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pencil-n-pen · 4 months ago

Text

YOUNGBLOOD

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ . ۫ ꣑ৎ . ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

rafe x fem! black cat! pogue!reader

masterlist | kofi | next part

wc: 9.3k (sorry)

summary: summary: You’re the girl. Every guy who asks you out gets the same answer: No. You don’t do dating anymore. But as your reputation grows, so does the challenge. And when Rafe Cameron gets you in sights, he’s not about to give up.

cw: Rafe and reader are both assholes (hers is justified bc to me women are always correct) but it works out. oh also this one is a little spicy !! ofc not full smut but this is Rafe Cameron we’re talking about i can’t NOT include a LITTLE. ward jumpscare for like two seconds, references to past shitty relationships

tags/tropes: he falls first and harder (seriously he wants her BAD) black cat x doberman, kind of how to lose a guy in 10 days vibes, at first Rafe wants her bc of the challenge but eventually he just WANTS her, mild hurt/comfort, dom! rafe but also he does whatever reader wants (except stop trying to date her)

a/n: in this fic i imagine reader being one of those super fluffy feral black cats and then rafe is this doberman sitting behind her. walk him like a dog sis walk him like a dog

i’m so glad i finally finished this i’ve been writing it for ages but here it is !! hope u guys like it <3

EDIT 2: part two is up you heathens :) (affectionate)

songs i listened to while writing: Youngblood by 5 Seconds of Summer, Meddle About by Chase Atlantic, Champagne Coast by Blood Orange, Salvatore by Lana Del Rey, Brooklyn Baby by Lana Del Rey, Sad Girl by Lana Del Rey, sex money feelings die by Lykke Li, Angel by Massive Attack and Horace Andy

title taken from Youngblood by 5 Seconds of Summer aka this fics anthem

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He meets you in, of all places, a fucking Barnes & Nobles.

There’s one Barnes & Nobles in the entirety of Kildare Island; it’s on the North side.

Rafe is only there because one of Kelce’s current flings is obsessed with reading those smutty books. Race doesn’t get the appeal. Apparently, the fling is at home sick and Kelce wants to get her something to make her feel better.

Rafe and Topper both think the partying might seriously be affecting his brain chemistry.

But anyway, Kelce asked Rafe to help because he’s “got a way with wooing women” and then since Rafe was going he said fuck it and invited Topper, who will surely be the voice of reason in all of this.

(He seriously doubts it, since Topper almost died in a burning building for the sake of his girlfriend, but whatever. Rafe just doesn’t want to deal with pussy-whipped Kelce by himself.)

They’re on their third go around the store and Rafe is beginning to contemplate the pros and cons of just grabbing the nearest book of the shelf and telling Kelce to just fucking pick something when he spots you:

Straining to reach a book on one of the top shelves. Looking perfectly and immaculately delicious.

“Yo,” He smacks Topper’s arm, getting his attention, “Who the hell is that?”

Topper follows his eyeline, landing on you.

“No fucking way, dude. No chance.”

He frowns, turning and looking at Topper, affronted.

Topper shrugs. “No offense, man. I tried once. All the guys in the island got this stupid-ass nickname for her, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm. The Pogue Princess. She’s turned down every single guy to ever ask her out. Even the Kooks.”

Rafe snorts. “So she’s arrogant?”

“I wouldn’t call it that. I totally thought she was a bitch when she turned me down, but honestly, it makes sense. People only ask her out because she always says no.”

“So?” He scoffs. “She’s fucking hot. She should be flattered.”

He looks her up and down again. “I’m gonna ask her.”

He can picture it exactly: having the one and only Pogue Princess hanging off his arm. The girl no other guy has banged— she’d be his, and his only. He’d have those lips and that face— he’d have you.

And you’d have him, of course. Not many girls can say that.

“Suit yourself man. Don’t come crying to me when she turns your ass down.”

He strides over to you, sidling up next to you, leaning against the shelf.

“Hey,”

“No.”

He blinks. “What?”

“No. No I don’t want your number, no I don’t want to sleep with you, no I don’t want to go out with you.” You say, not looking over at him once.

“Well, how come, doll?” He says, leaning down a bit so he’s closer to your height. “We could have a good time, you and me.”

“First of all,” You start, pulling a book off the shelf. “It’s a known fact that Rafe Cameron doesn’t date Pogues. Secondly, I can tell you exactly how this relationship would go. We’d date, and then after a few weeks you’d grow sick of my Pogue-ish ways or something like that. We’d break up, and then I would be seen as even more of a social pariah than I am now. I’d be unwelcome in Pogue spaces because I’d forever be the girl who dated Rafe Cameron just to get her heart broken like all the others, and I’m already a stain on this side of the island, but I’m willing to bet your groupies and fanclub would increase their ridicule if I was ever seen here. So no.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve thought this out.”

“No I haven’t. It’s predictable.”

You re-shelf the book you were holding then walk away, stalking deeper into the store.

He looks back at Topper once, flashing his best friend that dangerous smile.

Topper groans in the distance, all too away of the effect a challenge has on Rafe Cameron.

—

You have to say. You’re a little surprised to feel his continued gaze on your back, even more displeased to hear his footsteps trailing behind you.

“You won’t better your chances by annoying me.”

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“You don’t have to,” You slow your walk, reaching out to tap your hand on the spine of a book you’ve been eyeing for awhile. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“And what does my reputation say about me?”

“That you’re an asshole and a heartbreaker,” You turn and look back at him over your shoulder. “You’re not exactly selling me, here.”

Your eyes latch on something tucked under his arm. It’s the two books he saw you eyeing. His gaze catches yours and he gives you a cocky smirk.

You roll your eyes and turn back around. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Rafe Cameron.”

He trails after you the entire time you’re in the store, picking book after book off the shelf that he sees your eyes even linger on.

“What’s your plan here?” You ask, turning a book over in your hands and scanning the blurb on the back. “Buy the entire store? Woo me with your credit card? You’re not the only guy on the island with a piece of plastic.”

“Pretty sure I’m the guy with the most on his plastic, though.”

You sigh loudly through your nose. “I’m not interested in men who are only interested in me as an object. You want the trophy you get from ‘bagging the Pogue Princess.’ So fuck off.”

You’re so sick of this. Sick of every guy being the same— only being interested in you as an ego boost. No guy has ever been interested in you for you.

And they never will be, so long as you keep turning them down. Every man wants what he can’t have.

“You’re seriously not going to get anything?”

You pause in your storm off, turning around to look at Rafe. “What?”

His arms are laden with a thick stack of books, muscles flexed at the weight of the stack, straining at the sleeve of his t-shirt.

He gestures to the shelves around you. “You must have looked at the entire store. You’re really just going to leave?”

“I’m a Pogue, Rafe. You do the math.”

Your hands clench and unclench on the strap of your bag. You never thought you’d catch the attention of Rafe Cameron. If Sarah’s the Kook Princess, then he’s the Kook Prince. Dating him would give you some major points on the North Side of the Island.

…And ruin your relationship with 90% of the Pogue’s on The Cut.

Besides. Even if you did date him, he would stick around. No way in hell he would. And then you’d be back right where you started.

Your fumbling with your keys out in the small parking lot, groaning as your ancient beater car key once again refuses to turn in the lock when you hear footsteps behind you.

You rub a hand over your face and turn around.

“Can you please leave me alone? Seriously.”

He’s got that stupid smile on his face again and he’s holding something out to you.

A book. Just one.

You take it from his hands cautiously. “You had a whole stack. Why downgrade to just one?”

He clasps his hands behind his back. “Cause you looked at all those other ones once. You stopped at this one three times. Figured you might’ve wanted it.”

You chew your lip. “I’m still not going out with you.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d change your mind right now.”

He leans down, reaching forward, breath fanning your face. You screw your eyes shut, bracing.

A loud click behind you. He pulls away.

“But you will.”

With that, he turns, walking back into the store. At the doors, he flashes you one last smile.

You take one breath. Two.

You climb into your now unlocked car, tossing the book onto the passenger seat.

When you get home, you won’t be able to stop thinking about how in the moment, you kind of wanted him to kiss you.

—

He finds you at the Boneyard, because of course he does.

You’re sitting on one of the drift wood-slash-benches near the bonfire, pretending like you’re not shivering.

“You know, most people come to beach parties to let loose and have fun. That includes me. Having fun and letting loose does not include you.”

“Oh, come on. This is neutral territory, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What am I allowed to call you?”

“Nothing. Go find another girl to stroke your ego. Or your dick. I don’t care either way.”

He leans down into your space. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“Fuck. Off.”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I only came over to give you this.”

This time, instead of holding out a book (that you had, in fact, read in a matter of days. It was as good as you’d thought it’d be) he holds out a jacket. One of those expensive North Face fleeces.

You scrunch your nose. “And why are you giving me that?”

“You’re cold.”

“So?”

“So, I’m being a gentleman.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you knew what that word was.”

He drops the fleece on your head. “Take the fucking jacket.”

You slide it off your head, putting it on and glaring at him all the while.

“I’m only putting this on because I’m cold.”

“Sure you are.”

“This has nothing to do with you. I’m still not dating you.”

“Mhm.”

“I hate you.”

He cracks the same smile he gave you at the bookstore. “Sure.”

He takes a swig of his beer, walking backwards towards his group of friends. “You look good in my clothes, princess.”

You flip him two fingers, and he flips them straight back.

You’ll deny it later that you smiled after the interaction.

—

He shows up at your job. This time, Topper’s with him.

You close your eyes and count to ten, mentally picturing fleeing the country and never having to deal with men again before speaking.

“You know, there’s a term for you right now.”

He smiles that same stupid fucking smile, tapping his fingers on the table of the cafe you work at. He’s seated outside in your section. You highly doubt it’s by mistake.

“Determined? Persistent?”

“A repeat offender,” You say flatly. “Now will you please order and get the hell out here?”

To his credit, Topper looks vaguely uncomfortable with his own presence. Though that might be because you did turn him down particularly brutally. You wince internally. It wasn’t his fault, per se. It was just… not a good day.

Rafe is perfectly capable of handling your top-notch bitch-ery, and secretly, you enjoy the chance to be as openly angry as you want to be.

Rafe pretends to read over the menu. You know he’s only pretending because you watched him read it for five straight minutes when they first arrived. He probably has it memorized.

“I’d like a blueberry muffin,” He says, still smiling. “Just one.”

You scribble it down on your order sheet, then turn to Topper. “And you?”

“Uh,” He clears his throat, “Just a water, please.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Seriously? You came all the way to my job to harass me and that’s what you order? One muffin and a water?”

You write the water down anyway, clicking your tongue. “And the asshole-ery continues.”

“And what would you have us order, then?” Rafe asks, eyeing you from his position at the table.

It’s scary how well he commands a space just by being— he’s Rafe Cameron and he knows it. He exudes power and control.

He’s the exact kind of man you turn down hard. No chance of anything.

“Something actually worth bothering me for,” You slip the notepad into your apron pocket and spin on your heel, “I have other orders and tables to wait. Don’t expect to get your muffin and water soon.”

As you wait and bus the tables that need to be dealt with before your orders are ready, you begin to wonder if you’re going too far.

This isn’t just any Kook. This is Rafe. He could completely and utterly destroy your life if he wanted to.

Maybe you’re better off agreeing to go out with him. Just to be safe. Women don’t turn a man like that down.

Finally, you get their orders out to them, setting them on the table a little less harsh than you were originally planning.

“There,” Can’t quite stop your mouth, though. “Do you want the check now?”

Rafe picks up his muffin, shrugging. “Sure.”

You slide them the bill— you had it ready the second you got the chance. You’d rather not have them here any longer than you have to.

It was hard enough to get a job outside The Cut. You don’t need to give your boss any more reason to fire you.

Rafe tosses a few bills onto the bill and you take it, counting the money.

“You overpaid.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Your total was nine dollars and twenty six cents. You just handed me two hundred dollar bills.”

He tilts his head at you like he’s confused. “I thought you were supposed to tip waiters and shit.”

You blink at the bills. “Yeah like, five dollars. Not two hundred. I don’t even think we accept hundred dollar bills.”

“Tell your manager I’m the one who paid. Can’t take issue with a Cameron.”

“You’re the worst,” You tell him, but take the money back to your manager. He isn’t happy, but like Rafe said— can’t take issue with a Cameron. He gives you the change you need and bores holes into your back with how hard he’s staring as you walk the money back.

“Here.” You thrust your arm out, handing him the change.

Rafe crosses his arms. “I said that was your tip.”

“I can’t accept this. I don’t accept pity money.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not pity money.”

“Then what kind of money is it? Cause it sure feels like pity money. Oh wait, is this you-owe-me-now money?”

He groans. “Can’t you just take the fucking money?”

“Not if there’s a consequence.”

If Topper looked uncomfortable before, he looks almost nauseous now. You kind of feel bad for him.

Rafe scrubs a hand down his face. “Will you just take it? No consequence.”

“Why?”

Topper chokes on his water.

“Why?” Rafe asks, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Because it’s what I do. You’re the Pogue Princess, yeah? I’m giving you the princess treatment.”

“But why? What do you gain from this?”

“I’m just gonna go wait at the car,” Topper says, getting up so quickly he bumps the table.

Rafe’s eyes never leave you, the money still clutched in your hand. “You know what I get out of this? The prettiest girl on the island in my clothes. The prettiest girl on the island spending my money.”

The bills start to crinkle in your grip. “I’m a Pogue. You don’t date Pogue’s.”

He stands, pushing back his chair in a much more controlled manner than you were expecting, given the look on his face. “Have you ever considered that you’re the exception?”

“No, because I’m not. The only part of me that’s an exception is the challenge. That’s all you want.”

Something flashes in his eyes. His gaze is dark where it scans your features, something calculating in his eyes.

“Some guy fucked you over, huh?”

Your near full body flinch is a dead giveaway. “Fuck you, Rafe. You’re an asshole.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably. But I’m gonna keep showing you what this,”

He gestures to the both of you. “Could be like. I’m not that kind of asshole. Not to girls who look like you.”

He stands, taking all the change out of your hand except the $100 bill.

“Hold onto that for me,” He says, voice husky as it brushes your ear.

His hand comes up for one second, two, and then he lowers it. Like he’d had to restrain himself ok touching you.

An involuntary shiver runs down your spine. He smirks at the reaction.

And then, he’s gone. Now you’re just some waiter standing at a table with a $100 clutched in your hand.

You shake yourself out of your stupor, getting busy bussing the table. You notice something fluttering under his plate.

An old receipt with a number scribbled on it.

And a $20 bill.

“Son of a—“

—

You’re having a really bad day. One of those thirty-million-minor-inconveniences-in-a-row days. With one last fuck you from the universe on top.

You couldn’t get your hair right no matter how many times you tried, your makeup is rushed and bad because you spent too much time on your hair, once again one of your neighbors pulled out of their driveway without looking and almost killed you, a guy tried feel you up during your shift and your manager told you it was your fault for wearing revealing clothing (you were literally wearing your uniform) and then top it all off, your car won’t start. It won’t even try.

You slam your head against the steering wheel. Your boss made you stay late because of the incident so it’s getting dark now. You’re not walking all the way back to The Cut. But you don’t know how you’re getting home. It’s not like you can just call a mechanic. None of your pogue friends have cars and only person who does you’d… rather not call right now.

So that just leaves one option.

A really, really, terrible option.

A horrific one.

You curse as you rifle through your purse, pulling out the old receipt. Your phone’s almost dead, so you have to make this count.

You dial the number, pulling your knees to your chest and sinking low in your seat.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Rafe.”

“I was wondering when you’d call me.”

“I’m sure you were,” You say flatly. “Listen I… I need a favor.”

“Spill.”

“I’m at work. My car won’t start. I just—“ You break off, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. “Can you please come pick me up?”

“I’m on my way. Sit tight.”

He hangs up the phone and you sigh, scrubbing your face and willing the tears to just go away. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, probably smearing your makeup past the point of return, but you can’t find it with in yourself to care.

You sit there for what feels like minutes, hands pressed to your face trying desperately to stop the tears that keep flowing when you hear a car pull up next to you.

You sit up, hands lowered, eyeing the sleek Range Rover that just pulled up next to you.

You manage to climb out of your car, hugging your waist in an act of self-soothing and a sad attempt at getting warm. It gets cold in Kildare at night.

Rafe rounds the front of his car, expression pinched.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, really, just…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely to your car. You sniff hard, rubbing the back of your hand across your face. “It’s just been a long day.”

He looks over your shoulder, assessing your car before looking back to you. “Get whatever you need from your car.”

You rush to gather the items from your car, piling them in the backseat at Rafe’s direction. You turn, facing him when something is thrown at your face.

It’s disturbing that you recognize it by deja vu alone.

“Rafe—“ You say, taking the jacket in your hands.

“You’re cold. Put it on.”

“But—“

“Listen, princess, I’m perfectly satisfied waiting here all night until you put that on.” He crosses his arms, leaning against the car.

You squeeze the jacket in your hand. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That.”

“Mmm,” He hums. “That’s a tough one. Probably cause you look pathetic when you shiver.”

“I do not.”

“You totally do. You get all hunched. Like an old lady.”

“Is this your idea of flirting?”

He smiles. “Put the jacket on.”

You do. It’s just as warm as last time.

He nods his head towards the car and you climb into the passenger seat, clicking your seatbelt.

He climbs in after you, putting his seatbelt on and pulling the car out of the parking lot. After a moment, he reaches across the console, turning on your seat warmer and cranking the heat up.

“Thank you,” You say after a moment.

“I told you I’d show you what life would be like if you were mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah,” He says, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “Mine.”

“So you’d have me, what? Caged? Chained to you.”

“Spoiled, is the word I’d used.”

“I’m not an object, Rafe. I’m not going to be some kind of kept woman.”

He snorts. “Who said anything about that?”

“That’s what you want, is it not? Want me to have no personality, no nothing. You want me to hang off your arm and laugh at everything you say—“

“Fuck no,” He says so vehemently you pause. “You’re so fucking mouthy. And stubborn. If I wanted some brainless fangirl, I’d go find one. I wouldn’t pick her up from her job and drive her home. Probably wouldn’t give her my fucking jacket.”

You look up at him. “You wouldn’t?”

He shrugs. “None of those girls tell me to fuck off.”

“So it is the challenge. That’s all.”

“That’s not all. You’re making shit up.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Come on. No guy has ever given you his jacket? You seriously want me to believe you look like that no one’s ever spoiled you?”

“No,” You say curtly, “You want me to believe that every guy just enjoys spending a bunch of money on a girl?”

“Not a girl. Their girl. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Cause it’s not your job to get it. It’s your job to be spoiled. Now where the hell am I going?”

You give him a vague address— just the street name and how to get there. You’re not stupid enough to give him your house address.

You don’t talk for the duration of the drive, you begin to shrug out of his jacket when a hand on your thigh stops you.

“Keep it. You can give it back to me the next time you see me.”

“There’ll be a next time?”

“If I have anything to say about it.”

You slowly put the jacket back on, then hastily climb out of his car, barely remembering to grab your stuff from the back.

You pause by the window. He rolls it down.

“Um. Thank you. Again.”

His lips twitch. “Don’t mention it.”

—

You don’t see him for a full two weeks after that.

After the first week, you figure he’s busy.

After the second week, you assume you scared him off.

You’re out on your old, busted kayak on the water, enjoying the early evening sun.

“Afternoon, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,”

You look over, eyeing Rafe and Sarah on one of the Cameron’s smaller boats. Sarah waves at you kindly. She’s always been fairly kind to you—

“Princesses have to stick together.” She’d said to you once, an easy smile on her lips, her face bathed in an orange glow in front of the bonfire.

A similar smile is on her face today. But the one on Rafe’s is nothing but mischief.

“Why don’t you come over here?” He calls.

You flip him a certain finger.

“Come on!” Sarah yells. “We’ve got beer!”

Well. Who are you to say no to free alcohol?

—

You should’ve said no to the free alcohol.

“You know what Rafe?” the words tumble out of your mouth, clumsy. “You’re really hot. It’s not fair. How am I supposed to hate you when you look so hot?”

You’re sitting on one of the benches on the boat, half leaning on the back of it and half leaning on Rafe.

You might have forgotten to take into account the fact that you’re a lightweight.

He raises an eyebrow. “How many beers did you have?”

“Don’t worry about that,” You slur, attempting to shush him but failing halfway through, your hand falling harmlessly into his lap. “I like beer. I like drinking. How come I don’t drink often?”

You pause, squinting at him. “How come you’re so hot?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, “You’re drunk.”

“Who cares? I like being drunk. Drunk me is fun. Like that one song. Release your in-hi-bitions— feel the rain on your skin!”

He gives you a pained look. “Please don’t try to start dancing. You don’t have the coordination for it, and I’m not going into the water when you tip overboard.”

“Pshhh, yeah you would. You like taking care of me. Cause you’re weird.”

You turn to face the other side of the boat, where Sarah is watching you with an amused expression. “Sarah! Did I tell you that he drove aaaaaaaallllllllll the way to my job to pick me up cause my car wouldn’t start?”

She tilts her head, looking at Rafe. “You told Dad you were going to go pick up Topper and Kelce from a party so they didn’t drunk drive.”

You make a so-so motion with your hand. “That’s like. Basically the same thing.”

“It is not. You really are a lightweight, huh?”

You squint at Sarah. “Did John B. tell you that?”

She splutters. “No, I—“

You cross your arms, frowning. Then you turn to look up at Rafe again. “I should’ve called John B. to pick me up, cause he’s the only Pogue I know who’s got a car. But I didn’t. I called you.”

“Mm,” Rafe says, his jaw tensing and un-tensing. “And why is that.”

“Cause he’s being a dick. He’s all upset ‘cause I’m hanging out with you, keeps telling me I’m gonna get hurt again and blah blah blah, but then, it turns out he’s been dating Sarah for weeks and he didn’t tell me! It’s the same thing! And we’re not even dating.”

Rafe looks at Sarah. “You’re dating him? That’s who you broke up with Topper for?”

She glares right back at him. “There is literally a Pogue in this boat right now who is only here because you want to date her. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

“She’s different.”

“How?”

You and Sarah ask the same question at the same time. Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“She’s not just some random Pogue I picked up off the street.”

“I could have been.”

“You’re not helping.”

You frown, staring at your feet.

He gazes at you for a moment. “She’s just… different.”

You blink up at him through your lashes. “You should kiss me.”

“No.”

“Why not?” You whine.

“Because when sober-you remembers all of this, she’s already going to kill me.”

“Not to mention I would.” Sarah grumbles, taking a sip of her own beer. “Come on, Rafe. You should bring her home. It’s getting late anyway.”

“Mm,” He hums, glancing at you up and down. “You wanna go home?”

“No. There’s no beer and Rafe there. S’ boring.”

“I’m pretty sure sober-you likes it that way.”

“Then she’s boring,” You poke the muscle of his bicep. “Do you work out?”

“Yes.”

“Are you buff?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“Could you carry me?”

“Probably.”

“Hmm,” You sink lower on the bench, kicking your feet. “Okay. We should go home before sober-me figures out what’s going on.”

Sarah brings the boat back to their little dock while Rafe makes various attempts to keep you awake during the journey.

You whine, batting his hands away as he pokes your face.

“We’re here, so you’re gonna have to get up.”

You groan. “You’re a big strong man. Carry me.”

You hear a huff, a sigh, and then arms come around your middle and you let out a half-aborted scream as you’re hefted into the air, stomach landing on a muscled shoulder.

“I was joking,” You mumble, your arms dangling. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“I swear to fucking— here.”

He slides you off his shoulder and you wobble as you land, vision swimming.

“I think I’m a lightweight.”

“You’re just now figuring that out?”

“Why are you so mean?”

“I was told by a certain princess that it was my brand.”

“I wanna go home.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you going to walk then? Towards my car? So you can go home?”

You turn (slowly) and squint at his car in the distance. “That seems really far away.”

“It’s not.”

“I don’t wanna walk that far.”

The muscles in his jaw jump. “Just this once, because I need to get you home, and you are drunk, I am going to offer you a piggy-back ride. Got it?”

“Hmm. Okay.”

He stoops a little so you can hop on, then hooks his arms under your legs with only a mild grunt, your arms crossing —not too tight— around his neck.

He makes his way across the deck and up the path, silently, your cheek pillowed on the side of his neck.

When he makes it to the car he opens the passenger side door and slides you into it, clicking your seat belt on when your fingers fumble with it.

He’s silent the entire drive, jaw clenched and hands white knuckled on the steering wheel.

The silence practically thrums with anger, the charged air prickling your skin.

“Are you mad at me?”

He works his jaw. “No.”

“It seems like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Then how come you’re upset?”

He sighs out through his nose. He doesn’t respond right away. Waits until he pulls over at the front of your street, sets the car in park. His hands don’t leave the steering wheel.

“You’re… squishier than I thought.”

“You think I’m fat?”

“No- fuck. I’m saying you’ve got a convincing stone-cold-bitch act. Then you go and get drunk and turn into this. Makes me feel like a piece of shit.”

You cross your arms. “You don’t like it. Me.”

He finally looks over at you, his eyes hooded. “I never said that. It’s one thing for us to have this back and forth assholery, as you put it. But now I know this is also who I’m being a dick to.”

You look down at your lap. “You know, I wasn’t always a stone-cold bitch.”

He cuts you a look. “Stop talk—“

“No, you shut up, I’m not that drunk anymore,”

You’re totally lying, which he knows, but he lets you talk.

“There was… this guy. I really liked him. He really liked me. Well, I thought he did. He was a Kook, too. Everyone warned me against getting with him, but I thought what we had was real,” You clench your hands on your thighs. “It wasn’t. Turns out his friends had dared him to sleep with ‘the prettiest Pogue he could stomach.’ That’s all I was. The only Pogue he could stand to fake it with. He told me the morning after. We broke up.”

“Who—“

“It doesn’t matter. I’m telling you this so you understand that I am a frigid bitch, but I’m also… this. So you better not fuck this up.”

He chuckles. “What do you want me to do, then?”

You shrug. “Prove me wrong. And I’m not made of glass. You just gotta… take it.”

Rafe raises a single eyebrow. “Take it?”

“Look, I already told you I think you’re hot. You’ve got a brain. Put the pieces together.”

He rubs a hand across his jaw. “And if I go too far?”

“I’m not that fragile.”

He crosses his arms, biceps flexing. “You sure about this?”

“Right now? Yes.”

He hums. “I should say no. You’re drunk. You’re not in the right mind to make these kinds of decisions.”

“But?”

“I’d rather test this and see,” He leans down, across the middle console, eyes hooded and hungry as he stares down at you. “You’re on, pretty girl."

—

When you wake (in your own bed, shockingly) it’s to the sound of a chainsaw right next to your ear.

Oh. It’s actually just your phone buzzing.

You hit the accept button and roll over onto it instead of doing all the effort of lifting it onto your face.

“H’llo?”

“Morning, princess.”

You groan. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

“You don’t remember last night?”

“You’re on, pretty girl.”

You groan again, this one long and drawn out. “Why did you let me drink? You should’ve thrown me off the side of the boat after the first beer.”

You’re utterly mortified at how you acted. There’s a reason you don’t really get drunk anymore.

“And get rid of my free show like that? Please.”

You huff, head pounding at the effort of remembering the night before and speaking. “Why’re you calling me?”

“Had to make sure all that drinking didn’t kill you. We’ve got plans tonight.”

You sit up a little in bed. “No we don’t. I have work tonight.”

“That’s your only dispute?”

“I figured I didn’t have to state the obvious ones.”

“Come on. It’s just a little party—“

“I don’t do parties, Rafe.”

“I recall seeing you at the boneyard more than a couple times.”

“Bonfires on the beach don’t count as parties.”

“So you’d come if it was on the beach?”

“No, I—“ You tap the speaker button, dropping the phone into your lap. “What’s the point of this party, exactly? You want to be seen in public with me? Want everyone to know I’m off limits?”

“Yes,” He says it so easily, though his voice a little rough, a little gravelly, “But you also need to lighten up. I’ll pick you up from work. Bring clothes to change into.”

You open your mouth to respond but the hang up tone beeps steadily in your ear.

Of course you had to go blab your tragic backstory to Rafe fucking Cameron.

—

Work is long as usual, and you’ve contemplated quitting several times by the time you’re changing into your ‘party’ clothes in the bathroom, ignoring the fact that Rafe has definitely been parked and waiting for half an hour.

Your boss kept you late. Again.

You rush out to his car, cursing. He’s leaned up against the passenger side door, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his phone. He looks up when you approach, the corners of his lips twitching.

He pushes off the car, opening the passenger side door and nodding towards it.

“You look good.”

You pause, shouldering your work bag. “That’s it? I keep you waiting for thirty minutes and that’s all you say?”

“Did you want me to get upset?”

“Well, no, but—“

He shrugs. “Don’t care. Get in the car.”

He closes the door after you then climbs in himself, cranking up the heat and driving towards the boneyard.

You notice his eyes flicking down to your thighs every now and then. When picking an outfit for the party/bonfire/whatever, you’d decided to go simple. Having Rafe follow you around would be attention enough.

Still, the jeans you’re wearing are tight. A bit more form-fitting than your usual attire.

He seems to notice.

You shift in your seat, a little self conscious under the heat of his gaze crossing your legs and angling them towards the car door.

He sighs. “Mm-mm. None of that.”

He reached a hand across the console, deft, strong fingers effortlessly hooking and curling over your knee and dragging your legs back over and closer to him. Once he resituates you, his hand travels a little higher, squeezing and rolling the plush flesh there in his hand.

Your breath hitches. “What are you doing?”

“Taking.”

You swallow heavily, nearly choking on the lump in your throat. “You better not act like this at the boneyard.”

“And what if I do?“

“I’ll leave.”

He snorts. “I’m your ride. You gonna walk home? In the cold?”

“It’s not cold out.”

“It is to you. You’re always shivering. You better have brought the jacket.”

He doesn’t have to say which jacket for you to know which one he’s referring to.

You cross your arms, firmly ignoring the hand still intermittently squeezing your thigh. “I did. But i’m serious, Rafe. You have to back off when we get there.”

“Mm,” He hums. “Then at least let me have a little now.”

There’s something in the way he says it. The timber of his voice, the low, almost croon to his tone. He says it like you’re in control. Like you have power over him.

Even just the idea of it is exhilarating.

You push your thigh up into his hand, just a little bit.

“Only cause you’ll be insufferable if I don’t.”

He curls his hand under your thigh, palm pressed to the side and fingers pressing into the muscle through your tight jeans.

“Thanks, baby.”

“I’m not your baby.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You pull up to the beach, party already well under way.

People cheer as Rafe climbs out of the car, but he ignores them in favor of walking over to your side of the car and offering you a hand, which you swat away.

“I’m not an invalid.”

“Has anyone told you that you’re really hard to be polite to?”

“You’re just—“

“For the love of god, don’t start with that shit. Get over here.”

He snakes an arm around your waist, tugging you to his side. He starts towards the beach and you squirm, not wanting to be seen tucked under his arm.

This is the exact scenario you’d wanted to avoid with this whole thing. Showing up with Rafe Cameron —literally climbing out of his car— and having his arm around you is the perfect way to be ostracized by almost ninety percent of your circle.

“Will you chill the fuck out?” Rafe says, slowing to a stop a little ways away from the party, turning you to face him. “We’re just going to a party.”

You attempt to shrug his arm off your shoulder, but it holds fast. “You don’t get it. You have money, so you don’t need a community to fall back on. We’re poor. All we have is each other. So if I walk over there with you, i’ll lose it. I’ll be a traitor.”

His expression twists. “You’re blowing this so far out of proportion it’s not even funny.”

Anger begins stirring in your chest. “Rafe—“

“Who cares? No seriously, who the fuck cares? Everyone on this island is a piece of shit in their own ways. No one gives a shit if I got you under my arm. No one’s watching you. You’re not a fucking celebrity. You’ve got a reputation for turning down guys, you’re not fuckin’ Taylor Swift.”

The anger fades and your skin prickles in its absence. “I don’t think that I’m famous or anything.”

Rafe’s features smooth into something a little calmer. “I know, I know. Is this cause John B’s being a dick?”

“He has a point—“

“No he doesn’t,” Rafe snorts, “He’s dating my sister. He doesn’t get to say anything.”

You sigh. “They’re just worried about me making the same mistakes again.”

His arm leaves your side and you resist the shiver that threatens to overtake you at the sudden loss of the warmth and stability you hadn’t realized you’d been reliant on during the length of the conversation.

Rafe slides a gold ring off his pointer finger— the gold ring. The Cameron signet ring. The ring he never takes off.

He takes your hand, turning it palm side up, and drops the ring in it.

“There. My dad would probably murder me if anything happened to that ring. If I become a real and serious dick to you, chuck it in the fucking ocean.”

You stare down at it. “This is real gold. It’s a family heirloom. You can’t just give it to me.”

“I’m not,” He says easily, “This is a loan. When you decide that I’m not gonna fuck you over, you can give it back.”

You close your fingers around the ring, still warm from his finger. You tilt your back, looking up at him through your lashes. A small smile starts to spread across your face.

“I’ve really got you wrapped around my finger, huh?”

He huffs a laugh, tucking you under his arm again and walking you towards the party. “Took you long enough.”

The party honestly is fun after that. You drink (not much, Rafe carefully watches your alcohol intake and makes sure you toe the line of tipsy, but don’t fall over into drunk territory. He spends the night nursing one beer, claiming designated driver whenever someone gives him shit for it.

“Never stopped you in the past.”

“Didn’t have precious cargo before.”

He stays true to your earlier agreement and remains fairly hands off, but follows you around the party like some sort of guard dog, lingering just over your shoulder and successfully scaring off every guy who even looks in your direction.

Some of the pogues do give you the occasional glare or judgmental look or two, but Rafe was right. No one cares.

It’s… nice. For once you’re not hoping no guy approaches you or praying a Kook doesn’t start some shit with you. With Rafe trailing behind you, one hand in his pocket and jaw set, you truly are free to just enjoy the party, for the first time in your life. No one’s trying to hit on you, no one’s trying to making a spectacle of trying to convince you to date them, no one is making snide comments.

It’s weird, because you’re accustomed to a certain kind and amount of anxiety that comes with going to a mixed party, but everytime you start wondering how things are going to go wrong, Rafe is there with an arm around your waist or some stupid comment or other about somebody at the party whispered in your ear.

You manage quite a bit more socializing at the party than you usually do. Unfortunately, between this and the alcohol, you tire pretty quick.

You trip over your third stick when Rafe settles a hand on your hip with an “Think it’s time you went to bed.”

You groan. “But I’m actually having a good time for once.”

He steers you in the direction of the car. “Well, you’re in luck, cause if you think you’re going to parties alone from now on, you got another thing coming.”

Rafe at your side —a seemingly permanent arrangement now— you stumble your way towards the car.

“Isn’t that boring for you?”

“If it was, I’d say something. Besides. There’ll be different parties. Stop worrying so much about shit.”

His words seem harsh, but his tone is nothing other than low and fond.

“I’m cold.”

“I told you to grab the jacket—“

“I did bring it—“

“Then why aren’t you wearing it?”

“It didn’t match the outfit!”

“Are you being serious right now?”

"Is it a crime to want to look good at a party--"

He chuckles, fingers flexing on your hip as he tugs you closer to him. "You're so stupid."

"Rude."

"Not rude if it's true."

You elbow his side, but he just laughs louder.

Unsurprisingly, he warms the car for you when you get in.

—

Storms are a common thing in Outerbanks. Everyone's used to them. Monsoons, thunder storms, even the occasional hurricane. So you're not surprised to get the warning, not surprised when it hits.

You are a little surprised to wake up pelted with rain, a tree branch in your room, and part of the roof missing.

"Shit," You gasp, pushing the fallen debris off your body and rolling out of your bed to assess the damage.

It's bad. The branch is big and long, probably from that stupid tree your neighbors refused to cut down that you said was going to be a storm hazard. They'd refused, and now there's a huge tree branch that's caved in your roof and part of the wall that separates your bedroom from the living room.

No one is home but you. No one ever is, but right now it causes tears to rise to your eyes, because there's a branch in your room, and the roof is in pieces, and now that you've stopped moving, your legs and arms and torso actually hurt quite a bit, and something warm and wet is running down your temple and when you touch your fingers to it, they come away wet and scarlet.

You're out of your depth and you're scared. You can't stay here, obviously, but you don't know what to do. No one else is home. You don't even know who to call. JJ is out, because who knows if his dad is home and he doesn't even have a phone right now, Kie's out too because her parents didn't like that you were a Pogue with a reputation, you and Pope aren't that close, and John B is... John B. He has a car, at least, and you grew up together, so he'd probably overlook everything between the both of you if you're in danger.

You snatch you waterlogged phone off your dresser, shaky fingers scrolling through your contacts, thumb hovering over John B's.

You should call him. You've been neglecting your friendship with the group recently, working around the clock and Rafe whisking you away. Everyone's busy in their own way, what with the treasure and everything, so this could be a moment to reunite, bond over how shitty the storms make life on the Cut.

There's one other person you could call.

You shouldn't. Should stick to the friends you know, call John B.

But if you called Rafe, he'd come. He'd come get you, and probably take you back to his house and you wouldn't have to worry about anything, because for some reason, he's serious about doing that.

You could call him. He probably wants you to.

You press call before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Do you know what time it is--"

"A tree branch fell on my roof and now I don't have part of my roof and I'm really cold and wet and please come get me."

"Jesus— okay, yeah, yeah I'm coming. Shit, okay. Are you hurt?"

"My head is bleeding and I'm battered all over, but I don't think I need to go to he hospital."

"You're bleeding from your head and you don't think you need to go to the hospital?"

You can hear the sound of a car door slamming and an engine turning over.

"I don't want to go because then I'll be stuck in these clothes and they'll poke and prod at me and it'll take ages and—"

"Alright, alright. Calm down. How bad is the damage to the house. Look around for me."

"Um," You turn in place, scrutinizing the disaster and chaos around you. "I think most of the roof is intact, just the portion that covers my bedroom and some of the living room are uncovered. The branch took out most of the wall that seperates my room from the living room."

"Fuck. Okay, what about the rest of the house?"

"Um, I don't think I can get to it. The tree branch and other house... pieces are blocking my door."

"Can you get out? At all?"

"Yeah, I think through my window."

"Don't move. Take what you need from your room. I'll be there soon."

“Please don’t hang up.”

The line goes silent and you think he has hung up, that you didn’t say it fast enough or he just didn’t care, but then he speaks.

“Would you rather I sneak you in my house or walk in through the front door?”

“…What are the pros and cons?”

“Well, getting in the front door is easiest, but then you risk seeing my parents and my Dad won’t have questions, but Rose will, and I never want to answer her questions anyway.”

“She can’t be that bad.”

“She is. Sneaking you in is harder, but then we avoid conversations, but if we get caught, conversations will probably be worse. Might become a whole lecture.”

“They’d lecture you for taking in a girl who needs help?”

“Rose would.”

He keeps talking the entire way to your house, his voice speaking in low tones as you gather up the things you need to spend an indefinite amount of time away from home.

He eventually does hang up when he arrives, so you turn your attention to prying your window open and climbing out of it.

You can barely get it wedged open enough to fit through, so you toss your bag through first and shout a quick “over here!” before beginning to crawl through.

You hear footsteps slow to a stop in front of you. “You know, usually when this scenario happens, you’re facing the other way around.”

You swat at his leg. “You’re disgusting. And I’m not stuck. You just arrived at an in-opportune moment.”

He curls a hand under the window and pulls up, making the gap wider. At the sudden release of tension you yelp, tumbling out of the window.

“You’re such a mess.”

“You didn’t warn me!”

He helps you to your feet and leads you to his car, the hand on your waist keeping you distracted from the wreckage behind you.

—

You do decide in the end to just walk in the front door, because you’re cold and wet and tired.

Ward does wake up and meets you at the staircase (you’re pretending not to notice the sheer opulence of the house) looking rumpled and confused.

“Who’s this?” The man asks, gesturing your rather pathetic looking form.

“My girlfriend,” Rafe says smoothly, “Branch fell on her roof. Place is a mess.”

You wave hello. “Sorry for waking you, Mr. Cameron.”

His gaze flicks to you for a second, then back to Rafe.

“Girlfriend?” His tone sounds… off. “How long has this been a thing?”

Rafe shifts, squaring his shoulders and stepping a little more in front of you. “A little while.”

Ward hums again, eyes flitting to you, taking in your appearance.

“Make sure you get the first aid kit. That head wounds looks nasty.”

Rafe nods. “We got it. Thanks, Dad.”

Ward just dips his head once, then steps back into the bedroom.

You let out a long sigh, pressing a hand to your chest.

“I thought he was going to throw me out.”

“He wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him, anyway.”

You snort. “Yes, yes, you’re a big strong man. Can we attend to my wounds now? And get some dry clothes?”

Cleaning your wound doesn’t take long, mostly because your head is the only one that really needs cleaning. The rest is taken care of in the shower. The most luxurious and amazing shower of your life. Seriously. You didn’t even know showers could be this relaxing.

The warm water soothes your aching muscles, and Rafe has weirdly good taste in bodywash.

He’d left you a change of clothes and a spare towel even though you said you brought your own.

You change into his anyway.

They’re more comfortable. Better quality than your ratty pajamas.

Your underwear is a different matter. Your dresser is old and broken —as most things in your house are— and the drawer you picked to store your underwear in doesn’t close all the way. This normally isn’t an issue, but when your roof is suddenly no longer attached, it means the a good portion of your underwear got soaked and muddy.

Except the ones at the bottom of the drawer. So the only underwear you had to bring to Rafe’s that was clean and dry is the tiny, lacy stuff you bought from Victoria’s secret and only wear when you’ve taken an everything shower and need a little pick-me-up. When you want to feel like a hot piece of ass. Girl things.

So you look at yourself in the mirror, clad in your own tank top (it’s actually warm enough in his house to wear a tank top to bed) and a pair of his pajama pants, the draw-string pulled tight, the fabric sagging low on your hips, showing off a thin little strip of lace.

Your face flushes. You look like his girlfriend. Dressed in his clothes, lacy underwear peaking through, skin freshly washed and smelling of his body wash.

When you step out of his bathroom, old clothes clutched in your hand, he stills.

He sits back on the edge of his bed, leaning back on his elbows as you slowly saunter over, steps quiet.

His eyes flick down to the lace, pauses on the sight, then back up to your face.

The air is charged, thick with tension.

You pull away from it, tossing your clothes in your backpack and ignoring the heat of his gaze on your back.

“Come over here.”

You straighten, hands behind your back as you walk to him.

“Closer.”

You step forward, now standing between his legs.

His hands come up to the back of your thighs, tightening, before moving to your hips. His thumbs ghost over the edge of the lace, and he rumbles something deep in the back of his throat.

“I like these.”

“Do you?”

“Mhm.”

He presses his face forward, pushing your tank top up with his nose pressing his lips to the now exposed skin of your stomach.

You gasp, then feel him smile against you. He tugs you closer, face pressed to you and hands gripping your sides, just above the edge of your ribcage.

Tentatively, you reach a hand down, sliding from the top his head, down the side of his face, then slowing to a stop at his jaw, pushing your palm up. His head lifts, his eyes a little glassy, chin resting on your stomach.

“You introduced me as your girlfriend.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you are.”

“I am?”

You stroke a thumb over his face, sweeping over his cheekbone and under his eye. He leans into the touch, pliant.

“You think I let just any girl in here? You think I give any girl my clothes?”

“Yes?”

“Come on, baby. We’ve been over this.”

He presses another kiss to your stomach, mouth hot and lips firm.

He lifts his head up again. “You can make me yours anytime you want. Just say the word.”

“I’m scared,” you whisper, words barely even a breath.

“Mm,” He hums, hands running up and down your sides. “You think too much.”

You pause for a few moments, taking everything in.

You grab his hand, leave it palm side up in front of you, then reach into your pocket and drop something into it.

The ring. His ring.

He stares at it for a beat, then closes his hand around it, slipping it back onto his finger.

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He grins.

Your drop your hands around his neck and he moves his hands to the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you onto his lap, wrapping your legs around his middle.

He doesn’t waste any time kissing you. It’s hot and full at first, a roaring flame licking in both your chests, like he’s been holding himself back all this time and finally let it all out. He pushes up into you, and the kiss deepens before it mellows out, slowing down to a few cracking embers.

He pulls back, your noses brushing. “Been wanting to do that since the fucking bookstore.”

“That long?”

“Mhm. You were wearing those cute little pants and you couldn’t reach the top shelf. Wanted to have you right there.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“Mm. Only when it comes to you.”

You fall into each other again, and again, and again.

“Baby.”

“Hm?”

“I really like you in lace.”

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

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candy-yoo · 8 months ago

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"I WATCHED A ROMANCE MOVIE WHERE A HUMAN STARTS BEATBOXING WHEN THE OTHER ONE IS SHIVERING"

"I DON'T KNOW WHY THEY ARE DOING THAT BUT I'M CERTAIN NOW IS THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO DO SO. NYEH HEH HEH!"

Draft

#undertale #papyrus #They meant to warm their partner's hands by blowing air paps #BUT THATS BORING BEATBOXING IS WAY COOLER YEAH #he's just that brilliant #candy.yoo art #papyrus fanart #papyrus x reader #papyrus x you #papyrus/reader #papyrus x y/n

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limerlove · 20 days ago

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─── ·˚͙͘͡★ ❝ I KNOW SUNSHINE ❞

dykematch represents. exwife!abby x yearning!reader

sum. dr. anderson, a heartthrob to many, but at one point to you, she was only a broke college athlete with a soul that cared too much. now, she's your ex-wife that you just can't kick. an old friend's wedding brings you together. for one final time, can you finally bid the love of your life c'est la vie?

content warning. eighteen+, wc 10k. wedding!au, surgeon!abby, some college abby thrown in for fun, smut, strapsex, angst, fluff, grab your tissue babes.

here's my latest baby! on the real, i have been feeling very burned out in the writing community. especially tlou. but had to remind myself that writing can be fun when bitches aren't making it not so fun! this was honestly a very personal piece in some areas so, here's another chunk of my heart. hopefully i'll be back soon, mwah. and happy almost pride!

August, 2025.

Greenery sprouts from around the bouquet, each vine hand-picked, every flower meticulously placed. An arrangement of lilies, pearly-white roses, and a sprinkle of tulips in your hand as you find the bride. The venue is something you wished didn’t make you think of your own. You kept reminding yourself today isn’t about you.

Lola.

Lola and Chris.

You’d seen glimpses of her at the rehearsal dinner. Highlights of blonde eclipsing your vision just for the moment but the sun seeping through the tall windows made its presence known instead. There was too much to do, too much to say to her, and none of it would come out right.

What’s in the past is done. Right?

You take a moment to take Lola in. After all, this is what it’s all about. True love. Never have you seen two people so perfect, standing the test of time. Through four years of college, and another four after, here she is.

Ready to say forever in front of all her family and friends, their loved ones ready to synchronize the joyous cries in harmony. Lola and Chris. The love of their lives.

They are the focus, until the last speech of the night, this is all you focus on. Even though Abby is a part of their wedding party. Desperately, you make an attempt to remain your composure when you’re walking down the aisle with Abby. You ignore the navy blue tie illuminating her eyes, or the arm she offers in silence as you wait for the wedding planner to give you your cue.

There are thoughts. Pestering ones. Reminding you of four years ago, the two of you high on love, a wedding band around Abby’s finger, her hands barely able to stay off of you more than a second. When she used to look at you with unwavering devotion.

Neither of you had been scorned by life yet.

And you hoped Lola and Chris would be so lucky to never feel the burn.

───

The second? The fourth? Wait, no, this has to be the third…right?

In the echoes of your lonely chambers, party for two. A glass of whiskey and some sorrows to drown in. Locked in her admiring gaze, you watch as she dances with your five-year old niece. A gracious heart leads Abby to let the little bundle of joy dance on top of her feet.

There’s a twinkle, blinding as a new-born star, and it reminds you of what it feels like to be a constellation she chases. One fleeting star desperately attempts to connect to the closest neighbor twinkling in the midnight sky. Always wondering if the newest will shine as much as the last.

Ellie will momentarily start making gagging noises to your left. Right on cue, she snaps her fingers in front of your face, bursting your fantasies.

Reality is brutal.

“How long?” Ellie questions you, ivy-green eyes watching you like a hawk.

“Still the same — a year.”

Then Abby’s laughing with your mom, leaning into her warmth. Even after Christmas passes, another thanksgiving drifts from the calendar, and you wonder if she’s alone. One too many Valentines you should be spending with her, you can’t help but wonder if things could be different.

The girlfriend you refused to bring leaves a stain in your mouth, the fight the two of you had before, it’s all so fucking cliche. Another wasted relationship to forget the horror you’re living in. Another breakup you’ll pretend didn’t happen at the sake of your dignity. She can’t know you’re single, again.

It’s too obvious to anyone who’s watching, divorced for three years, separated for four and it's only been a year since the last time you were together. A year since she’s been gone, radio silence engulfing you the second she left town.

The well-renowned heart surgeon, Dr. Anderson is called all across the globe. Her two feet are never on the ground enough to call any place a home. Her speciality didn’t always have her chasing both ends of the globe, fleeing to where she’s needed at a moment notice.

She was leagues above her peers and even her superiors. Abby running circles around them. Putting them in a continuous loop. Until she kept moving to the next big thing. Something had to give and it wasn’t her career.

The final dagger in your cracking marriage was when she missed your anniversary for the second year in a row. Your birthday before that. And the wilted flowers you couldn’t bring yourself to discard months before that even.

But neither of you were able to quit each other. Long after the ink dried with every dotted line signed and you still found a way to crawl into her sheets. There wasn’t anyone else who compared to her but you were still trying to find it.

The moment you truly fall in love, when it’s undeniable and it consumes you, where you finally feel peace with their comfort surrounding every worry you’ve had.

But maybe lightning only strikes once. A bolt of love with only her initials carved in by the magic of gods, each promise she’d broken forged into a blossom that ends — painfully does it linger — like a spring begging to kiss summer.

“You’re breaking it tonight.” Ellie shakes her head. You can’t take your eyes off of Abby for more than one second. “Neither of you can help it.”

“I have a girlfriend, Els.” A vicious burn chokes your throat as the whiskey burns and settles disparagingly in your stomach. The lie smothers you all the same. “A smart, beautiful girlfriend.”

“Listen, I love you. You know that but none of your relationships are ever going to work when you still look at Abby like this.” She finds it necessary to emphasize the bright light in a shadow of green. “All of these years and you’re still not over her.” Ellie swiveles in the bar stool to face you. “Plus, we both know she’s not as innocent as she looks.”

There’s silence for a bit, downing the rest of your drink, hoping the burn coating your throat travels to your heart, dimensioning all hope beating for the woman you’ve never been able to shake.

Everyone expects you to. Like it’s easy. As if you didn’t think vows are forever. Life has never been so unkind to you. You’re more fortunate than most.

“Do you really need it explained?”

“No.” You speak as if you’re wounded but all she did was point out the obvious. Abby is a glaring truth you tuck underneath your seat, the missing raspberry-chapstick in the bottom of your purse. A trinket. Better off hidden than searching for something that is no longer intact.

“I can make this work. Abby doesn’t always have to be the person I run back to. I can move on and heal or whatever the fuck it is normal people do. I can do this.” It’s a mantra to convince yourself, but not even Ellie is convinced.

Ellie smirks as Abby makes her way over to you but you’re too caught up in ordering another whiskey to stop yourself from doing something idiotic. A brainless action that would only bring your gratification for a moment, before your hands would be coated in your lovers’ blood the second it’s over.

She’ll always be a phenomenon, the dime of a dozen. A bundle of your highest dreams wrapped in the warmest blanket. Fine lines deepening the apple of her cheeks, not to mention the wrinkles when she furrows those maddening eyebrows. There is no denying how much you’ve always loved her.

You’re truly doomed.

───

“Old fashioned, please.”

An open bar was the best decision of the night. Everyone was buzzing, congratulating the happy couple, nursing their favorite drink in hand. Everlasting love for the blessed ones or a vice of your choice for the insufferable. The ones who had already ventured down the aisle and couldn’t make it on the other side.

It’s why you couldn’t stand the particularly young bartender eyeing up Abby like she’s a piece of meat. Before you never had felt the weed of jealousy wrap around your throat, suffocating the joy right out of you, but they might as well be thorns protruding through your sternum for every second her eyes linger on Abby.

Silky locks of midnight-blue and hazel eyes taunt you as she stutters and drops the glass she’s been holding right in front of Abby. As of the mere sight of her warrants for precious glass to be broken. She just laughs it off as the woman who makes Abby’s drink blooms a deep shade of pink.

“Let me guess…The Macallan?” Abby gestures to the glass of whiskey you’re nursing.

“Maybe.” A glimmer in your eyes, tightly pursing your lips in attempts to keep at least one thing closed tonight. But she leans forward, her nose sniffing above the rim.

With her eyes beaming up at you, blonde-eyelashes curling to kiss her sandy freckles, she smiles. A sparkle. Another flame so warm it matches the shade of blue in her eyes, cursing you with the love she once felt. Almost making you believe it could happen again.

“That’s definitely Macallan. Your favorite. How could I ever forget?” Abby offers a question as her cologne isn’t so invasive, there’s space for you to breathe, but with her close you doubt there’s enough oxygen to spare.

“It’s only because of New York. I’m not sure I could ever forget it.”

“We went through, I don’t know—” Abby tries to recall, but you don’t need to be told. You’re fully aware of what happened.

The first time Abby whisked you away on a spontaneous trip before life got so hectic. Labored gust of her minty-fresh breath kiss your neck as she sinks herself into your warmth, a blank canvas for her lips to mark. Abby does it quietly, the summer sun raining light on your silky skin, and she decides to shower you with more of her love.

Out of habit as if she’s said it a million times before. But it’s the first. Naively, she whispers those three little words. Lips of subtlety rest against your ear as they are released. A moment of confusion has you turning around, eyes squinting against the light of the sun, making you think twice if you heard her right.

And you did.

The memory suffocates, morphs into a dream, and then you find yourself lucky enough to barely remember it. A blatant lie, but if you believe it hard enough, it could be the truth.

“Three bottles in one night and then you held my hair when I puked my guts five minutes later that morning and told me it made you love me even more.” Your face scrunches up and Abby knocks her shoulder with yours.

“Do you remember later that night when you let me do that thing with my t—”

“I’m still right here!” Childishly, Ellie throws her hands up on the hair before she takes another swing from her beer.

“Williams, I sure have missed the shriek of your voice.” Abby leans over, throwing her arm over the backrest of your chair, making herself comfortable.

As if no time has passed, the three of you slip into easy conversation. You wished for this. A glimpse into the life you once had. For a time, little moments just like these only existed in your dreams. Even when the two of you were still living under the same roof — in your cruel reality it still felt like a fantasy — one that was entirely too unattainable.

It makes you think of when it all started. When life felt easier.

───

The College Years: University of Seattle

Ellie had been the first to set your sights on you, well, before Abby at the very least. Pining only ran so deep and your consistent rejection became a heavy cross for her to bear. Over your first semester, Ellie became a confidant, and her crush melted in friendship.

She’s the first person you’d ever trusted with your harboring secret. A sophomore in college and you finally felt yourself settling in. Your first year, you only allowed yourself to drown in your studies. A strict regimen. The only real friend you did make was Ellie and only because she couldn’t land herself in your sheets.

But regardless of how the situation had started, her presence in your life became concrete. A month into the semester of your second year, Ellie thinks it’s a great idea to start dragging you into parties. Like that’s the most obvious choice in the world. Yet, you’re still warming up to the idea.

Cheap beer, frat boys trying to make their presence known to any girl who walks by, whatever pop song they deemed necessary to funnel them to the next raunchy beat. None of it really had ever been your scene. Ellie thrived in it when she chose to. When she didn’t feel like it, the two of you would silently read books in your insanely small dorm room.

You agreed to go to one this week. Even if it pains every bone in your body. Ellie flips through the pages of a book you recommended to her as you emerge from the bathroom, practically done. For the past hour, you envied Ellie’s nonchalant red converse and navy-blue flannel attire. It must be nice to not have to do yourself up to the nines to feel comfortable.

You craved it.

For a moment, you contemplated an outfit change but then there was a disturbance at the door. A loud one, too.

Ellie shrugs her shoulders as if to say — this is your dorm, not mine — and she’s right but it doesn’t make it any less nerve wracking.

Maybe Dina has someone stopping by and she double booked? You take a moment to glance at her made bed before opening the door.

“Lola, would you please—” The snarky blonde who is in the middle of an eye roll, stops in her tracks. Freckled and pale cheeks coated in a bashful crimson. “Oh, right, you’re not Lola.”

“Am I supposed to be?” There’s a confidence in your tone, enough where Ellie puts her book down to watch.

“It’s Chris’ girlfriend, she’s always going about me taking a long time to get—” The woman pauses realizing you have no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. “And…….you don’t know Chris. Wow, really making an ass out of myself, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Ellie laughs, a bit too loudly, and it’s enough to warrant her attention as she sneaks a peek into your dorm.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude on you and your girlfriend—” She sighs, hiding the bag she had in her hand behind her back. “Lola is probably just fucking with me and sent me the wrong room on purpose. She says I’m overly confident and I apparently need to be humbled, desperately. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, believe it or not.”

“So, are you?”

“Am I what?” She questions, a smirk etching its way into her full cheeks. A bright-glint in her eyes personified to tease you.

“Overly-confident?”

“Me? Never, sunshine.” As if she’s looking for a sign.

You give yourself permission to look at her and there’s a lot to be confident about. Her staturing height, golden waves of blonde, piercing-blue eyes creating round edges around your soul. There’s a sincerity there. You wonder if she’s even aware of it.

She looks simple enough, a white button down loose and opened, even slightly wrinkled. A pair of vintage denim shorts, a wash of pale-blue fitting loosely on her thighs with a graphic tee that brings out her eyes even more.

She’s tan, clearly athletic, and definitely a flirt by the looks of it. The interaction is too overwhelming and she’s too warm. You don’t even know her name. Nor do you have any intention to. She’s terrifyingly self-assured, batting her blonde eyelashes at you as if she’s waiting for you to paint her golden.

“Well, I hope you find Lola and Chris.” The beautiful woman in front of you, equally as muscular as you’ve seen from anyone on campus, blushes. But you’re too in your head to notice. “Have a good night—”

“Abigail. But you can call me Abby.”

The next couple weeks blend together. All of it is more or less the same. A string of classes you’re trying to keep up with, caffeine you’re pumping your body with, and a mysteriously confident girl who won’t leave your mind.

Ellie waits until it’s been three weeks to torment you with it. You’re surprised she even found the patience.

“You know who that girl was, right?”

“What girl?” The two of you are walking back from the cafe, headed back to your dorm room before the both of you call it a night. Ellie insisted she make sure you get home safely which you appreciate.

“Don’t give me that. You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

To be fair, you did. But you didn’t want to make it obvious.

“I’ve seen her around, yeah. I don’t know who she is and it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I’m going to see her again. She’s just someone who knocked on the wrong door.”

“So, the captain of the rugby team, every lesbian’s dream girl is going around campus asking about you and you’re not going to even bite?”

“What?” You take a beat, trying to process the information. “She is not—”

Ellie shrugs her shoulders, as if it’s a fact you have to stomach. A truth that should be sweet to swallow. To you, it feels more than overwhelming. It’s an unbearable weight. The last thing you’ve ever wanted was attention. With Abby dialed into you, for whatever reason, is too much for you to carry.

“Well tell her you’re my girlfriend. She already thinks so, there’s no harm in—”

“She totally doesn’t.”

Her response crosses you with confusion. “But why wouldn’t she when I never corrected her?”

“Because she asked me and I said you weren’t.” Ellie mischievously smiles.

You think about punching her in the lip, but decide against it.

It's nearly two months before you see Abby again. For a while, you thought you would never have to see her again. The more you gave yourself time to think about it, the more of a distraction she felt. This is exactly what you had been so strictly against.

You didn’t have time for that. A budding romance. No matter how tempting her pretty muscles and pink lips seem to be — it’s not like you’re even interested. She's just a jock with a pension for something she can’t have. It didn’t necessarily help that she wouldn’t stop asking Ellie about you.

Every time, Els would come back to you with her eyes shimmering in a vibrant-green. A smile nearly revealing itself in the light. A new question about you, a new interest in something you like. Abby loves asking about you. Ellie makes sure you know it too.

“If she’s so fond of me, why can’t she be bothered to talk to me?”

“Because she would scare you off. You need time to warm up. Something where you don’t feel so much pressure.”

The truth nips at her skin like the prickly ends of a cactus. Abby would scare her off. The popularity she carries is enough to make her run sixty miles in the other direction. Let alone everything else about her that makes you nervous. The first encounter was a hail-mary. In the comfort of your own room, there was an extension of yourself to latch onto.

Outside of it, there was nothing warm and comforting, just cold heartless feins threatening to suck your discipline dry.

“I hate that you know me so well.”

“I know.” Ellie nudges your shoulder with hers.

The local pub is quiet, you’re nursing a beer Ellie had been able to score with her fake id. Suddenly, the discussion of Abby being brought up made you question the size of this table. And before you could say a word, a couple of unnamed faces funneled in with the woman of the hour.

You wonder if the couple clinging onto each is Lola and Chris. Dina follows right behind them as she ends a phone call.

“Ellie, you did not—”

“Oh, I so did. You need to get fucked by a b—”

“Hi, Sunshine.”

Abby’s voice tugs at your heart, so badly you have to physically put your hand over your chest. Lola and Chris introduce themselves as they delve into a conversation with Dina and Ellie, like they knew each other.

Like everyone knows everyone but you. The whole night Abby is persistent. An open book, she wants to talk about anything. Everything. All of this seems to be so easy for her. A couple times, you find yourself getting distracted with her toned-arms, they’re even larger than Chris’ slimed arms.

Abby asks you questions and involves you when she gets looped into conversation with Ellie or Lola. You like it when she always asks your opinion, giving you her undivided attention when others go off to the next topic. The golden signet ring on her pinky shines in the dually-light bar. Catching against the reflection of the mirror adjacent to the oak-stained wall.

“You wanna pick a song? I think I might have some cash on me. Or some coins, something of currency.” Abby steps off the stool, lending you a hand even if it’s a short step for you, and you still take her guidance.

“Uh, sure. I don’t see why not.”

“Is that almost excitement I’m hearing, sunshine?”

When your face sulks back into something moppy and annoyed, Abby laughs as bright as the sun.

“C’mon, don’t let my optimism put you off. I’m not nearly as bright as I seem. You just have that effect on me.” She says what you’re thinking. Kiss her, run away, hit Ellie for making you painfully aware of the beautifully-golden girl who holds some type of affection for you.

Abby stands behind you as you sift through the music on the jukebox. A collection of classics from the eighties and nineties. Even some lingering songs from the seventies have made its way. You’re not even paying attention, not really. You’re not sure if Abby wants to torture you, but she stand behind you, a fraction off to the side as she extends her arm across to the right, leaning into even more.

“You pick. I can’t decide.”

“Okay, but on one condition.”

“Why do I have a feeling I’m not gonna like this.” Abby just smiles, whispering in your ear that you have nothing to worry about.

“Just a dance, one song.”

“Abby, you should know I—”

“What? You don’t like girls?” You can tell she’s joking. The small joke even makes you laugh. The two of you both knew how much you’ve been ogling, not really letting her out of your sight, even if it’s for a minute long.

“Abby.” You warned and then she dials back her flirting, telling you to go on, as she scrolls through the list of songs to choose from.

“Go on, sunshine. Tell me the devastating news.”

“I don’t date. I don’t want to. It’s not something I want to focus on.” Abby chooses a song before twirling you in her arms. It gives you no option but to latch onto her, arms thrown around her neck once the two of you settle into each other.

“And how firm do you feel right now in that decision?” There’s no teasing, she’s genuinely asking as she holds you, in a bar full of staring people, she couldn’t care less. If you’re not careful, you might fall in love with her this very fateful second.

“Pretty good.” You meet her eyes, as she inches forward, her chest pressed against yours and Abby leans her foreheads against yours. A breath full of mint kissing your luscious lips, a strawberry-balm coating them a deep tint of red.

“And what about now?” She wants you to lean in. To give into the selfish devil on your shoulder, or the angelic soul whispering in your ear, whatever brings you closer to her.

The song is over but the two of you haven’t even struck the first chord.

───

You think of your almost first kiss with Abby. How deeply you felt for her even before you knew her as intimately as you do now. Even when the years apart sever you, the nerve endings binding you together barely holding on, you’ll always have that moment.

An almost. It’s laughable how relevant all of those moments feel just as you are now. Almost a lifetime later. It makes you think of the life you once had, the one you never took for granted, but you soon would learn she would.

Abby was never some dumb jock who was careless and reckless. There’s naivety that blooms in your youth, and somewhere along the way, you grow up. The leaves of your knowledge become weathered, the colors change, and suddenly what made you so green turns into a numbing-brown. Until you fall into something new.

Even now, you still cling to the memories of her. The novel acts of love and the ones forgotten that made your blood run cold.

Late nights watching your favorite horror movies while Abby cooks a dish she knows you love. Or when she stops on her way home to get you a bottle of your preferred white wine. The little things she used to do for you suddenly fell into acts of service that never happened until it was just you and the bottom of the bottle each night, wishing Abby was there with you.

No one truly knew how this worked. How you and Abby are so amicable, so kind to one another after the divorce was finalized. It’s easier when the two of you are still in love, circumstances pulling the two of you in different directions but there’s still so much love.

“Oh, how I’ve missed the cocky jock everyone fawned over.” Ellie jokes, “But truly, it’s good to see you. Even if it’s for these two crazy love birds. Lola and Chris, god she’s such a saint.”

“If that ain’t the fucking truth.” Abby and Ellie ding their glasses together.

It’s nice to see the two of them together but you know Ellie. She’s up before you have time to blink. She’s always been the biggest supporter for you and Abby. And she so badly wants the two of you to work. Whether the pressure feels good or it doesn’t, she places it there.

The words she spoke to you junior year of college still ring in your ear.

One day, I’m going to find the love Abby and you have. I want someone to look at me like that. So full of love. Of faith. Like there’s a testimony waiting to be written in her eyes. That’s how Abby looks at you. I want to believe love exists like that for everyone. Even for someone like me. I haven’t forgotten you rejected me by the way.

Classic Ellie.

Without so much as a word, she excuses herself when Dina pleads for a dance and she so freely gives it — you wish it could’ve been this easy for you. Like she believed it would be.

A love full of faith and promise. Now you just had a badgered testimony.

“Where is she?” Abby asks the moment Ellie is gone, it’s the first thing she wanted to ask but she waits until the two of you are alone. She won't say her name, not when she still feels the burn. The ache in her stomach when Iris hard launched the both of you online.

“Home.” It stings more than Abby expects it too but she takes it on the chin. There's still silence as the two of you sit comfortably, leaning your head against her supportive shoulder.

You cared for her. You hated that it felt good to see the jealousy rage in her eyes. For once, she didn’t hide what she felt behind her impenetrable mask, one that was built over time, but it was short lived.

“I’m sorry, Abby. If I had known I would have never—I never would have gone there.”

It all comes flooding back like ivory wine before it spoils into crimson. A year ago when it all blew up in your face. Even if you didn’t know Abby so well, an imbecile would know it’s why she disappeared. Never coming home after, ignoring your texts with a dryness you hadn’t experienced in years.

If you could take it all back, you would. Abby tells you it’s fine but she forgives a lot when she loves you. It’s another slice to your heart; you’ll never stop bleeding.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” There’s a wall in front of her eyes, keeping you from knowing a thing. It hadn’t been much different when the two of you were married. Always so much to hide, very little room for you to be let in.

You loved the girl who was an open book, somehow the both of you had lost her.

“No, we don’t have to talk.” Abby smirks as she talks a sip of her drink.

“You’re such a cheeky shit.” You nudge your knee against hers as you lean closer to her, thick and muscled thighs shifting towards you, sandwiching your legs between hers. “I guess some of us don’t really change.”

“I’ve changed plenty—” Abby places her hand on your thigh, playing with the flimsy material of your dress, enjoying the slit in your dress exposing smooth skin in the beeline of her vision.

“Yeah, totally.”

“I have.” Dragging her fingers along your thigh as she tests the waters and she rises higher, rubbing soothing circles into your skin as she recites every inch of surface from memory. “A lot of things have changed for me recently.”

“Like what?” You’re the definition of pathetic, fawning over her every word as if she’s the first to say each one.

“Different things, my life, my um—” She pauses for a moment before she bites her lip, a heavy sigh leaving her lips but it’s one of relief. “My job.”

There’s some disposition in your heart, how it feels to be lost back in a past memory. Eternally, a glimpse of your pleading meets a moment you keep under lock and key.

But you don’t ask. Anxiously you gulp down the rest of your drink. You’re not a fan of how it burns but it’s better than giving into what she wants. Giving her the satisfaction of being enamoured with the possibility of her being home. It’s what you dreamed of four years ago.

You wanted to believe the well has dried up — she’s too late. Even the idea planted in your mind sounds falsified. There’s an abundance of desperation threatening to make home, torturing the life out of you with the greediness rooted in fresh soil.

It begs for a chance to blossom.

“You can ask me. I won’t bite, promise.”

With cheeks, rosing red like cherries, you wonder what else finds itself blossoming beneath the surface.

You take the safer route. “What country are you going to this time?” The sorrow in your voice is palpable.

Abby ignores you.

“You know that green and white house in the countryside, the fields so open you could get lost in them, the one we always talked about. Do you remember it?”

“Abby, I hope you have a point to all of this or perhaps you’re just feeling particularly cruel.”

Of course you remember it. The amount of times you’ve come into town and passed by it. At one point, it’s what the both of you wanted until your needs and hers got lost in the shuffle. Two hearts of the same beat drifting from one another in tragic harmony.

“I bought it. I’m flying to England to do one last surgery that my assistant already had scheduled last month and I’m coming home. Opening a private practice here. I’m done flying out. If patients want to see me, they can come here.”

“W-What, um—” You stutter out, trying to think of a reasonable response, anything but kissing her or crying. It’s not fair. It’s not right. This is all you had wanted.

Four years ago.

───

April, 2024.

“A-Abby, oh god—”

She’s smirking like a goddamn idiot. All meat and muscle. The strong v-line that made you wanna slap it right off of her. No one should ever look this good. It’s such a punishment. A curse. Devil’s karma on a double-edge sword but somehow you’re eating both ends.

“Mhm, that good? I know you’ve always been loud, baby, but you’re singing like a perfect angel.” Abby grunts as she thrust upwards, watching you squirm as your full-seated on the baby-blue strap she’s fucking you with. “Those pretty girls that keep posting you not enough?”

“Are you jealous?” Lifting an eyebrow but she doesn’t respond. Thrusting into you at a slow pace, watching you slowly crumble before her haunting eyes, never straying for even a moment.

“Jealous of what exactly? It’s not like they hold a fucking candle to me. I’ll snuff them out before they have a chance to light the match.” With a gentle hand, she guides you closer to her, your forehead pressed against hers, meeting her deep thrusts with a slow grind.

Her coaxing arm wraps around your waist, tickling your spine as she does so, searing your lips to hers. It coats your entire body with a heat, blossoming at your heart before it spreads into every inch of your body. Laying waste to any part of you trying to go anywhere but here.

“I’m not as easy as you think, Abby.”

“Never said you were. For everyone else, I'm sure it’s very difficult…if you aren’t me.” Abby does the thing. Lips touching but despite the desire, she enjoys watching you chase. You want her, every piece of her. Each part she’s shown you, you cling onto it like a lifeline, hoping she’ll unravel another momentum for you to hold onto.

Abby will leave and the time spent with you is all you have left. Trying to think of anything else, you slip into the role she wants you to play. It’s all you can do.

“God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“I think you’re kind of full of me at the moment.” Planting her feet on the bed she pushes a few thrusts that shut you up, gasping as your lips brush against her she doesn’t take the bare.

Abby is perfectly content with watching you fall apart, a speciality she hasn’t had the opportunity of exercising while she’s been away. You fall into the crook in her neck, lips kissing at the exposed flesh as you take what she gives.

“I know, babygirl, you love my cock too much to stay away. I can hear how wet you are for me. Singing to me with your pussy like the pretty angel you are.” Abby moans when your teeth sink in, sucking at the flesh until you’re satisfied with the marks you’re leaving behind.

“Please— A-Abby, you love to talk so much shit, would you just make me come?”

“Then work for it, baby.” That’s all it takes before you’re bouncing on her cock, riding as deep as Abby will allow. Lazily, she props herself on her elbows as she takes a look at the show. The double A’s on your left hip are still inked and Abby smooths her thumb over it.

A smile she can’t help but show.

“God, Abby would you just—”

“Still a brat.” Abby chuckles, slapping your ass in the process which causes you to shudder.

Leaning over you whisper in her ear, “So, you do remember a thing or two.”

Abby flips you over, your head plush against her satin pillows, sinking your neck so you lay comfortably. Dildo still laying perfectly within you, as she smooths her calloused fingertips on your thighs, smoothing along the surface.

A much more gentle touch than what you’ve been used to in the past year. You didn’t mind it to be fast, rough, even a little messy at times. You enjoyed it when it was with someone new. Thrived in the throes of a meaningless fuck, where a delicate hand wasn’t required. If you need to get off with no complications, it’s the best option.

Abby was never just a quick fuck. It wasn’t how any of this started and when she needs a smidge of stress to relieve, she’s always been a woman to take her time. Wind you up so tight, her hand is the only release you’re willing to grab onto. A tidal wave she wants to bring to the shore until you’re paralyzed by her wave.

“It seems like you need to be reminded of who you're with.” With a look of curiosity flourishing under the prosperity of spring, she spreads your legs far enough to make room for her build.

You take a few heartbeats to check out her physique, which has only grown stronger since the last time you’ve seen her. High and mighty with toned shoulders that would put Hercules to utter shame, her six pack still fully in tack with freckles adorning every part of her body.

Never would you grow tired of looking at her in all her glory, but that’s all anyone sees. The first time she opened up to you is the moment you fell in love with her. Maybe there’s more. You seem to lose track of them all.

You’re the first to ever ask me anything about myself, you know? Most women just flirt with me, compliment my body, or they fuck me with their eyes first glance. Of course, it’s nice, but it’s hard feeling like I’m anything more than a body for them to use. Like that’s all I’m good for.

I do believe you’re more than what other people reduce you to. I’m more interested in this amazing and kind brain of yours. Everything else is just a bonus. It’s a rarity to find someone as beautiful on the outside as they are on the inside. I think that’s what makes you so special, Abby.

The moment flashes, a film rolling behind your eyes and you almost feel her words lace over skin as if you’re transported to the exact moment she said them.

Not a soul sees the person that you see. They don’t see the curve of her smile when you call out her name. When she’s nervous, she’ll pull at the ends of her golden strands, threading at her split ends she so desperately needs to cut.

Abby loves to read books, but she’ll cry right in front of you if you get a book she’s been eyeing but won’t buy for herself. Don’t have the time, it’s what she always used to say. The high demands of her career never allowed for such a thing.

No hobbies, no life, and certainly no love.

Memories transform into recent nightmares, the horrors of your insecurities bloom in the root of your mind, reminding you of all the ways you can’t be enough for her. On somber nights when your imagination is feeling particularly cruel, you have dreams of the nights you used to have. A simple dream where it doesn’t end in divorce and indifference.

“Hey, are you okay?” Her soft voice breaks you of the self-captured spell you cursed yourself in. “What’s wrong?”

This is the part you loathe and it’s almost enough to boil the blood in your veins. It’s not her fault she knows you like the back of her hand. One glance and she knows if you’re upset, gleefully happy, or steaming with jealousy. Abby can see it all.

“M’good,” But you know the words won’t be enough. You know she’ll want a reason. It’s one you can’t freely give, even if it’s what she wants. “I missed you, that’s all.”

And that much is true. The sun yearns for the moon, but the two are always destined to be apart. Her aspiration to be the best in her career is always being held over anything else held near and dear to Abby. You would never fault her for it, it’s why you served the divorce papers in silence �� maybe it’s why she signed them without a second thought — abstinence is better than rejection.

“I miss you, too. I always do.” Even if it’s selfish, Abby can’t help herself.

You lose yourself in the tidal wave of affection, bound to be pulled by her light. A star that was never meant to be yours to begin with but you still couldn’t help but chase.

A month? A couple weeks? Then she’ll be boarding a new flight, to a new state, country, or continent and she’ll forget all about you. All you need is a moment. One of self-sacrifice. The heart barely beating in your chest will chastise you for it later, but for now, you have this one night with her.

A single night to pretend she’s still yours.

Instead of telling her how much you don’t want her to go, or that you never should have filed for divorce, you allow your lips to melt into hers. You see an island of sapphire, an entire land of love blazing in her eyes, before you allow yourself to get lost in her touch.

It’s when the scorch of the sun seems worth it. Any moment you’re close to her, feeling the abundance of devotion laced in her velvet tongue, whispering promises she never intends to keep. The potential of more rumbles beneath, waiting to catch her, but she’s always running off in the opposite direction.

This is all you have. With salacious greed, you welcome it like the sin nestled in your heart. You feel her movements still, but you pull her closer, a soft plea falls from your lips reeks of desperation but you don’t have half a mind to care.

“You know I’ll give you whatever you want but I’m not going to keep going unless you ask me to.” Abby whispers in the moonlight room. It’s so gentle, if you couldn’t help but look anywhere but her you might have missed it.

“I-I’m fine, Abby. Really.” You promise her, but it falls on deaf ears.

Her accusatory eyes dial in, squinting so loudly at you, “You’re about two seconds away from crying.”

“It’s….the cock….it’s too much.” Trying to keep a flat face, you bite your lip, before the two of you burst into a fit of laughter.

“You’re still not a very good liar, baby.” Abby purrs. Her voice goes an octave lower than she needs it to. “It’s not the cock. I’ve fucked you with bigger, so why don’t you use your words and tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”

“Last time this happened, I cried for three days after you left and I made a promise I wouldn’t be here again and now I’m here and I know as soon as this ends you’ll forget this ever happened and go on with your amazing career and yet again I’ll be left in the dust to fend for myself and—”

“Woah, baby, slow down. Alright? Take a deep breath and breathe. You’re getting yourself worked up, okay?”

“But it’s the truth. You’re not even denying it.” You exasperate, groaning as you’ve overcomplicated what was supposed to be a fuck. Only a fuck. But it never is. Not when you’ll always be consumed by your love for her. Not when she’s everything you want.

You couldn’t be just a meaningless one-night stand. For anyone else? You could. But not to the woman who you love beyond comprehension.

Abby wrestles with herself. Contemplate her next words and you see the exact moment she gives into something you silently wish for. In only a language she understands.

A silent wish to be granted — tell me how important I am to you too.

She leans down, mirroring your position from earlier, with her scarred cheek pressed against your cheek as she delicately whispers, “I think about you every second of every day. I spend every minute missing this. Every hour apart I wish for this, being close to you, pretending things aren’t the way I’ve made them. But I can't change the past, so I can focus on making you feel good — I’ll be yours forever even if you aren’t mine.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, I do.” Abby confesses to you, sealing her promise in her lips.

Abby gives sweet pecks along your neck as she peppers your face with litters of love. Making her way back to your lips once again, searing her love until you feel every bit of it. Hoping it’s enough for you to hold onto.

Abby groans as she starts to move her hips, and god do you take it so fucking well. Picking up right where the two of you left off, but this time you wrap your legs around her waist, allowing her to fuck you at a new angle.

It’s then when she starts to pick up the pace, brutal hips snapping forward as she lets herself go. The power of her thrust sends the headboard fleeing to the wall. The worn out bed frame she won’t bother to replace creaks under the weight, threatening to snap.

“No one is as sweet as you, can take my cock like you do. Fuck, you’re so perfect.” She spills all her secrets, the ones threatening to come out of her mouth all night but you still hear them.

It’s getting her off just as much as it does for you. But she wants you there faster. With a sly of hand she applies pressure on your bundle of nerves, your swollen clit thumping from being touched by its owner, the only one who knew how to pull the string just right.

A symphony Abby created; no one else stood a chance.

She watches as you pull yourself closer to her, bringing her small tits against your chest, grabbing you by the hips, losing herself in each thrust. The whimpering slips, any effort to conceal gets pulled from the soft strokes to your clit.

Tugging at her blonde strands as you pull her lips towards yours again as Abby fucks you as if it’s an art form. Clenching her stomach as she hears you aggressively getting louder, with each thrust there’s a line being drawn from you to her, forever cementing her dedication of vows already broken.

“Abby, I’m—”

“I know sweet girl, you can let go for me. I got you.” Abby whispers silently into the night as she gets you through it. The moment your body is convulsing around

her, grabbing any part of her you can, she kisses you the moment you start to come.

Always, she’s been one for the details. Paying attention to every little thing about you. Nonsense stories you half-expect her to listen to, never goes unnoticed by her. From remembering your mother’s favorite cake, to your favored choice of sour candy, or how you take your coffee in the morning — Abby pays attention to everything.

It wasn’t enough she was the most charming woman you’ve ever met, she had to be an angel too. Even through the vicious fights, moments as sharp as a razor blade, she never seemed to leave a mark. Still, Abby was soft. Like a perfectly melted marshmallow in the fire pit, roasted around all the edges but she never seems to burn.

She looks at you with a wondrous love, shattering-encompassing forever that never comes. One you’ll die waiting for it.

Quickly you remove yourself from the bed, suddenly the sheet turns into hot lava, scorning you as she looks upon you with admiration. A love you can’t afford to keep any longer.

“I have to go.” You find your top to be torn by Abby’s hands.

Putting a pair of boxers on her body, she drifts into her closet, finding her favorite shirt before she helps guide it on your naked frame.

“This was the last time.” Setting eyes on her, meticulous hand smoothing the cotton in hopes it might merge with your skin. A part of her potentially entangled with you, forever. “We can’t keep doing this. It’s not good for either of us. Neither one of can seem to move on—”

“I never wanted to move on or a divorce.” Abby confesses but it’s falling on deaf ears, you won’t meet her eyes as you look for the other boot gone missing.

“Abby, you chose your career. I don’t blame you for it but you did. This will never work. You signed the papers without even fighting. You gave up and I’m not blaming you — I did too.”

“But what if things changed? What if my job changed and I was here?” She’s desperate, clinging onto anything to make you stay. She wishes you had malice, screaming, even a slap to her stomach or thigh, a pinch to keep her from this ongoing nightmare.

You kissed her sweetly, and there’s poison on your lips and she’s the only antidote.

“We both know it never will. The world always needs you more. And I’m just—” Bitterly, her ignorance crunches like dead leaves under your boots. Walking you out the door, in what you hope will be the last.

You can’t afford for this to happen again. Old habits seeping into you and she’s the most difficult one to kick.

“But what if something changed?”

What if I changed?

“Abby?”

“Yeah, sunshine?” The name wounds you.

“Don’t do that.” You want to scream, punch a wall, wish for a different future than the one you were given. But your kindness seeps in. The faith of love you hold onto. “Not when it’s the only thing I want.”

The only thing I need. It’s what you want to say but decide not to.

“Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know, Abs.”

───

Present.

Four years of being divorced, and neither of you knew how to operate without the other. Two souls extending to each other, in complete tangent with the other. Secretly thriving off the joined consciousness, Abby holds onto every piece of you she can.

Even if the shards she shattered pierce through her hand, bleeding her dry of every ounce of blood, if it’s for you — the ends justify the ache. Not once has she wavered. Your warning was enough. Keeping her head under, Abby did what she thought was best.

Surgery. Saving hearts. It’s the one thing she hadn’t failed at. Maybe she couldn’t save the two of you, but she could save the heart in her hands. The passion she felt when she sutured a heart, or teaching interns a new technique that would soon be named after her — there couldn’t be anything else like it.

Not even you, the love she’ll never forget, could replicate the adrenaline coursing through her veins when Abby was in the operating room. For four years, without the worries of failing you again, she reached unseen heights. Paving the way for all cardio vascular surgeons. Not just for the women but for everyone who had passions just like hers.

Even with all the accomplishments, the awards, the undeniable concrete ego built in the process, when she’s around you — every bit of her seems to fade — and you’re an angel with a freighting bright halo guiding her home.

Abby’s been told that nothing would compare to playing god in an operating room, being able to do the impossible. The most inoperable of hearts would be placed in her trained hands, she would make water into wine, an otherwise dead organ would be brought to life because of her.

All she could do was be the very best surgeon, save as many people as she can, and pretend her heart wasn’t on the other side of the country waiting for you to crave a taste of her again.

Cruel-hearted with a god-complex, the modern medicine Messiah begs for you to love her again as you once did. Abby’s selfish enough to be bent on receiving what she had once. A steadfast love she had taken for granted once. There wouldn’t be a second.

Love remains lingering in your eyes, it tries to flee when you get lost in her stormy-blue eyes, but you’ve always had a thing for chasing mayhem. Even if it’s the last thing you want to see, she can’t run away this time.

“Why would you tell me this?” Scorning Abby as you down another drink the bartender leaves in front of you. “You know I’m in a relationship, you know this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to being happy again, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Another lie. But there’s too many to count. It’s the only stretched truth to separate her from you.

“I-I wasn't, um, I was trying to—” There’s no sense, not when she sees the betrayal simmering in your eyes, begging for a logical explanation. She’s just not sure if she can find one. All she knows is you deserved better but this is all Abby can give.

“Excuse me, Anderson.” She hears your platform heels ticking against the tile, nearly as angry as you must feel. For a second, she thinks about letting you be. Allowing you the space to forget this ever happened. This is what she does. Abby lets you go until you calm down, your love boiling down to complacency each time she drags you through the mud.

For the first time, Abby wants to fight. She wants you to scream in her face, yell at her with devotion full of greed — begging for an ounce of deranged sentiment — but trying to build a relationship out of silence? She’ll end up failing again. So, when you’re almost too far, she chases after you.

The elevator is just about to shut when Abby squeezes her fingers through the elevator, pushing her frame through as you look at her, tears threatening to make home, where they forever belong. A vow of heartache sworn as each tear tattoos your skin.

“What are you doing?” You’re pissed. Beyond fucking pissed with your pouty lips and furrowed eyebrows pinching your eyes into a squint. Perfectly soft jaw clenches as you dig your heels into the carpet. The fibers are ripped with every subtle drag.

“I’m fighting because I know as much as you want to be happy with her, you can’t. It’s why she’s not here with you tonight. It’s why no has stuck after me. It’s why I can’t date anyone that’s not you. And it’s why this has never really ended.” The scent you love so desperately overwhelms you as she steps close, leaving hardly any room for you to breathe.

“You signed those divorce papers, you ended all of this.”

“I made a mistake? Okay? I fucked up. I thought your life would be so much easier without me constantly putting you second in my life. I gave up on us and the most decent gift I thought I could give was giving you a better chance with someone else.” Abby relents, a half-apology being uttered and you're trying to process all of it.

She deserves to be pushed away. You want nothing to do with her, but she starts kissing along your neck, the sweet spot behind your ear, dragging her tongue over sensitive skin before she leaves a mark you’ll have to explain. Abby’s always been fond of possession, and she can’t help herself when it comes to you, she knows just what to do.

“I’m sorry.” Each time her lips drift to another spot along your neck, another apology is spilled. Every inch of your neck might as well be inked, her tenacious voracity met with the gloss of her tongue, edging you further into the grave she continues to dig.

“This doesn’t make everything you did okay, Abby. You hurt me, left me rotting on a fucking shelf and now that you’re ready I’m supposed to drop my life for you? Give you everything I would’ve died waiting for?” Your words escape with brittle need, a crack threatening the dam to flood.

“Give me nothing, give me everything, walk out this elevator and never speak to me again.” Abby presses forward, her freckled cheek pressed to yours, her sinful-sultry voice sweltering your body like summer in the middle of July. “Whatever you want, It’s yours. I’m only sorry it couldn’t be given to you sooner.”

The elevator announces its arrival as you straighten out your dress and as you begin walking away Abby accepts her fate. For what feels like a lifetime, heaven engulfs her tenuous hands and without saying a word you maneuver her into your path. Pulling her by the end of her tie.

Partnering with the silence as you open the door to your room, the door shutting behind Abby with a soft shutter. Abby stays glued to the door as you grab a glass of wine, filling it halfway before you sit on the edge of the bed, watching her squirm.

“Is there another girl? Someone else I need to be worried about?” Abby shoves her hands deep in her pockets, her heel lightly tapping against the door. With a shake of her head, she dismisses the idea entirely.

“C’mon, what’s her name? An intern, a colleague, a boss?” You keep pushing but she won’t budge. “You expect me to believe there has been no one?”

With her cheeks flaring pink, the tips of her ears painted violet, you think it’s time to swallow your words. “You mean there’s only been—”

“You.” Abby looks embarrassed, as if her skin is about to consume her alive. Rubbing the wedding band she has tattooed on her skin, in all four years she hadn’t bothered to cover it. Before setting the glass down, taking one final swing, mustering up the courage to give into her pouty-blue eyes. “Since college, I haven’t, uh, not with anyone else—”

“You have women flirt with you all the time. You’re everyone’s fucking dream. There’s no goddamn way you haven’t had sex in a year.”

“I only have one dream—” Abby steps forward, closing some of the distance between you. “I replay it over and over in my head when I’m alone.”

“What does the Dr. Anderson dream about, huh? Enlighten me.”

“The green house on Maple street.” Abby’s words cut deeper than you anticipate, your next breath trapped in your throat. “It’s not something cruel I’m using to taunt you with. It’s real. It’s yours but it could be ours. I’m four years too late, but I want to give you what I promised.”

“What do you mean by mine?”

Abby clears her throat, getting choked up as she paces in your room, her broad frame tensing as she tries to find a way to confess. A cloud of wonder swarms in her grey-blue eyes.

“The deed for the house is in your name.” Immediately, you let the words sink in. Trying to rationalize it, trying to twist this into something else. There’s no way you’re hearing her correctly. She wouldn’t, right?

“You bought our dream home for me?” Sheeply, Abby nods. The apple of her cheeks resemble a rose, sheepishly embarrassed.

“My success, the life that I have, all of it is because you pushed me through med school. You wouldn’t give up on me even when I had given up on myself. I always wanted to do this for you. I always wanted to take care of you but I lost sight of what was important to me. I forgot why I even wanted to do this in the first place.”

“Your dad.” You tried to smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You loved Jerry, he welcomed you in the family with open arms. But when he got sick, it changed Abby. Her work became her life when he didn’t get better. And soon, it’s all she became.

“He would hate how much I fucked up everything with you. I just felt like it was the one thing I needed to still have him here with me. Like if I didn’t prioritize this—”

“Then there would be nothing left.” You took the words right out of her mouth.

“Look, I’m sorry I kissed you. Really, I shouldn’t have. You have a girlfriend. Someone who loves you and I won’t get in the middle of it. I’ve hurt you for so long. It makes me physically ill and I won’t do it anymore. I can’t. All I want is for you to be happy. That’s why I bought the house for you. It was always something I wanted to do for you. Regardless if we’re together or not.”

Her pacing hadn’t stopped, she still kept moving but then nodded as she finished. This was her peace. She could move on. The both of you could move on. The ink had dried up long ago. You should move on.

“Yeah, that’s it. Okay, I’m gonna go now.” Somehow, she transformed into the college student who knocked on your door. Confident but god, she was so unsure of herself and it still makes your heart beat a million times a minute.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” You turn away from her, “Not anymore.”

You still expect her to leave, or make you look at her with tears in your eyes. You could cry a river for her and it still wouldn’t seem enough. You can’t face her. Not when one look will have you give in. The words left unsaid stain two hearts.

I don’t have a girlfriend because I still love you.

Like the anchor she’s always been, she wraps your frame in hers, holding you from behind. A faith of love. A testimony broken and healed by time and soothed with distance.

There was so much you had to discuss, feelings you had to iron out fresh. Like the slightly wrinkled shirt she’d worn on the day you met. But on this day, you decided to have hope. That one day, you could climb the wall Abby built and restore your love in the vow you once sang in tune.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.” But Abby sniffs out the smile.

“I know, sunshine.”

um. so yeah. that happened. i was trying to do a somewhat realistic ending without shredding some hearts......and i just love abby a little too much ♡

#ᝰ ── ♯ 𝐝𝐲𝐤𝐞𝐛��𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 ٜ̥ .ྀི 𑁩ཾיִ #this is probably my favorite fic i have ever written!#i feel like i say that every time OH WELL #gotta love the self improvement though #anyways yeah eat my heart out or something like that ♡#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x you #abby anderson smut #abby x reader #abby anderson x y/n #abby tlou #tlou x reader #wedding!au #college!abby

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porcelainbirdss · 29 days ago

Text

paper heart

summary: you thought he was just kind. everyone did. what you failed to discern, however, was the visage of something darker lurking underneath the man’s grinning face. such a pity, it was.

cw: fem!reader, yandere Phainon, mentions of death, descriptions of violence (not towards reader), grief, manipulation, stalking, obsessive and unhealthy behaviors, emotional dependency, hinted depression, open ending. ||wc: 13k

a sorrowful melody filled the air as your fingertips slowly dragged across white and black tiles. they were covered in a sheen layer of dust, probably because you abandoned your small hobby some time ago. you don’t know why your instincts told you to sit there, and play when you obviously should be doing something else — but they did. it was only logical, in a way — people upon meeting with peril often freeze. their reason fails them, and instead of acting rational, they begin to work their most favored instrument, for example.

once you reached the end of notations, tune abruptly stopping, you flipped the music sheet, and a very brief thought passed your disarrayed thoughts.

you needed to run.

it all began so long ago — the horrors, hidden below veils upon veils of primitive happiness and joy. all the dangers and pain, tucked away under the cloth depicting a face of your beloved (well, perhaps you should be using a past tense when referring to him in such an affectionate way).

you don’t know where the line between normalcy and insanity began to blur. where the borders separating an ordinary feeling and something much more unsettling crashed, becoming one. no matter how perceptive you were, it slipped past your notice.

maybe mulling over your demise was never the point — you could have been as well as doomed the second your eyes first met.

it has been thirteen months since the death of your mother.

a year and one month, then. you didn’t like counting the time in such a trivial way, though. a mere numer 'one' could never possibly depict the sorrow dragging your whole body down. numbers of a bigger scale were suitable — thirteen may be a large quantity. it surely was, considering the context of your current situation. thirteen months, so three hundred ninety six days filled with woe. enough to showcase all the seconds you spent on practically falling asleep within yourself.

your day to day life was the same, always following a routine you didn’t have the strength to change. it’s not like you were particularly crushed under the weight of your experiences, no, you just… got used to it. the silence. the dust gathering on the shelves. unused cups, and too many utensils in your drawers. abandoned music sheets, sitting obediently on your piano, opened in the middle — their melody never to be finished by the original musician.

it wasn’t well, nor good, and your existence seemed to lack in any rhythm — but it was bearable.

and, truth be told, you wholeheartedly believed it would continue to stay like so for the unforeseen future. except it didn’t.

as your shoes clacked over the cobblestone road, eyes trailing after all the cracks under your feet, you began to think about dinner. another feeble attempt at composing your life together, and it would probably end up in vain as any other — but hey, everything starts with something, and food was the most fundamental part of staying on your legs (at least in the physical sense).

the market spread widely before you, stalls upon stalls standing next to each other, filled up with various fruit and meat. people were yelling over the clamor, exchanging goods for currency. if that wasn’t the prime example of a beating heart, then you don’t know what is.

you stepped forwards, vision taking in your possible options. money was never a problem for you — except you took far too little this time, so perhaps it would be good to stick to something on the cheaper side. strong wing carried over the intense scent of peaches, instantly making your mouth water. huh, you hadn’t had them in a long time. they were always your favorite. maybe not the most suitable for dinner, but still satiating enough.

as you dragged your feet over to the stall, a group of children ran by your side, one of them accidentally knocking against your hip. they didn’t even turn to apologize, too absorbed within their fun. you could briefly discern the nursery rhyme they were singing, happily prancing around and skipping by multitudes of people.

"one for sorrow, two for mirth,"

you meekly greeted the vendor, gently grasping a singular peach within your fingers, and inspecting it with your keen gaze.

"three for a wedding, four for a birth,"

the colors were intense, orange and red seeping together into a flury of shades, creating appealing streaks. you almost smiled to yourself.

"five for silver, six for gold,"

once you pressed your joints, the fruit easily caved in. ah, on the other hand, perhaps it was overripe? considering how strongly it smelled, it was a possibility.

"seven for a secret ne’er to be told,"

you asked the seller for the cost — and seriously, was he a lunatic? who in their right mind would spend so much on peaches, especially when they were mere days away from practically rotting?

"eight for a wish, nine for a kiss,"

you scoffed under your breath, complaining about how unreasonable the price was. the man told you to take it or leave it.

"ten for a bird you must not miss,"

still, you kind of wanted those peaches — from what you deduced, no one else in the closest proximity was selling them. you either bid goodbye to all the money in your wallet, or…

"eleven for hope, twelve for health,"

with that, you offered to bargain. the vendor agreed. it of course didn’t go as you would have liked it to, and now you were getting irritated. soon your conversation changed into something resembling a barking match, with you yelling at the man and saying he was a scammer. he snarled back at you every time. people were staring. at some point you wanted to back out from the pitiful charade you caused, but your honor didn’t let you.

"thirteen beware of the devil himself!”

as you opened your mouth to spit another insult at the seller, a hand gently gripped your shoulder. you jolted up, startled. your head whipped towards the one who decided to interrupt you, ready to snap at them too — and you’d probably do so, if not for who that was.

a familiar face with that ever-present kind smile. one of the Chrysos Heirs. the fair, tousled locks and rather outstanding garments left no question within you — Lord Phainon. you swallowed thickly, eyebrows narrowing.

"my, i’m sorry. did i startle you, miss?" he immediately jumped to apologies, confusing you even further. "i just wanted to see if everything was alright with you two. of course, i didn’t mean to pry, however…" he chuckled, taking a small pause, "well. it seems there’s trouble?"

you simultaneously wanted to shake and nod your head. for whatever reason, you felt slightly stunted — his voice sounded nice. it reminded you of the way mourning doves chirp in the morning, all soothing and sweet. then, there was his smile, maybe capable of competing with the very sun hanging above your heads. a row of white teeth along with twins of blue crinkling in the corners. a picture of perfection. how come you never payed any attention to him?

upon your lack of reaction, a hand waved in front of your eyes. "…iss. miss? you still with me?"

you blinked twice, rapidly pulled out of your temporary stupor. oh. it would seem he was talking to you, and you remained unresponsive. what a way to make a fool out of yourself.

"ah, yeah, sorry." you forced out awkwardly, scratching the nape of your neck. "just got lost in thought."

at that, Phainon snickered. his attention returned to the vendor, and he pointed towards the peaches — cursed objects of your dismay. "alright! kind sir, i’d like to buy a few." he smiled politely at the man.

you observed him purchase your desired fruit with the slightest of disappointment, paying without any complaints or hesitation. then, he turned to you, and practically pushed the paper bag into your arms. "i’m— is that for me?" you stammered, eyes widening.

"of course." the corners of his lips lifted even further upwards, forming into a grin. "i just hope you don’t mind?"

how could you possibly mind? even if he felt like doing charity work out of pity, it still meant a lot to you. for quite some time, you hardly received any sort of kindness. perhaps that’s what you’ve lacked for all this time.

when you noticed some other people lining up behind you, you stepped to the side, Phainon following in tow. "i don’t mind. thank you, Lord—"

"let’s not use the honorifics, hm?" he chimed in before you could even finish your sentence, swaying his hand dismissively.

you nodded, a somewhat bashful smile forming on your face. you felt kind of perplexed by the whole exchange, but nevertheless, it was a nice change of pace. "fine with me. oh, by the way, my name’s—"

he cut in again. "[name], am i right?"

upon hearing that, you let out a clipped laugh. how did he even know? well, it’s not like you’re alienating yourself from the rest of citizens, but hey. Phainon was at least a few ranks above you, and from what you could discern, people of higher status rarely concerned themselves with identities of the commoners.

you itched to ask: how’d you know?, but held your tongue — that would be surely impolite. "yes, you got that right."

"well, it was nice to meet you, [name]." he said, tone remaining light and jovial, mouth still stretched into a grin. you wondered how is it possible his cheeks didn’t hurt from the constant strain. "enjoy your peaches!"

Phainon was halfway swiveling on his heel, ready to walk away — and you, upon some godforsaken impulse, gripped his wrist. he stopped in his tracks, turning to you with a quizzical expression.

"uh— maybe you’d like one?" you queried, hastily reaching into the bag, and pulling the fruit out. "i mean… you bought them for me, so it’s only fair."

his irises took your face in (maybe a bit too intently for your liking), and he looked seconds away from bursting into a triumphant laughter. for what reason, you honestly didn’t know. "sure, thank you." he nodded, grasping the peach from your palm.

you followed in tow, because — why not? you were hungry, and the sight of his teeth sinking into the tender flesh caused your stomach to rumble, reminding of its discomfort. "oh, my! these are great." you remarked casually, wondering whether you should be acting so easy-going with a Chrysos Heir. anyway, you’re not the one to blame, are you?

"they are." he affirmed, smiling when he took another bite. juice seeped down his hand, slipping under the sleeve, which caused him to let out a dismayed yelp.

you laughed at the sight. he laughed harder.

the sun shone brightly, and you didn’t even know him, but felt a sting of familiarity in your chest. Phainon’s strands of hair billowed straight in his face, tousled by the strong gusts of wind, and nothing seemed to matter at that moment. thoughts of any morose kind left your exhausted brain, leaving you with that blissful emptiness. there was only him, you, and those damned peaches.

after that, your friendship with Phainon unfortunately only grew in its size. to this day, you aren’t sure what tempted you to let him practically snake his way into your life. perhaps it was the fact you were lonely, and grief-shaken — upon your mother’s passing, none was the same, and everyone seemed to turn their backs at you. it hurt like hell, so any kind of company satiated you. well, Phainon wasn’t just any kind. he was incredibly sweet, and helpful, and sometimes you caught yourself thinking he was everything you needed and more.

at first, your meetings were coincidental (but from the retrospective, they probably weren’t). you were doing some shopping, and he just happened to stumble across you on the street. the man was sitting in that lovely garden, surrounded by prancing chimeras, and you’d accidentally cross ways. things were falling into place, and fate seemed to be tethering you both — so you only got closer, and closer.

the bond between you tightened with every passing month, until you found out it’s already been a year, and your cursed brain decided to bestow you with its worst gift. a crush. an infatuation, of sorts.

sharing your sorrows came easier, and Phainon was only more eager to hear you out. it placated the thunderstorm in your heart enough to let the gates down — you invited him in, completely willingly. you initiated the acts that would later prove to be your doom, and now you couldn’t even find a suitable excuse. after all, no one forced you to spend most of your free time with him. not a single person gripped you by the shoulders, shaking, and commanding you: stick with him, and ignore all the times when that borderline manic smile failed to reach his eyes.

you think you’ll regret not backing out when you still had the chance forever.

air in the antique bookstore was thick, making your lungs heavy as you accidentally inhaled another portion of dust, the little speckles seating themselves uncomfortably in your nostrils. you wanted to sneeze, however held the insistent urge back, mindful of every other patron — there weren’t many people here, but still, you’d rather not startle anyone.

you flipped to another page of that certain memoir which managed to catch your attention. the paper seemed fragile and yellowed, already damaged by years of sun exposure, and the spine was pretty much cracked in half. that didn’t matter, though — a thing bearing so many profound memories will remain beautiful, even if it was to be tossed into a fiery pit.

memoirs and biographies alike were always your favorite. you don’t know why, but they carried a certain sense of comfort — death was inevitable in human existence, but if you write your life down, you’ll stay alive in the minds of others (at least to some extent). books, unlike people, do not have a lifespan. they will not perish, unless someone burns or destroys them.

that was soothing. literature won’t leave, nor will it abandon you. it is definitive. it is attested. it is a certainty which cannot be guaranteed in every case. memories will not slip you away, as long as you tuck them onto a piece of paper — be it a simple notebook, or a diary. human brain is unable of perceiving the recollections properly after some amount of time — it will mix everything up, having you debate whether it truly happened or not. books weren’t like that. they won’t fail you nor bend the reality.

you turned to another page when a doorbell rang through the space, the sound of silent greeting gracing your ears. somebody new came in. you decided to ignore them for now, intently reading through the sentences to discern if this specific lecture was genuinely up to your taste (because you didn’t feel like spending another sum of money on something you’ll drop sooner than later).

and as you were busying yourself with that, a pair of palms suddenly obscured your vision — you’d probably jump up in fright if not for the fact your nervous system was already used to such endeavors. you giggled meekly under your breath, gently shutting the book.

"guess who." rang the sing-song voice, so familiar and saccharine.

you rolled your eyes, a weak smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards. "hm, i’m not sure. who could it be?" you huffed, swiftly tugging the hands away from your face, and turning to see who decided on surprising you.

obviously, it was no revelation when your irises locked with the radiant pools of blue, already grinning at you so widely. or perhaps it was? you honestly didn’t expect to see Phainon here out of all places — sure, judging people by a stereotypical lens was wrong, but you would have never thought he took any interest in literature.

Phainon pouted at your words, the corners of his lips curling downwards in a pitiful expression. he honestly reminded you of a kicked puppy. "ah, [name], i’m so hurt. it’s me, obviously!" the man whined, one of his arms attempting to sneak around your shoulders. you eluded the touch.

"well, hello there." you sighed, wry amusement lacing your tone. then, you thought to ask: "what are you doing here?"

a silly question it was, because obviously he didn’t visit an antique bookstore to pick strawberries.

your friend hummed under his breath, eyes briefly flickering over the books, finally locking on the one you were holding. "i like reading from time to time. by the way, is that another memoir?" he inquired innocently.

you nodded. “yeah. why?"

"nothing, nothing." he waved his hand dismissively, a chuckle slipping past his lips. "you just read so much of them. don’t you ever get bored?"

your mouth opened to grant him with a response, but then your brain lagged. a very silent, practically non-existent alarm rang in the back of your mind, causing you to pause. when did you ever tell him about your fondness for this specific genre? well, it’s not like you were actively trying to keep it a secret, but still. you both rarely conversed about such things, especially your reading hobby.

anyway, you’re probably acting irrational right now. you must have told him before, and it simply escaped your memory.

you cleared your throat, putting the book back on the shelf. for whatever reason, you didn’t feel like purchasing it anymore. "no, not really. they’re interesting." you answered without much commitment.

Phainon gave a noise of acknowledgment, his smile growing into a grin. "is that so? well actually, i like them too."

"i have plenty at my house." you said, irises avoiding his face. the expression he donned was practically blinding. "if you want to, i can lend you some."

the fact he also enjoyed memoirs didn’t seem particularly believable to you, but you decided to indulge him nonetheless. after all, he was your friend. your only one.

(not to mention you may have been crushing on him).

"that would be nice!” he replied instantly, and you thought if you squinted enough, you’d manage to spot the tail wagging behind him excitedly. "do you have the time?"

"as in… right now?" you queried, but before you even affirmed, Phainon was already dragging you out of the store. you didn’t protest. whenever you did, saying something that didn’t especially please the man, the look on his face always fell so somberly. you hated that sight.

with that, the both of you went to your home. to be fair, you visited him more often than he actually visited you — so as you opened the door, you immediately began apologizing about the mess (which wasn’t overly prominent, but a lot of dust gather around, and you didn’t have the strength to clean up).

"again, sorry. i just didn’t really have the time to tidy recently.” you let the white lie easily slip off of your tongue, slowly putting your shoes away.

Phainon looked at you as if you were crazy. "[name], i already told you i don’t mind. my place isn’t the most perfect either." he laughed merrily, patting your back.

you reciprocated his smile, internally grateful for how understanding the man was. his gaze was always relentlessly kind (spare for the times when he stared blankly into the distance, blue irises completely dull), and never once you thought he appeared anyhow judgmental.

"well, anyway. about the books…" you began, stepping closer to the shelf in your living room, stuffed to the brim with lectures. "anything specific you’d like to read about?" you asked, knowing the memoirs spread across a rather wide range of topics.

"your favorite ones." Phainon chimed, following in tow.

you huffed out a hushed chuckle, quickly taking out at least five of your beloved titles. he was really sweet if he wanted to read your favorites, and it made your heart clench happily. "here you go." you handed him the books, carefully balancing them on the man’s palms.

you wholeheartedly believed he’d at least check out their backs, interested in the contents — but his intense gaze remained glued to yours. now that you think about it, this occurrence was somewhat common. one time you went to a restaurant, and Phainon, instead of seeing what the menu had to offer, continued to stare at you with a dumb grin. he ended up ordering the same dish as you. or, for example, when you visited him, and asked whether he could pour you some juice — that day was beyond scorching hot, so you were parched. Phainon immediately agreed, but as he was filling up your glass, he seemed to get distracted. the juice overflowed, spilling all across his lap, and he only stopped when you yelled at him.

the man either loved daydreaming, or analyzing your face contours in depth. you surely hoped it wasn’t the latter option (not because you’d mind — it simply made you feel overly exposed).

"don’t hurry with reading them all." you offered him a wry smile, receiving a nod of understanding in return. "anyway, maybe you’d like some tea?”

Phainon sat by the table, placing the books on its surface. "sure, why not." he replied, lazily opening one of them, and skimming through the pages without actually processing the words. if not for the fact his leg was bouncing, you’d think he was the perfect picture of peace now — light gently illuminating the galant features, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

when he found you staring (even though you just internally berated him for doing the same thing), he sent you a knowing smile, eyebrows arching upwards. you cleared your throat awkwardly, hastily disappearing into the kitchen without a further comment.

once the tea was done, you settled it on the table, seating yourself as well. to no surprise, Phainon was distracted again, vision focused on your piano standing under one of the windows. it has seen better days — previously taken care of, its jet-black surface shone, reflecting all the light. now it was a mere imitation of its earlier glory, covered in dust and wilted petals of that flower you were too exhausted to water, and too unmotivated to throw away.

"something caught your eye?" you questioned, taking a small sip of the herbal drink.

he turned to face you, shrugging. "i was just wondering if you ever play this piano. i visited you multiple times, and it always stands…" he paused, as if weighting the words, "abandoned."

that much was true. you rarely concerned yourself with your hobby — after the passing of your mother, nothing seemed to draw your interest anymore. she was the one who taught you how to play, and now she was gone. no longer were the duets, or mirthful tunes resonating early in the morning.

she was much more talented and skilled than you could ever be, winning award after award. still, you cherished your shared passion for music — you learnt a lot, embedding the notes deep inside your mind. and she was proud. even if you failed, your mother would always cheer you on, patiently explaining what you could fix. life was good, back then.

but it was no more.

"i don’t play." you replied, voice a bit sterner than you’d like it to be.

Phainon didn’t seem anyhow deterred by your tone, sending you an encouraging smile. "really? that’s a pity. i’d love to hear you."

it wasn’t hard to deduce what he was insinuating. even though you swore to never touch that instrument again, your resolve chipped off at his words. "well… i suppose i could try for you."

your friend’s expression melted into a subtle triumph. "great!" he clasped his hands together, shifting on the chair to watch as you got up from your place, seating yourself by the piano.

you ran your palm over the dust and withered petals, shoving everything on the ground. you’ll swipe it later. then, you took a breath, attempting to recall anything familiar — it would seem you got rusty, because as you flipped through the music sheets, only one melody came to mind. why’re you so worried, anyway? you’re not here to impress Phainon (even if you’d like to, terribly).

with that, you positioned your fingertips on the tiles, shoulders tense from how his insistent gaze kept boring into your back. you winced upon the first sound, trying to remember how to play, and how to push back the memories haunting your sorrow-worn brain.

after a while of uncertainty, you finally fell into the right rhythm, smiling dimly at the forlorn tune. it was slow, and calm. all the world surrounding you seemed to cease in its existence, and now it was only you, and the piano. no Phainon, no birds flying outside of the window, no overcast skies, no memories of your late mother.

with each press on the tile, you felt as if you were discovering pieces of yourself anew, like a sacred ritual — playing made you happy. it truly did. how were you able of forgetting about such a simple fact?

as you regained the confidence, you worked your joints with more fervor. everything was going well, until two palms fell onto your shoulders, startling you.

a strained, prolonged sound filled the air as you accidentally hit the tiles, messing up the melody. your head quickly whipped towards Phainon, who was now looking at you with a surprised expression painted on his face. when did he even come up here? you hardly heard any footfall.

"i’m so sorry, did i scare you?” he chuckled, obviously without any remorse.

you sighed, fingers reaching over to touch his hands. "a little."

a smirk stretched his lips upwards as he leaned a bit closer, twins of blue flickering between your form and the instrument. "i didn’t mean to." he responded coyly, no matter if you didn’t sense any guilt coming from him. well, it’s not like you’d hold a grudge for giving you a brief spook. "i just wanted to look from up close. you played so beautifully."

you felt his joints interlock around yours, and now you were slightly hot, something summery itching at your cheeks. Phainon was way too near, and the worst part is — you wished to render the distance completely.

he appeared so pretty from up close. you could discern the faint dimples in his cheeks as he smiled at you tenderly, and how light coming from the window illuminated his radiant irises. if you were able to, you’d immediately snap a picture with your own eyes, because there was no way any sort of lens could ever truly mirror his prepossessing features.

"i can teach you." you blurted out on impulse, wanting to sink into the chair from embarrassment at your silly proposal.

you expected Phainon to laugh — except he didn’t. his face pulled even closer, effectively knocking the air out from your lungs. assuming your heart had legs of it own, it surely would bolt straight out of your throat.

"i’d like that." he murmured.

your breath hitched, and then his lips brushed against yours. you barely stopped yourself from digging your nails into his hands. upon some sprout of boldness, you moved to close your mouths together — but Phainon inched away. that caused your mind to lag, blinking twice at him in confusion — did you even kiss? it was so brief, and chaste in its nature. more like just… pressing your lips against each other, as if to exchange oxygen.

his palms left your shoulders, and he straightened out, stepping back. your thoughts spurred, wondering whether you did something wrong, or if you offended him — however, there was no trace of dismay on the man’s face. he kept smiling sweetly at you, slowly gathering the memoirs into his arms like nothing ever happened.

"well, teach, can i see you tomorrow for a quick lesson?" he asked amusedly, eyebrows arching upwards.

no matter how perplexed you felt, you still forced the corners of your lips to stretch. "s-sure." you stammered out, fingers clenching around the material of your attire.

perhaps you imagined it, after all.

with that, time continued to pass, and for whatever reason you never again touched upon the topic of that barely-kiss. you remember being frustrated then, for pretty obvious reasons. still, Phainon didn’t seem to be in need of talking about that, so you kept silent.

now, from the perspective of time, it might have actually saved you from a fate much worse than what you had presented before you at this moment. your chance to escape Okhema remains unshaken, but what if you pushed Phainon earlier on? surely, the man’s fangs would clench around your neck, refusing to let you go.

he continued to visit you after that, and you taught him how to play. it was no revelation when he grasped the concept rather quickly — he seemed to be some kind of an omnibus, catching on everything naturally.

those shared moments were so precious to you, back then. when Phainon became confident in his somewhat stable skills, you both would sit by the piano, playing a duet. your sides touched as you slowly pressed on the tiles, sometimes even humming along to the tune. whenever one of you messed up, you’d laugh, bickering quietly.

you were enjoying yourself — more than you probably should. all the red flags and alarming behaviors slipped past your notice, and you genuinely thought you regained a long-lost part of yourself.

the dust was now gone from your home, wilted plants and trash thrown away. the piano shone like it used to, and the sun seemed to peek out from behind the clouds more often. your fridge was never empty, because Phainon always brought you some fresh food, and the bed in which you could lie for hours on end didn’t appear as alluring.

it’s not that you miraculously recovered from the grief and burdens of your doleful mind, however, it was progress. the heart remained heavy still — but the man’s fingers curled under its beating form, lifting it up. it was easier to function with him.

at some point, you thought a life without Phainon would be impossible.

everything was going well, and you no longer were carrying so much sorrow. previously, your brain practically drowned into a state of paranoia — every single person appeared as if they wanted to harm or betray you in some way. you scowled at the passersby, a bitter frown painted across your face. but now it was gone. all the wariness and disdain and chagrin lulled into something softer, more amiable.

alas, you should have kept it with you.

you stirred awake, pressing your eyelids shut at the dim light of early morning uncomfortably irritating your eyes. you don’t know why, but your stomach churned, and you felt unsettled by the thought that something was not right.

your room was way too cold. of course, it was chilly in the mornings, but this? this was beyond normalcy. you finally looked around the space, trying to control your trembling limbs. nothing was amiss. every single thing lied in its destined place, all of the windows closed.

still, the temperature made you wonder. with an uneasy feeling, you slowly dragged yourself off the bed, treading downstairs to check it out as well.

it’s a good thing you didn’t go back to sleep, because the sight there made you gasp out loud. your doors were opened — not widely, just slightly ajar — but they were, and it made your guts clench.

under any other circumstances, you would have blamed it on your forgetfulness, however right now that was simply impossible. you never once forgot to close the door, always making sure at least two times the locks were secure and tightly shut.

when you were little, you and your mother fell victim to a robbery — your whole home got practically destroyed, every single furniture toppled over once the thieves were satisfied with their search for any valuables. ever since then, your mother got paranoid about stuff like that. she instilled utmost awareness in you, and so, you adapted. the habit stuck with you to this day, and you took extra precautions just to make sure everything was locked.

wind flew through the gap, lapping at your bare ankles with its frigid tongue. someone broke into your house — and the worst part is, you don’t know whether that person was still inside.

untamed panic attempted to squeeze your heart, but you steeled your resolve, taking a deep breath. no, you mustn’t fall into a hole of fright. your eyes quickly jumped across the space of your living room, scanning everything up and down — nothing.

you took a step forward, jumping up at the low creak your floor made. you cursed under your breath, placing a shaky palm over your pounding chest. you tentatively dragged your feet over to the middle of the room, trying to gather your disarrayed thoughts. as you somehow managed to calm your nervous system down, you hastily turned back for your teleslate, gripping it in your hand as if your life depended on it.

you glanced around yourself precariously, too afraid of even checking out other rooms — after all, if that intruder were there, what would you do? you couldn’t fight. one hit from behind, and you’d be gone.

as carefully as possible, you started walking down the stairs, already dialing a familiar number. you needed him — he was way more capable than you. you were absolutely sure if that person who broke into your house would see him, they’d pass out.

you stood frozen on the cold floorboards, counting down the signals. one. two. three—

"hello, [name]?" resonated the slightly dazed voice, still half-asleep. you must have woken him up.

"Phainon," you began, trying to maintain your tone stable, "can you come to my place?"

you heard a noise of something on the other side, muffled and static. "you mean… as in right now?"

"yes, right now. i know it’s barely four in the morning, but—"

a loud thud on the window cut in the middle of your sentence, causing you to practically shriek in horror. it was a bird — you saw it so clearly, its small silhouette bumping against the glass — and yet, you bolted out of your house as if you were hunted by a pack of fiends.

you almost tripped over your own legs, bare feet falling onto the cold grass, freshly covered in dew. you heard Phainon’s voice calling from your teleslate, asking if you were alright, so you pressed it back to your ear.

"what in the hell happened, [name]?" he asked, probably for the fifth time now.

you took a shaky breath, running a palm over your face. "nothing, i just— just please, come here. i think…" you stammered, clumsily stumbling over your words in haze of trepidation, "i think someone broke into my house."

"wh—" the man began, immediately abandoning his track of thought, "alright. okay, i’ll be there. where are you now?"

you warily looked around, taking in the dimmed sight of your surroundings — the sky was still somewhat dark, periwinkle shyly peeking through the grayish firmament. "in my garden."

Phainon affirmed he’ll come as soon as possible, and you hung up, anxiously pacing around the patch of grass. you were torn between staying outside, and coming back home — but ultimately decided to remain in place.

you fidgeted with your fingers, eyes flickering to the door you forgot to even close as you sprinted out. you mulled over all the dark scenarios, clenching your hands into fists, imagining what you’d do if that intruder were to suddenly emerge, and attack you. their motives surely were odd — nothing was missing, your furniture unmoved, all the possibly valuable things untouched. it was different from what you had experienced as a young girl. if not for the money, then…

the grim realization struck you, and you breathed meekly, feeling your knees get wobblier. how is it you came out of this completely unscathed? as you continued to drown in morose reveries, you heard the fast footfall, head whipping to see who was coming your way.

Phainon, in all of his glory — ivory locks tousled in ever single possible direction, still donning his sleepwear and combat shoes that totally didn’t match. perhaps under different circumstances, you would laugh at the sight.

"[name]." he called, swiftly rendering the distance between you. his facial expression seemed somewhat distraught, but he didn’t take his sword with him, which was… well, somewhat weird. maybe he simply forgot it.

you stepped towards him, grabbing his palms into yours. "thank gods you’re here…" you muttered, feeling at his joints tensing. "why don’t you have a weapon? what if— what if that intruder is still—"

"everything is going to be just fine, alright?" he responded, interrupting your waterfall of hardly-coherent words. "i’ll go search through your place. you should, uh… perhaps stick to me."

you nodded eagerly, sighing with relief at the security Phainon’s presence brought you. with that, you trailed after the man, glued to his hip like a stray animal begging for a scrap of meat.

both of you carefully checked out every single corner of your house, and the more you looked, the more unsettled you became. the thief was not there, but a few things were missing. first of all — your pens. as you stepped into the study, you briefly noticed the disarray on your desk, soon finding out half of your utensils were gone. then, there was that handkerchief you spent so much time embroidering with intricate floral patterns — also no sight of it.

the disappearances were so inconspicuous, it terrified you way more than the vision of losing your jewelry or money. what person casually decides to break in, only to steal somebody’s pens and a piece of cloth? those things were not valuable whatsoever — the fact that this intruder took them was beyond off.

when you pointed it out, Phainon’s eyebrows narrowed with concern — and then his expression shifted into almost dismissal. he said not to worry, after all none of your actually precious stuff was gone, and that must be a good sign, no?

you were consternated at his suddenly carefree attitude, but didn’t point it out. since your friend told you everything was fine, then who were you to undermine his words? certainly, he knew better than you — even if something deep in your gut told you otherwise.

you pushed back the feelings of unease and ambivalent emotions, soon changing the locks and making sure all of your windows were secure. this accident has shaken you, and now your sleep was restless — but life goes on, and Phainon promised he’d never let any harm come your way, so at least you had an ounce of comfort to cling to.

you don’t know why you were so blind, back then. the signs were there for all of this time — you simply decided to turn a blind eye on them.

perhaps it was because you repressed the grief deep inside, but it still dragged you down. silently, innocently. it resurfaced only when you were alone, staring pointlessly at your own feet or a half-empty cup of water. you began to fear it, and so, you tethered yourself to the source of your consolation.

it has been twenty six months since your mother’s death, and thirteen months since your "friendship" with Phainon first bloomed. a number big enough to show the amount of conflict brewing within your heart — torn between everything your instincts were telling you, and ignoring them.

sometimes you wondered: if you kept your curiosity at bay, would anything ever resurface? would the ugly things finally appear, seated in your lap like an obedient lamb? he was an intelligent man, so perhaps not.

anyway, there’s no use mourning over spilled milk.

Phainon, being one of the Chrysos Heirs, was often sent out on missions of various kind. they never took him too long — he always came back in time, maybe a bit battered, but still in one piece. today, however, seemed to be different.

everything started out smoothly — you knew he was out of town, so you arranged to meet with one of your newly-formed friend. you got ready, actually putting effort in how you looked, and waited patiently for the hour of your little get-together to finally arrive.

when your teleslate vibrated next to your thigh, you believed it was your friend, letting you know to come out now — so once your eyes met with Phainon’s vague message, you blinked in surprise.

he asked you to come to the infirmary, only stating that he wanted to see you. naturally, you texted back — did something happen? — but the silence that followed was maddening. an utterly unreasonable flood of worry surged through your mind, each passing second stirring it into a thunderstorm. without wasting another moment, you grabbed your bag and hurried out.

by the time you arrived, every nerve in your body felt like it was set in flames. stress relentlessly gnawed at your thoughts, and a thousand of dark scenarios bloomed intrusively in your imagination. you barely managed to ask one of the nurses where he was, and she responded with a door numer — it already managed to dissolve in your thoughts. you walked upstairs, heart pounding with a single morose question: was Phainon truly in such a state that he’d ask for you? gods, you hoped he was just being dramatic.

you shoved the door open and exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. there he was — alive, upright, and breathing. he sat on the bed with a slight recline, supported by a multitude of pillows, his gaze fixed on something outside the window. when he heard you come in, he turned, expression almost instantly shifting into a cheerful smile.

"[name], you came." he hummed happily, briefly running his fingers through the fair locks, maybe a bit self-conscious by how messy they were.

Phainon’s left cheek was covered by a piece of gauze, and you managed to spot a few bandages sticking from under his loose robes — but fortunately, nothing else caught your attention. he was all well, and now you were wondering why did he sent you such an ominous message in the first place. maybe he simply wanted to mess with you.

you nodded, rendering the space between you two. "of course i did." you spoke meekly, deciding to seat yourself on the small chair, standing just right next to the bed. "anyway, are you… okay?"

the blue irises studied you for good, prolonged three seconds before he thought answer. "could have been worse. accidents happen from time to time, even to me." he chuckled, a cough ripping from his chest abruptly.

you winced, fiddling with your fingers. you did not know what to do. "why don’t you lie down?" you asked, sending him a wry smile. comforting others was never your strongest forte, and now it was evidently showing.

he obediently took up on your offer, the corners of his lips remaining lifted. "[name], don’t frown so much. it’s not like i’m dying, or something."

you laughed at that comment, and he laughed along. whenever you as much as voiced any sound of joy, he always followed suit — at first it wasn’t very noticeable to you, but after some time, you recognized it as a habit of sorts. an unconditioned reflex.

"sorry. i didn’t mean to, i just…" you trailed off, eyes falling to your lap.

a short beat of silence passed between you before Phainon spoke again. "you look especially pretty today. any occasion?" he mused, a teasing lilt to his voice.

at that, you almost choked on your own spit. your relationship with the man was… well, somewhat questionable — but whenever he complimented you in such a straightforward way, you always felt as if somebody smacked you across the face with an electric wire.

you cleared your throat, trying to fight off the blush steadily creeping onto your cheeks. "maybe? i’m not sure. i was supposed to meet up with my friend today." you explained.

Phainon’s smile widened, and you didn’t fail to spot how the corner of his lips twitched. "sounds great."

you nodded, unsure of what to reply with. sometimes he responded with such vague sentences, it was hard to even come up with an answer. still, you forced your mind to muster up anything to keep the conversation going.

you talked for quite a while now, and you definitely lost the track of time — the sky darkened slightly, and you continued to ignore the buzzing of your teleslate. whenever you reached into your bag, your friend always began asking you some barely sensible questions, demanding your attention to stay focused solely on him.

you indulged him, naturally, but when you heard the sound of a ringtone, you could no longer pretend. what you were doing was hardly polite — looking at the hour, you were already fifteen minutes late to your meeting. even if Phainon was battered, he surely would understand, right? after all, he is the prime example of kindness, constantly gracing everyone with that cordial smile of his.

with a sigh, you grasped the device, ready to pick up. "sorry, i really have to—"

before your fingertip managed to even do as much as graze the teleslate’s screen, a hand suddenly locked around your wrist. you let out a mixture of surprise and confusion from your throat, vision returning to Phainon. he was smiling — alas, it didn’t encompass his eyes anymore. the man’s grip wasn’t hard, but it caused you to accidentally drop your teleslate, the thing slipping from your palm and hitting the ground with a clatter. it was still ringing a merry tune, so notorious and loud.

you swallowed, consternation painting itself across your face. "hey, what are—"

a vivid picture of sudden change grew in front of you, dull irises snapping back into their lively forms — he hastily let go of your limb, retracting his hand. did Phainon suffer some head trauma while he was away on a mission? he never once acted so erratically before, so you wouldn’t be surprised to find out his brain was in a concussed state.

"sorry. is your teleslate alright?" he spoke calmly, easing back into the stack of pillows.

you bend down to pick it up, briefly inspecting it. "yes, it is." you nodded, eyes avoiding him. when you glanced at the screen, you saw at least ten delivered messages, waiting for you to read. you felt guilty.

"anyway," he started, that lighthearted lace returning to his tone, "who were you supposed to meet up with?"

you sighed at the innocent question, turning the device off. "Phaoriseus. you remember him, don’t you?"

to be completely honest, you expected another burst of bitterness from your friend (and you wouldn’t blame him for it) — so it was a surprise when Phainon gave a hum of understanding, still smiling at you without a single waver. "i do remember him."

(you didn’t spot how terribly hard his fingers curled around the covers, nor the tight clench of his jaws).

"so, uhh, i guess i should…" you began, wondering why were you feeling so unsure, "i should go now. he’ll get mad if i just ditch him like that."

Phainon’s expression remained frozen for a good second — but soon the blank page of his face twisted into a pitiful frown, eyebrows knitting together. "really? but you just got there!" he protested, and you thought he looked like a mistreated dog. injured face, stitches, locks tousled messily — and those big eyes, practically begging.

he was not right. you didn’t just get there. it has been two hours since you stepped into infirmary, and perhaps it would be better to go now — but Phainon had this irresistible ability of tugging on your poor heartstrings. you felt torn, and when your teleslate began ringing again, you knew it was the high time you finally decide.

and the worst part is — it came so easily to you. just like that. without much hesitancy, you turned on the silent mode, tossing the thing back into your bag.

sure, you wanted to maintain friendships, and whatnot — but the man lying now in front of you was simply more important. you chuckled dryly under your breath, wondering how could you ever possibly leave his side — and when he heard the sound coming from your mouth, he laughed along. sweetly, like pure saccharine or sugarcoated apples.

"so you’ll stay, i presume?" he inquired, fingertips reaching over to yours. you squeezed his hand immediately, smiling at the warmth of his joints.

"of course i’ll stay." you affirmed, all remnants of internal conflict seeping away. it was good this way. you didn’t need much in life — as long as you had Phainon, everything would be just fine.

you could mock your past self for remaining so oblivious, but it would lack in any sense anyway. it’s not as if berating yourself for putting trust in somebody else could fix the old mistakes — none can undo the past.

now that you think about it, Phainon always was… somewhat quirky. beloved by everyone, cherished and praised highly in the general community of Okhema, he stayed as a picture-perfect golden boy. no one would ever suspect there was something more to him — not even you, at least back then.

however, sometimes his usually radiant eyes lost their glow, boring pointedly into the distance with dullness you couldn’t put your finger on, or discern where it was coming from. it was eerie in a way, seeing how the very life seemed to practically disappear from him — but you never thought to judge him. you understood better than anyone else that a human’s existence is filled with various hardships and grief. maybe Phainon experienced something akin to your loss, and simply attempted to smother the sorrow instead of letting it dissolve naturally.

then, there were his mood swings. they weren’t overly prominent, but it was quite apparent the emotions within him were in a constant state of swirl. for example, how quickly and rapidly he could burst into laughter at something mildly funny you said — you always wondered whether he seriously found your dry jokes so amusing.

not to mention, you perceived Phainon as someone relentlessly kind, but he just had that odd habit of glaring at whoever was talking to you. no matter if you were acquainted with them, or not — he’d stand a little behind you, eyebrows narrowing together lowly. when you caught him scowling like so, his look always shifted into a docile smile, innocently asking what was wrong — as if he never did anything in the first place. you let that slide, too.

perhaps this was not a very obvious sign, but from time to time, you noticed the slip-ups in his masterfully crafted masks. well, maybe not masterfully, because Phainon wasn’t all that great at controlling his facial expressions — but the fact he could hold them up with such a hell in his mind remained impressive. you stated something against his wishes — his eyebrow twitched. you did specifically what he told you not to do — his lower eyelid quivered, as if he was seconds away from losing it.

and finally, the vague responses Phainon offered you. previously, you had no clue why he got so mopey sometimes, but now you know it stemmed from pure, barely contained jealousy. the short "okay-s" and "fine-s" often sounded as if he practically forced them out. almost like there was something in his throat — obscuring the man’s windpipe, refusing him from mustering up anything more.

earlier on, when you were still so blissfully oblivious, you could live with that. you could swallow down all the doubts and questions, cherishing the company of your beloved friend — or something more. you ignored all the cracks, and wavers, pretending not to see the sharp eyes of a predator lurking from underneath sheep’s clothing.

you were so hung-up on the vision of remaining by Phainon’s side, you ignored the warnings — not only originating from your own intuition, but other’s as well.

the weather seemed a bit unstable today — you agreed to come out on a walk with Phainon, bumping into Mydei along the way, and dragging him with you too — and the sun shone brightly from one part of the sky, while the other remained darkened by the rain clouds. it was a little unsettling, watching as the gloom spread relentlessly fast towards your way.

still, you couldn’t exactly complain. you were having fun with both of the men, giggling under your breath as they bickered over the dumbest things. you already had to work as a mediator, and a judge — when their debates remained unsolved, they instantly turned towards you, demanding you decide which one of them was right.

and as you strolled through the main square, your eyes met with an ice cream stall. the temperature was quite hot, so you offered to buy some — Phainon agreed with you, saying that he can go wait in the line, since it was pretty long. you sent him a grateful nod, hiding with Mydei in the shade meanwhile he had to stand in the scorching sun, already appearing somewhat dazed by the hotness.

you leaned on the cool pillar, sighing with relief. the man next to you followed suit, glancing at you with the corner of his piercingly sharp iris. "[name], i have to ask you about something." he began, perhaps a bit tentatively.

to hear him speak up first was a slight surprise, especially since you weren’t particularly close, nor did Mydei seem to be overly social. still, you didn’t point it out — it’s not like it was a bad thing he attempted to strike up a conversation with you.

"go ahead." you sent him an encouraging smile, quickly reaching to wipe the sweat off of your brow. the high temperature was seriously getting to you — any longer in the sun, and you’d probably faint.

he cleared his throat, letting out a prolonged sigh. "what do you think of Phainon?” he questioned, the tone of his voice more gravely than usual.

confused, you blinked twice, mulling over his words. what’s that supposed to mean? "well, i think he’s a… good person. i enjoy his company.” you replied, wondering if that’s the answer Mydei was looking for.

the man shook his head, eyebrows narrowing together. "is that all? don’t you think he’s been acting off?"

the more he talked, the more perplexed you got. "what?"

Mydei clicked his tongue in irritation, probably barely holding back a scoff at your obliviousness. "[name], i’m sure you are more intelligent than you let on. don’t tell me you can’t see how he looks at you?"

a nervous chuckle escaped your lips as you scratched the nape of your neck. where was he even going with all this? "sorry, are you—" you took a pause, weighting your words, "are you insinuating Phainon has a crush on me?"

this of course wouldn’t be any sort of revelation, considering the things you both have done before, however hearing it from somebody else’s mouth was certainly weird.

he huffed out a humorless chuckle, leaning in a bit closer, as if his sentence was some kind of top-secret. "more than just infatuation. there’s… there’s something uncanny to his gaze." Mydei murmured with a hint of cautiousness in his voice. "i really hate to talk of him in such a way, but i know him longer than you, and—"

your brain almost — almost connected all the circumstances and dots you were pushing back for a long time already, living in denial — but then a familiar voice caused you both to jump back, straightening out.

"i’m back!" you turned to look at Phainon who held up three cones, a triumphant grin stretching his lips upwards. "now, what were the two of you talking about, hm?" he laughed inconspicuously, handing out the ice cream.

Mydei sent you a glare so stern, you’d never dream of admitting the truth. "just… discussing our favorite chimeras." you forced out, making up some hardly-authentic excuse on the spot. you saw the blonde man cringe at your dumb lie.

Phainon’s eyebrows lifted, and he nodded slowly, as if silently messaging he didn’t believe a single word. "is that so? well, Mydei was frowning so much i thought you were conversing about the very death." he joked lightheartedly, licking at the already dripping ice cream.

"it doesn’t matter, Deliverer. [name]’s telling the truth." he retorted, and you winced when he took a formidable bite out of the cold food.

you observed them exchange heated looks, but neither said anything further. with that, you took a small step back, hunching your shoulders inwards as you slowly licked on the ice cream — for whatever reason, you lost your appetite.

funnily enough, no matter how ominous Mydei’s words were, you soon forgot them. an awful decision on your side, but hey — at least you’re aware now that he remained completely truthful, then. you could be almost grateful at his high perception, though it didn’t help much at that time.

you were never close with the crown prince of Kremnos — he always seemed a bit distant, and detached from the rest. the only reason you had any contact with him was because of Phainon. perhaps that’s the reason why his warning dissipated so quickly from your mind — assuming you were better friends, you’d surely take everything he told you under consideration.

as you slowly reached towards the end of your favored piece, fingers falling rhythmically on the tiles, you began to think you should have listened. you should have taken it all to heart, ridding yourself of the blindness, and accepting the truth.

alas, you didn’t do so, and the longer you sit by the piano, playing and mulling over events of the past year, the more evident your demise starts to appear. every single sound resonates like the oh-so familiar footsteps, and singing of the night birds outside reminds you of his voice.

maybe he’s standing right behind you, and you just don’t know it yet. a silly, paranoid vision that was — you made sure to lock the doors, barricading them with additional furniture. you’d certainly hear it, if he were to force his way inside — but still, you feared to turn your head.

after all, when it came to Phainon, your cognitive functions always seemed a bit faulty.

the storm season began, and you shining with utter intelligence, forgot to take your umbrella. again. you swear, at this point you’ll have to write it on your forehead in big, bold letters — remember about the rain!, or something of the sort.

fortunately or unfortunately, you were close to Phainon’s place, so you quickly ran to his door, almost slipping on the mud. with a huff of exasperation, you knocked energetically, hoping he was home. your limbs were trembling from the cold, and clothes stuck uncomfortably to your frame, encompassing you in their heavy wetness. you barely stopped the chattering of your teeth.

after a few seconds, the man finally opened the door, obviously taken aback to see you. "oh, [name]!" he called out in surprise, immediately ushering you inside with a kind smile.

once he shut the entrance, you sighed in relief, drinking in the tranquil silence. loud rainfall was no more, muffed out by the walls surrounding you — and the air definitely got warmer, a soothing balm to your shaky joints. then, you turned to look at Phainon.

"i got caught up in the rain." you stated the obvious, a humorous snicker slipping past your lips as you quickly shook off the water-filled shoes.

your friend’s expression turned fond, and he cocked one eyebrow up at you. "really? i never would have noticed." he chuckled, reaching for your soaked hair — he raked his fingers through the strands, and you swatted his teasing touch away.

"anyway, i’m cold and i want something to drink." you stated, hurriedly dragging your feet towards the living room. Phainon followed in your tracks, just a few steps behind.

you sat on the leather couch, barely containing the shaky breath threatening to escape you. he stood in front of you, clasping his hands. "alright, how about this— self-service today, and while you’re preparing yourself tea, i’ll run you a bath." he offered, before quickly adding: "oh, and maybe i’ll find some fitting garments for you…"

the vision of a hot bath and dry clothes was better than ever — you nodded earnestly, jumping up from the couch like a wind-up toy. "sounds good. thank you, Phainon." you smiled, grateful for such a considerate companion. whatever ethereal being was looking after you, they certainly made sure to bless you with an angel.

he reciprocated the gesture, saying he’ll try to be as quick as possible, soon emerging upstairs. you already took a step forward the kitchen — but then something caught your eye.

door, slightly ajar, just in the corner of the room — of course, you were aware of their existence, but didn’t know where they actually led to. they always remained tightly shut, and Phainon never seemed to use them (at least in your presence).

upon some tinge of uncontainable curiosity, you walked towards the source of your interest. it was extremely rude to pry and search through one’s home while they remained unaware — but your friend wouldn’t get mad even if he found out, right? sure, maybe he’d scold you, but it would end at that.

you opened the door a bit wider, studying the space — it was rather claustrophobic, to be honest. it looked like a larder, except it lacked in any sort of food. a rather obscure wall unit stretched on your left, devoid of anything useful in particular — empty jars, some scrolls, everything covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. the only thing that didn’t seem abandoned was a carton box, situated atop a feeble chair.

you stepped forwards, prying its flaps open with the slightest of guilt — alas, the freshly ignited marvel won, and you couldn’t hold yourself back. at first it didn’t seem to harbor anything special, just a few books along with an innocent-looking wooden casket. you almost laughed, a bit disappointed to find nothing interesting — but then you saw it.

those were your books, the same ones you lent to him some time ago, and pretty much forgot about.

why would Phainon store them inside some dusty cellar instead of just giving them back to you? it was perplexing. you slowly reached for them, lifting the books up — everything seemed fine, and they lacked in any damage. you put them away, focus relocating towards the unfamiliar object lying at the bottom — a… diary?

you gently grasped it, your instincts screaming at you to abandon your task and go make yourself that damned tea. unfortunately, you decided to stay curious.

as you slowly opened it, you immediately got greeted with the familiar handwriting — it was loopy, and nice to the eye. you always envied Phainon because of it.

with a shaky exhale of thrill, you began to scan through the contents.

i finally spoke to [name] today. after all my hesitation, i can’t believe how gentle and kind she turned out to be. what was i so afraid of? i waited for the perfect moment, wanting to make a good impression — and i think it was worth it.

i bought her peaches, though i’m not quite sure why she was so hellbent on bargaining for them. she’s never lacked in money, at least from what i’ve managed to deduce. still, i bought them, and she surprised me by offering one back. such a small thing, and yet it meant so much. i nearly cheered out loud with joy.

it feels like a good beginning. earning her trust will take time, i know — but perhaps i can dare to believe i’ve already taken the first step. i dearly hope i’m not wrong.

your eyebrows narrowed together, and the air gone heavy in your lungs. what? just… just what the hell was he even writing about? yes, the piece of text seemed innocent enough, but it wasn’t hard to discern Phainon thought of speaking to you long before you personally met him. maybe you were simply exaggerating, and the man’s intentions remained pure — but still, you hurriedly shuffled through the pages, stopping on another one.

today was thankfully free from any obligations, leaving me with much time to devote to what truly matters: learning more about [name]. it’s not difficult to trace someone’s steps, honestly. i’ve always found it quite easy — some may say it’s somewhat unethical, but i never thought of it that way. ah, i digress, don’t i?

she doesn’t work — not surprising, really, considering her late mother’s fortune. if memory serves me right, that woman was once a pianist of some renown. still, i do wish [name] ventured out more often — her long absences complicate things unnecessarily. but i endure.

when she does take a walk, she moves as if without a particular purpose — never talking to anyone, never daring to look up from her feet. it fascinates me. what thoughts fill her head during those quiet strolls?

she has some sort of a fondness for that antique bookstore, near the main square. i paid a visit myself, naturally. the clerk, eager to please a Heir, shared the details of her last purchase — a memoir. i’ve never cared much for them, but if my [name] finds value in such lectures, then i shall too. it’s only logical, after all.

as always, i was careful today. our paths crossed — seemingly by chance, of course. i’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that every encounter feels like a mere coincidence. she likely thinks of them as such. there’s a certain naivete in her logic and understanding, a quality i find utterly disarming. it will certainly make things easier for me to ████ ██.

all in all, today was successful. i hope the following days will remain equally bountiful.

your hands shook now, jaw hanging slack as you barely stopped yourself from dropping the diary and bolting out of that man’s house. was this supposed to be a joke? if so, then it surely wasn’t funny.

he was a lunatic. Phainon — the one you considered your most beloved and only friend — was insane. he followed after you, tracking you down, as if you weren’t a real person with their own emotions, but a mere animal to hunt, shoot down, and put on display.

you were terrified. no, that was an understatement. you were terror-stricken. everything you took for granted suddenly crumbled over your head, rendering you frozen — but, perhaps, this really was only a joke? some… some kind of a fictional story Phainon decided to make up out of morbid boredom?

with that, you turned another few pages forward, hoping to see a revelation which could ease your anxiety, and finally clear up the misunderstanding. you had to squint your eyes a little, observing as the elegant handwriting suddenly took a sharper turn, erratic and barely able of discerning.

my hands tremble as i write this, the ink already smudging in places. it’s strange — i’ve faced peril more times than i can count — and yet nothing has shaken me quite like what happened today.

i met [name] at the bookstore again. i nearly commited a gravely mistake — i made a remark about her taste in memoirs, something she’s never confessed to me directly. for a moment, i thought i completely messed up everything i worked so hard for. i could see the faintest flicker of suspicion in her eyes, but she said nothing. thank gods for that. i had no excuse prepared, so i suppose i would’ve been doomed.

she invited me to her home to lend me some memoirs. as if the books mattered. of course i accepted — not out of my interest for the literature, but because the offer was simply too enticing to turn down. time with her, and [name]’s own beloved volumes in my hands. a chance like that cannot be missed out on.

i tried not to show it, but my eyes were drawn to her piano (i thought it looked quite proud and imposing). it stood abandoned in the corner, as if she completely forgot about it. i asked if she could play for me. [name] hesitated, but ultimately agreed.

what followed was something beyond music. her fingers moved with such grace, her posture so painfully poised. the room dissipated away. i watched, completely mesmerized. why did she not follow in her late mother’s footsteps? well, perhaps it’s better this way. the world doesn’t deserve her. not like i do.

as she played, i stepped towards her, putting my hands on her shoulders. she jolted up, stopping rapidly — startled, maybe. i should have felt guilty, but i didn’t. [name]’s surprise, her breath catching in her throat — it was alluring, in a way.

and then, i kissed her. not fully — just the brief touch of lips. but it happened. she didn’t pull away. if anything, i thought i felt her coveting for more. i backed out, though. if i haven’t, then i ████ ███████ ██.

[name] is driving me to the edge of reason. she doesn’t even know it, not truly. i am already hers. completely, helplessly hers. how could i not be? when i met her, i realized she was unavoidably special. ████ ██ i am sick with desire. she makes me ████ █████████.

so it wasn’t a jest, then.

you turned to another page.

what i did tonight would, by most standards, be considered shameful — depraved of any morality, even. but i feel no remorse.

ever since i first tasted the warmth of [name]’s kindness, i have found it impossible to resist my longing. could you believe it? she offered to teach me the piano. imagine that — her delicate hands guiding mine, her voice so close i could feel it brush against my cheek. we’ve started to play duets together. to be fair, it’s hard for me to contain myself with her sitting so close, side pressed into mine.

tonight, the ache became unbearable.

i broke into her house while she was asleep, and i observed her for quite some time. i wanted to take something from her — to soothe the torturous ache in my chest when she’s not near. i cut a lock of her hair. it smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter i couldn’t name. i held it to my lips. it felt like worship.

i searched her study next — not to violate, or anything of the sort. i simply needed more. i settled on a few of her pens and a handkerchief, enthralled by the intricate embroidery. just little things, nothing valuable.

you couldn’t read it anymore. if there was a feeling comparable to being continuously stabbed into the heart, you certainly felt it now. shocked, you dropped the diary to the floor, practically throwing yourself at the innocent-looking box — your shaking hands reached for the wooden casket, prying it open without much finesse.

knowing what you would see at the bottom was more awful than remaining oblivious, and it caused your stomach to churn. exactly as it was written — a piece of your hair, tightly embedded with a ribbon of sorts. then, the pens you lost, along with the handkerchief.

you slowly put it away, careful not to make any sounds. Phainon was taking quite a long time preparing you this bath, or whatever the hell was he doing. running would be the wisest option — but something pushed you to bend down for the diary, and read another entry. you had to get some closure.

as you flipped towards the end of the filled pages, you noticed how messy it was — smudged ink, splatters of… something? on the paper, scratches so hard they ripped through. still, you forced yourself to decipher the following text.

i caved.

the restraint i fought to maintain finally tore. i’ve done something irredeemable, and yet i ████ █. perhaps that makes me ██. but if loving [name] this fiercely is madness, then let me descend into it without apology.

it began with my injury. she came to the infirmary, just as i hoped. the sight of her standing by my bed — so gentle, so beautiful — was almost too much to bear. i asked where she was headed, because obviously, she dolled herself up. i believed she’d say nowhere.

but no. she mentioned a meeting. a friend.

a friend.

████ █████████ ██ █████.

something cracked inside me then. who gave her permission to give her time — my time — to someone else? ████ ███ who was that man, to think he could occupy the thoughts and laughter that should belong to me alone? ████ █████████ ██ █████

i found him. of course i did. people like him are easy to track — even easier to silence.

i don’t remember much — the moment is a blur, as if my mind repressed it from the sheer disgust for that intruder. only the sound remains: a dull, heavy thud as his body hit the ground. after that, there was stillness.

he’s gone now. that’s all that matters. [name] is safe — untouched, unspoiled by others. ████ █████████ ██. she is mine.

i love her with a force i can’t contain. it consumes me. it burns like fire. but if she ever learned the truth — if she knew what i’ve done — i know she would hate me. she would curse my name. that, i cannot allow.

she must never see that side of me. no one must.

i’ll keep my secret buried deeper than that man i laid few meters underneath the ground. ████ █████████ ██ ████. and i will keep smiling when i see her. i will kiss her hands. [name] doesn’t need to know what i’ve done — only that i love her. more than anyone else ever could.

there was more — much more text to go through — an unhinged rant about whatever that maniac’s mind managed to come up with. unfortunately, you didn’t have the strength to read it. your stomach churned mercilessly, bile threatening to gather in your mouth. then, you heard the footsteps.

if not for that terrifying sound, you’d probably curl up on the floor and start wailing. you didn’t even have the time to process anything as you rapidly began to put everything back into the box, desperately attempting to recreate how the objects were laid out.

you began to count the steps. one, two, three, four, five.

he wasn’t in a hurry. you quickly put the casket back, placing the diary along with your books above it, wondering if you did that right — your vision obscured by tears, you fought tooth and nail to hold the waterworks back. if that man saw you crying, then he’d surely guess what you just found out.

six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

you shut the flaps of the box, stepping away to give that bedlam a last glance. you then turned, trepidation squeezing at your hammering heart.

eleven, twelve, thirteen.

as you opened the door, ready to walk out casually as if nothing ever happened, your face bumped straight into Phainon’s chest, causing you to stumble backwards. oh no. no, no, no—!

your eyes rose towards him, and you forced your expression to remain as neutral as possible. no matter for your heavy breaths, or the wet tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. at first, he looked equally surprised as you felt — but then, he smiled. a grin, more teeth than cheer, hardly reaching his blue irises.

"what are you doing here, [name]?" he asked calmly, the completely stoic tone of his voice causing your limbs to freeze.

Phainon’s eyes bore into your form as if he was a starving animal — a panting wolf, barely holding itself back from sinking its marred fangs into the hare’s nape.

you swallowed thickly. "nothing. i-i mean…" you stumbled over your own words, sweat dripping profusely down your temples. "i was just curious about this room, so i—"

"don’t worry, i’m not mad at you." he spoke, taking a step forward. "i’ve already prepared the bath, so why don’t you go and take it?"

against all your reason, you nodded obediently, trying your hardest to force your legs to move forwards. the man’s gaze refused to leave you as you dragged your feet over. then, a brief realization passed through your exhausted brain:

he’s not a poor dog, like i thought — he’s a full-fledged pack of rabid hounds, stuffed into a singular being.

you could only pray your sprint was fast enough.

#phainon x reader #written due to a request!#that counting crows nursery rhyme is a depiction of reader’s fate if she didn’t decide to flee #but hey we have an open ending #so she might have as well stayed #up to everyone’s own interpretation!!#anyway writing this was defo a challenge #also i imagine that song reader played for phainon was #satie’s gymnopedie no.1 #and uhhh yeah phainon’s so creepy in this bruh i even scared myself a little when writing this😭#hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #phainon #phainon x y/n #phainon x you #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere phainon

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soupdweller · 3 months ago

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whoaaa more au art no wayyy

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seventhseian · 4 months ago

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Brat taming with Caleb where he absolutely snaps when you've managed to touch his last nerve. He tries to regain his composure at first, breathing in and out in hopes that it'll soothe his overflowing temper. He's never felt this way towards you, vowing to himself that he'll always be your sanctuary, a place of comfort when everything gets too hard.

But, God, why did you have to be so difficult at times?

Caleb has completely forgotten it, the reason why he's aggressively pounding into you with no absolute remorse. Instead of wiping your tears away, he lets them flow as you scream─beg─for him to be gentle, drinking in the sight of your pathetic expression, heated and needy.

"Caleb..! Ah..! Please..!"

With the remaining strength you have left, you try to push him away, pull yourself away from him, in hopes that it'll somehow work.

Fortunately, it does, but your victory only lasted a second when Caleb uses his evol to push you back, his aching cock pushing back inside you.

"Where are you going?"

"Caleb!─Ngh!─Please!"

"What?─Ngh─You begging now? After pissing me off like that?─Ah..!"

Your mind eventually gives up, surrendering to the incoming climax when his thumb trails down from your waist to your clit, rubbing it as his dick completely fucks you to the oblivion.

Waking up the next day, your body was completely sore. You could only curse Caleb in your mind, promising to yourself that you'll eventually get back at him.

Your promise eventually ends up in the dumpters when Caleb comes in with a tray of your favorite variety of breakfast, completely a different person from last night.

#seiancomeback #ovulation week hell yeah!!!#writing this in honor of the new banner #even tho i have like mixed feelings about it #lads caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb x y/n #caleb x reader #smut #lads smut #l&ds smut #caleb smut #lads #l&ds #brat taming

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anis-sketches · 3 months ago

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its real guys , its real!!

next>

[masterpost]

#dca! endling au #sundrop x reader #moondrop x reader #dca x reader #dca x y/n #fnaf dca #dca fandom #dca au #fnaf daycare attendant #moondrop #fnaf moon #fnaf sb #daycare attendant #anis sketches #did i lose energy for this half way through? yeah #does moon look really dumb in almost every panel. also yep.#but guys endling au is real!!!!

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k-wame · 3 months ago

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this what yall call a HARD launch?

#yeah this seems like a couple-y im checking in on you kiss lol #there's no audio just a montage of the cast posing for the cover and this shot just appearing & im not sure if it was meant for us???#kit connor #charles melton #riverdale #heartstopper #gay #kiss #couple #queer #affection #lgbt #queer pda #warfare press #warfare movie #beautiful men

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shouyuus · 6 months ago

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it's vi's birthday soooo what about a modern vi birthday sex request —

sry i LITERALLY had to look this up I HAD NO IDEA it was her bday today?!?!?!?

18+, mdni, switch/sub!vi bc she deserves to be pampered on her bday

bday!sex w/ vi in which she wakes up to the feeling of you between her legs in the morning, a soft, hoarse groan working out of her throat even as she glances down at you, her eyes still half-lidded from sleep, heat pooling in her stomach even as her fingers fist in your hair, her legs clamping involuntarily around your cheeks as you lap lazily at her sopping cunt, moaning when she hisses, head tossing back into the pillow --

"h-holy shit princess -- what's -- what's the occasion?" she asks, already breathless, and she's still not entirely sure if she's actually just dreaming or if you're really doing this, but the way you inch your fingers between your lips and her cunt just to tease at her clit makes her hips jerk up so violently, she's sure she would've woken up by now if this were a dream.

bday!sex w/ vi where you finger her slow, pressing in one finger, teasing her till she's whimpering, tugging at your hair, her other hand fisting in the sheets even as she tries to keep still, you pressing little kisses along her inner thighs, murmuring sweet nothings --

"so pretty like this vi... but honestly, who forgets their own birthday, hm?"

dragging your finger slowly along her walls, feeling her clench around at your words.

"f-fuck -- hah... ah -- p-please-- shit, shit, shit -- m-my birthday? oh fuck -- ngh --"

"yeah, y'know..." you pull your finger back till you're teasing just at her entrance, and her whole body arches up to chase the feeling, her muscles pulling taut, the shape of her making your mouth water as you lean back down to lick at her clit, "the thing that happens once a year? generally... people like to celebrate with like... cake and various levels of debauchery?"

bday!sex w/ vi where she can't quite make out a full sentence bc she's so lost in the way you're eating her out, alternating between slow and fast, sucking on her clit just the way she likes before fucking your fingers into her, curling them up into her g-spot till her legs are shaking, till she's basically fucking your mouth the way her hips ruck up against you --

"fuck fuck -- princess, 'm so fuckin' close --"

"yeah?" you grin, cheeky even as you pillow your face against her thigh, pushing a third finger into her just to watch her mouth fall open around a silent moan. you reach up to tweak at one of her tits, pulling yourself up the length of her body. her eyes, when she finally opens them to meet yours, are dark and glazed out, her expression taut with pleasure.

"gonna cum for me, violet?" you whisper against her lips, even as she whines, keening high in the back of her throat as you rut your fingers hard and fast into her, your thumb running tight circles around her clit.

"yes, yes, yes, yes --" she chants, tugging you down to muffle her words with a sloppy kiss, moaning as she presses her tongue into your mouth, the movements uncoordinated, her body arching into you as she cums, hard and long.

bday!sex w/ vi in which you gently fuck her through her first climax, sitting back to admire your handiwork as she pants, eyes fluttering shut as the aftershocks of the orgasm works its way through her body, and finally, when she's coherent enough to glance at you, she flashes you a lopsided grin.

"well shit, cupcake... that's one hell of a way to wake up."

you giggle, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to her lips.

she tugs you down for one that's decidedly less chaste before tugging you over her hips, her hands settling on your thighs as she looks up at you with hooded eyes.

"happy birthday to me, i guess," she says, grinning, wide and unabashed.

you laugh, nodding, rocking your hips down so that your own slicked folds slide against hers. you gasp, electricity sparking through you at the contact.

"y-yeah -- happy birthday, vi -- oh --"

vi hisses even as she plants her feet on the bed and rolls her hips up into yours, eyes caught on the way your mouth falls open.

"t-that was a nice wakeup call but... now i think i wanna have some breakfast in bed -- hm?" she reaches up to tweak at one of your nipples, reveling in the way it makes your whole body go soft.

you bite your lips, letting her rock you slowly over her, letting out tiny moans and whimpers as your clits catch over and over, the friction coiling the all too familiar heat inside you as you let her fuck you slow.

"whatever --" you brace your hands against her chest, "whatever you want --"

"yeah? you promise, princess?"

you let out a tiny yelp as she presses you down hard and a jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine at the delicious, mind-numbing slide of her cunt against yours.

"p-promise! w-whatever the birthday girl wants -- ah -- hah... "

vi leans up, coiling her fingers into your hair as she watches you work yourself into a light frenzy over her, her own breaths coming in short staccato pants.

"mm... i do like the sound of that."

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fear-is-truth · 4 months ago

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JASON TODD, crouching beside his motorcycle and shirtless, sweat beading in the dip of his collarbone before meandering along the ridges of his abs. his forearms are smeared with grease, veins bulging out as he works. dark jeans sit dangerously low, the waistband of his boxers peeking out and the muscles in his back flexing taut.

he looks scandalously hot, especially when his tongue flicks over his bottom lip, smearing away the salt of sweat as he inspects his work. which is exactly why you’re wearing his jacket and not much else, waiting to see exactly how long it takes for him to notice. it’s when you lean against the workbench, the scuff of your boots against the concrete, that he finally glances up. and then—stills. eyes trailing from your bare thighs to the way his jacket swallows you.

“you always dress like this when you come to bother me, or am i just extra lucky today?”

you shrug, fingers toying with the zipper.

“depends. you gonna do something about it?”

#sweaty shirtless & SWOLE jason . yeah #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd drabble #dc fanfic #dcu #dc comics

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iniquitousyearning · 6 months ago

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SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 23rd. tom riddle — wet dreams, house rivals.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: tom’s been infiltrating your dreams, and you decide it’s time to call him out on it.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNIIII, coercion!!!!, dark!tom, mind manipulation, religious undertones, gryffindor!reader, enemies if you squint, fingering, squirting, begging, dream sex, tom riddle is his own warning, so much praise, dirty talk, verbal sparring.

You've never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a child, the smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, a shift in the walls—would jolt you awake. For years, you chalked it up to some ingrained survival instinct, some form of trauma response to whatever part of your childhood still haunts you. You got used to it.

But lately, it isn't sound that’s been waking you. It isn't movement or foundation shifts, either. It's the dreams.

Dreams—strange, lucid, intense dreams of him. Always him. Dreams that make you feel like you're drowning, like you're flying, like you've found a new level of intoxication that you'd never imagined possible—and each time the dreams wake you up, the sheets (and whatever bottoms you may have been wearing) are always soaked, and your thighs are always shaking.

It's maddening.

They feel too real to be anything but a violation, his presence bleeding into your subconscious regardless of how much you try to fight it. You know it means something is wrong. You'd tried to rationalize yourself into going back to sleep, telling yourself it's just hormones or some form of stress, but you're too smart to believe your own excuses.

You know it's more than that.

He's haunting you in your sleep—in the most unexpected way. The dreams are always lucid enough that you can feel it—you can feel him—his mouth on yours, his hands on your hips, his dick bullying your fucking cervix and his magic on your clit—leaving behind nothing but hunger. Hunger that's so intense it makes you want him in a way it almost scares you.

You tell yourself you hate him, you've always hated him—but denial only lasts for so many days, as you realize you can't look at him or talk to him without the dreams forcing their way to the forefront of your mind, making you remember the feelings and the sensations and how much, despite hating him, you want them to be real.

You wanted to believe it would pass. That this was nothing but a phase, a trick of your overactive mind. But deep down, you knew the truth. Tom Riddle has wormed his way into your head, into your dreams—out of spite—and he's not letting go.

So after a hell of a week of this—with damn near zero hours of sleep—you decide to seek him out. To put an end to this madness. Once and for all.

It takes every ounce of courage and Gryffindor-like reckless bravery you can scrape together just to go through with it, but somehow you do. Somehow, you make it across the castle, make it to his door. You're in your pyjamas, for Merlin's sake. It's 1 a.m., and the slick still coating your thighs from what had to have been your tenth lucid orgasm in a matter of a week is a humiliating reminder of why you're even here at all.

And when the door opens, you have the strange feeling that he's been expecting you, even as he makes a great show of acting surprised to see you, looking you up and down with a lazy, smug glance that makes your pulse quicken so viscerally you lose the last shred of sanity you were pathetically clinging to—

"What the fuck—" you prowl forward without hesitation, forcing him a step back into the room. "—are you doing to me?"

Even if you're not imagining some form of surprise in that smug little smirk, he does his best not to let it show.

"Me?" He says, all pretend innocence, flicking his hand out to shut the door behind you with some spell you don't care to name. "You'll have to be more specific."

You glare at him, refusing to acknowledge how unfairly attractive he looks in just sweatpants and an oversized shirt—because of course, even casual looks like this are a weapon in his arsenal.

"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," you snap, and you're not sure if it's your lack of sleep or some form of desperation-fuelled bravery, but you're suddenly invading his personal space, poking an accusing finger into his shoulder. "You're fucking haunting me—"

He blinks. "I’m haunting you. And how am I doing that?”

There's a part of you that knows it's a trap—that this is probably exactly what the smug bastard in front of you has been wanting, but your brain is so deprived of sleep and your body is so starved of respite that you decide 'fuck it'—you want answers, and you're going to get them.

"You're in my dreams," you say, bluntly, forcing an exhale alongside it. "You've been in them every night for a week straight. I haven't slept a bloody minute."

That's when it happens—the tiniest flash of amusement in his eyes, so brief you might've missed it if you weren't ready to tear his fucking throat out.

"You're accusing me of giving you dreams?" He asks, in a tone that makes you want to grab him by the front of his shirt and make him cut the bullshit, and you can't tell how much of your own expression is irritation and how much is lust. "You think I've somehow managed to invade your mind?"

"Don't be condescending," you spit, trying to focus on the spot between his eyebrows that makes the heat in your core roar the least, "and don't act like you're incapable. As much as I can't bloody stand you, we both know damn well your mind magic is strong enough to do this to me—"

"Mind magic," he echoes with an amused snort, "you think I'm doing some kind of mind magic to invade your dreams, is that it?"

He's so damn good at this, you think—infuriatingly good. The way he's playing it off like the idea is absurd, completely laughable—

"Fucking precisely.” You can't hide the heat from your voice. You don't care to try. "These aren't just dreams. They're—they're strong. I feel you. Your hands, your tongue, your—"

Dick. You can't even bring yourself to say it.

And the bastard just smirks, like he's reading your mind anyway. Like he knows. That glimmer in his eyes—arrogant, insufferable—only confirms it.

"Hm," he says with something bored, running a hand through his hair. "Your subconscious—"

"It's not a bloody subconscious thing," you cut him off, uninterested in whatever bullshit he was about to feed you. "It's you. You're invading my dreams—I feel you—my body fucking feels you—"

He laughs at that. Like some sick, sadistic freak. He actually laughs—

"Listen to yourself." He says, with a mocking tone that makes you want to shove him. "Are you that desperate to hate me that you're pinning your dreams on me?"

"Hate doesn't even begin to cover it," you spit, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. He shifts slightly, his back brushing the wall. "You've got a hell of an ego, but even you have to know this isn't something I'd want. I wouldn't put you in my dreams willingly if you paid me to do it—"

He hums, smirk never faltering, if anything it fucking grows at the tirade.

"You've been dreaming of me for a week," he points out, coolly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. "And now, here you are—standing in my dorm in the middle of the night, dressed like this." He takes a step toward you, now. "Do you know what that's called, sweetheart?"

Your lungs hitch at the pet name. Your mind is at war with your cunt and it's losing—

"Delirium?" You choke out, noticing another flash of something in his eyes as the gap between you closes. "Insomnia? Sleep deprivation?"

He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.

"No," he says, in a tone that makes you seethe. "It's called obsession."

"Oh. The irony," you can't help but hiss at him, heart pounding because he's in your space and you're in his and this shouldn't be getting to you the way it is. "It's rich, coming from you, that you'd put that on me when—when you've been mindfucking me every goddamn night—"

"Mindfucking you?" He repeats, almost lazily, as his gaze drops, sweeping over you—your pyjamas, the clear lack of bra, the flush creeping up your neck. "Is that what you think I've been doing? You think—"

The way he doesn't even deny it—doesn't argue the accusation—makes your blood boil in a way you can't control.

"It's the only explanation. You've been—you've been—" you cut him off but your sentence falters because his gaze is moving so deliberately, dragging over you like he's cataloging your weaknesses, and the anger curdles into something raw and desperate. "God, Tom, I just need it to stop. I'm so fucking tense and tired. I'm so wound I can't even focus—I'm wet all the time—"

His eyes snap up to meet yours at that, and he gives you a look you can't even begin to interpret. You bite your tongue, realizing the words that left your mouth just a moment too late to pull them back, and you know you've lost the upper hand in this, somehow. You feel the ground slipping from under you and you hate the way your body shivers as he takes another slow, deliberate, step forward.

"Is that what you are?” He wets his lips. "You've come all the way here, in the dead of night, in your pyjamas, half out of your mind with exhaustion because you're wet. Isn't that right?"

You know better than to answer, though you feel yourself walking straight into the trap he's set.

"Piss off," you snap, but the bravado in your voice is paper-thin as he takes another step forward. He's so close now that his scent overwhelms you—leather and spice, something sharp and smoky that makes your head spin. You recognize it, of course you do; it's the same as in your dreams, and the familiarity makes your knees feel unsteady. "You're—"

"Don't act so offended," he leans closer, his voice a low murmur, quiet, almost silky as it wraps around you, and suddenly you barely remember what you were so pissed off about. "You can't even deny it. I made you cum tonight, didn't I? In your dreams."

Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"

He takes one more step and now you're backed right up against his desk—and gods, Tom's tall, so much taller than you—and it feels like he's looming over you, caging you in.

"Mhm." There's a flash of triumph in his eyes as you lose your words. He leans down, breath grazing your ear just as he brings two fingers to your temple, pressing the pads against it. "Let's watch, shall we?"

Watc—oh no.

A cold sense of dread washes over you as you catch on to what he's insinuating, merely a second too late—

"Tom—"

He whispers something, something that pulls you under, and the next thing you know—in a flash of consciousness you didn't even consider possible—you're staring at yourself inside a dream you remember all too well. A dream sequence where you're moaning and trembling beneath him, your head thrown back, eyes rolling in unabashed pleasure as he drives into you, hips snapping with thrust after thrust after thrust—

And it's one thing to have felt it in the safety of your dreams, in the dead of night when you woke slick and desperate, clenching around nothing. But this—this is visceral. You can't look away because it's projecting inside your mind: the flush blooming across your chest, the arch of your back, the way your lips part with every desperate breath. You hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth, mingling with his low, guttural grunts—and worst of all, you can feel it.

You can feel every ounce of pleasure he's giving you, as if he's giving it to you now.

"Mm," you hear him hum from infront of you—it's too much—you're lost in the memory, the dream, and it's a strange, voyeuristic, intimate experience to watch yourself and him like that. "You're worse off than I thought."

You’re gripping the wood of his desk so hard your fingertips are numb, heart flying out of the room as his hand slowly slides from your temple down to your jaw, holding you in place—

"Stop it." You manage to hiss at him, trying to force some semblance of control back into yourself—the last thing you need is to start melting against this bastard. "Tom—"

"You feel that?" He murmurs, breath brushing your neck, and you can't even focus on anything but the sensations he's forcing through your memory—seeing him above you, feeling him inside you. "You do, don't you? This is exactly what you've been feeling all week, isn't it?"

You want to snap at him, cuss him out, but oh god—

"Damn you," you hiss, even as his hands slide down to your hips—and it almost feels as if he's touching you twice, as if there are two sets of hands on your body. "Fuck, Tom—"

"Mm, you look good from this angle," he murmurs, and you fucking keen as you watch, in your mind, his hands slide over your stomach, pushing up your shirt and exposing your tits, groping as he fucks you. You keen as you feel it. "You love this, don't you? You want this."

"I—" you gasp, trying to convince him, or yourself, or goddamn anyone. Still fighting some invisible battle between resistance and submission because you hate that he's right. "I—god, what are you doing to me—"

"What am I doing to you?" He whispers, and you're not sure if the question is rhetorical, or if he's giving you permission to ask it. "I'm not doing anything that you aren't letting me do."

Your knees feel like they're about to buckle, and it's taking all your strength just to stay standing because the pleasure playing out in your mind is pouring into your veins and you can't even fathom how it's possible but you can't do anything to fight it—

"Oh, god—" you moan, unbridled, your physical body slumping back onto the desk as you feel the slick between your thighs, growing with every goddamn thrust. "Oh my god—"

He takes the opportunity of you slumped back against the desk and instantly leans down, bringing his lips to your ear—

"Not even god could keep your legs underneath you." His hand creeps up your thigh. "You're helpless."

"Helpless," you repeat, with a shaky gasp, and you hate how much the word turns you on. This is the first time you've ever been called helpless, and you're not even sure that you care. He's got you in his clutches, he's winning, and it's so infuriating and so goddamn perfect. “Tom—please, please touch me. I need to—fuck—"

You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck in a way that has you trembling with want, but—fucking hell, that's not what you need—you need his hands on you, you need him to just—

"What do you need?" He cooes, and there's a sly tone to his voice that makes you want to throw yourself at him all over again. "You need to cum?"

You moan, low and needy, writhing against the desk because this fucker—he knows exactly what he's doing. He’s got the upper hand here and you want it back. You want—

"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "I need you to—I fucking need you—inside me—"

As soon as that leaves your mouth, the dream fades from your vision and he's urging you to lay back. There's a soft thud as he places a hand on the desk next to your head, and he leans down, bringing his lips back to your ear, and you can't remember a time when you've ever wanted anyone else this bad.

"I'm touched," he murmurs, fingers slipping to the waist band of your pyjama pants, "that you want me that bad."

"I hate you," you manage to gasp out, but that's a lie, and you think he knows it. His fingers on your skin as he pulls your pants down make you ache for him, and you're struggling to not make another sound that will give him ammunition. "Why do you have to—"

"Why do I have to what?" He asks, and you know he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. "Tease you? Make you helpless?"

Your pants get hardly half way down your thighs before he decides it's enough and slides a finger through your soaked slit, and you can't hold back the moan that tears itself from your throat.

"Fuck, you're soaked.” He hisses through his teeth. “You've been sitting in your dorm for days, hm? Dreaming of me touching you, wishing you could touch yourself without thinking of me—do you want to cum, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you gasp out, and you're not above begging at this point. "Yes, god, please—I want to fucking cum—"

"There we go," he cooes, and he's enjoying this more than you'd like to acknowledge. "You know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that?"

"I'd say at least a week," you throw back, in a vain attempt to keep a shred of your dignity, but that's hard when he's circling his fingers around your clit and your body is jerking against the desk beneath you. God you really are helpless. "Because that's how long you've been plaguing my head, giving me wet dreams like some goddamn incubus—"

He chuckles at that, and you hate him a little less when he slips two fingers inside you, "You think I'm a demon?"

"You certainly act like one," you choke out, because he's crooking his fingers and your mind is going fuzzy and he's not going to let you get the upper hand back, even for a second. "Fuck—oh, yes, yes, yes."

"You've got me all wrong," he says, with a smile that would be boyish if it wasn't so sinister. "Demons come to punish you. I'm here helping you get that relief you've been needing so badly."

"Just want t-to help me," you moan as his long fingers work you open, thumb brushing your clit, "out of the kindness of your heart—"

"Out of the kindness of my heart,” he repeats, with a mocking tone, and it's the way he murmurs those words that's making your thighs clench around him until he grabs the fabric of your pjs bunched around them and pushes your legs up to your chest, working his fingers impossibly deeper. "Out of the goodness of my soul—it's what I do, darling, I'm known for my benevolence—"

"You're a good man," you know he can tell you're being sarcastic, but his fingers are filling you so fucking full you're nowhere near ready to start a fight again when you're this close to losing your goddamn mind on his desk. "You're such a good man, Tom—“

"Mhm," his breath tickles your ear. "What else am I?"

"So good with your fingers," you're moaning, and he's going to get a bigger ego than he already has. You're too far gone to care. "God, you're so good, I'm going to—"

"Yes, you are," he answers, and it takes you a second to realize that he's not correcting your words anymore. He's simply telling you that you are, in fact, about to fall apart for him. "Give it to me. You've earned it."

You almost want to snap back at him, you almost try to, but you're so far gone the words don't form on your tongue and you're not sure you'd be able to fight the fire pooling in your stomach.

"Oh, fuck—“

He doesn't even let you finish that, he just dips his hips down, bringing his hand that's not buried in your slick up to cover your mouth, muffling those strangled screams before they spill out and echo down the hall—

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low hum against your skin. "Be a good girl. Let it all out for me."

And it's that; that stupid combination of cooing warmth and the phrase 'be a good girl' that sends you over the edge, and you're muffling your gasps and moans and screams against his palm because gods, what would happen if someone heard you? What would happen if people realized what Tom Riddle was doing to you—your house rival, your sworn enemy—

"There we go," you're falling apart and he's watching you as if he owns you, as if this is where you belong—writhing beneath him, release squirting out around his fingers. "Ride it out for me. Such a good girl, you needed this so bad, I can tell you were aching for this."

You're struggling to say anything back, the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan of his name, and you've always known how bad he was, heard from other girls how good he could be with his hands, but this—you've never had this, never been this before.

"Such a fucking mess," he's murmuring, his voice low and rough and so goddamn beautiful. “How'd that feel? Hm?"

"So—so good," it feels like the words are being forced out of your throat, and you're struggling to think with enough clarity to form anything that's not an embarrassing moan of how much you needed this. "Needed it, need more, I—"

"More?" He murmurs as he slips his fingers free, and he's bringing his other hand up to your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he brings his soaked fingers to your lips. "Greedy girl."

You're not thinking about the implication of him calling you that, you're not thinking about how you should fight back, you're not thinking about how much you hate him—you’re just thinking about the sinful taste of you on his fingers, when they press against your tongue. Without a second of hesitation you suck them clean, tasting yourself, and it's obscene. You're obscene. But you don't care, it just makes that ache in you grow worse—you need more, you need him.

Dear god, what happened to you.

“So good," he murmurs, the praise dripping like honey from his tongue. You hum and he exhales. "I'll find you tomorrow."

"You'll find me tomorrow?" You repeat, as he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, and you're struggling for air, your chest heaving beneath your rumpled shirt. "What are you going to do, come into my room?"

"I'll come into much more than your room," he says, with a laugh that dances with promises of sin. "Now go. Before someone finds you here."

You push yourself up on trembling arms, pulling your pants up your thighs, your heart hammering in your chest because—god, that was incredible, you want more of it, and you can hardly even believe it happened. With a breath, you force yourself to move.

You look back at him as you get to the door. Your legs are shaking and you're not going to hold it against yourself for needing the wall to support you as his eyes rake over you, the corners of those lips curled up his signature smirk, and you want to hit him so goddamn bad—but then he speaks, like he read your mind, and it snaps you out of it—

"No dreams tonight." He says. "Scouts honour."

"You're no boy scout," you throw back, and your voice is a little breathier than you'd like. "And this changes nothing."

He smiles, slow and languid and knowing. "Of course."

You want to roll your eyes at the condescension dripping off his tongue, but you're worried that if you stay here any longer the only words on your tongue will be 'do it again'.

"You just owe me." You say as you crack the door open.

"I owe you," he agrees, and you think that his smile is just a little too genuine—like he would give you anything you wanted, just for another taste of that. “I'm keeping score, darling. Sleep well."

You hate him for calling you that, you hate his stupid smile, you hate the way he knows he's got you.

What he doesn’t know, is that you’re going to make him pay.

"Good night," you mutter, and then you open the door and slip out into the hallway.

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