#and a lot of it is just going from empty room to empty room | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 4 hours ago

Text

Entombed

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: The aftermath of your night with The Void is weighing heavy on you and things start to change. (This is a continuation of ‘Test Drive’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as there is Bob in this…And The Void There is Angst, Smut, and Fluff in this. There are dark elements/themes in this that are explored. Bob and the reader are going through it, and it’s quite rough. There is a lot of emotions and tons of tension happening in this story and honestly it was a whole lotta fun writing it because jeez, there was so much that could happen in the aftermath of this! The Void is obsessed/bonded to the reader, and there are elements of the supernatural in this we lean into it just a bit but it’s not a huge part of the story (y’all will see, I kind of took a little bit of lore from the comics but nothing too crazy). Guilt and Regret kinda plays a role in this too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up my peeps please), Body Worship/Praise Kink, Reader is in Control (not in a dominant way), Cockwarming, Grinding, Heavy Makeout (which involves a lot of heavy petting), Very Light Choking, Marking/Biting/Reclaiming, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Super Intimate Sex, Aftercare Galore, Discussions/References to sex

Authors Note: Well, I hope this part 2 satisfies, I made some choices here that leave things open for a part 3 if people truly want it but hopefully y’all enjoy this one first :)) I was on the fence on where I wanted this to go but hopefully my creative decisions paid off.

Word Count: 16,464

Peeps Who Wanted To Be Tagged For Part 2: @millercontracting @avengersinitiative2012 @dark-silhouette @kurayamifairy @houseofaegon @vanguardlady @sentryluvs @simp-sentral @impoeticbeauty

Bob loved watching you train.

It wasn’t the flash of your skill set or the brutality you were capable of unleashing when pushed. It was your agility. The grace that was threaded into every step, every twist, and every perfectly executed takedown. You moved like you were born for the fight–but never to dominate. You weren’t the kind of person that demanded attention. You were the kind that earned it, silently, relentlessly, and over time.

That’s what had first drawn Bob to you. Not the danger, but the discipline. Not the strength, but the control…And the way you smiled, soft and easy, when you would push your hair back and look over your shoulder with a quiet little smirk that said ‘watch me’.

He could watch you for hours.

But today…Today you weren’t moving. You weren’t even training. You were sitting on the edge of the mat, sweater drawn tight around your shoulders, sleeves swallowing past your wrists, with your legs tucked up in a way that didn’t look relaxed. You looked…Small. Uncharacteristically withdrawn, and it worried him, because from the viewing deck all he could think about was how you were acting at breakfast.

You hadn’t smiled once this morning. Not when Ava made a dumb joke about the broken coffee machine. Not when Alexei spilled hot sauce on his shirt and cursed in Russian. Not even when Bob had caught your eye–or tried to–and offered you that quiet half-smile you usually returned without hesitation. It was like you were actively avoiding him, you didn’t sit beside him, and you didn’t even look at him.

It was like watching someone wearing your skin–your gestures, your face–but none of you was there. And now, down on the mat, wrapped up in your pool of clothes, you looked like you were trying to disappear.

The clang of a metal clasp echoed as Walker dropped his sparring gear. Ava stretched, rolled her shoulders, and tossed a half-empty water bottle across the room, nailing Alexei in the chest. Training was winding down with the usual noise and chaos, but none of it touched you–it looked like you had been released from prison.

You stood slowly, stretching out your back, and Bob caught the faint grimace that flickered across your face as your body resisted the motion. You winced–barely–but it was enough to make his chest tighten. He thought maybe you were injured, or that you pulled something yesterday during your high intensity training. That would explain the sitting out. Maybe even the outfit. But it didn’t explain the way you’d barely spoken to anyone that morning nor the way you looked through him at breakfast like he was a piece of glass. Like he did something…

You turned toward the hallway, and immediately he moved towards the exit.

He came down from the observation deck, taking the stairs two at a time. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at his elbows and he wiped his palms on the sides of his sweatpants, the nerves were pulsing through his skin. He wasn’t good at this–at confrontation, even soft ones–but the ache in his chest told him he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t at least try to figure out what was wrong.

“H-Hey,” He called gently, catching up to you just as you reached the doorway to the locker rooms. You paused, and he could see the way your shoulders tensed at his voice before you turned to him. You wrapped your arms over yourself, almost like you were bracing for something.

”I, um…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting between your face, then away, “C-Can I talk to you for a s-second.” Instantly you could feel your heart begin to race, the idea that he might have actually remembered last night almost made you ill, you could feel the bile begin to rise in the back of your throat, as you forced yourself to answer.

”O-Okay.” You were bracing yourself.

”I just–“ He fumbled for words, “I wanted t-to check in…You’ve been acting k-kind of…Distant t-today. At breakfast, d-during training…Even right n-now. I thought maybe s-something was wrong…Or I-I did something.” You swallowed hard, a little too hard to have it be unnoticed. The sound caught in your throat like a stone, and you could feel the weight of his worry pressing into the narrow space between you. Bob wasn’t loud. Wasn’t pushy. But the way his voice trembled, the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve–it was enough to make your chest cave in.

You shook your head before he could finish his next sentence.

“No,” You said quickly, “You didn’t do anything.”

His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to ask if you were sure, but he didn’t. He just nodded, brows still knit in concern.

“I…I just didn’t sleep well,” You added, hoping it would sound casual, feeling this dread slowly building up inside of you, because all you could think about was his hands, and his lips, and his mouth, or the scratch marks on your back that were burning as you spoke to him, almost like they were calling for your attention.

“O-Oh…” He replied, softly, “O-Okay…I just t-though maybe you were upset with m-me or something…But I-I know you would d-definitely tell m-me if that was the case…” You offered the smallest smile, feeling your throat tightening at the way he was speaking to you, like he knew what happened last night but he was waiting for you to say something.

“We’re okay…” Bob nodded at your weak reassurance–we’re okay–but he didn’t look convinced. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, like there was something else he wanted to say, something gnawing at him. But instead, he cleared his throat and forced a smile.

“R-Right,” He murmured. “I was also g-gonna ask if, uh…If we’re still doing our little b-bodega thing? I figured we could g-get your usual, sit by the fountain like always…” It was your routine. Quiet and private and safe. After training, just the two of you would head down the street to that tiny corner bodega with the cracked tile floor and the sleepy cat in the window. You always got the same thing–egg salad, extra pickles, Bob always forgot to ask for napkins–and then you’d walk a block over and sit by the fountain near the old courthouse. Sometimes you talked about training. Sometimes you talked about everything else, or you just watched people and mumbled about what they must be doing or where they must be going.

During these times it felt like he was yours.

And now?

You couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“I don’t think I can today…” You said quietly, your voice barely carrying over the hum of the hallway light. “I think I may just go to my room after I change... To lay down.”

His expression flickered–something between worry and disappointment, but not the selfish kind. The kind that hurt because he cared. Because he knew there was something wrong, or that you were hiding something from him at the very least. Because he didn’t understand why it suddenly felt like you were slipping out of his hands and he couldn’t stop it.

“Oh. Y-Yeah. Of course,” He replied quickly, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie to stop them from fidgeting. “That makes sense. You should rest. That’s good. Rest is–good.” You offered him a faint, aching smile–like something carved out of stone.

“Yeah…Should help a bit.” Your voice was so soft, and gentle he could barely hear it.

“Can I…D-Do anything for you? I could bring you some tea? O-Or I could just stay close, in case you–”

You shook your head before he could finish.

“No,” You murmured. “I just need to be alone.”

He nodded again. Slower this time. The corner of his mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later, then.”

You gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, and quickly slipped into the locker room without another word.

Once the door clicked softly behind you, it felt like you could finally let go of the breath you’d been holding since breakfast. But the exhale didn’t bring relief–it only left you emptier. The weight in your chest didn’t ease; it tightened. Pressed in. Like your ribs were folding inward. Like your lungs were trying to collapse around a scream you couldn’t afford to let out.

Tears gathered before you could stop them.

Hot. Stinging. Blurring your vision before they ever reached your lashes. You tried to blink them away. You clenched your jaw until it ached. But the pressure building behind your sternum was too sharp, too real, too loud. The ache had dug in sometime between last night and now, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

You weren’t sure if it was regret. Not in the traditional sense. Because it hadn’t felt like a mistake in the moment–it had felt like inevitability. Like gravity. Like a need that had grown too large to hold back. And the way he had touched you–reverently, ruinously–had shattered something you didn’t even know was intact.

But now?

Now it felt like you’d made a deal with the devil in the dark and woken up in someone else’s skin.

You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly, nails digging into the sleeves of your sweater.

The guilt crawled in like rot. Not loud. Just constant. Creeping through your bones. Worming into the cracks between your thoughts. Because the worst part wasn’t what he’d done.

It was that you let him.

You’d let the Void in.

You invited him.

And maybe that would’ve been survivable–maybe–if it had been just about you and him. But it wasn’t. Not even close.

Because now Bob…Sweet, trembling, gentle Bob–your Bob…Had no idea what had happened. He had no memory of what his own body had done. Of what you had allowed. Of what he’d whispered in your ear in that almost-voice that sounded so much like him your heart broke under it. And that was the part that was ripping you apart.

The betrayal wasn’t his.

It was yours.

Because it felt like you’d taken advantage of a piece of him he couldn’t control–used a part of him he’d been trying to suppress. And now you were walking around with the memory of him in your skin, in your bones, in the place where he’d left something behind–and he was walking around clueless. Still smiling at you like he would do anything to protect you. Still offering to bring you tea. You pressed your hand to your abdomen as the guilt twisted deeper, sharper.

Because even now, a part of you was aching for what happened. Craving the touch. The voice. The power. And that was the cruelest truth of all.

You hadn’t just said yes. You’d wanted it.

You sniffed and wiped at your eyes with the sleeves of your sweater, but it didn’t help. The tears had already left hot streaks along your cheeks, and your mouth tasted like metal–like the guilt had started seeping in from the inside out.

And then, suddenly, it burned.

It wasn’t sharp. Not like a cut or a bruise. It was deep. Molten. Like someone had sunk hot iron into your spine and lit a match inside your skin. Your whole body jolted. You reached for the edge of the bench to steady yourself, breath catching as the burn surged again–up your back, down your hips, around the sides of your ribs.

You grabbed at the hem of your sweater and yanked it over your head with a shaky, desperate motion, casting it aside onto the bench like it was soaked in gasoline.

And then you turned to the mirror.

Your stomach dropped.

The marks were worse.

So much worse.

What had once been faint purpling around your hips, vague red lines across your shoulder blades, were now vivid. Raised. Angry. Like they’d grown. They were more defined–claws, unmistakably. Four long, precise gouges across your back, etched in perfect arcs like someone had gripped you and dragged you down to hell.

The bruise on your collarbone had deepened into a bruise-black imprint of teeth. Not sharp like fangs. Just possessive.

There were fingerprints on your thighs, your waist. His fingerprints.

But worse–

They were pulsing. The skin around each mark glowed faintly. Subtle. Like an ember tucked just beneath your flesh, blinking with your pulse.

“What the fuck…” Was all you could manage to say, as your fingers traced over the marks.

The mirror flickered, and you froze.

The overhead lights stayed on, but the mirror–just for a second–shivered like a ripple passed through it. The color leached from your reflection, and the air shifted. Heavier. Sharper.

Then, that voice.

“You must be pretty confused right now, hm?” Your mouth parted and your throat went dry.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t need to, because he was there.

In the mirror.

The Void stood in the glass like a phantom with substance, wearing Bob’s shape again like it was tailored for him, but darker–more real than anything had a right to be. His jaw was sharp. His shoulders held the same broadness as Bob's, only he stood confidently. His eyes…The ones you had looked into last night when you had called him by Bob’s name…The twin void stars. He looked like a dark hole in the middle of the room. Your lips parted.

“I…” You blinked. “Bob’s awake.” The words came out flat, panicked. A statement of fact–as if saying it aloud would force the universe to correct itself. “He’s awake. He’s walking around. He–He talked to me just a few minutes ago. He–he was right outside. You’re not supposed to be here…How the fuck are you here?”

He smiled at you through the glass, and you saw teeth.

Not sharp. Not jagged. Worse.

Perfect. Like the kind of teeth a man shows when he knows the whole room belongs to him. It looked almost the exact same as last night, only it was clearer now, more visible to your eye.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He purred, stepping forward–closer to the edge of the mirror. The room didn’t darken, but your reflection dimmed behind his, as though you were no longer the main inhabitant of your own body. “I don’t disappear that quickly.”

A chill bloomed across your shoulders.

You hadn’t moved. But your breath hitched.

Because you felt it.

The air shifted behind you. The warmth of your skin turning ice-cold–just behind the base of your neck. Like someone was standing inches from you. Like someone was breathing against your spine.

Your voice trembled. “You lied to me…”

The Void’s smile widened.

From the mirror, he watched you–head tilted, eyes glowing.

“Now, now, I didn’t lie,” He murmured.

And then–

His breath touched your skin, and your whole body locked.

You felt it–real, present, inside the room now. The cold exhale that brushed the nape of your neck like silk. Your shoulders flinched inward, but you couldn’t move away. Not from him. Not from the thing that had touched you from within the dark and now moved around you like a ghost in daylight.

“I just omitted information,” He finished softly, like it was the punchline of a private joke. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Your hands trembled at your sides.

“W-What did you do to me?” Your voice cracked.

The Void didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he stepped closer in the mirror again, and your body moved–not of your own accord–tilting slightly toward the glass. Your reflection leaned forward. But you hadn’t moved. Your reflection wasn’t matching anymore. The air behind you felt too dense now, like you could reach behind yourself and grab a fistful of it–thick and chilled and humming faintly like static against your skin. Your knees nearly gave out when you felt it again.

A touch.

Not a full press of fingers. Just the brush of ice sliding along your spine–right over one of the claw marks, as though retracing his own work.

In the mirror, the Void tilted his head.

“Don’t assume I did something permanent,” He said softly. There was a mocking gentleness in his voice, like he was humoring your panic. “Please…I’m not that evil.” You watched your own mouth tremble in the glass. Your reflection was still not syncing to your movements–there was a subtle delay, like a puppet lagging behind its strings.

“Though,” He continued, dragging his fingers down your back again as if he was petting you, “I really could’ve done worse…” Your breath hitched when his nail grazed the base of your spine, and the marks pulsed, almost like he was slowly bringing something to the surface of your skin.

“But…Let’s just say,” He drawled, his smile deepening, “I’ll be around for a little while longer. Just until you…Recover from our little night together.”

You turned your head slightly–not fully, not enough to break eye contact with the mirror–but your voice came through hoarse. “It doesn’t make any sense…I still don’t understand h-how you’re even here?”

The Void gave an exasperated sigh, like you were being deliberately naive.

“I’m an entity, sweetheart. A force.” He stepped closer, and your reflection blurred again, feeling his chest gently pressing against your back. “Not a man. Not a ghost. Not a shadow. I tether to people. I’m tethered to Bob permanently…But…” His voice dipped, curling against your ear like a gust of wind, “You let me in. You let me finish inside you. Did you really think there wouldn’t be some sort of…Consequence?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Sperm,” He murmured, almost lazily, like the word itself was a spell. “Can live for…What is it… Three to five days inside a reproductive system, give or take?”

Your knees buckled, and you gripped the counter in front of you to stay upright. The burn across your back flared again, and your skin felt too tight, too hot, like it was struggling to contain something underneath.

“Give it time,” He whispered, dragging his fingernail over the topmost mark. “After that… I’ll be gone. Probably. Unless you invite me in again.”

He hummed, amused by your silence, and his fingers–impossibly cold and real–smoothed gently along the curve of your ribs, ghosting over bruised skin like it belonged to him.

“Only you can see me, by the way,” He added kindly. “So maybe keep your voice down a bit when you answer me…Hm?” You were just about to say something–anything–when the door behind you banged open.

The sound crashed through the room like a gunshot, and you flinched violently, heart seizing in your chest.

“–I’m telling you, it was the worst latte I’ve ever had,” Ava’s voice carried in before she even cleared the doorway, followed closely by Yelena’s sharp scoff of agreement. “It tasted like someone put chalk in a sock and let it steep for twenty minutes–”

They both froze.

The silence that followed was instant, sucked tight like vacuum-sealed air.

You turned toward them too slowly.

You could feel their eyes on you before you even lifted your head–feel them taking in the angry red claw marks that wrapped around your ribs, the bruises blooming like warpaint down your sides, the purple-black bite mark stark against your collarbone.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice was clipped. Low. Already shifting into something sharp and protective.

Ava blinked once. Then twice. “What the actual fuck?”

You tried to move–tried to step back or grab the sweater or explain something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because he was still there.

Still behind you.

Still breathing cold down your spine like a promise.

“Jesus Christ,” Yelena stepped in first, boots hitting the tile hard, like she was ready to start a fight with whoever did this. “Who did this to you? Are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

“I–I’m fine.” You said it too fast. Too flat. It didn’t sound like you.

“No, you’re not,” Ava said, her voice unusually steady as she followed behind, crouching slightly like she was trying to check your balance. “Y/N, that’s not a training injury. That’s…That’s not even human-looking. That’s…” Her eyes flicked to the claw marks, her brow creasing. “Were you attacked?” You could feel the nerves building up in your chest.

”N-No! I wasn’t attacked.”

“Gotta be a little better at lying to your friend's sweetheart.” The Void whispered mockingly, as you felt his fingers on your back again.

”Shut up!” You exclaimed out of nowhere, catching what you had just done the moment it happened. Yelena and Ava both froze in place at your sudden outburst.

The echo of your voice clapped back off the tile, too loud, too frantic–and too obviously directed at someone who wasn’t there.

You watched their eyes shift. Not just to the claw marks. Not just to the bruises. But to your face now–your wide, panicked eyes. Your trembling mouth. The sweat clinging to your hairline.

“Y/N…” Ava’s voice softened, like she was approaching a wild animal. “Tell us what’s going on.” Yelena didn’t say anything. Not yet. But she took another step forward, slow and steady, like she was preparing for you to bolt. Or break.

“Who did this to you?” Ava asked again, her eyes flicking back to the bite mark. “Was it someone on the team? Because if it was, I swear to God–”

“It wasn’t anyone on the team, I–I wasn’t attacked. Not like that.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Then what happened?” You stared at them both. Ava with her brows knit, hand twitching like she wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. Yelena looked like she might murder someone if you gave her a name.

”And start from the beginning.” Ava added.

–––––––––––––

The water ran hot.

Too hot.

It scalded down Bob’s back in long, blistering sheets, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, braced against the shower wall, head bowed under the stream, letting it burn. Letting it wash over the tension twisted through his spine like a knot of wire.

His hands twitched every now and then–restless, nervous, like they were searching for something they couldn’t find. Something they swore had been there before.

Something soft. Warm. Familiar.

He blinked slowly, eyes hazy beneath the steam.

After he spoke to you in front of the locker room images had begun to flicker in and out of his brain. Not memories exactly. But…Something. Echoes. Flashbulb imprints behind his eyes. A mouth. A sound. Nails biting across his shoulders. A voice–soft and breathless, gasping his name like it was a sin.

”Bob.” It was you–or your voice at least. He could feel his breath stop in his throat. It felt like a dream. But the kind that lingered. The kind that pressed fingerprints into your skin and refused to fade.

He exhaled and reached up to scrub at his face, hoping the pressure might clear his head. But then–

A sting.

Sharp and sudden. Low on his shoulders.

He winced.

His hand dropped to his shoulder, then curled around the top of his back. His fingers traced lightly–grazing over his skin until–

He froze.

Marks.

Four of them.

Long, raised lines carved into his shoulder blade. He twisted toward the mirror just outside the glass shower, blinking steam away as he leaned, trying to see over his own shoulder. It wasn’t easy, but when the fog cleared, he caught it.

Four scratches. They were faintly red, like someone had dragged their nails across the ridges of his shoulder blade. His stomach turned at the sight, and there was a cold weight that settled behind his ribs.

“What the hell…” He muttered, voice hoarse from the heat and whatever this was.

The scratches didn’t look accidental. They looked like grip marks. Like someone had clawed at him, held on tight, dug in as if riding out–

His stomach flipped violently.

He hadn’t had sex. He would remember that. Right?

Right?

The back of his neck prickled with cold, even as the water beat down on him, too hot.

And then–

That voice.

Slick. Amused. Familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.

“Wasn’t that a great dream you had last night?”

Bob’s entire body went rigid.

He didn’t respond at first–didn’t even breathe. Just stood there, eyes wide, steam curling around him like mist curling off a cliff, and that’s when things began to slowly fall into place.

The dream…The dream he had of you last night.

“…No,” He whispered eventually, shaking his head. “No, no, no…”

“Oh come on,” The Void drawled. “Don’t be shy. You liked it. That little fantasy with her chest against yours, riding you, moaning your name like a hymn. She looked so pretty when she came, didn’t she?”

Bob’s vision swam. He gripped the edge of the shower wall so hard his knuckles turned white.

“It wasn’t real,” He said through clenched teeth. “It was just a dream.”

A low, velvet chuckle unfurled in the base of his skull.

“Sure it was.”

The water suddenly felt too loud–like static screaming in his ears.

Memories weren’t supposed to feel like this. They weren’t supposed to echo in his skin, or pull on the muscle of his thighs like a ghost still touching him. He felt raw–stretched thin from the inside out. His breath came ragged now–short, sharp gasps that barely made it past his lips as flashes began to tear across his mind like lightning, split-second visions, and sensations.

Your thighs bracketing his hips, your voice breaking around his name, your tears streaming down your cheeks. The way your back arched towards him.

His eyes snapped shut and he stumbled backward, one palm flying to the wall like it could keep him upright. But the weight was inside him now. The wrongness. The knowing.

“No,” He gasped. “No, I didn’t–I wouldn’t–”

“You didn’t,” The Void answered smoothly, his voice curling inside Bob’s skull like smoke through a vent. “I did.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Bob staggered back against the shower wall, blinking against the sting of hot water and bile rising in his throat.

“She said yes, you know,” The Void continued. “Every time. She said your name while I was inside her. Cried for you. Pretended it was you.”

Bob’s stomach lurched. He pressed a hand over his mouth, like that could keep the nausea down. “Stop. Just shut up–”

“You think she didn’t know it wasn’t you?” The Void whispered. “She did. She just wanted you so badly, she was willing to close her eyes and let me wear your skin. And you know what, Bob?”

A pause.

A cruel silence.

“She loved it.”

Bob let out a broken, wounded sound. Something between a sob and a growl. His body was trembling violently now–his breath a stuttered panic trapped in his lungs.

“You’re lying,” He choked.

“You don’t feel it?” The Void murmured. “The tension in your shoulders? The ache in your hips? The ghost of her still gripping you? I don’t dream, Bob. But you do. And I left you the best parts.”

Bob staggered out of the shower, dripping and wild-eyed. He stumbled, half slipping across the wet tile, as he reached out and wrapped a towel around his hips while the other scrambled for the edge of the counter. His knees hit the floor hard, but the pain didn’t register–not over the white-hot coil twisting in his gut. He lurched forward.

The sound that came out of him was ugly–guttural and gasping–as he vomited into the basin. His body convulsed, throat straining, the acidic bile burning up his esophagus. His arms shook as he braced himself, knuckles whitening on the marble.

It felt endless.

Each heave dragged something deeper out of him–not just from his stomach but from somewhere more primal. Something soul-level. Shame. Horror. Guilt. The knowledge that something had been done to her. With his body. While he was unaware.

His chest heaved with dry sobs now, water still dripping off his hair and jaw, his face flushed red from the heat and the nausea. He clutched the edge of the basin and lifted his head slowly, eyelids fluttering.

And froze.

The steam on the mirror had cleared just enough to reflect two figures.

His own…

And him.

The Void stood to his left–closer than he should’ve been. Closer than Bob could feel, and yet, somehow his presence pressed into the room like a second atmosphere. His arms were folded loosely, one shoulder resting against the bathroom wall as if this were casual. As if he had every right to stand there, real and solid, in Bob’s space. In Bob’s skin.

“Don’t feel too bad,” The Void said lightly, tilting his head as if studying his twin in the mirror. “I was good to her. Tender, even. You should’ve heard the way she begged. So soft. So sweet.”

Bob’s fingers curled into fists on the edge of the sink.

“Stop talking,” He rasped. “Just fucking stop.”

“You really think I’m lying?” The Void arched a brow, a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Then go talk to her.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

The Void pushed off the wall now, taking a step forward–not menacing, not fast, but slow and deliberate. His reflection moved with him. His voice softened with mock sympathy.

“I’m sure if you ask her gently, she’ll tell you the truth. What she felt. What she saw. What she said.”

Bob shook his head. “She didn’t know. She couldn’t have–”

“She did.” The Void’s tone sharpened just enough to cut. “And if you’re still not convinced…”

He paused in front of Bob–so close now Bob could see the way the light gleamed off his collarbone, the faint shimmer of something bruised beneath the skin–and slowly lifted his hand.

One long finger tapped just beneath his throat, where his jugular notch was–or is– supposed to be.

“Check right here on her…I left a little something there.” Bob didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the part that shattered him wasn’t the evidence. It wasn’t the dream, or the bite, or even the voice curling like poison through his mind.

It was the truth he already knew.

He had felt it.

In his skin. In his bones.

In the aching echo of a night he hadn’t lived–but now he had to carry with him anyway.

“She trusted me,” He whispered, barely audible. “She trusted me to protect her from you.”

The Void tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mmm. And you did such a good job, didn’t you? You didn’t warn her how convincing I would be, hmm?” The Void’s grin widened.

It wasn’t malicious in the way monsters grinned in stories–it was worse. It was familiar. Worn like skin. Like something Bob might’ve seen in the mirror if he were just a little colder, a little more broken, a little more hungry.

“You didn’t warn her,” He repeated softly. “Not about the way I move. The way I sound. The way I feel.”

Bob’s breath stuttered. His knuckles were white against the sink.

“You manipulated her…” The Void let out a soft laugh.

“How did I manipulate her?” The Void’s voice was velvet now. Soothed, indulgent. “She wanted you, Bob. So I gave her that. I gave her what you never had the courage to.”

“I would never–” Bob choked, eyes burning, voice cracking around the protest.

“You wouldn’t,” The Void agreed, stepping closer until he could look directly into Bob’s eyes through the mirror. “You’re too good. Too gentle. Too afraid. You keep saying she trusts you–but she was starving, Bob. And I knew exactly how to feed her.”

Bob swayed on his feet.

He didn’t know how he was still standing.

Didn’t know how the ground hadn’t already cracked open beneath him.

The Void tapped the mirror glass once–right where Bob’s reflection was trembling–and leaned in, his next words a breath against the shell of Bob’s mind:

“If you want answers, ask her what she saw when she looked at me. Ask her whose name she really used when I was fucking her to the point of tears, then ask if she liked it…Or better yet…Asked why she liked it…Then maybe you’ll realize…It really wasn’t me who she wanted…It was you the entire time.”

Bob’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick again.

But there was nothing left to throw up. Only the bile in his throat, and the grief coiling around his ribs like iron wire. He gripped the edge of the sink harder, shoulders hunched like he could fold in on himself, like he could collapse inward and disappear entirely.

The Void’s final words lingered in the air like smoke, choking, clinging, true in a way that made Bob feel like a thief in his own skin.

It really wasn’t me who she wanted…

It was you the entire time.

Bob let out a sound–broken, wet, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His reflection looked ruined. Face pale, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bloodshot and glassy. The marks on his shoulders stung like accusations. The steam around him had started to dissipate, but the chill that slid down his spine was internal now. Bone-deep. Then before he could say anything else…

The Void was gone.

Of course he was…Because he always left the mess behind for Bob to clean up. Bob stood there for a moment longer–motionless, towel clinging to his hips, breath hitching with the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty at all. It felt like the aftermath of something horrific.

Like an echo waiting to settle into bone.

Eventually, he moved.

Slow.

Mechanic.

He reached for the toothbrush on the counter, fumbling the cap of the toothpaste like his fingers didn’t belong to him anymore. He brushed his teeth with shaking hands, hard enough to make his gums sting–desperate to scrape away the taste of bile, the phantom flavor of everything that had just spilled out of him.

Bob spat into the sink. Rinsed. Again. And again.

He swiped at his mouth with the towel and turned away without looking at the mirror.

Back in his room, the air felt heavier. Dimmer. Like the walls were holding their breath.

He shed the damp towel, grabbed the first pair of sweatpants from his drawer–charcoal gray, worn thin at the cuffs–and pulled them on with sluggish hands. His skin still felt too hot in places and too cold in others, like his body couldn’t decide if it was sweating or shivering.

A navy sweater came next. One you’d once teased him about because the material was so soft and gentle. It smelled like detergent and memory. He yanked it over his head and stood there for a second, hands resting at his sides, eyes unfocused.

Then he moved out the door, making his way down the hall quickly.

The floor was cold under his bare feet, but he barely felt it. The lights overhead buzzed low, flickering once–barely noticeable–but it was enough to make his stomach clench.

He stopped in front of your room.

The door was closed, and he stared at it for a moment.

His knuckles hovered just shy of the surface. His breath trembled out of him. He didn’t know what he’d say. Didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know what you would see in his face.

But he had to see you, and he had to know.

–––––––––––––-

Inside your room, the world was steeped in dusky gold.

Sunset spilled through the sheer curtains like liquid amber, casting soft lines across the ceiling and walls. The sky beyond was fading into a bruised gradient–lavender, orange, blue–and it painted your skin in light that didn’t feel like yours to hold. You were lying on your back, one arm draped limply across your stomach, the other resting palm-up beside you like you were waiting for something. Your eyes were locked on the ceiling, unblinking. Still.

The blankets were tangled around your ankles. Your shirt clung to your side, damp from sweat, collar askew. You hadn’t moved in hours. Couldn’t. Not since you, Ava and Yelena spoke about what happened last night, and you came back to your room with the weight of that discussion on your shoulders.

You’d told them everything, every detail about what happened, what he looked like, what he sounded like., what he felt like, what you let him do…And you told them why.

Because you wanted him so badly it hurt. Because The Void allowed you to picture Bob’s face and his voice and his gentleness for one night… Just so you could let yourself pretend.

You told them how he held your face when you came. How he kissed your chest like it meant something, how he promised that Bob would never find out…But now you were riddled with guilt and it was eating away at your mind. You also told them that The Void was there with all of them listening, but only you were able to see him.

Yelena hadn’t said much, not at first. She just listened, jaw tense, thumb tapping restlessly against her thigh, she thought the situation was unbelievable, she chalked it up to a vivid nightmare...But the more details you divulged, the harder it got to believe that assumption. Ava had crouched in front of you, brow furrowed, voice soft.

“You need to tell him,” She said. “You have to tell him.”

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You already did,” Yelena said bluntly. “Not telling him only makes it worse.”

Her words weren’t cruel. They were honest. Like a bone being set back in place. It stung. But it was necessary.

“You don’t have to confess to be punished,” Ava added gently. “You have to confess to be free. If you keep hiding this, The Void wins twice. Once for using you…And again for keeping you.”

You didn’t argue.

Because they were right.

You weren’t afraid of Bob hating you. That would’ve been easier.

You were afraid he’d understand. That he’d forgive you. That he’d still want you after everything–and that you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself.

You rolled onto your side slowly now, breath shallow, as the golden haze across your bedroom began to fade deeper into blue.

Then there was a knock.

You didn’t need to ask who it was, because it was evident that it could only be one person.

“…Come in,” You said, and the door creaked open slowly.

Bob stood there–backlit by the hallway’s sterile overhead glow. Dressed in his usual getup of a sweater and sweatpants. His light brown hair was still damp and fluffed from a quick towel dry. His eyes were rimmed red. His posture was stiff, like he didn’t trust his legs to carry him if he stepped too fast, and he looked at you like he’d been walking through hell and finally found the fire’s source.

You sat up slowly, your mouth parting–but no words came.

Bob lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like stepping into your room might unmake him.

Then–quietly–he closed the door behind him.

The latch clicked with a finality that made your chest tighten.

His eyes swept across the room once, slow, heavy. And then–without meaning to–they landed on your legs. Bare. Tangled loosely in the sheets. Skin kissed by amber light and bruised shadow.

He blinked. Looked away.

“W-We need to talk,” He said softly. His voice cracked at the edges.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

His eyes found yours again–shining but unreadable–and then he asked, “Can I… S-Sit?”

You nodded.

And he crossed the room.

Every step felt measured. Like he was walking through something sacred or cursed, you weren’t sure which. His hand brushed the edge of the mattress as he sat, careful not to get too close, sinking onto the same spot where The Void had touched you last night.

The same place where you’d said yes, where your fingers had curled into that blanket, and his hair as your hips lifted off the bed in pure ecstasy. Where you had clung to The Void and screamed Bob’s name in pleasure as you pictured him instead of the vantablack shadow that was invading you and your senses.

Now, in a tragically poetic way, Bob sat there, in living colour. He rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms slowly together like he was trying to warm himself from the inside out. He didn’t look at you yet.

“What happened last night?” He asked finally, turning his head towards your figure. When his eyes met yours everything in him stilled. There was something in your face that made the air in the room feel sharper. Like it had teeth. Like even breathing might cut too deep. Your eyes were glassy like you had been on the brink of tears for hours, and your lips were parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t find the start of it. Your body was tense, and curled in on itself like you were bracing for impact…And right then and there…He knew.

Bob’s eyes searched your face for a long moment, but whatever he was hoping to find there–certainty, relief, understanding–wasn’t present. Just the quiet tremble of your shoulders. Just the way your fingers picked at the hem of your shirt like you were trying to feel something real beneath your nails.

He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper this time.

“Did he hurt you?”

You blinked, slow. Shallow.

Your throat moved like the word was caught halfway up.

“No,” You said finally, “He didn’t hurt me…” Bob’s gaze didn’t waver.

His whole body had stilled–like even the breath in his lungs was holding itself hostage, waiting for what you’d say next. And you could feel it–the trembling edge of his restraint, the desperate ache of a man trying not to crumble.

“Then…” He asked, quieter now, like the words hurt to push out. “Then w-why didn’t you tell me?”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to stop the sting from spilling over your waterline. When you looked back at him, your voice came out raw. Truthful. Like it had been scraped up from the bottom of something buried deep.

“Because I wanted it,” You whispered.

Bob flinched.

Not because he misunderstood. But because he understood too well.

You kept going. Slow. Careful. Like the words were glass you were trying not to shatter between your teeth.

“He said…He said he could let me experience you. Just once. Without you knowing. Without consequences. Without ruining everything.”

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His hands had gone still in his lap.

“And I…” Your throat closed up again, but you forced the words through it. “I took the deal. Because neither of us were brave enough to say anything. Because I didn’t want to cross the line and destroy what we had. Because I knew you were still healing. I knew you weren’t ready and I didn’t want to push you.”

Bob’s face twisted slightly, like something inside him was breaking not from anger–but from love.

You pressed your lips together hard before continuing, voice barely audible now.

“But I was selfish, and I wanted you so badly it made me stupid…And he…He made it so easy. He let me pretend, and when I closed my eyes all I could see and feel was you…” Bob swallowed thickly.

”Was that enough though…?” A tear slid down your cheek.

”No…Not even close.” You whispered. Another pause plagued the room. This one was longer. Bob didn’t reach for you yet, even though he was desperate to comfort you. He just watched you like you were saying the words he had been afraid to hear his entire life.

“I thought I could live with it,” you said. “But this morning…When I saw you walk out of your room… It was the real you. And I realized I didn’t have that last nightI had a shadow. A performance. And my imagination.” You shook your head, voice breaking, “And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About what I did. About how it’ll never go away now, and the guilt is…It’s fucking crushing me Bob…And I’m so so fucking sorry…I’ve destroyed everything.”

The corners of his mouth trembled slightly like he was trying not to cry. Then slowly, he reached out and slid his hand across the bedspread. His fingers brushed against yours, then gently curled around them. It wasn’t a bold gesture. It was reverent. Anchoring. Like he wanted you to know he was still here.

“Hey,” He murmured, voice rough. “You didn’t destroy anything.”

You blinked at him, vision swimming again, and he gave your hand the faintest squeeze.

“I swear,” He said just above a whisper, “You haven’t ruined a single thing I feel for you.”

That was when the air in the room shifted.

A low, familiar voice rippled across the space like smoke.

“Well isn’t this tender…”

Your eyes snapped to the corner of the room. Bob flinched–he hadn’t said a word out loud, but you both reacted the same way.

“Shut up,” You and Bob snapped in unison, turning to each other immediately, startled–and then frozen–because the surprise in his eyes was a perfect mirror of your own.

”Did…D-Did you hear him?” He asked, his voice hoarse, you nodded.

”Since this morning in the locker room.” There was a long beat of silence between you, thick and charged, like the air had stretched tight between your bodies and dared either of you to move.

Bob’s eyes searched yours again, more carefully this time–like he was trying to read something between the lines. You didn’t flinch away from it. You didn’t have it in you anymore. Not after everything.

“He didn’t really give me a fine print to that deal he offered…” You said dryly despite the ache in your chest, “Apparently the aftereffects of sleeping with a dark entity include…Temporary tethers of the psychic kind…Or something like that. Whatever bullshit he told me I don’t know at this point.” You exhaled, rubbing your face with your free hand, “Point is…I can hear what you hear evidently.” Bob let out a slow, shaky breath–like he’d been holding it in all day. Maybe he had. Maybe this was the first time his lungs could even remember what air felt like.

”And you’re sure it’s temporary?” He asked, almost not believing it. Like he needed you to say it again just to be sure, as you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

”Yeah…Ava thinks it’ll fade in a few days…Maybe sooner. Once everything is passed, I won’t be able to hear him anymore, or feel anything else he left behind.” Bob’s jaw clenched, not in anger–just in quiet relief. Like something in his chest finally let go.

“I-I didn’t know he c-could do that,” He admitted softly. “Then again… I-I’ve never been around when he’s having s-sex…” He hesitated, then offered a sheepish, almost self-deprecating shrug. “M-More because I haven’t had sex in a long time…But I-I guess that doesn’t matter a-anymore somehow…” Your brows lifted, but only slightly. The tension between you had shifted–not gone, but thickened, warmer now, laced with something else. Something closer to awareness.

“Guess we both crossed new frontiers this week,” You murmured, a sad smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Bob huffed out a dry breath that might’ve been the start of a laugh if it weren’t so exhausted.

“But seriously…Hearing him yap all day has definitely made me admire you more. I mean, you put up with that on a daily basis?” You gave your head a slight shake. “He’s quite the character to deal with constantly. And honestly? It’s really weird interacting with him when there’s actual light in the room. Just feels…Wrong.” That earned you a real smile. Small, but there. The kind that pulled one side of Bob’s mouth higher than the other. Bob leaned his weight more fully into the edge of the bed, his thumb brushed over your knuckles once–nervous, tender.

“Well,” He said, voice low, rough with the remains of grief and disbelief, “O-On the bright side… A-At least you got a preview of what it’s like if you w-wanted to date me. C-Comes with crippling guilt, a psychic parasite, a-and an eternal inner monologue that sounds like a B-Bond villain.”

You blinked, and then, somehow–despite everything–you laughed. Just a breath, just a flicker of sound, but it cracked through the tension like sunlight behind storm clouds. You shook your head, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“That’s not what dating you would be like.”

“O-Oh no?” Bob asked softly, a ghost of amusement tugging at his lips. “What w-would it be like, then?” You held his gaze for a beat too long. Your voice dropped to a hush, vulnerable and real.

“It’d be kind,” You said. “It’d be quiet and steady. You’d make tea without asking, and hold my hand even when we weren’t talking. You’d fold your sweaters next to mine and leave post-it notes with dumb facts on my mirror just to see me smile.”

Bob’s breath hitched, and you could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. The tips of his ears flushed, soft pink blooming beneath the collar of his sweater.

“You’d hold me like I wasn’t fragile but precious,” You added, voice thick now, “Like I was worth something. And when you kissed me, it wouldn’t feel like you wanted to own me–it would feel like you’d been waiting your whole life to give me that part of you.”

His eyes darted away, shy and overwhelmed, but they drifted back slowly–like gravity had pulled them to you. He let out a shaky breath, a soft huff through his nose that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t so painfully stunned.

“S-Shit,” He murmured, almost under his breath, eyes dropping to your joined hands. “W-Why does that s-sound so much better than anything I-I ever thought I’d be worth?”

You leaned forward slightly, scooting yourself closer to him, almost getting into his space. You could feel his hand twitch in yours, like he wasn’t sure whether to hold tighter or let go for your sake. You made the decision for him, lacing your fingers together and tugging them gently into your lap.

“You’re worth every part of that and more.” You whispered, “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that…It could’ve saved us both a lot of trouble…”

Bob blinked rapidly, a quiet tremor in his chin before he exhaled and gave a small shake of his head–half in disbelief, half in surrender

“It’s m-my fault…I-I should’ve seen it coming,” He replied back. You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head before you could.

“No, I–I should’ve seen it. Felt it. I could tell he was…L-Lurking more than usual. I-I knew he was pushing, I could feel it in my bones, I just didn’t know why. D-Didn’t know he was waiting for the right moment to…To use me a-against you like that.” He swallowed hard, and his voice cracked on the next line. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You trusted me to keep you safe. To protect you from him. And I–” He blinked fast, like he could flush the images from behind his eyes. “I keep seeing pieces of it. Bits. Flashes. Your voice. Your tears. Your legs around me. I didn’t even get to choose to look–I just saw. And I can’t even imagine what else I did.” You inhaled slowly, lips parting to soothe, to reassure–but your voice caught on a different thought. A softer one. An honest one.

“He said…” You began, hesitating for only a second, “He said it was a lot of stuff you’d fantasized about.”

That made Bob go still. Really still.

The kind of stillness that wasn’t absence, but weight.

His breath came slow and uneven, his lashes lowering just slightly before he whispered–

“Yeah…Well, that could mean a lot of things.”

You searched his face, but he didn’t lift his eyes yet. His hand stayed in yours. His thumb rubbed along the dip between your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he could map out penance across your skin.

“What kinds of things?” You asked, gentle but deliberate. Not teasing–just present. Open. Wanting to hear the truth from him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose.

“I’ve thought about you,” He said, voice barely more than a breath. “I’ve thought about you on top of me more times than I care to admit. But it was never just about what you were doing–it was always about how you looked doing it. Like you were letting go for once. Like you were safe. Like you trusted me with that.”

You blinked.

He kept going, because now it was pouring out of him.

“And I used to think–if I ever got that close to you, if I ever had you like that, I’d earn it. I’d work for it. I’d deserve it. Not…” His voice hitched, his jaw tightening. “Not like this.”

You reached for him with your free hand, your palm resting against his cheek. He leaned into it instantly, like he hadn’t realized he’d been starving for touch until that very moment.

“You still deserve it,” You said quietly. “We just…Got lost along the way.”

Bob’s brow furrowed, his breath catching, and you felt the tremble run through his whole body. Your thumb brushed the edge of his jaw.

“I didn’t want him,” you whispered. “I wanted you. And I still do. All of you. Every version. Even the parts you think aren’t safe.”

He exhaled, and it sounded like a prayer. His hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing it closer, grounding himself in your warmth. His eyes fluttered shut beneath your touch. For a second, it was just silence between you. That stretched, heavy kind–the kind that holds the breath of something inevitable.

Then he whispered–

“We shouldn’t do this…Not right now.”

The words stung more than they should have. You felt your hand hesitate slightly on his cheek, just a tremble of doubt. Your breath caught in your throat as your brows drew inward.

“…Why?” You asked, voice barely audible.

Bob opened his eyes again. They were glassy. Gentle. Fractured in that soft, self-protective way he always got when he thought he was saving someone else by denying himself.

“B-Because you went through e-enough last night,” He murmured. “And I don’t–I don’t want to be one more thing you have to recover from.”

You searched his face–every line of tension around his mouth, the delicate tremble in his voice, the way he still hadn’t pulled away from your hand.

“I don’t care,” You said, firm but aching. “I want the real thing. The real Bob.”

His breath stuttered. He looked at you like he wanted to believe you. Like he was afraid to.

“What about The Void…” he asked. Quiet. Uncertain. “He’s… H-he’s still in here with us. In me. What if–” You leaned in a bit, and he could feel your breath gently fanning over his face.

”He can watch for all I care.” Bob’s breath hitched hard. His whole body trembled like you’d cracked something open with just those words. Like the part of him that had been trying so hard to hold back finally didn’t know how to stay locked anymore.

You leaned in just a little more, tilting your head, your voice a murmur against his mouth now.

“I don’t want shadows anymore. I don’t want to pretend. I want you. All of you. Here. With me.” Bob’s eyes dropped to your lips like he couldn’t help it. Like gravity had shifted just enough to make every thought he’d tried to suppress pull straight toward your mouth. He didn’t even blink. Just stared–hungry and unsure and so visibly overwhelmed it made your chest ache.

His breath was shallow now. His thumb trembled just slightly over your skin. And then, softly, like the words were being dragged out of him from the depths of his chest:

“J-Jesus, Y/N…”

It came out like a prayer. Or a plea. Or maybe both. And then you closed the distance. His mouth met yours in an instant–desperate, shaking, unbearably real.

There was nothing slow about it. No tentative brushing or hesitant rhythm.

This kiss devoured both of you in lust and heat.

His hand slipped from your cheek into your hair as he pulled you in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t touch every inch of you at once. Your mouths moved against each other in frantic tandem–open, heated, relentless. Tongues brushing, breath tangling, his gasp lost against your teeth.

He kissed like a man unhinged by longing.

Like every second he’d spent holding back had become fuel for this very moment. You let out a soft moan against his lips as your fingers slipped from his hand and rose instead to his face, cupping both cheeks with trembling reverence, the heat of his skin branding your palms like something sacred. His lips parted around a gasp, and you kissed him again–rougher this time, dragging his mouth back to yours like it had always belonged there. Like you’d gone lifetimes starving for this one taste.

Then you broke the kiss–just barely–your breaths crashing into each other between parted mouths, lips grazing but not quite touching. Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging gently as you leaned back against the mattress, guiding him with you, eyes never leaving his.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And Bob followed.

He moved like he was surrendering–like gravity wasn’t just pulling him down but into you. His forearms braced on either side of your head, the stretch of his sweater pulled tight across his back, the heat of his body pressing into yours as he hovered above you, trembling. His knees sank into the mattress and you felt him–all of him–settle over you like a stormcloud full of thunder barely held at bay.

Your hands gripped his jaw again, thumbs brushing his cheeks, and you surged up to kiss him once more. Hard. Wet. Desperate. Your mouth opened for him completely, and he didn’t hesitate this time–he gave you everything. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow at first, then with more certainty, tasting, taking. You moaned into him as your teeth scraped his lower lip, and he groaned like the sound was ripped from his spine.

He kissed like he was burning. Like he didn’t know what part of you to worship first.

You sucked gently on his tongue, dragging it deeper into your mouth with a low, aching moan, and that was when his hips moved.

Just once at first.

A tentative, trembling roll of his pelvis down against yours. He gasped into your mouth, eyes flying open only to flutter shut again as your thighs spread more beneath him, welcoming the pressure. You were both fully clothed still, but that did nothing to dull the heat–the drag of his hardened length against your core through thin layers of your cotton shorts and his sweatpants sent a shock through your body like lightning cracking straight through your ribs.

Bob’s breath stuttered against your mouth as your hand slid down, skimming over the slope of his side, fingertips pressing into the warm cotton at his waist. You felt him twitch above you, his whole body tensing as your palm curved over his hip and guided him–gently, deliberately–down into you again. The grind was slower this time, dragged out and deep, and it ripped a soft, guttural moan from somewhere inside his throat.

“God…” he whispered, voice wrecked, barely holding shape between panting breaths. “Y-You feel so–” His hips rocked again, caught in the rhythm you’d started, “–you feel so good…”

Your hand tightened slightly at his waist, grounding him, coaxing more friction with each press. The fabric between you was damp and thin and completely useless against the heat pooling low in your stomach. His forehead dropped against yours, nose brushing yours, breath catching as he whispered again:

“I–I’ve wanted this for so long. I used to dream about this… Us. Just like this.”

You whined softly at his words, dragging your mouth back to his in a bruising kiss, your lips parting wide for him as your tongue licked into his mouth again, shameless, hungry. He met it with equal desperation–messy and wet and gasping. When he broke the kiss next, it was only to drag his mouth across your cheek to your jaw, then lower, toward your neck. His nose brushed your pulse point before he whispered, almost reverently:

“Y-You’re everything. You’re everything.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at that, hips lifting into his in time with the motion he was starting to lose control over. His rhythm was breaking apart. Unraveling. He was grinding into you now with barely concealed desperation, hips jerking in small, needy circles, chasing the friction with soft, strangled moans caught in his throat.

You arched up into him, letting your other hand slide from his cheek to thread through his hair again. His lips grazed your throat as you breathed:

“Keep going, Bob… Don’t stop…”

He groaned at that, the sound guttural and hoarse, as he pushed against you harder. The pressure, the heat, the way his breath shook as he rocked against your soaked shorts–it all blended into a high, aching tension that pulsed between your bodies like a heartbeat.

Then kissed you again, sloppier now. His lips were swollen, spit-slick, and desperate. Your tongues slid together in a wet, dizzying tangle, and you sucked on his again, drawing out a sound so obscene from him you swore you felt it echo in your chest.

His hips jerked against yours again and again, more erratic now, and his hands were clinging to you–one tangled in your hair, the other fisted in the bedsheets beside your head like if he let go he’d fly apart completely.

“You have–you have no idea what you do to me,” He gasped. “You have so much control over me. I’d give you anything. I’d let you ruin me.”

“I’d never ruin you,” You breathed, threading your fingers through his hair as you guided another slow, hard grind into your core. “You’re mine.” Bob let out a broken noise at that–a sound torn straight from the center of him–and buried his face in your neck as he rocked into you again, harder this time. The friction was sharp, overwhelming, a storm with no space to breathe between strikes. He wasn’t just grinding anymore–he was rutting, trembling, gasping, desperate.

His breath shuddered against your neck as he ground into you again, and then–like he couldn’t bear not touching more of you–his hand slipped beneath your shirt.

It was slow. Almost reverent. The backs of his fingers brushed up the curve of your stomach, over the warmth of your ribs, and then he flattened his palm over your sternum, splaying his fingers like he needed to feel every inch of your heartbeat to believe this was real.

At the same time, your hand slid beneath his sweater, fingers finding the warm skin of his back, and he let out a gasp at the contact, hips stuttering as he pushed into you harder, needier. You dragged your hand higher, feeling the dips and contours of his spine, the slight tremble in his muscles. And then he pulled back just enough to look at you–eyes dark, lips parted, chest heaving.

“We–We should…” He murmured breathlessly, fingers already curling around the hem of your shirt, “I wanna see you.”

You nodded, pupils blown wide, and reached for the hem of his sweater at the same time.

Clothes came off in a breathless tangle.

Your shirt peeled away with a soft rustle, and Bob’s sweater followed, pulled over his head in one quick motion. Both were discarded somewhere beside the bed, forgotten. But then–

Bob stilled.

Because he saw them.

The marks.

Long, thin bruises like fingerprints along your hips. A faint bite above your breastbone. The shadow of darkened skin on your ribs. Not violent… but unmistakable. The Void hadn’t marked you in rage. He’d marked you in possession. Claimed you like a canvas. A monument.

“Holy crap…” Bob whispered, his voice punched out of him like he’d taken a hit to the stomach.

His eyes moved over your skin slowly–no, not just your skin. The memory of what happened. The evidence of what he hadn’t done but had felt. And suddenly the weight of it was choking him.

You froze beneath him, heart lurching.

“Bob,” You said gently. Then again, a little firmer, fingers curling around his wrist, grounding him. “Bob…It’s okay.”

He blinked down at you, breath still stuttering, eyes wide with pain. You could see it–all the things he wanted to say but didn’t know how to shape. The guilt, the disbelief, the raw ache of seeing you marked by something like The Void.

“Come back down here and kiss me,” You whispered, running your free hand along his chest. Bob’s breath hitched. His hand–still trembling–hovered just above your ribs, as if afraid that touching the bruises might make them worse. But when your fingers ghosted along his chest, steady and warm, he finally exhaled. A long, shaking breath, like the guilt, was something living in his lungs.

He touched one of the marks gently, his fingertip grazing it like it might dissolve beneath too much pressure. His eyes stayed on the shape of it, lips parted, voice low and cracking as he whispered–

“O-Okay.”

Then he leaned down, kissed you again–softer this time.

There was no desperation in it now. Only reverence.

It felt like an apology. Like a promise.

His hand cupped your cheek as his mouth moved against yours, slow and wet and open. He kissed you like he was trying to speak through it, like every flick of his tongue and every shared breath was meant to say I’m here. I’m real. I’ll never hurt you.

Then he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, lips brushing your jaw, “I’m gonna be more gentle than he ever was…”

His kisses trailed down to your throat. Slow. Patient. You felt them like electricity threading down your spine–each press of his mouth was careful, intentional. He kissed the hollow beneath your ear, your collarbone, the curve where your shoulder met your neck. And then–

“I want to take my time,” He whispered, voice thick. “I want to worship every inch of this body. I want you to feel safe with me, loved by me…And not used.”

Your breath caught.

His lips brushed over a fading mark near your sternum, and he paused there–kissed it once, twice, so softly it nearly undid you before returning to your lips.

“You’re in control,” He added. His thumb stroked along your cheekbone. “Everything is up to you. We go as far as you want. Nothing more. I just…” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I just want to be close to you. I just want to deserve you.” Tears pricked your lashes. Not out of sadness. But out of how much he meant every word. You nodded, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead.

“I want this,” You whispered. “With you. However slow, however soft… Just don’t stop touching me.” Bob nodded, a quiet, trembling breath slipping past his lips like he was grounding himself in the gravity of your words. He leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you with a new kind of hunger–less desperate, more deliberate. You could feel it in the way his lips lingered, in the way he savored every brush, every breath, like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth all over again.

Then he began to trail lower.

His lips ghosted along your collarbone–soft, reverent kisses that made your skin ache. His hand, warm and steady now, slid up from your ribs to the swell of your breast. He hesitated there only for a second, like he was asking wordlessly for permission, and when you arched into him, breath hitching, he exhaled like he’d been granted a miracle.

His mouth followed his hand.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your breast–slow and open-mouthed–and you swore you could feel it pulse all the way to your spine. Another kiss, lower now. Then his tongue flicked out to taste you, wet and soft, and your fingers curled in the sheets.

When he finally wrapped his lips around your nipple, you gasped.

It was tender at first–gentle suction, his mouth warm and soft as his tongue stroked slow circles over the sensitive peak. His hand cradled the underside of your breast, thumb stroking rhythmically across your skin. He moaned softly against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into your chest, making your back arch, hips lifting off the mattress in a slow, unconscious grind.

“Bob,” You breathed, the sound broken and aching.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just groaned low in his throat and sucked a little harder, a little deeper, and your hands flew to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you held him close to you. His other hand came up to cup your free breast now, kneading it gently, carefully, like you were something too precious to rush. His fingers brushed across your other nipple, teasing it to hardness before his mouth left its twin and moved over–wet and hot and aching for more.

He gave the same attention to the other side, lips parting to take you in, tongue swirling around your nipple with languid strokes, then sucking deep, like he couldn’t get enough. You gasped again, legs shifting restlessly beneath him as your thighs pressed together for friction. You could feel the wet heat of your arousal soaking through your shorts now, the friction maddening, but you didn’t ask him to stop. Couldn’t. His mouth on you felt too good. Too right.

Bob moaned again as your hips lifted, and his hand slid lower, fingers tracing the soft dip of your waist before gliding up again to cup the side of your breast, massaging it slowly as he kept his mouth latched to your nipple.

When he finally pulled back, lips slick and parted, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “So so beautiful…“ Your chest rose and fell under his praise, breath catching hard, and your voice trembled when it finally broke free.

“I need you,” you gasped, your hand sliding into his hair, tightening gently. “Bob–I’m so wet it hurts.”

His breath hitched. His eyes–already dark–dilated further, and you felt the shiver ripple down his spine.

But then he shook his head, slow and dazed, like he was in a trance.

“No,” He said, voice hoarse, almost reverent. “Not yet. I need to taste you first.”

You blinked down at him, heat coiling in your core so hard you thought you might come undone just from that alone.

“Please…Anything…” You whispered, barely able to say it.

He surged up to kiss you again–hungry, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that made your legs tremble around his waist. And then he pulled back just enough to press his lips to your jaw, your neck, your chest–leaving a wet trail downward, his hands sliding reverently over your hips. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and dragged them down slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed. When he reached the damp cotton of your panties, he paused–just long enough to press his mouth against the soaked fabric.

“O-Oh god,” He whispered, voice shaking. “You’re dripping for me.”

You moaned, hips twitching, fingers curled in the sheets.

Then–without hesitation–he dragged your panties down, kissing the inside of your thigh as they came off. He eased you open with steady hands, and the moment he saw you laid bare for him, his breath left him in a ragged exhale.

“G-God, you’re perfect,” He said, his voice thick with awe and hunger. “So p-perfect.” He kissed the soft skin there, just at the edge of where you ached, breathing in deep like the scent of you alone could ruin him.

Then he exhaled slowly, and leaned in.

The first touch of his tongue was gentle. A single, slow stripe from the base of your entrance to the swollen peak of your clit, wet and unhurried. You shivered violently beneath him, fingers already reaching for his hair. He groaned softly against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into your core. And then he did it again–slower this time. More deliberate. Tongue flat and warm, dragging through your folds with the kind of focus that made your toes curl.

He didn’t rush.

There was no frenzy in him.

Only patience. Devotion. Worship.

He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, barely-there touches that made your thighs twitch around his head. Then he flicked softly–once, twice–and looked up at you.

His eyes were already half-lidded. Glassy. Like the taste of you had undone something deep inside him. And then he closed them again, like savoring the feel of you was a prayer.

You moaned when his nose nudged your clit, the angle forcing it against the sensitive bud as his tongue dipped lower, gently licking at your entrance. You were soaked. Bob groaned at the taste, tongue working you open with trembling reverence, and you gasped, your hips bucking up without meaning to.

He pressed his hands to your thighs, holding you down firmly but not forcefully, his fingers splayed wide like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded. His mouth moved slowly, methodically, lavishing every part of you. When he dragged the flat of his tongue up your slit again and wrapped his lips around your clit for the first time, you cried out, head thrown back against the pillow, fingers tightening in his hair.

Bob moaned again–deep and low–as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer. His tongue circled, flicked, pressed. He moved with a rhythm that was impossibly focused, like he was studying you, learning every breath, every twitch, every gasp, and adjusting his pressure like a master of his craft.

You were panting now, whimpering, rolling your hips up into his mouth without shame. There was nothing detached or cruel in his touch. No domination. No edge of control. Just a man falling apart over the taste of you, letting himself be consumed by the act of giving.

He pulled back for a moment, lips glistening, breath ragged.

“C-Can I…?” he rasped, eyes blown wide. “Can I use my fingers too?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes, yes–God, please–”

Bob didn’t waste a second.

His mouth dropped back to your clit instantly, tongue circling it again as two fingers slipped into your entrance. The stretch was perfect. The angle just right. He moved them slowly, curling deep inside you with a tenderness that had you keening.

And when he moaned around your clit as your walls fluttered around his fingers, the vibration shot through your whole body like lightning.

You were unraveling. Quickly.

And all you could think was this is what The Void could never give me.

Warmth. Presence. Safety.

Bob groaned into you again, pressing soft kisses between strokes of his tongue. His nose nudged your clit with every stroke of his mouth against your folds. His fingers moved in perfect rhythm–slow, deep, patient–curling up and stroking the spot inside you that made stars flicker at the edges of your vision.

You looked down through the haze of your pleasure and saw him.

Face buried between your thighs.

Lashes fluttering.

Cheeks flushed.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, like this was sacred. Like pleasing you was the only thing in the world that mattered. He sucked your clit into his mouth again, softly but completely, and swirled his tongue as he fucked you deeper, harder with his fingers–and you cried out.

“Bob–Bob, I’m–” You couldn’t finish. Your voice cracked on a sob of pleasure as your body seized beneath him.

Your climax hit like a wave crashing into shore. Your thighs trembled around his head, your hands fisted in the sheets, and your back arched as you came with a broken, shuddering moan. He didn’t stop. He slowed, easing you through it, his tongue moving gently now, soothingly, like he was kissing the aftershocks from your body one by one.

You collapsed back onto the bed, panting, fingers slipping weakly from his hair. Your body was humming, oversensitive, but sated in a way it never had been before. When Bob finally pulled back, his lips were red and slick, chin glistening. His eyes were wide and awe-filled. And he looked…Wrecked.

But in the most beautiful way.

“Was that okay?” He asked, voice hoarse, shy again now, like he hadn’t just brought you to heaven and back.

You laughed, breathless, tears of overstimulation prickling at your eyes.

“It was perfect,” you whispered. “So much better than anything I ever imagined. So much better than him.”

His expression softened, and he leaned up to kiss you. You could taste yourself against his lips–hot, slick, faintly sweet and obscene. It hit you like a jolt. The knowledge that he’d been buried between your legs only moments ago, devouring you like a man starved, and now you were tasting the evidence of it on his tongue. He kissed you deeper, filthier, letting you feel the way his mouth was still soaked with you. His tongue pushed past your lips, slow and deliberate, and you moaned into him like the sensation alone was enough to make you spiral all over again.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he groaned–long and low–as his hips bucked instinctively against you.

The thick press of his erection, still confined in those useless sweatpants, dragged against your bare, sensitive core. You gasped at the contact. He hissed between clenched teeth, rutting once, twice–shallow, desperate grinds that made you both tremble.

And then he broke the kiss.

Barely.

Foreheads pressed, his breath crashed against your lips as he whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked:

“I’m g-gonna take these off…”

He reached down with one hand, already tugging at the waistband of his sweats. The movement was slow, breathless. Then his voice dropped even lower–richer, rougher.

“…A-And you’re gonna get on top.”

Your breath caught.

His hand cupped the side of your face again, thumb brushing over your flushed cheek like he was grounding himself even now.

“I-I want you to do whatever you want to me,” He said, voice cracking with the weight of his need. “I just w-want you to be in control.”

You stilled.

Not because you doubted him–but because that sentence hit something primal. It was surrender in the truest sense of the word. The most powerful man you’d ever met–the man who could turn people into shadows and who held galaxies in his chest–was offering you everything. No fear. No condition. Just Bob. Letting you lead.

”I have to say…That’s so hot…” You whispered, your voice rough with awe and heat. A slow, shaky smile pulled at his lips, and his hands moved again—sliding his sweatpants down his hips and kicking them off. His cock was flushed, hard, thick where it curved up toward his stomach, tip already wet with precum. Your breath caught again.

Bob looked…Divine.

Raw. Unshielded. And still trembling under the weight of how badly he wanted this to be yours. Bob shifted back against the headboard, legs bent slightly, hands braced on the mattress at his sides. His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He looked ruined already. Completely at your mercy. And he liked it.

He watched you with parted lips, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The flushed curve of his cock stood proud between his thighs, wet at the tip, twitching with every heartbeat. But he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t even dare. He just waited.

For you.

You rose onto your knees and crawled toward him slowly, deliberately. Each movement was precise. Controlled. Letting him feel the weight of your intent with every inch you claimed. When you reached him, you straddled his hips and felt him go still–completely, reverently still–beneath your thighs.

Your knees bracketed his hips, bare and hot, and you sat up fully. Spine long, hair falling around your shoulders, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you steadied yourself. Bob looked up at you like you were holy. Like you were something he’d dreamed of for years but never believed he’d get to worship this way.

And then–eyes locked with his–you reached down between your bodies.

Bob gasped as your fingers curled around the base of his cock, firm but slow, and you gave him one long, aching stroke. His hips twitched, a strangled sound caught in his throat. But he still didn’t move. He was giving you everything.

You dragged the head of his cock through your folds–once, twice, again–coating him in your slick, letting him feel how wet you were. How ready.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, head tipping back slightly against the wood. “Y-You’re gonna kill me…”

You smiled, breathless. Then, without breaking eye contact, you angled him perfectly beneath you–and slowly, so slowly, you began to sink down.

The stretch was…Devastating.

Thick. Full. Hot.

You let out a broken sound from deep in your throat as you took him inch by inch. Bob’s hands gripped the sheets at his sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality. His head dropped forward to watch, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, a string of half-whispered praises tumbling from his lips.

“God, you’re–” His voice fractured, shaking, “–you feel so good, s-so perfect…”

You settled fully into his lap, and the moment you did, Bob let out a shuddering moan–quiet but guttural, like the sound had been lodged somewhere in his ribs.

He was buried deep inside you. All of him. The stretch still pulsed through your core like a heartbeat, throbbing and full, but you didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, you reached for his hands.

“Hold me,” You whispered.

Bob obeyed instantly.

His hands slid from the bedsheets to your hips, then around your waist, arms wrapping tightly around you as if he could mold his body to yours. His palms splayed wide across your back, holding you so carefully, so reverently, like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you down.

Your chest pressed against his. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

You could feel the way he trembled. The tension in his thighs. The shallow rise and fall of his breath as he clung to you like salvation. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his mouth opened against your neck, breath searing hot.

But still–you didn’t move.

You stayed seated fully on him, body wrapped around his, and just…Let yourself exist like that. Connected. Claimed. In control.

Bob whimpered.

Not from pain, not from frustration—but from the sheer intensity of it. Of being inside you, of being held still, of having to surrender to your pace. His cock throbbed inside you, twitching helplessly with every pulse of your walls, and he moaned when he felt it.

“This…O-Oh Y/N….Y-You’re so perfect.” He whispered, leaning forward so his lips could find your neck. He dragged his mouth over your pulse point, breath warm and uneven. He nuzzled the skin there, pressing one long kiss just beneath your jaw before scraping his teeth gently across your flesh.

You gasped.

He moaned.

“I love the way you taste,” He whispered, voice low and wrecked. “I’d mark you if you let me… Kiss every inch of your skin ‘til you couldn’t tell where I ended and you started…”

You pulsed around him again.

Bob choked on a gasp, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“I’d let you ruin me if it meant I got to stay like this. Inside you. Wrapped up in you. Y-You don’t even have to move, I’ll still come like this if you keep squeezing me like that.”

Your fingers found his neck, the column of it slick with sweat, the pulse there fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings beneath your palm. You held him gently—not tight, not possessive, just enough to anchor him. To guide him.

“Bob,” you whispered, breath brushing the shell of his ear. “Look at me.”

He obeyed, slow and trembling. His forehead lifted from your shoulder, lashes fluttering as he met your gaze. His eyes were blown wide, the deepest shade of blue, glassy and brimming. There was so much there—longing, awe, fear, surrender—and you held it all with your hand on his throat and your body wrapped around his.

You moved first.

It was a subtle grind of your hips, a slow press down and forward that sent his cock dragging deliciously against your walls and his pelvis flush against your clit. Your breath caught in your throat at the friction, the heat, the closeness. Bob gasped—his mouth falling open in a broken moan, hands tightening slightly on your back.

“F-Fuck,” he whispered. “Oh my God…”

You did it again. A slow, rolling grind that pressed you right there, and he felt every trembling inch of it. His head dropped forward with a choked sound, mouth brushing your collarbone.

“No,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his jaw, lifting his chin. “Keep looking at me.”

His eyes opened again, wrecked and obedient, and you gave him another slow, deep grind–your slick walls pulling around him as your clit rubbed in firm circles against the ridge of his pelvis. Bob trembled under you, his chest heaving, arms holding you tighter like you were the only thing keeping him from coming apart.

“I need you to stay right here,” You said softly. “I need to feel all of you.”

“I-I’m right here,” he choked. “I swear–I’m not going anywhere.”

You kissed him.

God, you kissed him like it was your last chance. Your mouth was soft and open, your tongue slow and sweet, like you were trying to breathe life back into both of you. And Bob melted into it—completely, utterly. His hands curved up your spine, not to control but to cradle. To keep you close.

Your hips found a rhythm. A deep, rolling grind that pressed you into him again and again—smooth and slow and so fucking full. You weren’t riding him for speed. You weren’t chasing anything. You were claiming him. Letting him exist inside you like he belonged there. Like this was always how it was supposed to be.

Bob’s breath hitched, and then–barely a whisper–

“I-I can’t believe you want me like this…”

“I do,” you said, voice thick. “So much.”

Your clit rubbed in perfect friction against him now with each roll of your hips. The wet sound of it was quiet but present, the heat building low in your belly again as you rocked in smooth, delicious circles. His eyes fluttered shut for a second–just one–but you gave a warning squeeze around his cock and he gasped, eyes flying open.

“Eyes on me,” You murmured, voice like velvet and lightning all at once. “I need you to see me when I come.”

Bob’s breath broke. He whimpered–a sound you’d never thought you’d hear from a man like him–and it made your walls flutter around him again. You moved your hand from his throat to cup his jaw now, brushing your thumb over the tear that had slipped free onto his cheekbone.

“Oh, Bob,” You whispered. “Don’t cry.”

“I can’t—I can’t help it,” He choked, another tear slipping free. “I-It’s just… you’re so close, you’re right here, and I don’t deserve it, and I–”

“You do,” You said firmly, kissing the tears from his cheeks, one after the other. “You do. I promise you do.”

His arms tightened around you and he pressed his forehead to yours as your hips kept moving. Your clit rubbed harder against his pelvis now, your body slick and hot and trembling with the mounting tension. You could feel your orgasm coming–slow and powerful, cresting like a tide inside you–and Bob felt it too.

“You’re shaking,” He whispered, voice thick with awe. “You’re gonna come like this? F-From just…Grinding on me?”

“With you inside me,” You breathed. “With your arms around me. With you crying for me.”

Bob moaned, helpless and high. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn’t speed you up. He let you keep control. And that was what made it so fucking perfect.

Your breath broke first.

A gasp. A cry. Your head tipped back as your orgasm swept through you, deep and slow and overwhelming. Your walls clenched hard around him and your clit rubbed perfectly against his skin as you rode it out, sobbing against his mouth as he held you tighter, kissing your cheeks, your jaw, whispering praise in a broken voice.

“So perfect, so perfect, oh my God, you feel like heaven–”

Then you felt him twitch inside you. His whole body locked, breath caught on a desperate moan.

“C-Can I–Y/N–please, I need–can I come?”

“Come inside me,” You whispered. “Let go, you’re safe.”

That broke him.

Bob cried out, shuddering, hips jerking once, twice, then grinding deep as he spilled inside you–warm and thick, pulsing against your walls as he sobbed into your neck. His arms held you tight, breath shaking like every part of him was unraveling in your hands.

And it was beautiful.

You stayed like that–wrapped around each other, trembling, kissed in sweat and tears and come–until the shaking slowed, until the only sound in the room was your breathing, synced.

Then Bob pulled back, barely, and looked at you.

His cheeks were flushed. His lips swollen. His eyes still wet.

“I love you,” He said hoarsely, like it was the only thing he had left. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

Your heart cracked wide open.

And you kissed him again.

Soft. Tender. Final.

“I know,” You whispered. “I love you too.” His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his hand curling protectively over your spine as if to shield the last remaining fragments of you from the world outside your shared warmth. His other hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled softly in your hair, holding you close to him.

”A-Are you okay?” He asked gently, and you nodded.

”Let’s just stay like this for a little while…Please.” Bob nodded, and buried his face into your shoulder, breathing you in heavily. His body trembled under yours. Not from exertion now, but from something gentler. Something raw. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest in steady, staggering bursts. His cock was still inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you cared. The sweat between your skin clung like sealant. Like gravity. Like home.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek–just beneath the smudge of drying tear salt.

He didn’t speak again until a long, quiet minute later.

“…I didn’t hear him.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

Bob pulled back just slightly, just enough to look you in the eye. His fingers brushed over your jaw. His voice was softer now. More certain.

“The Void,” He whispered. “I didn’t hear him… Not once. Not when I kissed you. Not when I touched you. Not even when I came.” His brow furrowed gently, like the realization had just fully settled in his chest. “He wasn’t there. Not at all.”

Your heart thudded so hard it hurt.

“…Me neither,” You replied, blinking. “I didn’t hear him either.”

You both paused.

Then Bob cupped your cheek and leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your mouth. This one wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t claiming. It was the kind of kiss that thanked you for every piece of what came before. The kind that whispered: we made it.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together again.

“I think he’s gone,” You said, voice shaking with disbelief. “I think–just for now–it’s quiet.”

Bob nodded slowly, eyes still closed.

“It’s just you in my head right now,” He said quietly. “You’re the only thing I hear.” You felt the tears prick your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t sharp. They didn’t ache. They flowed soft and steady as you pulled back slightly, looked him in the eyes, and brushed a lock of damp hair from his forehead.

“Let’s clean up,” You murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

Bob blinked slowly, then offered a dazed smile–half-exhausted, half-stunned.

“You just did.”

“I’m not done,” You said, gently shifting off his lap. He gasped quietly at the loss of contact, but didn’t resist as you helped him stretch out against the pillows.

You moved slowly.

Your body ached–in the best way–and you padded quietly across the room to retrieve a soft towel and the glass of water by your bedside. When you returned, Bob was watching you like he didn’t know how to stop.

You sat beside him and wiped him down with gentle strokes–starting at his chest, dabbing along the flushed trail of sweat down his sternum, then moving lower, cleaning his softening length with quiet care. His breath hitched when you did, but he didn’t flinch. He let you take your time.

When you finished tending to him, you leaned forward to press one last kiss to the center of his chest. His skin was still warm and flushed, the thudding of his heart echoing just beneath your lips. But before you could shift away, Bob’s hand gently wrapped around your wrist.

“Wait,” he murmured softly, eyes steady and shining. “M-My turn…”

You blinked at him, surprised. “Bob, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he whispered. “Please. Let me.”

There was a depth to his voice that left no room for refusal—soft, reverent, as if this was as important to him as any kiss or confession. You nodded slowly.

And Bob moved carefully.

He sat up with you, then gently coaxed you to lay back down, easing you onto the pillows with trembling hands. You watched him with quiet wonder as he reached for the towel you’d just used on him and dipped the clean edge into the water glass, wringing it out carefully. His movements were so tender, like touching you now required an entirely different kind of strength–one that didn’t come from the Sentry.

It came from love.

He knelt between your legs and brushed his fingers softly along the inside of your thigh, his eyes flicking up to yours. You gave a small nod, breath catching slightly, and let your legs fall open for him.

He swallowed hard.

The sight of you–still glistening from him, swollen and pink, your inner thighs kissed with the aftermath of pleasure–made him blink slowly like he was afraid he’d miss something if he looked away for even a second. You expected him to begin right away with the towel, but instead, Bob leaned in first.

And kissed the inside of your thigh.

Just once. Then again. And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses trailed up the curve of your leg, each one slower than the last, lips warm and gentle as he nuzzled and worshipped the skin just inches from your core. Your breath hitched as his mouth pressed a kiss just beside your entrance–like he was blessing the part of you that held him, loved him, trusted him.

“Thank y-you,” He whispered, voice hoarse. “F-For letting me have this. For… C-Choosing me…After what happened…”

You reached down, hand threading through his hair, and Bob looked up at you as he finally brought the towel to your center.

He was gentle. So incredibly gentle.

The cloth was warm, and the strokes were slow–he cleaned you with the care of someone handling sacred glass, careful not to press too hard, not to rush, not to do anything that might make you flinch. You didn’t. Not once. If anything, your body softened further under his touch.

When he was done, he set the towel aside and pressed another kiss–right above your mound this time, reverent and trembling. Then he looked up at you again. His eyes were still wet.

“You’re perfect,” You whispered. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Bob exhaled hard, like the words shook something loose inside his chest. Then he crawled back up beside you, pulling the comforter up and over your bodies with one hand as the other cupped the back of your head. He tucked you in against him slowly, protectively, until your cheek was resting over his heart.

You could hear it beating fast.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you murmured against his skin.

His fingers traced soft shapes along your spine. “Me neither.”

There was a silence that followed–but it wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Full of something new. Something unspoken. Something earned.

Bob kissed the top of your head, lips lingering like a promise.

And you closed your eyes against his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that, for the first time in a long time, was quiet.

No voices.

No shadows.

231 notes · View notes

plumsdoll · 1 day ago

Text

Enchanted

Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky finally found his missing piece and it was you. He knew from the first moment he saw you.

Word counts: 2.8k

Warning: FLUFF. Cursing. Congressman Barnes era. Mentioned and described about anxiety. Bucky mourned Steve. Reader have long hair. Reader didn't have any specific age but look like in 20s or 30s. The story took place before Thunderbolts*. No beta read.

Notes: Hi~! this is my first Bucky Barnes fanfiction ever!! I've been hiding for sometime until I had a courage to write my own Bucky Barnes fanfiction! and English is not my first language so if you find any mistake I hope you don't mind. I hope everyone enjoy my work and if you do, it would be more than thankful to know your thoughts! Please enjoy!

P.S. Anxiety is very serious. I—myself—am dealing with it and I want more people to be aware of it and be aware of people who is dealing with it. Thank you so much!

Nightmares were gone.

He was finally free. No more fighting. No more carrying guilt like a shadow that followed him everywhere. No more reminiscing of distressing bygone days. Eventually, Bucky could choose to live the life he always wanted. But…why did he still feel empty inside? A missing piece lingered in his heart, one he couldn't quite name.

This missing piece was considerable. It kept Bucky in an uneasy episode. It was difficult enough to be a man out of time in the modern world. He was drained to keep up with current political predicament as a congressman. And not to mention cutting-edge technology which was really helpful but confusing. It was different. Everything was different without Steve. Maybe the void, the missing space was Steve, the space that was impossible to fill.

Every day was the same. He woke up at 6 a.m., or earlier if he couldn't sleep, and went for a walk to clear his mind before going to work. He still didn't fully understand the modern protocols of Congress. It was significantly changed after the war—as it should. Sometimes he called Sam to keep in touch. It helped—talking with Sam—but still, it couldn't fill the emptiness inside him.

It had been bothering him a whole lot lately. He never felt like that before. He couldn't work, couldn't keep focused. His mind wandered around like a puppy that lost its owner. What was happening to him? He was always able to suppress the feeling but not this time. He felt like it was near, but what is it?

Bucky shook his head before keeping focused on his bowtie—the damn bowtie. One of the disadvantages of being a congressman were social events. He couldn't avoid it under any circumstances now that he merely had the position for six months.

It was ironic. He used to love social events, he was the one who dragged Steve to the fair but look at him now, whining about how he hated it. Maybe he had to admit that he was too old for this.

Bucky exhaled before checking himself in the mirror for one last time, stared at his figure and thought about how far he had come. Evidence of viability was written all over his face. He couldn't deny it but it was what made him who he is today. Maybe he was finally ready—like he always told himself—but he never was. It scared him every time he thought about it. The thought of how he was never going to fit in. Even though everything was better, however, the hungry eyes were fixed on him. It was a mind game in the sealed room. He had to prove himself that he was worthy. Of what— he didn't know. It was just that he felt like he had to prove himself that he was no longer the person who was once the most feared individual on the planet. Bucky told himself one last time—He's not him. He's James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky was being dragged from one conversation to another. He met countless people that he didn't even have time to remember. Throughout the entire encounter, he avoided any eye contact that followed him everywhere like he was a sculpture in the museum for people to extract the gist. He was forcing laughter and faking smiles. People seemed to be amazed that he was genuinely a normal person and learned of what he thought, he could hear them thinking; He's not what we have read in the museum!

The fifth champagne didn't help in this situation. He was looking around to find an excuse for a moment before someone asked him about his time as the Winter Soldier. The question caught him off guard and left him momentarily speechless. He wasn't prepared for the question and the fact that it had done something to him. The storm of feelings crawled back expeditiously and ultimately it caught on his throat. Bucky started to feel overwhelmed amongst people who shot questions perpetually at him. Everything around him seemed blurry and he couldn't keep focused. His heart was beating faster, he was grasping for some air but the air suddenly was heavy to breathe in. His grip faltered and the champagne flute in his hand dropped to the floor. The champagne splashed on the marble, some droplets caught on the margin of dresses and tailored pants, then someone made a joke;

“Oh, it seems like congressman Barnes is already sloshed.” And they laughed. Bucky shot a look at the person who said it but she didn't seem to notice.

“Excuse me, I need a moment.” Bucky declared before broke his way out of the group of people who circled around him. He found a place where there were not many people around. He grabbed the marble pillar to help him stand straight. His legs went limp, it felt like if he loses his grip he would outright fall to the ground. Bucky was trying to breathe slowly before turning his face to focus on his vicinity.

“Ok. 333 rule, come on.” Bucky said before looking around the room.

“Three things I can see…the red cocktail dress…ummm congressman Gary? Man, where the hell have you been all night. That's definitely a pre-tied bowtie. God, I hate pre-tied…and…” Bucky shifted his eyes from congressman Gary to the person who he was talking to. It was you.

“The white satin dress on the most beautiful woman I've…ever seen.” Everything around him stopped all at once. His eyes fixed on you and only you. He captured every possible detail that he could see. Your perfectly curled hair rested on your exposed shoulders. Your sweet eyes. Lovely nose. Irresistible lips. He was wonderstruck by your beauty across the room. Everything went black and white but you shone golden radiant through the room and gave them light. You were an oasis in the desert. The rainbow after the storm. The first snow of winter. The missing piece in his heart. Bucky knew at that moment that he couldn't lose you. You were the one who he was missing dearly even though you never met.

Bucky saw you excused yourself from congressman Gary. His consciousness was back and then he was starting to follow his heart. His legs, instantly, had the strength to walk again. He followed you to the bar and sat at the adequate distance. He ordered something strong to encourage himself. There was only you and him at the bar. It was quite awkward even though he thought you didn't even notice him. You didn't say anything and he was too anxious to speak. There was no conversation going on between you for a short while, somehow Bucky didn't feel uneasy in this situation. He felt relaxed and easier to breathe now that he had your company.

“It’s intense, isn't it? This endless abyss” You broke the silence. He wasn't fully looking at your direction because he wasn't sure if you were talking to him or not.

“I'm talking to you, congressman Barnes.” You giggled when he startled before facing you. He swore your voice was so sweet like a bird chirping in the crisp morning.

“Oh, umm, yes. Yes, it is.” He cleared his voice after and changed his focus to the glass in front of him. He didn't know what to say. He cursed to himself; You can't lose her, James Buchanan Barnes. Fucking do something! Say something!

“You—”

You looked at each other for a second or two before his eyes went wide and you laughed simultaneously. He looked at you, threw your head back and laughed at him. He felt embarrassed but in a good way. How long has it been since he courted someone? He felt petrified at the idea of it. His body went numb and he didn't want to move too fast. It was a strange feeling when he thought that you were at most in your 20s or 30s but now he's an old man who was 110 years old merely last month. It wasn't like in the 1940s anymore and it suddenly scared him.

“You, first.” Your voice broke through his thoughts.

“Oh, no. There's nothing—”

“Oh, come on. If you want to court me. Here's your chance. Is that what you called it in your days? Court?” You laughed again and then his face turned red. He tried to hide it by sipping the whiskey in his hand but it was still obviously in the exposed light at the bar.

“It’s not and I wasn't trying to court you.” He tried to hide his smile but he hated to admit that those times when he was out on the mission was easier than trying to not swoon at your presence. His hand was meddling with the rocks glass, fingers playing with the beads around it. Your eyes followed his fingers, it sent heat through your body.

“Who are you, by the way. I never saw you anywhere.” Bucky shot a question to keep the conversation going but it was also his genuine question too. He never saw you at any other social events that he went to. Nothing could escape his eagle-eye and surely not even a pretty little thing like you. You would be the first in the room that caught his attention.

“Maybe I was there but you never saw me.”

“That's impossible.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot that you were a spy.” You lifted your hand up and did the O shape around your eye. Bucky chuckled and licked his lips. He knew at that moment that you were going to be the death of him. Gosh, it must have been too long since he's falling head over heels for someone. It's a strange feeling that he willingly submitted to.

“No. I mean—I don't think if I ever saw you, I'm going to let you out of my sight that easily.” Suddenly, the world stopped again. You exchanged eye contact across the adequate space. It felt too far, he needed to get closer to hold you. The piano caught his ears and the idea came into his mind. He needed to make a move and it had to be a move that he was familiar with.

“Dance with me.” He extended his hand to you. You laughed because you thought it was a joke but then you looked at him and there was nothing playful written on his face. You looked at the group of people standing, no one was dancing along the music. You looked at him again.

Fuck it.

The moment you took his hand was something new entirely. The feeling was overwhelming but in a good way. There was something that you didn't know how to describe. It was like lightning—a magnet that pulled you closer. He led you in the center of the room. Everyone was looking. You could see their bewildered eyes staring. Your heart was beating fast. It was a ludicrous idea and you liked it but now you weren't entirely sure.

“Hey, look at me.” Bucky grabbed your waist and pulled you closer. You looked up at him and met his piercing blue eyes. His vibranium arm guided your hands to rest on his shoulders. The coldness of the material sent shivers through you. He rested the arm on your waist and started to move.

“Don't be scared. Just follow me.” Bucky started to sway and lead you to smooth movement. You were restricted at first but then started to relax and follow his steps. You never shifted your eyes from his. You were embarrassed at the idea but didn't regret it at all.

“Are they still looking?” You asked with a trembling voice. Suddenly, you wanted to disappear into the ground.

“Yes. They're always looking.” You swallowed nervously.

“You know what? I haven't danced since 1943…Feels like.” Bucky said with that playful glint in his smile and you burst out laughing and buried your face in his chest. At this close you could hear his heart pounding fast like he just went on a marathon. His cologne kicked your nose, it was earthy and fresh. It helped you feel relaxed.

“This is a bad idea.” You said while shutting your eyes and breathing in his scent.

“I know.”

“But I like it.”

“Me too.” Bucky said and kissed the top of your head. You were surprised at his move but you didn't complain. You wanted to keep this moment forever. You wanted to keep him forever.

You didn't know how long the time passed. The next move that brought you back to reality was when Bucky touched your wrists. You opened your eyes and realized that everyone was now dancing. You were amazed at your surroundings. You looked at Bucky and he was already looking. A spark of delight drew all over your face.

“They're looking at you.” You said with the awed in your voice.

“No. They're looking at you.” Bucky said and looked into your eyes. His eyes always looked like it was telling you something, something that wasn't a word or a number but a feeling. He wanted to preserve this moment forever.

“It's almost time. Can I bring you somewhere?” You nodded and then he guided you to the garden outside the estate where there's nobody there. The moon was full. The sky was clear. Everything was quiet. It looked like a dream. You looked at him while he was already looking. He didn't seem to shift his eyes off you. Just like he said.

“Are you going to kill me here?” You told a joke and smiled. If you are going to die tonight, it might be worth it.

“Maybe.” Bucky smiled. It felt like he was bewitched by you—heart and soul. Merely a minute, you could catch his heart and play with it. He was more than willing to give you everything. If you want him to kill, he would kill for you. If you want him to die, he would die for you. If you want a star he would find a way and give it to you. Because all of this wasn't hard at all compared to all this time he was waiting for you.

“What do you want to show me?” You asked.

“You have to lie down first.” Bucky guided you on the fresh green grass. It was poking on your sensitive skin but after a minute, you got used to it.

“I have these strange feelings.” Bucky said while lying on his side and looked at your face.

“What feelings?”

“I think you bewitched me.”

“What?” You laughed out loud like no one would hear. In fact, there was no one there to hear you anyway.

“I never felt this way before. It had been so long since I fell in love. It was a feeling that seemed unfamiliar to me until I saw you tonight.” There was no evidence of playfulness on his face. Everything was genuine. Under the moonlight he was still undoubtedly attractive. It scared you for a moment; the thought of losing him.

“You may think this is crazy but I would kill for you. I would die for you, if you say so.” You caressed his face with your hand and looked straight into his eyes.

“Live for me. Never let me go.” Tears welled up in his eyes and dropped on the grass, filling the earth with his blissful tears. You were getting closer and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. He pulled you in for a more passionate and longing kiss. You were yearning for each other like it had been so long since you met but it was odd when you realized this is the first time.

You startled when the sound of an explosion echoe in the sky. Bursts of color lit up in the night. You looked straight and saw fireworks cracked and popped above. The flickering lights filled the inky sky and danced around the full moon. It was magical.

“You like it?” Bucky asked but there was no answer. You just pulled him in for another kiss. Surely, you won't let him go. He bewitched your heart and soul. It might have taken him more than decades to finally find you but ultimately he did. And he was grateful that it happened at the right time—when he was ready for you. Ready to live for you and love you wholeheartedly. Maybe the myth was true, the one that said you were meant to find your other half and fortunately, now the missing piece had been filled.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes

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gldrushh · 3 days ago

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GUILTY AS SIN? | JJK | PART 𝐈𝐈𝐈 |

"After all lessons are learned. There's only one to live out in practicality. You're not sure how good you're at it —only that, this time, you won’t try alone."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, fluff

→W.C 20k

→ Warnings lots of mentions of graveyards, loss, nostalgia, because you can scream and scratch and bite but you can never go back, minhos third death anniversary, he stays haunting everyone, jk being lovesick, what's new?,their dating era!!, kissing, self realization, they make it official, mentions of anxiety, soft family moments :(, mention of jk threatening someone, protective jk, mentions of alcohol, like a lot, jk manhandling oc, she's drunk and a menace, he is so in love, and so is she apparently, jks nose gets appreciated, nose kisses, fluff, jk is rich, dancing around, real chessy stuff im sorry haha but trust me when i say that it pained me too

→ Playlist You are in love by Taylor swift

→A/N hi! hello! It's definitely not been a while since I posted but it most definitely feels like I've lived a multiple lifes since. I'm sorry for not posting when I promised and I'm sorry that you had to see me falling for rage bait because i don't belive that was anything but. Like genuinely get a life my brother in christ. I write fanfiction for a hobby. A silly little hobby. It's not that deep and you don't have to lose your shit over that. Anyways, all that negativity aside I wanna thank you to all the majority of my readers who were nice enough to put up with me. You all are who I write for and will continue doing so though can't say for sure lol. I've had a great time with writing this fic and all the love it got. It will forever hold a special place. These characters will forever hold a special place. I will miss them and I really hope you understand from the word count why it took the time it did and enjoy reading <33 please comment or message your thoughts!! Love you!!

| PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE |

The graveyard was quiet in a way that empty places learned to be. In a way that they are belived they are. With a stillness so complete, it felt like a held breath.

You sat cross-legged before the headstone, coat draped around your shoulders, your fingers numb from the stone bench that did little to hold warmth or from holding the bundle of white lilies, their stems slick with dew. You hadn’t put them down yet. You had spent the better part of your time here, staring at another small bouquet resting at the base of the grave—white carnations and forget-me-nots, arranged with care, like they always were. Someone’s been here before you. Arranged these flowers with love. There's just no name in some card that gives away the beholder of the love.

You traced the curve of a petal with your gaze, not touching it. Not needing to.

You're not wary of them. It's a graveyeard. It's Jeon Minho's—beloved son, brilliant brother, best husband—grave. It's never empty. You recalled, absently,how on his first death anniversary the plot had been crowded. A forest of flowers, letters folded into stones, paintings left by former students who still wrote emails to an address that no longer worked. One of them left a thumb drive with a digital portfolio and a note that simply read: “I only got in because of him.”

Even now—three years later—his name never stopped resounding in impertuable places because he had a way of staying with people, even long after he��d left the room. Had this laugh that would get stuck in your head. And somehow, that made it both easier and harder. That he was remembered in a love that he alone inspired. Gentle. Earned without asking. The kind of love that was mourned in secret, in ritual, in color.

You placed your bouquet down next to the others, brushing a fallen leaf from the base of the headstone. The stone was smooth beneath your touch, cold. You traced the carved letters-his name, the dates-and swallowed the lump that always formed when you read them too slowly.

“I was going to bring tulips,” you said softly, not sure if you were speaking to the stone or the wind. “But you always said they looked sad. Too floppy.” A sad smile curled at your mouth.

“Thought I’d bring lilies instead. Thought they might hold their shape better.”

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. But it was deep. It was marrow-deep. Though it didn't weight like it used to. It hummed in your blood, a familiar frequency. Almost like a song you’d once loved but now couldn’t bear to hear past the first few notes. Like the sky that is a pale repose of overcast, streaked with gray, the kind that always made Minho grumble about "bad lighting" when he painted. The ground is damp but not cruel. Just enough to remind you that time moves here too. That even woe must learn to grow things again.

A breeze stirred, threading through your coat, pushing strands of hair across your cheek. You didn’t brush them away. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, the grave in front of you, the silence beside you.

"Odd taste you had, min-min." You said after a while. "I wouldn't be suprised if you would find me sitting here, trying to make conversation with a slab of stone romantic. Probably say how so much effort for a guy who once mixed paint water into his cereal is good kind of weird."

Your voice cracked a little at that.

You don't cry.

You think that maybe you’ve used up all your tears on the wrong days—the regular ones, the grocery-list ones, the Tuesdays that came out of nowhere.

And then because the present can only be held for so long, you begin to remember.

The first time you were ever in a graveyard. Before you understood what death really was. Before it had touched you. When it was just a mystery. A place with names and flowers and questions no one could answer properly.

It had been years ago—childhood still clinging to your limbs like summer heat, with scraped knees and sticky palms and dreams that stretched further than your little world could hold. You and Jungkook couldn’t have been more than ten. Minho, already bordering on thirteen, had taken to pretending that his age made him wiser, even though he still laughed too loudly at fart jokes and left crayon smudges on his school notebooks.

You had been searching for this place for a while.

Not this graveyard, exactly, but the idea of it.

A name. A date. Something real to press against the fading edges of Jungkook’s memory.

He had come across a slip of paper one day in the back of a file, folded four times over, nearly forgotten in the drawer of father's study that nobody was allowed in. The handwriting had been unfamiliar—elegant but rushed—and it bore two names. His parents, he said. He thought.

And for weeks, the three of you had quietly tried to piece it together.

You’d used the school’s clunky computer lab—pretending to research for a social studies project while Minho furiously clicked through online directories and civic records. You whispered questions to the lunch lady, who knew someone who once worked in town hall. You even bribed the janitor with your entire sticker collection to let you sneak into the staff archives one afternoon.

No one said it was about sorrow.

No one had to.

You just wanted to help him find something—anything—that made him feel less like a shadow of someone else’s loss.

And finally, on a Thursday that still smelled like last night’s rain, you did.

You’d all skipped school that day.

The air still damp from last night’s rain, the sky overcast in a way that made the world look softer, quieter, like someone had pulled a cotton sheet over the sun.

It had been Minho’s idea, but Jungkook who needed it. You remember that part vividly, because he hadn’t asked out loud. Hadn’t needed to. He had stood in the courtyard with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-big jacket, hair a mess, eyes darker than usual. And Minho had just looked at him, then at you, and nodded.

“We’re going,” he said. "Are you ready, Kook?"

He was holding a slip of paper in one hand and clutching the edge of his jacket with the other.

“Yes, hyung." He had nodded. "I want to find them."

The air around you had gone quiet then—not out of shock, but out of care. Like the air had thinned out so as not to crowd him.

“We’d get in trouble,” you had broke the silence, voice a sharp whisper, mind already thinking of all ways you could get in trouble, eyes darting to the teachers pacing the other side of the field.

“Yeah,” Minho agreed. “But it’s a good reason. I'm sure they will understand...right?" Taller than the both of you already. He looked between Jungkook’s face and the paper again, then over at you.

You’d rolled your eyes, half because you were nervous and half because that was your role in this trio—to be skeptical just enough for Minho to feel brave. That made minho provide reassurance to his own doubt. "They will." Minho had said, like it was that simple.

And it was.

It always was, with the three of you.

You were kids, but not careless ones. You planned it like it was a secret mission—packed snacks in the side pockets of Minho’s bag, let Milo tag along even though he wasn’t technically allowed out without a leash. The sun was high when you snuck out, the kind of early spring day that couldn’t decide if it was warm or not. As if it was playing a cruel game of hide and seek, peeking through clouds that weren’t sure if they wanted to rain again. You wore your favorite jacket—denim with a strawberry patch on the sleeve. Jungkook didn’t bring anything except the folded piece of paper. Milo sat at his feet, tail thumping occasionally against the metal floor of the bus.

You caught the bus by the corner near the florist’s shop, ducking low behind the seats in case any familiar faces passed. The journey was slow. Long bus ride—two transfers, three wrong stops. You sat tucked in the back row, heads down, laughing behind your hands when Milo licked a stranger’s elbow. You passed the time counting license plates and telling each other made-up stories about the people outside.

One old man at the third stop looked at you from under his hat and said, “That place? That place’s been forgotten.”

But then a woman at the vegetable stall a few streets over gave you better directions. Told you to follow the path lined with dogwoods until you saw the iron gates.

You wandered through the quiet neighborhoods of Daejun on foot, sneakers wet from the last puddles, stepping over cigarette butts and crushed petals, past shuttered stores and a shrine half-covered in ivy. The deeper you walked, the more the world thinned out into something older. Something that felt sacred and sad all at once.

The graveyard.

Wrought iron gates half rusted, vines crawling up the stone wall, the sign chipped but still legible.

There was no one there to greet you. Just wind. And quiet. And Milo’s soft panting.

You stepped inside together, slow. Reverent. As if you were entering a cathedral.

You didn’t speak much. Just looked.

Row after row of headstones, some cracked, some buried under moss. The names were unfamiliar. The silence, even more so.

“I think it’s this way,” Minho said, squinting at the map he’d drawn on notebook paper. “I printed a map. And I’m, like, really good at reading maps.”

“You got us lost last week trying to find that new ramen place,” you reminded him, turning around to walk backwards for emphasis.

Minho rolled his eyes. “That was one time."

"Was it?" You looked at Jungkook to back you up but he only cracked a tiny smile at that. You caught it—brief, barely there—but it warmed you anyway. It had been a long week leading up to this.

“They’re somewhere near the east wall,” Minho said, squinting at the faded directions. “Row 12, plot 33. I think we’re close.”

Your footsteps crunched over gravel and scattered leaves. Milo veered off occasionally, sniffing at corners and chasing insects, but always came back. The sun filtered through bare branches in patches, dappling your arms in faint light.

The wind picked up when they turned the final corner—soft, not cold, brushing past their jackets like a whisper. Row twelve stretched ahead in crooked lines, some stones older than others, names worn down by years of weather and forgetfulness.

Jungkook stopped walking.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Two gravestones stood side by side, tucked beneath a slant of oak branches. The grass was longer here. The stones smaller than you expected.

They were side by side. Dates etched beneath them.Born years before any of you. Gone before Jungkook had learned what it meant to belong to anyone. No pictures. No flowers. Just names and silence. And that was all he had.

Jungkook stared at them like he didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. Like maybe he’d expected something different. Or maybe he didn’t know what he expected at all.

His hand crumpled the piece of paper still clutched in his fist.

You moved first, not touching him, just standing nearby, close enough that he’d know you were there if he needed you.

Minho lowered the backpack slowly to the ground, the usual jokes stalled on his tongue. Even Milo went still, sitting quietly at Jungkook’s feet, as if he understood the moment too.

Jungkook stepped forward, cautiously. His sneakers scuffed the grass. He crouched slowly in front of the grave, his knees pressing into the damp soil, fingertips hesitating above the stone.

“That’s them?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. “For real?”

Minho nodded. “Yeah. The names match.”

Jungkook didn’t speak again. He pressed his fingers lightly to the letters on the headstone—first his father’s, then his mother’s. They were cool from the shade, worn smooth at the edges.

You crouched beside him. He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the way his eyes were glossed, not quite crying, but close. “Do you think they were nice?”

Minho sat down cross-legged beside him, stretching his legs out like it was any other afternoon. “Your mom? Definitely. Anyone who names a baby Jungkook has to be at least kind of awesome.”

That earned the smallest laugh from you, and then from him.

Jungkook looked at the gravestones again. “Do you think they’d like me?”

You nudged his side with your elbow, gently. “Koo, it’s kinda hard not to like you.”

“I dunno,” he mumbled. “I cry sometimes. And I suck at spelling.”

Minho made a dramatic groan. "You’re the coolest. Smarter than me. And you always win at Mario Kart.”

Jungkook ducked his head, but you saw the way his shoulders loosened. He reached out then—hesitant—and brushed some dirt off the stone. You watched the movement, how careful it was. How reverent.

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything,” he murmured.

“But you do?” you asked.

He nodded, still not looking at either of you. “Yeah.”

You stayed there until the sun dipped lower behind the hills. Minho finished the sketch and tore the page from his book. He folded it carefully, handed it to Jungkook without a word.

Jungkook looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it into his hoodie pocket.

“Hey,” Minho said as you were walking back toward the gates. “Think they’ve got a vending machine nearby? I want strawberry milk.”

You laughed. “You always want strawberry milk.”

He smirked, tugging his cap lower. “Yeah, well. It’s a long walk home.”

You trace the rim of the headstone now, your fingertips ghosting. Lingering. Your voice is soft. Almost like a child's again.

“We never did find that vending machine.”

The wind stirs in the trees like it remembers too.

“But you’d be happy to know,” you continue softly, “that your paintings found their way anyway.”

You smile faintly, fingers brushing a small chip in the edge of the stone like you could smooth it out. “It’s finally happening. Really. The gallery. Jungkook’s opening it today.”

You glance up toward the stone, as if you might catch his reaction.

“I told him we should. After I saw it—I mean really saw it—I couldn’t not share it with the world. And you know me. I don’t say things like that unless I mean them. I think… I think you’d be proud of how much care he put into it. How many nights he stayed up figuring out framing and lighting and titles. Gosh."

Your voice thickens around the word proud.

“He asked me what kind of wine you’d want served at the opening,” you add, with a shaky laugh. “I said you’d just tell people to bring root beer instead and call it a day.”

You look at the lilies now, at the way their petals fold gently inward. You try to imagine the sound of Minho’s laughter if he were here. Try to imagine the way he’d tease you for crying without making you feel like crying was wrong.

“It looks beautiful, Min min. The gallery. I think it would’ve made you shy. All those people showing up just for you. Can you imagine?”

You pause.

A crow calls from a nearby tree. A leaf skitters across the gravel.

“And something else,” you say softly. “I think I should tell you.”

It’s not a secret, not really. Just something unspoken for a long, long time. Something you’ve carried carefully, like glass.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” you admit, a dry laugh slipping out. “I mean, of course I wasn’t. It felt impossible. Like… crossing a bridge I shouldn’t have even been near.”

The words take time. But you don’t rush them.

"First it was the the little bakery near the university with the good tarts. The museum with the terrible lighting but the softest benches. He even took me to that rooftop bar that used to give you vertigo—remember? "

You chuckle, covering your face briefly with your hand.

You shift your weight slightly, stretching your legs in front of you. A leaf lands on your boot.

“And then last week,” you continue, “he took me to this little Korean BBQ place in Hongdae. Said the meat was just okay, but the company made it worth it. We stayed until the restaurant closed. Walked along the river. He kissed me beside the railing. It was cold, and I couldn’t feel my fingers."

The place wasn’t fancy. People pronably didn’t dress up for here dressed up or made reservations two weeks in advance. It had plastic chairs that wobbled slightly, walls lined with signed polaroids and grease-stained menus, and a sliding glass door that stuck every time someone tried to open it too quickly.

They ordered too much, of course. He insisted on the samgyeopsal, you picked the bulgogi, and somehow you ended up with three side dishes neither of you remembered asking for. The grill sizzled between you, soft smoke curling toward the ceiling vents, and Jungkook poured yoh a glass of water like it was part of a rhythm only he knew how to follow.

And there was something about watching him like that—hair pushed back, head slightly tilted, tongs in hand while he laid down the marinated strips of meat—that made something shift inside you. Something small but sure.

Something you didn’t feel with the with the accountant who wouldn’t stop talking about NFTs. The guy who took you to a food truck but only ordered for himself.

A soft breath escapes you. “And it’s not the same. It’s not like it was with you. But it’s not different in the wrong ways either.”

You glance at the grave again, hands resting in your lap. Your heart hurts and swells at once.

“I think you’d understand,” you whisper.

And you do. In some strange, marrow-deep way, you believe it. That he would. That Minho, the boy who used to kiss the corners of your eyes and name his paint colors after inside jokes, would know what this meant. That he’d want this for you.

That he’d forgive you.

You reach for the lilies again, adjusting them so the stems don’t bend. Your eyes flick back to the stone.

“I still miss you,” you whisper. “I still love you.”

The breeze quiets again.

"And I still think you're the best friend I've ever had. That's why I needed to tell this this to you first."

Your fingers press gently to your lips, then down to the stone.

Who else would you tell other than the boy who had orchastered the definition of fairytale love for you? Who would you tell that you're starting to realize that he loves you? Maybe he had a for a long time now. And maybe you-

Bzzzt.

Your phone vibrated in your coat pocket.

The sound was soft, almost reluctant against the hush of the graveyard, like it too didn’t want to interrupt.

You blinked, pulled it out with chilled fingers, and read the message lit dimly on the screen.

[Dad:]

Sweetheart, we’re parked outside, still. Just checking if you’re ready.

You turned your head slightly and spotted the vague outline of your father’s car just beyond the gate, tucked in the corner of the lot. You could imagine your mother in the passenger seat, fingers wrapped around a thermos of tea, eyes scanning the trees while she waited with the scarf minho brought her two christmas ago, letting you have this moment uninterrupted.

They’re in town, of course. They always are, on this day.

It started the first year—when the pain was still red and raw and too large for your chest. Back then, you couldn’t eat, couldn’t speak without choking on the spaces where Minho should’ve been. Your parents had shown up with soup and chamomile tea and enough patience to outlast a storm. They stayed even when you didn’t speak for hours.

And every year since, they’ve found new ways to not let you be alone.

This day always makes them softer with you. Or maybe just more afraid of saying the wrong thing. Hovering a little closer. Speaking in quieter tones.

You sigh, brushing your thumb across the message. You don’t reply yet. Instead, you turn back toward the headstone, heart still soft and cracked wide open.You smile faintly.

“I should probably go.”

You reach down, sweeping a fallen petal from the edge of the stone.

“I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Tell you how it goes."

You gather your coat closer around your shoulders, standing slowly. Your knees creak from the cold stone bench, from sitting too long in one position. You stretch slightly, then glance once more at the flowers now clustered at the grave’s base.

The sky has begun to change—clouds pulling apart in slow, reluctant threads, letting in slivers of afternoon light. You press your fingers gently to the headstone one last time.

"Wish me luck, min min."

You imagine he does. Hands in his pockets. Smile tugging wide and lazy. Head tilted, like he knows you've got this.

Like he's urging you to go back to the part of the story where something finally begins.

You slipped into the backseat with a soft apology, the car door clicking shut behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmured, pulling your coat tighter around your shoulders. The fabric had gone cold against your skin, but the chill clinging to you wasn’t just from the graveyard. “I didn’t mean to keep you both waiting.”

Your mother turned in her seat, her eyes warm even beneath the slight crease of worry still lingering at her brow. “Don’t be silly,” she said gently, her hand reaching back to rest briefly on your knee, the kind of maternal touch that knew when to press and when to ease. “We figured you might want a few more minutes. We all do."

“We were just talking about how this town hasn’t changed a bit,” she added, shifting the topic without making a show of it.

“She was talking,” your father interjected from the driver’s seat, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I was checking the parking meter.”

“You were checking your watch and pretending it was the parking meter,” your mother teased.

“I was,” he insisted. “City’s always been eager to ticket emotional people in parked cars.”

You let the rhythm of their conversation fold around you, like the comfort of a familiar quilt. Safe. Worn soft with time. The kind of talk you’d heard all your life, in road trips and kitchens and walks through grocery aisles.

The engine kicked into motion, pulling you away from the graveyard slowly. You turned once in your seat, watching the wrought iron fence fade into the distance, your eyes lingering on the tree line long after it disappeared.

Outside, the town blurred past—branches heavy with the early promise of spring, cafés setting out mismatched chairs, signs swinging in the breeze like the sighs of old shopkeepers.

Your parents started talking about the café near the roundabout—how it had changed hands again, how the new owners apparently served matcha pancakes now, how the inside had been repainted a strange, charming blue. You listened with half an ear, forehead resting against the cool glass, hands folded in your lap.

Bzzt. Your phone made the same noise again.

[Jungkook]:

Are you on your way yet?

Missing you.

You typed back quickly, thumbs moving faster than your thoughts:

[You]:

On the way now. In the backseat with my parents. Be there soon.

He replied instantly like he was waiting with his phone in his hand.

[Jungkook]:

Good. See you.

You could picture him now—standing in the middle of the gallery in those dark slacks and a shirt with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed as he scanned the placement of frames and fiddled with the lighting, making sure nothing was out of place. He’d probably refused help again. Probably hadn’t eaten yet. Probably had to be convinced into not polishing every glass display himself.

You scrolled up, letting your thumb drag slowly over the thread from this morning:

[Jungkook]:

Good morning, angel ❤️

[Y/N]:

Good morning 😊

[Jungkook]:

Did you eat?

[Y/N]:

Just coffee so far. Did you?

[Jungkook]:

Two bites of toast. Stress eating. Lights are temperamental again but I'll sort them out.

[You]:

Don't stress it too much, okay? And eat.

[Jungkook]:

Copy that, professor.

You had smiled when you read that. Still did. A quiet little curve of your lips you didn’t bother hiding. Then he had sent a photo—one of the larger canvases half-unwrapped, sunlight catching the ridges of Minho’s brushstrokes like gold embroidery.

[Jungkook]:

Look at this.

[Y/N]:

Looks so beautiful. Everyone's gonna love it. You've done so much.

The light turned red and your father hummed to the radio while your mother picked at invisible lint on her sleeve.

[Jungkook]:

I can come get you after you're done visiting the cemetery. Just say the word.

[You]:

It’s okay. My parents are in town. I’m coming with them.

You were still staring down at the screen when your mother spoke again.“You’ve looked miles away for the last five minutes. Who’s texting you?”

You didn’t look up from your phone, but you could hear the knowing in her voice. “Oh.. it's Jungkook.”

“Ah,” she said, like that explained everything.

“He’s there already, isn’t he?” Your father asked casually.

You nodded, surprised. “Yeah, he’s… there. He’s doing a lot.”

“He always did have a stubborn streak,” your dad added. “Good head on his shoulders though."

Your mother smiled to herself. “I remember how he used to follow Minho around. And it's so beautiful now that he’s carrying so much of him forward.”

You looked down at your lap, throat tightening. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It is.”

The car turned left and began its slow crawl into a lane that was too familiar.

You sat straighter as the car slowed, heart pulling taut in your chest, held in place by something between gravity and memory. You recognized the bend in the road before you saw the sign—the soft flicker of gold script in the window, the sharp white glow of the "Open" sign casting its light across the pavement.

Your mother leaned forward slightly. “Oh. We’re here.”

The tires crunched over the gravel as your father pulled into the side lot. There were already several cars here, clustered neatly in crooked rows—some you recognized, most you didn’t. The gallery looked different in this light. Not the quiet, echoing space Jungkook first brought you to, that secret place where ghosts had been allowed to breathe without interruption.

Now it pulsed. Lived.

Soft warm light spilled out of the tall windows. Music, muffled by glass, carried on the wind in threads. A little cluster of people stood out front—hands curled around invitation slips, eyes lifted toward the lettering carved into the wooden sign overhead.

You inhaled slowly.

It was still the same place you saw a month ago.

But it had opened its doors.

People had come. People would see it. His art.

The same paintings that once cluttered the corners of your apartment. That leaned against your sofa while waiting to dry. That held pieces of him—his bursts of joy, his quiet grays, his wild blues. You wondered if anyone walking past those canvases today would feel it. Would know what it cost him to bare his soul in brushstrokes.

And what it cost you to let it go.

Your mother turned to you in her seat, her hand reaching for yours, gentle.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded before you even knew if it was true. “Yeah, eomma. I’m fine.”

Your father opened his door, stepping out and stretching a little. “We’ll head in first,” he said, not unkindly. “Give you a moment if you need it.”

You managed a grateful smile. “Thanks, appa.”

The doors shut gently behind them.

And for a beat, you were alone in the car, staring at the front doors of a dream made real.

Minho should be here.

That thought burned—sudden and sharp—and then softened into something acheful and wide. No. If love made ghosts, he’d be here already.

You reached for your bag, tugging out your compact mirror. You checked your eyes, smoothed your mouth, and whispered something into your reflection you didn’t quite hear yourself.

You lingered in the stillness of the car for a few more seconds.

The engine long silenced. The echo of your parents’ voices faded into the low thrum of background music filtering through the gallery windows, the kind that belonged to wine glasses and quiet awe. The kind you imagined would play behind moments people would remember long after they forgot the taste of the wine or the exact words said.

You stored at the open doors. Arms stretched out. Yet you couldn't find it in yourself to move.Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, tracing the stitching of your coat. The sleeves of your blouse itched slightly at the wrists where your nerves collected like water pooling before a storm. You weren’t sure why your hands trembled. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was memory. Whatever it was, you had to brush past it.

You finally opened the door.

The wind greeted you with the breath of spring—soft, cool, perfumed faintly by something blooming just out of sight. The air kissed your cheeks, lifted the ends of your coat, and whispered welcome in a language only the brave know how to answer.

Your boots landed on the pavement like it had been waiting. One step. Then another.

The closer you walked to the entrance, the quieter the outside world became. The street behind you faded. The city stilled. All you could hear now was the creak of wood beneath your feet as you stepped through the front doors, the soft closing of them behind you.

You found yourself in the hallway.

Long. Polished. Narrow in the way old corridors are—lit warmly with sconces that cast golden glows on textured walls. The murmur of voices came from farther in, down toward the gallery proper. That’s where everyone must be. You imagined them standing in front of the paintings, glasses of wine held loosely, their faces tilted upward in soft admiration, eyes wet in that quiet way art sometimes invited. People standing in front of Minho’s canvases and murmured things like "alive" and "honest" and "brilliant" without ever knowing the sound of his laughter.

But this hallway was empty. Or you thought it was.

You had just reached the halfway point—right where the hallway curved inward—when arms slipped around your waist from behind.

A quiet gasp left you before your body remembered the shape of his.The scent of cedar, lavender soap, and faint varnish clung to him like an afterthought. His arms locked around you with the ease of practice but the fervor of something still new, and for a moment, the world dipped, rearranged itself around this one small plantery motion.

“There you are,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough against your ear.

You turned in his arms, your hands finding the fabric of his shirt like they’d always known how. His sleeves were rolled, just as you imagined, the fine lines of stress still etched around his brow.

His eyes met yours.

And something in your chest loosened.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked quietly.

He replied just as. "I'm always looking for you, angel." There was no flourish in the way he said it. Your breath hitched, a tiniest of movement and Jungkook watched the subtle shift of your expression—like a ripple breaking the surface of water.

Gods, he thought, how could he not?

Even now, here, when there was so much else demanding his attention—guests arriving in waves, wine being poured, lights flickering again in the east wing. And still, in every room he walked into, in every face he passed, he found himself searching.

It was ridiculous, really. The way his eyes would scan the corners of the gallery and mistake someone’s hair, the tilt of a shoulder, the sound of your laugh echoing in his head like phantom static. The way his pulse leapt anytime the door opened. The way he felt incomplete if he couldn't place you in the room.

And now you were here. And the world had stitched itself back together.

You didn’t speak at first.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because your heart felt like it was still catching up—like it had been walking this hallway too, trying to find its way to him.

“Well, you're the host. I'm sure you must be needed elsewhere too.” you whispered, reaching to smooth the edge of his collar.

Jungkook shook his head gently. “I'm exactly where I want to be.” His hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Really okay?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “Now I am.”

He held your gaze for another moment, then dipped his head forward, just enough to press his lips to your forehead, his hands resting warm by your side. The world dimmed in that moment—just the two of you, suspended in quiet, his breath a soft punctuation at the crown of your head. But even as warmth bloomed beneath your ribs, there was a tight, pulsing thread of awareness that curled around your spine.

You stole a glance over Jungkook’s shoulder, eyes flickering to the curve of the hallway behind him—the doorway just around the corner where voices hummed, where glasses clinked, where footsteps could echo down the tile at any moment. Anyone could walk past. People with eyes and mouths and memories. Guests who knew your name. Friends of Minho’s. Colleagues. Distant family.

Anyone could turn the corner and see this—see him with you like this, your bodies tucked into each other. Your hand clenched softly into the fabric at his side. The paranoia was subtle, but it was real. It had crept in somewhere between the second kiss and the third hidden touch.

The thought made you tense, just slightly. He felt it.

“Baby.” Jungkook said, voice low, his hand drifting to the small of your back. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah, but…” Your voice trailed, lips brushing the fabric near his collarbone, your fingers curling into the cotton at his chest. “Someone might come.”

His eyes softened, though there was something that tightened at the corners—a flicker of frustration he didn’t bother to hide. Not at you. Never at you. But at the way the world demanded so much of your caution, your retreat.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours. "I promise. No one will."

The words curled in your ears, low and deliberate, like he’d carved them for just you. His hand slid up your back, a warm, steady line from your waist to your shoulder. You hated that you thought that they kinda do. You hated the need for shadows and how it has been shaping your frustration. How it has been shaping it in a circle so big you couldn’t tell where it started anymore. Only that it kept coming back. That it always ended with your pulse too loud in your ears and your eyes darting over your shoulder. Like what you were committing to didn’t deserve a place in the daylight.

ou have also started eliminating even the possibility of the thought that it maybe didn't. Still, the guilt was no longer clean. It was clouded now, smeared at the edges with longing and the slow, terrible truth that what you had with Jungkook didn’t feel borrowed. It didn’t feel like a thing you could press back into a drawer once the moment was gone. It was the impossibility of compartmentalizing love.

Because how do you mourn someone and move toward someone else, all in the same breath? How do you walk through a gallery built from one man’s art only to fall into the arms of the man who framed it all?

It felt like it had grown roots.

And the more you buried it, the more it pulled at you.

You looked at him now—really looked. His brow furrowed slightly, not from worry but from effort. Like he was thinking, measuring, holding back the words that always swam just below the surface when you were this close.

Instead of saying any of the things tugging at the threads of your mouth, you stepped back just enough to feel the air slip between your bodies. Not far. Just enough for your hand to find his.

His fingers curled around yours instinctively. Always ready.

You looked up at him. “Is it crowded in there?”

"A little." He said. "Some of our colleagues. A few critiques."

You nodded again, absorbing that.

"None of them need to matter, yeah?" he added, searching your face, thumb skimming just beneath your eye. His next words were gentler.

You looked up then, caught the sincerity in his eyes, fought the urge to lean into his touch. Managed another nod. "Yeah...Can we stay a minute more?" The latter come out smaller than you would have expected.

“Take your time,” he nodded. "They can all wait."

You didn’t dare think about the look on his face when he had to let go of your fingers fitted around his after you said you were ready. He only offered a squeeze to your fingers and then let go with a kind of quiet reluctance, like pulling his hand out of warm water. The touch lingered, even as you stepped aside to let him lead the way. You rounded the curve of the hallway together, the voices sharpening in clarity now, glass clinking against glass, the soft rustle of shoes on polished tile growing louder until the threshold broke open and the gallery revealed itself in full.

It was no longer the dim, quiet place. It breathed differently now. Alive with soft light and the lull of conversation, with coats slung over arms and programs curled in curious fingers. Warm gold spilled from fixtures in the ceiling, catching on frames that lined the walls like punctuation—artwork stretching in long, thoughtful rows, each canvas dressed like a page in someone’s unfinished story.

You stood still for a moment, toes just brushing the edge of the gallery’s threshold, eyes skimming the room as your body remembered how to belong to this space. The floors had been polished to a mirror shine. Wine glasses reflected in the glass cases. Someone was laughing softly by the front corner near the sculpture series.Others stood near the windows, wine glasses held delicately, murmuring words like “devastating,” “formidable,” “alive.” It wasn’t performative. At least not all of it. You recognized a few of them—students, former professors, one woman who had once hosted Minho’s university exhibit and had cried at his brushwork.

You darted your gaze to Jungkook then. The way he walked just ahead of you now, poised and solid in his dark dress shirt and pressed slacks, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted to catch bits of conversation from passing guests. He looked composed. You assumed or you'd like to think so that he only bared his nerves in front of you. As if the man who used to flinch at compliments and pretend his silence was indifference had taught himself to carry weight with quiet precision.

But then a man stepped into his path. Tall, suited, carrying a drink and the kind of posture that belonged to someone who used the word “impressionist” a little too often. His smile was sharp and familiar—one of Jungkook’s gallery donors or colleagues, you assumed. Maybe from Seoul. Maybe further. Either way, it took only a moment for you to read the shift in Jungkook’s expression—the subtle recalibration of his shoulders.

He turned to you before the man could fully pull him into conversation, fingers brushing your wrist in a barely-there promise. “I won’t be long.”

You nodded, already letting go. “Of course,” you whispered, because it was all you could offer right now, and maybe all he needed.

The man clapped Jungkook on the shoulder and pulled him aside, voice too loud and smile too bright. You watched them for half a moment—Jungkook answering politely, gaze flickering every so often in your direction like a thread trying not to fray—before you eased yourself into the soft tide of the room, letting the current pull you away.

You moved carefully, politely. Like someone trying not to be noticed but still present enough not to be rude. You paused by a small table draped in navy linen, where empty glasses sat beside a quiet arrangement of baby’s breath and ranunculus. Someone offered you a flute of sparkling wine, and you accepted with a quiet smile.

You turned toward one of the walls, drawn in by a piece you hadn’t seen before—one of the mid-sized ones, full of green and amber and soft streaks of silver. The color didn’t move—it shimmered. Softly. Like someone had taken the feeling of being loved quietly and turned it into oil and canvas.

The placard below it simply read:

“Until Then.”

Minho’s signature curled in the corner, the same familiar scrawl you’d once watched him sign onto birthday cards and tax forms and the back of the fridge note that read don’t drink the milk, I’m trying to paint with it.

You had just rounded the sculpture wing—Minho’s smallest works, done in smoothed resin and wire, quiet things that bloomed under light like secrets left in the sun—when you spotted her.

Your mother, standing near the northern alcove, a glass of wine untouched in her hand, fingers curled gently around the stem like she was trying not to leave prints. She looked beautiful beneath the high arch of the window, her coat tucked neatly at her elbow, hair pinned like it always had been—like she hadn’t aged a day past the first time she walked into your kindergarten recital.

You slipped beside her, your hand brushing her arm in greeting.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She turned, her face lighting up with that familiar mix of joy and worry, the kind only a mother could balance so well. “Here you are. I was wondering if you’d gotten swallowed by the hallway.”

“Almost,” you said, managing a faint smile. “But I escaped.”

Before she could respond, a familiar voice laced into the air from behind.

"Found you."

Mrs. Jeon stood a few feet away, her posture regal even beneath the soft, flattering lights. She wore navy silk—understated but elegant—and her hair was pinned in place with simple pearl combs. Always the portrait of grace, always the kind of woman who held her sorrow like a folded note in the corner of her purse: private, creased, but always within reach.

Her smile, though, was real. It warmed as she drew nearer.

"Mom." You muttered in muscle memory.“I was hoping to catch you before the crowd did,” she said, pulling you in for a quick, maternal sort of hug. “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” you said honestly, letting yourself be held for the brief second she allowed.

"You look exactly the same, you witch. Do you age backwards?”

Mrs. Jeon turned at the sound of the voice she hadn’t heard in a while—one that still carried the same quiet humor, tinged with a touch of fond exasperation. Her eyes widened slightly before softening, and her expression brightened into something looser, something more like the woman she might’ve been before grief gave her bones new weight.

“Oh, look who’s talking,” she replied with a smile, already moving forward. “Still glowing like you’ve got a secret no one else knows.”

Your mother laughed as they embraced, arms curling gently around each other’s shoulders in a way that spoke of familiarity—of years stitched loosely together with holiday dinners and shared glances from opposite ends of the table.

“It’s been so long,” your mother murmured as they pulled apart. “I’m sorry it took something like this.”

Mrs. Jeon shook her head, brushing it off with a small wave of her hand. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

"It's been a long time still. When was even the last time we saw each other properly?"

Mrs. Jeon tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Hmm—wait, there was that awful fundraiser for the community garden. The one where everyone got food poisoning from the shrimp cocktail.”

Your mother gasped. “That’s right! I completely forgot about that.” Her eyes glittered with the memory. The laugh that followed was lighter than you expected it to be. “We left early and went to get hotteok from that little cart in the alley.”

“We did,” Mrs. Jeon smiled, and something softened in her gaze, her fingers brushing absently over the pearl comb in her hair. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had hotteok since.”

For a moment, it was easy to forget the reason for this gathering. Easy to forget the weight of what this day had always meant.

These were two women who had held time in their hands and offered it gently to each other across decades. You saw it now, plain as anything—in the crinkle of their eyes, in the hush of their voices when they leaned closer, speaking not just as in-laws, but as women who had once, maybe still, shared the same kind of quiet heartbreak.

“Has he come?” your mother asked softly, her tone shifting as she scanned the room briefly, no longer talking about students or fashion or time but of something more specific.

Mrs. Jeon’s expression softened, her posture stilling in that way you’d learned to recognize—when something trembled just beneath the grace. She shook her head once. "No." she said, smoothing her hand down the front of her skirt. “He wanted to come. Really, he did. But I guess he had to sit this one out." She passed you a apologetic look and you nodded in reassurance.

Your mother didn’t press either. She simply nodded, and her hand found Mrs. Jeon’s again—a squeeze, not meant to comfort so much as to acknowledge. To say, I know.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she added, turning to you, her hand squeezing your elbow briefly. “I know today couldn’t have been easy.”

"Makes the two of us, mom." You said with crinkle of your eye that earned a acknowledging smile from her.

Reaching out to adjust the collar of your coat like it was second nature, she added. “He’d be proud of you, you know. Both of you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to respond to that with anything other than a quiet, "I hope so."

She let out a breath, slow and steady. “Oh, my dear. He would.”

And then, like all good women who’ve loved and lost and laughed too hard in small corners of too-large rooms, they both smiled again.

Then Mrs. Jeon tucked her arm into your mother’s. “Come on,” she said with a small lift of her chin. “You’ve got to tell me where you found that skirt. And I need wine before I start tearing up in front of a painting again.”

"Oh I've been out of loop for years. I've got to." Your mother said and offered a hand to you. "Would you like to join us, love?"

“You should.I have stories,” Mrs. Jeon promised, and you smiled. "You two should go. I'm gonna look around a bit and try to find Mira. She's here, right?"

“Oh, I saw her by the impressionist wall earlier,” Mrs. Jeon said, glancing over her shoulder. “She looked like she was interrogating someone about varnish techniques.”

“That sounds about right,” you replied with a smile. “I’ll catch up with you both in a bit.”

They nodded, already slipping back into their quiet conversation, and you watched the two of them disappear into the soft murmur of the gallery, heads tilted together like old friends caught mid-thread. You turned then, letting yourself exhale fully for what felt like the first time since you stepped through the door.

A cello murmured somewhere over the speakers, curling between the conversations, and the lights glowed honey-gold against the soft canvas walls. Every corner of the room breathed with pigment and memory.

You wandered.

Your boots tread lightly over the polished floor, hands tucked loosely in front of you, eyes scanning the crowd—pausing now and then at paintings you remembered in their messier stages: taped along the kitchen wall, hanging crooked behind your sofa, still smelling of linseed and dust. It was surreal, this setting—so curated, so clean—when you remembered the life that birthed the art was anything but.

You caught a flash of Mira’s hair through the crowd, that soft copper tone that always helped you find her in a room. You lifted a hand slightly, already beginning to weave your way toward her. But before you could call out or lift a hand in greeting, someone stepped into your periphery.

“Excuse me—are you…?”

The voice was tentative, warm with a kind of hesitant reverence. You turned, expecting perhaps one of the donors or a distant family friend, only to find a young man—tall, soft-eyed, and maybe just a little older than Minho had been when he first started teaching.

He looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t place him immediately. He stood with a kind of earnestness that was hard to fake, his hands clasped in front of him, suit slightly rumpled like he’d run here from the train.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, offering an apologetic smile. “You probably don’t remember me. I was one of...uh..your husband's students.”

Something gentle shifted in your chest.

“I… didn’t want to intrude,” he added. “But when I saw you, I thought—well, I hoped I could say hello.”

Your throat tightened. You tilted your head and smiled softly, gesturing toward a nearby bench nestled between two hanging pieces—one of them a landscape Minho had once painted after a rainy drive through the mountains. “You’re not intruding,” you said. “Do you wanna sit?"

He seemed almost surprised at the offer, but nodded. You watched him ease into the seat beside you, clearly trying not to take up too much space.

“What’s your name?” you asked gently.

“Jihoon,” he said. “Lee Jihoon. I took one of his electives in my final year. Painting, beginner’s level. I was…awful at it.”

You laughed quietly, a real sound. “He’d argue there’s no such thing.”

“That’s exactly what he used to say.” Jihoon grinned. “Said ‘awful’ just meant you had somewhere to go. I always remembered that.”

There was a pause, full but comfortable.

“I didn’t really know him that well,” Jihoon admitted, his voice softening. “But he remembered my name. Every single week. Asked about my projects. My mood. Even told me once that the colors I picked made him think I saw the world kindly.”

You blinked.

“Not a lot of people say things like that,” Jihoon murmured. “Especially to someone like me. I was a chemistry major—out of place, anxious, tired. Had no idea what I was doing with my life. Until I came across his class, of course."

“That’s so beautiful, Jihoon." you said, the words catching slightly on the edge of your breath. “He always did have a gift for reminding people of their light.”

Jihoon nodded. “I don’t paint anymore. But I kept the last thing I made in that class. Just a mess of color on canvas, really. But sometimes I look at it and think—he saw something in it I didn’t.”

You smiled, blinking against the warmth flooding your eyes. “He had a habit of doing that.”

Another beat passed. The murmur of the gallery swelled around you like background music scored too gently for something so profound.

Jihoon looked over at you, his expression shifting into something softer, more reverent. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” he said. “I don’t think he ever stopped talking about you in that class. Said if we ever wanted to get him any snacks, bring lemon bars." His face lit up with a quiet smile. “He said you liked lemon better than chocolate.”

You nodded, stunned by how clear the memory was now that it had been stirred. “I did.”

“Still do?”

You lifted a shoulder, the corner of your mouth tilting upward. “Some things never change.”

Jihoon smiled at that—wide and boyish. "That's nice to know." It was gentle, the way his presence sat beside you—like he wasn’t just honoring Minho, but also everything that had grown from knowing him.

Then Jihoon exhaled, slow and almost awed, eyes drifting back across the expanse of the gallery, gaze moving reverently from frame to frame, like each canvas demanded a certain kind of silence. “This gallery… it’s really something. And it’s a beautiful thing you’ve done, putting this together.”

Your heart flinched at that—touched, yes, but instinctively you shook your head.

“Oh—no. It wasn’t me.” You paused, glancing toward the crowd again. Your gaze moved past familiar faces, past wine glasses and framed brushstrokes, until it landed on the person you had, without realizing, been looking for since Jihoon sat down.

He stood just a few feet away, near the long window where the light curved in golden arcs across the floor. He was finishing a quiet exchange with someone in a charcoal suit—one of the critics, you guessed, or perhaps a gallery curator. His posture was easy but alert, as if one part of him remained in every corner of the room at once. His sleeves were still rolled, his collar slightly unbuttoned, and you could tell just by the slight shift of his brow that he was already scanning the crowd for you again.

Of course he was.

You raised a hand and waved, catching his eye. His face lit up—not in a bright, extravagant way, but in the way only people who’d been waiting to breathe could look when they finally did.

He made his way over without hesitatio

You turned back to Jihoon as Jungkook approached, gesturing gently. “That’s who did this,” you said. “That’s Minho’s younger brother. Jeon Jungkook. He’s the one who made all this happen.”

Jihoon blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s his brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Not many did,” you murmured. “They were close. Complicated. But close.”

Jungkook reached your side just then, eyes flicking briefly from you to Jihoon before settling somewhere in between—calm, but attentive.

“Hey,” he said to you, his voice a quiet tether. "Everything okay?"

You smiled. “Yeah. Jungkook, this is Jihoon."

Jihoon stood up immediately, offering his hand. “Lee Jihoon, sir. I was one of Minho’s students—back in my undergrad days.”

Jungkook took the hand, gave it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Jihoon. I'm Jungkook."

“You too. I was just telling ma'am…” Jihoon glanced toward the paintings on the wall, his expression shifting to something a little more awed, a little more raw. “This place is really special. You’ve honored him in a way that… well, I think he would’ve loved it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, but his nod was deep. “He gave us so much,” he said. “This was just… the least I could do. Thank you for coming."

You watched as they stood there, just the two of them for a moment—two people connected only through love for the same person. Different kinds of love. Different shapes. But still, deeply rooted in retention, in ache, in admiration.

Jihoon dwelled for a moment after the handshake, shifting slightly from foot to foot like there was something else he was holding on to, something not yet said. His eyes moved once more over the room—past the guests murmuring quietly before landscapes of borrowed light and rain-drenched rooftops, past the gleam of gallery sconces and the soft ripple of music weaving beneath it all. Then he turned back to you, gaze steadied by something freshly lit.

“Would it be alright,” he asked, voice tentative, “if we—if someone made a toast?”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Jihoon cleared his throat, not quite sheepish, but aware of the weight of what he was suggesting. “I know it’s not that kind of event,” he continued, “and maybe this is out of turn, but… it just feels like we should. I mean—everyone here came because they loved him. Or learned from him. Or knew someone who did. I feel like he deserves that much.”

You were quiet a moment, absorbing that. Your fingers brushed against the hem of your sleeve. Behind you, Jungkook stayed still, close but not pushing. Letting you hold this decision.

Then you smiled—softly, achingly—and looked to Jihoon. “I think he would’ve liked that.”

Jihoon let out a small breath, and for the first time since he introduced himself, his shoulders eased.

Jungkook stepped in then, his voice low as he looked between you both. “Let me get someone to quiet the room.” His hand grazed your lower back briefly before disappearing again as he made his way toward the center of the gallery, where the natural dip in sound could be coaxed into pause.

You and Jihoon watched him go.

Jihoon straightened, cheeks slightly flushed, suddenly shy. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to overstep. It was just a thought.”

“You didn’t,” you said quickly, reaching to squeeze his wrist with a gentle, grateful hand. “It was a good one.”

The lights dimmed ever so slightly in a way that pulled attention without demanding it. Conversations tapered. A curator tapped gently against the side of her glass. Heads turned.

Jihoon glanced at you again, seeking silent permission.

You gave a small nod.

And then he stepped forward, clearing his throat once. “Hi,” he said, voice steadier than you’d expected. “Sorry to interrupt.”

The small squleche that followed was expectant—not cold. Rather, waiting.

“My name’s Jihoon,” he continued, “and I was one of Professor Jeon’s students. I didn’t know him as well as some of you might have. But I think—I think that’s what made him so special. You didn’t have to know him long to feel like you did.”

A few murmurs of agreement. A rustle of someone dabbing their eye with a tissue.

“He taught one class,” Jihoon said, “and I carried the things he said with me for years after. He made you believe you were capable of softness. Of seeing the world differently. Of being part of something even when you didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere.”

You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, blinking against the sudden sting at the corners of your eyes.

Jihoon looked down, then back up again. “So if no one minds, I’d like to raise a glass. To Professor Jeon Minho. For all the ways he made us see color in places we didn’t know to look.”

There was a quiet chorus of glasses being lifted.

“To Minho,” Jihoon said.

“To Minho,” came the soft, scattered reply.

There was a sereness after Jihoon’s final words. Not silence, exactly—but the kind of quiet that settles after something sacred has been said aloud. For one suspended moment, all you could hear was the soft creak of someone adjusting their stance, the distant clink of a glass set gently onto a tray. A man nodded solemnly, his gaze fixed on the frame nearest him—one of the softer pieces, all dusk and ripple.

And Jihoon just stood there, blinking slowly, like he was still surfacing from whatever place inside him those words had come from. And when he turned toward you, there was something unreadable in his expression. Not pressure. Not expectation.

Just… offering.

He held it out—gentle, like it might break if he wasn’t careful.

“Would you…?” he asked, voice low. “I mean—you don’t have to. But if anyone should…”

Your breath left you all at once.

A soft, dizzying rush.

As if the floor tilted beneath your shoes, and suddenly you were thirteen again, being called up to the front of a school assembly. Your palms itched. The back of your knees tensed. Your first instinct—your strongest—was to shake your head. To step away. To dissolve into the crowd and pretend you were just another guest, just another echo of Minho’s story, not the one who shared the ending.

You hadn’t spoken about him like this. Not out loud. Not in public. Not since—

Not since the funeral.

And even then, the words had been written on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper you never managed to unfold.

You swallowed, blinking past the sudden blur in your vision.

The gallery was full. Packed. Shoulders bumped. Wine was held, not sipped. People who knew you only in tangents were watching now—waiting, not rudely, but with a kind of esteem that made the room feel tighter than it was. Their gazes weren't demanding. But they were present. And that was somehow worse.

Your feet didn’t move.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that your mouth would open and nothing would come out. That your voice would catch on the years you spent trying to say his name without crumbling. That they would all look at you and see not a woman still grieving—but a woman trying too hard to prove she still was.

Jihoon seemed to realize it too late.

His hand faltered slightly, his brows lifting in the smallest, guilty apology.

You inhaled through your nose, sharp and steady, the sound of your own breath loud in your ears. Your heart was racing. Thundering. The edges of the room blurred just slightly, like the light had leaned in too far.

This wasn’t how you imagined tonight.

You didn’t imagine standing beneath spotlights with every gaze tipped toward you like glass waiting to crack. You didn’t imagine saying Minho's name aloud in a room full of strangers who only knew the brushstrokes, not the man.

He was yours once. That memory still felt private. Sacred. Could you really put it on display like this? Wasn’t the art enough?

Your eyes darted to the floor. To your palms. To anything but the sudden attention.

And you thought—how does one speak about a person who once turned their love into art and left you with the aftermath of their absence? How does a person speak of someone who still walks the halls of their memory like the floorboards remember his weight?

But eventually, the words would come. And they would be something like: Tentative. Threadbare. But real.

“Hi,” you'd say the word small, too soft for the space at first. You cleared your throat gently. “Um. Sorry. I—I wasn’t planning to speak tonight.”

That would get a quiet laugh from someone.

“Minho wasn’t someone you really planned things with, either,” you'd add, your lips pulling into the barest shape of a smile. “He was… spontaneous. Kind of a whirlwind, honestly. He’d forget his keys three days in a row, but remember a stranger’s birthday after overhearing it in a coffee shop.”

The room would shift slightly—leaning in.

You took a breath. Let it settle.

“My husband wasn’t just a man who painted,” you said. “He was someone who watched the world the way some people listen to music. Closely. Devotionally. He noticed things most people didn't. Messy things. Especially those, I think."

You'd managed a laugh, more breath than sound. And you'd admit, for the first time out loud that grief is messy. It’s changed shape every day. Some days it’s a stone. Some days it’s a fog. Some days it’s a balloon with a string you can’t catch.

You'd pause and you'd tell yourself it's obviously not for dramatic effect. "But tonight is different. Because of all of you. Because you came."

You looked out then, gaze landing softly on Jihoon, on your mother, on Mira’s coppery hair now stilled in the far corner. You saw faces that had once lived only on the edges of memory, now lit by gallery lamps and the weight of shared knowing.

Your eyes, though painted a picture perfect of one man alone in the crown. Found comfort when they found him only.

Standing just behind the crowd now. His hands folded calmly. His head tilted, watching you like you were the only voice in the world. And maybe, for him, you were.

"And this was possible only because of one person."

Your voice would shake—just a little. But not from fear now.

“This was made possible by someone who loved him too. Someone who saw what he meant, not just to me, but to the world. Someone who held my hand when I thought I’d never feel anything but the absence. Someone who…” A unconscious smike would tug at your lips—tired, grateful, breaking gently at the edges. “Who also happens to be my boyfriend.”

And that's the thing about adrenaline.

"Thank you, Jungkook."

Or maybe it was longing, maybe it was just exhaustion wearing a braver face. Maybe it was the ache of having stood on a ledge for so long that when your foot finally moved forward, you mistook the fall for flight.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It had curled out of your mouth before you even registered the gravity of it, like a word said often in thought but never aloud. A word with teeth and color and something terrifyingly irreversible to it. A word that had lived only in backseat glances and unspoken tendernesses, in private touches and the quietness of shared nights.

And for a moment, everything inside of you would go still.

You'd wait—rigid, breath tucked in your chest—for the ripple of it. For someone to count the months, do the math, raise an invisible hand and say what you’ve been saying to yourself every night. The inevitable shift. The stiffened gazes. The whisper sliding across someone’s tongue like a question dressed up in disapproval before they decided how to create into the dirtiest scandle.

No collective sound of gasps would come but the silence would skin you down anyways. It would echo in your blood like something impossible to take back, like something that forced you to run from everyone.

You locked the stall door behind you with trembling fingers.

The click of the latch echoed too loudly in the tiled silence, as if the world wanted you to know—yes, you were alone now. Yes, you had done that. Yes, you had said it. Out loud. In a room full of Minho's memories and the people who used to call you his.

You braced your hands against the walls of the stall, palms flat against the cold tile, eyes squeezed shut.

Your breath came shallow.

God.

You were so stupid.

It played again in your head—your voice, too soft and yet entirely too clear, threading through the quell of the gallery like silk cut on glass.

Boyfriend.

You had said boyfriend.

You had said Jungkook’s name and attached boyfriend.

And though none of the terrible things you thought in your head made it out loud, silence, when it’s thick enough, is just another kind of thunder. And now it was echoing between your ribs like a bell toll.

You sank down onto the toilet lid, coat bunched beneath you, elbows on knees, forehead in your hands. Your fingers against your temples like you could keep the shame from spilling further down your face.

What had you done?

You could still feel the phantom warmth of the spotlight on your face. The taste of exhilaration clung to the back of your tongue, sharp and coppery, like you’d bitten into a secret and couldn’t spit it out fast enough.

Why hadn’t you stopped yourself?

Knowing everyone who had been there. Your parents were probably standing near the back, holding a flute of wine with both hands like they always did when trying not to look worried. fingers curled too tight, probably, lips pursed in a quiet you would recognize too well.

And Mrs. Jeon. God.

What must she be thinking?

You had loved her son. Loved him through every phase of boyhood and manhood and married years. You’d sat across from her at too many dinners to count, brought her lemon cakes on Sundays, once helped her fix her shoe in the middle of the grocery store.

And now she’d watched you turn toward the brother. Heard you name him something tender. Watched you stitch that word between your anguish and your present like you hadn’t torn anything in the process.

You had handled it fine up until then. You’d spoken about Minho. You had kept your voice steady, even when your hands had trembled. You had said the hard things—the soft things. The beautiful things. But that one word had been too much. Too fast. Too soon.

Why did you always go too far when it came to him?

And worse—why hadn’t he stopped you?

Why hadn’t he looked away when you’d looked at him?

Why had he stood there, taking it, breathing it, accepting the title like he’d been waiting for it all along?

You had thrown him into the light. You��d stepped outside the one rule you’d both kept tucked beneath your skin since this thing started.

You were so stupid.

You'd undone months of silence in one breath.

And you hated yourself for the part of you that didn't want to take it back.

Because that was the cruelest truth tucked beneath your chagrin. The real reason your stomach twisted and your heart beat so wildly it felt bruised from the inside out that maybe you hadn’t meant to say it. But you had meant it.

And now you couldn’t hide from either.

Did they think you moved on too quickly?

That you had let love grow again in the ruins?

You had wanted so badly for tonight to be about Minho.

About the way he painted loneliness like it was light filtering through stained glass. About the way he had lived—not just the way he had left.

And instead, you had made it about yourself.

About you and Jungkook and the impossible thing that bloomed between the wreckage.

You could already imagine it. The murmurs. Soft as oil and sharp as glass.

“Did you know?”

“So soon?”

“Well, he was her brother-in-law…”

Your hands curled into fists against your knees. You hated that you could hear them before they spoke. Hated even more that a part of you feared they were right. That some version of yourself had always been selfish enough to want to be held again, even if it came in a contours you weren’t supposed to take comfort in.

Even if it wore your husband’s last name.

You pressed your forehead to your palms and breathed in through your nose, sharp and careful.

You didn’t know how longer it would take for your breath to even out or more importantly, how long will it before you find the courage to step inside, face everyone.

Time slowed in the tile-slick silence. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, thudding out some rhythm of regret. Beneath the thin fabric of your blouse, sweat cooled over your spine, a second skin of discomfort. Your coat, wrinkled beneath you, smelled faintly of rosewater and nerves.

You stared at the hinge of the stall door like it might open on its own. Like someone would find you here and drag you gently into sense, or kindness, or forgetting.

But no one did.

Not for a while.

Not till there was a knock.

You froze.

Just one. Light. Then another—softer this time, like maybe they realized what this was. A retreat. A rupture.

You opened your mouth, voice caught in the wires of your throat, about to say—occupied—or sorry—or please go—but the voice that came next was not one you expected.

“Sweetheart?”

You blinked.

Your spine went taut, then loose, as if the air itself sighed through your bones. You pressed your palms flat against the stall wall again, steadying yourself against the name.

Not Jungkook’s. Not your mother’s.

Mrs Jeon. Oh Jesus.

You closed your eyes.

Her voice didn’t come again, but you heard the gentle scuff of her heel shift just once, as if she didn’t need to knock again. As if she already knew you were on the other side, already knew what you were doing in there. As if she had once stood exactly where you were, though not in a gallery bathroom, not in navy silk, but somewhere private and full of guilt of her own.

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t tap her fingers against the wood or call your name again like some well-meaning warning.

Just asked for confirmation. "Are you in there?"

You lowered your hands slowly, tears unshed but dangerously close, and stared at the small strip of her shadow beneath the stall.

You wanted to bolt.

You wanted to speak.

You wanted to rewind time.

Instead you dared again and answered. "Yes."

Your voice—ragged and small—cracked through the silence like a thread fraying loose again.

“…Did you hear it?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes.”

Your stomach flipped.

Another breath drew.

“Do you think less of me now?”

It took her a moment. But when she answered, it was without hesitation.

“No.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. She didn’t say I understand. She didn’t reach for platitudes or soft versions of a dejection you both carried like broken mirrors. She simply answered what you’d asked. Somehow that was what made your throat cave in.

“I was twenty-four,” she said, almost conversationally. “When I said something like that."

You blinked.

“It was a dinner party. The first one I attended. I said it too easily. Laughed like it meant nothing. But it did.”

Another pause. Then:

“I threw up in the bathroom afterward. Swore I’d never go to another dinner again.”

You felt your lips twitch—wet with something like a laugh, but broken at the edges.

“Did you go to another one?”

She hummed softly. “Eventually. You do things again. Not because you stop feeling, but because feeling changes. Becomes something you live with, not something you live inside.”

The silence that followed didn’t hurt the same way anymore.

When she spoke again, her voice was nearer to the door, like she had leaned just slightly in.

“Come out when you’re ready, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

Then her heels clicked softly against the tile, retreating with the same grace she always wore.

And for the first time since stepping into the bathroom, your breath moved all the way through your chest.

You weren’t sure how long you sat there after her footsteps faded.

A minute? Five? The kind of silence that doesn't tick, but swells. It filled the corners of the room, the hollow just beneath your ribs. You listened to it. To your breathing. To the subtle shift of water in the pipes behind the wall. You focused on the small things, the mundane ones—just long enough to believe the larger ones might not crush you once you stood.

Eventually, your knees cracked softly as you rose.

Your coat shifted around your hips. Your hands reached for the lock. A breath before the click. Another after. You opened the door slowly, stepped into the stillness of the restroom like someone learning how to inhabit her own skin again.

The light outside the stall was unforgiving, but Mrs. Jeon was not.

She stood a few steps away, hands folded gently in front of her, her shoulders soft with patience. And when her eyes met yours, she didn’t search your face for shame or answers.

She only opened her arms.

And you stepped in like a child too old to be held, but still needing to be.

The smell of her perfume—something floral and faintly spiced—wrapped around you like memory. Her arms didn’t grip. They gathered. And somehow, the simple weight of that embrace unspooled something inside your chest that panic hadn’t quite broken yet.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it. I swear, I was trying so hard to be careful. I know how it must look. I know—”

She pulled back just enough to see your face, her hands still resting on your arms.

“Honey,” she said, voice quiet, eyes impossibly kind, “you’re talking like you’ve committed a crime.”

You flinched. “But I—God, I've been keeping this from you and everyone for so long. That doesn't feel fair."

“People who already knew,” she said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

She gave you a look—dry, fond, just the tiniest bit wry. “Darling, please. You think none of us noticed the way my son looks at you like he’s one second away from his heart bursting?” She squeezed your arms. “You said it. That’s all. You didn’t invent it tonight.”

You bit your lip. Shook your head like it might keep the tears from cresting again. “I thought I heard someone say something. A woman—by the back wall. She said something like… like it didn’t take me long.”

“Oh, that,” Mrs. Jeon said lightly, brushing your hair back as if to say not worth it. “You mean the one in the red shawl with the loud opinions and the knockoff purse?”

You blinked, stunned by the precision.

“She said something awful,” you whispered.

“I’m sure she did,” she said. “Right before Jungkook told her if she so much as muttered another syllable in his girlfriend's direction he’d personally make sure her husband’s antique store on Fifth lost its foot traffic forever.”

Your mouth parted. “He—what?”

Mrs. Jeon gave an elegant shrug, smoothing the sleeve of her jacket. “He was polite about it. But it was... unmistakable.”

You blinked again, and the breath that escaped you was half-laugh, half-sob. “Of course he did.”

“He’s terribly protective,” she said, glancing at you with a smile that was a little too knowing. “Gets that from his mother.”

It took you a moment to laugh—really laugh—but when you did, it broke through like sunlight behind thunderclouds.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I forgot Minho.”

She tilted her head, her hand coming up to smooth your hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart. No one who’s ever known you could think that. Least of all me.”

You looked down, voice low. “I didn’t want tonight to be about me.”

“It wasn’t.”

You met her eyes.

"What about my parents?" you asked quietly, your voice catching on the question like it had been waiting there all along. “Did they look mad? Disappointed?”

Mrs. Jeon gave a soft sigh, the kind that came from years of reading rooms, faces, silences. Her hand smoothed down your arm like she was pressing a wrinkle from cloth, calming you in increments.

“They’re planning to talk to Jungkook,” she said simply, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder. "Having a word with him, to be exact."

Your breath caught. “Oh god.”

Mrs. Jeon gave a small, amused shake of her head. “Don’t worry. I'm sure they're just making sure he treats their daughter right." She paused. “They’re not angry. I promise you that. A little surprised, perhaps. But not angry. No one's angry with you."

She staryed again.“I told her I’d beat her to it,” she said simply. “Can’t have him thinking he’s off the hook just because he's all grown up in a suit."

Your mouth opened, then closed. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it, but your hands still clutched the edge of the sink like they needed something real to tether you.

A silence passed between you, then two. You tried to swallow the knot forming at the base of your throat, but it was impossible to hide the flush rising in your cheeks. Your voice came small, hesitant. “You’re… really okay with this?”

Mrs. Jeon looked at you in that particular way only someone who’d known you through every winter and every spring could. She reached forward and took your hand. Held it firmly.

“You tell me something,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, careful in the way it stepped into the softest parts of you. “Are you happy?”

Your eyes met hers.

The word hovered in your chest, terrified and blooming all at once.

You bit your lip, shoulders curling in, and nodded—small at first, then a little more certain. “Yes,” you whispered.

Mrs. Jeon let out a slow breath, like she’d been waiting to hear it for longer than she let on.

“Then that’s all that matters.”

You looked at her, eyes glassy.

“It was about time,” she said, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face again. “About time you finally put that poor boy out of his misery.”

You groaned in exasperation. "Mom!"

She laughed, not cruelly, but full of something knowing and warm. "What? Not my fault he was so obvious before he even knew how to spell your name properly.”

You smiled again. Free and a little stunned by how light your chest suddenly felt.

“Come on,” she said, smoothing her skirt with one hand and tugging your arm with the other. “Let’s go rescue him from whatever emotional purgatory he’s pacing through in that hallway.”

You let her pull you forward but you don’t get to rescue your boyfriend. You're rather met with a very heartbroken Mira who demands answers and pulls you away before you can even get the chance too.

She stepped back, pulled out her phone, and dialed with the urgency of a 911 operator.

“Hobi?” she said when the line picked up. “Yeah, hi, I know you’re probably making out with your date or something, but this is an emergency.”

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She gave you a look. “You said you needed a drink, right?”

“…I did, but—”

“Well then.” She turned slightly away. “You’re not going back anywhere tonight until you explain everything to me in the proper setting, which is clearly a bar with sticky menus and bad lighting. Hobi? Yeah. Bring your wallet."

You watched her hang up and start marching toward the coat check like a woman with a mission. And you followed because this was the girl who’d held your hair back and fed you soup in silence the first week after Minho died. The one who knew when to fight, when to joke, and exactly when to say nothing at all.

The bar Mira chose was exactly what you needed and absolutely what she promised: questionable neon signage, vinyl booths held together with decades of duct tape and bad decisions, and a jukebox that alternated between early 2000s heartbreak anthems and ABBA on repeat. The air smelled like lemon-scented cleaner that didn’t quite mask the ghost of spilled beer, and the lighting was so dim you could’ve sworn everyone wore built-in Instagram filters.

You slid into the corner booth, coat still damp from the walk over, cheeks raw from wind and embarrassment, and Mira slid in across from you like she was preparing for a high-stakes interrogation.

Hoseok arrived moments later, hair wind-swept and cheeks pink from the cold, looking far too good to be in a place with this much wallpaper peeling off the walls. He dropped into the booth beside Mira with the chaotic energy of someone who had just abandoned a very flirty date and wasn't over it.

“Boyfriend?" he said in lieu of hello. "Why am I not suprised that Mr firm hands is the boyfriend?"

You gave him a look. “Are you… judging me?”

“Oh no,” he said, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Not judging. Just trying to understand how I didn’t know this was happening.”

“You were busy dating someone named Seulgi who calls you ‘sunbeam’ and posts about her salads on Instagram,” Mira shot back, flagging down a waiter with a sharp flick of her fingers. “Now respectfully shut up and let her talk.”

You stared down at the menu, even though it was mostly beer stains and crossed-out prices. Mira reached over and gently pulled it from your hands. “You don’t need this. You need fries, something fried, and probably a little tequila.”

“Tequila?” you murmured.

“Don’t argue with the doctor,” Hoseok added, even though Mira was most definitely not a doctor.

The drinks arrived fast—too fast, which meant they were going to taste like regret—and a bowl of over-salted fries landed in the middle of the table with a satisfying clatter.

You sipped your drink slowly, felt the warmth of it bloom at the back of your throat, and only then let yourself exhale.

“It wasn’t—God, it wasn’t like that,” you said, palms out now, defensive and pleading all at once. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just happened. And then it kept happening. And then suddenly it felt like telling anyone would break it.”

Mira stared at you, all righteous betrayal and mascara-smudged emotion. Her voice cracked just a little when she said, “But me?”

You let out a shaky exhale, your voice breaking into something small, something that couldn’t be smooth no matter how you tried. “I didn’t not trust you. Please don’t think that. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?”

“No,” you said softly, “of saying it out loud. Sorry, it sounds pitiful."

Mira studied you for a long breath. Then, like she’d squeezed all the anger out of her in one long sigh, she deflated a little. She still looked hurt, but her eyes softened.

“I should’ve told you,” you said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”

She stared at you for a long moment, then slid her glass aside and reached across the table. “I’m still mad,” she said, “but I love you. And I’m glad you didn’t end up in a fling with those dates they used to send you on. Yikes! At least you picked Jungkook. Who clearly worships the ground you walk on.”

“Oh, I bet.” Hoseok added, “don't know him much but oh, I bet."

You winced or flushed but you wouldn't like to use that word. “That’s not—”

“He does,” Mira said, crossing her arms. “He did. Everyone saw it. Except you, apparently. Until now.”

“look,” you said defensively. “I just… I didn’t think it’d become anything.”

Mira made a sound that was equal parts sympathy and exasperation. “Yoongi told me years ago,” she said, picking up a mozzarella stick and pointing it at you like a weapon. “Said something like, ‘Your friend’s maybe as oblivious as she pretends. But my cousin’s a lost cause.’”

"Your husband speaks?" Hoseok snorted into his glass.

That earned him a punch to the side. He groaned so dramtically the five people in the space turned around. You wrapped your fingers around the base of your glass and stared into the fizzing surface. God, you loved them.

“I just didn’t want it to look like I was replacing him,” you murmured, not looking up. “Minho.”

Mira’s teasing stilled. Hoseok’s posture softened.

“You’re not,” Mira said, and her voice was quieter now. “And anyone who thinks you are can choke on their free gallery wine.”

“I’m serious,” you said, twisting the glass between your hands.

Mira tilted her head, one of her hands coming to rest gently over yours. "So am I. I almost dropped my canape when you said it. I even grabbed the old lady next to me.”

"That sounds very serious." Hoseok expressed.

You laughed, reluctantly. “I’m glad,” Mira said, serious again. “Even if I hate that you didn’t tell me, and I will absolutely be holding it over your head until the day we die. I’m glad. Because you’re here. Laughing. Smiling."

You reached for a napkin and dabbed at your eyes. “Thanks.”

And after that—after the napkin had soaked up the last streak of guilt, after Mira’s hand squeezed yours a little tighter, and Hoseok slid a second shot glass in your direction with all the pomp of a coronation—the night began to dissolve in that peculiar, beautiful way nights do when something heavy has been named and nobody lets go.

You drank.

And even that seemed like a understatement.

Not to forget—but to remember yourself. The version of you that wasn’t shadowed by what you were afraid people would say. The one who dared to call someone hers in a room full of ghosts and memories and didn’t completely fall apart after.

It was baffling.

It was miraculous.

And, God, it was exhausting.

The drinks made everything blur—delightfully at first, then in a way that made your friends exchange glances. You heard Mira say something like “She’s cut off after this one,” and Hoseok immediately counter with “Let her live,” and then you couldn’t hear them anymore because the bar’s speakers erupted into some throaty love song.

Your cheek pressed against Mira’s shoulder for a while, though you couldn’t recall when it landed there. She’d draped your coat over your knees like a blanket and was scrolling through photos on her phone with Hoseok, both of them whisper-laughing, passing the screen back and forth like teenagers.

You looked at them, and something inside you melted—not from the alcohol, not from the bar’s molten heat though that was quiet unbearable too—but from the simple fact of being held.

A feeling you hadn’t known two nights ago, two years back. The universe hadn’t cracked open and swallowed you whole. The chandelier hadn’t fallen from the ceiling. No one had thrown wine at your face or cornered you near the shrimp cocktail with cruel questions about the morality of love.

Instead, the world pitched ever so slightly to the left every time you blinked. The jukebox had moved on to Fleetwood Mac now—some slow, melancholy guitar that wrapped around your temples like gauze. You couldn’t feel your legs. Or maybe you could. They just didn’t want to move.

The fry basket had long since turned cold, and your drink—whatever remained of it—sat abandoned in front of you, a wedge of lime floating like a lifeboat in stormy water. You blinked down at it and considered saying something. Couldn’t remember what.

“Okay,” Mira said, voice low but distinctly not subtle, “that’s enough for her.”

You lifted your head, eyes heavy-lidded. “Wha—? No. M’fine.”

“Sure you are,” she muttered, already pulling her phone out of her coat pocket. “And I’m the queen of France.”

“I am fine.” You sat up straighter, blinked hard at her, as if that proved something. The booth spun gently. “Mmmfine,” you mumbled. “Jus’ warm. Floor’s doing a little… wavy thing.”

Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not the floor. That’s your tequila tangoing with the bad decisions.”

Mira gave him a look before pulling her phone out of her purse.

“Noooo,” you groaned, pawing at her wrist with absolutely no coordination. “Don’t. I’m fine. I’m just… appreciating...”

“You’re appreciating everything too much,” Mira muttered, unlocking her phone with her thumb. “He deserves to know.”

You blinked blearily. “Who?”

She didn’t answer you. Thumbs tapping furiously. You tried to grab her wrist, missed by a margin you weren’t proud of. Just pressed the phone to her ear and stood from the booth, pressing one finger into her other ear to muffle the noise of the bar.

You slumped back, staring at your half-finished drink like it had betrayed you. Hoseok reached over and silently took it away.

“Miraaaa,” you called, dragging her name like a scarf behind you. “She’s being… dramatic. Over…reacting. I could walk home.”

Hoseok said, “you just mistook a fork for your phone.”

You stared at the table. “...Did I?”

He nodded solemnly. “Twice.”

“Jungkook,” Mira said sweetly into the phone now pressed to her ear, “hi. Yeah, she’s—no, no, she’s alright. We’re at that little dive near the station. You know the one with the broken neon cactus sign? Yeah. She’s, um…” A glance at you, hunched like a tragic poet over the tabletop. “She’s had a night.”

You sat up with all the indignation of a drenched cat. “A night?” you hissed.

Mira patted your shoulder. “Don’t worry. He said he’s on his way.”

You blinked, your voice in unison with Hoseok’s. “Already?”

"Already." Mira echoed.

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder again. “Noooooo.”

“Yes,” she cooed. “Yes, ma’am."

You let out a slow, melodramatic exhale, sliding lower in the booth, your face half-buried in your coat. “This is humiliating.” You didn’t say anything after that. You couldn't and you didn't think you could even hear when the door to the bar creaked open. Not really.

The world had dulled to a low, sluggish hum, softened by liquor and dim light and the weight of your own mortification. But Hoseok glanced up, muttered something under his breath about “the cavalry,” Mira lifted her head, glanced over your shoulder, and then tilted her chin in that way that always meant: look sharp.

Not that you could.

You barely had time to blink before you caught the scent of him.

Jungkook’s cologne always managed to find you first—cedar and lavender, dusk and heat. Then the weight of his presence settled behind you like gravity, and before you could lift your head or find your voice, his shadow stretched over the booth.

His eyes found Mira first. A curt nod. Grateful. Barely spared Hoseok a glance. Hoseok looked almost grateful for it.

“Thanks for calling,” he murmured.

Mira didn’t flinch beneath his seriousness. “Thanks for coming,” she replied simply, standing up and gathering your coat like a reflex.

You stirred at that, blinking up at the blur of black shirt, rolled sleeves, and the soft fall of dark hair just slightly wind-tousled. He looked unfairly beautiful for someone who'd just found you curled into a booth like a regretful blanket. His jaw was set tight, you really hoped it was not anger.

He didn’t glance around. Didn’t blink against the tacky lighting or the low thrum of music. Just made a beeline toward your side of the booth, and for one breathless moment, you thought maybe he’d try to coax you out gently.

Instead, he looked down at you—your ridiculous half-hunched self curled in a coat that had long since become your second skin—and without preamble or ceremony, he scooped you up. Just like that.

Just a sure, practiced ease, like he’d been doing this for lifetimes. Like the world made more sense when you were in his arms and he didn’t have to guess where you were anymore.

You yelped.

He didn't say anything, just adjusted your weight slightly and wrapped his coat tighter around you.

But you felt the slow exhale he gave through his nose.

Not a sigh.

Something closer to relief.

He tilted his head to Mira again when she spoke.

Mira’s expression had softened. “Don’t forget to make her eat something. And maybe—y’know—hydration?”

“I’ve got it.”

You were already half asleep against him.

Half awake.

All warmth and clumsy enegry, with your head tucked beneath his chin, the wind nipping at your cheeks while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt like some last-minute apology stitched into cotton. The air outside the bar was bitter enough to bite the inside of your lungs, and it sobered you in slivers—slow, fogged pieces of clarity threading through the haze like dawn slipping between window blinds.

But neither of you said anything.

He didn’t look down at you.

He didn’t speak.

Only the faint sound of his boots hitting pavement filled the space—cadenced, unbothered, maddening in its calm.

You let your cheek fall heavier against his chest, where his heart should’ve been louder. But it wasn’t. It was steady. Frustratingly so.

Your lips brushed against the fabric of his collar. You felt his heartbeat pick up. It felt charged now, as if both of you had bad thoughts trying to form, pushing through the quiet in crooked shapes and half-decisions.

You wanted to say something.

You wanted not to say something.

Your mouth tastes like tequila and fear and bad timing. God, you were all about bad timings today, weren't you?

You turned your head slightly, breath catching on the scent of him. The movement made your stomach sway, but you managed.

You swallowed. "Koo?" You asked in a voice barely above the wind. The nickname slipping out thick and syrupy from your mouth. The sober you would have winced at yourself the second it did.

Good thing you were not.

Before there was an audible response, you heard the sound of his breath catching. Muttering a incohered curse under his breath. "Yes, angel?"

You fiddled with the fabric of his shirt where your fingers rested. “Y-You mad at me?”

He didn't answer at first. His jaw tensed once, twice, the movement as familiar as the sound of your voice laced with slur and shame.

His eyes stayed forward. Watching the parked cars blur past like it mattered more than the conversation pressing in the air between you. Watching the lines in the concrete like they might give him something to focus on other than the pounding of his pulse.

Because your question—so slurred and soft and soaked in all the wrong kinds of courage—had landed somewhere sharp in him. Not painful, exactly. But startling. Like someone tapping on glass that had long since been sealed shut.

“Are you asking me that because you got drunk?"

"I'm not too drunk-" You mumbled, trying to line your spine straighter and immediately regretting it when your vision swans. "I mean, yeah, okay, I'm a bit- I mean I drank but that's not what I meant.

"What did you mean?" He asked, not unkindly. Voice low, like he already knew but needed you to say it again anyway. Needed to hear it from your own clumsy, slurred lips.

“I meant—fuck.” You groaned, dropping your forehead against his collar. "for what I did. Back there. At the gallery.”

It had rung through him with the violence of something gentle. And that was the worst kind, wasn’t it? The soft truths. The ones you didn’t brace for.

He had spent so long keeping this thing quiet—out of respect, out of fear, out of the twisted need to protect what didn’t yet have a name. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That if he never said it out loud, he couldn’t lose it. That the world couldn’t break what the world didn’t know existed.

And then you’d just carved him into your life liturgy. The only that he'd felt was unhooked.

God, how were you still scared of that? How could you not see it still?

Your hair smelled like lemon shampoo and something warm—sugar, maybe. Your breath still carried the ghost of tequila and lime and the kind of boldness people only conjure up when they don’t think they’ll remember it later.

He felt you pick nervously at the seam of his collar, like maybe that was safer than

looking at his face.

You didn’t know that he’d replayed your voice a hundred times already.

Didn’t know that when you said it. His entire body had stilled. Had gone hot, then cold, then weightless.

You didn’t know that it had taken everything in him not to walk across that gallery and kiss you in front of everyone. The urge was so strong, the relief was so overwhelming that it had nearly leveled him.

And still, here you were—fearing the thing he had dreamed of.

He finally spoke.

“Angel,” he said, voice low, careful, “I have been yours for a long time. I thought about it. Dreamed of hearing you call me that for longer than I’ll ever admit. Over dinner maybe. But I don't care where it happened."

You went still in his arms.

He tilted his head, just enough to brush his cheek against your hair.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softer now. "I'm fucking elated." He rasped low, one hand tightening on your thigh, the other cradling your back like a secret. "And I'm just trying not mess it up."

Before you could make more of the latter, his parked car came in view.

The door clicked open, leather and warmth spilling into the night. He placed you into the passenger seat like you were made of glass—though that was nothing new. He always held you like that. As if the ache in you had a physical symmetry, and he was the only one allowed to carry it.

And maybe it was the night, or the alcohol still warm in your veins, or the sheer disbelief that your world hadn’t crumbled after your confession. But you believed him.

You slumped into the seat, curling into the warmth of his coat that he hung around your shoulders, the hem pooled at your lap like a blanket.

“so…you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

He laughed—really laughed this time, soft and low, one hand bracing on the top of the car door. Then he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered.

“Forever, if you’ll have me.”

When he finally closed the door and climbed into the driver’s side, the cabin filled with that muted, in-between silence. The kind where things weren't okay yet—but maybe on their way.

The heater came on with a soft whir, chasing off the cold from your knees. You barely noticed it, half curled beneath his coat, one boot unbuckled and heel slipping off as your foot tucked up against the seat like you had no intention of looking composed.

Outside, the streetlights blurred through the window. Pale yellow and blinking, like they couldn’t quite keep their eyes open either. The windshield fogged a little from your breath, everything smudging into something dreamlike and quietly unreal.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just watched the haze of the window, your cheek nestled into the fleece of his coat collar. But your chest was loud. Restless.

Because for all the softness he wrapped you in—for all the peace you should’ve felt—you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if tonight hadn’t gone like it did, you might still be pretending you were just shadows again. That this wasn’t real.

Your fingers clenched gently at the hem of his sleeve where it had fallen across your lap. You sat there like that for a while, quiet and too full of all the wrong questions. Only to repeat.

"Koo?"

Your voice, thick with exhaustion and treacly from the weight of everything you’d drunk and everything you hadn’t said.

He hummed, fingers flexing against the steering wheel, gaze flicking toward you but not quite leaving the road yet.

You turned your head slowly toward him, your forehead creasing a little as the warmth from the heater tangled too hot against your cheek. “I… I don’t wanna go home.”

The words were blurry. Fumbling. Like they’d been handed to you in pieces and you hadn’t had time to stitch them back together.

But they were true. That they were.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just glanced at you from the corner of his eye. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched the careful tension in his knuckles where they wrapped around the wheel.

You bit your lip. “Not—not forever. Just. Y’know. Just not… tonight."

You sniffled once, rubbing at your nose like a child, embarrassed by the confession but too drunk to walk it back. “Please don’t take me home.”

Jungkook exhaled softly. A sound that felt too much like relief for someone being asked for something so heavy.

“Good thing,” he said at last, turning the car down a different street, his voice curling warm and dry like smoke in your ear, “I’ve got a habit of taking you anywhere but.”

You sighed, relaxing deeper into the seat. “You’re not real,” you murmured. “You're… like. A fever dream. With good cologne.”

Jungkook chuckled lowly, eyes flicking to your profile again, this time longer. “Drunk you’s a menace.”

“She’s sensitive,” you corrected, slurring. “Be nice.”

He reached across the console and found your hand without even looking. Threaded his fingers through yours and held it there like it was always meant to be.

“I am,” he said. “Always.”

“Your nose,” you whispered, studying him like you were discovering the shape of him for the first time. “It’s really pretty. Like. Like you paid someone. But you didn’t, did you? That’s just you.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s just me, angel.”

You poked the tip of it with the gentleness of a feather. “Insulting.”

“Deeply.”

And then you kissed it.

Quick. Clumsy. The faintest press of lips to the slope of bone. Like you were branding him with your approval.

“Drunk,” he murmured, but he didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded like he was retaining you.

You nestled your face into his neck again, legs wrapped tight around his torso with his palms supporting your weight hanging off of him. Docking you to him the moment he slipped the car into some underground garage and stepped out without a word, circling to your side. Didn’t even wait for permission. Apparently when you flinched with a tiny sound, then whined when your limbs refused to cooperate was reason enough. You were up in his arms again before the cold could touch your ankles, the world tilting briefly before settling against his chest. You had blinked, dazed, then turned your face upward. “Warm,” you replied.

Jungkook made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re trying not to fall even deeper in love than they already have.

You hummed a note of agreement, then leaned forward and pecked the tip of his nose again like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Boop.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and kept walking, a little faster now.

The lobby was sleek and quiet, lit low with ambient light that glittered off the marble floor. A sleepy doorman nodded as Jungkook passed. You didn’t even ask where you were until the elevator opened directly into a hallway with only one door—black, modern, heavy. You blinked as he shifted you gently in his arms and pressed the keypad. The soft chime of the lock sliding open echoed too loudly in your ears.

“Where…” You blinked again as he nudged the door open with his shoulder. “Where are we?” This wasn’t your apartment. This wasn’t his parent's place. Did'nt exactly look like a hotel or if it was it was a really expensive one. This wasn’t anything you knew.

He set you down slowly—like a ribbon being untied—and turned on the light with a quiet flick of his fingers. Warm, dim lighting spilled into the room, softening everything to velvet edges. The floor beneath your boots was heated tile. The couch in the center of the room was oversized, draped in soft gray throws. There were no bright colors. No screaming art. Just low lines of furniture, oak and ash tones, clean details that whispered instead of shouted. You could see hints of habit: a stack of books with bookmarks poking out crookedly near the couch. A worn mug sitting on the edge of a console table. A leather jacket flung across a chair like it belonged there. Which it probably did.

There was a piano by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Of course there was a piano.

You stood still, swaying gently in your own boots, the air too warm against your skin now after the chill of the street. You stared across the space with wide eyes, lips parted, trying to absorb the fact that you’d never stepped foot in this place, and yet… there was something terribly intimate about it. About all of it.

It looked like somewhere important people lived. Or people who wanted to be left alone.

You moved forward carefully, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch like you were afraid to wrinkle anything. The floors were silent beneath your boots, and the air had the clean scent of lemon balm and something else you couldn’t name—something earthy. Sage, maybe.

You turned toward the open kitchen across the loft just in time to catch the warm flick of the fridge light opening. Jungkook stood there sockedfeet now, sleeves still rolled, a glass in one hand and the other pushing aside a cabinet door.

And your eyes stuttered. Not at him. (You’d long since gotten used to the way he looked like sin and salvation in dim light.)

But at the contents of the cabinet. You swear you just got a peak of dozens of tea boxes. Not just one brand or two—but everything from supermarket bags to specialty tins, chamomile to lavender to citrus blends. Lined like he’d been collecting them, like someone who maybe didn’t even drink tea but wanted to be prepared in case someone who did ever stayed the night.

He poured the water.

Set the glass down.

And only then turned to you.

You were still staring.

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

You felt suddenly too sober. Or maybe just drunk in a different way now. “What… is this place?”

Jungkook stilled.

It was a half-second pause—small, almost imperceptible—but you caught it. The way his hands slowed, the way his eyes darted once toward the far window before coming back to you.

He wiped his palm on a dish towel, came around the counter, and set the glass gently in your hands. You took it, grateful for something to focus on. It was cool and smooth and anchored you just enough.

"it’s… it’s really…” You looked around again. “Expensive-looking.”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the strands at the back then the same hand reached out to steady your elbows like he didn’t trust you not to float away. His voice, when it came, was low. Soft in that Jungkook way—like gravel dragged through silk.

“I bought it,” he said. “Next day after the night at Kim's."

Your brows pulled together slowly.

“It was impulsive,” he admitted. “Probably stupid. But I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I needed to make space for something that might never happen." He needed to make space for the possibility of you. Because who was Jeon Jungkook if not the most hopless of case when it comes to you.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever get to bring you here,” he said, eyes not quite meeting yours. “But I bought it anyway.”

You blinked slowly, piecing the words together. Your fingers lifted to press against your lips, as if trying to feel the echo of what you’d confessed there.

“This is yours?” you asked, like it still didn’t quite make sense.

He only said the simplest of truths. "It can be ours."

It felt too big for the room and too small at the same time.

��ours?” you repeated, tasting it.

He gave you a crooked smile, faint and self-conscious. “Well. That was the hope.”

Your heart tripped somewhere in your chest.

You looked around again, slower this time. Noticed the wine glasses above the sink, still drying. A photo frame faced down on the side table like it hadn’t been ready to be displayed yet. A stack of takeout menus in the corner, one with a smudge of sauce on it. A blanket draped over the back of the couch, creased like someone had slept there recently.

“Have you… stayed here?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes. When I needed to breathe." When he wanted to imagine you in here.

He didn't plan to tell you that part.

The truth of how often he came here, and you were in every corner of it.

He watched you now, standing there in the soft yellow glow of pendant lights, barefoot on the tile with your hair a little wild, your eyes flicking from one piece of furniture to the next like they were giving away secrets. And Jungkook—God, Jungkook had never known what it meant to wrench quietly until he imagined you here for the first time. Until he watched you exist in a space he had once only filled with feasibility.

He had picked that couch because it looked like it could hold two people who didn't mind tangling legs. Had stood in the kitchen and wondered if you'd drink your coffee by the window. Had stared at the second drawer by the bathroom sink and thought, that’s where she could keep her earrings.

He didn’t say any of that.

Didn’t confess the way he’d lain on that very couch more than once, staring at the ceiling and trying to imagine what your laugh would sound like bouncing off these walls.

He hadn’t wanted to jinx it. But he’d wanted it.

He still did.

“Were you gonna tell me? About this place?”

He smiled a little—wry, sheepish. “Eventually.”

“Why wait?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer, “I didn’t want to give you something you didn’t ask for. Not unless you were ready to want it, too.”

Then, without meaning to, you took a small step forward and wrapped your arms around his waist. Clung. He didn’t hesitate. His arms were around you in a second. One hand cupped the back of your head, the other pressing gently against your spine.

You buried your face into the soft black cotton of his shirt. “I feel… dizzy.”

“From the alcohol?” he asked, a barely restrained urgency in his voice.

“No.” You turned your cheek against him. "This is just..really dreamy. Yeah. Really dreamy."

He heaved out a breath and started started rocking you back and forth against him in an missable motion. "Sure, angel? You like it?" He asked for confirmation. He didn't bother hiding his need for reassurance in front of you. And you don't mind giving him so. You nod with confidence.

He huffs a soft chuckle. "You haven't seen the half of it. Maybe you won't like the colors. We can change them if that's what you'd like. Add plants." His voice spilled low against the crown of your head. An offering disguised as a list of design choices. But you knew what he meant. You heard it tucked between every carefully placed word.

Let’s make a life here.

Let’s try. Together.

Your face pressed to the slope of his chest, listening to his heartbeat carry the words he didn’t yet say aloud. Your arms looped tighter around his waist, fingers bunching the back of his shirt like you might fall through the floor otherwise.

"We can do whatever we want." he murmured, then exhaled like something eased in him. "All the little, big things. Do you ever wanna get a pet?"

You bobbed your head with far too much enthusiasm. "Absolutely! We could get a dobermoon! You once said you always wanted that!"

"I did." He smiled gently.

Your mouth twitched, and you didn’t mean to smile—but you did. It bloomed slow and sleepy across your face, the kind of smile that couldn’t be helped. “And what else?”

He was still swaying you—slow, steady movements, his hands warm at the small of your back. It took you a moment to realize what he was doing, what the motion even was. You blinked, nose brushing the side of his neck. “Wait,” you whispered, a soft snort cracking loose. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook tilted his head down, eyes meeting yours, glittering a little under the golden pendant light. “I just realized,” he said, and his voice was so low, so unbearably soft, you almost didn’t catch it, “I never got to dance with you at your wedding.”

You blinked, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with that dizzy kind of drunk only heartbreak and hope could cause. “You left before the music started.” You pouted against his chest.

“I know.” His hand found hers. “Can I have one now?”

You burst out laughing, giddy and golden. The thought of so that's how your laugh sounds bounching around the walls came paired with If he could have bathe in the sound of it he would for the rest of his life. “There’s no music.”

He tilted his head. “There’s you.” With a theatrical sigh, you let him slip all around you. It was unsteady, like gravity had forgotten you tonight, yet just like gravity; the way you fit against was a contradiction. All too well. All too comforting.

He moved you slowly, in wide, meandering arcs, like your bodies weren’t bound to tempo or beat, just to each other. You stepped on his toes once. Maybe twice. Your sock slipped on the smooth floor and you cursed under your breath. He caught you, hands tightening with the kind of tenderness that made you want to cry.

“Oops,” you muttered.

“Graceful,” he murmured, voice fond.

“You love it,” you countered.

“I do.”

He twirled you then. Not properly—God, no—but with that not so perfect grin that made your ribs ache and your stomach flip. You stumbled a bit, laughing into the fabric of his shirt, and he caught you again like he’d been born to. You buried your face in his shoulder. The air around you felt velvet-rich, the heat of his skin, the soft whirr of the heater, the scent of coffee grounds faint from the sink and your perfume still lingering on his collar. The world felt like something you could carry in your palm tonight.

Your cheek pressed right above his heart, where it thudded steady, solid, yours.

Your cheek pressed on right above his heart. “We’re not very good at this,”

“I don’t care,” he murmured into your hair.

You sighed. “My feet hurt.”

“We can stop,” he offered, easing to a gentle halt.

“Mhm." You leaned back to look at him, blinking up through your lashes, voice cotton-soft. You pressed your hand against it absentmindedly, right over the steady beat of his heart, fingers splayed like you could read it in Braille.

He watched you.

Watched the curve of your mouth. The warm glassiness in your eyes. The way your thumb moved without rhythm against his shirt.

You sighed out a thought. “Thank you,” you said.

He tilted his head, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your ear. “For what?”

“For this.” You squinted a little, like you were trying to remember something and only barely catching the edge of it. “For everything. I love you."

You hadn’t even flinched when you said it. You were smiling. Loose-limbed and lidded and not the least bit rattled, still swaying in place like the words had meant nothing more than a sweet note scribbled in a thank-you card.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe for a second. Could only feel the way his heart kicked against his ribs so hard he thought maybe you could hear it. Like it was clawing toward your name.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came.

You just looked at him, lashes heavy, lips curved soft. “Hmm?”

“What did you just say?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Thank you?”

“No, not that—fuck, angel." A deep chuckle rumbled out of chest. "Fuck."

But you were already pressing your cheek back to his chest, humming something tuneless, eyes drifting shut.

He swallowed hard. Tugged you closer to him and pressed his lips hard against your head. "I love you too."

Because what had once started with a love so rooted will end with a love that will survive an eternity.

It would always end in "I love yous."

SERIES TAGLIST: @ashslight @wannaghostbts @amatun28 @tteokbokibyjk @kelsyx33 @rexana19

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spencereidluver · 17 hours ago

Text

U is for Unraveled

april 29, 2009

summary: When a serial killer sends the BAU a murder on tape, the team is shaken. But no one more than Spencer, who slowly begins to emotionally spiral under the weight of the case. You try to steady him while the rest of the team starts to notice just how deep your connection runs.

Based off S4E22 of Criminal Minds: The Big Wheel

word count: 2.7k

warnings: typical criminal minds content, teasing from morgan about the hickey that was left in the last part, and spencer is very affected by this case

When the video stopped playing in the briefing room, no one spoke.

The footage had been filmed from the killer’s point of view: watching the victim from behind, following her, moving closer and closer until the screen shook with her final scream. Garcia had frozen the final frame, a faint reflection of the killer in a mirror, one eye cloudy with partial albinism.

Spencer was silent. Still. The kind of still he only got when something disturbed him deeply.

JJ broke the silence with a glance in his direction. “You okay, Reid?”

His voice came quietly, almost dazed. “I think I know what this is. It’s not about showing off. It’s a confession.”

Your eyes stayed on him long after the others began gathering files. That look…that specific stillness, it meant he was already diving too deep.

_____

By the time the team landed in Buffalo, Spencer had watched the tape at least four more times. In the SUV, he said little, tapping his fingers against his thigh while his eyes stayed locked on the reflection captured in the mirror.

At the local PD, Garcia's voice came through the speakerphone with an update: the unsub was identified: Vincent, an adult man with obsessive-compulsive disorder and a pattern of deep emotional remorse after each kill.

“He doesn’t want to kill,” Spencer muttered, reading over Vincent’s journal entries. “He wants to be stopped.”

Hotch gave him a measured look. “Let’s be careful not to empathize too closely. It clouds judgment.”

Spencer didn’t reply. Just flipped to the next page.

Later that day, while you were posted with Morgan at a secondary crime scene, Spencer and Hotch visited Vincent’s mother. When they returned, Spencer looked drained. Not tired, hollow. You watched him approach with that familiar slight slump in his shoulders. The one that meant something inside was already splintering.

_____

You woke to emptiness. The motel room was still, dim with the soft glow of a parking lot streetlamp leaking in through the thin curtains. The sheets beside you were cool. The space where Spencer should’ve been was untouched; no warmth, no crumpled pillow, just blank linen.

You sat up, heart thudding, and scanned the small room.

“Spence?” you whispered.

No answer.

You slipped out of bed, pulling an oversized FBI sweatshirt over the sports-bra you’d been asleep in, and slowed to the bathroom. Empty. His phone was still charging on the nightstand. His go-bag is still zipped up at the foot of the bed. Which meant he hadn’t gone far.

You moved to the window and tugged the curtain back. That’s when you saw him. Out on the curb. In the cold.

He was sat alone, knees drawn to his chest, elbows resting on top of them. His hoodie was loose and wind-tossed, hair curling in every direction. He looked like he hadn’t moved in a while, his eyes locked on something invisible, far beyond the edge of the parking lot.

Something in your chest twisted.

Quietly, you grabbed your keycard, slipped on your shoes, and made your way outside.

The night air bit at your legs as you stepped down onto the sidewalk. Gravel crunched lightly under your feet. Spencer didn’t turn his head. Didn’t flinch.

You put a hand on his shoulder and sat beside him slowly, folding your legs and letting the silence settle between you before you broke it.

“He reminds you of yourself,” you said, your voice low, nearly lost in the hum of the vending machine and the wind.

Spencer didn’t answer at first. He just blinked slowly, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

Then, finally: “I used to think if I could just find the right pattern… just crack the code that made me wrong, I’d stop being… broken.”

Your breath caught at the weight in his voice, not bitterness, not self-pity. Just resignation. Familiar, ancient. The kind of pain worn in quiet moments no one else saw.

“Vincent thinks that too,” he went on. “That if he can record it, document it, measure it…he can make sense of it. But he’s still trapped. Still terrified of himself.”

You turned your head to look at him. “You’re not like him.”

Spencer let out a soft, dry laugh. “A few bad turns. No BAU. No Gideon. No Hotch. No you…” He trailed off.

You blinked. “You think you could’ve ended up like him?”

He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.

He was still staring ahead when he whispered, “Sometimes I wonder if I was born on a knife edge. And all it would’ve taken was one push.”

Your hand found his, slow and steady. You linked your fingers with his, resting them on his knee. He gripped you like he didn’t know he needed to.

“Spencer,” you said gently, “you’re not broken.”

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “Sometimes it feels like I am.”

You squeezed his hand. “You’ve got a thousand pieces inside you, and you think the cracks mean you’re shattered. But I’ve seen inside that head of yours. The way you fight for people, for hope, for light. You’ve never stopped choosing to be good.”

He finally turned toward you, and in that moment, his eyes were glassy. Younger. Fragile in a way only you ever got to see.

“If I hadn’t met Gideon…or you…” he said, voice barely there, “I don’t know who I’d be. After Gideon left it got bad, and then after I was kidnapped…”

Your chest tightened.

“I thought I’d never come back, Y/N. And if I didn’t come back, I wouldn't have met you, and honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I would’ve found you anyway,” you said. “No matter what. No matter where.”

He blinked, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop tilting. Like your words were a lifeline pulling him back into gravity.

Then, with slow, careful movement, Spencer leaned sideways and laid his head on your shoulder. His hand never let go of yours.

The wind moved around you both, soft and cold. The parking lot was empty. The night, though heavy with the residue of the case, seemed quieter with him beside you.

“You’re not alone,” you whispered into his hair. “Not now. Not ever. I’m here for you. The team is here for you. Everyone.”

His voice was nearly a breath: “Thank you.”

Spencer didn’t say anything for a while, and you didn’t rush him. You just let him breathe, let him lean into you, let the weight of everything slowly bleed into the air. But after a few minutes, you felt him shiver It was slight, just a small tremble at first, barely there. But you noticed. His shoulders tensed. His fingers flexed in yours like he was grounding himself, holding back.

Without a word, you moved your hand to his arm, rubbing slow circles with your thumb.

“You’re freezing,” you said softly.

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “I just… needed air.”

“I know. But you’ve had enough of it now.” You shifted, untangling your legs as you stood. Then you bent slightly, holding your hand out to him, palm open. “Come back inside with me.”

He hesitated only a second before slipping his hand into yours. You helped him up gently. He moved slowly, like someone surfacing from deep water. No resistance, just tired. When you opened the door to your shared motel room, the warmth inside was a sharp contrast to the chill outside. You kicked the door shut quietly and guided him toward the bed.

Spencer stood near the edge, blinking like he wasn’t sure what to do next…so you helped.

“Sit,” you said softly.

He did.

You crouched in front of him and untied his shoes, pulling them off one at a time. He didn’t stop you. Just watched, quiet and still, as you set them beside the wall. Then you moved up, unzipping his hoodie and slipping it from his shoulders, leaving him shirtless. His arms fell to his sides easily, like he trusted you completely to carry him through this moment. You reached for the blanket and tugged it down, then lightly touched his chest.

“Lay down.”

He obeyed without a word, stretching out slowly, body heavy with exhaustion. You covered him up to his shoulders and leaned over to press a kiss to his temple.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered.

Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing his cheeks. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to speak, but didn’t have the words. You ran your fingers through his curls once, then again, slower. His breathing began to even out almost instantly.

“You’re safe,” you murmured, brushing his hair back again. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

A soft hum left his throat, a low, fragile sound like surrender.

You quickly slipped out of your hoodie before climbing into bed behind him, sliding close enough to wrap your arm around his waist and press your chest to his back.

He sank into you immediately. No more shaking. No more tension. You kissed the back of his shoulder and whispered into the dimness:

“You don’t have to hold everything in.”

This time, he whispered something back — so faint you almost missed it.

“Thank you… for coming to find me.”

“I always will.”

And in the quiet that followed, his breathing steadied, his body stilled, and you both finally slept.

In the morning, Spencer seemed more composed, but you could still see it, the way his fingers trembled slightly when he turned pages, the way he didn’t quite meet your eyes during team briefings.

You stood outside Vincent’s former neighborhood with Morgan while Spencer and Hotch canvassed again. It was bitter cold, and the wind kept whipping your hair into your eyes. Morgan cracked a joke about frostbite and walked up behind you to adjust your collar.

Spencer saw it as he stepped out of the car.

You didn’t catch his reaction right away. But later, in the hallway outside the PD’s interview rooms, he pulled you aside.

“You were laughing with Morgan,” he said, not quite looking at you.

“…Yeah? He said I looked like a frozen popsicle.”

“You touched his arm.”

You blinked. “Spence. he was helping me fix my jacket.”

Spencer’s jaw flexed.

“Are you… jealous?”

He shook his head, then immediately nodded. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

You reached up and gently took his chin. “Hey. Look at me.”

His eyes met yours, still full of doubt.

“You’re the only one I see. Always.”

He leaned into your hand and let out a breath. “Sorry. I know I’m being irrational.”

You stepped closer and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “It’s okay, love. I get it. But I love you and only you.”

His gaze darkened slightly. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

The next few hours passed in tension. Vincent’s final tape arrived, this time, showing a young blind boy named Stanley as the intended victim. The unsub was unraveling fast.

You were assigned to sit in the surveillance van with Garcia and Spencer while the rest of the team moved on the location.

Spencer’s knee bounced endlessly. You placed a hand on it to still him.

“He won’t kill the kid,” Spencer whispered. “He can’t.”

“Spence, you don’t know that…”

“I do. He left the camera again. He wants to be caught.”

On the screen, Hotch’s voice came through: “We’ve secured the subject. The child is safe.”

Spencer let out a shuddering breath and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. You slid your hand to his back and rubbed slow circles.

He leaned into it like gravity.

_____

The jet home was quiet, case closed, tension cooled, and the soft hum of engines filling the cabin. You were curled up next to Spencer, sharing a blanket as he read through a psychology journal he wasn’t really paying attention to. His hand was loosely laced with yours beneath the table.

You could feel Morgan’s stare before he even said anything.

“So,” he said slowly, a grin creeping across his face like a sunrise, “did it fade yet?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“The mark,” he said, gesturing lazily toward your neck with his coffee cup. “Last I saw, it was lookin’ pretty deep.”

You narrowed your eyes and shrugged your shoulders up to your chin. “Derek—”

“Don’t try to hide it now,” he laughed. “You think I don’t notice when a perfectly nice turtleneck suddenly becomes your fashion statement for three straight days?”

Across from you, Prentiss snorted. “He’s got a point. You never wear high collars unless you’re about to profile a priest.”

Spencer stiffened beside you. “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered.

“Oh, it’s not?” Morgan raised an eyebrow. “You sure? ’Cause that thing looked like someone tried to autograph her with their teeth.”

Spencer cleared his throat. “It wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to?” Morgan leaned forward. “Reid, my man, it looked like you got possessed mid-kiss.”

“I was just... passionate,” Spencer mumbled, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears.

You couldn’t help laughing now, burying your face in your hand. “Oh my god.”

Morgan smirked, totally unbothered. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love seeing Baby Genius step up. I just didn’t expect him to go full Dracula.”

Spencer groaned, covering his face with the open journal. “I’m never showing my face again.”

Prentiss leaned over. “You’re lucky Hotch hasn’t said anything.”

“He has,” you said dryly. “He just coughed and said, ‘Keep your personal life discreet in the field,’ and walked away.” You gave a terrible impression of your supervisor.

“Oh, classic Hotch,” Morgan laughed.

Spencer peeked over his journal. “You’re all awful.”

“Hey,” Morgan grinned, “we’re just proud of you, pretty boy. You’ve officially made it to Stage Five: Public Claiming.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, fighting a smile.

Spencer sighed dramatically and leaned into your side, still pink. “Remind me never to kiss you anywhere visible again.”

Morgan raised his hands in surrender. “All I’m saying is, next time you want to brand your girlfriend like a bottle of wine, maybe use a part of her neck that doesn’t scream ‘Reid went feral’ to every local police department.”

Spencer groaned again, and you just laughed, curling closer into him as he mumbled something unintelligible into your shoulder.

JJ looked up from her crossword a few seats down. “Are we still talking about the hickey?”

“Yes,” the three of you chorused.

She just shook her head and smiled. “God, I love this team.”

The jet touched down just after midnight.

You and Spencer walked down the stairs last, your hands brushing but not quite holding, still recovering from Morgan’s relentless teasing about the mark.

He hadn't let it go the entire flight.

The wind was sharp. You pulled your coat tighter, trying to will the embarrassment off your face. Spencer walked beside you in silence, clearly hoping to blend in with the shadows.

That hope was crushed immediately.

Hotch was standing near the bottom of the steps, clipboard in hand, giving final nods of dismissal to the team. When his eyes landed on you and Spencer, he paused for a half-second too long.

You could feel Spencer’s breath hitch beside you.

Hotch didn’t speak right away. Just lifted an eyebrow in Spencer’s direction. Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it. JJ passed behind you and barely held back a laugh.

Hotch glanced at your neck, then up at Spencer again, and finally gave a subtle, single nod, the kind that carried a lot of unspoken content.

Then, deadpan as ever, he said,“Dr. Reid. Try to be more mindful of visibility next time. The BAU prefers not to make an impression at crime scenes… for personal reasons.”

Spencer looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Y-Yes, sir,” he muttered.

“Have a good night,” Hotch added, already turning toward the SUV.

You waited until he was a few paces away before whispering, “You’re never going to live this down.”

From across the lot, Morgan shouted, “Get a scarf next time, Reid!”

You groaned. “I’m getting a turtleneck and you a muzzle.”

Spencer covered his face with both hands. “Please do.”

_____

next chapter: *link*

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version!

_____

a/n: i don’t have much to say, just that i’ve been grinding these parts out like i have nothing else to do, i truly hope you guys are enjoying them.

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27

@hopelessheaven @shycreationdreamland @cultish-corner @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls

@hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08

@princessbowbaby @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @smalltownbeautyqueen @spencereidapologist @lunajay33

@maybe-not-this @wannabewolf @sylv3in @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @pillsbury-doughgirl

@monfleurr @novaeatsworld @pleasantwitchgarden @vivixir @lolita-hc @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy

@guacam011y @super-nerd22 @khxna

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littlelordfuckler0y · 17 hours ago

Text

Bucky Barnes x wife!reader Instagram au

yellenna. This man is taking us somewhere against our will. Can’t believe democracy is in such hands. @congressman.barnes. +8 other government accounts tagged

john.walker I am also amongst the hostages but I’m here for their protection, not sure how long I can keep them safe alone.

-avastarr excuse you ????????

-yellenna. This is no hostage he cheered when he saw the congressman

-john.walker we have history together

r3dguardian There is no angle of him that is not badass.

-yellenna you can’t be serious

-r3dguardian jealousy is not good

congressmanbarnes 💪🇺🇸🙏

-comments are off

—

“Have you lost your mind?!” Her voice roared through the empty warehouse where Bucky had captured ‘Thunderbolts’. US pin and a well pressed blazer, perhaps Yelena’s post worked or Valerie sent someone to extract her dirty work.

“Oh hey hon-” before he could even finish that sentence the visibly angry woman turned her attention away from him and settled to the rest of them.

“I am so very deeply sorry…” she trailed off, somewhat extremely empathetic. A stark contrast to Bucky’s behaviour with them. “Oh this is just so bad” she took a deep breath when she saw their binds. “James.” She gestures towards their hands and asking him to free them.

He evidently didn’t want to but a stern look from her, not even a word just a look and he was on it. “Is she your boss?” Ava asked him, surprised at this shift.

“It’s Mrs Barnes.” John introduced her for the rest of the group. He knew she had a dislike him for a long while… “The political shark.”

“John.” She said with a curt smile, “Always a pleasure.”

“Do you prefer Mrs. Barnes or Potus’s right hand?” John snickered purposefully trying to irritate her.

“Do you prefer ex captain America or someone’s ex husband?” She shot back, unbothered as ever but still had to.

“You don’t have to get nasty” that smirk flattened off his face and he scoffed.

There wasn’t enough time to dwell in petty insults so she just shrugged, “Anyways, I’m so sorry you were all brought here this way. It was unauthorised and the administration didn’t know of it, I got here the second I found out about it” she explained removing her blazer to seem more friendly, walked over to Yelena, sitting next to her she took a deep breath. “All of you, you’ve had such a complicated hand at life. I’m deeply sorry.” She faced Yelena “I know your legend…you’re everything they say you are” she was truly in awe or was it just the political shark talking no one could tell. “If we were to delete the most recent post from your account…would it be an issue? It’s just to avoid exaggerated news headlines and you wouldn’t want that heat either would you?”

“Yeah yeah sure no worries…Miss-Mrs Barnes!” Yelena somewhat lost the plot of her words, the woman was extremely charming and her Instagram post of 6 likes was worth nothing.

“Please, it’s y/n.” She introduced herself like you would to a friend and placed a hand on her shoulder. Crisis resolved. Then faces Bucky again, “You.” She nodded at him to come to the side of the room. He knew he was in for huge trouble.

Instinctively he reached for her jacket and both her phones. Not his first rodeo. Every time he was in this situation he knew she moved her hands a lot when she talked her frustrations out. That’s why he took her stuff out of her hands so she could move her hands more freely as he’s getting an earful. “What were you even thinking?! You didn’t mention this at breakfast, This was your spontaneous thinking James? Your wonderful plan do you realise how bad your numbers are doing? No one’s going to account for congressman Barnes taking down Valentina they’re going to paint you out to be a Rogue agent? Not only that—”

“I messed up angel.” He admitted before she could go on, both of them knew that he didn’t exactly feel guilty about. His patience held no limit with her, because at times he’d barely register what she is saying because those wide stressed eyes, the fast words, the dedication and concern for him…he wasn’t used to it before her. Also how they first met through Sam, she was yelling at him for blowing up his chances for a meet with the mayor and he was just as captivated to listen to her as he is now.

“I’m not done” she held her hand out. “Your big tip is from that woman’s PA? I’m a third party person and I found this out do you think Valentina wouldn’t find out? Are you really risking someone’s well being this recklessly! And that picture Yelena posted-it is so authentically you no one’s believing it’s AI generated”

She was just going at him and he was just giving out soft and apologetic replies, the rest of them were really shocked to so say. “You’d be so viral if you posted whatever this is instead” John suggested with a snicker.

“He is so in love” Alexei looked at them in awe as he chuckled.

“I thought being a congressman would be a good fit for me and you got me there. It was wishful thinking and you made it happen. You have made a lot happen for me…you have made life happen. For me, us. I am sorry for letting you down like this I didn’t think it through” he gave a heartfelt apology taking her hands in his so she’d stop moving them, hands no longer moving equates to her calming down.

“I was really worried…” she trailed off with a sigh. “What’s even happened? What’s all this?”

“It’s a lab curated superhuman, one of Valentina’s test subjects actually worked right.” Bucky relayed the dreadful information.

“—So no aliens right?”

“Not yet”

“Please don’t say ‘yet’ that feels so bad, I shouldn’t even be knowing this I feel so stupid I asked there’s so much shit going on in DC and now there’s this nut job with an evil billionaire nut job-? Are you kidding me? Now this becomes classified information I can’t know about but I do know about, fuck—” hands were moving again as he got a hold of them.

“Hey, hey breathe.” He told her, breathing deeply to display it for her to mirror him. “It’s going to be alright. We will stop him.”

“I can’t know anymore about this because it links the Oval Office knowing about it and it’s already not a good mix, I’ve got to get back to DC apparently Potus accidentally quoted Kanye west in addressing the youthfest speech and because of my monstrous luck it just so happens that kanye’s tweeted 3 nazi tweets just last night.”

“You have to go?” He was a bit unease at the fact that she was away from him in such difficult times, wouldn’t be close enough in radius for him to protect her.

“I’ll be right back I’m using the chopper” she assured him taking her stuff back, leaning a bit close to him, caressing his face. “Promise me you’ll be safe?”

He nodded kissing the side of her hand and then pulled her close by her waist pressing a soft kiss onto her lips, “I promise” sealed with a kiss.

yourusername James is making a big deal out of farewell dinner for this apartment but I’m beyond glad to be out of the place you’ve to beat 2 hours of nyc traffic to get to…however… a great meal tagged barnesclickingstuff

yellenaa Welcome to the HQ

avastarr moving in with us HELL YEAH

john.walker Whatever to keep that museum jerk in line

r3d.guardian waaaitttt he has other account

*following are old posts*

barnesclickingstuff The missus is busy what do I do with my life :/

sam_wilson_ your dumbass always free

-barnesclickingstuff blocked

-sam_wilson_ that’s not how it works

barnesclickingstuff She won’t admit it but she’s afraid of manual cars

yourusername that is a lie and also makes no sense

-barnesclickingstuff then drive one

-yourusername Blocked

-barnesclickingstuff no thanks to you I’ve now figured out how blocking actually works

-barnesclickingstuff heyyy?

-barnesclickingstuff Did you actually block me

-barnesclickingstuff I was joking heyyy come back

barnesclickingstuff DC

yourusername bring your fiancé to work day!

sam_wilson_ hell no

barnesclickingstuff 🤍

barnesclickingstuff the actual view is defocused

yourusername aww

john.walker dear god he’s so corny

sam_wilson_ he can use outdated pick up lines…he was there when they were invented

barnesclickingstuff I pissed her off by packing her wrong shoes…I hope god smites me

sam_wilson_ How do you mess that up

yellenaa I can’t believe I’m saying this but this is so cute

r3d.guardian “Barnes clicking stuff” and all he is posting is his wife

Let me know if you guys want more parts w da thunderbolts arc? ;)

#instagram au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #sebestian stan #sebestian stan x reader #thunderbolts #winter solider x reader #winter soldier #james barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction

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lambcultist · 16 hours ago

Text

in bloom. 𝐸.𝒲.

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ ellie is struggling to come to terms with the reality of her immunity, and you are struggling with heeding everyone's warnings about her.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ MINORS DNI ( 18+ ) mean!jackson!ellie x shy!sweetheart!reader. ellie is the local bitch in town, reader the sweetheart. canon divergence. ellie is struggling a lot with depression, insecurity, worthlessness, panic attack. mentions of reckless behaviour due to said mental health issues. heavy mention of ellie's difficulty regarding her and joel's relationship. reader is extremely shy. awkward x awkward tbh. probably lots of secondhand embarrassment. lots of pining, slow burn. hurt / comfort. some angst. explicit death, infection, killing, etc. tooth-rotting fluff and some cliche. lots of canon elements skewed and played with to fit the mean trope, though she's barely even 'mean', she's just misunderstood. follows ellie's pov more. protective + jealous ellie... cat mentioned. dina and jesse are dating. ellie has pollen allergies. pet names (baby girl, kitten, darling). sex — dom!ellie, sub!reader. virginity loss. oral + fingering (r), tribbing. reader cums prematurely and is insecure/embarrassed. lots of praise.

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — ‧₊˚ ⋅ omg !! i've been working on this for so long. i'm so happy with how she's turned out. it's a long one, so, strap in. there's a bit of a bigger focus on exploring ellie's point of view as i wanted to focus on her emotional state. all in all, i feel so sad for my girl, like, she feels worthless and that's not okay. so i wanted to write about her realising she means something to someone. you can also read on ao3.

　　　　m.list　wc — 18.4k　mdni, please ♡

　　　　　　　　　WINTER.

"aww, grumpy decided to show face."

with a soft rolling of her eyes, ellie purses her lips and lets out a sigh. she could recognise the voice anywhere, jesse's remarks so typical and yet never any less annoying.

"yeah, well i'm regretting it," ellie replies, glancing up at her friend. "i hate these things."

"that would be because you're a lonely sack of shit," jesse points out.

to that, ellie just scoffs and looks into her half-empty glass, the amber liquid swirling as her thoughts often do. the string lights above twinkle like stars, and the room is alive, so alive, with laughter and love. it's all what ellie wishes she had, along with the ability to forget about life's burdens for even a few hours. she fucking wishes it were possible for her.

from the children outside pretending to be the most gruesome and unsightly monsters in games of tag, to the elders and adults with a buzz warming their aching bones, everyone in jackson seems comfortable enough to make some light of the world outside the walls. it seems that easy for them to leave behind the troubles faced.

"come on," jesse relents, firmly patting her shoulder. ellie's silence speaks more than her voice, and if there's anyone who knows it, it's him. "i'm glad you showed up for once. i worry. so does dina. and joel."

"yep." for a moment she allows her face to soften, though her eyes narrow at the last addition: joel. "he's talking to you about me? again?"

"just the usual," jesse admits. "patrol. he suddenly gets a lot more involved in the planning process when it comes to your patrols."

"well he's going to stop it soon, i promise you that."

jesse chuckles quietly and shakes his head. "no need. i understand."

"no, he'll stop bothering you about it," ellie assures. "i'll talk to him."

it's deeper than bothering jesse. it boils down to ellie wishing for some more control. joel is more than just a thief to her life's purpose. his protection is unwarranted, his attempts at repairing what's lost simply a waste of time in ellie's eyes. there is no fix.

"so, dina's talking to your little friend over there," jesse says gruffly, nodding his head across the room to where you and dina rest at a table. you look meek, and dina acting of her usual high enthusiasm—if a little more intense than usual, thanks to the alcohol. she's ranting and raving, and you're nodding along. a change of subject was needed.

"she's not my friend," ellie mutters, doing her best to avoid looking, or at the very least, making it obvious that she is looking. her eyes steal fleeting glances every so often.

"i'm not sure how you managed this, but she is your friend," jesse says. "whether you like it or not, she sees you as a friend. that would be because you don't act like a dick around her. almost as though you might be... trying to impress her?"

"you're unbelievable." ellie shakes her head and her fingers tighten around her glass for a moment. "she's just.. not... she doesn't deserve me being a dick. she's the only person around here who's nice to me.. it doesn't mean anything."

"hey guys, are we having fun being antisocial wallflowers over here?"

dina suddenly appears in front of jesse and ellie, you attached to her arm like a kitten held by the scruff. immediately, ellie straightens her posture, downing the last of her whiskey. as it burns her throat, she fixes her collar, fumbling with the blue flannel before finally looking at you.

all the laziness leaves her body when you're around. maybe jesse is right. jesus, she actually wants to impress you.

the band strikes up another song and lightning fast, dina takes jesse by the arm. "it's our song! come on stupid."

that goddamn wink and smirk as she guides him away, leaving her alone with you, makes ellie feel a pit in her stomach. fuck, those idiots planned this. was dina giving you a goddamn pep talk before?

"hi."

"hey," ellie murmurs, eyes shifting from your face, to your dress, and to the stack of small papers in your hands. odd, but you're full of odd behaviours and quirks that make her smile. almost. "how's your night?"

"i— huh? oh— that's not—" you stare at your cards, your own handwriting seemingly illegible at this moment. it's worse with your hands trembling, and you sift through the cards, only to come up with nothing. you didn't plan a response for that. "you went off script. don't do that."

"off script?" a beat passes before ellie laughs a little bit, abruptly stopping when she realises it's upsetting you. you're actually stressed, clearly with something to say and not the guts to speak up. "sorry, i'm not laughing at you. sorry, sorry. i'll... stay on script this time."

oh shit. is this what i think it is?

ellie's heart is pounding. she knows what's coming. the inevitable confession she never wants to hear, especially not from you. don't. i'll only get you hurt.

"okay," you reply. you heave a breath before beginning to read your cards. "um, i hope you're doing good and that i'm not bothering you too much right now—"

"why would you bother me?"

"don't interrupt me, that's not in the script."

"sorry." she clears her throat, nods solemnly and stares over you.

internally, she's begging for this not to happen—because what is she to do? hurt your feelings and say no? or give in to selfish desires, only to hurt you deeply somewhere down the line? it's a lose-lose.

you resume; "i hope i'm not bothering you by saying this, but— oh fuck, no, wait."

you drop your script, papers falling to the floor like a house of cards. you crouch down to try and retrieve every piece but everything is out of order. your hands dig frantically around ellie's shoes for your cards, your senses only brought back once her hand takes your wrist.

reassurance is on the tip of her tongue and yet fails to make a sound. ellie just crouches in front of you and picks a card up from the floor, skimming the words on it.

thank god, it's not at all what she thought. such a simple, sweet request.

"you want to dance?"

"i, uh.." your eyes open wide and panicked. but looking at ellie's warm, flushed cheeks and what seems to be openness on her features, you'll happily go along with it. "yeah."

"we can do that," ellie replies. it feels wrong, unfamiliar, to smile in a public place, but she cracks the corners of her lips up and pulls you to stand. she is relieved that perhaps she was wrong, this wasn't a confession. she can indulge in this one moment and dance with you, but you'll be safe from her in the future. "you won't be needing these anymore."

you can't protest before ellie snatches your cards and pockets them. she pulls you up alongside her. the world spins around you, a dreamlike feeling casting over you. warmth in your cheeks and a tingle in your toes as she guides you further from the bar and into the crowd of dancing couples. teens leaving room for jesus, elders grateful to spend yet another night with their beloved after decades of survival without hope, and now, you and ellie, fill the space.

maybe it's the whiskey, but ellie's muscles are lax and she's content with your arms encircling her shoulders. she considers pulling you closer, but people are already staring. so, her hands settle for your waist and she glares at the floor, the tips of her ears a blazing red.

ellie should not be anywhere near you. the resident sweetheart of jackson hole, wrapped up in delicate fabrics and scuffed mary janes, should not be concerned with ellie williams. your big eyes and timid smile, the kind that both comforts and petrifies her, it's magnetic in a sense.

she doesn't even pick up on your worried look, she doesn't realise that her own expression has turned grim. her eyes widen, your fingers tuck a strand of her behind her ear. that puppy-like head tilt and the slow sway of your hips...

she's a goner.

and everyone in this fucking room is staring at you—probably wondering what the hell has gotten into you. even ellie wonders.

the fear of looking like a threat is getting to her; maybe her attempts not to look like a threat are making her look all the more suspicious right now.

the entire night plays back like a movie in her head.

ellie's garage is cold. even with the heater on and her mountainous piles of blankets, she cannot shake the blues away. she felt a girl's love for a few minutes—of course, these minutes felt like a century in her mind—and once the ballad had come to a close, she forced herself to step away. one three minute song is all she will allow.

her journal learns all about it. the memory is fixed in messy handwriting and scribbles of your face. she cannot capture the look the way that she wishes to. every time that she tries, ellie is reminded of the fact that you were the only person in that space to look at her so fondly.

she jots down the lyrics to the song that played. she attempts to write exactly what your little 'script' had said, and that's when it hits—she pocketed them. ellie has a physical keepsake.

she fishes through her pockets and pulls out the pile of cards. she shuffles through for your invitation to dance. the important part, that is. your handwriting is rather pleasant, she thinks, a smile on her face. it's not like her own.

a card drops onto the journal spread and ellie sighs, lithe fingers reaching for it—her heart stops.

'i really like you, and i wanted to ask if you would be interested in spending some more time together. and not really in a friendly way.'

"oh fuck." ellie's throat feels so tight, as though choking on air. fuck, this can't be. her eyes scan the cards for any other possible intention. she reorders them, rereads it until she has the entire speech locked in her mind.

there is no other possible meaning to this.

you were shy, you were nervous, and giggling, and trembling, and stuttering, all because of her.

"not happening," ellie mutters, abruptly leaving her desk. "stay away from me."

the cards lay sprawled across her journal, lamp light cast over it.

the sun rarely shines as bright as this in jackson's colder months, and although today the sky is muted, the snow-covered ground is glistening beneath the early morning sun, pristine white.

you are not invincible against the cold biting at your skin, nor the way your eyes wish to rest a few more minutes. but if there is anyone in this town who will happily ignore it, it is you. up bright and early day in and day out to assist in the daycare, greeting others with smiles or compliments to ease the burden of the morning on them.

only today it is intolerable. your night continued into rather late hours at home, teardrops falling into your hands over the mere fact that your plan to confess was foiled. the world keeps spinning and after all, there are positives to the situation. you held yourself as you slept, hand on your hip in just the same way that ellie's had been there hours prior—you swore you could still feel her warmth.

your embarrassment could be easier to deal with if it weren't for the public opinion. quite shocking that ellie has such a reputation. her name circles town daily, and now, you are being told about her in quite egregious detail by whoever you stumble upon; you're being warned about her.

she looks like she's hiding. streaks of auburn darting down the street, jesse in tow. she takes the long way to the stables, you guess, and makes a wide birth around the daycare. it stings. what the hell happened? did you mess up this bad?

clammy little hands wrap around your legs and your attention is taken to chubby red cheeks, young oscar all smiles to see his favourite daycare attendant this morning.

"hey buddy," you murmur. the sudden feeling that you are being watched makes you look up, and it's then that you meet a flash of thyme green eyes; ellie. unfortunately she disappears quicker than she had appeared.

"are you okay?" oscar's mother is a short woman, often as flushed in the face as her boy. she looks over you pointedly, your confusion evident. "i suggest you don't get involved with that girl. she's trouble. that's all. we all make mistakes at your age."

"oh, i..." your brows crease at the notion of ellie being troublesome, when you've known her to be anything but. you have heard their reasoning and nothing quite stood out to you. "i think i'll be all right, thank you dawn."

she parrots just about every other person you've seen today.

"don't thank me, just listen. stay away from her."

bizarre.

"so, last night... you were getting pretty cozy with—"

"no, i was not."

jesse and dina's efforts to find out what happened last night are all but successful. ellie has shut down any mention of it as soon as the words leave their mouths. jesse accepted that ellie was too cranky and sleepy this morning to kindly explain why she's the talk of the town again. dina isn't having much luck either.

"listen, it's just— it's no big deal," ellie says, resigning herself to the topic. "town's just making something outta nothing. like they always do."

"yuh-huh, seems people are pretty crazy over their darling," dina comments. she falls back so that her horse can trot in pace with ellie and shimmer, looking over curiously. "but tell me about... last night. what happened?"

"nothing." ellie's blunt response makes even shimmer huff, the horse shuffling through piles of wet snow. "she asked me to dance."

"with or without the palm cards?"

ellie snorts, shaking her head slowly. "you helped her."

there's a beat of silence, maybe hesitance, before dina nods. "i did. she's a sweet girl, y'know, i think she's good for you."

"are we going the right way?" ellie interrupts. the creek ends just nigh of where the two ride, no lookout in sight. she feels a challenge in leadership when taking an unfamiliar route on patrol, and this conversation is bound to give her a headache.

"yes, we are. the lookout's just over that hill." dina pauses again. "did she say anything else last night?"

ah. great. "no. she dropped the cards and gave up on whatever they said." ellie clears her throat, looking away. "i kept them, and i read them when i got home."

"right." dina lets out a sigh, now trying to gauge ellie's opinion. she doesn't sound too positive or too negative. "so you're avoiding her now? because that's what i've gathered. what's the deal surrounding—"

"i'm not.. avoiding her, i'm just playing it safe. not going to say anything about it, not gonna embarrass her. there. is that what you're interested in hearing?"

"ellie," dina scolds, "what's your goal here? eternal loneliness? is this about cat?"

ellie comes to a screeching halt at that, shimmer whinnying. "what? fuck no. i was over her before it ended."

"yeah, figured. i never really thought she was your style... too abrasive, you guys kinda clashed a little, you know, she's not like—"

"dina."

and there she goes; dina lists off your many qualities, every one oh so perfect. a list of every reason ellie wants you, and they are all reasons why she should not dare touch you.

"can't you see it? i see the potential for something great," dina boasts. "she's real into you. you're so nice to her."

"that's, like, the bare minimum."

"for you, though, it means a lot."

finally the lookout comes into view. ellie braces herself to make an abrupt end to this conversation, she's ready for this to stop.

"lookout's just ahead, we can tie the girls up here and head inside," dina confirms, sliding off her horse and watching as ellie does the same. "i'm serious, though. jesse and i worry about you and, i mean, what is it that's stopping you from asking her out?"

"dina, listen." ellie makes a serious effort to avert eye contact, to hide her expression, and even the ache in her voice. "you seen her? she's like those little fuzzy flowers that even the wind can blow away. she'd wither away if she spoke to me for more than a second. i kinda have to be nice to her."

"damn," dina says, humming softly. "that's a lot of words that sound like nothing to me. you're lying to me and you're lying to yourself. you tell little kids to fuck off, but you can't resist smiling at this girl?"

ellie's biting the inside of her cheek, following dina into the lookout. she is being sincere. it's just that dina doesn't quite know the depth of ellie's misery. she is a mystery.

ellie does not believe for a second that she will not hurt you. she is the strike of fire, an unstoppable force that can only destroy. too easily, her rage is a blaze that burns all in its path. she's sickening. she'll poison you, you'll spit her out and leave like all the others do.

"i don't know what she sees in me," ellie admits after a moment of ponder. "i'm just some asshole."

"that you are, but i think she sees what me, jesse, and even joel, see in you. you don't let anyone else in, ellie. don't you dare ice her out too."

you're like her shadow. you are just unavoidable, either by thoughts of you creeping into the corners of her mind, or just by coincidence. on days where nobody has uttered even a word to her, you never fail to wish her a good afternoon or ask how she's doing. she keeps it brief, despite her yearning to know you better.

it takes a great deal of self discipline. ellie must control herself around you. your stupid palm cards weigh on her mind all the time, those feelings you've been resigned to keeping to yourself without knowing that she knows. if ellie weren't such a goddamn coward, she could pounce. you'd be hers.

"good morning, ellie," you call, and it's early enough for ellie to internally groan but your voice is like that of a bird's aubade. "do you have a minute?"

"hm? suppose," ellie murmurs, shoes shuffling against the floor of the tipsy bison awkwardly. she's regretting her choice of converse this morning—hopefully you'll make this quick and she can run back to grab some boots before patrol. screw breakfast. "what's up?"

part of her hopes that you take as long as you like. she'd like to lose herself in your kindness before she heads out into the mountains on this brutally cold day. actually, she would like to lose herself in your kindness forever; you make ellie want to be kind, but it feels as though she lost that part of herself many years ago. she doesn't know how to be like that anymore.

she should be staying away from you. none of this hopeless searching for a piece of her old self in you.

"well, i have some questions and figured you'd be the right one to ask."

"oh? me? i'm... i mean, yeah, sure," ellie says, looking down at her fidgeting fingers. "what's it about?"

"well, you're into dinosaurs and stuff, right? what's the word again? paleon..."

"paleontology," ellie corrects, nodding her head. "who told you i'm into that?"

"uh... dina."

of course. ellie refrains from shaking her head in annoyance and lets you continue, although she is a little in her head at the moment.

"there's a couple kids showing interest in all that stuff at the moment," you say, "i was wondering if you could give me a lesson? or some reading material, if you've got any? i want to plan some activities for them."

"oh, uh, yes, uh, sure, i guess. yeah." ellie responds with a lame shrugging of her shoulders and picks at some skin around her fingernails, holding her breath as to not completely fucking freak out. this is such a dumb thing to get worked up over. your hopeful smile is everything right now. "i mean, not to brag but i've got a pretty neat collection of stuff."

seriously? way to go. ellie's aware she sounds nothing short of embarrassing right now, she's unable to resist the pull towards dumping all of her knowledge onto you. i sound sooo tough right now.

"oh, really? well i'm interested in seeing it then," you reply, giggling. "when's a good time for you to show me?"

and, just like at the dance, it feels as though everyone in this diner is staring at ellie. she knows she shouldn't be talking to you. she forgot for a moment. she forgot that she's a danger to you.

the cutting, unforgiving stare of frail mrs. brown has ellie lower her gaze, shifting on her feet again. "mm, maybe tomorrow," she mutters. "i've got patrol. i.. should probably get going. i'm gonna be late again."

"oh." you pause, somewhat puzzled by ellie's sudden nerves, how eager she is to get going. was that your fault? maybe she doesn't want to spend time together after all.

"see you later." it's offhanded and with little caution. ellie tries her damndest not to look back at you, and also to avoid eye contact with the others in the diner.

a sudden outburst directs your attention to ellie again, with her way out blocked by a self righteous mrs. brown.

"you leave that poor thing alone."

ah?

"mrs. brown, please, ellie means no harm," you say assuringly, although there is a twinge of something in your voice. something mrs. brown cannot grasp. you're not sure where this bite to your voice came from.

but it has something to do with the way ellie doesn't even look twice at you. she just slips out the door and hurries away.

"watch yourself around her, sweetpea," the older woman says to you. "she's not the kind of person to be hanging around the likes of you. not sure whether she was raised in a barn or if she's just born wrong."

"nobody is born wrong," you say. "that's horrible. you've misjudged her."

"you're naïve," mrs. brown replies sincerely. it seems like she is trying to be sincere at least—it only makes you feel small.

nobody is born wrong. nobody is bad. ellie is not bad. and nobody shall ever be able to tell you otherwise. it simply isn't true.

"we got reports of infected out west of jackson. there's a few places out there we haven't searched in a long time, maria wants it done."

jesse is already addressing the group by the time ellie rocks up, attempting to sneak in undetected with shimmer in tow, but unfortunately for her, she's served a disappointed look and handed a bolt action. he doesn't pause his speech, and honestly, it's more humiliating that way. ellie partly wishes there was some sort of remark made.

"stay with your groups, don't be an idiot, if there's anything you can't handle you come back to base. these places could be rife with infected, so be careful. are we clear?"

ellie's still rubbing sleep out of her eyes and blinking at the ground, her mind is somewhere else. you stood up for her. you did that, and she still feels so warm. you should not be wasting your time with her. she will never understand why you do.

"ellie—"

"huh?" she looks up, gaze flicking between jesse and the others around her. you've gotta be shitting me. half of these people are new to patrols. if she's got to babysit newbies this morning, she's—

"you and i are taking max, amelia, and jacob out to that great big music store by the lodge. might dig into the motel if we've got time."

"seriously? that motel's fucked. joel and i went like, what, two years ago? can't see the music store being any better," ellie protests. "why are we taking new recruits out to these shitty areas? you think they're not gonna shit their pants if they encounter a bloater?"

"ellie, calm, will you? maria wants this done, we've held off on clearing these places for a little too long. we drag our feet and eventually it will have consequences. so, we're getting it done," jesse says. he notices the others share bristling looks amongst each other and grunts. "there will not be a bloater out there. ellie's overreacting."

"oh yeah, not like joel and i killed one last time we visited the motel."

"oh good. so like i said, there won't be any bloaters out there, thanks to ellie and her old man's efforts." jesse shoots ellie one final glance of warning before readdressing the group. "are we ready to leave?"

"i'll hang back, make sure nobody's gettin' lost," ellie says. she's a lot more reserved now, the telltale sign to jesse something is truly off about his friend this morning. because ellie typically rejects any and all authority, even jesse. even joel, nowadays.

shortly after, jesse kicks off and the group follows. ellie rides behind them. shimmer gallops over yards of snow, the wind blowing back wayward strands of ellie's hair and chilling the hot blush on her cheeks. today is turning out to be a pretty shit one, but at least she has this. riding on the back of her horse will never not be soothing to her tortured soul.

as the motel comes into view, ellie lets out a sigh. as picturesque a view it is, shrouded by thick pines and sitting in solace, it leaves ellie so conflicted. it looks worse in the cold, the dilapidated building left for dead and covered in a blanket of white. whatever horrors have crept into it since her last visit, she doesn't want to know.

ellie doesn't want to visit the music store. she never got to see what was in there with joel. even thinking about it makes her stomach lurch, and if it weren't for her skipping breakfast earlier, she would be struggling to keep it in. fucking joel.

this place is a myriad of discomforting memories.

"ellie, is it really true that you and joel found a bloater in that motel?"

jacob has slowed his pace to match her, looking on with a glimmer of what looks like excitement in his eyes—ellie hopes it's not excitement. else this kid's looking to get killed.

"yes," she mutters, brows knit and eyes narrowed into slits. "we dealt with it. these things are rare, y'know, and there's nothing to be excited about. unless you want your head ripped off."

"holy shit." he giggles through the curse, his enthusiasm unmatched by amelia and max's unbridled terror. "sounds gnarly."

"sure." ellie scoffs, looking away. can't stand to watch this kid act so stupidly, can't even stand to bitch at him for it.

if only she weren't so privy to the grim sights of this world. must be nice.

jesse comes to an abrupt stop, looking back at the group. "you hear that?"

from a small cluster of retail stores, a nefarious rattling echoes the courtyard. ellie meets jesse's eyes and nods. "clicker."

"how many? we should probably clear this place out, right?" jacob cuts in, his boisterous voice startling the whole group.

"will you shut the fuck up?" ellie glares at jacob.

"there might be some supplies inside," amelia suggests, and she does not want to run the risk of pissing ellie off either, so she keeps her voice down.

"sounds like it's not too hectic. we'll take a look," jesse decides, steering the group towards the stores, where they all get down and begin to scope out the area.

ellie is eternally thankful to have a slow start to patrol today. two clickers, one runner, and a group of four on patrol with her—that's nothing special to start with. the threat is eliminated in no time, and now's only a matter of looking for supplies or interesting items to take back.

nothing is of much interest to ellie. it's an odd combination of stores; some kind of boutique, an overgrown flower shop, and a pet store.

ellie cannot help but think of you when her eyes first take in the flower shop. sage vines covering the walls, inside and out, the flowers rotted. it's all dead, which gives her a little jolt and she makes a quiet but self deprecating remark about how much of an idiot she is—such a romantic, huh?

but that's it, isn't it? she can't resist any longer. this place would be utterly bewitching in the springtime. she knows without a doubt in her mind you would love to see it. she remembers that you once said you've not left jackson's walls since you arrived some years ago.

now she feels this devastating pull towards taking you here one day. perhaps when the weather's warmer, she'll ask. you would like that. she might need some liquid courage to do so, if the dance last week says anything about how suave ellie can be.

"i'm such a fucking loser." ellie does her best to shake the thoughts of you away. but one step inside the boutique and new thoughts flood in. many of the pieces in here are barely intact, barely any of it to her personal tastes. but she knows someone who would love it.

a shade of baby pink catches her eye and she reaches out to look at the sundress, fingers travelling down the side seam. it's in the clearance section, a ripped up sign reading, 'end of summer sale' above the hanger. she snorts, yet pulls away from it like it's stung her, or as though she fears she's tarnished the dress somehow.

"what an ugly piece of fashion," she murmurs, laughing shakily as if her face is not blooming the same colour as the dress; leaving it behind as if she didn't just picture you wearing it.

when she walks out of the boutique ellie hears amelia ask jesse if they're ready to head to the music store finally. she sighs heavily and climbs onto shimmer's back, staring ahead blankly as they set off once more.

this is when things become troublesome, she already knows it. the music store creaks and rickets by just the breeze hitting it, and she can already hear the strangled cries of runners and clickers hanging out inside.

"there's a mighty old checkpoint in that cabin to the right," jesse comments, sliding off his horse and looking to the group. "ellie, can you take someone to sign us in?"

"yeah. sure. whoever's coming, i don't care, just follow me."

jesse scowls as she simply starts riding to the cabin. he calls after her quickly, "join back as soon as possible. amelia's coming."

that was, at least, the best option out of the three. amelia isn't insufferable. she seems to handle patrol with the level of sensibility it requires.

"so did you and joel clear the music store too, or just the motel?" amelia asks, watching ellie dust off the logbook.

"nah, just the motel. we were trying to get here, didn't make it. found some bodies, went straight home."

ellie cringes, quite visibly at that, remembering the day in such detail. her heart ached as though she was burning alive. she knew he was lying.

"oh, right, i remember that," amelia says. "that was tragic."

ellie doesn't say anything. the room falls silent as she signs the logbook, once again tripping over the never ending trails of thought that appear in her mind. if only they were immune, right?

it's significantly more troubling to cope with these thoughts in her head because nobody else even knows. nobody gets it. there's no other person on earth with the same questions as ellie, and the only person who could answer some of her questions dismisses them within an instant.

she can't help but feel hate for joel for what he did. he took away her birthright; he ruined the sole meaning of her life, and she'll never quite understand why.

ellie wanted to save people. she is beyond just worthless now that joel has taken this from her—she's a ticking time bomb. she hurts people, she hurts herself. with less than ten percent of jackson's population actually willing to befriend her, ellie does the most that she can to protect them now.

it's why she throws herself into the most unsavoury, unsafe situations on patrol.

she can't help but wonder what the lives of everyone she knows would be like if she had been given her choice.

"hey you." jesse's waiting by the door of the music store when ellie and amelia arrive back.

"what's the situation?" ellie asks immediately upon catching her friend's worried look, the way that he stands with his back straight and shoulders tense.

"runners and stalkers around every goddamn corner. we were waiting for you two to come back so we can take care of it. we're debating whether or not to call for backup. i heard some clickers, it just might be too intense for these guys alone."

"ah." she takes note of max and jacob, conspiring something quietly together (rather, jacob elbowing max, and max replying in anxious whispers). "hey, the fuck's your deal?"

"someone's scared," jacob teases, giving max an aggressive noogie on the head. "i think we should just go deal with it. it's not a big deal. max is too much of a pussy."

"jacob, stop it man," jesse mutters, his eyes reading of warning.

"it'll be much quicker if we just handle it now," he replies errantly. "let's go."

"no, let's—"

without waiting, jacob drags a thrashing max past the doorway and into the shop. instantly the screams of infected sound like an alarm and the group is forced into action, ellie throwing herself in first.

violence consumes the area in sound, in sights, in the adrenaline that courses through ellie's veins. not only is it a handful of rogue runners and stalkers, but the familiar, uncouth screeching of a clicker grows closer. her ears ring, gunshots bouncing off the walls, her heart pounds, each step forward thudding against bloodstained hardwood.

"over here! help!"

ellie's eyes dart across the room and max is struggling against a runner, too busy fighting the crazed monster to reach for his gun.

when ellie reaches the boy, she yanks the runner and the barrel of her pistol meets his head. everything in the room is eerily silent now, nothing but panting breaths, and max falling on the floor in front of ellie.

"all quiet," jesse says with a sigh. he's wiping blood off his face and checking with amelia and jacob before they hear a gun cocking, a sudden commotion.

"no, no, please!"

it's max, scrambling away from ellie, whose gun is pointed at his face. the reason why she is doing this is bleeding. jesse can see it too, on max's hand; bright red puncture wounds, dripping onto the floor.

he's bit.

and he's begging.

"woah, woah, woah, let's handle this appropriately—"

the boy begins to cry. max is cowering. if only he were immune, right?

if only.

it's too much for her. ellie looks away, and she pulls the trigger. she grimaces as the cries silence on instant, nothing but a vile gurgling echoing. she doesn't dare to look down at him, she doesn't want to see his brain matter against the drum set behind him, nor the way his blood oozes out and seeps into the floorboards.

she's not even brave enough to look at the rest of the group—the living ones—she's done this in front of them. this boy didn't get to go out with dignity, she took out her own fury on him. he doesn't deserve that.

"fuck, i—"

"it's okay, ellie, look at me," jesse coaches, slowly stepping closer. he takes the pistol from her. it's not okay.

"what the fuck is wrong with you man?" jacob storms over, a mask of anger in his narrowed eyes, but he's shaking too. everyone's fucking scared of her. she fucked up. "you don't get to—"

instead of succumbing to letting this teenager scream at her, ellie defies him, jabbing a finger in his direction immediately. "don't you take that tone with me. if you never pushed him in here, he'd still be here."

"hey, hey! calm. everyone. let's just go back. we'll take max home."

ellie wonders if jesse likes her a little less now. he's never seen her do something so cruel. she barely listens to him speak. she feels such a failure.

amelia won't look at her. jacob looks as though the scene has aged him years.

god, ellie thinks, i fucked up.

ellie gets home. she stands in front of the medicine cabinet, swiping a damp cloth over her cheek. she watches the blood spray disappear from her skin, and she can't look herself in the eye.

she may be immune, but she's still infected. where is her humanity? why was it her? at this rate, what is she here for? what makes her any different from the infection that would have claimed max? ellie was supposed to save people. she was supposed to be different. but she feels the same as them—everywhere she turns, someone is hurt or killed, it often tends to be at her own hand.

she is a monster.

she doesn't hear the door creak open, so the call of her name surprises her quite suddenly. it's a voice she has no interest in hearing from right now—it's southern, gravelly, and low.

"so i heard about what happened, and uh... had to come check on ya."

"i'm fine, joel." he gives her that look she is, unfortunately, used to seeing from him. the honest disbelief. so ellie opens her mouth again and this time it's with a little more sternness. "seriously."

god, she's sick of the pity. joel suffocates her. however well he means, ellie can't trust him anymore. she can't just forget, and this is the first time he has ever disrespected the space she's put between them. "well, i just... carryin' out an execution... it's hard. i know. and however the town may try to spin it, it don't mean—"

"joel, i need you to stop," ellie warns. she turns away but she still sees him in the mirror. she still sees herself in the mirror. her brows carve a nasty, cold look into her gaze, her lips almost snarling.

that boy was going to die whether or not ellie had interfered. but what messes with her mind the most is how indecently she did it. he was crying. she didn't let him say goodbye, nor write sentiments to his family. she shot him like a dog. she killed him as though he had already turned.

"you are awfully quiet these days ellie, i'm just worried about you and—"

"i'm supposed to be dead, joel," ellie growls. her hands grip either side of the sink and she leans against it, looking at the discarded face towel. "this would've never happened if you never— if you never—"

"but you're not dead, now don't you talk like that." joel's voice is getting harder and he's leaning against the doorway now, suddenly closer than ellie thought. "none of this is on you. it was never on you. this is just life. and you keep findin' purpose. these things, they happen to everyone. it is not on you."

"no," ellie whispers. "it's on you now. you fucking— you did this. he would be cured if you left me in that stupid hospital."

joel stares at the side of ellie's face. he catches the way her lips quiver and she's shut her eyes now. he sighs very softly, almost as if he doesn't want to upset her any further, and then looks at his shoes.

"i'm not gonna go over this again," ellie says, standing straight again. "i never wanna talk to you. we're done."

joel pauses, opening and closing his mouth. there is so much to say. when you have spent two years like him, thinking, wondering what he could even say to make her feel better, there is a lot on the tip of your tongue. but she doesn't want to hear it, and joel knows that. so he nods.

"all right."

the snow around ellie's garage is tracked with large footprints. your gaze follows them to mr. miller's porch across the yard and your brows raise as you realise he's sat there with his legs kicked up and a warm drink in hand, a misty cloud of steam billowing out of the mug. he nods in acknowledgement of your presence, and you respond with a friendly smile, before taking a small breath and knocking on ellie's door.

"ellie?" you call hesitantly. finally you hear some noise from inside, as if she'd been holding breath and trying to pretend she wasn't there in the first place.

the door pulls back and ellie looks at you unsurely. she looks tired. sheepish.

"hi, are you doing okay?" truth be told, the news of what happened on ellie's patrol today has shaken you. it's spread around town like fire, and the story seems to be getting more and more hyperbolic along the way. so, you've come to the source. "i heard about what happened, and—"

the frigid wind creeps into ellie's place and a shiver runs down her spine. she crosses her arms to preserve her own warmth, observing you and your persistent trembling, along with joel on his porch. she grunts, taking you by the arm and pulling you inside.

"it's, y'know, cold out there," she mutters, closing the door behind you and sighing. "just, uh, sit down."

your eyes follow ellie's hand, gesturing to the tattered grey loveseat, close to her heater and looking pretty cozy. you sit, and ellie stares at your poor choice of attire—it looks like you did nothing but layer a pink parka over your pyjamas. she's running on fumes but still makes quick work of grabbing a blanket. she doesn't want to startle you with it, and instead keeps her hands as light as possible when covering your legs with it.

"it's pretty cold, huh?" she murmurs.

it's nice. you want to put your hand on her wrist and bring her closer, to offer something sweet, but she looks so discontented. uncomfortable.

"are you doing okay?" you ask again. no matter how hard you try to catch her earthy eyes with yours, she dodges. she's shifty. "um, about what happened on your patrol... i don't really know the full story, or if what everyone says is even true... but i don't like to let what other people say impact my judgement of someone's character."

"it's not— i mean, i— you know, everyone's right. i'm an asshole," ellie mumbles, crossing her arms again, but this time it's a more desperate grabbing of her hoodie, as though comforting herself. or attempting to.

because you're so close, but she feels like you are just out of reach. she can't seek comfort in you. she wants to. but her mind tells her that is not a good idea.

"oh, ellie... no," you whisper. "you're not."

"you don't know me," she replies. perhaps if she is earnest about who she is to you, it will scare you away. it might save you. no more pretending to be nice just to keep you.

"i know more than any of those people who spread rumours about you." you stand up and the blanket falls forgotten on the ground. her eyes widen as you come closer, and she takes a step back. "but you hide yourself, that's why nobody sees how great you are. even me, i.. wish i could know you better."

what ellie wants to say, is no, you don't want to know me better. you shouldn't. there is no greatness, only fragmented pieces of what once was someone bright and empathic, someone who still had hope. maybe she didn't turn in the physical sense when she was infected. but her life went through a turning of its own, her mind suffering the worst of it.

maybe the only difference between her and those things outside is that she doesn't sprout colourful tendrils. she's as dangerous and as deadly as they are. she bites, too; her words hurt, and she has become apathetic.

and the reason she can't let you in—well, she won't be able to let go of you once she gets her hands on you. she'll eat you up and what she fears the most is that you'll run away hurting. you'll leave her, and she'll have maimed you.

and to be the one to have maimed you will be the worst of it all. ellie is still feeling every ache from her past, and she finds you so refreshing. you're a clean slate, like fresh soil in early spring, untainted and full of potential. she doesn't want to turn you into her.

she might not be contagious, but the chaos that surrounds her is. at the softest, your reputation will be destroyed by her mere presence, and at the strongest, you will be wilted.

"i take it that maybe you've been hurting before," you say, filling the silence she had contemplated through. "i don't want to overstep. i just wanna be there for you. like— y'know, like, you don't have to talk about it. but you have me."

after a beat, ellie quickly responds, nodding, but staring at the floor. "thanks."

"and about today; it doesn't change my opinion of you. these things happen. it's sad. i knew him... but i know he would've rathered you do what you did, than turn into one of those things." you nod back, very affirmatively, and try a small smile, even if she won't see. "going on patrol is a great service to our community. it's really great that you do. it's one of the hardest jobs and it puts you in situations that require quick decision-making. people focus on the negatives all the time, like what happened today—but they don't focus on the fact that you're protecting us all the time."

when ellie glances up, mainly out of some surprise, she finds that your smile matches the sweetness of your words exactly. it's... puzzling. it challenges the chill in the garage, because ellie can feel her cheeks getting warm. and she absolutely fucking hates that.

blushing in front of you. blushing because of you. the more she thinks about it, the more she's probably reddening. like a rose.

"thanks, again, i, uh..." she trails off, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. she sniffles awkwardly and then coughs to attempt at covering it up. she feels juvenile like this. "anyway... so, how about... i give you a crash course on dinosaurs?"

caught off-guard, only to remember early in the morning when you had asked ellie to indulge in a tutorial on paleontology so you could better interact with the little ones in the daycare. "yes! yeah, of course."

she chuckles lowly, rubbing her eye quickly as if trying to regain her stoicism. "cool, let's—"

you couldn't help it. you know when someone needs a hug, and you feel ellie needs one more than anyone else. especially in this moment. so you rushed forward, and now your arms are around her shoulders, and your head on her shoulder. she's like a statue, her hands raised with hesitance. they twitch. it's with the need to grab your waist, but the fear of letting herself get too addicted.

she gives in. maybe it would hurt you more if she didn't, than if she did. is she a monster for it if you were the one to initiate it?

her nose rests in your hair, her arms squeeze you tight. she doesn't let it go on for too long, patting the curve of your lower back gently and pulling back to grab some of her dinosaur books.

the hour that follows is the easiest and fastest of her entire life. you look at ellie like she hung the stars in the sky. she likes that you listen, and that you ask clarifying questions, and that your thighs are touching hers. she makes you laugh, and she can't stop, because she likes it.

when ellie climbs into her bed after walking you back home, she finds herself surprised, and maybe a little hot on the temper. joel's voice plays like a tape on repeat. irritating. and starting to make sense.

"this is just life. and you keep findin' purpose."

　　　　　　　　　SPRING.

birds chatter in the sky. it's warm out. the kind of warm that is just right, where the sun highlights the shapes of the trees and shines through the leaves. it's only early in the season, still breezy most days, but the snow has melted, and the flora is beginning to maintain itself again, colour crawling back into jackson.

this is so fucking stupid.

"ellie! hi!" the familiar chirp of your voice brings heat to ellie's face, even in the dying chill. you have such a pleasant, polite lilt, it's no wonder you are beloved around here. "...you're loitering."

"what? oh. uh— yeah. sorta." she needs to be more careful, too much staring and not enough vigilance. ellie realises she looks odd standing outside the kindergarten house. "i just.. do you have a minute?"

"me? of course."

and ellie doesn't hear you, but she gets the point anyway. she is really too busy eyeing your lips and the small smile on them as you lead her to a blind spot.

"how's your day?"

is she really doing this right now? like, really? does she need to? the town notice board suddenly feels a lot more interesting now that you're in front of her. that, or the fresh leaves hanging by threads on the trees nearby. ellie has a deep appreciation for the new colours that bloom during springtime and—

"ellie? i asked how you're doing. are you okay?"

she's stalling this conversation.

"oh. oh! yeah, it's uh, it's alright." she scoffs awkwardly and rubs the back of her neck. "i just... well, i made something for you, thought you'd like it. i hope you like it."

"wait, really?" your eyes light up like a sky full of stars, but ellie thinks they're even prettier than that. "that's so sweet of you. can i see?"

sweet. you think she's sweet. shit. "yeah, yea, here."

without wasting more time fumbling over words (in reality, ellie forgot the speech she made up for this occasion—maybe she could've used your scripting idea right now) she hands over the gift, free hand rubbing the back of her neck as she pretends to nonchalantly stare elsewhere, yet her eyes flick towards you obsessively. please like it.

it's a watercolour piece. the colours are subtle, muted greens and browns, the rest varying shades of white, grey, and black, plus a pop of pink. depicted is a lush garden, pink flowers dotted between weaves of grass, and in the centre, two rabbits.

it isn't her usual style. ellie's appreciated landscapes before, but something so simple, so clean and contained, she's never been into. but she wanted to give you something she knew you'd love.

your brows raise and you cover your mouth, letting out a gasp. your eyes don't leave the paper, staring at every detail. you couldn't find an imperfection even if you tried.

"this is beautiful."

"yeah..?"

"i love it." your lips curl upwards and you're pretty much bouncing up and down on your heels. "it's so cute! i love the colours, and the flowers too! i love flowers. did you know there's a whole flower language?"

"uh, no," ellie murmurs, "what's that about? how does one talk through flowers?"

the word cute runs through her mind. of course you'd know about a 'flower language'.

"well, each flower has symbolism tied to it. even the different colours—a pink rose means something different to a white rose, for example," you explain. "my grandma taught me when i was younger. she gave me a book about it."

all this talk about flowers reminds ellie of the overgrown shop she saw on patrol a few months back. the day was dark, but you made it better. even the few moments she had thought about you were memorable.

like that sundress. in fact, she still thinks of it often.

"huh. sounds interesting," ellie replies.

"most red or pink flowers symbolise some kind of love. roses are the most romantic of all."

oh. ellie glances down to the paper in your hand, at the pink flowers she had so carefully dabbled into the picture. she hopes you won't read into that too much.

"thank you for this," you say, interrupting her mini-panic. "this painting is so pretty. you're a talented artist."

"ah, it's nothing," ellie says softly back.

"hey, i remembered your birthday's coming up soon. you don't have any plans, or..? any presents you'd like to receive?" you ask. "i love that you're a spring baby. that's so cute."

what? ellie chokes a little, for no reason other than lame shock, and shrugs her shoulders. "ah, i dunno, not really. i never do anything. don't care about gifts."

"reaaaally?" you ask, huffing in disappointment. although, an idea is beginning to thread itself together.

"yeah, i'm not really big on that stuff anymore," ellie says, waving off your concern. "anyway, ah, i should let you get back to the kiddies."

"yeah, of course."

you look like you're going to come close, and ellie's started to recognise when you're wanting to hug her now. she lets it happen. she actively ensures that you know it's okay to do that. as long as there's nobody around to see.

and right now, just as you pull her close, the moment coincides with the children being let out to the playground for recess. fucking goddamnit. she flushes instantly and almost pushes you away.

when she dares to open her eyes, the attendant on the duty of watching the kids is watching you more than them. it's disconcerting. but it has an adverse effect on her. she squeezes you tighter, and closes her eyes.

she's becoming what she feared. she wants you, and she's letting herself indulge. she's gluttonous. or is she? for no longer denying herself the pleasure in holding you for a few moments longer than usual?

"you made her so happy yesterday."

"huh?"

"dina and i heard all about it."

"what the fuck are you talking about?"

"you know exactly what i'm talking about," jesse answers, a smug grin on his face. ellie's only filled with dread.

her hackles are raised, she's rushing to defend herself. such a strong reaction, and it leaves jesse with more questions than answers, but answers are rare with ellie in the first place. "yeah, so what, i drew something, and i gave it to my friend. you can't give me shit about that."

he nods his head to ellie's place at her desk, where she has an art book open and a few discarded sketches strewn about that clearly she deemed unworthy of your viewing.

jesse snorts. "i'm not giving you shit about it. i'm just saying"—he elbows ellie lightly—"that it made her really happy. and it looks like... you're making her another one."

she rubs her side, frowning, and tilting her head. "it wasn't too intense? didn't freak her out?"

"giving a girl you like a painting is the least intense move you could possibly make."

"i do not like her like that," ellie mutters, scowling. "don't you have something better to do than to harass me?"

looks can betray words sometimes. that is exactly what is happening here; ellie's freckles are dusted pink, the colour blooming all the way towards the tips of her ears.

"you like her," jesse insists. "you know, when you're so deadpan about everything it makes it all the more obvious you've got a crush. you didn't even act this way around cat."

"because i barely liked her," ellie mutters bluntly, "we dated out of convenience."

"and now..." jesse continues, leaving room for ellie to fill in the blank, but she rolls her eyes and he chuckles before finishing the sentence himself. "you've got a crush on the little ol' sweetheart of jackson."

"okay, and what am i supposed to do when everyone tells me to stay back? i'm not right for her," ellie replies. her voice is subdued in such a way jesse's never heard before. it's so honest. ellie realises it too. she's being open, for once.

"you care too much what others think," jesse says. he leans against the desk, arms crossed. "if their opinions mattered, she would've taken their advice and avoided you like the plague."

"i think the girl's fucking insane, personally." ellie clicks her tongue, dropping her pencil reluctantly. she knows why you don't listen to anyone else. you've told her many times, yet she still thinks you're a little crazy for that. stubborn, at the very least.

"what's this?" jesse asks, picking up a forgotten sketch by ellie's arm. "this is... not your style."

ellie glances up, and grunts softly. "no, you remember the dress store out by the motel? i saw this dress there. i think it would look real nice on her."

"oh... yeah? yeah i can see that," he comments, looking at the sketch. "what do you say we go back there and get it?"

"i don't want to go back there."

"not even for something you know she'd really love? come on... we won't take a group this time, it'll be you and me. we'll grab the dress and come back," jesse says. "i'll rearrange the roster tonight and have us take that route in the morning."

"you are shit at persuasion," ellie grumbles, "you're just forcing me."

"it's for a good cause," he replies, patting her on the shoulder quite firmly. "head to bed now, we're up early tomorrow mornin' so get some rest."

ellie sighs deeply, not bothering to look back as the door closes. "dick," she murmurs, yet her eyes fall back to the paper jesse had left on the desk.

she imagines it again; the pink sundress, flattering your body, how your eyes would twinkle and face would glow in it, and how the skirt would flow if you twirled. unfortunately, it's not a want anymore; it's a need.

she's admitting things now. ellie likes that you are open. she'd like to let herself be vulnerable like you.

"are you sure she's going to like it?"

dina scoffs at the question, an incredulous look in her eyes as they meet yours. "are you serious? of course she will. you've overanalysed this so much that there is no room for improvement."

your shoulders drop and you remind yourself to unclench your jaw, take a deep breath. "i know, but i just want to be sure. what if she doesn't want to be taken by surprise?"

"she likes surprises. used to, anyway. i doubt that has changed," dina says coolly. "last time she ever had a birthday she really enjoyed was her sixteenth. joel took her to this sick museum outside of town."

you nod along. "yeah, i know. she told me about it. a few times, actually. i don't want anything too big and crazy because it might overwhelm her, but i— i can't just let her do nothing on her birthday."

"and you've achieving that perfectly," dina reminds you. "it's low-key. it's at her place. you're making her a cake. you've invited... who? me, jesse, and yourself?"

"well, i was thinking about inviting joel." you bite your lip, wringing your hands together. "is that a bad idea?"

dina doesn't seem to hear you. she's messing with her beat up record player, groaning and muttering curses over the fact that it won't work.

so much of your attention since yesterday has been held by this idea. you quickly asked dina and jesse their thoughts, assuming they know the girl better than you do at this point. every aspect of your plan was approved of. because the plan is derived from every little thing you have learned and internalised about ellie.

she's quiet, she's private, and not interested in doing much. therefore, something small at her garage will do. she's into action movies, so a movie marathon is perfect. you're going to craft some paper crowns with dina as she mentioned that was a win on one of ellie's previous birthdays, although you initially wanted to make her a flower crown.

when you aren't spending exhausting hours with small children at the daycare, all you really have left to do in your life is think. it's so quiet.

ellie gives you a lot to think about. when you bake a new recipe, you wonder if she'll like it. when you ever feel a little lonely, you wonder if ellie would let you hug her for as long as you needed.

they say a friend to all is a friend to none, and you feel it's true. are you interesting enough? are you too soft, too tame for anyone to befriend? what started a simple crush—thinking she's pretty, wanting to learn everything about her—snowballed. ellie's the closest thing you have to what you need. she fills a hole that was dug years ago. you feel it has potential. it's like a rich soil, seedlings sown, and desperate to be watered. you know the finest rose garden could grow from it in the colour of blush.

wanting to give her a good birthday is a no-brainer.

on your way back home, a bag full of crafting materials and some flour and butter you picked up from the twin sisters grocer to bake the cake with, you take in a breath of spring air. it's fresh. excitement buzzes in your bones. you want to see her smile.

you stumble upon joel as you make your way down your street, lugging a backpack with him, and you think that perhaps he just got back from patrol. that means ellie might be back, too. it's late afternoon, but the sun hasn't set yet—days are starting to grow longer again.

"mr. miller! how are you?" you ask, stopping before him.

"not too bad," joel replies. "feelin' my age after patrol, you know how it is... and how are you?"

"i'm good," you say, nodding.

"and ellie? you two are friends and i ain't seen her much lately, so i, ah... had to ask."

a more reserved smile falls on your lips and you nod again. of the many mysteries you still haven't been able to sleuth out about ellie, the one that puzzles you most is joel. is it overstepping to tell joel how she's doing right now? is it an even bigger mistake to invite him to her birthday..?

he cares so deeply about her.

"she's doing alright," you say. "about that, i'm planning a little surprise get-together for her birthday, only a few of us are going, and you could come too, if you'd like?"

"ah, no, no, that's okay." joel shakes his head and looks down at you. he couldn't be more satisfied with anyone storming their way into ellie's life than you. "you kids have fun, i'm not sure it's my place to go."

you blink, but nod. "of course. it would still be fun if you came along! but it's up to you."

"yeah, i'll think about it. uh... you take care of her for me, okay?"

this time, you nod firmly. "i will."

going back to the boutique felt like closure.

ellie had tossed and turned all night, memories of death and infection filing in with unstoppable force. she worried something could go wrong again. she worried her mind wouldn't be in the right place to be on patrol. but numbers of infected always seem to dwindle in warmer months, and these buildings were cleared months ago now. all she and jesse had to handle today were two runners.

it was relaxing, actually. it was slow. ellie packed the dress carefully into her bag, made sure nothing could soil it or tear it, not even her own fingerprints, as she had made sure to clean them before touching it.

and she was right, the flower shop in spring was blossoming with colour. it solidified a goal in her mind—she will make sure that you see it before the season ends.

this is the difficult part. the hardest part of the entire day, to be honest; giving you the dress.

"i hope that this isn't too weird," ellie mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. her sheepish face tints red, and she chuckles awkwardly. "i found this on patrol and i thought you would really like it. i thought you'd look.. pretty.. in it."

the second she hands it to you, you gasp. it's just like with the painting—good signs immediately. and ellie almost doesn't want to let go of the dress, but she lets you take it from her.

"ellie! this is gorgeous! thank you, thank you, thank you—" you're hugging the goddamn dress, and she laughs a little, only to be hugged with such force it feels like more of a tackle. "i've never seen anything like it!"

she knows you. that's the real gift. she knew you'd love it. she gave you a painting she knew you would like. she looks for things you'll like. you hope that she'll understand the thought behind her party tomorrow the same way you understand the thought behind her small gifts, too.

ellie buries her smile into your hair, holding you close. "i'm glad you like it."

"you're acting so weird today," ellie says, narrowing her eyes at jesse. "by the way, have you seen—"

"no idea where she's at," jesse mumbles, yet the dumb smile in his voice reveals more than intended.

"you're up to something weird," ellie says with a scoff.

"i am not, how dare you suggest that?" jesse gasps melodramatically, pushing ellie along the sidewalk. "come on stupid."

ellie doesn't look forward to her birthday so much anymore. it's the same every year now. but she can't lie and say she wasn't looking forward to seeing you today, knowing you'd sweeten it.

but she hasn't seen you all day, that's the thing—ellie hasn't made it this long without talking to you for a long time. even in the mornings before her longer, more strenuous patrols, she passes by the kindergarten house to see you.

she's almost feeling a withdrawal right now.

"we're watching every curtis and viper movie in chronological order," ellie declares as they reach joel's backyard, mere feet away from the garage. "hey, is dina coming too? i haven't seen her either. everyone's... quiet."

"i don't know."

"you're— she's your fucking girlfriend, buster, how do you not know where she is?" ellie pokes jesse's shoulder and he snorts.

"i don't know."

"you won't know anything anymore once i punch you in the face," she mutters. "you're not slick. you're up to something."

jesse chuckles again and shoves ellie up to her door. "hurry up. maybe you're about to find all the answers to your questions."

ellie pushes jesse back—because she needs the last laugh in every encounter—and then finally grasps her doorknob. she all but charges in, then stops in her tracks.

forget dina, forget the cake, forget the awkwardly cheered 'happy birthday', her eyes are on you immediately.

in the dress she gifted you.

the fabric cascades down to your ankles, the milkmaid bodice laced tight. ellie's never seen this style of dress around jackson before. it's something unique, something rare.

you look even more delicious than that cake. she's hot under the collar, rolling up the sleeves of her flannel and smiling shyly.

"hey, guys... what the fuck?"

"surprise?" you say, giggling a bit. and never does ellie want to act like this in front of jesse and dina, but it's her damn birthday, so she'll let herself have this—she rushes forward to hold you close. it makes you giggle even more. she giggles too.

dina approaches with two of the paper crowns, already wearing one herself, and places one atop your head, and hands you the other when ellie finally lets you go. you're quick to crown ellie, pushing some hair out of her face.

she can't remember a time she grinned or laughed as much in a long time. it feels like her heart is swelling in her chest, and it's a little sickening. the heavy ebb almost distracts her, but she doesn't get too lost before you're handing her a knife and leading her to the cake.

"cake and a movie marathon sound good?"

even looking at the cake makes ellie feel full. it's a simple spongecake with a jam and cream filling, some white icing over the top with a heart painted on top out of jam.

"you made this?" she clarifies. when you nod, she does the same. "fuck yeah. you're the best baker i know."

"thank you," you mumble. "hurry; make a wish. i'm gonna light a candle."

ellie watches you dig a little candle into the centre. you can feel her, those leafy eyes boring into your figure as you take a lighter to the wick. you hope she makes a wish as she closes her eyes and blows softly.

ellie, jesse, and dina sit on the bed with a plate of cake each. you haven't got yourself a slice yet or even sat down, busy doting on them and putting on the first movie.

you take jesse and dina's empty plates back to the sink, washing them hastily before coming back to see if ellie's finished yet. instead, she pats the spot on the bed beside her. her slice is half-finished.

"come here and relax," she murmurs. "off your feet."

you shrug your shoulders and sit on the edge of the bed. there's this sudden shyness, and ellie realises you've been on your feet tending to everyone's needs because you physically can't help yourself from it.

she's right on the money. there's some anxiety in not being able to satisfy everyone.

"you've done enough." ellie takes your arm and pulls you closer, then takes her spoon and scoops up a bit of cake for you. "here."

you snort softly, parting your lips. she feeds it to you with gentleness, a focus more on you than the movie. and she can't help shivering at your frosting-covered lips or the way you look in that dress. like a rose, radiant and well cared for.

ellie sets the empty plate on her nightstand when she's done feeding you, and she strategically wraps her arm around you so that you won't get up again. it's quite funny how the action makes you sink into her chest. she hopes that you can't hear how fast her heart is beating.

ellie hopes for a lot of things lately, and it's all to do with you.

"you're cuddly," she whispers. "like a little kitten."

you let out a quiet chuckle in response to that, nuzzling closer. ellie's so warm. her hands are warm, thankfully not clammy, though. her breath on the top of your head is warm. her damn face is hot again. flushed.

she hasn't thought about her immunity at all since the party started. you make her feel normal.

the sun bleeds through the trees that line the park, a slight warmth cutting into the crisp air that you wish you could bathe in until the end of time. ellie stands a hairsbreadth away from you, walking side by side in slowness and silence.

after five lame eighties action movies, dina and jesse decided to head off on their own late into the night. they had left you with ellie, who couldn't keep the smile off her face when you said you wouldn't mind watching one more for her.

life in jackson is busier than it looks and you as well as ellie are accustomed to waking quite early. she needed to clear her head, and you invited her along on a morning walk. ellie said yes, and now realises that she severely underestimated how hard it would be to stop herself from holding your hand.

you spent time on her. effort. it was small, but more than she anticipated, and she can't help but think, why? why would you waste your time like this? on her?

"are you okay?" you ask, breaking the quiet with a light voice, but a heavy question. "did you like the party thing? i wasn't sure..."

"oh, you're kidding? i loved it, kitten. i promise." kitten. it's a thing now, ellie announced it when you woke. she smiles your way, stopping so you can catch up to her.

you let out the breath you're holding, nodding. your expression feels flatter than usual, noticeable enough for ellie to pick up on, and she moves closer. she's never seen you down. maybe down isn't the right word—what ellie grasps is some kind of insecurity.

"hey, what's wrong?"

her arm passes over your shoulder and she tugs you into her side. it's so gentle, like you're being wrapped up in a blanket. that's how she makes you feel sometimes. ellie's like a fire, the comforting crackling and passionate heat that makes you feel safe in the winter. she's like a bed, cozy and protecting—maybe a fort is a better analogy. she's built these unbreakable walls around her that block others out, and confuse you, but she's opened the stronghold to you.

"it's okay," you say, leaning closer into her arms. your hand squeezes her bicep, and in turn she holds you tighter. she cups the back of your head in her palm. "you're really quiet all the time, you know..."

"oh," ellie murmurs. as much as she loves this—listening to you, holding you, thinking of you—she's on the lookout for prying eyes. it isn't because she hates to be seen this way, not anymore. it's because she can't. she can't bear to let another person see her with you anymore. they think she's hurting you, and she'd like to believe she isn't, but she's not sure anymore. "uh... i- i just... don't know what to say."

"i like it when you tell me what's on your mind," you say. it's just quietly whispered against her ear, it tickles her neck. your nose rubs against the bristling skin, and she feels how you inhale her scent. "can you do that for me?"

ellie feels her heart stutter. you feel it too, and feel the most minuscule pang of regret for asking something like that of her. of course you know it's hard for ellie to do. but that doesn't put your mind at ease.

"do you.. wanna sit down? there's a bench... just over there, let's go sit down." ellie rushes you to the park bench, sitting beside you. she runs a hand through her hair, opening and closing her mouth a few times. she knows you're waiting for something. anything. "you know, maybe i'm just not used to people wasting their time for me the way you do... and you keep ignoring every warning. maybe i shouldn't have let you get close."

you were going to let her speak. you honestly did want to hear whatever she has to say—but this?

"that's dumb," you mutter. "those people don't know you. i mean— they don't know me either."

"but they know that i'm an asshole," she counters. "and you're not. i'm... i'm sorry, okay?"

"for what, ellie?" you ask softly. you tilt your head to catch her gaze when she lowers her head to the ground. "there is nothing to be sorry for. those people don't know anything about either of us. it's not their place to decide if you're allowed to touch me. god, they act like you're— you're sick, or something. infected."

"yeah," she sighs. she glances up at you again, shrugging her shoulders. "i guess i'm worried that i'm hurting you somehow. that i might, in the future, hurt you."

"i don't think you're capable."

ellie sighs again. she looks at you, the stubborn knit of your brows close together, the small frown on your lips. "i don't want to hurt you."

"that's all i care about," you reply. "i know you don't want to. i know you. and i want to know more. but i can only know as much as you'll let me. i want you to tell me what's on your mind. to just— try. please?"

she nods. "okay."

there's so much that ellie wishes she could tell you.

she clears her throat again, vision focusing on your fidgeting hand. she thoughtlessly covers your hand with her own to stop you, her thumb rubbing over your cool skin. "i don't mean to make you confused. it's just that i'm, you know, confused? my head doesn't make a lot of sense. i write it down, sometimes that helps."

you nod. "yeah... you do a lot more than just confuse me. you make me feel all the feelings."

"all of them?"

"all of them." the corners of your mouth tilt up and you look across the park. there's nobody around at dawn. it's you and ellie, alone, with the birds, the trees, the grass, the feelings. "but i never feel hurt. i feel very safe. i've never had someone like you before. it feels like you understand that there's more to me than what other people see."

ellie exhales, a long and deep breath. she turns to you, brows upturned and a blush painting over her face. "yeah, well... i do my best to keep you comfortable."

"that makes me happy," you say. "and you..? do you feel..?"

"oh," ellie lets out a breathy laugh. "me... i feel good."

the word's on the tip of her tongue. but she doesn't say it. she doesn't even want to accept it; ellie feels purposeful around you. she's a protector. she's... not a lover, but surely something like that. she makes you feel happy. comfortable. safe. like watering a garden of roses.

ellie's voice gets raspy as she continues. "i feel seen."

"i'm really, really glad," you reply. she looks at you and smiles a bit, biting the inside of her cheek. there's a heat flowing through your body. you guess ellie feels the same, because her face is reddening more and more.

"so, kitty... should we get back soon?" ellie asks, looking around again—as if to play off the nickname. the shape of it in her mouth still feels a little weird, but she can't think of anything better. when you asked why, all she said was that sometimes, she swears you might start purring when she hugs you.

"yeah," you murmur distractedly. she looks back at you with concern, and your eyes are on her lips.

oh.

she doesn't feel scared. not exactly the way that she thought. she's not contagious. her burdens are not something she can share to you. you told her so, be it indirectly of course, but you still told ellie she couldn't hurt you by existing. you're comfortable; comfortable enough to want to kiss her.

so when you lean in, ellie does too.

your lips, plush, sweet, shy, meet hers. she is as shy, but quickly succumbs to the feeling. it's pleasant. she rubs her hand over your arm in a light motion, a full grin softening her face.

she'd like to do it again. ellie would love that, actually. sometimes when she thinks about you for too long, she starts to think about all those things you can do to a girlfriend. fuck. she's being selfish again. she's being crude.

"hey, so..." ellie sighs, leaning against the back of the bench and rubbing the back of her neck. "i know a spot just outside of jackson. it's real pretty out there. i can ask maria to let us out for a day? i'll take you there."

you hold fistfuls of the sides of ellie's shirt, holding on tight as she steers shimmer up a hill. she wants to, but she's barely paying attention to your murmured comments of amazement at how beautiful the woods are at this time of year. she's nervous. really.

"we're almost there," ellie announces. "you okay back there baby girl?"

"mm-hmm." you hum, leaning your head against the back of her shoulder, hiding your burning hot face. these little nicknames knock you pretty hard, and the moment ellie discovered so, she wouldn't let up.

"good," she whispers, biting back a smile at your bashfulness. "we're almost there. close your eyes, maybe. don't look until i tell you to. it'll be worth it! i promise."

"i trust you," you reply, laughing quietly and letting your eyes flutter closed.

it smells fresh outside of jackson. a light rainfall had occurred overnight, not only is there an earthy scent left behind—you can smell wet bark and leafy grass—but shimmer's hooves crunch mud and twigs, the sound crisp. the sky is clear of clouds, it's bright and balmy.

shimmer comes to a halt and ellie slides to the ground, catching your hands. she discretely checks the area for any infected as she talks. "alright darlin'. down we get. and no peeking."

"i'm not gonna peek," you giggle, stepping down with some help from ellie.

she slowly guides you forward, one hand over your eyes to really make sure you won't cheat, and the other on your waist.

"okay... are you ready?" ellie asks, removing her hand from your face finally. "you can look."

you blink, readjusting to the light around you, and once your vision clears you are met with what you could only describe as some kind of fairytale hideout—a charming little building, overgrown and yet it's aglow with colour. lush, emerald ivy crawls up the walls, wild and untamed. the flowering plant covers the faded awning, the walls, the broken window. a rusted gold bell hangs over the door, glinting in the sunlight. the dilapidated sign on the wall reads 'marybeth's flowers, est. 2006'.

"oh.. my..." you take a shallow breath before running up to the shop, mary janes squelching wet grass under them. ellie chuckles before chasing you, grabbing your wrist tightly.

"careful, baby. i'm ninety percent sure a patrol came through this morning so there should be no danger but we don't know for sure. don't run from me, okay?"

she's not surprised when her warning gets aired.

"this is beautiful," you say, looking around awe-struck. "you know, sometimes life feels so bleak because of the infected. but things like this make you realise... it's not so bad."

"yeah," ellie murmurs. she follows your gaze to the streaks of light glaring into the flower shop. another small victory for ellie—she knew you'd love this. while she was never one to appreciate the silence of abandoned buildings, succumbed to nature, she knows you fall the opposite way. likely because you seldom see sights like this after settling in jackson. all she ever wanted was to restore society. but your fresh eyes make the gears in her brain turn a different direction every now and then.

but she can't celebrate her success yet. she got you excitedly wandering the shop, a smile on your face. she still has another goal to complete today. and she shall stall it for as long as she can.

"these flowers! they're so happy, look at them," you chirp, dragging ellie through the shop. her nose tickles at the scent of strong pollen, but she tries to ignore it. and the watering of her eyes. what a dumb idea, bringing you here when she has allergies? somehow it hadn't even crossed her mind in the months she'd dreamed of this day. maybe it was a subconscious thing. she's willing to bear it just for you.

"happy flowers..?" she mutters. "i like you."

you stop by a pocket of pristine daisies and tilt your head, taking a soft inhale of the flowers. almost comically, ellie sneezes into her elbow, shaking her head.

"fuck, these things mess with my nose."

"aren't they pretty, though?" you ask, looking back at she who looks away in embarrassment. "they're said to represent new beginnings and love."

"yep. yeah, that's— cute." ellie nods, covering her nose. hopefully later on, she can get more than a word out without sneezing. she has something very important to ask. "i'm fucking dying."

"the hydrangeas! look at these," you gasp, rushing over to the bursts of coloured flowers. "they smell divine."

"what do these ones mean?" ellie asks, rubbing her nose with her free hand. the hydrangeas don't irritate her as much. thank god.

"well, the blue ones symbolise forgiveness and regret, or an apology to someone. the pink are about love. and white is purity," you explain. you don't see ellie nodding along behind you. "i've never seen so many of them. it's so tame in the greenhouses at home—these different species look like they're just.. fighting for space."

ellie's eyes land on a rose bush crawling up the wall. she lets out a puff of air before attempting to pluck one off the vine. a thorn pricks her thumb and she utters a curse before taking her knife to the stem. she feels weird holding it.

she catches your attention by clearing her throat, and holds it out to you on a whim. "these mean love too, don't they?"

you turn your head and, as your eyes lay upon the delicate pink hue of the rose in her hand, you draw your lip between your teeth and take it from her. "yeah. they do. i might take this home with us and press it."

"oh, yeah? that'll be nice," she replies.

"yeah, i think so," you say. it's almost a question. ellie just looks like she has something to say. but she won't say it. in turn, it makes you nervous as well.

ellie looks down and laughs breathlessly, her hand reaching towards her back pocket to pull out a few small cards. you recognise it, it's similar to your method at the winter dance.

"so... we both know i'm not the best at talking about my feelings," she starts. "so i stole your idea about the palm cards. y'know. hopefully i don't drop my shit on the floor like you did."

"hey—"

her voice is shaking. an undeniable waver, that makes your stomach flip with worry. "i appreciate you a lot. i've struggled with, um— i mean, fuck. this is stupid, i'm sorry, i'm just gonna freestyle this."

you giggle, tenderly touching ellie's forearm with the hope of relaxing her. "take your time, els."

"i've felt stranded since getting to jackson." ellie rubs her nose again with her sleeve, and then looks at the rose hanging candidly in your hand. "i really appreciate you for seeing me, and... believing me. nobody else really does. i just— can i... call you my girlfriend?"

you face splits into a wide smile, though she doesn't see. she's holding her breath, staring at the rose, when your pillow-soft palm cups her cheek.

"i would love that," you whisper, finally leaning in. you kiss her slowly, and ellie reciprocates immediately, hands grabbing at your body to pull you closer. sometimes she feels she can't get you close enough.

there's that selfishness again. but if you're her girlfriend, she can be as selfish as she likes.

she doesn't regret it. it's not regret. it's something cold. this pit in her stomach.

she's keeping you warm, got you tucked under the comforter and your face buried against her chest. ellie's fingers scratch softly at your scalp, and she watches your closed eyes flutter with dream, a calm look on your face.

maybe she shouldn't have asked.

you're hers now. she's over the moon, no doubt about that. maybe right now it's your quiet breathing as you sleep in her arms, the trees outside the garage that whisper in the wind, and, of course, her restless thoughts, that allow for ellie to question herself.

she hasn't had thoughts like this in a few days, though. she was running on the high of your affections, and now she's got this downtime to think about the week she's had.

you sleep so prettily. ellie maintains a steady, slow breathing pattern as if afraid she'd startle you otherwise. she watches you stir. you roll even closer to her and she bites her lip, wrapping you up as tight as can be. all this fear of harming you—this is what it stems from. ellie looks at you and she thinks about what a perfect girl this is. something about you stops her dead in her tracks, makes her change her tune.

and she tries not to care about what others think of her. ellie accepted that she is, inherently, the cause of catastrophe for many people. she even played into it.

ellie's lost so many loved ones. she swore she wouldn't lose you, because if she never had you to begin with, there was nothing to lose.

she fucked up.

she's at war with what she wants and what she fears most. how can that be? where has her self control gone? because the side of her that is wanting is starting to win.

she awkwardly swallows back a cough, burying your face into your hair, salt soaking into the strands. she slides her hand to the small of your back and pushes you closer, as though your warmth will ease the strain on her heart. she squeezes tight, starting to tremble. illness ravages her body.

you whimper out into the silence, tugging on the fabric of her hoodie.

"i know kitten," she whispers, "go back to sleep, i'm here."

"there. are you comfy?" ellie asks, rubbing circles into your skin beneath your shirt. she's got you sat on her lap beneath a tree in the park, having fussed about how you were getting your clothes all dirty by sitting on your own.

"yes. very." you nod firmly and lean against her, closing your eyes. the sun weaves between the leaves of the trees and hits your face just right, warmth coating your features.

ellie, on the other hand, is busy fixing you up. she wipes the grass off your knees and pulls your socks over your calves after sensing they'd fallen. she's got into this habit of silently tending to your appearance, be it tightening the ribbon in your hair or pulling your skirt down if it rides up too high. it's just an excuse to touch. to keep you in good condition.

these are the things nobody else sees or notices. ellie tends to you like you're a garden of rich flowers, the minute she sees any sign of wilting she must fix it. she also, recently, has taken it upon herself to protect you from parasitic public opinion. gossiping swirling around town in storms, which had been a fear of hers by touching you—she does everything possible to shield you.

"some privacy, how 'bout that?" she mutters, petting your arm. "nobody around to judge."

"yeah," you say. you pull ellie's other arm over your waist to anchor yourself against her body. "you didn't have to make such a big deal earlier, though."

"i absolutely did," she says, laughing. the noise vibrates in her chest. it's a soothing feeling. "look, i don't care what people think of me, but you? they're not allowed to talk shit about you because you're with me. and if anyone says shit like that to you, you tell them to fuck off, or you tell me, and i'll tell them to fuck off for you."

"well... i dunno," you reply, nudging ellie. "i can handle it. because i know that what they say isn't true. why would i value the opinions of people who change their tune depending on who i spend my time with?"

ellie scoffs softly and rests her face atop your head, lips against your crown. "i don't deserve you."

she's not sure what led her to saying that. it is how she feels inside, but she's been hellbent on keeping that from you. she's found that she talks a lot more freely these days. it's partly to compensate for the guilt she feels in what she can't say—like telling you she's immune, or that she wished she was dead for a very long time—lately, she hasn't thought about those things as much. she can see herself, one day, telling you about her immunity. she'd like for you to feel a sense of comfort in it.

"don't say that stuff," you scold gently, squishing ellie's wrist in your hand. your fingers slide down the pale skin to her knuckles, red-raw and bruised from an altercation. "maybe those people shouldn't try to provoke you, and they'd be a lot happier minding their own."

"i lost my temper and punched someone," ellie says, "it's embarrassing."

"well... i agree that you didn't really need to do that," you say sheepishly. "but you were defending yourself. you fuck around and you find out, you know? jacob was being nasty on purpose."

she snorts, shrugging her shoulders and squeezing your waist. "yeah, i guess. it was only when he brought you into it that i got mad, okay? i'm trying to handle my emotions better. and he just gets on my nerves because he's such a little dick."

"well, i'm glad you stood up for me, either way," you say. "thank you, els. i'm not good at that stuff. people hurt my feelings all the time without realising it and i don't do anything about it."

"yeah. i promise he was just talking out of his ass, baby, please, don't take what he said seriously."

ellie knows you; she knows you're capable of handling yourself, but you are also a highly sensitive person, who has only ever known how it feels to be on people's good sides. being compared to a doormat, a lamb to the slaughter, or as jacob called it today, you being 'walked like a dog' by ellie, it must hurt. there must be doubt somewhere in your mind.

"it's okay," you say hesitantly. "i'm not."

"he doesn't know us," she murmurs against your ear. she moves her lips to your temple, rubbing down your side with her hand. "and he was so wrong, anyway. you're my kitten."

"were you still wanting to hang out with jesse and dina later? we can get ready and go soon," you say quietly, glancing over your shoulder at ellie as you reach for your shoes. she's still sitting on her bed, leaning against the headboard casually. that's a no.

"i just... after today, wanna be with my girl, okay?" ellie murmurs. she shifts her eyes away immediately after telling you this, like she's embarrassed—and you laughing doesn't make it better. "i doubt those two feel like doing shit right now anyway. and you look exhausted, so..."

"okay miss suave," you tease, raising your eyebrows at her tough act. "what are you doing?"

"trying to be a good girlfriend," ellie says back. she opens her hands in an encouraging fashion, as if to beckon you to her lap.

lips parted in bewilderment and words escaping you for a moment, your body still seems to move with its own mind and you're soon perched on ellie's thigh, facing her. her hand finds home on your waist, the other on your knee. "you already are a good girlfriend, silly."

"yeah, well— i just think i wanna appreciate you a little more, kitten. some proper alone time, you know? just us. and our feelings. and..." ellie can't even look at you. it's strange, because for the first time, she isn't afraid of making a move. she's just unfamiliar with it. "i— maybe, you know... i can just show you what i mean. if you trust me."

you take a pause at that. you tilt your head and catch her gaze, stammering slightly. "hm?"

"do you trust me?"

"yeah," you reply, the breathless word pleasing ellie more than you could imagine. "can you be a little more direct, please?"

ellie swallows thickly, looking you in the eyes with a fiery certainty. "i want to touch you. are you ready for something like that?"

you weren't sure at first if you had read the situation wrong, but you're right. and whilst nervous, you're so, so ready.

"yeah, please." your insistence causes ellie to grow in confidence, a hand slowly snaking from thigh to your cheek.

"okay," ellie says. "it's your first time, yeah?"

"yes."

you avoid her gaze this time. ellie's not used to this anymore. you haven't been so shy since the first few times you roped your way into speaking to her. she was always so endeared by your shyness. right now, it's just what she needed. ellie wants you to be the nervous one more often. she likes it. feeling like a protector.

"don't be scared, kitten." ellie gives you a reassuring smile, her thumb rubbing over your lower lip. "it's only me, you know? i'll take care of you."

your stomach feels tight suddenly, a rush of warmth between your legs. it is just the thought of what she'll do, how you know ellie will take care of you. it has you worked up. already.

ellie's free hand roams up and down your back, the one cupping your cheek now bringing you closer and closer. you brace yourself by basing your hands on her shoulders, certainty in both of your nearing smiles—her lips are on yours in seconds, and as fast as they had met, the passion increases.

silence and heavy breath. your lower lip between her teeth. ellie's hand pushing you closer by the ass. she touches you with far less of the hesitance you find yourself with, letting out a quiet and pleased hum against her mouth as you find the courage to palm her chest.

your hips rolling into her is what pulls her away for a soft laugh, fingers languidly messing with the hem of your top. "you're okay? you cool if I take this off'a you now?"

you lean forward to give her another kiss, over-eager and making her chuckle again. she takes that as a yes and begins to pull your top up, focused on you as the fabric is discarded somewhere on the floor.

the goosebumps beginning to prick up along your tummy and arms sweeten the sight even more, her hands sliding up your sides and holding you firmly. she almost doesn't know how to proceed, heat building in her boxers and gaze frantic—where to look, where to look? your stomach, or your bra, and the way it hugs your tits?

nimble fingers graze the cups of your bra, a slight touch just to test the waters.

"shit, you are so perfect." ellie whispers it like she can't even believe the beauty sitting in her lap right now, her already pink cheeks turning darker. crimson billowing up her neck, settling beneath smatterings of freckles.

while she moves toward the clasp of your bra, she leans forward to kiss you again, tongue pressing into yours. ellie snaps your bra open and you let it slither down your arms, baring your chest. the air has a bite to it, but ellie takes hearty, warm handfuls of your tits, watching you shiver.

she now trails her lips down, down, down. neck, collarbone, tits. she has half a mind to tease you, avoid where you want her most, but she can't bring herself to.

too happily, ellie swallows up your stiff peak, and you arch your back into her. She fondles you with gentleness, lips switching between both sides and wrapping around your nipples. her free hand strokes up your spine, every action unscripted but full of intention.

hearing your tiny coos and panting gets ellie pent up. the upturning of your brows and how you draw your lip between your teeth to muffle the pleasure in your voice, your hips rolling and squirming, hands fidgeting, it's a masterpiece. ellie has got to draw you like this—she will, if she can even remember it later.

finally, ellie's fingers nudge at the fly of your shorts, her forehead resting against yours. "lay down baby girl, i got you."

"mhm."

you shimmy out of your shorts quickly, crawling onto ellie's bed. it feels unfamiliar and yet comforting to gather pillows and place them against the headboard, resting back on them.

ellie helps you shortly, then starts to throw off her own clothes; shirt and jeans off, and only her boxers and bra on. you want to stop and stare but she's throwing instructions at you before you get the chance to.

"lift your hips up babe, let me put this down."

you feel soft.

ellie had, of course, taken note of your smooth skin, pillowy lips. in the physical sense, you are so soft. but on the inside, you're melting over her. softening and shying away over the reassurances slipping into conversation, the fact that her callouses feel so much fainter thanks to her light grip.

it makes you feel somewhat lightheaded. head in the clouds.

ellie quickly crawls over you, pressing a firm, steady line of kisses all the way from your jaw to your tummy, occasionally nipping flesh between her teeth.

"and are you gonna let me take these off?" ellie asks, rubbing circles over your hips where pink cotton covers you.

"yeah," you murmur, laughing quietly, looking down and matching ellie's small smile with one of your own. "please.."

she takes her time as she slides the fabric down your legs. she can feel your nervousness, and attempts to drown out the silence in the room by cooing at the sight between your legs.

"wow, look at you… all wet for me, hm?"

ellie parts your legs with her hands and lies on her stomach, eyes closing as she leans down and tenderly kisses your clit; your jolt makes her stop and grin upwards, hand splaying over your pelvis. her thumb rubs slow, languid circles on the thumping bundle of nerves, the other hand demanding your legs to remain open.

tremors run through your thighs. ellie feels them against her, and she likens them to adorable electric shocks. your chest heaves. she's barely touched you yet.

"so beautiful," ellie whispers. she's looking more at the folds of your cunt than she is at you just now, struggling to believe she is the only person to see you like this, let alone touch you like this. what'd she even do to deserve this? gorgeous skin glistening, musky scent hitting her nose…

it's all hers. how did she get so goddamn lucky?

your hips buck into her hand. frankly, ellie cannot hold back anymore, itching for a taste, and of course in a kinder sense—she doesn't want to keep you waiting too long.

it starts in long, deliberate strokes of her tongue. up and down, from hole to clit. a whiny sound falls from her lips as she finally learns your flavour.

but you sound perfect. your voice strained, noises slipping out of your lips free of intention. ellie listens to it all. she smiles when the sounds change, when her tongue focuses precisely on your swollen clit. it's slow, sensual, but fervent. it's almost torturous for your sensitivity, the newness of it all leaving you with difficulty focusing on anything at all.

you hold yourself together so well, and ellie's never seen you truly fall apart like this.

your body is fighting itself. leaning into ellie's mouth, then trying to move away—which she doesn't let happen—and you tense up, squeezing a pillow tightly over your chest.

"mmh— ellie! it's too much."

"shh, i got you baby girl. look at me," ellie whispers, plump lips shining with your essence over them.

you open your eyes a smidge and look down, almost mortified by the lewdness of her between your legs. as she distracts you with a gentle flick of her tongue, you feel a slow but pleasant burning sensation, the insertion of her finger—that's when too much becomes too much.

your entire body is startled by a wave of shock, breathy whines falling out of you without control. ellie has to fight to keep your squirming body still, though she squeezes her own thighs together at the scene. the feeling of you clenching so tight on her finger, and your clit twitching under her tongue...

"aw, baby girl, what happened?" she teases, looking up through half-lidded eyes. "do i have a magic touch or something, huh?"

"you are so mean," you whine.

"mean? i can get meaner if you want me to," she whispers, finger starting to pump in and out at a slow pace. "don't be embarrassed. i did the same thing my first time."

when her finger begins to move, you bite back a light whimper and squeeze the pillow harder in your hands. "no you didn't. and don't be meaner."

"i didn't," ellie concedes, laughing softly. "i'm just trying to make you feel better. there's nothing to be embarrassed for. that was the prettiest thing."

ellie slides her finger out of you and leans over to give you a soft peck on the lips, not before sucking her finger clean of course.

"you're so lucky i can't be mean to you, because you taste so good i wanna stay down there forever."

you huff softly, pushing frizzy hairs out of ellie's face. "did i ruin it?"

"no." ellie scoffs at this, leaning lower to bite at your neck like it's some kind of reprimand. "that was beautiful, and i'm not done, anyway. just letting you recover a little right now."

she doesn't feel bad this time around for being greedy. she licks the spot she bit, only to make another attack on your neck, sucking the skin between her teeth. ellie's being so selfish, she's eating you up and putting her hands all over you and it's disgusting, and you like it. it's making you feel good. she's not afraid that she might hurt you. she feels so much control over herself right now, so comfortable in your presence.

ellie pulls her boxers down quickly and tosses them to the floor. this time it's your turn to not know where to look—the trail of dark red hairs that lead from her navel to her mound, or the small, perky tits that she uncovers finally.

"don't," she whispers, grabbing your wrists and pinning them by your sides the moment you try to reach out. "just spread your legs for me."

you give a sort of choked moan in response, opening your legs. ellie bites her lip and moves slowly without wanting to overwhelm you, but sits so that your legs are interlocked, her cunt right on top of yours. you both moan, ellie a little quieter than you, as she starts to move.

and it's not slow. her clit kisses yours over, and over, and over, her clammy knuckles whiting as she holds your hands into the bed. she uses it as leverage to move herself over you, panting heavily over your face. everything's slippery, sweaty, hot, as though you're running a fever.

"you take it so, so well, kitten," ellie says lowly, forcing her eyes open to watch your wrecked expression. "so good for me, my one and only."

"mmh, els, i love you," you whimper. you recognise the buildup to your orgasm this time, it's still quick but it doesn't take you by surprise so much like earlier. between shrieks of delight and your hips bucking into hers, you chant a mantra. "i love you, i love you."

"i love you too— i really do," ellie rushes out. she's overwhelmed with it, and never has she come so quickly before, but your needy cries satisfy her more than anything. she could honestly get off to just that sound.

"shh, shh, you're okay," she whispers after collapsing over you. she's shaking hard, blistering skin burning yours, but in a sensitive way; it's almost addictive. she cups your cheek to lift your face, almost like she has to check that you're still functioning. it's the slightest worry she might have broken you—not that that would be a bad thing anymore. not like this. "look at me, pretty girl. there she is. hi."

"hi," you reply, still breathing heavily, but managing a light smile. ellie grins back, leaving a kiss on those soft lips before rolling over to hold you in her arms.

"did you get what i was wanting to show you? i think you did," she says.

you nod, pressing your mouth against her collarbone, the skin hot and moist. "i love you, and you love me."

"clever kitten," ellie murmurs, rubbing the back of your head. "you get me like nobody else."

she has succeeded. she makes you feel safe. she's good for that—protecting. she was used to treating her immunity as a superpower of sorts, to throw herself recklessly into patrols to guard jackson. things are simpler now; ellie is more responsible now, she wants to return home safely for your sake. if she were gone, you'd be hurting.

it's something ellie resigned herself to thinking she'd never have. you trust her. she knows you. she knows nearly everything there is to know. she never thought herself to be anything but destructive, but she's grown under your wing. her fire is contained to that which emits smoke into a chimney on a rainy day, keeping you warm.

she's attached herself to you; she's the thorns on your stem, the water that keeps you happy, and the sun that nourishes you all at once.

ellie has a new purpose.

🏷️ @abbysdollie @valeisaslut @eriiwaii @emmap3rkins @ellieshothousewife @piercedome @therealhexstrap @jinxedbambi @heyimrye @rhian88 @g4ys0n @yoosohh @marvelwomenarehot0 @l0veylace @marieeeluvsyou @losing-it-lately (if you aren't usually on my tag list but got tagged, it's because you showed some interest in the fic and it really motivated me to keep going ♡) thank you for reading ♡♡ btw i have headcanons + spin-off content planned for this au so be on the lookout !!

#.ellie #mean!ellie #sweetheart!reader #mean!jackson!ellie #ellie willams x reader #tlou2 x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #tlou x reader #ellie williams x fem reader #ellie williams x you #ellie x you #femme!reader #.in bloom

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hollyhomburg · 10 hours ago

Text

Before I Leave You (Pt.83)

(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: soulmate bonds come in many shapes- like matching tattoos, picking the same house color, and mating bites... but those are no big deal right?

Tags: Hurt/comfort, Angst, Fluff, Discussions of past trauma, the good type of crying, lots of bickering, an attempt at humor brief blood, mating bites, discussion of asexual episodes/coping mechanisms, slight d/s undertones, tae calls herself mommy exactly one time, scent kink, jungkook gets really into the way the m/c smells post work out but it's like a hot omega thing,

W/c: 16.9k

A/n: i know i say this all the time, but...i'm about to go through some very adverse life events like...geumjae coming back to life in bily level bad. so any love and encouragement you can throw my way over the next few weeks would be greatly appreciated. It's been a moment since i've updated bily! i've been working on another series too- hold your breath and count to seven, if you've ever wanted to see what hobi would be like as a pack alpha- i think you'll like it alot.

Previous part- Masterlist - First part

The moon is high in the sky crooked like Hobi's smile. The sound of crickets litters the tall grass, and the peepers across the way make for pleasant background noise. Moths buzz around the streetlight.

Summer is here and in full swing. Is it August or July? Does it matter at all when summer always feels like this, always tastes like lemonade and sunshine? The air heavy with anticipation and sweetness. Sand and seashells are piled on the porch railing in an orderly little line. Treasures that didn't quite make it inside. One of Namjoon's books propped on a nearby pillow, next to a wine glass and a discarded near empty container of sunscreen.

Noodle sits on the stone wall, tail wagging, pink collar catching the light from the living room, the kitchen, and upstairs. Every light in the house is on.

The pack has taken to hanging curtains on the porch to keep the pollen out and off of the furniture, they stand still in the lack of breeze. Hobi's big Boston ferns hang between the translucent fabric. And the whole space has this light and airy, almost fantasy-like atmosphere with Jungkook's fairy lights and Tae's pink outdoor furniture. Now put to bed, unfilled under the cover of darkness.

Noodle's eyes narrow at the fireflies hovering over Hobi's garden beds. Overflowing with winding tomatoes, heavy and sweet. its that stage of summer where the garden is giving you so much that honestly it's more of a daily hassle to go out and pick everything. but still you do- going out with him after he gets back from the flower shop in the afternoons, a wire basket on your hip or a long skirt pulled up in lew of a basket.

Noodles tail flicks as he watches.

You and Hoseok burst out onto the porch when the thunder of footsteps. Noodle scatters with a belabored yowl. The curtains ripple with your movement. Giggles stifled behind hands, your hand in his, him pulling you along, down the steps and over the stones, shoes untied because you’d pulled them on in a hurry.

“Hurry! Before they figure it out!”

Maybe it’s just your imagination, but you swear you almost hear something when you start the car. Maybe just Namjoon’s concerned tone from upstairs as you escape unnoticed. Hoseok backs out sloppily, almost hitting your mailbox while you click your seatbelt. Half falling over the center console in your giggles.

He reaches over to take your hand in his and lifts it to his mouth as he turns out of your street one-handed. Smile stretching against your skin.

Hoseok always looks particularly good at nighttime. The way that the shadows wrap around his face makes him look elegant and mysterious. You love his smile lines, his tousled hair, and the crack of his giggle in the air. Everything.

You love everything about him, you tell him. The back of your hand still pressed to his lips.

“I love you. Don’t make it weird.” He licks the back of your hand in reply “gah!” you squirm trying to pull your hand away but his grip on you only strengthens. face cracking into a smile as you squirm and try and get your hand back.

"This is mine now."

He’s just turning down the steep hill when he realizes, letting go of your hand to pat his right side, then the other. “Ah fuck- forgot my wallet.”

“I’ve got mine.” You say, holding up the fluffy bunny purse shoved in the middle pocket of his sweatshirt. The same one that Jimin and Tae gave you on your first date so long ago. Its ears flop in the wind, the windows down to let in the nighttime air.

“Need my ID for this.”

“Oh? Yeah, you might be right…”

You’ve cut your hair shorter for summer. Hoseok likes it, you and Tae are opposites now, you with short hair and her with long. Hoseok tugs on one of the locks as he turns. By the time he rolls to a smooth stop in front of the house you stiffen.

Yoongi is already waiting there tapping his foot. Noodle by his side and curling around his ankle, looking mad at himself for the affection or maybe at you for startling him. Tail flicking agitated.

He's in his matching pj's, a black and white gingham top and bottom, a translucent face mask over his face, a bowl of Oreo ice cream in one hand, and Hoseok’s wallet in the other.

You roll to a stop in front of him, both of you grinning uneasily. Yoongi doesn't make any expression, just blinks at both of you. Substantially unimpressed.

You grin at him, and he leans his elbows on the window.

“Jin says if you don’t text him photos when you’re done, he’s gonna throw a fit and will pout. And yes- that is a threat.” Yoongi hands you Hobi's wallet. He leans through the open window of Hobi's car, kissing your temple. “Have fun, make sure you watch them open the needles.”

Hoseok leans close too, front pressed to your back, able to because he hasn’t buckled himself into his seat yet. And gets the same forehead kiss treatment, too. His forehead comes away glossy from the serum from Yoongi’s facemask. You scrub at your forehead, and Yoongi playfully swipes his thumb over either of your cheeks, leaving a cool film in his wake.

"Gah! You are like- such a snail!"

"Have fun," he says, a smile crinkling the damp fabric of the facemask at your affronted expression. "Be safe!"

And with that, you and Hoseok are off again, hurtling (going the speed limit) past your town and beside the train tracks, on and on, the red car cutting through the empty streets. The base is pumping. You both sing along to your new favorites, your old favorites, and Yoongi’s favorites too. You stop at your all-night diner for food but it's not your final destination.

Hobi gets out to get the food for you, and you feed him bites as you hurtle into the city past the line where suburbia blurs and big steel buildings ebb and flow until they go brick.

A third separate bag in the center glove compartment, crinkling with crispy french fries. Uneaten and mostly untouched because it's not for either of you.

You drop a bit of cheese sauce onto the seat, and Hobi raises an eyebrow at you. But the car is already been showing signs of you two and has for months. This is your spot, it's your bathing suit in the back seat, and there's a whole bunch of shells and sea glass rattling around in the glove compartment. There's so much sand in the car that it's almost not worth trying to vacuum it out.

"Give me another bite." You feed him obediently, smiling at him.

He does go 5 over, but that’s because you have an appointment to keep. It’s not all instant. The spontaneity of this is sort of planned. You have text on your phone confirming that you’re cleared to come in at any time tonight until 3am, and it’s not even passed 8.

A few nights ago, you and Hobi were staying up late, in the bed downstairs that Tae recovered in, the room that you have started to really consider hers now instead of yours and Yoongi's because of how much it's changed. An errant packmate still sleeps down there sometimes, like when Namjoon has a really early surgery and doesn't want to worry about waking you up or someone else needs a bit of space or wants to go to bed late or wants to pairs up. The upstairs can get pretty crowded sometimes, and Jimin especially sometimes needs a breather with all his sensory issues.

The bedspread changed from blue to pink, the old green floral wallpaper is in the process of being changed out for something a little less dark to go with Tae's vanity. While you liked the old vintage ness of it when it was your and Yoongi’s room, Tae is really truly making it her own. The IKEA makeup organization system has overtaken one wall. Each of the drawers is labeled in Jin's neat handwriting (this year for Christmas, you might just get him a label maker.)

She even added a gauzy little bed canopy, the fabric hangs pink and close. It sort of feels like a permanent pillow fort with the way that it makes the light feel close and warm.

Jungkook has put up glow-in-the-dark stars here. Since the sealings upstairs are just too high for him to reach without a ladder. Everyone had been firmly against the idea. Now you hold your hand up to them, wiggling your fingers and blurring your eyes. They must be a special kind of glow-in-the-dark star because you can see them through the canopy.

Hobi is similarly sprawled next to you. one leg under the cover, the other not. Your conversation interrupted occasionally by the sound of moans and yelps and slaps from upstairs.

That’s a new thing too.

The pack had been looking over each other’s shoulders at shower time, lingering looks, and lingering hands. And while you’d spent the afternoon trading lazy kisses with Tae and Yoongi in the nesting pod downstairs the attention turning your brain to cotton. Floaty and soft. By the time the actual event rolled around you…

You hadn't been interested. Not in taking it any further than kisses and babying.

Maybe it had something to do with the omgaspace, the way that Jin had taken one look at you and sat you on the sink and proclaimed that you were ‘too little to wash up on your own.” whatever that means.

But the haze dissipated quickly after watching Tae press close to Yoongi- your mate shirtless, trapped between her and Namjoon, the three of them talking low and nuzzling. Namjoon checks her incisions every night, only this time- he gets a little handsy with it.

Daring to brush a thumb over her nipple. Humming thoughtfully and drinking in the way she arches into his touch. "How does that feel babygirl?"

"It feels tender alpha, do you think you think the sensitivity will ever go away?"

Yoongi's snorted at that, "I hope not." Tae is panting at Namjoon's touch, clearly affected. Skirt tenting with evidence of her arousal. namjoon has that slightly mean clinical air to him. You know they roleplay patients and doctors sometimes. Namjoon's not above it.

"Let's see baby, let me check again."

And you’d watched all of it, without a stirring in your gut. Hoping off the sink the second Jin deemed you’d spent long enough brushing your teeth. So had Hobi, barely looking over his shoulder at them.

You’d folded close and asked for a movie night downstairs, Yoongi had looked substantially kissed, cheeks and lips pink, eyes a little hazy when he’d popped up from where he was being nearly devoured. Realizing you're leaving. “You sure? I could come downstairs with you- I don’t need-” his face had cracked, Namjoon's mouth working at the column of his throat.

You’d simply blown a kiss over your shoulder, all but hopping on Hobi's back for a piggyback ride downstairs.

It’s a new thing. A new realization. You don’t always need to join in and be a part of whatever the pack has going on when it comes to sex. It’s something you’re still learning- to recognize when you don't want it and when you do. When you could have it but don't need it. You’d talked through with Jin and Namjoon. Desire can wax and wane, no one is more accustomed to that than they are.

well, maybe Jimin and Tae. Their sex life has ebbed and flowed multiple times over the last nearly 12 years since they first got together. Apparently they went a whole 6 months without fucking at one point. And while that seems a little extreme- it's a good thing that the pack is used to this. There are no hurt feelings or unmet expectations.

The pack goes through periods like this- where they’re fucking every day and then not at all for a few weeks or even a month. You'll always find your way back to each other. But now you relax back against the bed, the sheets freshly changed.

The nighttime calmness is cozy and enveloping. You're glad you made the choice to do this with Hobi. His body presses against your side, and when you move your hand, you touch him almost without thinking about it. Your other hand is under your cheek, legs pressed to your chest.

You’d much rather do it like this, you and Hoseok talk about your trauma, often going back and forth. Silent one moment until another thought occurs to you. Both of you curled to the side. Things are so quiet now.

There’s no fear when you wake up in the morning or when someone comes too close too quick. You don’t flinch nearly as much as you used to. The reminders, if there are any, are inadvertent. You never thought you’d ever not feel afraid to say no. It’s good that you can decide now when you want it if you want it, and how you have it with them.

You and Hobi talk about it, you always talk about it together like this. Your trauma and the way it affects you. You almost always feel better after you talk to him about it.

"They don't get that its a big deal, being able to say no and not being guilted into it, but I get it. I think you're really brave."

"There are worse things to be afraid of."

"Damn right there are."

A pint of ice cream sits empty between the two of you. The metal of his spoon makes a scraping sound against the inside of the carton. His computer forgotten buzzes with reruns of a show in the background more to fill the silence than entertain. Your bodies half curled around each other. Cuddling but only just barely.

“Do you think we’ll ever be whole again? Do you think either of us will ever heal completely? Do you think we'll ever think about things the same way as the others?” Hoseok shakes his head after a moment, pauses, and then shrugs. "Can I play with your hair?" You ask while you're waiting for him to respond.

"Sure, but no tugging." You don't tug, pulling the umber strands through your fingers again and again, it's getting a little long, but the texture is so good. He hums as you scratch over his temples.

after a good long while he replies. Eyes closed. “I’m not sure, maybe we will heal and maybe we won't. I think as long as I've got you i'll be okay." he opens his eyes, looking at you "I also think we're both already sort of healing."

You’d bitten your lip about to argue before you realize that yes, if this was still the same you from 10 months or even 4 months ago, you might have reacted differently tonight. Might have said yes just because saying no was too much trouble. Afraid of making waves and being less than pleasing.

"Also, at the risk of sounding like Tae-" you laugh and nuzzle, Hobi jerks, ticklish. "I'm gonna bite you if you keep doing that- I read something the other day."

"I love her so much," you say softly.

Hobi nods, eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips drinking in your lovestruck expression. Sweeter because he gets to see it this way. It’s not a secret how much you love Tae in fact you might rival Jimin where that’s concerned.

"I love her a lot too, she's kind of amazing, isn't she?"

Since her top surgery, there's barely been a day that she hasn't woken up glowing. Tearing through her dress collection with new vigor, dressing up with you just to go out and write at one of the coffee shops.

You've been giving a little tour of the ones in your part of town and trying to find your favorite. You're a little bit of a stickler when it comes to pastry and quality and have yet to find one you totally approve of (maybe because you won't ever be totally satisifed until you open your own).

When you close your eyes and picture her, you always think of her smiling, and that's such a change. You feel like Tae is finally happy- you've done your job. Before you'd worried that she'd never get here, never be this way.

Tae is satisfied with her body now. The dysphoria is quickly becoming a distant memory. Even if it comes back you know you'll help her through it the same way you did the first time.

"I read this thing," you scratch your fingers over Hobi's nape, and he shivers pleasantly. "That, like- you don't think the moon is broken just because it's a crescent right now- or something like that. Everything has its phase where it looks unwhole but isn't. I think we need to give it time." He hums, eyelashes fluttering as you continue to comb your fingers through his hair. “I also think that healing can look like whatever it wants for us, even if it’s just this. Just like tonight.”

“You mean saying no?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Hobi pauses and flips onto his stomach so that he's not looking at you upside down. “You know we haven’t fucked in like 3 weeks, right?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is atonal. Nothing about it indicates displeasure or relief. You hadn’t even noticed until the second week and had been watching him closely since then. But out of all of them, you and he are probably the most casual about it. You and him are best friends and soulmates first, lovers second.

“And that doesn’t bother me like at all. Like not one bit. Does it bother you?”

“No, in a weird way it sort of feels like-”

“Kind of good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, like- yeah.” You bask in it. Hoseok nuzzles into your shoulder. Luxuriating in it. The feeling of choice and the realization that you don’t want it and you don’t need to have it. You know you would wake up tomorrow and say you never want to have sex again only to change your mind the next day and the pack- that Yoongi and Hobi would still believe you both mornings.

But instead of saying that, you ask, “Can we spoon? I’m feeling like really really cuddly in that omega way and you should let me cuddle you because I’m like really good at cuddling.”

"Really good, huh?" He teases, rubbing his chin over the top of your head, scenting you gently, no rush to his movements.

"Yeah, Tae gave me a 10/10 cuddle rating earlier and then Yoongi gave me a whole 11/10 and it started a whole argument between them."

“I’ll let you choose little spoon or big?”

“Big!”

He chuckles and turns around obediently. “Okay, but don’t touch my tummy.”

“Hobiii,” you drag out the last syllable, all bratty.

“I’m ticklish. And we just ate like a whole pint of ice cream.”

But you don’t, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face between his shoulder blades. Your legs hooked under his, pressing into him everywhere. Hobi's eyelashes flutter, drowsy.

Now you stand behind him and similarly hold around his waist as he puts quarters into the meter. Back hugging him close, oblivious to his small smile or the looks you draw from the drunkards passing by. You didn’t even know that they made tattoo parlors that were open 24 hours, but the neon lights outside don't lie, a big cat snarling above, Neon teeth and all.

The 4-story brick buildings are all lit up. The sound of shouting and music from a bar and restaurant on either side of the street spills out. You’re not that far from a college, you think it might be the end of the semester and that's why there are so many people out and about. Someone is having a house party on a rooftop nearby; you can hear the sound of revelry from here. The streets are full of people and music, both young and old.

No one pays you any mind, the two of you in your pajamas. You wear Hobi's sweatshirt, and he wears Yoongi’s flannel. As you giggle and go inside so close that your leg brushes his as you walk. This shop is very highly recommended. Namjoon and Jin wouldn’t let you both go to the grungy one at the ocean, although it would have felt more symbolic for you both to go there.

They’d booked it out last month, but this artist is notorious for enjoying nighttime appointments and is lenient with bookings if you’re willing to meet after hours. Both you and Hobi had independently sent him your designs for each other without sharing. A secret.

The idea of getting matching tattoos has changed a little bit. Now you’ll both choose your own design for each other. You choose his and he'll choose yours, under the one condition that it was small and done with red ink- to make it more matching.

A young-looking alpha with purple hair that goes to her waist pops her bubble gum takes your name and hands over two separate bundles of paperwork.

The two of you sit side by side in plastic chairs. Your leg jumps up and down until Hobi sets his hand on it. Pen balanced between his thumb and ring finger.

“Are you sure you don’t want to know what I’m picking?”

“No! It’s got to be a surprise!”

You’re still shaking, still nervous, and Hobi brings your locked hands up to his mouth. Pressing his smile there. He doesn't second-guess you or check in again. Hobi knows you so well, he knows he doesn't have to.

The tattoo artist does a double-take when he sees both of you waiting there. "Wow you guys got here quick I only texted you like, an hour ago?" You smile and Hobi introduces himself then you, you gesture to the car behind you. The red paint job looks especially shiny tonight, reflecting the neon with narrow strips of pink and yellow. He whistles.

Hobi hands over his paperwork to you so that he can take him outside to look at it. Hobi gets in and revs the engine, never one to resist the temptation to show off. When they come back inside, the artist has your separate fast food bag in his hands.

He’s tattooed up to his ears, even some on his face, a few twining lines that look a little like smoke obscuring something by one temple, and a flower on his cheek is not obscured. He looks threatening and intimidating and would be-

If he didn’t smell like flowers.

It's one of the simpler and brighter floral scents that you've ever scented on another omega. Male omegas are this way, they can have conflicting views of appearance and masculinity. In the same way female alphas can get a little a-feminine and prone to asserting their dominance in other ways. Either with tattoos like this artist or like Jungkook with the muscles.

You chatter to him amiably about it- about Jungkook, who also wants to get tattoos. He wanted to come with you and Hobi and would have if he wasn’t completely buried in the nest upstairs.

And even then, this is kind of something that the two of you wanted to do alone.

“You’re sure about the placement on him?” He asks.

“Yeah! Totally! Our pack alpha just said no face tattoos,” you chirp, swinging your legs as he sterilizes the nearby table. Sets out two small plastic caps worth of red dye and two needles.

He smiles at you good-naturedly. “Yeah, they’re definitely not for everyone.” He winks at you, and the flower by his eye crinkles.

“Thank you for the hamburger. Not all my clients bring me food,” he says before he opens up the package of needles in front of you, the station all set up. He takes a bite before you start. His eyebrows furrow when he does it.

“Did you put french fries like? Under the burger. And-" he draws it back to look, "gummy worms?”

“Sorry, that’s just the way she likes it. You don't have to-”

The artist holds up his hand, chewing thoughtfully, “No- it’s growing on me.”

“We stopped anyway! Because you said we should eat before.”

“Yeah, you’re like really hyper. What did you even eat?”

“Don’t worry, I can stay still. Just like 2 red bulls I’m fine I just really really really don't like needles.”

He and Hoseok share a look over the top of your head. “I can hold her still too.”

“You’re sure about the red ink?”

“Yes! I know that it will fade!” That’s sort of the point, that one day your body will metabolize the pigments. When you and Hobi heard about it, you both liked the sound of it, the idea of a permanent sort of impermanence. Something that changes you, but the way that it changes you changes too.

Hobi bobs his head along to the music in his earphones- oblivious to you as you talk it through with the tattoo artist. You hold his opposite hand as the tattoo artist shaves Hobi's knuckles. He’ll go first, and you second. Both of you have decided to do it this way. Blind tattoos. Skin to skin. Ink to truth.

It doesn’t take too much time for Hobi to finish, and for it to be your turn. You’re shaking a little bit, but Hobi just grins at you and covers your eyes with the same eye mask before pulling you to sit in his lap and keep you from squirming. His hand was already covered with a black nitrile glove to hide your design until the big reveal.

The artist pauses before Hobi puts on your headphones for you.

For a moment you think he's about to say something about the scars, the matching ones that cross your palms in two lines but he doesn't.

“You’re going to feel a little sting, and then a little burn. I need you to try and be as still as possible.” You nod, and Hobi puts the headphones on your ears. Holding your fingers of your left hand in his.

Every finger but your pinky. That part the artist holds.

There’s a bit of pain; it’s sort of searing but it's not nearly as bad as you thought it would be. You can't see anything, but you fall into a sort of trance, letting Hobi maneuver you, manipulating your finger this way and that. You spend the most time with your hand palm up, The music pulsing in your ears. The ink smells…sort of nice. You’re not surprised that Hobi went for your fingers, too, although your pinky is particularly sensitive.

You almost gave him a little flower behind his ear, but didn't knowing that was secretly sort of the kind of tattoo you'd hoped he'd choose for you. There are barely 5 minutes of pain before it’s all done. The cool salve he puts on it soothes it. You’re smiling even before Hobi takes off your blindfold, a sterile glove covers your hand same as his.

"Good job! See! It wasn't that scary!"

Both of you giggle and grasp onto each other’s forearms, holding onto each other as the tattoo artist guides you both to stand in front of the mirror. You wonder what he and Hobi were talking about while you listened to the music. Whatever it was, it had Hobi smelling sweet. The tattoo artist can’t help but smile as you take off your gloves and he covers your hands with a sterile cloth.

“Alright alright,” Hobi says, holding you steady. “Three two one-” You both take off the coverings and immediately do a double take, looking from your hand to his.

“Oh, There’s no fucking way.”

“Oh my god.”

The tattoo artist shakes with laughter behind both of you. But when both of you put your hands up together-

They’re the same. You and Hobi chose roughly the same tattoo for each other. You knew you’d both gone for little hand tattoos- and had sort of realized when the pain of the needle went all around your finger that they might be similar. There are small differences, yours is on your pinky and Hoseok has his on his ring finger.

You turn your hand over, and you see that it doesn’t connect all the way around it. There’s a tiny spot in the center of the inside where the line fractures. It sort of looks like a diamond that you’d have on a deck of cards.

When Hobi turns his hand to the side and spreads his fingers there’s a little bow facing him. Hidden when he closes his fingers or looks at it from the underside. Only visible to him when he wants to show it. It looks like a red string of fate. His little red loop is right where a wedding band would sit.

There's a long pause and then Hoseok exhales. Soft and ragged, and wipes at his eyes.

“Oh Hobi.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He clasps you to his chest, lips colliding with your forehead with a furious sort of tenderness.

“Do you like it?” He swoops you close, hissing when his finger brushes something. The skin there is tender and covered by a bit of plastic, second skin, but still sensitive. His kiss is passionate enough that he doesn’t need to answer. He turns his hand over and over again, smiling down at it. You reach up wiping away the tear on his cheek. But you know from his scent that it’s the good type of crying.

You look at yours right next to his. It’s not exactly a star and not exactly an x, but somewhere between the two. “Why did you choose it?”

“I’m not sure. I sort of had like two ideas. It kind of has a double meaning. Either one fits." Hobi looks down at it, touching the small star gently.

"Well, I hope you figured it out since it's sort of gonna be on my body forever."

"Oh my god, you are like- such a brat." You kiss him too, teeth catching his lip in a way that makes him huff. The artist has made himself scarce, but when you glance over Hobi's shoulder, you find he's peeking at you both over the edge of his almost-finished hamburger. He averts his gaze quickly, flushing at being caught watching. You're not surprised, Hobi sort of has that effect on people.

"At first, I thought of doing just a simple x like ‘x marks the spot' like buried treasure and you're my favorite spot- but." Hobi lifts your pinky up to his mouth. looking at it closely. “Then I thought of like- a star as in a wish, you know?”

He touches it gently, a layer of plastic between your hand and his. Tracing over your finger. “I think, back before you, I was always wishing there was someone in the pack who would like- understand me. I mean you know how they are, they're great, the kind of love you dream about but…”

“They can only do their best.”

“Exactly. Yoongi got close, but no one’s ever understood me like you do. I think if I was wishing for anything I was wishing for you.” You know how tangled it gets, a star, a wish, a flower. You look down at your tattoo- and oh, you like that it’s yours. A permanent mark for this person you love. For Hobi. He smiles, eyes looking from your tattoo to his, and then at your face.

“Was there a reason for mine?”

“I was thinking about it as like a string of fate you know.”

“I was thinking about yours in the same way.”

“You know, the fate you choose, the people you choose. I just liked it. I know you wanted to get these because you want to marry me, and that I’m going to marry Tae.” His scent sours just a little.

“But we’re soulmates, Hobi, we don’t need rings. But even then I wanted to give you one.” You look down at your twined hands. Eyes widen when you realize. "Wow, if we put our fingers together, it kind of looks like the string goes from my hand to yours."

"I did that," The tattoo artist says, grinning. Pulling back from his desk in his rolly chair. "Had to measure you both when you weren’t looking."

Hobi whistles low, impressed.

When you get home, Namjoon and Yoongi and Jin are all sitting on the porch trading a single mixed drink in a big 18oz mason jar back and forth between the three of them. You think it might be a Moscow mule until Yoongi hands it to you, giving you a sip.

You make a face at how much alcohol is in it. definitely rum, not vodka. "What's that weird floral taste?"

"Violet syrup, Hobi made it for us."

Hobi takes the jar from you for a sip of his own. "How'd it turn out?"

"Good!" he tries it, rolling it around in his mouth and humming thoughtfully.

"I like the lavender one better."

“How was it? Did it hurt as much as you thought it would?”

“No! not at all! He was really gentle!”

“Let us see,” “yeah show!”

Yoongi’s lips look a little pink, and you wonder what exactly they were doing with him in between the pack alpha and omega before they saw you pull up. Both you and Hobi hold out your hands for careful inspection.

“Hang on, I thought you were gonna do like? Blind tattoos?” “Yeah, what happened to picking something different for each other?”

“We tried!” “We’re just too in sync!”

“Ey, soulmates!” The five of you look up, half of Tae's body is sticking out of the upstairs window, hair billowing over her shoulders.

"Yes, my darling?" "Yeah, baby girl?" "Tae" you whine, noodle meows. Hobi still has you folded under his shoulder. Tilting his head to look up at her, winking.

"You gonna make me come up there?"

"Like you could catch me, alpha," she teases. Jimin says something from inside and Tae turns, already smiling at whatever he said.

“You guys gonna come to bed any time soon? Or are you gonna sleep outside tonight?” The pack acquiesces and heads inside for the night. Namjoon does your aftercare upstairs, and both you and Hobi sit on the counter very obediently. You wiggle your fingers in his direction holding it up to show. “What do you think, alpha?”

He squeezes Hobi's knee as he wraps his pointer fingers with second skin and Vaseline. You could have kept the wrap on that the artist gave you at the shop but namjoon wanted to make sure they where re-sterilized to his satisfaction.

“I think they’re very cute.” Namjoon means it, you can tell. “That you’re both very cute.”

You hum and hook your pinky finger into Hobi's, and tell him you agree.

~-~

You’re in the kitchen and the pack is fighting. Well, not fighting- but bickering. Jabs that are playful at first, and then get a little more serious.

“I swear to fucking god Namjoon- I am not living in a puke-colored house.”

“How do you know you won’t like it if you don’t try it? Green isn't all that bad.”

Jin scoffs, gesturing to all of him. “Do I really look like a green person? I know my face is ridiculously handsome and everything looks good on me but seriously, green? That’s like the worst color.”

Namjoon pouts, “but then it will go with Hobi's garden.”

“Greens not that bad.” Jimin tries to soothe, rubbing a hand over Jin’s shoulder. Jin is not so easily plied, jabbing a finger in his direction.

“Don’t you even talk; I am not living in a pink house- that’s no better.”

“But Jinnie.” Tae pouts across the table to Jin, and you can tell from Jin’s jerk and sudden surprise that Tae must be doing something with her feet under the table. Jin blushes, and you peek under the table, sharing one seat with Tae, almost spilling onto the floor, and sure enough. Jin has caught her feet in his lap, squeezing her ankle in a warning.

“Okay- pink would be slightly less bad than green but still-” Tae smiles, cute and small, and Jin glances away, ears red.

Her newfound confidence after her top surgery is nothing short of jaw-dropping. You’re happy you get to see it, you’d imagined Tae with boobs enough times that the reality didn’t really surprise you so much (not that you’re not totally into them) but the rest of the pack hadn’t properly anticipated how much of a menace Tae planned on being once healed.

She’s tortured them with low-cut dresses and cute little knit tank tops. Inches of delicate cleavage and skin-tight white shirts that barely hide the honey tone of her skin or the dark edge of a nipple. She's dressed like that today- and it's clearly doing something to more than one packmate.

You smirk like the cat that got the cream, nuzzling into her neckline. You're the one she chose to sit in her lap this morning, arms loosely wrapped around your waist, bringing your hair behind your back occasionally when it's not her turn to speak or debate to braid it in 3-strand braids, then 4-strand braids, then 5 and so on- stopping at 7 because Jimin can't hold the strands tight enough.

Yesterday you'd sort of talked through a bit about it- Tae's boobs- with the others. It helps that you're there to tell them about these things. These girls things that they'd never had to consider or think about.

"It's kind of crazy how like- perky they are, even without a bra." Jungkook looks a little dazed, watching her and Namjoon get into his car, both of them going to the farmers market for a little date. Tae is in just her cut-off shorts and white shirt. Wide-brimmed sunhat. The pack has been trying to take one-on-one dates more often.

Namjoon, in particular, has always been careful to take everyone on a date or so every few months just to make sure they feel properly loved by him. "It’s a pack alpha thing," Hobi had said when you asked. You don't feel bad even a little about being left behind, You're going to go to the aquarium with Namjoon and Jinnie next week.

Jungkook looked from you to Tae- a pink tone to his cheeks. Watching as Namjoon leans over to give her a kiss before he backs out, hand resting attractively on the back of her seat.

"Yeah, how come Tae doesn't always have to wear bra's and you do?"

"Skin." Yoongi had nodded sagely. Refusing to elaborate any further, even though the others glanced back and forth between you and him, waiting for more of an explanation.

You'd rub your nails over the nape of his neck, and he glances back at you offering you a sip of his coffee that you take. Yoongi doesn't let you take the cup, instead tilting the mug against your lips until you swallow. Eyelashes fluttering, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips.

You wipe your mouth when he takes the cup away. Clarifying. "My skin sits a different way than Tae's does. Without a bra mine get sweaty."

"That's a little." Hoseok had trailed off. Cringing already.

"Gross? Yeah, it's like so annoying." But Jungkook hadn't said anything else. Hadn't done anything but look away in pink-cheeked shame.

Jungkook might have nuzzled under your breasts the following day. Post walk. You'd tried to get out before it got hot, and yet you're still sticky and sweaty by the time you get home.

It had ended like this; His body and your body, not in the upstairs bathroom but in the back room on the ground floor, drenched in sunlight on his yoga mats under the guise of 'stretching it out' that turned into something else. His hands linger on your waist, sliding to the crook of your knees where it goes glossy. Hot and balmy.

His body is already worked up because Jungkook isn't satisfied with just your walks, he needs a run or something more energetic to satisfy his body. He's not satiated until he's got you pared down to nothing but your underthings and then some. Nuzzling into the dewy space under your chest.

You smell- God, you smell so good that Jungkook goes dizzy with it, heaving a wrecked breath. Thankful that you can't tell he's already hard through his baggy shorts, although he's aware he smells like slick. He'd put your workout clothes in the nest upstairs if he didn't think Jin would have a conniption with it.

You push at his head weakly- and he can tell you don't mean it. You're like him- you just like to squirm sometimes. He nips, and you try to close your legs, stopped by the plane of his chest, unable to close them further.

"Jungkook, I smell."

"You don't- it's like you only deeper it's- fuck."

"You're really into this, huh?" His aborted whine had been swallowed by his face, pressed low. Burning in embarrassment, body tense from your teasing. But in that way you know he likes it and is just waiting for permission to enjoy it.

"Just stay like this for me, please?"

You'd just shrugged, hand behind your head, "Sure." (and if Jungkook had cum in his pants from it a few minutes later, grinding against your hip- that was your own little secret).

You'd been the first girl the pack had ever lived with- and now that they can note the subtle differences between you and Tae and they've got questions.

Tae is not above using her new found confidence and body to her advantage; all is fair in love and war and home renovation.

Including picking house colors.

You’ve been bickering about it for most of the morning. Unable to make a decision among the 8 of you because you each have your own separate ideas, Unable to agree. Tae is the only one with two votes for her preferred color. Although you never expected Jimin to vote any other way.

You’ve been watching your mate flick through as many swatches as there are colors spread out on the dining room table. Grabbing the fuchsia, the powder pink, the light lavender purple. Putting them all together.

“If we make the eves this color and then the scalloped spots under the roof like- super bright. I don’t think I’d hate it.”

His hands smooth up and down your calf, delicate fingers digging into the muscle there. Your legs stretched across the table to rest there, although you have to slouch to reach. Yoongi's fingers move slowly, squeezing periodically.

He's taken to doing that more to you since you've started to walk regularly with Jungkook, even though he can rarely be roused early enough to go with you and Kookie. By the time you get home he's usually awake.

He likes taking your legs into his lap after, either hours later or at night. Big fingers pinching the tender muscles, asking if your knees are okay or if your hips ache. Noting your no’s and yeses and keeping track of them. Careful to only say "Don't let kookie push you farther than you can go okay? I don't want you like- passing out on the side of the road in this heat." When Jungkook's not around to overhear and misinterpret. Measuring and being careful with you in the way that only Yoongi is.

There are other moments when he asks, "Still sore?" A hidden meaning behind his eyes, hands on your upper thighs, fingers digging into your minor muscles by your hips, slow in the way he squeezes. But you don't question his intentions. Arching your back and sighing.

"I am not drinking a shot of pickle juice, Yoongi."

His pretense falls away, and he pouts. Mouth falling into an upside-down u. "But it has magnesium."

“My vote's still for the cedar siding.” You and Hobi let out a groan and slap the table. You’re not on the same side of this debate. As much as you’d like to support Jin in his board and batten dreams, or Hobi in his art deco fantasies. You have your own ideas.

Ideas of baby blue, the kind that the ocean gets when the sun hits it just right, the color of the hydrangeas that look like watercolors by your mailbox, the sky in the morning just before it starts to yellow. Pastel baby blue with a hint of purple. The way that clouds look when the light hits them just right.

The color of your big blue duvet that you've had since you first lived in this house, is comfortable and homey. The house is already home and has been for a long time. That's your pick, the light baby blue.

“I don’t get why we’re arguing at all. Why doesn’t each of us just pick a color and a part of the molding.”

“No. If we do all that it’s not going to look cohesive. That’s why we should just go with white and black- that way it never goes out of style.” It's the same argument that Jin's been trying to make for the last 3 hours.

“Yeah, it will never go out of style because that style is known as boring.” Jungkook huffs.

“Hey! You brat.”

Namjoon sips at his now cold coffee, and Jimin snatches it from him to put it in the microwave along with yours. The pack has been dragging its feet over this decision for weeks. But you've put it off for long enough and You won’t leave the table without a house color. yoongi has maybe a dozen or so odd tasks left around the house that still need handling before yoongi can truly call the renovations finished. But this is the last major decision that needs to be made about how it will look.

Jungkook almost sprawls across Yoongi's lap. “But purple hyung! Purple could be so pretty!”

Eventually around 1 o’clock, watermelon cut up and half eaten for lunch, a beach day crumbling away from you. Yoongi takes a piece of paper and a receipt. He tears it up and gives each of the packmates a pencil.

“This is the only way; we each get one vote and we pick them out one by one until there's only one choice left.”

“I should really get two votes because I’m the youngest.”

“If she gets two, then that means I get two too, I’m pack alpha,” you giggle and try to take a second piece of paper.

“No. You both should get a half a vote for even asking.”

“But Yoongiiii” you drag out the syllable, making it all bratty, he pinches your knee and you stop your squirming.

“No buts pup.” You fold your piece of paper and put it in the empty fruit basket, but Jungkook snatches it, popping the piece of paper into his mouth with a giggle.

You've been sitting here for too long, it's melting everyone's brains a little bit.

"Oh my god Jungkook-" "What the fuck Koo." "Spit it out! Now!" "Jungkook- that's like so gross."

Namjoon holds the back of his head in one hand fingers gripping his long black hair, shaggy from letting it grow out and Jin picks the piece of paper off his tongue. "Bleh!"

(There's a spanking in his future for that- but sometime later. Sometime after this has been decided).

Tae peaks over your shoulder, and jimin tries to steal Namjoon’s to scribble his out and write pink. You all fold yours up before you put them in Hoseok’s (now empty and mostly dry) coffee mug. he guards it, and jungkook watches him move, grinning.

You go one by one, you go first. “The house will not be…baby blue.” You wilt. "That’s so unfair how did I get mine first! Let me have a redo-“

“No, no redo’s.” Hobi goes next, “sorry Joonie,” he says, but Green gets discarded too. Tae picks white and black, Jimin gets Hobi's choice, and by the time it gets to Jungkook, there are only two slips of paper left in the bowl. One of them is pink, the other…

Jungkook closes his eyes before he chooses. Fingers slipping around the paper. He unfolds it with his eyes closed. "Jungkook," "Kookie just-" but he opens his eyes. You watch him with bated breath, clambering to your feet because you just can't wait any longer. His bunny teeth dig into his lower lip, and he shoots straight up, bouncing out of the chair. Grinning satisfied.

“Yes! I knew it! I knew it!”

The rest of the pack groans, and Jungkook doesn't even have to say it. His gloating is enough.

Yoongi clears the table. Leaving the purple samples out. Not a deep royal purple but a light lavender. It’s so light it might as well be white in direct sunlight. But even you have to admit, when you put it in shadow, it’s a very pleasing shade. Not bright enough to be anything but pastel, but colorful enough not to look grey.

“A purple house, we’re going to be the pack in the purple house.” Jin says, sounding wilted. You duck to peck his cheek. Clearing the cups and plates from the table.

“That kind of has a nice ring to it. Don’t you think?”

But in all reality, it doesn’t really go that way. There are spots of you all everywhere. Jungkook and Yoongi make it possible to incorporate all of your choices. The main siding ends up a light lavender, but the window sills stay white. You paint the ceiling under the porch a bright robin’s egg blue that satisfies you. Up above by the eves, Jungkook acquiesces and consents to a dusty mauve.

Yoongi gets up on a ladder to paint it very very carefully, Namjoon watching anxiously from the bottom, holding the ladder like it's the most important job in the world.

“Thank you for at least wearing a helmet.”

“Let’s go to the back of the house next.” Namjoon stiffens but doesn’t say anything.

You help Jungkook on the side of the house, by the library room where the hydrangeas grow tall and pretty, already dotted with pink and blue and purple blooms. You spend more time looking at them and squishing them than you do painting.

Jungkook just smiles at you when you're not looking and keeps painting.

Hobi got a magnolia tree at work the other day, apparently it had been lingering in the yard for ages. It's not all that tall yet- maybe 7 feet high. It's trunk has a bit of a crook in it, he put it opposite the rose bush, and although it will be hard to see from the front of the house unless you're sitting at the dining room table, at least you'll be able to see it while you're doing dishes.

Maybe one day it will provide shade to this part of the yard, but not yet you think as you wipe your brow. Jungkook's face is also dotted with sweat.

"I've never asked you why you like purple so much."

Now that you think about it, Jungkook has purple everything. He had purple hair for a moment right when the pack moved in. His workout bag is purple, his running shoes- purple, and his protein shake bottle- also purple. Everything purple purple purple.

Jungkook hums thoughtfully as he swipes his brush back and forth. You tucked one stem of the hydrangea behind his ear too and it looks so pretty on him. Purple is very much Jungkook's color.

"I've always loved it, I don't know why the color means a lot to me, but it does. It makes me happy when I look at it." He dunks the brush in the paint can and wipes it off on the side and shrugs, "Maybe in another universe it means a lot to me too, and that's why I like it so much. It's like telecommunication between me and all the other Jungkook’s that exist."

"Like a multi-dimensional game of telephone?"

"Yeah exactly."

"Maybe." You agree. Standing next to him loading up your brush again and getting back to it. "If it matters a lot to you then it matters a lot to me too."

Jungkook grins, doesn't say anything, and keeps painting.

By the end of the day, all of you are covered with purple, on your cheeks, in your hair (an accident, Joonie didn't realize he was about to drip when he reached over you), it sticks between your fingers and more than one packmate has the imprints of hands on their ass.

Hobi takes a look at the house from the street and says that really, the foundation needs to be painted a light green to blend in with the garden and give it a nice backdrop. Yoongi uses some leftover cedar shingles to put around the base of the wrap-around porch too. By the end of it, it sort of looks like all your personalities vomited up all over it. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Oh my god- Noodle stop squirming- Hurry I can’t hold him for much longer.”

“Here, give him to me.” You tuck your white-pink dress under your legs as you sit on the steps, the same steps that you’ve gone over countless times over the last year, rushing up them to head inside after the hospital, kissing Namjoon from the top step and him on the bottom, running out to the car with Hobi. All of it.

And now you sit.

Yoongi bends over his phone camera, propped up on the rock wall. Your hip is smooshed between Jungkook’s and Tae's, both of them sitting on the steps with you and the rest above, Yoongi rushes back and crouches, barely making it.

All of you smile, Noodle yowls, and the flash goes off.

"Hang on! I think I blinked!" Everyone groans.

Yoongi frames that photo, the 8 of you and Noodle a grey. Your faces are all small, smushed together on the porch. The house stretches above you. Purple with pink roses vining up one side and the lump of the magnolia tree on the other side.

He hums to himself softly. He puts the picture on the mantle in the living room. Looking at it for a long moment, and moves on.

~-~

The house is different in summer. The air feels lighter, the windows open, and even the garden seems to lean in and watch. The snippets of kisses, the lingering touches, the hidden knowing looks, and quiet tugs at the hem of sleep shirts. Love over coffee.

Jin lies in the nest upstairs and listens.

Noodle. The sound of his light paws on the steps as he comes up. The faint hiss of his fur rubbing polished wood. Big tom cat belly almost brushing the steps. His bell collar jingles sadly- a new addition.

A few weeks ago, he'd caught a songbird and made you cry. Big cheeks full of yellow feathers, looking all too proud of himself. The pack hadn't had the heart for your tears and the idea of Namjoon putting his love of bird feeders away had quickly led to the unanimous conclusion that Noodle needed a collar. Tae picked one out for him, bright pink and monogrammed with a curly gold 'N'.

Wherever he's off to on a little adventure- he's quickly chased out by your thundering feet, Jungkook following you and Hobi behind him. Jin is dimly aware, his pack omega senses tingling. He's pretty sure he could pick out the packmates by the sound of their footsteps alone. He doesn't need to open his eyes to tell who's moving where or when.

"Hey! No shoes on in the house guys!" Yoongi's only half angry, Jin can tell by how he sighs.

"Sorry hyung!" "Sorry Yoongi" "But these are like brand new- I only went on the deck with them to model them for Namjoon."

"As cute as your new pink running shoes are pup, they are not house shoes. Do you not like the slippers Tae got you?"

You pups don't sound sorry in the slightest. Jin's omega roils at that dominance challenged by the disorder. But-

He's so comfy. Body relaxing into the nest, pillow clutched to his chest. Wriggling against the softness of the sheets with a happy sleepy chirp. Maybe disciplining the pack can wait for later...after breakfast. Or after Namjoon comes back into the nest and cuddles him again. The pack alpha was the last to leave Jin's nest this morning. Jin doesn't feel lonely even if he is alone in the nest right now.

He was pressed up against Seokjin's spine a few short minutes ago, his low hums joined by the occasional rustle of pages and a soft "Jinnie's still sleeping."

When Jin stretches his toes out, he can still feel the alpha's warm spot.

"All of you out out out- keep my floors from your violent delights."

Tae giggles, "Did you say violent delights just because I made you read Twilight-" her voice is bright timpani’s Melodic. Jin nuzzles into the nest, body happy at the sound. He listens in on their conversation. Spilling through the open doorway at the top of the steps.

"I can't believe they made Edward an omega- he's got like such beta energy too."

"You just want him to be a beta so that he's like you. You just wanna be able to read minds."

"Okay but even you have to admit it would be like an 's' tier super power, Jimin?"

The alpha groggy voice joins the fray. "Sorry, shapeshifting is still cooler than reading minds."

The top of Jin's head smells like Namjoon’s aftershave as he turns in the nest, breathing deeply and calmly. Dimly aware of the pack's conversation downstairs and the sound of Yoongi starting up the record player; a new gift from you and Hobi to him. You three have taken to going from record store to record store collecting new songs for late-night drives and going on little dates. It's a way for the three of you to bond together and build new familiar ground. The music flutters up the stairs, a little grainy, a little muffled.

You and Hobi and Jungkook are giggling in the front yard too “Koo!!! you can’t run that fast I can’t keep up.” The sound of three sets of slapping feet as you run down the street. Hobi joins you for once. One pace of steps is slightly faster than the others. You have to work twice as hard as they do just to keep up.

Jin finally wakes. His mind is sluggish but his body doesn’t ache when he throws his legs over the side of the nest, his heart continuing to beat slowly despite the fact that he's awake. You might expect an empty nest to all but ensure nesting anxiety (and it might in any other pack omega) but Jin is not unnerved, not in the slightest. Not with Namjoon in the other room.

Namjoon Namjoon Namjoon. Jin's instincts are supremely aware of every step the alpha takes, from the sink to the shelves that hold the pack's creams and bath oils. He's humming along softly to the music downstairs, a deep rumble.

Nothing in Jin’s body feels tense or afraid. Nothing in him at all is worrying about who might be eating enough or if Jiminie might be verging close to a meltdown. Not Jungkook's seizures or Hobi's melancholy. Jin is completely and wholly at ease.

He follows the scent of Namjoon to the bathroom where the pack alpha is brushing his teeth and reading. because he's efficent that way. A small paperback book held in one hand, green sparkly toothbrush in the other.

He hums, not turning when Jin comes in, but it's an acknowledging noise in the back of his throat. Jin stands there looking at him, shirtless in the bathroom. The ripple of his shoulders, the kiss of freckles where the sun has stored part of its energy in Namjoon. Like sunlight made man.

Jin spends a long time looking at his freckles. He could spend a lifetime tracing them.

Jin swallows, although his mouth isn't dry.

“Namjoon.”

“Hmm?”

“I want you to bite me.”

Namjoon chokes and shoots him a look. “Like a hickey?” he says, confused. He sets the book cover up on the countertop. Jin can't help but be a little self-conscious, his confidence gone now that he's realized what he just said.

His fingertips comb down what he's sure must be a cowlick on his hair. He should at least have checked to make sure he didn't have morning breath. But the sudden conviction gripped him, and it was hard to ignore. The tug around his gut that pulled in Namjoon's direction.

Jin's heartbeat speeds up a little bit. He's sure Namjoon and him impressive hearing can tell. Namjoon just stands there, staring.

"You don't mean like a hickey do you."

“No, like a mating bite.”

Namjoon blinks, once, twice, and a third time. Immediately dropping his fingers to his pulse. Checking his heartbeat. Jin also sees him pinch himself. By the time Namjoon is done Jin has his arms crossed and is tapping his foot.

“Right now? As in today?” He’s a little dazed. Jin puts his hands on his hips. Patience wearing thin.

“Well, it is a Saturday. We have tomorrow off and then the next day too for me- we could heal and then get back to it, no big deal. I don't think we'll have a better time this summer than today.”

He says it like it's the most natural conclusion. It's a Saturday so it's a day for mating bites, for bonding one soul to another. No big deal.

Namjoon moves across the bathroom so quick his body is a blur. Jin almost collides with the doorway, the alpha ducks, colliding their lips with such force that it sort of shocks a laugh out of Jin. When Namjoon pulls back, he keeps their foreheads together. Nuzzling forward all but covering Jin's body with his with the strength at which he's sort of hugging, sort of pressing him into the door. Like this- Jin can feel all of his hard lines and soft edges. His belly swoops.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, I’ve never been more sure.” Jin’s not sure why today of all days he woke up wanting this, especially since he's been pushing it off, telling Namjoon 'not yet' whenever they've broached the topic in the last year.

Granted things have been a little hectic with you coming into play, all the secrets, and Jimin almost dying. today feels like a safe enough day for it. Jin can count on it really- that the next week or so won't be scary, that he won't be needed. They've got time for this.

But now that he’s awake it’s all Jin can think about. Can't believe he has to wait another moment to have Namjoon’s bite on his skin.

Namjoon thunders down the steps, nearly tripping over Noodle this time with a cat toy in his mouth. Bright and sparkly.

Jimin is sitting on the kitchen table looking half a wreck, looking like honestly, Tae shouldn't have woken him up so early (but this is generally how Jimin looks all the time if he doesn't have a coffee or a cigarette, so Namjoon’s not so startled.) It is nearing noon and he's still not saying much.

Jimin has become a little more prone to bouts of quiet since he's been learning and leaning into sating his sensory needs. Sometimes he and Tae communicate in touches instead of words. A touch to the shoulder for a check-in, a nuzzle into the nape for an I'm happy. It's a simple exchange.

Jimin is watching Tae like the world revolves around her. Which is no different than how he looks at her any other morning or time of day. The music is much much louder down here. Tae spins to it as Yoongi and Jimin watch, her big pink dress out around her like an upturned petunia.

“Today's the day!” he announces, grinning ear to ear. Namjoon almost slips down the steps, catching himself on the tall carved railing. One sock hanging looser than the others, board shorts- he can't believe he's wearing board shorts for this; he should at least be wearing something a little bit more professional for mating the love of his life.

He bounds over to tae, spinning with her for a turn or two before he bobs away nearly colliding with Yoongi. "Jimin- can you call the pups back to the house for me? Tae- that is a lovely dress and you look perfect in it. Yoongi- can you cut my hair for me? Today's the day!"

The beta rubs his eye, still nursing a cup of coffee. "What do you mean?"

Namjoon bounces, nearly knocking a lamp onto the floor. "Today’s the day! Today’s the day!"

Yoongi's eyebrows furrow. Flickering from Namjoon to Jin, softly padding down the stairs. “Oh, you’re finally gonna let the pup peg Namjoon?”

Namjoon chokes makes an aborted sound in his chest, and calms down a little (which was probably Yoongi's intention). Jin smiles and it's nearly blinding. Has he always been so beautiful? Or is everything just like a watercolor painting right now, every shadow and every bright light pastel. Namjoon can hardly stop looking at him long enough to control his limbs.

“He’s gonna bite me today.” Yoongi trips over basically nothing, A big lop of coffee hits the floor with a big splat. He glances at it and then at Seokjin.

"Can you say that again? I don't think I heard you right the first time."

"Namjoon's going to give me his mating bite today," Jin says, carefully and slowly. Taking Yoongi's coffee cup from him and having a sip. Jimin is already up from the table, phone in hand. Tae is still twirling. The music is still playing so loud that they're all sort of shouting.

Yoongi looks like he might be about to start crying, the whole room smells like coffee and chocolate. "About damn time" His voice is a little wobbly. "here I was thinking you were gonna make it my christmas present."

"Oh my god shut up you cannot tease me about this."

"You've basically edged Namjoon with this for the majority of the last decade. I think I'm allowed a little teasing." Yoongi glances at Tae who is still spinning. "Tae, did you hear what they said?"

"Yes! Catch me! too dizzy!" She falls into Namjoon and Jin's arms, giggling, body and dress draped. They grin and kiss her forehead, her ear, glittering with several pretty earrings.

"Can I do your makeup? Oh! We should all get dressed up!" Tae never needs an excuse to wear her pretty dresses, but this is a very very good one.

Jimin puts the phone down, resting it on his shoulder. "Tae- you're already dressed up."

"Yeah, but that's just because it's a Saturday so it's a fancy day."

Jin gestures to her then at Namjoon, "See? That's what I was trying to say."

"I don't want to leave the house for this." Namjoon says, suddenly serious. "It has to be here." His instincts hum under his skin. This he knows. He repeats it again.

Tae smiles and nuzzles into Jin's bare throat. Namjoon can't stop staring at it. "There's nothing I'd rather get dressed up for than this."

Tae drags Jin upstairs, and Jimin follows shortly after, Namjoon almost growls, but his alpha's- they're Namjoon's alpha. They can look after the pack omega well enough. Pretty soon he'll be Namjoon’s for good anyway. In a way that nothing can erase, soul pressed to soul.

Jin cups Yoongi's cheek on his way back up the stairs, fingers fluttering over his jaw. The beta watches him go with a sensitive smile, small and delicate. Leaving just him and Namjoon here on the ground floor.

"Yoongi." He turns, hair fluffing.

"Yeah?"

"Could you…" he trails off. Suddenly shy.

"Oh yeah, shit- Your hair. Come on- we can do it in the kitchen so it's easier to clean."

"Wanna look nice for him." Yoongi hums, finishing his coffee,

"Yeah. Sure. If you're not gonna look nice for this might as well not look nice for anything."

The dining room chair scrapes against the hardwood floor, and Yoongi retrieves the buzzer from the hallway bathroom and drags Namjoon over to the space between the kitchen island and the sink. There's a bit of flour on the floor from last night when you and Jin baked while the pack watched movies in the living room. Letting them duke it out via rock paper scissors for who got to lick the spoon.

The half-finished cake in the fridge will have to due for tonight (no it won't stupid Yoongi- you're going to bake something special for them. A berry cake, with creme patissiere and delicately gelled strawberries from Hobi's garden. And just like everything else it will be perfect).

Yoongi is reminded of Jin- dying his hair blonde here in this same space, back when they first reunited and after Yoongi had a panic attack. But Yoongi closes his eyes and doesn't think of that, tying a kitchen towel around Namjoon's neck.

The pack cut their own hair in summertime, taking it low for the heat. There's just no reason to go to a salon when Namjoon likes his buzzed close and when his hair grows so fast. Yoongi's can be mostly managed this way- Hobi's too. Jungkook's the only one that always likes to go to the salon. He likes his undercut done a certain way.

Usually Tae does this for them. but this time Yoongi tilts Namjoon's head this way and that. Strong fingers digging into his nape.

When Yoongi is maybe halfway done, Namjoon asks. “Do you think we’re ready for it?”

He glances back at Yoongi. But Yoongi just pushes at his head and makes him face forward.

"Don't move like that- I don't wanna nick your ear."

Namjoon has spent hours and hours looking at Yoongi’s mating mark, the imprint of your teeth on his hip. Stroking over it lazily. He likes the way it looks like two matching moons. A mirror image of each other, a little different, the crooked lilt to your teeth. How it’s healed over nicely, gently.

Namjoon only hopes his instincts allow him to be gentle. A long time ago- before Yoongi left- maybe a few weeks before. He took Jin to get a scan done of his neck. Namjoon still has the paperwork somewhere upstairs probably or maybe in the basement. The consultation included a good ultrasound of the vasculature in either of their necks. Gave each of them a perfect view of just where a mating bite would take best.

The buzzer hums. And Namjoon feels tiny bits of hair prink the skin of his neck. Yoongi continues working. He huffs, all put upon.

“I think you’ve been ready to bite my husband since the second you met him, Namjoon.”

“Do you have to call him that?” Namjoon knows he’s going to enjoy hassling Yoongi over this for the rest of his life.

“You can’t mate him and marry him Namjoon- we agreed that-”

“-We’d share. I know I know.” Namjoon's head is bowed so that Yoongi can carve out around his nape. “For the record- I like sharing with you, I just wanted to tease you.”

Yoongi puffs up even more if that seems possible. Yoongi reaches with the buzzer at the same moment and Namjoon turns to press a kiss to his wrist. Namjoon flinches, hand automatically coming up to touch to grip his cheek-

"Shit- Namjoon."

Blood flows slick between Namjoon's fingers.

~-~

It takes most of the day to get the house and everyone ready for the mating. Namjoon’s little nick causes quite the commotion. Jin tilts his face this way and that, 6 faces fighting for purchase around them. Bickering, Jungkook's eyes are a little wet. Yours too.

"Do you think it will scar?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

"Tae your skincare routine might be legendary at this point but it looks deep-"

"We'll have scars in the same place like this Koo" Namjoon says, interrupting Jungkook, smiling up at Jin and him dopily (because Namjoon is still sort of high on the joy of finally getting to mark Jin). It's a silly attempt at comforting him. A little piece of bloody cotton is in Hobi’s hand as everyone leans in.

"He just turned; I didn't mean." "Babe stop apologizing."

You hold the mirror from Tae's library room in your hands so that he can see and when Namjoon removes the gauze, it only bleeds a little down his cheek.

"It doesn't need stitches," "are you sure?" "I’m sure." Jin sighs and presses a kiss to the top of Namjoon’s head.

You peek over the top of the mirror. "I like it! Makes you look really rugged.” The pack leans in and Namjoon backs up a little bit, the back of his head brushing Jin's stomach.

"Oh my god, you're right." "He looks like an action movie hero or something."

There are things to organize before Namjoon and Jin bite each other. Mating ceremonies are not like weddings, they're not usually public or with other people there outside of the mating pair's immediate pack. The pack doesn't do anything half-assed, there at least needs to be some sort of decoration. The couches in the living room get moved back to make way for the mating nest. Jungkook spends a few hours at midday putting up some more of his favorite white twinkly lights.

When you got back from your run and found the pack upended by Jin's request, you'd debated it. "You do not need to get me flowers." Jin had said, but Hobi hadn't listened. Standing in the doorway with his keys already in hand.

"White or pink?"

You and Tae are just as hyper as Namjoon. All but buzzing around him talking about makeup and maybe curling his hair. Omegas are supposed to look soft and innocent for their mating.

"What do you want to eat? For your pre-mating meal?" Classic Yoongi- to think of eating before anything else. To make sure that the pack is properly fed. Jin rubs a finger across his brow. Tae plucked his eyebrows earlier in between the moment when Namjoon got nicked and you got home. She'd gotten a head start on prepping and the skin is sensitive.

He had no idea that a spontaneous mating bite would involve so much prep work. But she's still talking about face masks and seaming skin and maybe doing his nails. Jin is-

Jin is restless, instinct-churning like his inner omega already knows what's going to happen tonight. Already knows what's destined and can't relax until it happens. Pacing back and forth the confines of his mind. Tension and anticipation are an intoxicating mix. He's simultaneously exhausted and has too much energy.

"I do not care not at all-" Jin breaks off.

You hum, stepping up to the sink. "Can't mate with a messy kitchen" You say almost softly to yourself. Your hair spills softly over one shoulder. Lips chapped from kisses. You'd showered off the sweat from your run and you look flushed and sleepy. Just in your robe because Tae is tearing through your dress collection to find something matching for both of you to wear and you'd rather just wait before she starts primping and polishing you.

Yoongi glances from you to Jin, then back again.

Jin looks down at your body, licking his lips just a little. "Actually, can you make some soup?"

By the time Hobi gets home, his car is overflowing with flowers. It’s hot for July, and the inside of the car smells like all of it, all white. Daisies and roses, lilies and peonies and lisianthus and bright spills of red amaranth just because. (Although those are a little bit of a splurge, a little bit out of season). Later Jin will tell Hobi that he didn't need to get him a whole car full.

You help Hobi unload his car, trying to leave the house in just your robe before hobi snaps at you and makes you put on real clothes. you're a little pupish maybe, a little bit in omegaspace. maybe that just because everyone is taking control for once- it's not just namjoon and jin with the reigns.

10 compound buckets full of water already set up on the porch for you and Jimin and Hobi to process the flowers, Jimin had taken up the job of getting every vase and jar and glass in the house and putting them on the porch to be washed by the garden hose. There aren't just flowers here too- Hobi got candles too. Big tall tapers, white and off-white.

This is traditional, a mating by candlelight.

You dart close to Yoongi when he passes you with a box of 90 roses in his hands. Pressing a quick kiss that gets drowned in a laugh to his mouth. “I can’t believe it tonight. I can’t believe they’re going to-” You press your forehead against Yoongi’s, nuzzling carefully.

“Yeah, it feels special right?” You get to be here; you get to be here for Namjoon and Jin. You've never felt luckier. “You don’t feel a little weird? That we won’t be the only ones who are mated anymore?”

Yoongi walks backward to his car, keys clutched weakly in his hands. “You mean will it bother me if they’re even more ridiculous than they already are?”

Both Namjoon and Jin are going to go for the throat, it’s sort of a classic placement, both of them on the opposite side of their throat, Namjoon’s closer to his heart because that’s supposed to be a bit harder on the body and he wanted to take the brunt of it (Namjoon will match you in placement that way).

You’d woken up this morning and touched him there, tracing down the line of his neck. Perhaps already suspecting it. Your omegas can be in sync that way a little bit. Maybe you'd sensed something from Jin the day before, or last evening.

“You know you woke me up.” He says, eyes still closed.

“Yeah- just thinking.”

All of you have your mating marks in different ways, you and Namjoon will have your mating bites in the same place. The same side of the throat. Hobi and you have your matching tattoos. You and Tae match bodies, and dresses and she's talking about dying her hair to match yours too.

Your hands and Jimin’s scar on his shoulder, barely covered by the narrow thread of his black tank top and he sweeps the floor before Jungkook moves the mattress from the other room here. The freckles on Jungkook’s nose and the ones on Namjoon’s back. Everything matches, the 8 of you are a part of a set. You match each other.

You and Jungkook spend most of the afternoon making the nest for Namjoon and Jin. Jin said he wanted the room to look like it did back during Namjoon’s rut months ago, and you'll do your best to fulfill that request. You get your big blue blanket from upstairs and Jungkook gets his favorite worn flat pillows. Jin doesn’t have a hand in it, this is your job.

Mating goes a little differently for pack alphas and pack omegas- the people under them make the nest for them whereas for anyone else a nest is something one makes for the other.

You spend the whole day gathering everything white, Namjoon’s button-downs, Tae's pretty dresses, gauze, and lace. The throw in your nesting nook, a fluffy hat of Hobi's. You tuck and roll the pillows and the silks of Tae's favorite dresses. When you’re done the nest at the center of the living room looks like something of a flower itself.

The pack buzzes with movement. Yoongi and Jimin run to the store- an emergency re-stock of the kitchen because who knows the next time Jin and Namjoon’s instinct will quiet enough to let anyone leave the house.

Yoongi remembers those first few days when everything felt so volatile with both of you, that you spent them in that grungy little motel and Yoongi could hardly handle it whenever room service dropped the food off at the front door. While the rest of the pack thinks they’ll be fine- you and Yoongi are not so sure. Those memories are close to the surface and bubbling up.

Is this how your mating would have gone? This is how they're supposed to go, aren't they? You're supposed to have people around you who love you and are going to help you through it. You're supposed to be taken care of through it and it's not supposed to be scary.

But today isn't about you and Yoongi, today is about Namjoon and Jin.

Namjoon’s medical bag is nearby, the gauze set out, a sterile needle, and some stitching just in case he bites too deep. That was the first thing that Namjoon even did.

(The truth is that's not how it's going to happen, immediately post making, after very publicly claiming Jin with both his knot and teeth, Jin is going to drag each pack mate to the nest upstairs before any bandaids or gauze. Blood is sort of going to get everywhere. He is going to fly into a little bit of a fury with the scenting and the grooming.

Namjoon will stay guarding the end of the bed, beady-eyed and prepared to wrestle anyone who even tries to leave placing the 8 of you by the nape around Jinnie- good pack alpha, good pack alpha to bring the pack omega his nestmates, his pups, and the pretty-pretty alphas that Namjoon has selected for them. Jin will be full of grabby hands and pouts. "Pups- my pups, good alpha giving me my pups" he'll croon, lost to omegaspace with a lap full of Jungkook- who will give Namjoon a run for his money in his fight to escape. "Joonie- I swear I just need to pee."

You don't anticipate the mating bites triggering an episode of alpha space and Omegaspace in Namjoon and Jin, but you better be prepared.)

You're just thinking about if the nest needs some of your stuffed animals from your nesting nook when Yoongi comes down the stairs. Jin called him up there around 40 minutes ago, just to talk- or maybe ask questions. You're not surprised, Jin's sort of been eyeing your mate since he first made the announcement.

"Pup." He says, you hum in response fluffing the edge of the mating nest, setting it just perfectly.

"One sec I just want to- there!" You stand, satisfied with the placement of a blanket now that a pillow isn't in the way. You turn to Yoongi and almost drop your pillow at the sight of his red eyes.

"Yoongi? You've been crying why-" You stumble to the edge of the steps and he takes your face in his hands easily. It's so you to touch first to comfort, to cuddle into his chest, it's so instinctual and it instantly makes Yoongi feel better.

"It's not bad, I'm not upset just- Jinnie and I were just talking."

Yoongi takes in a fragile breath and you blink up at him owlishly. Waiting. You're alone here, the rest of the pack outside preparing the flowers. Jungkook is in the other room looking for more pillows.

"I’m okay I’m okay." Yoongi's thumbs skim down your cheeks. He looks conflicted, eyes churning with a sort of inner turmoil. You wrap your arms around his waist. He looks like he's debating saying something like he can't not say it.

Down your mating mark, you feel a sad little tug.

"You know if I could have, I’d have given you all of this and more."

"Yoongi- you have given me all of this. Don't you see it?" You press your cheek into his palm.

He lets out a shaky breath, "As long as you know."

Yoongi holds you to him for a long moment, squeezing you tight. You were worried that this day was going to bring up some bad memories for both of you and while you feel fine, you know Yoongi will be. You hold him back extra tight, just in case. When Yoongi pulls back he looks more settled and his next breath is less shaky.

"Jinnie wants to talk to you upstairs."

~-~

The dressing room is quiet until Jin speaks. There is a piping-hot bowl of soup with steam rising from it on Tae's vanity.

"I wanted to ask you what it feels like. Being mated. I've never asked you before."

The pack omega is good at cutting to the point and good at not mincing words. You don't have alot of time now. The sun is just starting to set and you know that soon the ceremony will have to begin. You can take a few extra minutes to comfort him- you don't think the pack will mind waiting on your account.

"You asked Yoongi earlier?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to make him cry. I'm going to try not to make you cry too." Jin's legs are crossed, and you know he won't let you leave until you give him an honest answer. "I want to know what you'll say." He says, a barely leashed command in his voice.

"You mean you want to know what it's like from the omega's side?" he blinks and you, waiting, expectant. You sigh, pausing to lean low and wrap your hands around his shoulders, hugging him close. It's a strange position that you've rarely found yourself in; the position to explain something to Jin is rare. He's usually so sure of himself and confident. He doesn't look all that sure of himself like this, gel eye patches on, clips in his hair.

"Mine felt really scary, I'm not sure I'm the one to answer your question Jinnie." He pulls back, turning around. You've stood between his legs a million times, this time feels no different.

"You're not worried that us being mated will change the way that pack operates?" You shake your head before he's even finished his sentence.

"Not at all, mating marks- they're personal" You touch yours and Jin's gaze naturally falls on it too. "I think that they give you what you need, what your relationship needs. You and Namjoon- you're already good at relying on each other, making each other stronger for us. A mark won't change that."

Jin hums, looking at your throat and not at your face.

"The first bite burned. But Geumjae-" Jin stiffens at the sound of his name, you barrel past it. "-His scent was like that and he sort of hated me- so I think that's why it felt that way. And also because like I obviously didn't want it. My soul didn't want to go that way and then Yoongi-"

You smile and Jin leans in. You've never felt more like his equal. Standing here like this. "Yoongi was very gentle. His soul felt very gentle. Being loved by him is very gentle. Getting bitten by Namjoon will feel the same way that he makes you feel only more if that makes sense, like- more concentrated.

"Your mating is going to go very differently than mine, I didn’t even want to nest for like weeks after. You'll probably want to nest right away, you know alot of omega's do."

"I know" Jin nods, and thinks about it for a second, looking away from you.

"Does that answer your question?"

"Yes."

"You want to know my one piece of advice for you?"

"Always."

"When your instincts talk to you, listen to them. Especially immediately after." You lean up against the vanity. "Yoongi and I- did you know we weren't immediately romantic?"

"No I didn't know that," Jin confesses it like he doesn't want to.

"I wasn't exactly in the right state of mind for anything like that at the time but I think- maybe if we didn't fight it- it would have been easier."

Jin thinks about it a little bit more. Rests his cheek against your stomach, and closes his eyes. You run your fingers through Jin's hair, taking his clips out one by one, and then the eye patches.

"Wanna nap for a few minutes before we keep getting ready? I'm kind of tired." It's a lie- you don't feel tired at all but Jin looks like he needs a nest right now. Looks like he's aching for it.

He sags into you. "please."

~-~

The yellow light of sunset cuts through the top floor of the house like honey. You sit in the dressing room in front of Tae's mirror, groggy from your nap with Jin on the settee in the corner. You'd woken to Jungkook and Tae cooing over a photo, your cheek smushed against both of you under a knit throw that Namjoon might have placed there when he came up looking for you and Jin.

Jin is still resting there. It will be a few more minutes before the pack wakes him up.

Now you stare at yourself and Tae, Jungkook hums as he moves around the dressing room too. The music is back downstairs, as is the distant sound of Hobi singing along as he sets up the flowers with Yoongi while Namjoon paces. It seems like the pack alpha has hardly been able to stop moving since this morning.

Tae detangles the hair at the nape of your neck gently with her fingers. The tug is so soothing you're already having a hard time waking up. Tae hums leans forward to press her lips to the back of your head. Her reassurance is wordless. You’ve found lipstick in your hair more times than you care to admit. There’s a little pink halo on the back of your head near constantly from how much Tae likes to kiss you there.

“Can you make me pretty for it? I want to look pretty for the mating.” She smiles at you in the mirror, and you know you hardly even had to ask. She kisses the nape of your neck and You blush a little. Feeling her chest brush either side of your shoulders as she does it.

You turn and nuzzle there. "Oh my little puppy, let mommy make you pretty."

Although her incisions no longer give her any pain or discomfort (Jimin is very good at making sure she applies her scar cream, if a little dazed while he does it). She likes to lounge, likes to fake whine that they’re aching, and would you come touch them, massage them for me?

Completely aware of how much she’s both sort of torturing you and Minnie and anyone who might fall into her trap. She's always hugging an arm to her chest, stepping close and brushing against you, teasing you. letting you feel her.

Quite honestly, it's torture.

It's not all sexual, you're not the only one who finds comfort or sensory pleasure in them. Jimin did come home the other day overstimulated and asked for both of you to bury him. He'd squished his face between both of your chests for a good few hours. Low tank tops pulled lower so that your skin could press in at him on all sides. Almost nothing sexual about it. More about comfort than anything else.

“Are you sure you’re not like suffocating?”

“Please don’t move, I’m just starting to feel normal” he'd whined.

Downstairs, you hear Namjoon shut the front door and lock it.

She curls your hair and pats your cheeks with blush, and when she’s done with you. You do the same to her and then Jungkook- doing the eyeliner just so, patting out her concealer gently nearly cheek to cheek.

The pack's pups just want to look pretty for Namjoon and Jin, both you and Tae in lingerie, translucent and gauzy. Your bodies and your souls are bare for this. Jungkook too, clad in just pants. Nothing else.

When Jin wakes you pounce on him, you and Tae and Jungkook strip him of his clothes and put him in something comfy but clean that's less like pajamas. In a billowy button-down with an open throat for easy access and tight dark slacks. White so that it will show the blood. You fiddle with the collar as you dress him. Imagining it red. Not the violent kind of bleeding, but the necessary sort that takes you from one place and brings you to another.

Everyone is hushed and quiet, hardly daring to speak to each other when a kiss or a brush of the cheek will do the same thing. Tae begins to do Jin's makeup but he shakes his head. catching her hand in his before she begins.

She cups his cheek, ducking low to kiss his lips, just a little bit of her lipstick transfers. "You're pretty enough for him without it anyways."

"So are you," he says, sounding a little childish and a little petulant. Tae boops his nose. She is the only alpha in a room full of omega's and it's clear she's feeling it. "Yes but the pup and I just like to have fun."

When you descend the steps onto the ground floor of the house. Not a single light is on. But the room is full of a homey honey glow, candles placed here and there among the flowers that lie in big heaps, baby's breath, roses delicately parted. Yoongi, Hobi, and Jimin blanket Namjoon, there is no alcohol- not tonight.

No one asks if it's now- if it's then- or if anyone wants to say something. Everyone knows it's time, they can feel it in their bones. The sun has just barely set. Outside the sky is just barely that shade of pearly blue and darkening quick.

Yoongi stops both of them just before they get to the center of the room, both of them pause in front of the pack beta. He drags them down to throat level, scenting across the top of their heads. Namjoon first, Jin second.

Namjoon and Jin circle the nest for a moment, the rest of the pack pressed to the walls nearly, giving them space. They only circle each other a few times before Jin finally steps foot in the nest and Namjoon takes it with permission. He doesn't look down, doesn't appreciate your and Jungkook's handiwork at all because his eyes are locked with Namjoon's, unable to tear his gaze away.

None of you say anything because they’re clearly feeling their instincts. There are no vows, and there is no need. In every way in which Namjoon is promised to Jin, Jin is already promised to Namjoon.

The pack alphas eyes are bright and hopeful, but gentle and soothing too. Namjoon is simultaneously boyish and ancient. If Hoseok’s face looks best in streetlight then Namjoon looks best lit by candlelight. Swaying looking at Jin without saying a thing. Eyes on him, the rest of the world melting away.

"Alright."

The pack falls on Namjoon and Jin with a flurry, that scrabbling puppy clamor that you all have. Hobi, Tae, and Jimin sort of tear the shirt off of Namjoon, buttons pop and seams rip with shoves and growls until he's standing there bare chested and laughing. You and Jungkook and Yoongi are a little bit gentler with jinnie, undoing the buttons on Jin's shirt one by one. Kissing over his throat and down his chest until Jin makes a noise and you step away, taking his shirt with you.

It’s hard not to get turned on by you three, and if Namjoon wasn’t so obviously showing signs of his arousal, his cock hard and impressive looking in his pants, Jin would be a lot shyer about the tight feeling in his black slacks, leaving little to the imagination.

Only once both of them are bare-chested do the pack dart out of the nest, you almost trip and Jimin scoops you up pressing you back against the wall with a breathless excited giggle near Yoongi- almost next to him. You press your palm flat against his as Namjoon leans close, says something soft and quiet that only Jin can hear, and tilts his throat.

Jin bites first. This concession is simple and basically a given. He kisses once, then twice before he finds the spot, the perfect spot for his cute little bite. Jin makes his small but professional- every single tooth visible. A small snarl sounds out in the room instincts taking over just seconds before Jin drives his teeth home. Namjoon’s hands only go ridged around his shoulders for a second, lips parting. Blood slipping down his chest in ribbons of red.

Namjoon bleeds a lot, heart thundering healthy. Jin’s lips go bloody, eyelashes fluttering. Nearly moaning against the column of Namjoon’s throat, and all you can think looking at him is, ‘That’s how it should have been with us, that’s how it should have been with me.'

Yoongi seems to be thinking the same thing- holding you firmly around your waist, a strangled noise in his throat. You look up at him only briefly, and he kisses your mating mark, lightning-quick. Quick enough that no one notices your attention briefly straying.

Every candle in the room sways and Jin takes his teeth from Namjoon's throat. Namjoon's whole body trembles and he almost falls to his knees. his head rests on Jin's shoulder, breathing heavy, wildly. But Jin tilts his head up and makes him look towards the sky. The alpha gives Jin unrestricted access to his body, mutely.

With bloody lips and dark dilated eyes, Jin looks at Namjoon almost victorious.

Almost, because Namjoon hasn't bitten him back yet.

Jin cleans the blood on Namjoon’s chest simply. It’s a little gross, but also hot as he laps down the column of his throat. The first droplet of blood reaches Namjoon's slacks and Jin does not stop licking at the blood until he's all the way clean.

He can hardly taste it, can hardly feel anything over the chorus of mine mine mine- my mate mine always. Mine forever. Jin's neck is starting to ache and twitch, instincts begging him to turn, just turn your head to the side and let Alpha bite you back, just do it, please.

When Namjoon opens his eyes again his pupils are completely dilated. Almost wild. Namjoon can feel something missing slide home. A piece in his chest and a shiver down his spine. It’s a peculiar feeling.

Namjoon never ordinarily thinks about the shape of his soul- at least not like it’s some tangible thing. But it must be he realizes- it has to be because it feels like Jin is holding it in his hands. Like he’s holding it to his chest or tucking it into that space under his chin that always feels like the safest spot in the universe. The space that Jin puts the packmates heads when they're feeling poorly.

Namjoon closes his eyes for a second and he sees it, he sees Jin in a tux at your and takes wedding, sees him with a hand balanced over a swollen stomach. Namjoon sees a small head- a pups head- tucked into that spot under his chin. He sees a boy and a girl holding hands, the girl older, the boy younger, so chubby he has roles between his wrist and elbows. He see's colorful band aids on bruised knees and bedtime stories and tea time in the garden with muddy water for tea. He hears the balmy rolling giggle of a child and sees it- Jin nuzzling into their face.

He watches it all in a supercut, he sees a magnolia tree out front blooming and closing. Sees the pup high in its branches, and sees himself holding their shoulder as they ride a tricycle down the steep hill. Holding them safe and walking them in from the car at night.

Sees it, settling back with Jin side by side holding his hand, grey in his hair and new lines on his face. All of it is frame by frame and picture by picture. A lifetime. Namjoon sees his whole lifetime just before he bites.

Namjoon traces his lips up the column of Jin’s throat, nuzzles into that spot, and bites down.

~-~

Notes:

i feel like the little parts with hobi and her talking are a little meandering to the point but- tbh i just really wanted to write them being this way- they're like half best friends half soulmates half lovers and i love them so much <3 i hope if i do get to fall in love again- that it's like theirs.

just so that everyone is aware! i know that face tattoos often have a gang affiliation- i think this male omega- the one that tattoos the m/c and hobi did at one point have a mafia affiliation and yoongi was likely a little aware but he's like very middle aged so- i think it was a reclamation body thing.

i also really like the idea of red ink tattoo's i do think that the m/c and hobi do get the touched up periodically together as well- and this probably won't be hobi's only tattoo tbh- i get the image of him being like 35/40 and getting some roses on his ribcage for tae or somthing like that- probably with jungkook. also i feel the need to say that some of the old school red-inks did cause cancer too- just make sure you do your research and don't do anything

im a really big fan of this one artist on twitter/instagram called annalauraart- and i also think maybe one day the m/c gets a tattoo of one of her little creatures- maybe with jk or something- but they'd probably be goofy and get it on their butt or something.

the violet syrup bit is for clover <3 i like to put little bits of her in his story because she's the number one bily enjoyer and!!! i love her alot!!! and she deserves to be in this!

i love the part where yoongi is massaging the m/c's legs and its totally like- implied that he's being sexual but she knows that he's just wanting her to look after herself and she calls him on it, in min mind i think he probably winds her up a little and then like- makes her take her vitamins in exchange for kisses.

idk if i ever wrote it into bily but! in my mind yoongi gave her the blue duvet during their first week at the house, shortly after they moved in and closed on it. like probably within the first 24 hours- he went out for something small on his own and came back with that and pillows and sheets for their bed even though he already had some and it was his first official gift he gave her as her mate for her nest and that's why she's so attached to it. i also think it was the first item of color that she received after Geumjae- since he kept her in primarily white black and grey colors.

honestly i got a little teary eyed reading how happy namjoon got about mating jinnie- he really is just the cutest <3 i also think it's worth mentioning theres that one section where namjoon asks yoongi and jimin to do something and not tae and thats because in bily namjoons opinion the girls are not to be asked to do anything- they're doing enough just by being pretty in the packs vicinity.

it's so very autistic of jimin to point out that tae is already dressed up for the day like- he's so cute i just wanna squish his cheekies.

i was very very inspired by namjoon and rpwp and the come back to me music video for the moment where yoongi is cutting his hair,

i ended up removing a bit of pre-amble to jin and the m/c's conversation in the dressing room because i felt like this chapter had more than enough banter in it. reading it back i feel like it's good that it gets to the point.

wow i honestly can't shut up about tae for one paragraph can i.

in case you've missed it- namjoon and Jin's daughter ends up being named magnolia <3 that's why the tree is in there and why it's mentioned a bunch.

66 notes · View notes

hoesoflamentation · 1 day ago

Text

↫↫↫↫↫ 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 ↬↬↬↬↬ short ‘n’ sweet part II, om!mammon x f!reader, 18+

C L I C K H E R E for series masterlist!

// now playing: taste by sabrina carpenter

// synopsis: you heard mammon’s back together with his ex-girlfriend, and if that’s true, then you’re going out tonight. and if you happen to see you-know-who at the bar, then it’s not your fault if you decide to close your eyes and feel his lips. after all, a girl can only stand up to temptation for so long. will she retaliate or take it in stride?

// content warnings: bsf’s brother, strong language, suggestive content, angst, alcohol use, drug (marijuana) use, dubcon, kissing, lying & scheming, catching feels

L E V I thankfully, quickly forgot about the unexpected events of your first evening back in town.

And apparently, so did Mammon. While the backs of your thighs still burned from the places where his fingertips had grazed your skin, Mammon somehow seemed more absent than before your return. You and Levi hung out every day - yet whenever you visited, Mammon was nowhere to be found.

Mammon’s social media, on the other hand (which you were checking a lot more often now - especially late at night), left little to the imagination when it came to where he was or what he was doing.

Every night, Mammon posted a series of fuckboy selfies at some new party… and every night, you thought about how much you hated him for looking so good. Even surrounded by the haze of marijuana smoke and flashing club lights, Mammon radiated equal parts editorial model and approachable boy-next-door.

Though you had always been attracted to him, he looked nothing like the boyishly handsome teen you knew growing up…yet here you were, in the same old house, wearing the t-shirt from your high school senior trip and a ratty pair of pajama pants you’d owned for a decade.

If Mammon’s new motto was “out with the old,” then you were definitely out. And as much as you wanted to act cool about it, people around you were starting to notice how you felt.

Maybe you could have flown under the radar if you at least summoned the courage to pick up the phone every once in a while. But there was nothing like being brutally ghosted by your first love to convince you that your friends didn’t care if you texted them back. If he didn’t like you, obviously no one else could, either.

Luckily, most of your friends could take a hint; would happily give you space to figure out… whatever it was you were going through.

Even Levi, whom you never kept secrets from, was too afraid to ask you how you were feeling. Most of the time, he preferred to engage you in a multiplayer showdown rather than a meaningful heart-to-heart.

Still, everyone has a friend who can’t leave well enough alone - and you were no exception.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“Knock knock, bitch! Guess who it is!”

Despite her words, Thirteen had decidedly not knocked. Instead, she strode into your parents’ living room like she owned the place - all without acknowledging that you had never told her you were moving back home.

You weren’t even sure that you’d ever mentioned to her where you were from, or where your parents lived… but you had no doubt that Thirteen had ways of finding your information, probably on the deepest corners of the dark web.

As one of Levi’s oldest online gaming buddies, she was so used to hacking servers, conducting coordinated raids, and doxxing homophobes that she hardly thought anything of employing nefarious tactics - even on her closest friends.

Thank goodness that your mom and dad were happily in their empty-nester phase, traveling more weekends than not. If they had been around to see your long-distance bestie barge in, they might have had a heart attack…

Just like you almost did.

But you had already decided not to dwell on any of this. You were just excited to see a familiar face - especially one who had flown in all the way from Tokyo just to check on you.

“I have never been happier to see you,” you gushed as you flew into her waiting arms.

Thirteen platonically stroked your hair and clucked her tongue in disapproval. “You look pathetic… What’s his name? I’ll have his IP address and bank account number in five minutes.”

“Please don’t,” you sighed as the two of you collapsed on the couch, Thirteen slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Besides, his balance is probably even lower than yours.”

Thirteen’s jaw dropped emphatically. “He’s an asshole and he’s broke?”

“Whatever you’re trying to say, I don’t want to hear it,” you whined, burying your face in her shoulder.

“Honey, we have got to talk about your taste in men,” Thirteen chided. “But that’s for later.”

She helped you sit up, neatened up your hair, and gave you a pinch on the cheek. “Right now, it’s time for your makeover!”

You blinked at her absently.

“...my what?”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“I can’t believe I left my room for this,” Levi grumbled, taking a begrudging swig of the open bar’s lightest beer.

You turned to Thirteen and nudged her ribs affectionately. “Well, I can’t believe you got Levi to come!”

The party was being held by a minor YouTube celebrity who orbited the same professional circles as Levi and Thirteen. Their peers always invited them to be polite, but nobody ever expected them to actually show up. Usually, Levi never bothered to come to fancy events like these, preferring instead to focus on honing his reaction time and shit-talking the attendees over Facetime with the two of you.

“What can I say?” Thirteen tossed her hair smugly. “The boy would do anything for me.”

“You threatened to crop my face onto a neko-girl and post it to my official Discord account if I didn’t come out tonight,” Levi deadpanned.

Thirteen draped herself playfully over Levi’s shoulders, sloshing her vodka-cran in the process. “And aren’t you so glad you came?”

While your besties bickered, you took the opportunity to scan your surroundings for any signs of you-know-who. Everywhere you looked, you were surrounded by C-list actors and gorgeous influencers…but no signs of the one person you wanted to see.

You hadn’t realized how long you had spent looking for him, until Thirteen surprised you with a friendly hug from behind.

“He’ll be here,” she reassured, resting her chin on your shoulder. “I promise.”

And, as if Thirteen had spoken an incantation, a small but rowdy group of guys stumbled through a distant doorway, smelling like top-shelf tequila and expensive cologne. One of them, tall and bronzed, wore a black silk shirt with a deep v, unbuttoned far enough to show off a set of gold dog tags. His wavy silver hair was expertly mussed with a waxy pomade - and he laughed a little too loudly, as if he was already two or three drinks deep.

Mammon. You knew it was him, without a doubt.

Even though he felt miles away, you squirmed awkwardly in his presence, suddenly overthinking whether the hem of your satin bodycon dress was more slutty than sultry; whether Thirteen’s DIY blowout had left you looking more clownish than cunty.

Mammon seemed to move in slow motion as he looked over his shoulder… in your direction.

And your pulse quickened with the realization that, despite wearing something that showed off all your best assets, his eyes stayed firmly locked on you - with a penetrating gaze that stared right into your soul.

Keeping eye contact was more than you could bear. Bashfully, you immediately turned your back, hair flying, and downed a shot of expensive liquor from the nearest waiter.

“Excuse me, what the hell was that?!” Thirteen demanded, shaking you by the shoulders.

You froze, allowing the warm buzz of alcohol to wash over you with an absent stare… willing it to numb the deviant sensations broiling between your thighs. Why did he always have to look so. Damn. Good?

Even Levi seemed to feel pity. When Thirteen finally set you free, he reached out and patted you awkwardly on the arm.

“Y/n,” Levi said, in a tone that meant business, “I would literally rather you fuck my brother than…whatever the hell that was.”

Thirteen drew in a sharp breath, ogling a trainwreck in the distance. “Actually…better not.”

Before anyone could stop you, you turned to look at the scene that had captured Thirteen’s attention - only to watch a dark-haired woman in a sequined dress drape herself all over Mammon, his arms snaking around her toothpick frame as he pulled her in for a kiss.

You would have recognized that runway silhouette anywhere.

Furiously, you whirled around to give Levi a shove. “Why didn’t you tell me they were back together?!”

“I- I didn’t know!” Levi stammered, blushing in earnest.

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach as you watched Mammon lace his fingers through hers - dainty and manicured - and lead her down a dark hallway. It dawned on you that they were probably planning to do the very same things you yearned for in the fantasies that haunted you late at night.

At that moment, Thirteen sidled into view, tactfully blocking your line of sight as if to say ‘enough.’

“We should get a drink,” she suggested gently, before glaring at Levi pointedly. “Now.”

Your best friends ushered you toward the bar in a daze…. But it was already too late.

You already knew that there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make you forget about what you had just witnessed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Two hours later, the real party was only just beginning - but you and your friends were already the drunkest ones there.

As you should be. After having your fragile heart re-broken and stomped on - all in a matter of, oh, twenty seconds? - you felt you had more than earned your permanent seat of dishonor at the bar.

But you didn’t intend to stay seated much longer - and not just because you were falling off your chair. Now, you had achieved the stage of drunk where every song that played was your song; every bassline shot directly into your veins like heroin.

Soon, you and Thirteen were dragging Levi onto the dance floor and belting the lyrics at the top of your lungs. This place may have been bougie, but it wasn’t so classy that your fellow partygoers didn’t know how to have fun.

Before long, gaggles of dancing guests had clustered around you; you were bumping and grinding on everyone like it was prom night. Every girl you locked eyes with during a chorus was now your best friend.

A friend of a friend of Levi’s lit a joint and passed it around the room; boys took turns blowing smoke rings into yours and Thirteen’s mouths. Even Levi took one hit - his first ever - and immediately looked like he was going to throw up.

Every set of eyes was on you three, in a good way. And it felt amazing.

You could already tell you were going to feel differently tomorrow, when the physical and emotional hangovers sank in… but for now, this was the best night of your life, in the way that every night when you’re young and drunk and dancing is the best night of your life.

But even on the best night of your life, you could admit when you needed a break. You were sweating and winded; your high heels long forgotten under some table somewhere. More importantly, you were in desperate need of another drink.

You leaned on the bar with bravado, glowing with the aura of liquid courage…and before you could place your order, a veiny, muscular forearm wearing a gold bracelet reached around you to signal to the bartender.

“Two waters over here, barkeep,” a familiar voice called

You puffed out your cheeks and pouted dramatically, turning to see none other than Mammon leaning across the bar.

“‘S’one of those waters for her?” you slurred, prodding an accusatory finger into his chest.

Mammon gazed at you with a bemused smirk. How could he be smiling at a time like this?!

“No, dumbass,” he said, “it’s for you.”

Mammon thanked the bartender and slid one of the glasses across the bar. You eyed the beverage with suspicion, even as your fingers wrapped around the stem.

“What, ya think I poisoned it or somethin’?” Mammon teased, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip from his own tumbler of ice water.

“No,” you grumbled, begrudgingly raising the glass to your chapped lips. “Jus’ not sure why you’re bein’ so nice t’me alluva sudden…”

The cool water ran down your throat like a refreshing waterfall. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth had gotten over the course of the evening’s festivities... Somehow, he seemed to have known what you needed even before you did.

“Whaddaya mean?” Mammon’s eyes twinkled; you noticed he was speaking much more softly than usual. “I’m always nice to ya.”

“Pfft,” you snorted, shaking your head incredulously. “Yeah, right… like the way you paraded your girlfriend around all night? Tha’ was jus’ soo nice of you…”

Mammon blushed as he set down his empty glass. “I…didn’t know you were here. If I did, I would’ve-”

“Woulda what?” you spat, taking a clumsy step forward.

You didn’t realize just how close you were standing to him until you felt his warm breath hit your face; felt the swell of heat radiating off his copper skin. Before Mammon could answer you, you stumbled forward, sticking out your palms to catch yourself against his broad chest.

Instinctively, Mammon wrapped an arm around your lower back to help you regain your balance… Was it getting hot in here, or was it just him?

“Maybe we should talk about this when yer feelin’ better,” Mammon suggested, in a concerned tone that made your skin itch with frustration.

You frowned up at him, taking a step back. “...you don’ wanna talk t’me anymore?”

“I didn’t say that,” he chuckled. “But the next time we talk…”

Mammon reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“…I want ya to remember it.”

Instead of falling to his side, Mammon’s hand followed the curve of your cheek - and lingered there a moment too long.

By then, the room had started to spin with the chaotic pulse of your liquor-fueled heartbeats. You kept your gaze fixed on his plush lips to keep you steady.

Mammon’s pout glistened with the sheen of his saliva, glittering like a shiny piece of jewelry you were dying to make your own.

“‘S okay,” you purred, drawn forward as if by a magnet. “We don’ have t’talk if you don’ wanna…”

Your body spilled into the empty space between his legs as you lost control of your limbs. His breath was warm and heady and close enough to taste. You pressed your palms into his thighs for leverage, allowing your lashes to grow heavy and your lips to part ever-so-slightly. Then, like a woman possessed, you tilted your head to the side...

You didn’t lean in so much as collapse on top of him. And - with the gentle touch of an elephant, and the grace of a baby gazelle - you drunkenly mashed your lips against Mammon’s.

Under different circumstances (and a lower blood-alcohol concentration), the significance of the line you had just crossed might have weighed more heavily on your shoulders. But with all of your senses heightened - and all of your inhibitions dampened - you were consumed by a single, primal need.

You wanted to be everywhere all at once…to devour him from the inside out…to claim every part of him as mine, mine, mine.

Mammon didn’t kiss you back with the enthusiasm you craved, nor did he protest. You swore that his lips had softened into your embrace; that they almost seemed to have moved with yours in a delicate tango - him serving as the slow, steady bass drum to your chaotic melody.

But you could also sense that something was holding him back…and you could still taste the faint whispers of strawberry lip gloss that wasn’t yours.

You pulled away with a frown on your face. Mammon’s eyebrows knit together in a pensive, almost pained expression.

“C’mon, Y/n,” Mammon mumbled, fishing loose ones out of his pocket. “We should, uh… probably get ya home.”

Feeling defeated, you could only nod weakly.

Mammon rose to his feet and pushed a crumpled pile of bills across the bar. He stared pointedly to the side as he slipped a caring, even brotherly hand behind your back to guide your swaying body.

You followed him across the dance floor as he attempted to hunt down the rest of your party, hearing only snippets of their conversation…and when you did listen, their voices sounded to you as if they were underwater.

“Okay, ya little shits,” Mammon sighed like an overworked single dad. “Time to wrap it up.”

“Whaat?” Thirteen whined. “But the night’s still so young!”

The drive home went by in a blur of substances. The next thing you could remember was your face hitting the pillow with a soft ‘thud;’ a veiled silhouette pulling the blankets up to your chin; the lights clicking off as you gradually faded out of consciousness.

“...sweet dreams, brat.”

Everything else besides those three words was soon forgotten.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next morning, you woke up to a searing pain in your forehead - and an insistent knock at your parents’ front door.

You groaned as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and threw back the covers, mustering the will to stand. But a soft snore coming from the corner of the room caught your attention before your feet could touch the ground.

Sitting upright in bed now, you turned to face the source of the disturbance - only to find Mammon, shirtless and snoozing on top of your favorite chair in a tangle of limbs and silver bedhead.

A prism of sunlight streamed in through a crack in the curtains, shining on Mammon’s silver hair like a halo. You cracked a faint smile at his angelic pose, all memories of your embarrassing actions from the night before lost in a haze of tequila and sativa.

Leaning over the window, you peered down at the walkway below. Somehow, some way, she was standing at the front door.

Mammon’s girlfriend…or ex…or whatever the hell she was.

Her smooth chocolate hair was tossed in an effortlessly messy bun; her gold jewelry shining against olive skin. She was dressed in a minimalist white t-shirt and jeans - a look that was simple but still more expensive than anything you owned.

You snuck a glance at your own reflection in the floor-length mirror hanging from your closet door. Shuddering, you peeled off a crusty fake eyelash that had migrated down your cheek and tossed it carelessly to the side.

Your eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep and an excess of weed. Down to your bottom layers, you still smelled like stale beer. And don’t even ask about your hair.

At least you were wearing clean clothes. On the way to bed, someone - hopefully Thirteen - must have helped you peel off your dress from last night. Whoever it was had also changed you into one of the spare t-shirts Levi kept in your dresser…

This, of course, meant that there was no way that Mammon could be in here right now without having seen your underwear at some point.

Though your cheeks burned with embarrassment, you didn’t have time to dwell on that thought for long. Your shame spiral was swiftly interrupted by another impatient knock on the front door.

Quickly, you shook all thoughts of last night out of your mind; you had more important problems to strategize, starting with what you looked (and smelled) like.

First, deodorant. The plastic tube lived on top of your vanity. The only problem? Mammon was currently asleep in the chair you normally sat in to do your makeup, blocking the very place you needed to reach.

This is just great, you thought as you tiptoed across the bedroom and paused in front of Mammon’s limp frame.

For a moment, you stared at the puzzle before you, briefly wondering how the hell you had gotten yourself in this situation in the first place… But you didn’t have the luxury of time. You needed to take action.

As carefully as you tried not to wake him, Mammon stirred and mumbled in his sleep as soon as you leaned over his shoulder to grasp the powdery stick.

“Nngh, Y/n…” he grumbled, half-awake as his head lolled to the opposite side. “I didn’t kiss her… she kissed me…”

The sound of your name in Mammon’s sleepy drawl was enough to fuel all your late-night fantasies for a year. But that wasn’t all: Mammon was clearly talking about last night in his sleep. And wait a minute… was he talking about her?

Was he talking about what you had seen?

Mammon’s eyelids fluttered open for the briefest of moments, just long enough to let you know that he knew exactly what he was saying - and that he meant to say it directly to you.

“Nothing happened,” he murmured groggily. “She kissed me…I just…dragged her off to talk about it…”

And, just like that, Mammon closed his eyes and resumed his peaceful snoring.

You couldn’t help but crack a smile as you straightened and backed away.

Applying deodorant as you went, you gently tiptoed backwards, until you caught your foot on a piece of silky black fabric.

You reached down and picked it up, rubbing the luxurious fabric between your fingertips. The stench of last night’s open bar, mixed with the familiar musky aroma of Mammon’s cologne, told you exactly what this was....

His shirt from the night before.

That smile on your face spread even wider. Oh, you were going to get her back…

You were going to get her good.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You answered the door wearing nothing but your bra, panties, and Mammon’s silk shirt. Her perfect manicure and annoyed expression greeted you on the other side.

She gave your outfit a once over (though the term ‘outfit’ was generous for the amount of fabric you were wearing). But if not for a single blink of surprise, you might have assumed she hadn’t seen you at all.

“Is Mammon here?” she asked.

Clearly, the woman wasted no time. But that was okay. You still had another ace up your sleeve.

Smirking, you cocked your head to one side, leaning on the doorframe.

“Maybe,” you answered coyly. “I can’t confirm or deny.”

She huffed in frustration. “Well, if he is, can you tell him to get down here?”

“Sure,” you replied sweetly.

She tapped her foot impatiently as you walked toward the stairs with a whirl of your hair.

You made a big show of walking slowly, swaying your hips alluringly from side to side - then, as you approached the base of the staircase, you casually called to her over your shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way,” you said conversationally, “I heard you’re back together… “

She scoffed. “Yeah, and?”

You smiled innocently. “And it’s okay with me.”

“Oh, is it?” She snorted indignantly, crossing her arms. “Well, then. Thanks for your permission.”

“No problem,” you replied, offering a sly smile in response to her scowl. “...I’ve been known to share.”

With a final wink, you began your victorious ascent up the staircase.

You never turned back or gave her a second look - only laughed quietly to yourself as you heard her utterances of frustration, and the door slamming behind her as she stormed off into the distance…

Yeah, you had a feeling she wouldn’t be back this time.

T A G L I S T : @devildomditzy

I F Y O U L I K E D T H I S, then please message me or leave me an ask (off anon) to be added to the taglist!

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me smut #obey me mammon #obey me nightbringer #obey me crack #obey me thirteen #obey me levi #obey me fanfic #obey me longfic #short n sweet

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goth-mami-writer · 12 hours ago

Text

°▪︎_Hellaciously Yours_▪︎°

~Dante Sparda x f!Reader (reader is a hybrid demon hunter)

~ (I wanted to go ahead and tease this fic with a small prologue chapter to introduce the reader's character and some semblance of the plot I have imagined. Still fine-tuning some of the arcs and storyline so this might be something slow to churn out. But I wanted to share regardless.)

《 Dante was tired of being lied to- or sorry- omitted from the truth. There was no way jobs like this were being dashed out by some kind of woman. Some kind of woman with no backbone to ever show her face? Make everyone else do her dirty work? Get fucking real.

That night he wanted answers. Something he always seemed to be sold short of. Being left in the dark was a life he wanted to start leaving behind and he shoved his way past the large double doors in that acre wide mansion that might as well have been built for God but stood empty as can be. Besides of course the people inside that seemed to stand around this ominous, no face, wannabe mob leader that he was determined to meet once and for all.

One of those armed nobodies shoved him back from entering the last room in that large corridor and he shoved back in return with words barking that if this person hiding in the dark, throwing him cash for killing, was a demon, he was ending their life.

Tonight.

Something was going on. But he'd been played like this before. Lined up on jobs just to be set up in the end by some strung out hellborne fuck who thought he was some chump. That was over. The incognito meetups, cash grabs for a few spun bullets were done.

There was one more gunman in that last room, the master bedroom suite that was completely empty besides a desk and chair. The desk and chair that usually after a job he'd just come to retrieve his coin from before leaving.

Their barrel became pointed right at his temple as he got closer, as if that'd do anything- he thought before he heard a voice.

“Let him in.” You said suddenly amid the quiet, calling out from the wide balcony beyond the French doors where only sheer curtains billowed in the nighttime wind. Your small cigarette held in its long vintage filter was the only thing he could see when he turned his head, trying to follow your voice over the adrenaline in his ears.

Your voice…. that sounded feminine.

“You heard her.” Dante smirked, motioning with his eyes for your little armed wind-up monkey to lower their gun.

When their aim went to the floor, you gave another command over your shoulder which surprised him more than the fact that you were really a woman….at least from the sounds of it.

“Leave us.”

No protection? Not even a sniper across the lawn? That was ballsy. Now he felt like maybe he was punching in his own weight class in terms of strategy. But come on, what's some chick doing with enough ego to confront someone with no backup plan?

Dante narrowed his eyes to the steel brandishing clown as they moved, following their exit out the door. One thing he could admit, you must have had these goons on an obedient leash, collar choked tight. They didn't budge away from orders. He started towards the balcony until you stopped him with a firm mention that he couldn't come any closer. So now you were giving orders? Hard pass, he thought.

When you heard a gun cock, your eyes rolled to hear him get antsy.

“Turn and show me that you're not one of those hell dwelling pieces of shit.”

He put a bullet through the ceiling, emphasizing his intentions by shooting a single round that dared you to call his bluff.

You did in fact have a secret. One that kept you from showing your face. Well…the majority of it. He'd know in an instant that none of your little henchman had been entirely truthful but in hindsight- it was none of his fucking business if jobs were completed and money was passed. For a demon killer that paraded so loudly that he didn't give a fuck about how he earned money- he sure did have a lot to ask.

You turned away from the doorframe of the balcony that kept you concealed, and let him have his guess as to whether or not you were a fire-blowing blood sucker only here for one thing. Your human passing features were shown in the soft glow of the moonlight, turning your head strategically that perhaps he wouldn't see….the bad side of your face.

You needed his trust after all.

When your gaze found him, his jaw fell slack to know that for the first time in a good while he was dead wrong. It felt weird to be taken aback like this. Like a moment you had to chew on before you tried to swallow.

What the fuck was a human woman doing in demon killing?

And why…did this human woman feel so comfortable in throwing him bounties that were triple the price of his regular little chores?

He had never met you before- he was sure of it. Not that it mattered in the moment but…. He'd remember a broad with a face card like this. Your unknown identity was only half the reason he stood gawking.

But he smelled a cop- a fed at the least and his jaw tensed again, getting interested in who he was talking to and he said with his guard still up.

“Tell me your name- your real one. And not some vague alias bullshit to keep you from getting popped.”

You smiled, trying not to laugh at his very impenetrable guard coming up so fast, within the first ten seconds of your meeting. Its quickness had surprised you. You took another drag of your filtered cigarette, debating on revealing your ugly little secret now…or maybe letting him dangle for a few more weeks to really keep him invested.

You crossed your legs, something that made his gaze only harden to keep from staring at your body hugged tight in that long, slim evening gown that he….recognized from somewhere.

“Telling you my name….won't tell you who I am.”

Your eyes were dark when they found his again and you rolled the smoke away from your lips when you told him, motioning to the chair adjacent to you on the balcony,

“So, if you'd like a formal introduction…don't stand and wait.” 》

#dmc dante #dante sparda #dante devil may cry #dmc netflix #dante x reader #dante x you #devil may cry

42 notes · View notes

nataliasquote · 20 hours ago

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Honesty pt. 7 | n romanoff

wake up, cupcake

masterlist

summary: the lack of response from Natasha has Kaia glued to her phone, waiting for anything to calm her overthinking. But the outcome isn’t exactly what she’d hoped for…

wc: 6.1k

note: a longer one for you just bc i’m feeling sooooo nice :))

-⧗-

"What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

"You keep checking your phone," Wanda said, glancing down at Kaia's phone that lay in her lap beneath the desk. Kaia flushed and grabbed the device, shoving it into her backpack. "What's so special on there?"

"Nothing," the brunette insisted as she picked up her pen and copied some notes from the slides ahead of her. "Have you done question 2?"

Wanda held up her empty notebook with a little smile. She'd paid absolutely zero attention to her history class this morning, and so far dance theory was getting the same attention. She found Kaia's distracted state a lot more interesting. "Are you seriously not going to tell me who's on your phone? I thrive off gossip."

"Not this kind," Kaia thought to herself. Truth be told, the 'who' on her phone was none other than Natasha. And Kaia didn't know of any other team members who had the captain's personal phone number, so she kept it quiet. "It's nothing really. Just annoying emails."

Wanda narrowed her eyes, tapping her pen lightly on her bottom teeth as she studied Kaia's side profile. "You're lying."

"Am not!"

"Sure, sure." Her voice was slightly too loud and a disapproving cough came from the professor at the front. Wanda smiled sheepishly and ducked her head down to her notebook, attempting the first question on the screen.

Kaia reached into her backpack discreetly and tapped her phone screen. Natasha was either incredibly busy, or really not interested in being civil with Kaia, but the girl's optimistic personality wouldn't let her even consider the latter. It had been over twelve hours and Natasha had still not texted back.

Slender fingers hovered over the keyboard as she agonized yet again about sending another message. Maybe she had been too forward? I mean, as far as she was concerned, they still saw each other as mortal enemies and fierce rivals. A small little compliment wasn't going to suddenly transform that.

The young Russian hated how much she cared about Natasha's silence. She always sought approval from people around her, but the last person she needed to care about was the mean spirited redhead who had a particular hatred for her. And the looming rehearsal tonight only intensified her nerves, setting her knee bouncing under the table subconsciously. At least she'd be able to see how Natasha was.

"Kaia," Wanda hissed from beside her. "You're tapping really loud." Her fingernails had been drumming against the wooden tabletop until she quickly stopped, clasping them tightly in her lap. "How much coffee did you have this morning?"

"Too much," she replied with a dry laugh. Liar. She hadn't had a drop.

-⧗-

"You think they decided on soloists yet?" One of the girls asked in the changing room. The whole room was astir, girls gossiping and chatting to each other as they changed from their day clothes into their dance clothes. Kaia kept to herself as she wriggled into her navy blue leotard. It was one of her favourites with a sheer floral design on the back. She'd won it at a dance convention last year and it quickly became a prized possession.

Her wavy hair already had two tiny braids in it, courtesy of Yelena this morning, so she brushed it back into a high ponytail and left the curls to fall naturally. They were a bit frizzy, but she couldn't find it in her to care.

"I heard that Stella gave Natasha the list straight after class yesterday," another piped up, causing some of the other girls around her to squeal in excitement. "Maybe they'll tell us today."

"It's only been two days, can't they chill?" Wanda sighed, plonking down on the bench so close to Kaia that she was practically on top of each other. The brunette shrugged at her friend and turned away as she started undressing to give her some privacy. But Wanda kept chatting away. Typical. "Seems too soon to me."

"What does? The solos?" Kaia asked, keeping her eyes on her flaking pink nail polish.

"Yeah. Surely Natasha wouldn't make her decision just like that. Too easy."

Kaia hummed. "I don't know, maybe she wants to switch things up. She's always talking about keeping us on our toes."

Wanda sat back down now that she was dressed in her high neck black crop top and shorts. She looked over at Kaia who kept her eyes down. "You know her the best..."

"I don't know her at all," she muttered, barely loud enough over the noise in the changing room.

"But- you grew up together, right?"

Kaia sighed and finally lifted her head, tired blue eyes meeting Wanda's. "We danced together. And all I learned is that Natasha is the kind of person who just uses people to get what she wants. And if you get in her way, she just walks all over you." There was a reminiscent tone in Kaia's voice and her eyes were distant, clearly recalling a vivid memory. "She doesn't like to be threatened. But here," she gestured to the room around them, "she doesn't have any problem with that."

Wanda was silent for a moment. She didn't want to form an opinion of Natasha without fully seeing her, but the way Kaia spoke tugged on her heart a little. "Maybe she doesn't-"

"Did you just say you danced with Natasha?" One of the girl's spoke up, halting all conversations in the small room. She stood with her hands on her hips and Kaia felt rather small from her spot on the bench.

"Uh- yeah," Kaia grimaced, offering a small smile to the girl she now remembered was called Cora. She felt the eyes of all her teammates on her and her cheeks began to burn.

"When?"

"When I was younger. It's nothing special, we were just at the same studio." Cora raised her eyebrow, arms shifting from her hips to crossing over her chest.

"But didn't-" Wanda never got to finish her sentence before Kaia pretended to sneeze whilst jabbing her hard in the ribs, effectively shutting her up. "Yeah, just... in the same class."

Kaia didn't need to worry about defending herself anymore when the main door flew open and a small but strong figure stood in the doorway, flaming red hair tumbling around her shoulders.

"Are you all aware that rehearsal started two minutes ago?" Natasha asked in a dangerously smooth tone. Her green eyes darted over each dancer, sending them curling under her gaze. She quickly noticed how everyone was pointing their focus at Kaia and she cocked her head. "What is going on here?"

"You guys danced together?" Cora stated, jabbing her thumb at Kaia who just tightened her ponytail.

Natasha adjusted the collar of her jersey, the oversized fabric concealing her dance attire. "Why is that any of your business?" Her voice was sickly sweet but laced with malice and even Kaia gulped. "Does it mean anything to you?"

"I just thought-"

"Well stop thinking and start dancing. We don't win national titles by standing around gossiping. Now move!" She clapped her hands and the room sprung to life, water bottles and shoes being grabbed left and right. No one dared argue as Natasha stood in the doorway with a terrifying scowl.

As everyone filed into the studio, the brunette Russian felt a presence appear behind her. "Thank you," she muttered, only loud enough for Natasha to hear.

But the redhead didn't even acknowledge her gratitude. She just squeezed past her and whispered before whispering lowly. "That text you sent me yesterday? Don't do it again."

Kaia choked on her water and stared as she sauntered over to Maria and pulled off her jersey. Wanda came up behind Kaia and clapped her on the back, helping the poor girl to recover.

"I'm sorry for almost dropping you in it earlier," she said as they walked to their spots at the barre. "I just say things."

"It's ok, honestly. Natasha told them all anyway."

"Next one to talk get's kicked off the team!" Natasha yelled in such a bored manner it sounded as though she were reading a bus timetable. Kaia and Wanda shared a look before finding their respective positions ready for Maria's warm up. Their legs were still aching, so this was going to hurt.

Natasha sat on the floor in front of the mirrored wall and listened to Maria bark out instructions like an army sargent. Her hands rested loosely on her crossed ankles as she observed each dancer. She may act like an asshole to them, but she also knew how lucky she was with this new team. They danced well together and although there were clear stars, everyone was of a truly high standard. If Natasha was of the mushy type, she may have even got a bit emotional.

But she wasn't. She was a fireball and not to be messed with.

"Cora, that didn't look like a triple to me," she called out which made the over confident blonde falter. Her cheeks burned and she avoided Natasha's eye contact, who sat back with a smug grin. Maria shot her a look which she ignored, of course.

Once everyone was well and truly warm (exhausted), Natasha jumped up and pressed play on the track with no warning, watching in delight as they all scrambled to their positions before the first beat hit. It was a complete mess of limbs and nothing like the polished routine she'd sent them away with yesterday, but a few members remembered the entire thing surprisingly.

The redhead stood with her arms folded and leaned her back against the mirror. Her face was stony and that only pushed the girls harder. But as the routine went on, Natasha couldn't help but be drawn to a select few dancers who really did have the natural gift.

And Wanda was one of them. That girl had legs for days and impeccable technique that meant she created outstanding lines whenever she jumped and kicked. And her hands... she knew what to do with them. There was never a movement that didn't extent right down through her fingertips and she placed them so delicately without missing the next beat. That wasn't something that was easily taught.

"Ok, not bad," Natasha admitted as the music finished and Stella and Maria gave a little round of applause. "I tested you with that one, and surprisingly some of you passed." The dancers looked at each other with wide eyes. Did Natasha Romanoff just... compliment them?

"You're scaring them and you're scaring me," Maria said from the corner and she laughed when the group of dancers nodded in agreement. "Why are you being nice?"

"Softening them up before I lay on corrections." Natasha blew a kiss Maria's way and the brunette caught it with a wink and pressed it to her cheek. "Ok take a seat, stretch, do whatever. But do not talk. Got it?"

Kaia sank down onto the linoleum floor and pressed the soles of her feet together so she was sitting in a butterfly stretch. It was a pretty lame attempt, but Natasha couldn't say she wasn't trying. Wanda did the same, their knees occasional bumping each other.

"Right, so for no practice, that wasn't a complete car wreck... if we ignore the middle section. Emily you need to watch those arms. That's not where I told you to have them for those turns." Emily sat up straight and nodded, making a mental note of her corrections. Natasha listed though a few more dancers and general notes, occasionally demonstrating a movement done properly. "And Kaiiarina," Kaia's head snapped up, "your leg needs to be straight on that fan kick at the start. Use your technique, it looks sloppy."

Kaia usually hated whenever anyone called her Kaiiarina, but the way Natasha said with that Russian lilt that no one else had, she didn't correct her. Whether it was the fear of speaking up or the fact that it sounded kind of pretty when Natasha said it, she wasn't sure. But she took her correction and thanked the redhead, who had quickly moved on.

The group dispersed for a water break before Natasha cleaned up the middle section and taught the proper ending. Her 'Work Song' routine wasn't anything huge in her eyes, just something that had come to her during an improv session. But watching a group of dancers performing her choreography thawed the outside of her icy heart and the slightly smile tugged at her lips...

Until one of the freshman completely fell out of her turns and ended up on the floor.

-⧗-

"They're looking good!" Stella exclaimed as the final dancer exited the studio. "You're whipping them into shape." Natasha shook her head and pulled her hair loose from her ponytail.

"I think that's Maria's doing, but thanks Stel." Maria winked from her corner. "Have we got soloists yet?"

Stella clicked on her laptop screen and pulled up her latest document. There were a lot of scribbles and arrows which made Nat's brain hurt, but Stella quickly scrolled past that with an embarrassed chuckle.

"I think they'll all improve after technique classes, but right now I picked four soloists and you could probably use a couple for duets too."

"Hey Tasha," Maria called, even with her back turned she knew Natasha glared at the nickname. "Do you want a solo this year?"

The redhead recoiled with distaste. "Absolutely not. I don't have time for that."

"What about a duet?"

Natasha gave Maria a look who just drugged in return. "I don't do duets Ria, you know that."

"I know but- you're the best dancer on this team Tasha, whether you like it or not."

"One of."

"Excuse me?"

"One of the best dancers on the team-"

Maria's eyebrows shot up in surprise and she looked at Stella who was equally as stunned. "Did you just admit to not being the best?"

"Oh shut up Hill," Natasha grumbled, her moment of vulnerability now over. "I'm talking about that Wanda girl. I don't know where she trained, but-"

"Yeah! Did you see her kicks before? I was on the floor!" Stella exclaimed with a little too much excitement and enthusiasm for Natasha, but that was just Stella. "Sorry." Natasha waved her off, not needed the apology.

"I just think we've got some heavy hitters. Wanda's on your solo list, right?"

Stella scanned her screen before nodding with a wide smile. "Yep. I put down Macy, Wanda, Skye and Kaia."

"Ok good I was about to complain if you didn't put Kaia down," Maria called out from across the room where she'd just started wiping down the barres. She had an airpod in and was nodding her head to the beat.

"Don't worry!" Stella yelled, "she's staying!" Her eye caught Natasha's frown and hesitated. "Unless you don't..."

"No, no it's fine. Keep the list," She said. "But it will probably change so I don't want to release it yet." Natasha made a deal of checking the time on her mobile and being surprised. "Oh I said I'd meet my sister for coffee, so I'll catch you guys later."

The remaining girls stayed silent until the door swung shut and Natasha was out of sight and earshot. Stella's blonde ponytail whipped around and almost smacked her across the face with the speed in which she turned.

"What the fuck?" Stella whisper yelled over to Maria who was also stood staring at the now closed door. "Did you put something in her drink before practice?"

"What?" Maria exclaimed, shoving her airpods back in her pocket. Cleaning could wait. "No! But she's being weird. She usually wants nothing to do with Yelena."

"Is she on her period? I don't-."

"She doesn't get her period dipshit, she's on birth control. And I think it's just Nat being Nat. With added stress, of course."

Stella sighed and shook her head. "I'm gonna get whiplash from that girl."

-⧗-

Natasha's shoes crunched across the crisp grass and up the steps to her house as she fumbled with her keys. Her brain was fried and she really wanted nothing more than to sink down onto her mattress and not resurface until tomorrow morning.

She grabbed a bag of chips from the kitchen and threw her backpack down by her bedroom door before flopping face first onto her bed. Yes, she was still in her day clothes, but the Russian couldn't find it in her to care. Her nose was pressed firmly against her blanket and she stayed in her position until her muscles protested. This really wasn't the best way to start her year.

There had been several notifications buzzing on her phone since she got home, but they could be tended to later. Rolling over and hauling herself to her feet, Nat dragged off her dance set and tshirt and replaced it with an oversized black hoodie and some festive Christmas pyjamas. No one would ever see her in them, but they were her guilty pleasure. The temptation to add grinch socks to her attire was hard to resist, but it was only August.

The redhead tapped her screen to check the time and saw a text from Maria that she needed to answer. She didn't read the whole thing, something about getting sushi later, and as much as she adored sushi, she didn't want to move.

Maria didn't mind, she had other friends to take, and Stella would probably have jumped at the chance for another Instagram worthy sushi photo. Natasha added a smiley after her text and swiped away back into her messages inbox before putting her phone away for good.

Kaia's text still sat in her inbox, opened, but never responded to. It had crossed Natasha's mind but after today's locker room incident, she couldn't be seen giving Kaia any extra treatment. It didn't mean much to Natasha, but it left a rather frustrated and exhausted brunette to frown her way back to her dorm.

-⧗-

Kaia

Yelena still had another class which meant the young brunette came home to an empty room and she internally celebrated. Her patience often wore thin when she was tired, and although Kaia wasn't the type of person to get angry, she was sometimes became a little overly emotional. The smallest things would set her off, including Natasha's small remark earlier.

"- but don't do it again", played in Kaia's mind as she bent down to pick up her dropped keycard. She was only trying to be nice! What did Natasha think she was trying to do? A simple compliment and gentle outreach towards a mutual existence should have been easy... yet here she was.

Yelena had left the window open before she left so a cool breeze wafted around the small dormitory and offered a refreshing break from the warm and stuffy halls. Kaia didn't even bother to change out of her leotard and shorts before she climbed up onto her loft bed and collapsed onto her pillow.

Every muscle in her body screamed at her as she finally let herself relax and Kaia let out a groan which was muffled by her large pillow. Her back ached to the point where it hurt to move and she could do nothing but breathe shallowly until the feeling subsided.

What she didn't intend to do was fall asleep, but with the breeze blowing and the soft hum of voices from the campus below her open window, Kaia drifted off for a nap, one shoe on, one shoe off.

This was now prime 'leverage-photo' opportunity for Yelena, and she burst through the door singing "Girl On Fire" at the top of her lungs, fully expecting to receive a yell in protest from Kaia.

But her majestic vocals came to an abrupt halt as she noticed her flopped best friend. Yelena stood in the doorway for a moment and watched for movement... but nothing. Absolutely no sign of life.

"Kaia?" She whispered, closing the door behind her softly. "Kai?" Silence. "You dead?"

The brunette stayed deaf to the world and Yelena tilted her head. She kicked off her boots and sneakily tiptoed towards her friend with her teeth biting down on her bottom lip as she held in her giggles. Kaia's head was turned to the side, revealing her smushed cheek to Yelena's glee.

She just looked peaceful but Yelena was too much of a trickster to let her sleep like this and get away with it. She opened Snapchat and took a couple of close ups of Kaia's face, even using the 0.5x lens for maximum effect.

Yelena's mouth was pressed so tightly together that she closely resembled a pufferfish as she tried her hardest not to laugh. Her camera panned over Kaia's entire body and then zoomed in on her foot. "One shoe, just one." She snorted to herself and gave the dangling sneaker a nudge, watching as it just bobbed Kaia's whole leg.

She really could have watched Kaia sleep all day (not in a creepy way), but she wanted to play soccer later which meant her homework had to be done now. She pulled her dark green blanket and placed it over Kaia's body which was now covered in goosebumps as the air had cooled significantly. Yelena even removed the other shoe and placed both of Kai's legs on the bed properly so she was more comfortable. Underneath the jokes and pranks, she was a softie and Kaia was her weak spot.

Crossing her legs on top of her comforter and leaning back against the wall by her bed, the young Russian started typing away on her laptop, occasionally glancing to check on Kaia. The brunette wasn't a particularly heavy sleeper, but she hadn't even shifted position yet. Not even when Yelena's music blasted a little too loud. She made a mental note to make sure Kaia got an early night tonight.

An hour of them working and sleeping in harmony was disrupted by a low groan coming from Kaia's direction. Yelena paused her music and took off her headphones as she waited for her best friend to adjust to the current world.

But Kaia just nuzzled back into her pillow and closed her eyes again.

"Good morning sleeping beauty," Yelena announced and a smile tugged at her lip as she saw Kaia jerk awake. The groggy brunette suddenly shot up from her contorted position and whilst steadying herself she stared wide eyed at Yelena who just waved at her slowly.

"What are you doing here?"

Yelena looked at the bed she was sat on. "I live here... I think? Don't I?"

Kaia groaned and rubbed her eye. "I thought you had a class?"

"I did," Yelena confirmed. "An hour ago."

"What?"

"My class finished an hour ago." All the colour drained from Kaia's face as she scrambled to find her phone that was seconds away from clattering to the floor. The time flashed up on the screen and made her feel sick to her stomach. How had that much time passed already?

"But- I was only asleep for ten minutes. How long have you been here?" Kaia was really disorientated and Yelena's goofy smile wasn't helping at all.

"About an hour. I-"

"Why didn't you wake me!"

"Cyka I tried!" Yelena defended, throwing her hands up. "I basically moved half of your body, played music, called your name, but nothing." She watched Kaia fidget with her leotard. "Are you feeling ok?"

"I'm just-" her sentence was cut off by a giant yawn, making the two of them burst into giggles.

"Tired?" Yelena finished, and Kaia nodded. "Well, I'm going out to play soccer a bit later and you're welcome to come join if you want. Or just watch. Or you can stay here? It's up to you."

Kaia pulled the soft blanket around her shivering body and sent a subtle glare towards the window. It wasn't ridiculously cold, but seeing as her arms and legs were bare, it might as well have been snowing.

"I'll watch, as long as I get to wear your hoodie."

"The really warm one?" Kaia nodded, cocooning herself further. "Sure. Second drawer down."

"How long do I have?" Kaia asked after assessing the distance between her and Yelena's dresser and concluding that it was indeed too far to move right now.

"About an hour. Maybe two-ish."

"Then I'm going back to sleep."

Yelena chuckled. "Ok sleepyhead. I'll wake you up with a bucket of ice water and a foghorn."

"Yelena Belova," Kaia warned from beneath her comforter, "if you so much as put a single drop of water on me, you're going to regret ever becoming friends with me." Her words would have sounded more menacing if they weren't laced with her sleepy tone. "Got it?"

"Loud and clear sergeant," she said, saluting with a hand by her brow. "Roger that."

"Shut up and let me sleep!"

Yelena laughed under her breath and turned back to her laptop, slotting her headphones in and immersing herself into her work. This streak of motivation wouldn't last long at all, so she was taking full advantage of it.

-⧗-

Natasha

"Natasha, get your ass up, we're going to the field!" Maria yelled down the hall. The redhead in question rolled onto her back and yawned loudly whilst staring at the ceiling.

"Why?!"

"Because I said so! You've got twenty minutes!"

Natasha growled. "Don't boss me around Hill!"

"Then move your ass and I won't need to!" Maria could have quite easily come to Natasha's door and avoided all the shouting, but it was kind of fun yelling at her best friend and captain from the safety of the bathroom. Less chance of getting her lights knocked out.

Natasha stared at the ceiling, truly contemplating her life choices in that moment. She was comfy, warm, and sleepy, so sacrificing that for the cold and probably soggy soccer field just didn't seem comparable.

So how she found herself pulling on a hoodie on top of her shorts and finding her sneakers that she'd kicked off before was a mystery. But there she was, glaring at Maria with each step she took down the stairs as the giddy brunette waited at the bottom and tried to gather all of her hair into a ponytail.

"Honestly didn't think you'd show," she mumbled around the hair tie between her teeth.

Natasha just rolled her eyes. "Don't tempt me. I was warm before you interrupted."

"Oh please. You love field nights, I know you do!"

"Yes, but not when it's swarming with freshmen!" She folded her arms and gave Maria a look, who was unfazed.

"There's not going to be any freshmen," Natasha just stared. "Ok, there won't be any freshmen except the ones on the soccer team. Is that better?"

"You're gonna need to figure out a way to deal with freshman, Nat," came a voice to her right. Stella wandered out with a half eaten bowl of pasta and grinned at the duo. "You can't keep glaring them into a frenzy."

"Oh great, you too. You're tag teaming," Natasha accused as she waggled her finger between Maria and Stella. They both just shrugged their shoulders, neither confirming or denying her statement. "Whatever. Can you finish up so we can go?"

Stella just smirked and slowly lifted a noodle to her lips. Natasha was funny to tease when she was grouchy, but only if you were in her circle of friends. Anyone else would be missing several limbs.

"You guys go, I'll meet you out there. I'm not looking to get indigestion from this."

Maria had given up on her ponytail attempt and just left her hair loose, so she and Natasha took the shortcut between the other student houses and across to the soccer field where there already looked to be a relaxed kick-about game in session.

People were yelling from the sidelines but it was hard to make out individuals even under the floodlights. Natasha tugged on the edge of her hoodie and brought it up to rest on her hips, exposing her legs and ass in her shorts. She was less restricted that way.

"First one to get the ball gets $20," Natasha said to Maria and then dashed off, barely giving the brunette any time to comprehend what she'd just say. They were a blur running towards the ball and they dodged players as they ran, their dance training keeping them agile on their feet.

-⧗-

Kaia

Off to the side, Kaia was sat wrapped up in Yelena's old soccer team hoodie, the hood pulled up around her head and sleeves tugged down over her freezing hands. She had napped for too long and didn't have time to change, so her leotard and athletic shorts were the only thing keeping her warm besides the hoodie. But it was surprisingly cosy.

She felt like a soccer mom with Yelena's name on her back and her occasional hiss of breath as someone slipped over on the grass. It wasn't wet but some of the junior guys played rough. It didn't bother Yelena, who was almost as rough as they were, but Kaia feared the worst.

She saw two bodies racing onto the field and making a beeline for the ball, but she didn't give them much attention. A lot of people had joined mid "game", if you could call it that, so it was more of a giant swarm of people than actual teams. No one really knew who was on which side.

Leaning back against the metal fence, Kaia pulled her knees to her chest and yelled out as Yelena made a dive for the ball and started dribbling it away from the crowd, her feet moving at lightning pace as she dodged and weaved around her teammates and further up the pitch.

"Let's go Lena!" She hollered excitedly. There were other friends and partners sat along where she was too, all equally as enthusiastic and loud.

"You look like quite the fangirl," a familiar voice came from above. Kaia squinted into the light and gasped as she saw Wanda grinning down at her, a bag of chocolate pretzels in her hand.

"You made it!"

"I sure did!" Wanda took a seat beside her friend and observed the field. There were all four years on the pitch, mainly the soccer teams but some of the football team and a few randoms too. Kaia wasn't bothered to name any of them. "Anything interesting happen so far?"

"I don't really know what they're playing, so no," Kaia said as she sneakily stole a pretzel. "I think they're making the rules up as they go because they all keep yelling at each other."

Wanda hummed and looked around her, checking out her surroundings. She'd never been to this soccer field before as it wasn't in use officially, so it became the top recreational spot on campus. "I see you're repping Yelena there," she said, gesturing to Kaia's hoodie.

The brunette looked down and then quickly stood up and gave a quick spin, moving her hair to reveal the large 'Yelena 07' on the back of her navy blue hoodie. The white wolf logo was in the centre but some of the application had cracked from use.

"Well, I have to support my girl!" She said with a fist pump before sitting back down in her spot.

"She's very lucky."

They both watched the game play out and Wanda couldn't help but start to tease Kaia as she watched her eyes follow one specific player very closely. Or so she thought.

"Oh he is so eye candy!" Wanda hissed, making Kaia jump and send her a glare.

"Who?"

The Sokovian narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Don't give me that. You know exactly who I'm talking about."

"What?" Kaia looked back at the field but everyone was too bunched up to clearly make our faces. "Who are you talking about?"

"The junior! Over there!" She pointed off near the goal and Kaia rolled her eyes.

"You mean Steve?" Wanda's eyes sparkled. "Absolutely not!"

"You don't think he's cute?"

Kaia stuttered for a second. "He's gorgeous, but he's Steve..." Her voice trailed off, fully expecting Wanda to catch on but she just smiled blankly and blinked.

"So?"

"So?!" Kaia exclaimed in surprise. "Steve is Natasha's ex!" Her voice dropped to a quiet hiss and Wanda's eyes almost fell out of her skull. "Exes are off limits! That's just-" she shuddered at the thought. "Not to mention if Natasha ever found out she'd ruin me."

"Such a waste," Wanda muttered, watching the blonde haired boy wipe his forehead with his shirt. Kaia couldn't lie, she did stare at his abs for slightly too long and found herself blushing when he turned in her direction, but a fast approaching figure made her reluctantly turn away.

"What happened?" She asked as a very disgruntled Yelena came storming over with a murderous glare. "You ok?"

"Nat tripped me up."

Kaia faltered. "Did you say Nat?"

"Yeah," Yelena nodded. "She's playing dirty and used my tricks against me."

Natasha didn't play soccer in Kaia's mind. Her bright eyes scanned the field and almost immediately landed on the redhead. How did she miss that scarlet hair?

As Yelena ranted on and on about how unfair it was and how Natasha should be banned from the game, Kaia watched the scene unfold before her. Luckily Wanda was there to be sympathetic towards Yelena.

Natasha was dancing around the guys on the field like an annoying little bug that just doesn't die. She moved faster than they did, often sneaking around the outside and swiping the ball from beneath them and leading it away, keeping it close to her. She wasn't the best player there by any means, and Kaia recognised each move from how Yelena played, but she was surprising. Of course she was good at it, she's Natasha Romanoff.

Her entire figure was lit up under the bright flood lights and Kaia's breathing faltered slightly as Natasha's foot collided with the ball and sent it sailing over to one of the guys with a powerful kick. All the muscles in her thigh tensed and her shorts were short... very short.

Kaia was transfixed for a moment, watching the power and strength in those legs as Natasha sprinted off down the field, her mouth open in a wide smile as one of the guys yelled something in her direction. She stopped and flexed her bicep dramatically and Kaia quickly tore her eyes away, tuning back into Yelena's conversation.

"- she doesn't even know how to play! She just copies me and then takes all the credit." Yelena was still whining and pulling at tufts of grass by her knees as she spoke with enraged passion. Wanda nodded in sympathy and snacked on her pretzels. She looked a bit like a concerned chipmunk.

"Then get back out there and tackle the hell out of her!" Kaia said enthusiastically, waving her fist around in hopes of motivating Yelena. Either motivating her or scaring her away so she ran back onto the pitch.

"Be my cheerleader, why don't you!"

Yelena got up and started to jog back towards the pitch, so Kaia stood up and stepped closer. "But I'm a dancer!" She yelled.

"I'll get you some pom poms! Pink ones! With sparkles!" Yelena's risky move of jogging backwards meant Kaia could see her sickening smirk and she stuck her middle finger up at her best friend.

"Fuck your pom poms!"

Natasha was distracted by the shouting and came to rest a hand on her hip with a sour expression. She saw Kaiiarina yelling on the sidelines to her sister who sprinted off with her hands in a heart shape.

"You said there wouldn't be freshmen," she muttered lowly to Maria.

Maria just pulled her lips into a line and held her hands up. "Didn't guarantee it."

#natasha romanoff #marvel #fanfic #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #kaya’s recs #honesty #natasha romanoff x o!c #natasha romanoff x fem!oc #natasha romanoff fic #natasha romanoff x you #yelena belova #wanda maximoff

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