t words to describe how much you enjoyed the feeling of Vernon inside of you. It was as if you were made to be one and for you to feel this full, but as he kept his pace slow and his thrusts almost too shallow, you couldn’t explain the frustration building inside of you until it snapped. “Mmmhm, more? Can I have more?”

Closing his eyes to hide how they were rolling back in his head from pleasure to your words, Vernon nods and buries his face in the crook of your neck. He was dying for more. He would have kept this pace for the entire time if it was what you wanted, but it would have been torture for him, but those words... and asking for more?

“I’ll give you the fucking world. So, yeah, baby, I’ll give you more.”

Vernon’s choice of words makes you smile, a bit giddy at how love struck he sounds but your moment is short lived because he stays true to his words. A loud gasping moan falls from your lips as Vernon’s hips meet yours hard, his cock buried in you so deep you wonder how you are possibly able to fit all of him. The drag of his tip as he pulls almost all the way out of you almost makes you cry in fear you are losing him but then he is back inside of you as if he never left, his hips rutting against yours harder and faster.

“This what you wanted? More? Tell me it’s what you wanted.”

Tears once again form in your eyes as you nod, feeling that familiar tightening in your stomach. You couldn’t believe how quickly Vernon could get you to your orgasm. There had been nights when you would lay on your back, your fingers working hard only to find no satisfaction. Yet Vernon was making you cry with how good he could make you feel. “Please, yes! So good… It’s what I want, Vernon. Don’t stop, please. I’m gonna—”

You couldn’t even say that you were going to cum? God, you were perfect. Vernon’s perfect, pure little untainted rose that he was going to keep unsoiled by anyone else for the rest of his life if he had his way about it. Nipping at your jaw, Vernon groans loudly, feeling himself getting close to his own climax as your walls tighten and quiver around him. “Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby? Say it… Do it for me? I wanna hear you say it.”

Pushing your head back against the pillow, you sob Vernon’s name as his fingers slip between your legs to rub at your clit as his cock fills you full, keeping you right on the edge. You find yourself wanting to give him exactly what he wants, even if it makes your entire body feel like it’s on fire and like you are going against every single moral thing you know. Biting your lips, you whimper, your words a whisper—yet Vernon smiles hearing each one. “I’m gonna cum for you.”

A deep thrust, one that sends you towards the headboard as his fingers circle your clit without mercy, makes you do exactly that. Choking on your moans, you feel Vernon’s thumb wipe under your eyes pushing away your tears as he whispers your name and how good you are before he groans deep and pulls from you suddenly.

Warm, sticky cum paints your stomach as Vernon’s hand strokes his cock quickly. Panting groans spill from between his lips as he sits back on his knees and lets his eyes move over your body to your face as you look up at him trying to catch your breath.

“Fuck, babe…” Running his hand over his mouth, Vernon sighs, glancing down at the pool of cum on your stomach, running towards the top of your mound and he swears his cock could get hard again. “I—shit. Whi—which room is the bathroom? I’m gonna get a washcloth and clean this off you.”

Gesturing to the hall, you mutter across the hall, watching Vernon roll from your bed and towards your door. The more time that passes, even as you listen to the sound of water from a room over, you feel your chest get heavy—a deep sense of dread washing over you as tears once again threaten your eyes. This time when the tears spill over your cheeks, they aren’t from pleasure and you find yourself confused as to why you feel so upset after something that felt so good.

Washcloth in hand, Vernon sighs only to stop in his tracks seeing you crying. “Wh—shit. No, what’s wrong?” Sitting on the bed beside of you, he runs his fingers through your hair while using his other hand to carefully clean your stomach. The moment he is back on your bed, his hands on you, the dread you had felt starts to fade, your chest feeling lighter.

“I–” Swallowing hard, you shake your head and lean into Vernon’s touch as he slides down in the bed and pulls you into his arms, letting you curl up against him tightly. “I don’t know. I felt so alone all of a sudden and scared.”

Shushing you, Vernon kisses your forehead, running his hand along your back as your fingers scratch lightly at his stomach, causing him to suck in a breath. “I’m—fuck… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you right after like that. I didn’t even think. That was so stupid. I just didn’t want all that shit to dry on your skin. I’m not gonna leave you, baby. I promise.”

Promise. That word makes your heart jump and you wrap your arm around Vernon’s waist, pulling yourself even closer to him. You knew that there was a risk of falling in love with the person who took your virginity, but that wasn’t what this was. This was something more. This was more about who Vernon was and the type of person he was.

Pressing a kiss to Vernon’s chest, you look up after to find him smiling down at you. It was taking everything in you not to say those three little words that he wanted to hear more than anything.

Tapping his fingers against his steering wheel, Christen sighs loudly as he turns on to your street. He was annoyed. You hadn’t been answering your phone, and you had avoided him for two days.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know what was going on. He was feeling some sort of way after going to the funeral too, but that didn’t mean he was going to be a bitch and cut people off from his life like you were. Clearly you were just dealing with shit and needed to be checked on.

Pushing his tongue against his cheek, Christen stares at the car in your driveway as if it will disappear. There was no fucking way that car was in your driveway. Your parents cars weren’t there, but Vernon Chwe’s was? Something was fucked up and he was fuming.

Slamming his car into park and leaning forward to look at your house, Christen narrows his eyes at what lights are on. Where could you and this freak be? What were you two doing? He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more. The fact that Vernon was at your house. The fact that he was at your house alone with you. Or the fact that your bedroom light was on while the rest of the house was dark.

“Motherfucker—I should…” The words trail off Christen’s lips as his eyes fall back on the Beretta, his blood boiling. If Vernon could taint something precious that belonged to him, he would ruin something precious of his.

Taking a deep breath, Vernon smiles when he realizes that you are in his arms. The smell of your shampoo and perfume almost overwhelms his senses even before he opens his eyes and pulls you a bit closer. He probably shouldn’t have stayed over, but after everything that happened, he couldn’t see himself leaving you—he didn’t want to leave you.

You had been beautiful the night before, but in the morning light that could make it through your curtains, you were stunning. Vernon usually didn’t like the mornings. He preferred to sleep in until later in the day and spend his time out later at night, but for you—to see this, he’d get up at the crack of dawn.

“Mmm…” Stretching against Vernon, you turn in his arms, nuzzling your nose against his chest. You were beginning to wake up, but everything around you still felt like the best dream ever. You were warm and safe in Vernon’s arms. Nothing bad could possibly happen to you ever again. There was nothing else besides what was in this room right now that mattered.

Leaning to brush your hair from your forehead, Vernon smirks a bit to himself as your nose wrinkles a bit and you seem to try to hide from his touch and the light by burying your face even closer to his body. “Baby…” The word slips from Vernon’s tongue like candy and you smile against his skin, remembering how many times he had called you that the night before. “I gotta go home... least for a bit. Come on, don’t hide from me; let me see your pretty face for a bit.”

Your smile fades at the idea of Vernon leaving you alone. You knew it wasn’t forever, but your mind was spiraling with the idea that he might not come back, so it took a lot of strength to meet his eyes and attempt not to look as sad as you felt. Though you tried to smile, Vernon could see the way your bottom lip was sticking out; he could see the concern in your eyes, and it almost broke his heart.

“No… hey.” Sitting up, Vernon pulls you into his arms and cups your cheek, pressing his lips to yours and taking your breath away. You were melting against him. Vernon could feel how pliant you were in his hands and it was almost too much for him to handle. He knew without even having to ask that if he wanted to, he could lay you down and make love to you all over again… but he had to wait. “I’ll be back. You think I’m leavin’ you? I’m not an idiot. Got me for as long as you want me, Y/N.”

It shouldn’t make you as happy as it does to hear Vernon pledge himself to you like he does after one night, but you can’t stop the smile that pulls at your lips even as you kiss him. “Promise? What if…” Laughing sweetly, you bite at your lip and give him a teasing look as he sighs, meeting your eyes. “What if I said forever?”

Groaning, Vernon furrows his brows, stroking your cheek with his thumb. You might be joking, but god, he wished you weren’t. “Then you can have forever. ‘M yours, long as you want me, like I said. Just gotta make sure my mom doesn’t file a missing persons report.”

Vernon laughs when you wince at his words, the cute look on your face making him fall even harder for you. He knew his mom wouldn’t actually do that, not after just one night. He had been gone for longer periods of time, but there were some things he needed to do before he came back to you.

“I’m sorry, Vernon... I’m clingy, I guess.” Trailing your fingers along his chest, you sigh into your pout, feeling his fingers trace your jaw. Shaking his head, Vernon lets his index finger move over your cupid’s bow, feeling your lips press against the pad of his finger. He wants to give in and stay right where he is.

“I’ll be back this afternoon, promise.”

Even after trying to feed Vernon or at least send him home with some form of food, you are left in your foyer with your lips tingling as he refuses, saying this is more than enough. You can only watch as he winks at you and closes the door behind him, leaving you alone in your house, making you realize just how quiet it is when you are by yourself while you count down the hours until he comes back.

Sliding the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, Vernon puts one between his lips and starts to light it when his mouth falls open, the cigarette falling to the pavement at his feet. A moment before he could hear the birds chirping, cars driving in the distance, and even kids playing down the street. Now he could only hear the blood rushing in his ears as his eyes moved over the side of his Beretta and the red paint that had dripped down the entire side of the door in big capital letters: ‘PERV’.

Shoving the cigarettes back into his pocket, Vernon curses through gritted teeth as he moves around the other side of his car, only to laugh in anger when he sees ‘LOSER’ on the other side in the same red paint. He didn’t need to figure out who had done this or even guess—he knew. There was only one person, Christen.

The sound of the car door slamming outside makes you jump, your brows furrowing at how angry it sounds. You start to move to your front door when you hear tires squeal out of your driveway and down the street, leaving you confused and feeling a bit sick to your stomach. You knew that Vernon was a bit different from what you knew, but he wasn’t the type of person in your mind to drive recklessly.

Deciding to settle back into the cushions of your couch and pass the time with television, you manage to zone out for a while. Your mind occasionally drifts to Vernon, causing your eyes to wander to the clock before you pull them back to your show. It had only been a couple of hours so when you hear a knock at your door, you are surprised but excited about the idea of him being back so soon.

Practically skipping to the door, you pull it open and your smile drops as you meet Christen’s eyes as he leans against his hand against the door frame, causing him to loom over you. “Wow, for a second there, I thought you were happy to see me, baby.”

The name baby on Christen’s lips makes you feel queasy as you take a step back and he takes it as an invitation to take a step into your house, kicking the door closed behind him. “I—I’m not up to hanging out.”

Scoffing, Christen tilts his head at you and glances around your house as if looking for someone else before his eyes land on you once again. “Why the fuck not? Cause I’m not Chwe?” Christen watches your reaction—how you almost recoil at Vernon’s last name. That was all he needed to know, as if he didn’t know that the fucker had been at your house last night. “What the hell are you doing, Y/N? Did—” Disgust creeps along Christen’s face as he gives you a once-over, searching for something unseen. “Did he—did that pervert touch you?”

You open your mouth to defend yourself and Vernon, but nothing comes out. You aren’t sure what to say. It’s none of Christen’s business and yet when he asks you something like that, you are overwhelmed with shame, as if you have done something wrong. The look evident on your face, Christen groans, lifting his hand to run it over his face, taking a step towards you to grab your wrist, pulling you towards him hard.

“He did. Baby… You gotta tell me.” Pulling your arm in his grasp, you whine, finding his grip too tight—painful. “Did he fuck you? Tell me he didn’t. Tell me you didn’t let that freak inside of you.”

Tears gather on your eyes as you pull once more at your arm, blinking a few times they slip on to your cheeks. “Let me go. Stop talking about him like that. It’s none—”

“What the fuck, Y/N!” Christen’s anger makes you stop moving and talking. His grip tightens on your wrist and all you can do is whine his name, more tears rolling down your cheeks. “I didn’t think you were a slut, but I guess that’s what you fuckin’ are. Jesus Christ! Giving it out to anyone who’ll take it, huh?”

Christen’s words cut deep at your heart and your confidence even as you shake your head trying to defend yourself, knowing he is wrong. You hadn’t done anything wrong. You had slept with one person your entire life and you cared deeply for him. Christen’s problem was that it wasn’t him. He was lashing out—he was trying to make you hate yourself, it was working.

“Who’s gonna touch you now, Y/N? After you let him fuck you?” Pushing your arm hard back towards you, Christen’s expression doesn’t change when the force of his action causes you to stumble backwards, falling on your ass. “It’s pathetic… You’re pathetic. Just a slut.”

Sobbing, you wrap your arms around yourself, begging Christen to leave you alone. Sucking his teeth, the man you had once called your friend tilts his head and stares at you for a moment longer before turning back towards your front door, leaving you alone once again by slamming your door. The sound of the windows rattling from the force of the door shutting makes you jump, a small shrill scream escaping your lips before you lay on your side, pulling your legs up towards your stomach and letting the tears fall freely.

Gritting his teeth, Vernon uses the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead as he kneels next to his car with a bucket and rag. He had been trying to clean the red spray paint from his black car for over an hour and he had barely made a dent. It was a hot day and the morning sun had only served to bake the paint into the clear coat of his Beretta.

Vernon didn’t cry, but as he leaned into his driver-side door panel with all the strength he could muster, he could feel the pressure behind his eyes. This was bullshit. He hadn’t done anything wrong to Christen. You hadn’t done a fucking thing wrong to anyone, and yet this small dick son of a bitch was lashing out like a child, going after the only other thing that Vernon loved.

The part of town that Vernon lived in wasn’t like yours or honestly, even his closest friends. Most people avoided it because of the lack of amenities and not many people wanted to be seen in the low-income section of such a well-respected little town. Vernon was used to the sound of engines revving; there were always beater cars that sounded like they were on their last legs going up and down his street so when someone seemed like they were late to an appointment, Vernon didn’t give it a second thought. He kept his eyes forward, his brows tightly furrowed as he grumbled.

Rolling his neck from side to side, Christen leaves his car door open and keeps his eye on the prize—Vernon Chwe with his head close to his stupid ass car as he scraped the truth written from it. He was surprised that he hadn’t heard him pull up; he hadn’t been subtle. Christen had left your house and hauled ass to get to this trailer park trash part of town and to take care of this.

Pain runs through Vernon’s face and head when he meets the side of his car with a loud thud. He can hear a muffled voice through the pain and ringing in his ears; it only becomes clearer when a boot meets his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. “Stupid fucking freak. Couldn’t keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you? I’ll fucking kill you.”

Blinking up at Christen, Vernon groans in pain, his hands grabbing for the foot that kept meeting his bruised torso in an attempt to stop the blows. Christen was furious, but so was Vernon. Anger had already been rushing through his veins and now his adrenaline was in overdrive. “Get the fuck off’a me!”

Vernon twists Christen’s foot hard, bringing the other man down to the ground with a loud, painful groan. Both try to make the next move, but Vernon is a second fast, letting him get in the first punch across Christen’s face. “You piece of shit! I was willin’ to let this go.” Vernon wasn’t lying; he had you. He had woken up and felt the best he had in a year. For the briefest of moments, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought about him, but as he felt Christen struggle under him, he knew he’d never know that peace with you again—not while he was breathing.

Laughing, blood on his lips from Vernon’s fist making contact, Christen uses his fingers to dig into Vernon’s forearm muscle as he pushes against him. “I ain’t letting anything go, you perv. Thinkin’ you are high and mighty now that you got some pussy. ‘Specially some that don’t belong to you!”

He was still laying claim to you. Not even Vernon would claim that you belonged to him after being with you. There was something about how Christen was talking about you, like you were an object, that made him bite through the pain of his grip long enough for him to get his footing. “She doesn’t belong to you! She hates you; don’t you fuckin’ get that, Christen?”

That was more than Christen could stand to hear. He could manage a few weeks of letting you sit in your mistake, washing the freak off of you before he would touch you—but the idea that you hated him? That was insane; no one hated him. Except maybe Vernon, but that feeling was mutual.

“She worships me, Vernon. Always fucking has.” Eyes like daggers follow Vernon as he stumbles backwards into his garage as Christen moves to his feet with a low groan. They were both exhausted, bruised, and bleeding—but this wasn’t over. Following Vernon, Christen points towards him as he wipes blood from his lips with his other hand. “Just cause you got her to put it out like a slut one time doesn’t mean a damn thing. You’re gonna pay for that and then you’re gonna get your ass out of her life.”

A slut. That was enough to make Vernon scoff into a laugh, his hand steadying him on an open drawer of his tool chest. You weren’t a slut; you were the furthest thing a person could be from something like that. The fact that Christen of all people was calling you told Vernon everything he needed to know—he didn’t care about you at all. Christen had never cared about you, and if he didn’t care about you, then he didn’t matter.

“Did you fucking hear me, freak?”

Vernon takes a sharp breath, his fingers wrapping around the handle of the knife as his eyes follow Christen’s broad steps towards him. Without a second thought, Vernon sinks the knife into Christen’s stomach, watching the smug look on his face slowly fade away into confusion and then horror.

Blood seeps around his hand as Vernon digs his free hand into Christen’s shoulder, preventing him from taking a step back until he allows it. Looking down at the knife, Venon feels his lips pull up in a slight smirk when Christen gasps in pain.

“Vernon…”

Vernon wasn’t sure he had ever heard Christen sound so pathetic and weak before as he pulled the knife from him, meeting his eyes. “I heard you. Can you hear this?” Christen gasps, a choking sound bubbling in his throat as blood seeps around his mouth when Vernon stabs the knife back into his stomach, deeper. The others Vernon had kept at a distance. He hadn't gotten his hands too dirty, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he was enjoying watching the life drain out of Christen’s face.

Wiping his hands, Vernon takes a deep breath, nodding at how much progress he had made on his car. Unless you knew what you were looking for, you couldn’t see where the words had been painted anymore, and if you looked in the garage, the only thing that would have told you that anything bad had happened was the smell of bleach.

Vernon tosses the rag on to the table before putting a cigarette between his lips and looking at the back of Christen’s car. He wanted to get back to you. He had been gone for too long after promising he just had a couple things to do—of course that had been before some unexpected hiccups—but Vernon meant to keep his promise.

Closing the truck, not giving a second look to the body rolled up in a tarp inside of it, Vernon lets out a deep breath of smoke before sliding behind the wheel of Christen’s car, feeling a wave of anxiety lifting off of him as he pushes his foot down on the gas. It was a nice car. He could tell that a lot of money had gone into keeping it up. For a second, Vernon pictures a time when he and Christen could have had a normal ass conversation about cars, but that’s short lived as he turns onto the secluded road leading to the lake.

“Sweetie, are you sure you don’t want to go to the cemetery?”

Sitting in the backseat of your father’s car, you shake your head, refusing to look up at either of them. You didn’t want to look your parents in the eye and tell them that you didn’t care enough to go to the cemetery and watch people cry over Christen for another hour. You had done plenty of that in the church while people had looked at you like you were going to shatter. You weren’t; Christen wasn’t what everyone thought he was to you, but it didn’t matter what you said or thought.

You father sighs, starting to say something when your mother coos in sympathy. When you do glance up, you wish you hadn’t when you meet Christen’s mother’s eyes. She looked broken, and yet you could tell she was loving the attention that this was bringing her. It was sick. “We are so sorry for your loss—”

“Y/N, darling… Ride with us in the limousine to the cemetery. It’s what Christen would want. He would want his girlfriend to be with his family, sweetheart. I know you are being modest, but you don’t have to be.”

Being cut off, your mother shifts her eyes from you and back to the woman in front of you as you look off to the side. She had never seen you this way. You were like a sunflower in the middle of a field of daisies and today it was as if the sun wasn’t rising for you. Thinking back, it had been that way for a while for you; they just hadn’t wanted to see it.

Shaking your head, you scratch at a bug bite on your arm, your lips rubbing together as you try to think of something nicer to say, but there was nothing you wanted to say that was kind or proper. “If you think that he’d want his girlfriend with his family, perhaps you should ask Caitlin to ride with you.” Avoiding the woman’s eyes, you look at your mother with a pleading look on your face as you reach for her hand and whine. “Mom, please… I just want to go home now.”

With a grimace on her face, your mother nods at you before meeting Christen’s mother’s eyes and seeing the fire behind them. “She’s exhausted; she hasn’t been herself for days since this happened. Please forgive and excuse us.”

You knew that not going to Christen’s funeral would be a big deal to some. There would be plenty of talk. There were plenty who—just like his mother—thought you were his girlfriend. They all thought this despite you giving no one—including Christen—any reason to think so. Perhaps there had been a time when you would have done the uncomfortable thing for appearance’s sake, but that girl was just as dead as Christen was.

Looking out the back passenger’s side window, you had been doing a good job of blocking out most of the conversation until your father’s voice lowered. It only did that when there was something to hide—something important—and now you were listening carefully. “He was brutalized... They’ve put the entire town on curfew. I just—what do we even do? We can’t leave her like this.”

Your parents were good at talking about you like you weren’t in the same room or car with them. They were good, decent people, but that didn’t make them excellent parents. None of that meant that when your mother had been nineteen years old and knocked up that she had actually wanted to marry your father and have you, and yet here you were—in the car, invisible but looming.

"Well, we don’t actually have a choice. That school is going to cost more than our damn mortgage.” Glancing into her visor mirror, your mother makes sure you are still watching the side of the road as she tries to keep her voice calm and low. “If she even still wants to go—”

“She’s going. I’ve put too much goddamn money up for it.” Gripping the steering wheel tightly, your father rolls his neck, feeling annoyance ripple through it. They enjoyed being the parents who went to barbeques and got to say their daughter was going to a notable university in the fall, but deep down your father resented it. You hadn’t played sports or been exceptional at your classes, so there were no scholarships; there was just mommy and daddy’s hard-earned money.

“Then that means we have to go to Chicago. She’ll understand…”

They were leaving again. You were used to it. You knew your parents worked hard but you had gotten good at raising yourself once you hit high school. At that age, you were old enough that your parents could take business trips and schmooze their bosses. It was harder to impress the higher-ups from a little desk behind a phone. It paid well to drink and rub elbows with the ones who mattered personally.

“Y/N… baby?” Furrowing your brows at the sweet shift in the tone of your mother’s voice when she speaks at a volume meant for you to hear. You meet her eyes in the mirror and tilt your head as she gives you a small pout. “I know things have been hard, honey. You’re strong, you know that? My strong girl...”

You knew what she was trying to do, and while you could appreciate the peptalk, you weren’t in the mood. Looking back towards the side of the road, you sigh, and your mother purses her lips. “There’s a curfew now. Everyone has to be in their houses at dark.”

“I know, Mom. The sheriff told us at the memorial—”

“I know he did. You also know that there is someone dangerous still on the loose, but Y/N…” Grimacing at the idea of what she needs to tell you after what she just said, your mother looks towards your father, feeling his hand slide over hers to give her a bit of courage. “You’re an adult now, and we have to trust you because we have a business trip. One that we can’t pass up.”

You didn’t want or need their excuses so you just nodded along with her words. “Okay, mom. I’ll be alright.”

Laying back on his bed, Vernon groans as he looks at the sun starting to set just over the horizon. He hated this curfew bullshit. As if the curfew would keep anything from happening to anyone... As if it would keep him from doing anything if it needed to be done.

“Vernon, did—are you listening to me?”

Your voice brings Vernon back to the present; he shifts the receiver on his shoulder and nods. “‘Course I am, baby. I’m just—I’m thinkin’.”

Walking around your kitchen with the cordless phone against your ear, you sigh softly to Vernon’s words before opening the fridge to see what you could make yourself for dinner. “Yeah? And—so? What do you think? I don’t wanna be here all weekend by myself. Don’t you wanna, maybe... spend some time with me?”

That’s all Vernon wanted to do. He could hear you moving around in your house, and he could picture himself there with you already. “You know I do. I just—don’t think I’d make it there by curfew. People didn’t wanna leave the matinee and—” Vernon could hear the disappointment in your sigh as you let out a deep breath. “I don’t want you mad at me.”

Dragging a pan from under the stove, you shake your head and lie to him and yourself as tears collect on the rims of your eyes. “Not mad. I’ll be fine. I’m gonna cook something and watch TV. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Vernon runs his hand over his face, a soft groan escaping his lips when you want to get off the phone with him. He knew you were lying. You might not be mad at him, but you weren’t thrilled either. After everything had happened with Christen, Vernon had taken a step back while still trying to be close. It was a strange feeling, trying to keep you safe without being so close that he was the issue. He wasn’t sure if someone would link him to something or not; he was smart and he had covered his bases, but he wanted to be sure before he got too close to you again. Yet now, hearing your soft breaths and knowing you were about to cry, Vernon knew he couldn’t keep it up.

“No… I’ll be over soon. Let me pack a couple things and I’ll figure it out. I’ll—” Scoffing into a laugh, Vernon slides off his bed and towards his desk as he rubs the back of his neck. “Try not to get arrested on my way over.”

You knew you should feel bad for pressuring Vernon into coming over, especially with how close it was to the curfew. There was probably less than ten minutes before it would go into effect, and his house was at least twenty minutes away on a good day. “Please don’t get arrested, and be safe. I—” Unspoken words had become part of yours and Vernon’s routine. You knew what you wanted to say—what you felt, but it all still seemed too early.

Swallowing hard, Vernon closes his eyes and imagines the two other words leaving your mouth before he sighs. “I’ll be alright. See you soon.”

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel out of nerves, Vernon watches every corner and dark area as he drives to your house. There were a few others out, but he watched them quickly pull into driveways and usher children or spouses inside their houses. He wasn’t so worried about them as he was about the possibility of a cop lingering around the next street.

When your house comes into view, he finally breathes out a sigh of relief, pulling his car into your driveway and glancing at the houses closest to you. Everything was so quiet on your street. If there was anyone at your neighbor’s house, Vernon couldn’t tell. The house was completely dark and there were no cars in the driveway—the same went for the house across the street. Your house was like a lighthouse at a port.

Pulling his bookbag over his shoulder, Vernon groans a bit at the soreness in his muscles. He was still bruised heavily; that had been another reason he had been avoiding you. He didn’t want you to see that he was hurt, and he didn’t want you to worry about something you couldn’t fix. He had already fixed it.

Nerves roll through Vernon as he moves towards your front door and lifts his hand to knock. He just wanted to get inside and away from the street. He knew that if he got caught even outside of the house after curfew, the cops would have questions and he didn’t have all the right answers. Waiting a full minute, Vernon shifts uncomfortably and knocks again when he hears a loud crash from inside your house and raised voices. Something was wrong, and he wasn’t going to wait any more.

“You don’t even fucking care! You didn’t go to the funeral, Y/N. You’re such a selfish bitch.”

Staring at the broken glass of your mother’s vase on the hardwood floor, you shake your head as Caitlin’s voice breaks. You had been surprised when someone had knocked on your door earlier than expected. You thought that maybe Vernon had driven a bit too fast to make better time, but then you had been sorely mistaken when Caitlin had pushed her way past you and into your house wanting answers.

“This is crazy. You need to calm down—”

“Don’t you tell me to calm down! I’m so tired of being told to calm down.” Pacing in your kitchen, Caitlin laughs, the laugh causing a chill to run down your spine. It isn’t a sound you had ever heard your best friend make before because the laugh isn’t one of humor. It’s dark. “You never cared about him. That’s the fucked-up part. I loved him—like really loved him, and he wanted you!”

Picking up a bowl from the kitchen island, Caitlin doesn’t even think before she throws it towards you, narrowly missing your head as you duck, letting it hit the wall instead. Ceramic shatters behind you as you scream her name, begging her to stop. “It’s not my fault! I didn’t—please? Stop this…”

Vernon narrows his eyes as he moves down the dark hall towards the kitchen, just as Caitlin screams at you again. He had heard you scream and beg her to stop; he had heard more things breaking—all he wanted to do was get her away from you.

“It is your fault! He was murdered, you bitch!” Moving towards you quickly, Caitlin lunges at you, barely missing you as you push past her and back towards the pot boiling on the stove with tears streaming down your face. With tears streaking her own face, Caitling straightens her back and wipes hard at her cheeks as she stares at you with disdain. “I think you did it or you know who did. Shit like this doesn’t happen here, Y/N! Christen wouldn’t let someone close enough to him—to do that to him. So… I think you did it and I’m—”

Gritting his teeth hard, Vernon watches Caitlin’s eyes move to the knife on the counter before her hand does the same. Panic rushes through him as he tries to think of what to do next, knowing whatever she is going to do can’t happen.

Your back pushed up against the stove; you feel the hot steam against your back as you sidestep towards the fridge looking for a way out. You search for a way to get away from Caitlin as you watch her weigh the weight of the knife in her hand before she looks back at you and then her face contorts with even more hatred. “Please... Put it down, Caitlin. You’re my best friend. Don’t do this.”

Caitlin was barely looking at you now as Vernon stepped out of the hall and into the kitchen behind you, his eyes fixed on her. Now it all made sense. All the pieces were clicking in her mind and she was right. She didn’t need some dumbass cop to solve a murder when she was looking at the murderers right now. “You did it, didn’t you freak?”

Shaking your head, you take a step back, jumping when you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. Glancing up at Vernon quickly, you look back at Caitlin to keep your eyes on her and the knife. “Caitlin—”

“Shut the fuck up, Y/N! Are you blind? You know how much he hates us.”

Vernon just sighs, his hand sliding along your arm as he tries to move you behind him and out of the way of danger, even if it means putting himself in the line of it. Caitlin laughs as she watches, the knife pointed in your direction, the tip falling slightly forward in her amusement at the sight and the look in your eyes. She wasn’t an idiot; she was the smartest person in the fucking room and she knew you were in love with the fucking loser standing in front of you. All the pieces fit together like one big fucked-up puzzle.

“Oh, I’m sorry... How much he hates me. How much he hated Christen... He clearly doesn’t hate you and you are in love with the person who killed your friend.” Making a face, Caitlin looks like she’s going to be sick, her fingers tightening on the handle of the knife. “God, I can’t even look at you. You let him do it?”

Shaking your head, you try to push past Vernon, feeling defensive of him when Caitlin tries to blame him for murder. It wasn’t that you hadn’t even considered it yourself in times of weakness—you wouldn’t even have blamed him—you just didn’t want her doing it. “Shut up! You don’t know anything, Caitlin! He hasn’t done anything wrong; it’s always been you!”

Trying to keep a grip on your arm, Vernon says your name and winces when you accidentally push back against his ribs. Everything happens so quickly in front of him that even though he tries to be the first one to act, he watches it like a movie in front of him.

Caitlin screams in anger, finally letting go of all of it that had been boiling in her blood as she sees red and storms forward with the knife. Her intention and eyes set on Vernon; she finds herself surprised and annoyed when your hand grabs her wrist, keeping it back from the man. Of course you would stop her; she had been so close—but at this point, in her mind, it was two birds, one stone.

“Stupid bitch!” Caitling’s shrill voice cuts into your ears just as much as the knife as she slashes at your arms, the two of you falling on to the kitchen floor. The only thing you want to do is get the knife away from her—keep her from making anymore mistakes, but when you feel pain followed by warmth spreading along your stomach, your blood run’s cold.

“Fuck… Fuck!” Pulling on Cailtin’s arm, Vernon panics when he hears the sound of a choking gurgling—the sound of someone swallowing their own blood. From where he is standing, all he can see at first is blood on the white tiles, and the last person with the knife in their hand had been Caitlin. With his heart in his throat, Vernon whispers your name like a prayer as he separates you from Caitlin, and his eyes fall to the knife, and your chest rises and falls in panic.

Meeting Vernon’s eyes, you quickly look down at your hand and the blood running along your fingers before seeing the knife buried deep in Caitlin’s stomach near her ribs. “No… no, no, no!” Sobs fall from your lips as Vernon pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist as tears fall along your cheeks.

He knew you were upset; you were panicking, but Vernon kept his head. Turning your arms over in his hands, he shakes his head and whines your name, seeing the cuts and deep gash near your wrist. “Baby… shh. Listen—stop! Listen to me.” Vernon didn’t want to yell at you, but you had started to struggle against him, your eyes moving over Caitlin’s lifeless body as blood seeped from her mouth and you wanted to do something to change it. “We— It’s time to go. We are going to wrap your arm and then…”

Shaking your head, you sob his name, feeling him turn you in his arms as he reaches for a dishcloth, wrapping it around your wrist tightly. “Yes, Y/N. You did nothing wrong. It was self-defense, baby... But they won’t give a fuck, so—baby girl, we gotta go.” Holding your cheeks between his hands, Vernon meets your eyes, and tears run over his fingers as you try to understand what he’s telling you. “We are leaving.”

It takes half an hour for you to pack a bag and to be settled in Vernon’s passenger’s seat. You try to make heads or tails about what is happening, what’s real, and what has to be a dream as you both sit in the darkness of the garage across the street, waiting for the right time.

You had insisted on calling the cops. Vernon had wanted to leave right away, but you didn’t want to leave Cailtin alone in your kitchen like that. So now you were stuck watching as three police cars slammed on their breaks in front of your house, and each cop held their gun at the ready as they entered.

When the call had been made, you had been crying, saying you and your boyfriend were hurt and that your friend had been hurt too. They asked if the person who had hurt you was still in the house and without needing to lie, you had looked at Caitlin and said yes. Vernon had watched you carefully, waiting for the right moment before he grabbed the phone out of your hands and threw it against the wall hard enough for it to break. He was smart, you realized then. You also realized you didn’t know him as well as you thought—there was a lot you needed to learn about the person you were now on the run with.

“They found her.” Sighing, Vernon leans his head back as one of the cops comes out of the house with his hand over his mouth. Small town cops weren’t used to this much death; Vernon almost felt bad for him. “We can wait until they get the ambulance out here and day breaks—then we go.”

Closing your eyes, you nod, feeling fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. This was the only place you knew, the only life you knew and it had just been taken from you so quickly. Fingers wrap around yours, and Vernon’s lips brush over your knuckles as he furrows his brows, watching you closely. You were falling apart, but he wasn’t going to lose any of the pieces. He’d put you back together, no matter how long it took and no matter how far he had to take you away from here to do it.

“Me and you, Y/N, okay?” Meeting Vernon’s eyes, you nod again, seeing his lips pull up slightly as he kisses your knuckles. Silence is almost deafening in the car, as you watch red and blue lights move across Vernon’s face, his eyes searching yours before he finally speaks again. “I love you.”

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