#chapter nine is when things really go to hell | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jungkoode · 1 month ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

"You have always put people in different categories: friends, dating and fucking. And the idea of someone redefining that makes your chest twist inwardly, because that's just not how it works. Never has."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

content: parental expectations, inner monologue, anxiety attacks, body reactions, redefining terms (friendship), fights, communicating (kind of...), subtle propositions, blowjob, handjob, embarrassment and insecurity / self-doubt (f), guiding (m), orgasm, cumming on face, hanging out plans.

✧ author's note ✧

WHEEEEEEW. okay. hi. hello. greetings. blessings upon your crops.

So first of all, I must humbly report that the new goal system (Tumblr and Wattpad having to align like twin stars) is working beautifully. It gave me a luxurious (dare I say scandalous) nine-day window to edit, tweak, breathe, and cry. And I only did one of those things on the floor (take a wild guess). I’m keeping it for now, besties. Let’s see if it continues to save me from myself.

Now. This chapter. Yeah. She’s 15k. And I would say “I don’t know how that happened,” but I would be lying through my teeth. Ask Koopsy. The BJ scene alone was 3k at one point. And then I had time. And we all know what happens when I have time. I rewrote it. And suddenly it’s eight. I regret nothing. It’s unhinged but like… in a deliciously purposeful way.

I especially loved dragging some vulnerability out of our girl—Y/N’s still that stubborn “keep it all inside or die” kind of girlie, but you’ll see her starting to leak, emotionally. And the way Jungkook isn’t being mocking when she cracks a little? When she masks her insecurity and he just sees her? HELLO. I giggled. I kicked my feet. I twirled my hair.

Also?? This chapter really digs into how fundamentally opposite they are when it comes to emotional frameworks. Like, Y/N hears “friendship” and sees expectations, accountability, people expecting her to care back. Hard pass. Meanwhile Jungkook is like “let’s label this so we can safely not fall.” LMAO. It’s giving defensive strategies 101. It’s giving textbook avoidant-anxious overlap. It’s giving both of you need therapy immediately and maybe a hug.

BUT. You’ll also see a little growth. A spark. A whisper of a maybe. She doesn’t fully shut down. She doesn’t say “no.” She’s simmering. And as someone with trauma? That simmer is progress. That’s real. That’s human. That’s our girl doing her best with a backpack full of emotional grenades.

Anyway. This is your 4x VERY slow emotional slow burn reminder. If you’re here hoping they’ll acknowledge feelings soon—first of all, who are you? Second of all, no. Third of all, this is not a customer service inbox. You don’t get to file complaints. You get to suffer. That’s the deal.

Enjoy the chapter, scream in my inbox, or join the crying circle on Tumblr where the rest of Kiki Nation gathers to chant “girl what the hell” in unison.

Welcome if you're new. Godspeed if you’ve been here.

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Pancakes smell like rain and roses and a home you can't go back to.

The smell is soft at first, curling around the edges of your consciousness as you blink against the morning light filtering through the blinds. Warm and familiar, it drags you back—not to this kitchen, not to this apartment, but somewhere far away. Somewhere softer. Somewhere safer.

Pancakes always smelled like home. Like rainy mornings where the sky was a patchwork of grays and blues, stitched together by streaks of silver rain that blurred the world outside the window. Mom would hum as she worked, her voice low and steady, blending with the sound of batter hitting the pan and the hiss of butter melting into golden pools.

She never measured anything—not really. Just a spoonful here, a dash there, warm milk poured straight from the carton into the bowl without hesitation. She’d laugh when Dad complained about her ‘eyeball method,’ but he never said no to her pancakes. Not once.

The kitchen always smelled alive on those mornings—like butter and sugar and coffee mingling in the air, weaving through the faint floral scent of the potted roses Mom kept near the window. She swore they dulled the smell of food, but they never did. The pancakes always won, their buttery sweetness overpowering everything else until it felt like you could taste them just by breathing.

You loved those mornings. Loved how they made the house feel lived in for once—like more than just walls and furniture and people passing each other on their way to somewhere else. On rainy days, it felt like home. Like something worth staying for.

Maybe that’s why pancakes were your favorite. Not because of how they tasted (though they were always perfect—soft and fluffy with just enough sweetness to make you grin through a mouthful), but because of what they meant. Because they were more than breakfast; they were a memory stitched together with rain and roses and laughter that echoed long after the plates were cleared.

You close your eyes now, letting the smell wash over you like a wave, pulling you under until all you can think about is that kitchen—the one with the chipped tiles and mismatched chairs where Mom would stand with batter-stained hands and Dad would sip his coffee too loudly just to annoy her.

And for a moment—for one fleeting second—you’re there again.

Home.

The problem with perfect memories is they're usually lies.

And then it's gone.

The mirage of home evaporates like morning dew on grass, leaving behind the acrid aftertaste of something that never really existed. Not like that. Not with the softness your mind painted over the jagged edges.

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

‘Straight A's this semester, honey? Pancakes on Sunday!’

‘Piano recital went well? Let's celebrate with breakfast tomorrow.’

‘SAT prep finished early? I'll make your favorite in the morning.’

Always a reward. Always a transaction. No matter how much vanilla extract Mom added to the batter, you could still taste the expectation underneath—bitter and metallic, like pennies on your tongue.

Makes sense why you can't enjoy things without earning them first. Why everything has to be deserved.

The scent wafting through the apartment shifts now. No longer just butter and sugar and rain-soaked roses, but something sharper. Something that stings the back of your throat and makes your stomach twist.

Guilt.

Because who the fuck resents pancakes? Who looks at a mother standing over a hot stove, humming while she makes your favorite breakfast, and thinks: this isn't enough?

You do, apparently.

You who had everything—the nice house, the private school, the parents who ‘just wanted what was best.’ The ungrateful daughter who still squirmed under their touch, who counted down the days until college like a prisoner marking time.

You don't have the right to feel trapped by love. You know that.

People would kill for what you had. For parents who showed up. For a home without holes in the walls. For pancakes on Sunday mornings.

So entitled. So privileged.

The voice in your head sounds like Mom when she's disappointed—soft and somehow, sharp at its core. She never raised her voice.

Never had to.

Just that quiet, ‘I expected better from you,’ that cut deeper than any scream.

Your teeth grind together, jaw clenching so hard it aches.

There's a pressure building behind your eyes, hot and insistent, but you refuse to let it out.

Not over fucking pancakes.

Not over the way Dad would look at your report card before he looked at you.

Not over the way Mom rescheduled your life without asking, because ‘Yale doesn't accept students who waste time on sketching.’

Not over the way they both pretended your opinion was valued while systematically stripping away every choice that mattered.

‘We're just guiding you. We're just helping. We're just doing what parents are supposed to do.’

The smell of pancakes is suffocating now. Cloying. Sweet in a way that coats your tongue and makes you want to scrape it off.

And still, there's that whisper, that insidious little thought that's been following you since you left: Maybe if you'd been better—more grateful, more deserving—it wouldn't have felt like a cage.

Because that's the real fucked-up part, isn't it? You miss them. Miss the security of those Sunday mornings. Miss knowing exactly what was expected, even as you chafed against it.

Miss feeling like someone cared enough to map out your entire life, even if they never bothered asking which direction you wanted to go.

The guilt surges again, stronger.

What kind of monster resents safety? What kind of daughter hates being loved?

The kind who runs away to New York and still wakes up in the middle of the night, heart racing, thinking she's late for a lesson she never wanted to take.

The kind who changed her major three times before settling on English, just because it was the one subject Dad thought was ‘impractical.’

The kind who buys her own groceries and pays her own rent and still can't shake the feeling that she's doing everything wrong. That somewhere, someone is keeping score, and you're failing.

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

But because part of you is afraid it's following you here, to the one place that was supposed to be yours. Just yours. With no expectations attached.

The smell is coming from the kitchen. Someone is making pancakes in your kitchen.

And you don't know whether to smile or scream.

Your fingers clutch your phone, because the pressure building in your chest has to be channeled somewhere.

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

Late. You're late. You're always fucking late. Dad's voice in your head, that disappointed sigh. ‘Time management reflects character, dear.’

You bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs, and then—

Nothing is right.

The sheets aren't yours. Too dark, too soft. The wall is wrong—black, with one accent wall in deep red that you've definitely never painted. There's a carpet beneath your feet when you swing your legs over the edge. Your water bottle isn't where it should be. Your clothes aren't where you left them, you’re naked.

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

And suddenly last night comes rushing back in fragments that make your skin heat up.

Not the usual—not the snarky comments across the kitchen table or the silent treatment when you're pissed at each other. Not the avoidance of the last four days where you both pretended the other didn't exist.

No, last night was... talking. Just talking. Both of you just... existing in the same space without trying to burn it down.

And then—

Jesus Christ.

You press your palms against your eyes, but that doesn't stop the memory. Him between your thighs, making those sounds like he was the one getting pleasure from it. The way he looked up at you, eyes almost black in the low light. How he touched himself while tasting you, like he couldn't help it.

And then after, when you both should've retreated to separate corners to lick your wounds and rebuild your walls—you didn't. You fucking climbed into his bed. Told him to stay. Like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

You can't even blame alcohol. Two glasses of wine over the entire evening doesn't equal drunk. Doesn't equal stupid decisions. Doesn't equal... whatever the hell last night was.

So what was it?

You drag your hands down your face, feeling the heat in your cheeks.

Are you really that easy to disarm? One decent conversation, one night where he's not being a complete ass, and suddenly you're sleeping in his bed like some kind of...

Like what? Not a girlfriend. Not a friend with benefits, because friends actually like each other.

Just... a girl who got confused. Who let her guard down. Who maybe wanted, just for a night, to not fight everything and everyone.

Including yourself.

You grab one of Jungkook’s discarded black T-shirts (oversized ones, because he thinks he’s cool or something) and some clean boxers to entertain your thoughts.

But it’s no use.

Your fingers dig into your scalp, tugging at your hair. You want to bang your head against the wall until these thoughts scatter, but then you remember—again—that it's not your wall. It's his. This entire space belongs to him, and you're the intruder here.

Except he didn't say no, did he? When you suggested, he didn't really hesitate. Much. Just huffed, carried you and then plopped right next to you. Like maybe he wanted it too.

And for one brief, stupid moment last night, curled up in sheets that still smelled like him, you thought… maybe this could work.

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

The kind who talk about shit that matters. Who know things about each other that have nothing to do with sex or power plays. The kind who don’t pretend silence is neutrality and eye contact is war.

But friends means caring. And caring while fucking is a road that leads straight to complication city, population: you, crying on the bathroom floor at 3 AM wondering why you weren't enough.

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

And you’re not naïve enough to believe people can safely be all three at once—not without bleeding somewhere.

Sure, people who date usually start as friends. And yes, most people who date also fuck.

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

And Jungkook? He’s got matchsticks for fingers and a mouth that knows exactly where your fault lines are.

So, no. He doesn’t get to be all three. Doesn’t get to orbit your life from multiple angles. Doesn’t get to slip into your day like heat and leave like regret.

He’s not dating material.

But he is fuckable. Dangerously, addictively, ruin-your-life fuckable.

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

You check your phone again. Still 8:00 AM. But it’s Saturday, which means—

Your new job. Barnes & Noble. 10:00 AM.

The panic recedes, leaving behind a hollow sort of relief.

You're not late. You have time. Two whole hours to figure out how to look Jungkook in the eye without thinking about his mouth between your legs or the way his voice sounded when he talked about his ex or how he looked when he seemed actually, genuinely concerned.

Two hours to rebuild all those walls that somehow, without you noticing, started to crumble.

You're not sure it's enough time.

The heel of your palms dig into your eyes as you let out a sigh that feels like it's been trapped in your chest for days.

Fucking pancakes. The whole place reeks of them, sweet and buttery and—

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—"

Your body curls in on itself automatically, a reflex you can't control. It feels like someone's taken a rusty knife to your insides and decided to twist. Your hand flies to your lower abdomen, pressing against it like that'll somehow help. Like you can hold yourself together through sheer force of will.

The IUD. Has to be.

It's been nagging at you for days now. Little pinpricks, the occasional twinge that made you wince but was easy enough to ignore.

But this? This is something else entirely. This is your body throwing a full-scale revolt.

You sink back onto Jungkook's bed, chest doubling over toward your knees.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just like Mom taught you, back when panic attacks would hit in the middle of the night before big tests. Back when your chest would get tight and the world would spin and everything felt like too much.

‘In through your nose. Hold for four. Out through your mouth.’

‘Good girl. That's my good, brave girl.’

The memory of her voice is so clear it's almost like she's here, sitting next to you on this bed that isn't yours, in this room that smells like someone else. Guiding you through the pain like she always did. Always so calm. Always so sure.

Even when you hated her methods, you never doubted she knew what she was doing.

The pain ebbs, receding like a tide that's bound to come back. It leaves you empty and oddly fragile, staring at the dark gray carpet between your bare feet. The urge to slide back under Jungkook's covers is almost overwhelming. To just hide there until the world feels less overwhelming.

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

Griffin looks up at you with those unblinking amber eyes, his tail a question mark behind him. He makes that little chirping sound that's not quite a meow, more like he's asking if you're okay in the only language he knows.

"Hey, buddy," you murmur, reaching down to scratch under his chin where he likes it best.

He leans into your touch, purring loudly enough that you can feel the vibration through your fingertips.

Such a simple thing. Touch and response. Need and fulfillment. No conditions, no expectations. Just connection.

It makes your throat feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with pain.

Griffin bumps his head against your palm, demanding more attention. Typical. Exactly like his owner—always taking more than he's given.

The thought makes you snort softly.

You stand, slower this time, wary of another attack from your rebellious reproductive system—yet nothing happens. Small mercies.

When you open Jungkook's door, the smell of pancakes hits you like a wall. Rich and sweet and somehow wrong. Not like home. Not quite. Different ingredients, different hands.

And there he is. In a fucking Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt and matching pajama pants. Hair a mess, like he styled it with a fork and an air fryer. Flipping pancakes like he’s got his life together.

Standing in the kitchen with his back to you, shoulders moving slightly in time to whatever's playing through those expensive headphones. Completely in his own world. Completely unaware that you've been having an internal crisis in his bed for the past twenty minutes.

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him.

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did.

You sigh, dragging yourself toward the kitchen because someone needs to make sure he doesn't burn the whole fucking place down. The security deposit is half yours, after all.

Jungkook doesn’t show any sort of acknowledgement, headphones clamped over his ears, head bobbing so violently you're genuinely concerned it might detach from his neck.

Like his brain doesn't have enough problems already without the potential concussion.

Now that you're closer, you can actually hear him—not just humming, but full-on rapping? along.

Or trying to.

The tinny leak from his headphones gives you just enough to recognize that god-awful song that's been all over TikTok lately.

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

Of course that's what this idiot listens to while making breakfast.

He spots you in his periphery and doesn't miss a beat, turning just enough to start mouthing the lyrics directly at you. His eyebrows do this ridiculous waggle when he gets to the part about let me B-A-N-G and let me fuck some.

You curl your lip in disgust, which only makes him snort and rap more enthusiastically.

"Real classy, Rogue. Nothing says 'good morning' like misogynistic garbage at—" you check your phone, "—8:12 AM."

He pulls one side of his headphones away from his ear.

"Sorry, what? Couldn't hear you over this absolute banger."

"I said," you position yourself next to him at the counter, peering at whatever he's mixing in that bowl, "you have the musical taste of a horny fourteen-year-old who just discovered his dad's Playboy collection."

"Hey, don't hate. NLE Choppa is a lyrical genius."

"Oh yeah? What's next on your sophisticated playlist? 'Me So Horny'? Maybe some 'My Neck, My Back'? Real breakfast ambiance."

"Those are classics," he grins, completely unashamed. "But I reserve those for special occasions. Seduction purposes only."

"Has that ever actually worked on anyone with more than two brain cells?"

"You tell me, Nix." His voice drops half an octave, eyes flicking down to your lips for just a second before he turns back to his bowl.

You make an incredulous sound.

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

"Protein pancakes, babyyyy!" He drags out the word, lifting the spatula like it's a trophy.

Your face must show exactly how you feel about that because he laughs.

"What? Gotta maintain these gains."

The fucking idiot actually flexes then, one arm curling up while he continues to stir with the other.

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep.

Firm. Solid. Warm.

You pull your hand back like you've been burned.

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

You ignore that, moving toward the coffee maker. The one thing in this apartment worth waking up for.

"Ah ah," he tsks, reaching behind him. "Already made you some."

You pause, watching as he passes a mug over to you.

Your mug. The dark blue one with the chip on the handle that somehow ended up being yours even though you can't remember buying it. Steam curls from it, carrying the rich scent of coffee—strong, with just a hint of hazelnut.

Exactly how you like it.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wrapping your fingers around the warm ceramic.

“Thanks," you mutter, the word almost painful to push out.

"So," he says, pouring batter onto the griddle, "you're eating some pancakes, aren't you?"

You purse your lips, hesitating.

On one hand, protein pancakes sound like something a gym bro invented to justify eating dessert for breakfast.

On the other, your stomach reminds you it's been empty since those chips you inhaled around midnight.

"Come on," he pushes, "you need protein to maintain that ass, Nix."

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

"What?" He grins, ducking his head when you swat at him again. "I'm just saying, would be a pity to throw that to waste. You've got an amazing—"

"Ughhhhh, okay! I got it!" You cut him off before he can finish. "I don’t wanna hear it at this hour. I'll eat your stupid pancakes, my god."

He looks far too pleased with himself, flipping a perfectly golden pancake like he thinks he’s an actual chef or something.

"They're not stupid, they're nutritionally optimized."

"Is that what your protein powder labels call them? The ones with the half-naked bodybuilders flexing on the front?"

"Hey, don't judge my fitness journey."

"Oh, I'm judging everything about you, Rook. It’s my whole brand.”

He just chuckles, sliding the first pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter. The domesticity of it all is somehow ridiculous.

It feels too normal. Too easy. Like you've done this a hundred times before.

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

You take a long sip of coffee, letting the bitter heat scald away whatever the hell that feeling was.

Jungkook slides a plate toward you, two perfectly golden pancakes stacked and steaming.

And honestly; they actually smell... decent. Not like the protein chalk you expected.

"Bon appétit," he says with a ridiculous flourish of his hand. "Try not to fall in love."

"With you or the pancakes?" You grab a fork from the drawer, sitting on one stool and poking at your breakfast suspiciously.

"The pancakes.” He says with a smirk, joining you in the adjacent stool. “I’m too much for you to handle.”

You roll your eyes, taking a reluctant bite. Fuck. They're good. Like, actually good. Not gritty or chalky or tasting vaguely of chemicals like most protein-enhanced food.

His smug grin tells you your face has already betrayed you.

"Don't," you warn, pointing your fork at him.

"Don't what?" He leans forward, one elbow propped on the table. "Don't mention how your eyes just rolled back in your head? Or don't point out that I'm right about something, and that's clearly causing you physical pain?"

"Don't be insufferable before 9 AM." You take another bite, speaking around it. "I haven't had enough coffee to deal with you at full throttle."

"What about last night? You seemed pretty happy dealing with me at full throttle then."

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

"Doing what?" He stabs his own pancakes with his utensil. "Having breakfast? Talking? Being... you know, normal?"

"Normal. Is that what we're doing?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, last night was..." He shrugs, taking a bite of pancake. "Nice. You know? We actually talked. Didn't try to kill each other. Maybe we could do that more."

Oh god. This is exactly what you were afraid of. This weird, awkward morning-after attempt to redefine things.

He's going to want to put a label on it now, isn't he?

Turn your convenient arrangement into something messy with expectations and feelings and other terrifying shit.

Friends. Or friends with benefits or whatever stupid idea he’s about to come up with.

No. Absolutely not.

"We talked," you say carefully. "We also fucked. Let's not make it weird."

"How is it weird to suggest we could be, I don't know, actual friends?"

And there it is.

"Friends." You stab at your pancake with more force than necessary. "Right. Because that's what people who've seen each other naked are. Friends."

"I mean, yeah? Friends who fuck. It's a whole thing. People do it all the time."

You look up at him, fork frozen halfway to your mouth.

“And how's that worked out for you in the past, Rogue? These fuck-buddy friendships of yours—all solid, drama-free arrangements, were they?"

His eyebrows furrow. "I'm not suggesting we start braiding each other's hair and sharing deep dark secrets. Just saying maybe we don't have to pretend we hate each other 24/7."

"I don't hate you," you say automatically, then immediately regret it.

He scoffs. "Progress."

"Don't get excited. I don't like you, either."

"Sure you do." He grins around a mouthful of pancake. "You like parts of me, at least."

"Your modesty, definitely. That's my favorite part."

"Not what you were saying last night."

You throw a napkin at him. It flutters pathetically halfway across the space between you.

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

“Can we just—can we just eat? Without dissecting our relationship status?"

"What's there to dissect? We live together. We fuck sometimes. We talk sometimes. We don't hate each other. Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Nothing's ever straightforward. Sex is one thing. Friendship is another. Put them together, and it's a disaster waiting to happen."

"Why? What's the issue? You really think if we start being decent to each other, suddenly the whole arrangement falls apart?"

"No, I think if we start being 'decent' to each other, suddenly there are expectations. Suddenly I'm supposed to care if you're having a bad day, or listen to your problems, or worry about your feelings when we're fucking."

"Wow. The horror." He rolls his eyes. "God forbid you acknowledge I'm a human being and not just a convenient dick."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you think I'm too fucking stupid to understand boundaries. Like I'll immediately start writing your name in hearts or some shit just because we've upgraded from roommates to friends."

"I didn't say—"

"I don't want to date you, Nix. I don't want to be your boyfriend. I just thought it might be nice to not act like we're in some cold war every time we're in the same room. But if that's too much emotional labor for you, fine. We can go back to pretending the other doesn't exist unless we're naked."

The sting of his words surprises you. Why do you even care? This is what you want—no messy emotions, no expectations. Just the convenience of living together and occasionally hooking up. Clean. Simple.

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

"Am I? So you're not freaking out about the terrifying prospect of actually being friends with the guy you've been sleeping with?"

"I am not freaking out." You are absolutely freaking out. "I just think it's... cleaner. If we keep things the way they are."

"Cleaner." He snorts. "Right. God forbid anything in your life gets messy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've got your shit locked down so tight you're about to snap in half." He stands up, grabbing his mug of coffee. "You think I don't see it? How hard you try to control everything? How fucking terrified you are of anything that doesn't fit into your perfectly organized boxes?"

Your grip on the fork tightens. "Oh, please. Tell me more about myself, Rook. You've known me for what, one month? Clearly you're an expert."

"I may not know shit, but I see enough. I see you'd rather cut someone out completely than risk them having any kind of power over you.”

"Fuck you," you spit, but it comes out weaker than you intended.

Because he's not wrong, and that's the worst part.

"Yeah, we've established that part works great." He drops his plate on the sink and it clatters noisily. “Look, forget it. You want to keep pretending we're strangers who occasionally fuck? Fine. Works for me. Less work anyway."

"That's not what I said." You stand up. "I just don't see why we need to redefine everything. Why can't we just... let it be what it is?"

"Because I don't even know what the fuck it is! Am I your roommate? Your fuck buddy? That guy you hate but tolerate because the rent is cheaper split three ways? What the hell am I supposed to tell people when they ask about you?"

"Why are people asking about me?"

"Jesus Christ." He throws his hands up. "That's what you focus on? Not the point, Phoenix."

"Then what is the point? Spell it out for me, since I'm clearly too stupid to get it."

"The point is, I talk to you more than I talk to most of my actual friends. I see you every day. I know how you take your coffee and what you look like when you come. So excuse the fuck out of me for thinking maybe, just maybe, we could drop the whole 'we're just roommates who tolerate each other' act and admit we might actually be friends."

You stare at him, chest tight with something you can't name.

Can't or won't.

This is exactly what you've been avoiding—this messy, complicated conversation that blurs all the neat lines you've drawn.

"I don't do friends with benefits," you finally say, voice quiet, your plate joining his. "It never works. Someone always ends up hurt."

"Who said anything about hurt? It's not that deep, Nix. We're not in a fucking rom-com."

"No, we're in real life, where things get complicated and messy and people have expectations they don't even realize until they're disappointed."

"The only expectation I have right now is for you to stop overthinking everything for five seconds."

"I'm not overthinking. I'm being realistic."

"You're being paranoid. And kind of insulting, if I'm honest. Like I'm some lovesick puppy who can't handle a casual arrangement."

“I’m paranoid? That’s rich coming from you, Ro. Real fucking rich."

His eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a fucking hypocrite." The words tumble out, hot and fast. "You want to talk about being friends? About opening up? That's hilarious coming from the guy who deflects every personal question with some stupid joke."

"I don't—"

"You absolutely do. Every time." You step closer, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Ask about your financial situation? Oh, it's fine, just selling a kidney next week, ha ha. Ask about your ex? Turn it into some bullshit story about how she 'graded' you after sex, like it's all a big fucking joke."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "That's different."

"How? How is it different? You want me to be all open and friendly, but all you do is deflect and crack jokes.”

"I didn’t say anything about being all open and—”

"Then what are you saying?" You throw your hands up, frustration making your voice rise. "Because it sounds like you want all the benefits of friendship without any of the actual vulnerability. You want me to be your friend when it's convenient, but god forbid I ask about anything that matters."

"What do you want to know, Nix? What deep dark secret are you dying to hear? How I'm drowning in debt because my ex fucked up my credit? How I can barely make rent some months? How I wake up in the middle of the night panicking about money? Is that friendly enough for you?"

The sudden honesty knocks the wind out of you. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again like a fish gasping on land.

"That's what I thought." He tilts his head, motion clearly angry. "You don't actually want to know that shit. You just want to point out that I don't share it to win an argument."

You both stand there, breathing hard, like you’re studying each other.

But then Griffin rubs against your ankle, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening above his head and you…

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired.

It's too early for this much... whatever this is.

"Look," you sigh, the fight draining out of you. "Maybe we're both right, in our own way. And maybe we're both being assholes."

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift.

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

"Last night wasn't terrible," you say, choosing your words carefully. "Talking. Whatever. Maybe we don't need to define everything right now?"

"Revolutionary concept." His voice has lost its edge, that familiar sardonic tone creeping back in. "Not immediately labeling every interaction. Who would've thought?"

"Shut up."

You pick up your coffee mug again, taking a sip to hide the relief washing over you.

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved.

For now.

"So what are you saying?" he asks, leaning back against the counter. "We just... see where things go?"

"I'm saying maybe we don't have to be strictly roommates or strictly friends. Maybe we can just... exist in the same space sometimes without trying to kill each other. And if it turns out we don't hate it..."

"We can revisit the friend thing?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe." You shrug, aiming for casual. "If you manage not to be completely insufferable."

"Tall order." He's almost smiling now. "I'll have to suppress all my natural charm."

"If that's what you call it."

You roll your eyes, relieved to be back on solid ground.

This you can handle—the banter, the back-and-forth, the careful dance around anything too real.

This is safe.

Under control.

"Just eat your protein pancakes, Rogue. Don't you have gains to maintain or whatever?"

"Can't skip arm day," he agrees, flexing dramatically. "These biceps don't maintain themselves."

"God, you're insufferable."

"Yet here you are, eating my pancakes, drinking coffee I made you." He gestures at your mug with his own. "Almost like you tolerate me."

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

"Obviously." He hums thoughtfully for a moment. "So, we're good?"

"We're..." you search for the right word, "...fine. For now. Let's just take it a day at a time, okay? No pressure, no expectations."

"I can do that." He nods, looking almost relieved himself. "One day at a time. Starting with today, where you admit my pancakes are fucking amazing."

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

"They're a culinary masterpiece that your taste buds aren't sophisticated enough to fully appreciate."

"My taste buds are perfectly sophisticated, thank you very much."

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

"At least I don't drink protein shakes for dessert like some kind of psychopath."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it. My midnight chocolate protein shake would change your life."

You make a gagging sound. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Your loss." He shrugs, then glances at the clock. "Don't you have to be at work at 10?"

"Yeah, but it's only—" you check your phone, "—8:30. Plenty of time."

"If you say so." He moves towards the space between the entryway and the couch. "First day, right? Gonna sell some books to the masses?"

"That's generally what happens at a bookstore, yes."

"Well, don't let your sparkling personality scare away the customers."

"I have excellent customer service skills, I'll have you know. I can fake being nice for hours at a time."

“You sure ‘bout that? Haven’t seen you be nice for more than thirty seconds."

"That's because you don't deserve my niceness."

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

"They're paying for it. You just get the real me."

"Lucky me," he snorts. "So, you nervous? First day and all?"

"It's a retail job, Rogue, not brain surgery. I think I can handle scanning books and saying 'have a nice day' without a panic attack."

"Just asking." He takes a sip from his mug. "Making conversation. Like normal people do."

"Yeah, well." You shift, suddenly uncomfortable with how... normal this feels.

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation.

Like maybe this friend thing isn't so impossible after all.

"I should probably start getting ready."

"Right, sure." He nods, glancing at his room. "Wouldn't want you to be late for your first day of shaping young minds through literature."

"It's Barnes & Noble, not the Library of Alexandria."

"Still. Books. Knowledge. Power. You know."

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot of shit for someone who reads, like, one book a year?"

"Hey, I read." He looks genuinely offended. "I just finished that one about the guy who—"

"If you say 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad,' I'm going to throw this mug at your head."

"I was going to say 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck,' actually."

"Of course you were." You can't help the laugh that escapes. "How original. Let me guess, you also have 'The 48 Laws of Power' on your nightstand?"

"Whatever, man." He shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Suck my dick."

The words come out light, amused—a casual dismissal that’s not angry or bitter, just a throwaway line, the kind of thing he'd say to Yoongi or any of his friends when they're giving him shit.

But something about it—the vulgarity or maybe the signature shitty and playful challenge in his eyes—makes you reckless.

"Okay."

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes sliding to the side as the word slips out.

Casual.

Like you just agreed to pass the salt, not... that.

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. His body goes rigid, one foot already pointed toward his bedroom. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch his profile.

"Huh?"

You cross your arms, teeth worrying the inside of your cheek. A shrug lifts your shoulders—noncommittal, like this isn't making your heart hammer against your ribs.

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

He turns fully now, coffee mug dangling forgotten from his fingers.

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick."

You watch his throat bobble, the muscles in his neck working as he swallows. Like he’s processing what you just said. Like you just suggested something completely alien, something that requires a full system reboot.

And okay, fine, maybe it wasn’t the most casual thing to drop into conversation. But still.

You arch an eyebrow, scowling at him because why is he overthinking this? Does he not want you to do it? Don’t all guys want to get sucked off? Isn’t that, like, a universal truth or something? What’s with the hesitation?

The longer he stands there, frozen and dumbfounded, the hotter your frustration burns. It’s not like you even want to do this (okay, you do, but that’s not the point).

The point is he’s always the first one to be like “bet” whenever you throw out some reckless suggestion.

Pushy without being pushy—he knows boundaries, sure, but he’s still the guy who’ll smirk and say “you won’t” just to see if you will.

And now? The one time you actually offer something? He’s looking at you like you’re speaking Simlish.

You move toward him, until you're face to face.

His mug wobbles in his grip, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

You look up at him through your lashes.

"I said I can suck your dick if that's what you want."

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

"Nix..." His voice has dropped an octave, rough around the edges. "Don't fool around. That's not nice."

"I'm not fooling around."

Slowly—so slowly it feels like time has stretched into something thick and syrupy—you sink down to your knees.

The kitchen tile is hard, and really, it should be uncomfortable. Should snap you out of whatever madness has possessed you.

It doesn't.

Jungkook bites down on his lower lip, the sharp edges of his teeth digging into the flesh like he's physically holding back a curse. You can see the evidence of his interest already straining against his pajama pants.

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

Because of course. Of course this would happen while he's wearing cartoon hedgehogs. Of course this

moment—where you're on your knees in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow—would come with this absurd detail that makes it real in a way that's almost uncomfortable.

Your hands come to rest on his thighs.

Strong. Solid. Warm.

"I mean, we've been hooking up for a month now. Almost." Your voice sounds different to your own ears. Lower. A little breathless. "You've eaten me out multiple times, but... I haven't sucked your dick. Not even once."

Your eyes drop deliberately to the bulge straining against ridiculous cartoon fabric. It should be funny.

It's not.

"Is it because you didn't want me to?"

He shakes his head. Fast. Emphatic. A jerky motion that tells you everything you need to know.

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe.

His throat works again, adam's apple bobbing. His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry as he stares down at you.

Your fingers play with the waistband, slowly—so fucking slowly—pulling it down just enough to reveal his hip bones and the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the elastic.

"Have you thought about it at all?"

"Yes." The word comes out strangled, like it fought its way past whatever restraint he's trying to maintain.

Your eyes snap up to his.

He curses when your eyes lock onto his again—the control you have, even down on your knees.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He exhales, surrender in the sound. "Yes, I've thought about your beautiful plump lips wrapped around my cock, Nix. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Heat blooms in your cheeks, spreading down your neck, across your chest.

You hadn't expected him to be so... explicit. So honest.

"Maybe." Your thumbs brush against the skin just above his waistband. "What else have you thought about?"

His mug clatters onto the counter beside him, abandoned and his now-free hand comes to your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip.

"Thought about how you'd look," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "On your knees. Just like this. Those big eyes looking up at me while you take me in your mouth.”

Jesus.

Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat between your thighs that makes you press them together unconsciously.

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

His thumb presses slightly against your lip, just enough to part them. "Thought about how warm your mouth would be.

How good it would feel. How you'd sound."

"How l'd sound?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, confidence returning as he watches your reaction. "The little noises you'd make. The way you'd moan around my cock when I pull your hair."

Oh.

Your hand moves higher, finding the hard length of him through his pajamas. He hisses through his teeth when you palm him, fingers wrapping around his shape.

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

His hand moves to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the back of your head.

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

"Getting there." His voice is strained now, tight with need.

"But in my head, there's a lot less talking and a lot more—"

"Sucking?"

His laugh is half groan. "Yeah, Nix. A lot more sucking."

"Hmmm" you murmur. "Where's all that big talk from earlier?"

"Temporarily relocated," he manages. "Blood flow issues."

That startles a laugh out of you, breaking the tension for just a moment. Trust Jungkook to crack a joke while you're literally about to have his dick in your mouth.

Your hands pause, giving his bulge another soft squeeze before—

“Wait—couch.” He grabs your wrist, stopping your motions. “Let’s do this properly.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah? Better for your neck and knees and all that. Let’s go.”

You roll your eyes but follow as he then drops onto the couch, sprawling like he owns the place—which, technically, he does, but still. His left elbow hooks over the cushion rest lazily, and his knuckles come up to rest against his cheek as he leans into it.

The picture of nonchalance.

Except for the way his hips shift slightly, rolling upward in a small, deliberate motion as he spreads his legs wider.

Your eyes narrow.

That little buck of his hips? The way his thighs stretch out as if to frame you? It’s not subtle.

Neither is the look he’s giving you now—those half-lidded bedroom eyes that always seem to appear when he’s horny. His lips curve into something smug, and god he’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. Like one of those guys in bad romance novels who lounges around shirtless, flexing for no reason except to remind everyone they have abs.

“So?” His voice is low, dragging out the single syllable like a challenge.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, glaring at him because—what? Is this supposed to be seductive? Is this his idea of foreplay?

“You’re already making me regret this, you know that?”

He snorts, the sound sharp and amused as he tilts his head slightly. “I don’t know why I doubt that.”

Your only response is a scoff—short and derisive—as you step closer. The floor feels uneven beneath your feet, though you know it isn’t. It’s just your nerves playing tricks on you.

Because this is real now. This is happening. You’re about to suck cock. Rogue’s cock.

You want this. You do. You’ve been curious about this for longer than you’d care to admit—curious about him, about what he likes and how he reacts and whether he’ll look as smug when he’s falling apart under your mouth.

But still… You haven’t exactly done this much before.

David—the forgettable high school boyfriend who thought foreplay was optional—had pretty much stuck his dick in you and called it a day. He didn’t even know girls could orgasm until you brought it up once during an argument (and even then, he seemed skeptical).

Your life hasn't been that tragic since then, thankfully.

A few hookups here and there have shown you that men aren't a total lost cause after all—some of them even know what they're doing! But sucking dick?

That's... different. It's not something you've done often enough to feel confident about it.

Sure, you know the basics—you've read enough spicy books and fanfics to have a decent idea of what works (English majors don't judge; they research).

But knowing what works in general isn't the same as knowing what Jungkook likes.

And this is his cock you’re talking about—his stupidly perfect body and his stupidly perfect everything else.

And now here you are, kneeling between Jungkook’s thighs while he looks down at you with that stupid smirk of his.

You glance up at him expectantly, hoping for some kind of cue or instruction or… anything really. Like he always does, talk shit with that big mouth of his. Dirty talk or whatever.

But all he does is blink at you for a moment before he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his Sonic pajama pants and starts pulling them down.

His cock springs free, standing there like it owns the place.

And okay, yeah, you’ve seen it before—plenty of times, actually.

You’ve had it inside you, for fuck’s sake.

But this? This is different. This is up close and personal, inches from your face, glossy and flushed and looking way too proud of itself.

Beautiful isn’t the right word. It’s a cock. A literal penis.

There’s nothing beautiful about it—it’s just a piece of meat, veiny and slightly curved and standing at attention like it’s waiting for applause or something.

And yet... you can’t look away.

Why is it so glossy? Is that normal? Does he always look like this when he’s hard? You don’t know why your brain is spiraling into a full-blown analysis of his dick right now, but here you are, mentally beefing with it like it personally insulted you.

Be so fucking for real right now.

And again—there he is. Silent. Watching. Not saying a single goddamn word.

Which is weird because usually, Jungkook doesn’t shut up during sex. He’s all about the dirty talk—filthy little comments that let you know exactly what he likes, what he wants, what he’s thinking.

But now? Nothing. Just this expectant silence that makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You hate him for it.

Your hand wraps around him before you can overthink it anymore. Because okay, fine—you might not be an expert at this, but you’re not completely clueless either. You’ve sucked cock before (not a lot, but enough to know the basics), and you know how jerking off works.

So that’s what you do: start slow, your hand moving down his length in a steady stroke.

He hisses softly at the contact, his hips shifting slightly against the couch cushion. When you glance up at him from beneath your lashes, he’s already looking down at you—his lips parted just enough to catch your attention as his tongue darts out to wet them.

And still, he says nothing.

“What?” You grunt the word out before you can stop yourself, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly—like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out.

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but his face gives nothing away.

“Okay,” you mutter under your breath, pulling back slightly as doubt creeps in around the edges of your confidence. “I’m doing everything wrong. Forget it.”

You start to stand up—because honestly?

Fuck this.

Fuck him and his smug silence and his stupid perfect dick that’s making you second-guess yourself when you were perfectly fine five minutes ago.

But before you can fully retreat, his hand shoots out to grab yours—not rough or demanding, just firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low and almost... gentle? “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”

You stare at him for a moment, then look away because suddenly eye contact feels like too much.

There’s a beat of silence before he swallows audibly, like he’s pondering what to say.

“Do you want me to…” He hesitates for half a second before continuing, his tone careful but curious. “Verbally tell you what I like?”

You purse your lips tightly, the edges pressing together in a way that’s almost painful.

Because somehow, saying yes to that—admitting you need him to tell you what to do—feels like losing. And you don’t want to lose. Not here. Not to him. Not when he’s sprawled out like some kind of smug king on the stupid couch, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to figure out how to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.

He doesn’t push, though. His hand stays on yours, warm and steady, as you let him pull you gently back down.

Your knees hit the floor again, and the carpet feels rough against your skin, grounding you in the moment even as your brain screams at you to get it together.

“Okay,” he says after a beat, his voice soft but probing. “What’s up?”

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly at the question. “That’s what I should be asking you.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly unimpressed with your deflection.

“C’mon. Usually you’re so mouthy. You literally made me beg yesterday just to eat you out. I don’t get this sudden prude thing you’re pulling.”

Damn him. Damn him and his ability to read you so well it feels like he’s got a script for your every thought and reaction.

“I’m not acting prude,” you snap defensively.

“Really?” His lips twitch upward. “Because you’re staring at my cock like you’re mad at it.”

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest.

“I’m not mad at it,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“Then what’s the problem?” He tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious now. “Tell me.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by how simple he makes it sound—like voicing whatever’s swirling in your head is the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s not tied up in knots of insecurity and doubt and whatever else is making your throat feel tight right now.

Because he’s right. You could just tell him. That would solve everything, wouldn’t it? But somehow, the thought of saying it out loud—of admitting that maybe you’re not as confident about this as you’d like to be—feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there’s anything to catch you at the bottom.

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

His brow furrows slightly when you don’t respond right away, and then he asks—carefully, hesitantly—

“Okay… have you done this before? A blowjob?”

The question makes your stomach flip for reasons you can’t quite explain. Your eyes drop to the floor as heat creeps up your neck and into your face.

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

“Yus?” He repeats incredulously, leaning forward slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“Yes,” you say louder this time, still staring at the carpet like it holds all the answers to life’s mysteries.

“But not often,” he guesses—and fuck him for being right again.

Your head snaps up at that, ready to fire off some kind of retort about how that’s none of his business or how he should shut up because clearly he’s not an expert on everything either—but then he laughs.

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

Because it’s not mean or mocking or anything close to what you expected—it’s just… laughter. Light and genuine and almost disbelieving in a way that makes something inside you loosen just a little bit.

“What?” You demand sharply.

“Oh my god,” he says between chuckles. “Phoenix—is that what this is about? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You glare at him because what else are you supposed to do? Admit he’s right? Again? Absolutely not.

He notices anyway—of course he does—and his grin softens into something closer to understanding as he leans back against the couch cushions.

“Bro,” he says lightly, shaking his head like this is all so obvious now. “It’s totally chill.”

You scoff quietly, looking off to the side because meeting his eyes feels impossible right now.

“I mean it, you want to try, right? You want to experience it or whatever? Nothing wrong with that.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a small smile: “Let me help you, aight?”

You don’t say yes. Of course you don’t. You never say yes.

You run your tongue across your upper lip instead, slow and lazy like you’re tasting the tension, and shrug—shoulders stiff like maybe it costs you something to agree.

Which, okay. It kind of does. Dignity’s already dangling by a thread.

But he reads it. Of course he does. Like you’re a fucking cartoon strip and he’s already memorized every panel.

He just grins—guffaws, really, because apparently this is hilarious to him—and tilts his chin toward his cock like that’s normal. Like this is a fucking TED Talk on Applied Dick Science.

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.”

Like it’s nothing. Like you’re asking him if he wants oat milk in his coffee and not literally hocking a loogie onto his dick.

Your face does something between a grimace and a snort. “What are you, a porn algorithm?”

“Relax. It’s not a kink thing. Just helps with… y’know. Glide.” A shrug. So casual. “Friction’s not your friend, Nix.”

You squint at him. “So now you’re a physics professor.”

“Professor of good head,” he says under his breath, eyes twinkling like he thinks that’s clever.

You exhale slowly through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Just enough to say fine, sure, without actually giving him anything.

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

And maybe you don’t mean to hold eye contact for as long as you do, but whatever. Your gaze locks on his, and his mouth hitches slightly at the corner.

One of those small, lazy smirks that says he’s watching everything you do. Which he is.

You drop your eyes again. Shift forward. Palms to thighs. Inhale once through your nose, just to clear whatever mental fog is still clinging.

Then you lower your face toward him, mouth hovering just above the head of his cock.

And okay. It’s a little intense up close like this.

Flushed dark pink at the tip, that little bead of precum catching the light. Skin taut where it stretches up and around the curve.

And yeah, it’s pretty? Like, stupid pretty. Which only pisses you off more because it’s a dick. You shouldn’t be thinking aesthetic right now. You should be—

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

Like, your breath grazes the head and he inhales sharp through his teeth, a low sound punching out of his chest that he probably didn’t mean to make.

Your eyes cut up automatically.

And you absolutely, one hundred percent bite back a smirk. Can feel it twitch at the edge of your mouth, creeping in before you catch it.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his face. A slight arch of his brow, a ghost of a grin that says ‘don’t get cocky’, which is rich coming from him.

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

You glance down once more, tilt your chin forward, and—

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

A warm trail that splatters right onto his cockhead with a soft, wet noise you pretend not to react to. The drool stretches in a thin line as it drops, catching and sticking in places before sliding down the shaft, slick and messy in a way that feels weirdly intimate and way too graphic for how not romantic this is supposed to be.

You hear him exhale again—less sharp this time, more like a breath he didn’t know he was holding—and when you glance back up, your eyes meet his.

Big. Wide. Intentional.

Because yeah, you’ve read enough porn. You know this trick. Know the effect eye contact has.

Especially from down here. Especially when your lips are half an inch from his dick and your saliva’s still glistening on it.

And okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little performative.

But he does it, too. Every goddamn time he’s between your legs, he’s watching you like it’s a sport.

So maybe it’s not just for you. Maybe it’s projection.

It definitely is.

Because the second your spit hits his cock and your eyes stay locked on his, Jungkook makes this—noise.

Not a grunt. Not a moan. Just this tiny sound, like a choked-up breath dragged out of his throat against his will. The kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it.

But you are. And you do.

Your fingers wrap around him without thinking. Automatic, almost. Like your hand just knows what to do now. It’s not a tight grip, not at first—just enough to feel the weight of him, hot and heavy and fucking ridiculous in your palm.

You give him one slow pull. A test run. Casual. Clinical.

And his head tips back instantly.

“Ahh—god, yeah,” he groans, voice pitched low and raw like it just escaped him.

You blink. Stare. Something tightens low in your stomach, unexpected.

But before you can fully process the way that noise slithered into your spine and curled up there like it pays rent, he’s looking down again. Immediately. Because apparently the view of your hand jerking him off is not something he’s willing to miss.

His gaze drops to the contact like it’s life or death, pupils blown and mouth slightly parted. He looks wrecked already, and you’ve barely done anything.

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

So you keep moving. Slow. Measured. A couple more strokes, just to test what rhythm feels natural. Your hand adjusts automatically, finding that friction-slicked spot between too loose and too tight. Thumb brushes the underside near the head, not on purpose, but—

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

Pauses. Swallows. Licks his lips like he’s trying not to rush it.

“That’s good, but… here.”

His voice is soft now, like he’s trying not to scare you off. Like if he speaks too loud you might slap his dick and walk out.

And then his hand’s there. His actual hand.

The tatted one.

It swallows yours whole like it’s got a god complex. His fingers are longer, rougher, his palm calloused from guitar strings or camera work or something equally shitty—and it lands on top of yours like this is how. Like he can’t not touch. Like the need to guide is stronger than the need to just sit there and enjoy.

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

He doesn’t even do it weird. No pervy whisper, no ‘lemme show you, baby.’

Just—grips your hand, adjusts the angle, and starts moving it the way he would. His pace. His pressure. His exact rhythm.

He’s demonstrating. Demonstrating. The way he does it.

Which—Jesus. Okay. That’s a thing you’re watching now.

You track everything. How he drags you up to the head and tugs just a bit harder when you get there. Not painful, just… firmer. Intentional. Then down again—not all the way, not to the base. Just past halfway. Controlled. Like there’s a limit he doesn’t cross.

You assume it’s a sensitivity thing or maybe it just doesn’t feel good that far down. Maybe it’s one of those ‘my dick isn’t a joystick’ scenarios.

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it.

Mental note: no base. No excessive tug. Got it.

He lets go of your hand after a few strokes, slowly, and leans back just an inch—enough to say ‘your turn’. Still watching, though. Like a perv. Like a mentor.

Like both.

You copy what he showed you. Try to mimic the pressure, the pace, the not-too-tight but not-too-flimsy grip. Try to keep the motion smooth even though your brain’s busy yelling ‘are we seriously learning how he jerks off right now? is this real life?’

Apparently yes. It is. And it’s working.

Because he makes this sound. This little hhuhh in the back of his throat, barely audible but very much real. Not exaggerated. Just… a reaction.

You hold back a grin. Barely.

Pride hits low and hot in your chest like you just got an A on a test you forgot to study for.

Not because he said something—but because he didn’t.

That little exhale? That shift in his hips? That subtle fuck, yeah cue without words?

Validation.

Your eyes flick up. You want to see it. Read him.

But he’s not looking at you.

Still staring at your hand. Brows drawn, mouth slack.

And then—

His front teeth catch his bottom lip. Plush, pink, a little too soft for how filthy he is, and he bites. Not hard. Just enough for it to dimple inward and make something flicker behind his lashes.

The kind of flicker that screams overthinking, like maybe the feeling’s a little too good, and he’s trying to ground himself with pain or pressure or… whatever the fuck goes on in his chaos brain when he’s like this.

Then comes the sound.

Somewhere between a hiss and a grunt, like his body can’t decide if it wants to breathe through it or fuck into it.

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

“Also,” he breathes out, voice crackly and uneven now, “do… do this. Look.”

His hand comes up before you can ask what this is.

Big, again. His palm wraps around yours like he’s your goddamn training wheels. Not even pretending it’s not a tutorial anymore.

His fingers press lightly into your skin, adjusting your grip—less on the full stroke now and more—

“There,” he mutters, repositioning your thumb, sliding it higher.

Right to that spot beneath the crown. Soft little groove. Just barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention.

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

“You feel that?” he says, voice dipping. “Right under. The… fuckin’—yeah, that. That’s the spot.”

You nod a little, but your eyes don’t leave your hand, now with your thumb angled like a pressure point. Like you’re disarming a bomb with one finger.

His voice drops again.

“Okay, now when you stroke—” his hand moves yours with his, slow and controlled, “—pull up like that, and when you hit the top, tighter there—yeah, squeeze just a little—and your thumb… drag it with you.”

He does it again. Once. Then twice. Demonstrating like this is a team sport and you’re in pre-game drills.

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is.

Doesn’t matter. What matters is how his breath stutters when you pass over it, how his mouth goes a little slack while he watches.

“That’s the shit, Nix,” he says, almost like it’s to himself. Like he’s taking mental notes on his own cock. “That right there.”

Then he lets go again. Fingers slip away from yours, slow.

And he licks his lips as he leans back into the couch, arm flopping over the top cushion like he’s trying to play it cool again, even though he’s still watching you like a fucking hawk.

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly.

Same rhythm. Same pressure. Same thumb glide up the underside, and—

“Fuck.”

That one’s not breathy. Not soft. Full-bodied groan. Low and honest, punched out of his chest like his lungs just gave up the ghost for a second.

You do it again. And again.

Thumb dragging against that spot every time you pull up. Your grip tightening near the crown, loosening at the glide down.

He melts.

That’s the only word for it.

His whole body sinks into the cushions like gravity just tripled. Thighs open wider, neck drops back over the edge of the couch, mouth hanging open now like he’s past the point of pretending he’s unaffected.

“Fuck, yeah—that is…” he pants, lips parted, eyes fluttering before he forces them open again, zeroing in on your hand like it’s holy. “That’s fucking perfect, Nix. Jesus Christ, you’ve got magic fingers or some shit.”

Your smirk barely hides itself.

He’s a talker. You knew that. But this? This is next level.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be good with your hands,” he groans, eyes flicking from your fingers to your face and back down again, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say more but can’t help himself. “Just like that, just like that—shit, that’s so fucking good—”

Your thumb twitches tighter without thinking, and his hips flinch.

And it’s so fucking dumb, the way your stomach flips at the reaction. Like you’re the one being touched. Like you got your nerve endings scraped raw by one tiny squeeze.

But there it is—his hips flinching, a twitch so fast you might’ve missed it if you weren’t laser-focused on every damn micro-expression crawling across his face.

His mouth opens for half a second like he’s gonna say something, maybe crack a joke, maybe tell you to go harder—but then—

He chokes a breath.

Like it gets stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat, all tangled up in want.

It is shaky, and it hitches like it costs him something to let it out.

Like just existing through this is work.

And you see it—the way his pupils expand even more, ink bleeding into every millimeter of brown.

He’s not blinking. He’s not moving, not really. Just chest rising and falling way too slow, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might snap this thread thin tension.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself. Because he’s staring. Still. At your hand, yeah, but also your face now.

Like watching you react is part of the pleasure. Like your mouth is more interesting than porn.

And okay. Maybe you’re a little into that.

Maybe that’s why your hand tightens again. Just a little. Not even on purpose this time, more like instinct. Your thumb swipes over that spot again, light and smooth and mean, and his chest fucking jerks.

Then—

A noise. Escapes him. Not a groan. Not a moan either. It’s like a stuttered-out puff of sound that crackles in his throat on its way up, all gritty and broken, like it got caught in static.

And right after that, so soft you almost miss it, he says:

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

Your pulse jumps like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Even though you haven’t. Not really. Just… hand stuff. Just skin and muscle and spit and heat.

But his voice? It’s not filthy when he says it. It’s awestruck. Like he’s seeing a fucking shooting star. Like it’s something to be whispered.

Your mouth.

It echoes weird in your head. Bounces off all your internal walls.

You blink up at him, eyes dragging from the handjob, and you look at his face.

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

Not to God. Not even to you. To the feeling. To the moment. To the idea of your mouth on him.

And for some reason, your voice is already moving before your brain can catch it. “What do you want from my mouth?”

You don’t say it cute. Don’t coo. You’re not flirting. You’re daring. Like if he says something you don’t like, you��ll bite down instead of suck.

He blinks. Laughs, almost. Not like it’s funny—more like it surprised him. The way you said it. Like you slapped him with your voice.

Then, low and kind of incredulous: “What do you think I want, Nix?”

And he grins when he says it. Real slow. Not smug. Not sleazy. Just… real. Like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked and he’s giving you a minute to catch up. To get there on your own. Like maybe you’re the dumb one for asking when the answer’s right there, hard and twitching and shiny in your grip.

You glance up through your lashes because fuck it, might as well lean into the trope while you’re down here. Might as well make it mean something.

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

Like his whole respiratory system shorts out. You hear it, barely—a tiny gulp, some micro sound buried deep in his throat like a trapped hummingbird.

Fragile and desperate.

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

Like a ‘fuck’ slips out of the space around you. Not even from his mouth. Just—exists.

As if the universe itself groaned.

And you know he felt it too because he looks at you like you just made the sun blink.

His hand lifts again, slow.

Fingers curl gently around your face, brushing the hair out of your eyes—not rough, not fast. Just… precise. Like he needs to see you. Like eye contact is currency and he’s suddenly flat broke.

You don’t move. Just let him. Let his thumb skim your cheek. Let his gaze drag over your face like it’s got weight behind it. Like you’re something he doesn’t want to blink away from.

And then—his voice. Low. Warm. Calm in that way that feels like it’s trying to keep a leash on something unhinged underneath.

“Suckle the crown a bit while you keep your hand moving. Up and down. Not fast, just… keep rhythm.”

You blink.

That phrasing.

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

Because he says it like he’s thought about this. Like it’s not just a ‘hey, mouth on cock now’ moment, but something he’s imagined.

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

“Focus on the tip. You don’t gotta go all in yet. Just use your tongue. Like… tease the slit a little. Then suck around it. Not too hard. Gentle. Like you’re figuring it out.”

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

And your hand’s still on him—hasn’t left. Just slick and steady, lazy little drags up and down his shaft with your thumb gliding right under the head like he showed you.

You shift forward. Let your lips ghost over the tip. Let him feel your breath first. Not teasing, not on purpose. Just… checking the temperature.

You feel the tension ripple through his thigh when you finally close your lips over him—soft, just the crown. Mouth warm and wet as it envelops the head, not too much suction yet. Just heat.

And then—yeah. You suckle. Gentle at first. Not a full draw, more of a tug.

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

One of those sounds again. Low. Raspy. A curse swallowed before it could hit air.

Your hand doesn’t stop. You keep it moving—slow pumps that glide down, then back up, thumb still catching that spot he likes every time you reach the top.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice low and rough around the edges. “That’s it. That’s—fuck—that’s the perfect pressure. Mmhm. Yeah.”

His words come in stilted bursts, like they’re being dragged out of him against his will.

“Keep… keep moving your hand while—ughhnn—keep sucking the tip.”

You do as he says because what else are you supposed to do? You’re not about to stop now—not when he’s making noises like that, not when his cock twitches every time your tongue flicks over the slit.

But there’s this nagging thought in the back of your mind, this tiny voice that won’t shut up:

Why isn’t he telling you to take the whole thing already?

Isn’t that what most guys want? The whole deep-throat porn star routine? You’ve read enough smut (done it a couple times too) to know how this is supposed to go—or at least how it usually does.

But Jungkook?

He seems… content. Like he’s not in any rush to shove himself down your throat.

Maybe he doesn’t want to rush it? Or maybe he’s just weird like that?

Your eyes flick down to your hand. Analyze the movement. The rhythm. The way your fingers wrap around him, snug and slick, dragging up and down with just enough pressure to make him twitch but not enough to push him over.

You remember how he did it. The angle. The squeeze. The way his thumb skimmed that spot under the head like it was a fucking button.

You mimic it again. Just to see.

And that’s when he exhales. Soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to let it out but can’t help himself.

The sound drips from his lips like water hitting a rooftop—quiet, but sharp. A little hiss of breath that makes your thighs clench.

Then—

“Look at me.”

It’s not a command. Not barked. Just… said. Low and even. Like he’s asking for something simple. Like it’s no big deal.

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him.

Not on purpose, really.

It’s just—you’re embarrassed now, okay?

You don’t want to look up and see his smug face while you’ve got his tip in your mouth like some idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing. So you keep your eyes trained downward, focusing on the task at hand (and mouth).

“Nix,” he says again, more pointed this time. “C’mon. Eyes up.”

You want to bite him for that tone alone—like he’s daring you or something—but reluctantly, you glance up through your lashes. More of a glare than anything else because fuck him for making demands right now.

He huffs out a laugh at your expression, shaking his head slightly like you’re hopeless or something equally annoying.

“No, not like that. Like… big. Wide.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a grin: “Make your eyes pop.”

You pull off his cock with an audible pop of its own because what the actual fuck is he talking about now?

Your brows knit together as you scowl up at him, and he looks back at you with those stupid boba eyes of his—round and inquisitive like he doesn’t realize how ridiculous he sounds right now.

“Make them pop?” you echo, incredulous. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

He looks at you. Blinks once. Then shrugs, like he’s just now realizing how stupid he sounds.

“I don’t know, man. Just—make ‘em all wide and cute.”

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

“You want me to look dumb and innocent while I suck your cock? That’s what you’re into?”

His eyes widen. “No—Jesus, no. Not like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? Because you sound like a creep.”

He groans. “God, you’re always so fucking blabbermouthed.”

“And you’re always so fucking vague,” you shoot back.

He glares at you. “I don’t mean, like—virgin vibes, okay? I mean that look you get. When you’re being a little shit. When you’re pushing buttons and pretending you’re not. That’s what I like.”

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “I want you to suck my fucking cock like it’s all you want, while pretending you’re not sucking my soul through it. That’s what I’m talking about. Not some weird creepy thing.”

“Oh.”

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again.

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

He rolls his eyes, but his cock hasn’t softened. If anything, it’s thicker now. Heavier. The head flushed a deeper pink, veins more prominent. Like he gets off on arguing with you. Like this whole back-and-forth is foreplay.

And maybe it is. He’s already said twice he likes it when you’re mouthy.

Is this what he wants? You pretending you don’t know what you’re doing while you absolutely do?

You take a deep breath before shifting forward again—this time making a conscious effort to widen your eyes as much as possible while looking up at him through your lashes.

Big and round and innocent or whatever. Like you have no idea what effect this is having on him—even though the way his breath catches in his throat tells you exactly what kind of power you hold right now.

And yeah… maybe this is what he wants: you, pretending not to know exactly what you're doing while totally knowing anyway.

So that’s what you give him.

Wide eyes locked on his face as your lips part once more—and then slowly close around the head of his cock again.

And then, your hand moves faster.

Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just—more. More pressure, more rhythm, more confidence. Like your body’s finally synced up with his. Like you’ve figured out the exact tempo that makes him twitch and grunt and grip the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And he’s feeling it.

Hard (okay that was kinda funny, don’t deny it).

You can tell by the way his thighs tense under your palms, muscles flexing every time your fist glides down his shaft and back up again. By the way his abs jump when your thumb flicks under the head. By the way he’s breathing now—through his teeth, through his throat, like he’s trying not to make noise but losing the battle.

You keep your mouth soft around the tip. Suction just enough to make it wet and warm and tight. Tongue moving in slow, deliberate waves underneath—right there, under the crown, where he’s taught you he’s most sensitive.

And it’s funny, because you can feel it. The way he jerks every time your tongue drags across that spot, the way his cock pulses in your mouth like it’s trying to say yes, that, again, more.

And you don’t stop.

You keep eye contact, too. Big, wide, innocent. Like you’re not doing anything special. Like you’re just here, hanging out, casually ruining his life with your mouth.

He looks down at you, and his face is—fuck.

Wrecked.

Brows scrunched, mouth half open, eyes glassy like he’s buffering. Like his brain’s trying to load the next thought but keeps getting stuck on your lips.

Then he groans.

Low and guttural and sharp, like it got dragged out of his chest with a hook.

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

His voice breaks halfway through the word, like his throat just gave up. His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of the couch, knuckles white.

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

You swirl your tongue again, slow and mean, and he whines. Actually whines. Like a kicked puppy.

“I’m gonna—” he pants, hips twitching up into your fist, “—I’m gonna bust a fat nut, I swear to god—”

You snort around him. Can’t help it. The phrase is so fucking stupid, so him, and so hot in the dumbest possible way.

He hears it. Groans again. Throws his head back against the couch cushion and drags a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“Don’t laugh at me, you little—fuck, that tongue—”

You do it again. That wave motion. Just to be a menace. Just to see if he’ll break.

He does.

"Y-you have no idea," he pants, Adam's apple bobbing frantically as he swallows between words. "No fucking clue what you do to me when you—hnngh—when you stare up at me with those goddamn eyes while my cock's in your mouth."

His voice is all over the place now. Cracked. Desperate. Like he's trying to keep it together but you're not giving him a single inch of relief.

"Angel," he breathes, and okay, that’s a first (but at least it’s not ‘baby’, ew?) "You're gonna make me cum so hard. So fucking hard I might black out."

Your tongue flicks again—right against that sensitive bundle—and his whole body jerks like you've touched a live wire.

"Christ,” he hisses through clenched teeth. "I can't—I can't even—"

You keep going.

Hand stroking faster. Tongue teasing. Mouth suctioning just the tip, just the crown, just enough to make him lose his mind.

"Nix," he warns, voice strained and desperate. "I'm right there. Right fucking there. You're about to make me—"

His cock pulses against your tongue, the tip growing impossibly harder, slick and hot and heavy in your mouth as his whole body gets visibly ready to detonate.

“Nix,” he pants, voice raw and desperate. “Nix, I’m—I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

His breath catches. Swallowed back like it’s too big to spit out. His whole chest stutters with it, like the air’s too thick to pull in, like the pressure’s building faster than he can handle.

“Y’tongue,” he gasps, barely coherent, hips twitching up into your fist. “Stick—god, god god—stick it out f’me. Stick that pretty tongue out f’me, Nix. C’mon—”

You don’t hesitate. You just do it. Mouth popping off the head with a wet little tsk, tongue sliding out slow and flat, glistening with spit and still tinged with the taste of him.

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

“Look at—” he starts, but you’re already there.

Already staring up at him with those same wide, round eyes he asked for.

Tongue out, lips parted, face tilted up like you’re waiting for it.

He jerks forward, one hand flying to his cock, wrapping around himself and taking over.

Fast.

Rough.

Desperate.

Like he’s been holding back too long and now he’s got seconds left before he combusts.

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

And then—he breaks. Makes these little grunting, bitten-off noises—like he’s trying to hold them in but can’t. Like every spasm punches another sound out of him. Cums. Hard.

Hot, thick ropes strip across your face—cheeks, lips, chin.

Some of it hits your tongue, sticky and salty and obscene.

It drips down your jaw, slides over your skin in messy, wet streaks, and he’s still going. Still twitching. Still jerking himself through it like he’s trying to drain every last drop.

“Oh my god—” he chokes out, voice cracking. “Oh my fucking god—”

His head tips back, eyes blown wide and mouth slack with disbelief.

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

And he sounds so, so wrecked while he says it, that you can’t help but believe him.

Like it’s the filthiest thing he’s ever said. Or maybe the most honest.

You don’t know why your chest twists into knots.

You don’t know why his eyes, hazed, dizzy, looking down at you is suddenly one of your favorite views.

But you did it. You excelled at it.

And Jungkook liked it.

That’s what matters.

He gives his cock a few lazy strokes, working the last drops out like he’s wringing water from a sponge, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.

Your eyes catch on the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone and the way his lips are parted just enough for his tongue to dart out to wet them.

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.”

Another breath, deeper this time, like he’s trying to find his footing again.

“That was fucking amazing.”

You smile—small, sly, the kind of smile that doesn’t need to try too hard.

“That easy, huh?”

He snorts, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it’s fallen into his eyes.

“When you’ve got a mouth like yours? Yeah.”

The compliment shouldn’t make your cheeks warm. It’s just Jungkook being Jungkook, all cockiness and shameless flirting. But still, you feel a flutter of… something.

Pride, maybe. Or just the lingering high of having him completely at your mercy.

You push yourself up from your knees slowly, legs stiff from being on the tile for too long. There’s a moment where you think he might reach out to steady you—his hand twitches like it’s considering it—but he doesn’t. Just watches as you stand and brush your hands down your thighs like that’ll somehow make this whole thing feel less messy.

“Gonna clean this mess up,” you say, already turning toward the bathroom before he can respond.

“Want me to help?” His voice follows you—soft but not hesitant. Like it’s just something he’d offer anyone without thinking twice about it.

You pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder at him.

He’s still seated on the couch, pants and boxers shoved down his hips, shirt rumpled and sticking to his skin in places. He looks ridiculous and hot at the same time—like someone who just got thoroughly wrecked but hasn’t quite figured out how to pull himself back together yet.

And for some reason—maybe because he asked so easily—you feel your throat tighten awkwardly.

“Uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing against the edge of the doorway as you try to find the right words. “No. No, I’m fine.”

He doesn’t say anything at first—just purses his lips slightly and nods like he’s accepting your answer even if he doesn’t entirely believe it.

It should be awkward, but it’s… not. Not entirely. Just unfamiliar.

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

“…But thank you,” you add quickly before darting into the bathroom like a coward.

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

You lean against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to process what just happened. Not just the blowjob—that part’s easy enough to compartmentalize—but the rest of it.

Not the banter either, you do that too.

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even.

Like maybe being friends with Jungkook wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Maybe that’s why you step out after cleaning your face, instead of hiding in your room like you normally would.

Maybe that’s why your eyes search for his as you enter the living room.

He’s already sprawled out like nothing happened. One arm stretched across the back cushions, legs spread wide in that annoying way men always seem to take up space. He’s even cracked one of the floor-to-ceiling windows open, letting in a cool breeze that’s slowly clearing out the lingering scent of sex.

Griffin’s curled against his side, purring loudly as Jungkook absently scratches under his chin. The cat gives you a lazy blink when you appear, like he knows exactly what you’ve been doing and is judging you for it.

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. Your eyes drift to the TV—some car restoration show you don’t recognize playing—before finding their way back to him.

“So,” you start, the word hanging awkwardly in the air between you. “Do you have plans this afternoon?”

He looks up, one eyebrow quirked in mild surprise. “After you get off work, you mean?”

“Yeah.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’m done at five.”

Why is this awkward? You just had his dick in your mouth, for fuck’s sake. Asking about his schedule shouldn’t feel more intimate than that.

“No plans.” His fingers continue their gentle scratching behind Griffin’s ears, the cat purring so loudly you can hear it from where you’re standing. “Why? You offering something better than my thrilling agenda of watching YouTube guitar tutorials and ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “There’s this new exhibit at the MoMA I’ve been wanting to check out. Photography thing.”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter either way. Like you’re not actually inviting him to do something that doesn’t involve getting naked.

“Thought maybe you’d be into it. Being a film major and all.”

“Phoenix wants to hang out with me? Voluntarily? Without the promise of orgasms? I’m shocked.”

“Forget it,” you mutter, already turning toward your room. “It was just a thought.”

“Hey, no—wait.” He sits up straighter, disturbing Griffin who gives an annoyed meow. “I’m in. The photography exhibit sounds cool.”

You pause, glancing back at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and for once, there’s no teasing edge to his voice. “I’ll meet you after work? We could grab dinner after, if you want.”

“Sure.” You try to sound casual, like this isn’t the first time you’ve made actual plans together. “There’s this place in the East Village I’ve been wanting to try. Nothing fancy, just… food.”

“Food is good. I’m a fan of food.” He grins.

“Great. I’ll text you when I’m done.” You head toward your room, needing to get ready for work.

“Sure, Nix.”

As you close your bedroom door, you can’t help but wonder what the hell you’re doing. This feels suspiciously like the friendship you’ve been so adamantly avoiding.

But maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be the end of the world to actually enjoy his company with your clothes on for once.

Besides, you need to keep him occupied until eight. Yoongi had been very specific about the timing when he texted you this morning about Jungkook’s surprise birthday dinner.

Keep him out until 8. Taehyung and Hobi are setting up. Don’t mention ramen.

And yet, he hasn’t even spoken about his birthday to you.

What kind of person doesn’t mention their own birthday?

The same kind who makes protein pancakes and pretends everything’s fine when it’s clearly not, probably.

You check your phone. 9:15. Plenty of time to get ready for work and figure out how to navigate this strange new territory where you and Jungkook do normal people things together.

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable.

But not entirely wrong.

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⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim

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rcvcgers · 3 months ago

Text

Rotten Apples, pt. 5

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

part one , part two , part three , part four , part six , part seven , part eight , part nine , part ten

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: you attend your friend's bachelorette party and get really, really drunk. choices and calls are made. caleb shows up and things get heated!

word count: 8.9k words

warnings: not proofread! READER IS MESSY AND DRUNK!

author's note: hihi! things have spiced up! ooh la la ... i hope you enjoy the chapter! please comment because i love hearing what you all have to say!!!!!! please drink responsibly and make good choices!!!!!!!! also i haven’t written smut in a hot minute so please go easy on me!

content warning: it gets smutty. fingering, making out, tongues!, oral (f receiving), fingering, vulgar language, drunken consent given (REMEMBER TO ALWAYS GIVE CONSENT AND BE SOBER WHEN DOING IT OKAY THIS IS FICTION NOT REAL LIFE)

my rotten apples <3 : @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexireads , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @young-adult-summer , @bitchyzombienacho

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The bass from the nightclub’s speakers vibrates your body. The lights flash on and off, other club patrons jumping up and down as confetti is launched into the air. The silver and gold pieces fall from the ceiling. You tilt your chin up, mind in a complete and utter haze, as the shining pieces flutter onto your skin.

Jane, your friend and bride-to-be, takes your hands. The two of you stand in the middle of the packed dance floor. Sweaty bodies surround you, the air humid as you sing along to the song. Jane twirls in front of you and your hands attach to her waist, helping spin her under the spotlight. She pushes back into you. The two of you yell the song lyrics, dancing with each other, and watch as men stare up and down your bodies. You can barely make out her laughs from over the blaring music.

This is the third club of the night that you and Jane and her bachelorette party have gone to. In the heart of Linkon, there’s a whole city street lined with bars and clubs. It’s typically packed on the weekends. You’ve always driven by have never gone inside, sticking with the bars you know well, never daring to venture outside of your comfort zone.

So when you entered the third club of the night, which goes by the name of Kaleidoscope, you were enthralled when you came to the, very drunken, realization that you love dancing and drinking and having a good time with your friends. It’s a fantastic change of pace compared to the angsty days you’ve been enduring.

The alcohol and music was a good distraction from a certain someone who remained on your mind. You used the hands and touch of other men in the club, under the colorful flashes of lights, to replacing the tingling feeling on your lips and hips and waist.

Your night soon became blurred together. Jane and her friends kept passing you shots and drinks and you drowned them as soon as they touched your hand. You loved any drink they gave you. The fruity cocktails were fun to chug and they went down easy whereas the harder and stronger cocktails took you an extra second or two to finish.

It doesn’t matter what you drink, though! You aren’t planning on remembering this night anyways! So to hell with it! You’re going to have all the Dirty Shirley’s and Gin Fizz’s you want! Nobody is there to stop you from having a good time!

Especially not a tall, handsome man with the most perfect eyes in a uniform who has been on your mind all day.

He is not here to hinder your plan to get absolutely fucked.

Jane takes your hands, holding on tight, and guides the two of you out from the claustrophobic dance floor. The air becomes more and more pure, well, as pure as it can be, and you swear you can catch a whiff of plain air compared to the mixture of pungent colognes, sultry perfumes, and body odor from the dance floor.

“Another drink?” Jane slurs, smiling brightly at you. Her fiancé, who is just one of the greatest guys ever so you can’t even hate on him, was kind enough to get your group VIP treatment from the Kaleidoscope team. Your large booth sits to the side of the dance floor, which is in the center of the building, and you have three bottle girls waiting to help you out with drinks for the night.

“Excuuuuuse me?” Jane leans over the edge of the leather couch, drunkenly waving her hand around. You swat at her but miss, falling forward, unable to stop yourself. Your face lands into Jane’s chest and she giggles, pushing you off of her. One of the waitresses comes up to you two with a smile on her face. Jane fixes her hair and puts on her best behavior, smiling back, “May we please have…”

Her words trail off, leaving you and the waitress in an anticlimactic silence. She blinks and her eyes roll into the back of her head, the bride-to-be plopping into the back of the couch. You turn to the waitress, chuckling. Your body sways back and forth, vision slightly blurred, as you finish Jane’s request.

“Two waters? Please?” You talk slow, trying to annunciate your words as clear as you can for the waitress. She nods with a smile, shaking her head as she walks away. You nod, turning back to Jane, shaking her arm. “She does NOT get paid enough to deal with usssss! We’re the worst!”

“We’ll tip her,” Jane grumbles and waves her hand in your face. You smack it away and look at the dance floor.

The other bridesmaids dance with random men and women of their picking. Some of them are about to take their clothes off and turn this into a whole new club when the designated mother of the group stops them. You shake your head and laugh.

The entire bachelorette party is a whole bunch of idiots. Idiots who needed to get away from their domestic lives and have a night where they can act like the party girls they used to be. You raise an eyebrow, watching as one of Jane’s friend, who a literal mother, shoves her tongue down a random man’s throat.

“Get it, girl,” you whisper with a slow nod, drawing your attention back to Jane. She stares at you with big eyes, scaring you. You gasp and push her away but she comes right back, getting even close this time.

“Stop that.” She says.

“Stop…stop what?!” Your hand flies over your heart. You blink like your life depends on it, your drunken state slightly sobering from the encounter. Jane shrugs and falls back into the couch, staring at the disco ball that hangs over the table.

“It’s kinda weird that it’s just hanging there,” she points to the glass ball.

This whole interaction has you feeling such whiplash. You’re unsure of how you got to this point in the conversation.

“I guess…it’s kind of like a kaleidoscope,” you try your best to respond, the dizziness slowly leaving your mind. Your body stops spinning and your sways become a lot less noticeable. You sharply inhale and smile at the waitress who comes back with two water bottles. You take them and thank her. Just as she’s about to leave, Jane grabs her by the wrist, shooting up from the leather couch cushions.

“Fourteen porn star shots!” She collapses into the leather once again.

“She’s terrifying,” the waitress points to Jane.

“Yeah…she is…I’m so sorry about her,” you sheepishly smile at the woman but she rolls her eyes at you, walking the hell out of the VIP section.

“Have you found your prey yet?” Jane asks. Your turn and look down at her, one eyebrow perking up. “What? Did you already forget your plan on being a big ol’ slut?”

“I had a plan to be a slut?” You repeat.

“Not just any slut…….a BIG fuckin’ slut.” Jane holds her hands out as if she’s about to light up a sign. You laugh and take a water bottle, chugging it in one go. “Do you really not remember?”

You shake your head at her. Some of the girls from the party join you in the booth, just in time as the waitress comes back with a tray filled with the porn star shots Jane ordered. You swipe two of the plastic shot glasses from the tray, handing one to Jane. Her eyes are half-lidded, borderline closed, and she begins to slump over. You hold her up, one hand smushed against her face.

You drink your shot with ease, the drunkenness quickly finding its way back to you. Jane opens her mouth when you wave the shot glass in front of her face, making an airplane noise, before pouring it into her mouth. She smiles and lets out an “ahh” when she’s done.

“So,” a woman by the name of Tonya, one of Jane’s co-workers she’s bonded with, drops onto the couch next to you. You turn and face her, looking up. She’s tall and muscular. If you didn’t know any better, you’d give up your life if it means she’d give you a chance. Unfortunately, she’s married with kids. Bummer. “Have you found your man yet?”

“She hasn’t!” Jane’s hand pops up. It’s like she’s resurrected once again but is fully awake and present. She leans over you, taking Tonya’s hands. “We need to find her a hunk of a man so she can forget about Caleb!”

“Yes! Someone whose nickname is, like, ‘Minotaur’ or ‘The Machine’!” Tonya and Jane feed off of each other’s excitement. The rest of the group joins in, adding to the already long list of needs you have for your future man.

“He needs to be tall!”

“A lottttttt of muscle! Those shoulders are like handlebars, girl, you just need to hold on!”

“Someone who won’t come with any strings attached!”

“HIS COCK NEEDS TO BE HUGE TOO! If you ain’t gargling, you’re not doing it right!”

Horrified by the last comment, you stand from the couch, phone in hand. You take the last shot and drink it, the fruity liquors easily running down your throat. You look to the dance floor, trying to see if any of the men stand out to you. You sigh, sadness sweeping over your tipsy body.

You hate to admit it, but all you really want is him.

Him and his tall frame. Those violet eyes you can stare at for ages and never get tired of. You’ve seen his muscles through his clothes. His shoulders are strong and sturdy. You can still the lingering feeling of his lips on yours, the way his hands slipped under your shirt, calloused hands taking hold of your waist. He took control and you let him.

Wait — shit — no! Aren’t you supposed to hate him? He’s turned your life upside down in the span of a quick month. You can’t fantasize about him and his plush lips or the way he looks at you when you speak, making you feel so seen.

Fuck. You’re so fucking fucked.

Jane sneaks up from behind you. She snatches your phone from your hand. You gasp and lunge after her.

“Give that back!” You yell. Jane giggles and tosses the phone to Tonya, who tosses it to Noë, who then tosses it to Tally. You become dizzy with how fast they pass your phone back and forth, eventually finding yourself on the couch as a second wave of alcohol hits your body.

The calm you felt before? Oh honey, you were just in the eye of the storm.

“What are you...doing?” You slur, watching as Jane opens your phone. She stands in front of you, swaying to the music, as maniacal giggles leave her mouth.

“I know who to call to get you over your little Caleb problem,” Jane wiggles her eyebrows. You slowly sit up, tilting your head to the side. “Someone get rid of all the apples because a doctor is about to—”

You gasp and jump at her. You push Jane into the couch and she gasps, holding your phone away from you. The two of you look like drunken idiots, yes, but you simply cannot risk Jane calling Zayne. He’d only hate you more than he probably already does after the stunt you pulled last night by leaving him!

“Don’t!” You whine, reaching for the phone. You watch as your white screen turns into black. You squint, trying to focus on the name, but the words are blurred. With one final push, you slide forward and snatch the phone from her hand. Jane laughs and the other girls help her up.

“When you’re done with your little phone call,” Jane stumbles over her feet, pointing at you with droopy eyes, “come join us on the dance floor! And tell Zayne to bring his stethoscope for…foreplay reasons, I dunno, I’m drunk!” She cheers and throws her arms up in the air. You cover the phone’s microphone and nod, grimacing as the girls trot away. You look at the phone screen and press the big red button.

Nope. You can’t do it. You’re too big of a pussy.

You sit back down onto the couch. A few left over porn shots stare at you from the tray the waitress left behind. Your foot taps against the floor. From lack of better judgment and ignoring all rationality, you took the rest of the shots, immediately feeling them take effect on your body.

The leather couch squeaks as you roll down it. You stare at the ceiling of the club, feeling your body warm up, cheeks pink. You huff and pull out your phone. Sure, you can’t make out the letters of your contact list, but you have something to say to someone!

You just…don’t know what it is quite yet.

Your fingernail picks at the crack in your phone case. You gnaw on your bottom lip, staring at his phone number.

The day he first showed up, he saved you. After that, he’s made it a living nightmare of childhood trauma and jealousy. He even ruined your night with Zayne then made things worse by kissing you. You should be angry at him! You need to be mad at him and his charming smile and the way he says your nam as if it’s last time he’s going to say it.

Yeah! Give him a piece of your mind!

You press his string of numbers, not having saved his number yet out of pure pettiness, and bring the phone to your ear. The waitress swings by with a drink in hand, passing it off to you. You thank you and take a meager sip from the cool glass, the fruity cocktail hitting your tongue. It’s the perfect liquid courage you need to yell at Caleb.

“Are you okay?”

You scoff. Of course his first words to you are those of concern and not out of hatred. You laugh, throwing your head back, body moving with the momentum, moving with you.

“I hate you.” You slur into the microphone.

“You do?” Caleb doesn’t sound too surprised by your admission. “Why?” His question is deceptively simple.

“Because…” you hesitate, trying to think of the first thing to say, “because you faked your death. Or if you were, like, kidnapped or whatever I wouldn’t hold that against you and would completely understand.” You hiccup. Caleb doesn’t respond. You strain your ears to listen to his breathing, leaning into the phone. “I also hate how you got Darryl fired just because I don’t like him. And I hate that you ruined Zayne and I’s night because of your jealousy issues. Look, I get it. I’m a god damn catch,” you laugh, closing your eyes.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Stop! Stop that! Bad Caleb! Don’t care about me, boo,” you groan and pull the phone away from your face, flipping it off.

“Do you need me to come get you?” He says right as you bring the phone back to your ear. You sniffle and shake your head no.

“Don’t come here! Because if you do, I don’t know if I’ll be able to not kiss you again, you bastard.”

“You…want to kiss me?”

“Yes! But I don’t like you! Keep up,” you roll your eyes and groan. Are you even making sense right now?

“Where are you?” He asks.

“I’m not telling you! You’re not gonna find me and act like my hero, no thanks!” You vehemently deny what you assume to be his plan, which is actually very accurate.

“Just tell me. I’ll stop by for a minute for proof of life, how about that?” He asks. In the background, you can hear the faint sounds of him grabbing his keys and wallet. He’s heading to the door!

“Caleb! I’m not gonna tell—”

“How’s everyone doing tonight? The Kaleidoscope Team wants to give a shoutout to Jane and her bachelorette party!”

The club’s DJ interrupts you mid sentence. You fall silent, listening as rap air horns blare off after the announcement. The music continues afterward.

“Well…that’s just unfortunate timing,” you mumble into the phone.

“I’ll see you soon.” Caleb ends the call, leaving you staring at a white phone screen.

Well shit. That just made things worse.

You got this, though! You can do it! You know what’s going to help More alcohol! Maybe you can blend into the crowd and hide in plain sight! He’ll never find you in the crowd!

Oh, to be a fool with a drunkard’s courage.

You meet with Jane and the other bridesmaids at the bar. A cup is pushed into your hand as soon as you approach, replacing it with your empty cup. You take a sip but Jane moves it back onto the counter, pulling you away.

“Is he coming?” She asks, drawing you closer and closer to the dance floor. You flash a toothy grin at her, slowly easing your body into beat with the music.

“I’d rather not think about it!” You call back with a shrug. The two of you slip into the crowd, keeping hold of each other with a hand. You move to the center, right underneath a spotlight. A few others are lit with you. The light casts dark shadows on your face and temporarily blinds you.

You catch flashes of your friend but can’t get a good image. At one point, you lose her hand and are pushed to the edge of the light’s rim. You lose your breath, hands touch and grab you, pushing you in and out of vacant spaces, filling in anywhere there’s air to breathe. You don’t even know how much time has passed since you’ve been dancing, being a partner to all.

Your body moves with the beat of the music. You laugh and tilt your chin up, your back connecting with a muscular chest. Their large hands attach to your sides. Their fingers slip along the thin material of your dress. One arm drifts down to your hip, fingers digging into your sides, threatening to slip further down. The other snakes up your chest, his fingers making themselves at home around your neck, fingertips tapping your jawline.

Your gasp meets Caleb’s face, his eyes shadowed from the harsh lighting. Goosebumps litter your skin, shivers running down your spine. A pool of warmth forms between your legs. You’re helpless against his touch, immediately melting into his body.

“Did you want me to come find you?” Caleb murmurs into your ear. He leads you two away from the spotlight, moving underneath the shadows, only being seen when flashes of light strobe by. Darkness overtakes your vision. You attach your hand to the arm that holds your neck. You firmly hold his wrist, pulling against him, but he dips his head down, lips grazing against your neck.

Caleb holds you as you squirm against his chest. You two are frozen in place, the rest of the world around you jumping and dancing to the music, the attention on themselves instead of others around them. He slowly inhales, your intoxicating perfume making place in his memory. The tip of his nose drags across the skin of your neck. His hand moves across your body, his palm pushing into your lower stomach. A groan escapes your lips.

“Caleb,” you breathe out, feeling his lips graze a sensitive part of your neck. You push back into him, his hardened crotch poking into your ass.

Fuck. He’s made this so much more difficult.

“We’re going home,” he mutters into your ear. Suddenly, his hot touch leaves your body. You whine, feeling his fingers curl around your wrist. You pull away his touch, not wanting to leave the protection of darkness and music. You want to stay hidden with him. You don’t want to face reality just yet.

“Dance with me,” you yell over the music. Caleb turns to look at you. The lights stop flickering on and off, the white hues turning to gold as the music comes to a swell.

The world moves in slow motion. Caleb slowly takes a step towards you. A tipsy smile graces your face, your cheeks the perfect shade of pink and your eyes half-droopy form the alcohol. His purple eyes are darkened and dangerous. You’re unable to tell what exact emotion he’s feeling.

It’s…thrilling.

You manage to pull your hand from his. The flashing lights return. You’re cloaked in flashes of blood oranges and purples, your body seemingly moving in slow motion as you lure Caleb back to you.

He watches you closely. Your eyes are still the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Your hips sway back and forth, drawing him closer and closer, as the hues of the room change between warm and cold tones. Your skirt slips up your legs, revealing more and more bare skin you have to offer. The music vibrates his body, drowning out the screaming voice in his head telling him to get you out of there, to whisk you to his hotel room and take care of you where you can be alone together.

You are just so beautiful. The way your body dances to the music. He loves how the club’s lights illuminate your eyes, your hair taking on the color of the purple and orange lights form above. Caleb loves how carefree you look right now. There is nothing holding you back.

No fears. No restrictions you’ve made for yourself. None of your walls are up.

Caleb wishes to see this version of you when you’re sober. He hopes that one day he’ll make you feel safe enough to just let go.

Caleb grabs your hips, pulling your back against him. Your body continues to move to the music, your hands sliding up his chest, making themselves at home on his shoulders. You bite your lip and squeeze his muscles. They’re rock hard under your touch. It causes you to shudder from desire.

Your hands move up his neck and to the back of his head. You play with the bottom layer of his hair, giving it a gentle tug. He groans and drops his head down to yours. He leans into you, his breath hot against the skin of your neck.

“I thought you hated me,” you can barely hear his words over the music. You shake your head, falling deeper into the blissful feeling that crashes throughout your body. Your body moves against his, helping him fall in beat to the music, before turning around in his arms, pushing yourself back into him.

You’re making it so difficult for him to not lose control, to not drag you away and punish you for all the teasing you’ve put him through. You are so merciless when it comes to him. Are you the same way with Zayne?

Caleb groans. Your intoxication rubs off on him, his head now feeling dazed and hazy underneath the club’s atmosphere.

“I do hate you,” you breathe out, his lips now attaching to your neck. He bites down onto your skin, causing you to gasp. Your ass grinds into his hardened cock, the man burying his fingers into your waist. “I especially hate the way you kissed me.”

“You do?” Caleb peppers open mouthed kisses along your neck. You nod, shivering under his touch. He hooks his right arm around your stomach, keeping you firmly pressed against him. His left hand drops to your thigh, slipping under the skirt. His fingertips dance along your skin, swirling small patterns into your skin.

“I hate the way you make me feel,” you gasp when he bites down on a spot below your jaw, sucking and kissing your skin. He leaves marks in his wake, slowly covering the side of your neck with dark red outlines of his mouth.

“Let’s go home,” he breathes into your ear. You push against is hand, wanting to get away, but he pulls you right back into him. “I’m not leaving you. Never again.”

“I don’t want to go,” you drunkenly whine. Your hands drop to his arm, peeling it away from your body. You slip from his grasp but he’s quick to grab you. You stand at an arm’s length from him. Your mind feels fuzzy and the club’s music becomes muffled. You giggle, looking at your connected hands. You’re quick to interlock your fingers with his. Caleb certainly isn’t complaining about it.

“You’re drunk,” he pulls you back to him. Your chests collide. You look down and bite your lip, pressing into him even more, watching as your boobs threaten to spill out from the low cut fabric. “Let me take you home.”

“Booooooooo,” you roll your eyes, pushing away and giving him two thumbs down. You drop his hands and turn around, quickly evading his hands. Caleb groans, staying close behind you as you weave through the crowd of dancing bodies.

Thank goodness he aced aerial pursuits when he was at the DAA Academy.

He looks away for a moment, trying to see where the rest of your bachelorette group is. You’ve been posting selfies on your story, a lot of them provocative, showcasing your body with a less than innocent face.

You were torturing the poor man while he waited in his hotel room, trying his best to pinpoint your location before he lost control.

A random man grabs your hand. He yanks you to him and you let out a surprised gasp. Your bodies press together, the man’s hands dipping down to your ass. He grinds against you, squeezing your ass. You tilt your head at him, shaking your head.

“Wait…” you groan, hands on his chest, “you’re not—”

Caleb breaks free from the crowd and spots you. He sees red and storms over to you and the man. He uses his Evol to rip the man off of you. He grabs the man’s arm and under the darkness, he twists it backwards with such force that it snaps in half.

“Who gave you permission to touch her?” Caleb barks in the man’s face. The man whimpers and he drops him, turning around. He looks at you to see if you watched him but you were too busy spinning away and stumbling towards the bar.

You giggle to yourself, your body feeling light and airy despite the weighted feeling between your legs. The bar top comes into view and you lean onto it, looking for a bartender. People push into you from both sides but you push back, making space for yourself.

Caleb takes the spot behind you, his arms acting as barriers. He takes all of the hits from the surrounding people, his mouth hovering next to your ear. A raspy chuckle leaves his lips. You gulp, suddenly feeling tiny in front of him, and glance at him from over your shoulder. Your eyes meet his piercing stare. You push your legs together.

“You’re going to cause me a lot of trouble tonight, aren’t you?” He whispers into your ear. He leans his face into the back of your neck, seeking solace in your marked skin and addictive perfume. He sighs, his breath sending goosebumps to form all over your body.

Your core aches. You fight the urge to push back into him, suddenly remembering that you hate him and don’t want to do anything with him…or do you? Your mind and emotions are too much of a mess right now to make sense out of what you want.

Sure, you want Caleb. But is your need for him that from love or has it been born out of pure lust?

You turn forward, blinking rapidly as some of the effects of alcohol leaves your body. Feeling slightly sober, you clear your throat and tap your fingers on the lit bar top.

“I’m not doing anything with you,” you state, voice shaking.

“Oh?” He muses. “Your words aren’t exactly lining up with what your body is telling me, pretty bird.”

Pretty bird. Is that his new nickname for you?

You freeze. Your heart melts at the sound of the nickname, a quiet desire-filled sigh leaving your mouth. You can feel Caleb smile against the skin of your neck, pressing new and gentle kisses on top of the hickeys he left behind.

“You should leave,” you stammer. He shakes his head. To your left, Jane and Tonya wiggle their way to the bar. They gasp for air. Caleb keeps his head where it is, which is on your right side, his face obscured by your hair. Jane and Tonya finally look at you and your shocked expression.

“Is this…” Tonya points to the man behind you.

“Yes!” Jane squeals, shaking Tonya’s arm, “She found her Minotaur! Her Machine!”

Upon hearing the nicknames, and feeling you shake your head, Caleb peels his face from your neck, putting on his most charming and handsome smile on his face. Jane and Tonya blink at him, jaws dropping.

“Where can I find a Machine like that?” Jane purrs. Tonya hits her arm.

“Babe, you’re getting married.”

“Shit. You’re right,” Jane looks at you, waving her finger between you and Caleb. “This is the random man you picked out? Good job.”

“Random?” Caleb pulls away form you, getting a better look at your face. He raises an eyebrow and smirks, his arm muscles flexing. “Don’t tell me you were going to find another guy to fuck, pretty bird.”

“Wait!” Jane slaps her hand onto Caleb’s forearm. She yanks him away from you and you’re able to breathe again. “Are you the Caleb? Cause we all know Zayne! But we don’t know you just yet…you know. Since we’re college friends with her.”

Caleb’s eye twitches at the mention of Zayne. He glances at you and all you can do is look away and order a drink from the bartender.

“What can I do to help sway your opinions of me? How about I buy a round for my pretty bird’s lovely friends?” Caleb’s sweet talk always works. You roll your eyes while your friends swoon.

“Oh! And you have that Colonel salary…good man! What a gentleman! I don’t know why she hates you!” Tonya claps her hands together. Caleb laughs with them and he pulls out his wallet, handing his card to the stressed out bartender.

Your gaze flickers between Caleb and your friends, then they look at an empty space beside you. He’s to busy talking with your friends so you slip away.

“Tell me what I need to do to get back on her good side,” Caleb smiles at Jane, Tonya, and the rest of the crew. They all immediately burst into conversation, speaking over each other. Caleb pays attention to what they have to say, taking in mental notes. The bartender passes him a beer bottle and he takes it, knowing damn well that he’s going to need it if you’re keeping him trapped here.

Caleb shifts his weight to his back foot, his butt hitting nothing but air. He passes. He slowly turns on his heel and his purple eyes immediately scan the immediate area around him.

Where the fuck did you go?

He turns back to the group, Jane catching his eye. She drunkenly snorts, her words slurred when the worst words he can hear leave her lips.

“She’s a runner!”

Well…shit. That’s not a fun aspect of you being drunk, is it? Caleb shakes his head, chuckling from surprise and frustration. That’s okay. He’ll find you. He always does.

He leans away from the bar and looks around. His eyes scan the tops of many other women’s heads. None of them are yours. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, turning back to the bar.

Okay…this is going to be a little more complicated than he thought it was going to be.

Caleb closes his eyes and takes another sip from the beer bottle. He stays where he is, drinking up all the alcohol in one go. Cheers erupt from around him, the bachelorette party howling from his side, as a voice rings out from the speakers.

“Alright ladies! It’s time to show us what you got!”

Caleb opens his eyes and rests his elbow on the edge. His gaze is met with a familiar looking pair of legs. He glances down, tilting his head to the side. The woman is wearing the same platform heels as you. The Colonel’s purple eyes trail up your leg, his lips parting, when he catches a glimpse of your exposed skin under your skirt. His eyes travel up farther, landing on your goofy smile and the way you drag your hands across your body, dancing along to the music.

Caleb clears his throat, his pants feeling tighter than before, and looks around. Men watch you, drool falling from their mouths, as you put on a show for them. He groans and uses his Evol to make them look away from you.

You’re his to look at. You’re his to devour, to take. Not theirs.

Caleb chews the inside of his cheek. He looks at your legs, gaze drifting up. He shamelessly looks under your dress. It’s completely bare underneath except for a pair of lacy black panties. The man groans, his hand caressing your shin and calf.

“We’re going home,” he says. You look down at him and shake your head. You kick his touch away and prance in the other direction, earning more and more cheers from the crowd. Your skirt flicks up and he catches a glimpse of your ass.

Fuck.

Caleb follows you down the bar, shoving past people. They yell at him, telling him to fuck off, but he pays no attention to them.

Enough is enough. You aren’t going to listen to him, that’s fine, but my dear, actions have consequences and you are not immune to what Caleb is about to do to you.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” Caleb uses his Evol against you. Your feet lift from the ground and you gasp, not enjoying the sudden feeling of weightlessness. With a flick of his hand, you’re back on the ground next to him. He snatches your hand in his and drags you away from the bar top. People boo him but you give them waves, blowing kisses to them.

Caleb’s mind is fried. He keeps you close to him, dragging you behind as he finds solace in a darkened and somewhat empty hallway. There are a few people scattered throughout, immersed in their own conversations. He heads to the back. You stumble over your feet. You try your best to pry his hand off of your wrist but it’s of no use.

Caleb stops walking but pulls you in front of him. He turns you around and before you can even comprehend what’s happening, he has you pressed up against a wall under the darkness. A single light hangs over you. Its light is dim and creates dramatic shadows on Caleb’s face while yours is soft under the light.

“You…drive me crazy,” Caleb’s breathing is ragged. He presses his hand next to to your head, trapping you against the wall. Your body shovers, panties soaking from your sudden desire. Your legs squeeze together to try and hide it from him.

You watch as he lifts his free hand to your face. The tips of his fingers graze your face. He cups your cheek, the pad of his thumb resting against your bottom lip. It’s quiet, the music being drowned out from distance and the ringing in your ears. He pulls your bottom lip down, a slight smirk forming on his face.

“What am I going to do with you?” Caleb’s voice is raspy. A surge of warmth hits your lower abdomen, legs squeezing tighter as your pussy throbs from his simple question.

Caleb leans down, thumb still on your bottom lip, closing the distance. His lips graze against yours.

“C-Caleb…” you breathe his name out. You push your face up to his but it’s his turn to play coy now. He draws back and shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Use your words, pretty bird.”

“Kiss me. Please.”

You’re desperate for him. For his touch. You crave the way his lips mold to yours. You love how he effortlessly takes control, that you can shut your mind off around him and know that you’re going to be safe.

Caleb looks at you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the way your voice is so breathy, so needy for him. He admires the way your lips parted for him. He swipes his thumb over your glossy lip. He needs to know what your lip gloss tastes like.

Do you taste like apples? Or did you dare to go with another flavor that isn’t associated with him?

Caleb closes the distance. His lips capture yours in a slow yet passionate kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck, closing the distance. His tented pants pushes into your aching core. You moan against his lips, the knot in your stomach slowly tightening with anticipation.

Caleb swallows every little sound that escapes your mouth. He rolls his hips up into yours, earning another helpless whimper from you. His Evol helps guide you up the wall and your wrap your legs around his hips, making yourself at home. You tilt your head to the side, fully pressed against the wall. Caleb puts his full weight into you. Your fingers slip into his hair, giving the dark locks a tug when he grinds his crotch into yours. Caleb hisses, deepening your kiss.

His tongue dances with yours, quickly exploring every crevice that you have to offer. Every time your lips part, he’s quick to reconnect them, leaving your mind reeling. You gasp for air, your hair quickly becoming frizzy, as Caleb asserts his dominance over you.

His hand leaves your face, sliding down your side. He cups your breast, squeezing it before he pinches your pebbled nipple. You gasp, head rolling back. Caleb attaches his lips back to your neck, deciding to make up the other side, to show the world that you are his and his only.

Look at you. You’re putty in his hand, his to use and play with. Caleb can do whatever he wants with you, the faint taste of cherry from your lip gloss streaked across his own lips, tainting his tastebuds.

“Keep making those pretty sounds,” Caleb bites down on your skin. Your chest pushes into his, nails gripping his hair tighter. He groans, cock twitching behind his pants and boxers. He reaches your collarbone, leaving one final hickey on your exposed chest. The tip of his nose drags up your neck and cover the curve of your chin, lips reconnecting in a fiery kiss.

Your hands drop to his shoulders. One hand stays not he back of his neck while the other slips under the collar of his shirt, your fingernails scraping against his skin. Caleb rocks his hips into yours. Your nails dig into his skin and you whimper.

Caleb pulls you off the wall, his hands grabbing the bottom of your thighs. Your legs tremble against his touch. His Evol forces a door to open and he carries you inside, pulling his face away from yours, a string of saliva connecting your mouths.

The bathroom has a single counter and a single toilet. His powers lock the door. He licks his lips and sets you down on your feet. With one slow turn, you face the bathroom mirror.

It’s dirty, grime and build up prominent on the corners. Lipstick smears and black ink cover the rim of the mirror. Your face sits in the middle. Caleb traps you between his body and the counter. Your hands grip the edge of the countertop, one of his hands resting on top of yours while the other snakes down your side.

You stare into his eyes through the mirror. His smirk sends shocks of electricity between your thighs, your poor panties soaked from the way he handles you. His hand slips under your dress. His fingers make their way to your clothed pussy, dragging across the lace. He chuckles into your ear.

“You’re already so wet for me,” he breathes the words out and into your ear. You close your eyes, head hanging low.

Caleb’s slides in between yours, his foot pushing them open. He slightly bends you over the counter, moving your dress and bunching it up at the bottom of your back. You shudder, feeling his hand squeeze your ass before giving it a slap. You whine and squirm in place but his Evol holds you still.

“Be good for me, pretty bird,” Caleb smirks at the sight of you. You’re so willing, so eager for more. He brushes your hair out of your face. “Look up. I want to see that pretty face of yours.”

You weakly nod and stare at him through the mirror once again. He turns away and slips your panties to the side and slides his fingers over your slick core. You bite back a moan, gaze turning as sharp as his.

You stare at yourself, looking at how your lipstick is completely smeared from your kisses. Your cheeks are a bright shade of pink and your hair is a mess. You slowly blink and gasp when Caleb begins to slowly rub deep, firm circles into your clit.

“Do you want this?” Caleb hums, drunk off of how divine you feel under his touch. You’re unable to say a word, quiet moans falling from your lips as you nod. His gaze darkens. “Say it.”

“Y-Yes,” you stammer. Caleb smirks and slips two fingers inside of you.

You gasp at the sensation, already feeling quite full. You gulp and roll your hips to meet his hand, his fingers pumping inside of you at a steady yet quick pace. He curls his fingers, the digits swiping across your sweet spot, making you cry out in pleasure.

The only sounds that fill the bathroom are your moans, the sound of Caleb’s fingers moving in and out of you, and the sound of Caleb leaving open mouthed kisses on your shoulder and neck. Your hips sway back and forth, fighting against his Evol, and every time you moved too much for his liking, Caleb bit into your neck.

“Caleb! Caleb, p-please!” You cry out. Your walls clench around his fingers. He immediately slides his digits out of you, leaving you hanging. You gasp, suddenly feeling so cold, and turn to him. Before you can say anything, though, Caleb lifts you up with ease, setting you on the bathroom counter.

Your back hits the cold mirror. Your legs tremble, watching as he licks your juices from his fingers. He groans, getting drunk off the taste. He leans in and imprisons your lips in a breathless kiss.

You taste yourself on his lips, your tongues massaging into each other. You pull him close, hooking an arm around his neck as you guide him between your legs. You can feel his clothed cock brush up against your soaked pussy.

Caleb pulls his lips away from yours. He trails kisses form your lips down your neck to your collarbone, dropping below your breasts. He gives them a gentle squeeze, rolling your pebbled nipples between his fingers. The Colonel keeps his eyes on you, kissing your clothed stomach, moving the skirt of your dress out of the way.

He takes a step back, admiring your wet panties, all soaked and ready for him. He hooks his finger under your panties, tugging them down your leg. He slips them off and pushes them into his back pocket. You barely pay attention to it, eyes half open, mind in a complete haze.

Caleb flicks his hand and his powers slowly push your legs open. You’re fully exposed to him. You quiver from the exposure but don’t move, watching as he steps back to you.

He rests his hands on your knees, sliding them up and down your thighs with meticulous movements. He’s dreamt about this moment for many nights. He wants to savor every second with you.

Caleb’s eyes flicker to yours. You watch him, captivated by his actions, as he gets down on his knees in front of you. He places your legs on his shoulders, his Evol disappearing against your skin. He hums to himself and hooks an arm around your leg, keeping you in place.

Caleb slowly rubs circles into your aching clit with his thumb. Your head rolls back, fingers attaching to his hair. You tug on it, quietly urging him to move faster. He chuckles at your shaking body. He leans in. Caleb drags his tongue from the bottom of your entrance all the way up to your clit.

Your breathy moan fills the bathroom. The tip of your heel digs into his back, your grip on his hair tightening. He kisses your clit, lapping at it a few times, before connecting his mouth around the sensitive bud, sucking on it. He slips two fingers inside of you, curling them once he fully pushes them inside.

Your back arches and a loud moan leaves your mouth. Caleb pumps his fingers in and out of you at a furious pace, curling them at just the right moment to make you gasp. He groans as you tug at his hair, eyes closed as he’s ruthless to your now swollen clit.

Caleb removes his fingers from you, unable to control himself, as he slides his tongue along your slit.

Your thighs immediately close around his head. He groans from the hit, his tongue dipping inside you. His Evol pushes your legs right back open, fingers digging into the plump flesh of your inner thigh.

“F-Fuck!” You cry out. Without even realizing it, your hands tug and pull on his hair, moving his face exactly where he needs to go to please you.

His tongue swirls around, dipping inside you as you roll your hips into his mouth. The tip of Caleb’s nose brushes against your clit, causing you to cry out his name in the empty bathroom.

He groans against your soaked pussy, lapping up your wetness, the sounds from his tongue oh so quiet compared to your cries and gasps. He tightens his grip around your thighs, holding you in place as you begin to squirm under his touch.

Caleb buries himself between your thighs. He can barley breathe while his tongue moves at a hellish place, hitting you in all of the right spots, making sure to lick your clit to push you close to the edge before bringing you back to a low. He’s so focused on your pussy that his Evol disappears, letting go of your legs, which you tighten around his head. He doesn’t care, though.

The knot in your stomach tightens. You dig your heels into his back, not holding back on him, as your hips buck up to meet his eager licks. You look down at him, breathless, and meet his drunken stare.

You throw your head and scream out his name, jumping into the feeling of pure bliss and ecstasy. You cum all over his face, your juices coating his mouth and its surrounding areas. Your legs tighten before falling loose, trembling.

Caleb slows his face, precum leaking from his tip, cock aching under his tight pants. He lets you come down on your own time. Your chest, once pushed up into the air, falls. Your back returns against the mirror and you heavily breathe in and out, catching your breath.

Caleb presses sweet and gentle kisses to your clit and your entrance before he moves to your weak thighs. His kisses are sloppy, leaving trails of your enthralling finish on your skin. He rises to his feet, immediately pressing his clothed cock to your exposed pussy.

Your brain is fried. You can barely string together a simple sentence as you try to comprehend what in the fuck just happened to you. You tilts your chin up and Caleb captures your lips in a kiss.

You can taste what he did to you on his lips, melting into his kiss. He grunts inside of your mouth, the vibrations making you shudder. You bite down on his bottom lip, drunk off of your orgasm, and watch as he tears himself away.

Caleb presses his back against the door. The two of you breath deep and haggard breaths. He smirks at you, which you return with a tired chuckle.

Your legs feel heavy, hands unable to hold onto anything. Can you even go another round?

Caleb takes a single step towards you, his hands reaching for his belt, when he’s stopped by your heel being pressed into his twitching member. He groans but keeps the distance, looking at you.

You shake your head, a tipsy giggle escaping your lips. You bite down on your bottom lip and push your heel into his crotch, watching as a mixture of pain and pleasure flash across his face.

“Not yet…” you whisper. You shake your head, trying to get back to rationality and your senses. “I need to go home. Can you take me home?” You bat your eyelashes at him.

Such a tease.

That’s okay…he’ll just make you feel even better next time.

Caleb’s body relaxes. He scoffs, looking away for a split second before nodding. He picks you up with ease, making sure to cover the lower half of your body with your dress. Caleb carries you out of the bathroom.

You rest your head on his shoulder, looking at him with a lazy smile. He carries you through the club, a proud smirk stamped on his face. As soon as you step outside, you close your eyes, allowing sleep to overtake your body when you’re placed in the backseat of a car.

You did not feel good the following morning. You woke up late, mouth dry, dehydration and nausea hindering you from rushing out the door and to the train station.

Did you have time to make breakfast? No.

Did you have time to make yourself look presentable for the outside world? Also no.

All you managed to grab was your suitcase, which was somehow packed, and your purse filled with your wallet, keys, and your charged phone. You raced out of your house and bribed one of your teenage neighbors, whom you haven’t seen in five years, to drive you to the train station. You threw in an extra fifty dollars if they got there in under ten minutes, which they did.

You wear baggy sweatpants that you swipes from your mom’s room, a bedazzled “SLAY” written across your ass. You matched it with an old college hoodie you haven’t worn in forever with a big pair of black sunglasses to keep the light out from your face.

Needless to say: you look like a train wreck.

As soon as you plopped into your assigned window seat on the train back to Skyhaven, you relaxed. You grab the water bottle from your bag and chug it in one go, moisturizing the inside of your dry mouth and throat. You breathe out a sigh of relief, melting into the train’s cushioned chair.

You close your eyes and lean against the window, groaning, wishing for your hunger to go away and for sleep to take you once again.

The worst part about your inevitable, and much needed, hangover?

You remember every single god damn thing you did last night, especially the part where you let Caleb eat you out in the dingy bathroom.

You wince from the memory, covering your ears as you hear your intermingled moans and the sounds of your sloppy kisses.

Go away! Shoo! Leave me alone!

You sense a person sit in the chair beside you. You hold back a groan and scoot away from them, getting close to the window so they can have more space. They chuckle and your heart begins to race. Slowly opening up your eyes, you see a bundle of aluminum foil.

It smells absolutely divine. Just fucking delectable. You knew what was inside. It’s a greasy breakfast sandwich, perfect for a hangover. You take it in your hands, unraveling the sandwich and immediately bite into the everything bagel, the grease from the cheese and meat blending together to create the best savory experience and extraordinary first bite of the day.

It’s so good that you moan a little, head rolling back and hitting the seat’s headrest.

“Is it that good?” They ask. You can barely process what their voice sounds like, going in for a second bite, nodding. They laugh.

The person besides you swipes the sunglasses from your face. You whine and open your eyes, looking at them.

Caleb sits besides you, wiping the smudges away from your lenses with his shirt. You look down and catch a glimpse of his abs, his happy trail prominent against his tanned skin. You move your eyes back up to his, feeling as he places the sunglasses back on your face. He leans in, his breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“And here I am thinking that I was the only person who could make you feel that good.”

This is going to be one long ass train ride.

#caleb x reader #caleb x non!mc reader #caleb x you #caleb love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lads caleb #rcvcgers writings #lads caleb angst #caleb lads angst #lads angst #caleb smut #caleb lads smut #rotten apples ❦︎

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urdepressedslut · 2 years ago

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You’re Mine, Sunshine (masterlist) ♡

♡ Pairing: Grumpy!Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Sunshine!Fem!Reader (Mob!Au Bodyguard!Au)

♡ Series Summary: Bucky gets picked by a very rich and respected man to be his daughter’s personal bodyguard. The Father warns him that it won’t be an easy job, that she is a brat and difficult to deal with. But what happens when Bucky meets you and you’re the complete opposite?

♡ Series Warnings: mentions of amputation, dark themes, violence, death/death threats, talk of parent death, fluff, angst, stalking, daddy issues, anxiety attacks/panic attacks, abuse, depression, depressive episodes, PTSD, dry humping, hints to smut, (warnings to be added as new chapters are released)

Trope ⇢ Grumpy x Sunshine ☀️

(SERIES ONGOING)

Last Updated: 9/8/23

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | SERIES 18+

⇨ Chapter One

↳ After Pierce interviews Bucky for the job, he warns him of you. Bucky is starting to rethink his decision, but when he meets you... you're not what he expected.

⇨ Chapter Two

↳ Bucky takes you home, and later finds you in the library. You both get to know each other a little better, but Bucky is hesitant.

⇨ Chapter Three

↳ Bucky has a surprise meeting with Pierce, getting informed about your secret admire. Meanwhile, Bucky tries to keep things professional, he’s hesitant to cross the line when you need him.

⇨ Chapter Four

↳ You don’t know what to think of Bucky after he took you to bed last night. Bucky can’t continue to keep the stalking situation hidden from you. Something is found on your doorstep.

⇨ Chapter Five

↳ Getting to know each other better doesn’t go according to plan. Bucky has to comfort you and fix the mess he made. Will you forgive him?

⇨ Chapter Six

↳ Bucky receives a morning visit from Steve, with the news about what was in the box. Bucky continues to think about what he should do. Should he tell you the truth about your stalker?

⇨ Chapter Seven

↳ Bucky finds you making a mess in the kitchen, attempting to bake and offers his help. The two of you get to talking and some reveals about each other begin to come out. Will he finally tell you about your stalker?

⇨ Chapter Eight

↳ After a surprise visit from Pierce, tension arises as he threatens Bucky of his job. Pierce wants to have a talk with you and it doesn't go very well.

⇨ Chapter Nine

↳ After the events from the other day, you try and cope with the reality of what happened. The world is a lot less colorful than you remember. Bucky helps comfort you after you realize you have no one left.

⇨ Chapter Ten

↳ Someone comes knocking at your door in the morning. Bucky answers and is surprised with who he finds. Are they going to help them or hurt them?

⇨ Chapter Eleven

↳ The tension can't be ignored anymore between you and Bucky. Steve shows up and he's not alone.

⇨ Chapter Twelve

↳ Reality is hitting you as you, Bucky, Steve and his men all venture off to a secret safe house only Steve knows about. The events from the last couple of days are starting to hit you with a sickening force, leaving you weak and crippled.

⇨ Chapter Thirteen

↳ Your dreams consist of random memories of your parents, but are they really random? Despite the past days of hell—you still find it difficult to resist Bucky. You two spend a heated morning together, devouring each other while you still have these moments.

#bodyguard bucky barnes #bucky barnes #the winter soldier #marvel cinematic universe #reader insert #sebastian stan #buckybarnes #fluff #angst #protective bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #beefy bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bodyguard au #mob au #mini series #bucky barnes fanfic #masterlist

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chvoswxtch · 9 months ago

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i love you

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: everything has led to this.

warnings: swearing, mentions of violence, blood, & weapons, all the angst in the world (like all of it)

word count: 6.6k

a/n: i think this is the longest chapter to date, & definitely the most jam packed. grab a snack, a blanket, some tissues, & settle in. i can't accept your therapy invoices, but i will be here to provide comfort after. :) as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [next chapter] | [series masterlist]

As dozens of Billy’s men filled the expansive underground space you were in, your ears picked up on several different sounds. The click of clips being loaded into guns, the rip of velcro straps on kevlar being pried open, the hiss of steel being sharpened to a fatal point. However your brain could barely focus on any of those sounds because the only ones that registered were the murmurs of casual conversations and the easy laughter that followed crude jokes.

These men might as well have been lingering around at a bar with a drink in their hand, not gearing up to go up against one of their own. Whether they were doing it out of loyalty to Billy, or just for the impressive paycheck waiting for them, you knew some of these egotistical fucks were doing it so they could be the one to say they did the impossible; to be able to say they brought down the Punisher.

Some of their faces you recognized from working with Frank when he was your bodyguard, trading off shifts with him, and providing extra detail when needed. It was a nauseating feeling realizing the entire time you thought you were being protected from the Defenders of Freedom, you were in the presence of an even greater threat and didn’t know it. How many of these guys wouldn’t have even hesitated to flip on you for the right price and take you out themselves?

These men knew where you lived, where you worked, who you knew, where you got your fucking coffee every morning, everything about you and your routine. They were prepping to go up against Frank, but you knew not a single one of them would bat an eye if Billy gave the order to kill you once he got what he wanted. Your eyes flickered over to his tall form standing across the room, watching him bark out orders to a group of men that looked like they were buzzing with anticipation for all hell to break loose. Every single person in this room wanted Frank dead.

And it made you sick.

Your mind was still reeling from learning the truth about him, about his past and who he really was. It was like you couldn’t process it. All the pieces were there, connected into place, but your brain refused to see the picture on top. How could they be the same man?

Frank. Stubborn Frank that put up with your short fuse and shot back at your smartass remarks with his own. Thoughtful Frank that remembered your coffee order, that remembered every little thing you told him no matter how big or small, that neatly packed a bag for you full of your go to essentials and clothes when he brought you to Curtis. Sweet Frank that immediately apologized if he raised his voice too loud, that was going to sleep on the floor of a motel just to make sure you didn’t feel uncomfortable, that touched you like you were delicate glass he didn’t want to break.

Frank that had saved your life more times than you could count, and that had been by your side and protected you from everything he could for the last nine months.

That Frank, your Frank, was the same man that had been painted as a psychopath in the media for murdering thirty-seven people in cold blood.

“You still not talkin’ to me?”

Billy’s boots appeared in your line of sight, but you didn’t look up at him. After he’d forced you to put it all together, you’d completely shut down and gone silent. You weren’t even sure how long you’d been sitting in that chair still as a statue and mute while Billy and his men prepared for Frank’s arrival. While you were struggling to process the bombshell he’d dropped, one question kept popping into your head.

“Why did you give me that file?”

“Thought you’d wanna know. Seein’ as how you were such a big fan and all, writin’ all those articles praisin’ him-”

“I didn’t praise him.”

Billy seemed pleased with himself that he’d finally gotten you to look at him and speak to him. The cocky smirk that fleeted across his lips reignited a flame of resentment within you.

“You sure as hell didn’t condemn him neither.”

Clenching your jaw and setting your lips in a firm line, you looked away from Billy, glaring straight ahead. Your lack of response and attention made his smirk slip, and he let out an exhale of irritation through his nose while looking down at you.

“You know, I really thought you understood.”

Rolling your eyes in exasperation, you looked up at Billy in pinched cynicism and snapped at him.

“Understood what?”

“That things ain’t always black and white. That most things happen in that little gray area, where it gets a little messy. It ain’t always-”

“Oh shut the fuck up, William. Don’t try to preach at me to make yourself feel better about whatever shitty thing you did. I don’t wanna hear it.”

Billy’s eyes darkened at your sharp verbal lashing. He stood up a little straighter and squared his shoulders, his lips pressed together in a bitter line. He watched you turn your head and glower down at the floor as if it had personally wronged you, and he noticed how your bound hands slightly trembled from how pissed off you were. It was a complete 180 from your catatonic state five minutes earlier. He would’ve found it amusing if he wasn’t so annoyed.

Suddenly the lights went out, and the underground space went pitch black. The darkness was so opaque, you couldn’t even see your own hands when you looked down in their general direction. A murmur of confusion and irritation spread throughout Billy’s men, and the sound of guns being cocked and knives being unsheathed seemed to echo in the stillness.

Not even a minute later, there was a loud click as the emergency lights from the backup generator switched on. It took your eyes a moment to adjust to the dull light coming from the intermittently spaced fixtures. All of Billy’s men were looking between each other and the various exit points in the underground basement that were shrouded in ominous shadows. Billy shifted quickly into a more guarded stance, his eyes hard and jaw taut while turning his attention to the man standing closest to his left.

“Carson, take your men and check the breakers. Power station’s on the south side.”

“Yes sir.”

As the team of six disappeared down the hallway on the far right, Billy turned to face the remaining group of his men with a stern expression.

“Alpha team, you’re on the North exits. Bravo, you’re on the South. When Carson gets me an update on those breakers, Echo I want a rooftop visual. You know who’s coming. You know your orders.”

“Kill Castle.”

A blonde man you didn’t recognize had a cocky grin on his thin chapped lips, emphasizing his point by cocking his gun.

“He ain’t gonna hesitate to kill you.”

Some of the men exchanged glances at that statement before looking at Billy with a nod of affirmation. His dark brown eyes flickered over each of them, looking for any sign of fear or weakness.

“He does not leave here alive. You do whatever you gotta do to bring him down. Watch your six. Remember, there’s half a million waitin’ for whoever brings me the body.”

Frantically glancing between Billy and his men as they fully geared up, you gripped the arms of the chair while looking up at Billy in a mixture of incredulity and confusion. You thought Billy had brought his men in for defense. It was evident none of them had a problem killing Frank, but you assumed the whole point of their presence was to protect Billy, and to force Frank to surrender by outnumbering him so that Billy could trade for the intel. If they killed him on sight, Billy wouldn’t have any way to get what Frank found.

“I thought you said this was a trade.”

Turning his head to look down in your direction, Billy could see the clear panic on your face. There was a wicked gleam in Billy’s eyes as a sardonic smirk slowly tugged at the edge of his lips.

“Nah, sweetheart. It’s a trap.”

An icy trickle of dread cascaded down your spine rapidly and your breath hitched in your throat. Billy didn’t give a shit about what Frank had on him. He hadn’t brought him here to bargain. He’d lured him into an execution, using you as bait.

A cacophony of rapid gunfire and shouting unexpectedly echoed from the hallway on the far right that Carson’s team had disappeared down, and everyone’s heads immediately snapped in that direction. Billy’s smirk swiftly dropped from his mouth, and he quickly went rigid. But before anyone could even react, the resonation of bullets ricocheting and panicked yells abruptly stopped, and it went dead silent.

The previous arrogant attitude the remaining men had up until that moment seemed to rapidly evaporate, and their heavy breathing and wide eyed gazes betrayed their true apprehension as the reality of the situation sobered up their egos. They knew what that sound meant. They knew who it meant.

And so did Billy.

“Get to your positions.”

Billy’s dark eyes flickered over his men with a hardened glare when they didn’t move quickly enough, and his voice reverberated off the walls when he yelled.

“Now!”

Immediately, they started to disperse like scurrying ants, and the sound of their boots hitting the concrete floor in every direction echoed like claps of thunder. When you looked up at Billy again, you saw something in him you’d never seen before, something you didn’t even think he was capable of.

Fear.

At first the sound was so soft and quiet that when Billy looked down at you and saw your head tilted downwards and your shoulders faintly shaking, he thought you were crying. But when it grew louder in volume, Billy’s short lived concern turned into pure irritation as it became clear that you weren’t crying.

You were laughing.

The edge of his lips curled into a faint snarl as he lunged at you, slipping his hand into your hair to roughly yank your head backwards which earned a grunt of pain from you. Billy’s nose was barely half an inch from yours as he bent down and glared at you.

“What the hell is so funny?”

Staring him down with equal animosity, your lips slowly spread into a wide and wicked grin. Leaning in even closer to get in his face as much as he was in yours, you spoke in a harsh taunting tone laced with venom.

“You are so fucked.”

Billy stared into your eyes, seeing nothing in them but pure stubborn rage. His own lips spread into a dark smirk, and he let go of your hair to wrap his hand around your throat instead, making a point to apply just enough pressure to make you inhale sharply. He could feel the thrum of your rapid pulse against his fingers, and his breath was warm against your lips when he leaned in closer.

“Nah, that’s where you’re wrong darlin’. I got you.”

The sound of a knife being unsheathed was sharp in your ears, and the glint of a blade reflected in your eyes as Billy held the serrated steel in front of your face. Cocking his head to the side menacingly, he dragged the flat side of it down your slightly heaving chest slowly. He kept his eyes locked on yours, and you refused to look away. A crisp rip suddenly sounded, and the pressure on your wrists was gone as he cut your restraints.

“As long as I got you, I’m gettin’ outta here.”

Narrowing your eyes, you glared at Billy as he bent down to cut the restraints around your legs. When he rose to his full height, he slipped the knife back into the sheath on his hip and reached out to grab your arm tightly, tugging you up to your feet roughly.

“C’mon, you’re with me.”

When he took a step forward, you yanked your arm out of his grasp, glowering up at him as you raised your chin defiantly and spoke through your teeth.

“Pussy.”

Billy’s eyes flickered with both annoyance and amusement. He slipped his gun out of his holster and held it at his side, gesturing in your direction with his chin.

“Think I liked you better all tied up.”

“Yeah I'm sure you did.”

Ignoring your challenging stare, Billy grabbed your arm harshly again and started pushing you towards one of the exits that led down a long tunnel like hallway. The emergency backup lights lit up the path enough to navigate, but there were gaps of shadowed darkness in between them. You still had no idea exactly where you were, but it looked like some kind of abandoned warehouse or factory.

You struggled to keep up with the large stride of Billy’s long legs as he practically dragged you along with him. His eyes were focused straight ahead, his hand gripped tightly around the handle of the gun in his other hand, his index finger resting on the trigger.

“Where the hell are you taking me?”

“Be quiet.”

Your eyes flickered down to the knife in the sheath on Billy’s hip. As your gaze darted quickly between the knife and Billy’s focused face, you took advantage of his diverted attention and impulsively reached for the handle to yank it out. The force of the movement caught Billy off guard and made his grip on your arm falter for a second. Ripping your arm away from his grip, you quickly took a few steps backwards and pointed the sharp tip of the knife in his direction.

A crease formed between Billy’s dark brows as he glanced between the knife in your hand and the empty sheath on his hip before an expression of annoyed realization dawned on his sharp features. Letting out a deep exhale of irritation through his nose, Billy lifted his head and looked at you in pure vexation, clearly not feeling threatened by you in the slightest.

“Why are you so goddamn difficult? Gimme that.”

Billy held out his hand expectantly. Looking down at his outstretched palm, you lifted your gaze and glared up at him as you tightened your grip on the handle and grit through your teeth.

“No.”

Clenching his jaw in frustration, Billy took a step closer and cocked the hammer on his gun.

“Sweetheart, now ain’t the time-”

“You need me. You’re not gonna shoot me-”

Billy took another step forward and aimed his gun at your thigh, glowering down at you with a hardened look in his eyes.

“Not in the head, but if you don’t give me that goddamn knife back and stop bein’ so fuckin’ difficult, you’re gonna be crawlin’ outta here.”

Staring up into his darkened eyes, your heart was pounding in your chest. You knew Billy was serious, and it made the adrenaline induced confidence in you falter. He could see that he’d unnerved you with his threat. He took another predatory step forward and held out his hand expectantly once again.

“Now, we’re gonna do this nice and-”

“Russo!”

Both of you instantly snapped your heads towards the other side of the dark hallway shrouded in unfiltered blackness as a familiar deep voice boomed from the end of it. The volume and intensity behind the war cry seemed to rattle your bones and left you frozen in place. Billy expertly swiped the knife from your grasp in a flash, pressing the serrated blade against your throat before you could even blink. He pointed his gun towards the end of the darkened hallway, his stance rigid.

“That you, Frankie?”

The sound of heavy boots against the concrete slowly started to grow louder as they traveled down the hall in your direction. You knew who they belonged to. You’d recognize those footsteps anywhere. Your heart seemed to pound just as loudly in your ears as they got closer and closer. Swallowing thickly, the movement made the blade just barely cut into your skin, but you couldn’t even feel it from the adrenaline coursing through you. All at once, a sharp gasp escaped your lips and your eyes went wide.

A white skull spontaneously appeared in the darkness, floating through it like an apparition. As it came closer, you could see that it was worn and faded, darkened with dirt and grime, coated in several deep red streaks and splatters of fresh blood with various bullets lodged into it. A merciless and unforgiving symbol of wrath and vengeance the worst of the worst in New York had learned to fear.

Time seemed to stand still when he stepped out of the shadows, and your blood ran cold when you were face to face with the Punisher for the first time.

Frank.

His large hands were covered in blood, and his knuckles were split and bruised. Deep shades of violet were blooming on his left cheek and around a fresh cut that was bleeding on his right cheekbone. There was a small split on the bridge of his large nose, and one on the left side of his top lip. The dim light above cast menacing shadows on his bruised and bloodied face, emphasizing the storm of rage brewing in his eyes.

Frank stopped directly under the light, just a few feet away. You thought you’d seen Frank pissed before, but the way he was staring at Billy made you shudder. He was furious. The anger radiating off of him in waves was palpable.

“It didn't have to be like this, Frankie.”

Frank’s index and middle finger on his right hand twitched twice as he spoke in his gruff voice.

“It wouldn’t be if Madani hadn’t been right.”

“Surprised she trusted you at all. You were there in Kandahar, Frank. Hell, you’re the one that pulled the fuckin’ trigger on her partner. She know that?”

“I was followin’ orders. You were workin’ with Rawlins and Schoonover, sellin’ out your honor. For what, Bill? Money?”

Hearing the blatant disgust in Frank’s voice, Billy tightened his grip around the handle of the gun and the handle of the blade simultaneously.

“You shoulda just left it alone, Frankie. But you chose that bitch Madani over me.”

Frank tilted his head to the side slightly, his dark brows and face scrunched in a concoction of disappointment and anguish as he looked at Billy.

“You think I wanted to believe her, Bill? You think I wasn’t lookin’ for somethin’ to prove her wrong, huh? You think I wasn’t hopin’ to God I’d find nothin’?”

The despair laced within Frank’s rough voice killed you.

“You shoulda come to me. I was your brother, Frankie. All of this, it was unavoidable.”

Billy gestured between you and Frank with his gun before aiming it at Frank again. Frank hadn’t looked at you once. His attention was solely focused on Billy. The second those words left Billy’s mouth, you saw the way Frank’s face slowly morphed into a forlorn portrait streaked in betrayal.

“Was killin’ my family unavoidable?”

Frank’s grief stricken question felt like an electric shock. Snapping your head to look up at Billy, you watched as he visibly stiffened, his grip on both weapons faltering as his face fell slightly.

“You do it, Bill?”

Billy wouldn’t meet Frank’s eye, or yours. He dropped his gaze downwards, and what appalled you was his lack of a reaction. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t try to deter Frank’s accusation or defend himself at all, didn’t offer any kind of correction or explanation. He was standing there quietly like Frank hadn’t just dropped a grenade of trauma between them.

“Look at me. Look at me!”

Frank’s loud voice booming once again made you flinch, and Billy finally lifted his head to look at him. Standing up straighter, Billy looked at Frank with unnerving calmness.

“I didn’t pull the trigger-”

“But you knew about it.”

Frank’s voice had been reduced to a wavering whisper. The dim light above highlighted the way his brown eyes had glossed over with treachery that threatened to spill at any second. The pain in his gaze and in his voice brought tears to your own eyes as you looked at him. Billy plastered an impassive look on his sharp features, giving a faint nod of his head and speaking with as much nonchalance as if he was discussing the weather.

“Yeah, I knew.”

Frank closed his eyes solemnly, a stray tear slipping down each of his cheeks, the clear droplets turning pastel pink as they mixed with the deep crimson stains of blood lingering on his face. Inhaling sharply, when Frank opened his eyes again, he looked away for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth rapidly as a muscle feathered in his jaw. His nostrils flared and his lips twitched as he faintly shook his head in denial and disbelief.

“She loved you. My kids loved you.”

“It was just business-”

“It wasn’t business when my kids were callin’ you ‘Uncle Billy’. It wasn’t business when Maria was makin’ sure you had somewhere to spend the holidays. It wasn’t business when I heard my family screamin’ for me. When I saw my wife and my boy…layin’ dead in the grass. When I held my baby girl in my arms, seein’ blood and meat pourin’ out of where her face should be.”

Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he appeared to swallow down even the slightest flicker of remorse. Frank’s bloodied and beaten face was stoic, but his eyes gave away how distraught he was knowing that Billy had been involved in orchestrating the massacre of his family. It hadn’t been an inopportune tragedy getting caught in the middle of a shootout. It had been a premeditated execution. The bullet in Frank’s head was meant to be a killshot.

When Frank lifted his gaze and looked at Billy again, there was nothing but pure hatred left.

“No. It wasn’t just business then, Bill, and it sure as hell ain’t just business now. It’s pretty goddamn personal.”

“I never wanted this-”

“Yeah, well you got it.”

Frank’s bereavement had evaporated from the blaze of retribution that was now burning in his eyes. Billy watched as Frank physically morphed from a brokenhearted man in mourning into a vengeful memento mori right before his eyes. The reality of what Billy had done was so much worse than your wildest imagination could’ve ever conjured. It burned through the short fuse of your temper, and as a surge of adrenaline shot through your nervous system, you shoved the knife away from your throat while Billy was distracted. As soon as he turned his head in your direction, you struck your fist across his face, not even feeling the sharp pain that pierced your knuckles.

“You fucking coward.”

The unexpected impact made Billy stumble a half step backwards, dropping the knife that was in his other hand as it came up to clutch his jaw. He swiftly recovered from the hit and turned the gun on you.

“Whoa whoa whoa, easy there, killer. Let’s calm that little temper down. I’d hate to ruin that pretty face-”

Taking a step closer towards the gun aimed at your chest, you stared him down and bared your teeth in a faint snarl.

“Go ahead. It’ll be nothing compared to what he’s gonna do to yours.”

Billy visibly stiffened at your razor sharp taunt, and his eyes darkened as he stared down at you. Cocking his head to the side slightly, there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he suddenly chuckled darkly at your fearless rage.

“Goddamn, Frankie. She this feisty in bed?”

“The hell are you doin’?”

At first you didn’t realize that Frank was talking to you. In the midst of your unfiltered anger, you were still glaring up at Billy. It wasn’t until Frank called your name in a harsh reprimand that you turned to look at him and saw that he was finally looking at you. A flash of confusion interrupted your adrenaline induced wrath noticing that his anger seemed to now be directed at you instead of Billy.

“What?”

“I said what the hell are you doin’? He’s got a goddamn gun, Y/N-”

“Yeah I can see that, it’s pointed at my fucking face.”

Frank clenched his jaw when you snapped at him with equal frustration. He let out a puff of air through his lips and shook his head as he glanced around in pure irritation.

“For Christ’s sake, you never fuckin’ listen, do ya? You’re always runnin’ your goddamn mouth instead of doin’ what you’re told. What’d I say, huh?”

A look of raw hurt and puzzled betrayal crossed your face when Frank yelled at you. You were taken aback by the hostility in his gaze and in his voice. He was staring you down in a way that almost made you shudder.

“I told you keep your distance, yeah? I said stay offline. But you just push, you can’t ever let go of that need for control, can you? And now look at you, underneath all this shit, got your panties all in a fuckin’ twist. You never hesitate, do ya? Just like that day in the cabin.”

Frank’s angry tirade sent such an unexpected shock through you, it took you a moment to register what he was actually saying, but the mention of the cabin abruptly made it click and a light bulb seemed to go off when you realized what Frank was doing.

Distance. Offline. Push. Control. Underneath. Twist. Never hesitate.

“You always aim for my goddamn nerves.”

Frank roughly smacked his palm against his own shoulder in what looked like a display of frustration, but you understood what it really meant.

“Just do what I said. You got that?”

He stared at you with a look in his eyes only you could decipher, a silent communication passing between the two of you, and you steeled your expression as you swallowed thickly and gave him a subtle but imperceptible nod.

“Yeah. I got it.”

“Show me.”

Billy had been looking between you and Frank, amused by your little lover's quarrel. Frank’s final words made his dark brows furrow in curiosity, and when he turned his head to look at him, you quickly surged forward and gripped the barrel of the gun in your left hand, pushing it away from you and slipping your right hand under Billy’s wrist. Twisting the barrel forcefully to the right, Billy grunted as his wrist unexpectedly twisted with it forcing his grip to loosen. The second you pulled it away from his grasp and stepped back, he lunged forward, and you fired a shot right at his shoulder.

“Fuck!”

Billy’s back collided with the wall behind him when the bullet ripped through his right shoulder, his hand immediately coming up to apply pressure. Before the shock of what you’d just done could even register, Frank rushed forward and nearly tackled you as he wrapped his arms around your frame and forced you forward into a sprint. He dragged you down another hallway, and by the time you finally stopped running, your lungs were burning and your hands were trembling.

Frank grabbed you by your shoulders, ducking his head to capture your frantic gaze.

“Listen to me, I need you to run.”

Staring up at him wide eyed, a crease of confusion nestled between your brows.

“What?”

“Madani’s waitin’ outside, Homeland’s got the place surrounded. Take this hallway all the way down. You run, and you don’t look back for nothin’, you got that?”

Your eyes darted back and forth between Frank’s rapidly. Your brain was still trying to process everything that had just happened, but the thought of leaving Frank seemed to snap you out of your shock. A stubborn look of refusal contorted your features as you looked up at him.

“Wha-no. No, I’m not leaving you-”

Frank cupped your face in his large hands and stared down into your eyes with a pleading expression.

“Hey…hey, listen to me sweetheart, listen. I gotta finish this. I can’t…I can’t let it go.”

Frank paused as he swallowed thickly and looked down at you, a sheen of remorse shining in his apologetic expression. His next words felt like a shot to the chest.

“And you can’t stay. You gotta go, you gotta walk away.”

The second those words left his lips, it felt like the breath had been knocked out of your lungs. You immediately started to shake your head in refusal.

“Frank-”

“Go, now.”

“Frank, don’t do this-”

Frank leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, and you hated how much it felt like a goodbye. When he pulled back, he looked down at you with a tender expression and somber swirls in his warm brown eyes. His voice was the softest you’d ever heard it when he traced his thumb over your cheekbone gently.

“I love you, you got that? I love you, but you gotta walk away.”

Tears immediately sprang in your eyes as you slowly shook your head and begged him in a desperate whisper.

“Frank please-”

“Hey, shh shh shh.”

He leaned in and pressed his lips against your forehead in a delicate show of affection, allowing them to linger for a moment before he let go and took a step backwards.

“You gotta do this for me, baby. Please. Please, just this once, do what I ask.”

As soon as he stepped backwards, you stepped forwards and instinctively reached for his hand, gripping onto it tightly. Tears slipped past your bottom lash line while you looked up at him with raw emotion in your eyes, silently begging him not to go.

“Go.”

Frank spoke in a gentle voice, giving your hand a faint squeeze before pulling his away, the blood that had been on his hand now staining yours. Without another word or glance, he turned to walk away, determined to find Billy and finish this. All you could do was watch him disappear, standing right where he left you, feeling like you’d just been shattered into a thousand helpless pieces.

With tears streaming down your face, you could feel panic start to rise in your chest. Turning to look down at the other end of the hallway, your fight or flight seemed to kick in and you started to run frantically. Just as you rounded one of the corners, one of Billy’s men popped out, drawing his rifle on you. Quickly you aimed the gun in your hand back at him, but before either of you could shoot, something suddenly flew out of nowhere and knocked the guy out.

He dropped to the ground with a thud, and you whirled around to aim the gun in your hands towards the shadow it had come from. Your breathing was ragged, and your hands were shaking as you gripped the handle until your knuckles turned stark white. A deep voice suddenly sounded from the darkness.

“Easy, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Soft footsteps approached, and out of the dark shadows, a pair of dark red horns glinted under the light.

Daredevil.

Your eyes widened as he came into the light, his gloved hands help up in a show of surrender. You were completely stunned as he took cautious steps forward until he was in front of you, reaching out with one hand to gently place it on top of the barrel of the gun, slowly lowering it down.

“Go all the way towards the end of the hall. There’s an exit on your right.”

A look of confusion crossed your features as you glanced down the darkened hallway before looking back up at him. He’d come from an entirely different direction.

“How do you-”

“Just trust me.”

Staring up into the dark lenses of his cowl, you turned your head to look back in the direction of where you’d just run from, where Frank had disappeared. All at once, the gravity of the situation felt too heavy, and you almost buckled under it.

“I…I can’t. I can’t.”

“You need to leave-”

“I can’t leave him.”

Hearing how panicked your breathing was starting to become, he stepped forward, gently grabbing your shoulders to get your attention, and you looked up at him in blurry hopelessness.

“Listen to me, I'm not gonna let anything happen to him, alright? I promise.”

You couldn’t move. The daunting possibility of losing Frank was overwhelming. This whole thing felt like a devastating nightmare you desperately wanted to wake up from. Feeling your hesitation, Daredevil gently squeezed your shoulders again and spoke in an even softer voice.

“Y/N, Frank asked me to help keep you safe. Please let me do that.”

The way he said your name ignited a spark of recognition in your head, and it had a calming effect. You knew that voice. You’d heard it before. Something about him seemed…familiar, and not just because you’d covered articles about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Something about the way he said Frank’s name sounded familiar too. Letting your eyes wander over his figure in the red and black suit, the gears started turning in your head as you studied the bottom half of his face that wasn’t covered.

“Say his name again.”

“What?”

“Just say it.”

Even with half of his face covered, you could tell that he was clearly puzzled by your request.

“Frank.”

Immediately, it hit you like a bolt of lightning. Your eyes widened as you stared up at him in shock, a breathless whisper of his name leaving your lips in disbelief.

“Matt?”

His plump lips parted, and he pulled back as he stood up straight, tilting his head to the side slightly. Before he could stammer out a response, he abruptly turned his to the left, and he dropped his hands from your shoulders.

“There's seven heavily armed men coming this way.”

Turning your head, you stared down the darkened hallway he was looking at in puzzlement. You couldn’t see or hear anything. Looking back up at him, you blinked a few times before tilting your head to the side and staring up at him in complete bewilderment.

“What? How the fuck do you-”

“It’s complicated.”

“Like being a blind lawyer but also Daredevil.”

Matt pursed his lips at your dry tone and sass. He took a step away from you and bent down to pick up the baton up off the floor next to the unconscious man.

“Down the hall. Exit on the right. Go.”

Watching him pull out another baton, you threw your hands up in exasperation, still gripping onto the gun in your hand.

“And what the hell are you gonna do? You said there’s heavily armed men coming and you’re gonna, what? Throw your sticks at them?”

Matt cocked his head to the side as he glanced in your direction, slightly amused by your irritated skepticism.

“They’re batons.”

“Oh, excuse me. Batons. You’re gonna throw your batons at the group of ex-special forces coming this way with automatic weapons.”

A cocky smirk stretched across his lips at your dry sarcasm, and he started to walk backwards.

“Have a little faith, sweetheart.”

When he took off running down the hall, you ran your hand stressfully through your hair, glancing around in complete disbelief. Your boyfriend was the Punisher. Your lawyer was Daredevil. And you were at your wit’s fucking end.

“What the fuck is going on.”

The second you pushed the door open to the exit that led outside, a blinding flash of light had you bringing your hands up to your face, including the one still holding the gun. A swarm of agents wearing protective gear and aiming guns in your direction swiftly rushed towards you, yelling out orders that had you freezing.

“Drop the weapon! Drop it now!”

In a panic, you quickly dropped the gun and held your hands up in surrender. There were police cars, S.W.A.T. trucks, helicopters floating above, and dozens upon dozens of various officers and agents surrounding the area. They were yelling at you to get down on the ground, and you were glancing between all of them anxiously, feeling like you were about to start hyperventilating as you tried to stutter out an explanation.

Before you could get your limbs to work again and comply, a familiar voice carried over the aggressive demands.

“Stand down, now!”

Madani forcefully broke through the line of agents that had you surrounded, shoving her gun into the holster on her hip as she all but ran over towards you. Her brown eyes scanned over you intensely, quickly assessing for any sign of damage or injury.

“What happened? Is Billy still in there? Where’s Frank?”

“I…I shot him.”

A crease of perplexity formed between Madani’s dark brows hearing your shaky response.

“What? You shot who?”

“Billy.”

Madani arched one of her dark brows in surprise, and what looked like a hint of pride. She took a step closer, lowering her voice.

“Is he dead?”

The anxiety coursing through your system was cresting, threatening to crash over you and trap you beneath the tide. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and you were shaking uncontrollably.

“I don’t…I don’t know.”

Madani reached out to grab your arms, giving them a reassuring squeeze as she attempted to keep you calm while she looked at you.

“Y/N, where’s Frank?”

“He-”

All at once you froze. Madani felt you freeze up, and her brown eyes were darting back and forth between your own rapidly for an answer when she saw your eyes go wide with recognition and shock. She called your name again, but it was muffled in your ears and distant, like your head was underwater. A shaky whisper slipped past your lips as they parted.

“I didn't say it back.”

Madani was watching you intently, trying desperately to figure out what was going on and what had happened.

“Didn’t say what back? What are you talking about?”

In an instant, your eyes welled up with thick tears that turned Madani into a blurry silhouette, and you gripped onto her as though someone had punched a hole through your chest and ripped your heart right out. A choked sob caught in your throat when the gravity of what you had missed hit you with enough force to send a crack through your soul.

“I didn’t say it back, Dinah.”

Turning your head to look back at the abandoned factory behind you, the burden of your mistake fractured your rib cage, and a tide of agony and regret burst through the broken pieces like a wrathful flood. Madani caught you in her arms as you collapsed against her, pulling you into her chest when you succumbed to the grief and completely broke down in tears, letting out a wail of his name that tore through your throat and left it raw.

Frank had told you he loved you, and you didn’t say it back.

You didn’t know if you’d ever get the chance to.

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawksfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

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4mrplumi · 1 month ago

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02. spiderwocky ── secrets you'd keep

platonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

two days, you hum, two days, you tap your foot impatiently on the floor, two days, the sp//dr bracelet on your wrist feels tight, two days till you go back to school. summer break has always been a buffer in between the year, taking you away from somewhere where you’re comfortable, to someplace that’s just plain awkward. a reminder that you can’t run, spiderman, can’t run.

the suit’s come along beautifully. you don’t have much opportunity or time to really test it out, since gotham’s crackly, ancient buildings would probably crumble under the weight of metal, but it looks nice.

the suit, yeah. it’s taken up most of your time this break. you’ve not had much time to creep up to your brothers and turn away when they don’t hear you. gotham’s always lonely, but with sp//dr this time, you fit in your skin a bit better. even while it itches and shudders under the pressure of wanting to leap around again.

in preparation, you’ve quarrelled your way into getting permission to use gotham prep’s chemistry lab after school hours, lightly nagging bruce into signing a form for you, one he didn’t really even glance at. you’re trying to figure out how to make stronger web fluid, storing all of sp//dr’s feedback in the back of your head. the past few days, you’ve been leaving the manor at five, telling alfred you’ll be back by six, and sneaking back to the manor at nine, since he doesn’t check. storing the fluid is another thing, figuring out different capsules… ejection systems… it’s boring work.

the bell outside rings, notifying the end of school hours for people who stay back for extra classes. you’ve been meaning to get home earlier today, working up the courage to ask tim or barbara to “help with a school project” and get their notes on your totally hypothetical material that’s 2.62 (+1.00 since you’re experimenting) times stronger than steel. you’re shoving books you borrowed from the library to disguise yourself as an overeager student while you leave the lab, so focused on what you’re going to say later, you don’t notice bumping into someone head-on.

the guy’s at least two times larger than you, but he stumbles harder than you, reminding you you’re supposed to stumble too. you feign a fall, getting up with a huff- you’re about to apologise when you see the guy’s face twist- angry. you stiffen. spiderman confronts conflict with fight, (name) only knows how to run.

“what the hell?-” he takes a step forward, eyebrows pinched so low his face looks disfigured, hazy-eyed too, “look where you’re going bitch!”. you cringe a little, “… i’m sorry?” he fumes even more, this guy’s got some serious issues up there. his coarse hands come up to shove you, but you don’t fall back, before remembering that you probably should. forcefully, your head hits the side of the door, and you hiss in irritation.

you haul yourself aside, and he trips on his feet, falling with a frustrated yelp. it’s best you leave, (name)’s great at running away. the corridor isn't very long, holding onto the straps of your bag, sp//dr hums on your wrist as you hurry down the stairs. “gotham is so unique,” she notes, “odd folk everywhere.” you squint, “doesn’t make gotham very unique if odd people are everywhere though, does it?”

“don’t tell me what to do- all you washed up... washed up nerds think you’re so bloody better than the rest of us-” what the hell is this guy talking about? is he drunk? doesn’t seem outta place for a teenager to be drunk in gotham. and nerd? he should aim lower, hit harder, think brighter- you interrupt him, and your flurry of thoyghts, scuttling over your sentence- “i- uh, i don’t go here.”

the world slows down, and you see his fist come up, aimed at your face. sp//dr tuts; unappreciative, like an aged aunty.

if she could smile, maybe she would’ve, you hear it in her voice. “perhaps, i wouldn’t say we’re not too odd either.” the hurt on your head starts to ebb out, your healing factor’s been developing slowly.

two pairs of masked eyes narrow outside a small window, peering in at you in the stairwell, in a sync that could be described as unnatural. odd. you miss them when you duck your head, and they scatter by the time you’re up again.

“i don’t want to alarm you,” sp//dr says, through what would’ve been gritted teeth… if she wasn’t, you know, toothless, “but those two fellows over there, have been following us for a while.” you know they have, glancing shortly at them, and you think they know you know too.

the ride to the train station was quiet, you spent most of it looking outside, willing yourself to blink manually. alfred dropped you, since despite your low involvement with the wayne family, bruce was still paranoid of any potential harm.

hey, you think a little brightly, at least he bothered.

break’s over, thank goodness, and your suit’s been sent back to gotham entirely disassembled, disguising itself as a robotics project (at least, that’s what you told alfred when you went out to mail it back to queens). you’d set your head against the window, and your head vibrated, rapping against the glass.

…

alfred drove off after a few pleasantries, a gentle “safe travels”, and a nod in your direction. you might miss him, keyword: might, and check the time and the car drives off. eleven forty-three, you have half an hour before the train comes by.

sp//dr notices your silence, and hums against your wrist, made into a bracelet. “get something to eat, (name);” she’d said, “missed breakfast in your rush.” you’d made a noise of acknowledgement, rattling your suitcase so that the wheels get unstuck from the crevices in the pebbled-stone.

a sandwich maybe? you’re not hungry actually, haven’t had much time to do anything that would really make you hungry. the place’s littered with people, people, and more people. it’s only a few minutes into looking around that your senses start to bubble, and a familiar instinct of anxiety buzzes.

two men, one dressed like a cowboy and the other in flashy cloth, fairly normal but… you look around, a little out of place. no one else seems to notice them there, and you’re a little unsettled, turning your back to them and sprinting to a small stall, paying quickly for a sandwich you don’t actually have time to eat.

“hey kid,” a voice speaks out, heavy on the accent, a hand on your shoulder. you whip around, “was hoping to catch a word.” it’s the cowboy, and you’ve gone stiff, stammering nervously. “um…

do.. do i know you?” the man smiles, but your sense isn’t going off… okay, (name), you inhale, just relax, listen, and get the hell out. you literally have a train to catch!

“you wouldn’t, but you should,” you tilt your head. the man sticks out a hand “patrick o’hara, and this is…” he gestures at the other man, “my, err, colleague, cooper coen.”

you tap your foot against the floor, “um. and?” the other guy; cooper, smiles, probably finding your bluntness funny. “we’ll cut to the chase, (name)”, he knows your name. they know your name, why do they know your name? “we know you’re spiderman.”

your ears start to buzz, sp//dr feels tight on your wrist.

patrick scratches his goatee, following up awkwardly, “errr… well, this world’s spiderman, he means.” you hope you’re not too rude, in the way you’re staring, and the hissed string of swears that follow.

“multiple spidermans and multiple worlds…” you inhale slowly, taking a sip from the soda cooper bought for the three of you, “how does that work?”

the three of you sit on a rickety bench, twenty minutes before your train’s here. “now can’t go into the specifics, kid” patrick grumbles, “all some technic gibberish that’d be better off from the horse's mouth.” you try not to sound dumb, “... your horse?”

he barks out a laugh, startling sp//dr, who’s revealed her spindly form and sits on your lap behind your soda glass. “no, no, from the boss, yeah? you’ll meet him when we get there.”

cooper looks at you pointedly, “and we will get there. there’ll be arrangements made for your school and…” he hesitates, you squint, he squints, patrick coughs, “your family? anyway, we’ve given you the basics- you got them, right? just don’t go around- you know, freaking out.”

patrick hums, the sound like a low tractor engine, “yeah, we’ve got another nutcase to-be-fixed, work’s tough all around.”

“i’m not a nutcase,” they hear you grumble under your breath, “i won’t freak out.” patrick claps a hand on your shoulder, his soda untouched, “never said so, kid.”

there’s a click of electricity, and the two of them look down at orange watches clasped on their wrists in sync. cooper said something about it being “communication tech” but you didn’t get to ask as many questions as you’d like. it’s difficult for you to infer the hologram that shoots up from it (and sp//dr’s too obviously intrigued), but they stand up with overlapping mutters.

“well,” cooper motions his head towards a slightly more secluded, hidden area, “you coming, kid?”

you hesitate. “how do i know this isn’t some kind of trick? doesn’t sound very real.” patrick o’hara pulls a piece of red cloth over his face, two white parallelograms for eyes on it; looks a little like the visors on your suit. “don’t really have a reason to be tricking the newbie-spider do we, cooper?”

“we don’t,” the other drawls, turning away from the two of you, “besides it’ll be good for you too.”

“good how?”

patrick looks a little uncomfortable, cooper’s face is turned away.

“don’t stress over it, you’ll see soon enough.”

sp//dr tuts, expanding over into a bracelet on your wrist. she wants to say something, and you want to hear. but these… two, are making it hard. she won’t speak in front of them. you really wish she would.

dear mr. davis,

as a new academic year for midtown school of science and technology approaches, we write to you in regards of a student in your junior year, (name) parker-wayne, who will unfortunately be unable to attend for the academic first term.

due to their volunteering in our special research and development programme this summer, we request you excuse their absence until ##-##-####. we here at the society understand that the projects at our establishment will take time from (name)’s academics and their education at your school, and would like to assure you that we have kept such formal anomalies in line.

attached are signed documents, confirming parker-wayne’s acceptance into our course, permissions from their legal guardians and our project leader, and a form for your establishment to confirm parker-wayne’s excused leave.

regards,

margo kess,

department of physics and astrophysics,

the o'hara science and technology society.

“does (name) wayne have physics?”

“parker-wayne, mr. davis, and beats me.”

₊˚⊹ a/n : finally got #there.. now excuse my bs naming system ok and i'll fix the spacing on the sign off on my laptop tmr!! i have a solid motion on for this fic but lmk if there's anything you'd find interesting in this setting. thank you for all the support, i love this series, and i'll have a new update... soonish? my exams are coming up so probs not very soon 😥

taglist: @shycreatorreview @facelessgetolover @mileskisser @1abi @kenyummy @selvyyr @systemix @momentomoribitch @redsakura101 @k-anaru @stupouid @glowinthedarkjellyfish @blankface333 @sassycupcakecomputer @miyseilish @xzmickeyzx @bat1212 @icefox8155 @st4rg1rln @blankface333 @inkberri @k-anaru

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cinnamanz · 2 months ago

Text

# MAMMA MIA — chapter twenty-nine!

there’s always been one rule in the group: don’t bring up y/n. no one really knows why, but it’s clear sophia would rather leave her ex-best friend in the past. once inseparable, their friendship dissolved after a summer camp that no one talks about, and y/n vanished, moving god-knows-where without so much as a goodbye. some say it was a fight. others say it was something more. only sophia knows the truth—or maybe not even she does. now, as the third year at dream academy begins, sophia is blindsided by y/n's unexpected return. gone is the familiar, easygoing childhood bestfriend she remembers. in her place is someone sharper, colder, and—unfortunately for sophia—hotter than ever. (who gave her the permission to look so fine?)

wc: 396

HARDEST BATTLES

PULLING UP INTO THE CAMPUS PARKING LOT, y/n exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel. her hair was a mess, her hoodie was on backward, and she was so close to kicking sophia out without even stopping the car properly.

“we’re here. get out.” sophia had just stepped out, barely getting both feet on the ground, when it happened.

he happened.

alex.

y/n barely had time to process him launching out of his own car like a damn track star before he sprinted across the lot, all but lunging for the passenger door. the second he yanked it open—way too hard, by the way—y/n flinched at the god-awful sound of metal slamming against metal.

oh, hell no.

did this guy just try to break her car?

“good morning, sophia,” alex greeted, sickeningly enthusiastic, flashing his most charming smile as he extended a hand like he was welcoming a princess down from her royal carriage instead of, you know, just greeting someone who had already exited the vehicle.

y/n saw red.

shutting the engine off with an aggressive twist of her keys, she flung her door open, already marching over to give alex a piece of her mind. who did he think he was? if he wanted to open car doors so badly, maybe he should apply to be a valet and leave her car the hell alone—

but then she saw it.

sophia, standing just outside the car, gripping the door frame as she swayed slightly.

y/n’s irritation screeched to a halt, replaced by a sharp furrow of her brows. was she dizzy? nauseous? okay, yeah, y/n had maybe driven a little fast, but—

before alex could even notice, y/n was already at sophia’s side, steadying her with a firm hand on her arm. “hey. you good?”

sophia blinked up at her, slightly unfocused, and instead of answering, she just… latched onto y/n. and then alex.

one hand gripping y/n’s sleeve, the other grasping alex’s arm like they were the only things keeping her upright.

y/n and alex locked eyes over sophia’s head, both glaring, both silently daring the other to let go first.

sophia groaned, voice weak. “if one of you lets me go, i’m gonna throw up on your shoes.”

immediate silence.

then, in perfect synchronization, both y/n and alex tightened their grip on her.

masterlist ✮⋆｡˚📽️ next

omg an update HAPPY DAYS!!! im currently in assessment week my b for the lack of updates guys💔💔💔 i have an english exam tmrw wish me luck i truly need it😭😭😭

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#katseye #katseye x reader #wlw #katseye smau #katseye x female reader #smau #sophia laforteza katseye #sophia laforteza x female reader #sophia x female reader #sophia laforteza x reader #sophia katseye #sophia laforteza #sophia x reader #gxg

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the-winter-spider · 1 month ago

Text

Say Don't Go | Part Nine

Bucky x reader au

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: None, boring chapter

A/N: Im not gonna lie, I've been struggling with this story but soooooo many of yall keep asking when I'm gonna update so I just decided to sit down and lay it all out and write the rest of the fic, so here we gooo.

Im not really vibing with this fic anymore, its hard ughhh

Masterpost

--------

The fallout from that night lingered like a storm cloud over Bucky’s head. His bruised knuckles ached every time he clenched his fists, but that pain was nothing compared to the weight in his chest. Nothing compared to the feeling of walking onto campus and not seeing you waiting at your usual spot outside the library, earbuds in, lost in whatever song had caught your attention that day.

You weren’t avoiding him. No, avoiding meant there was still something to salvage. You were done with him. And that realization sat heavy in his bones.

The first day back, Bucky barely made it through practice. His head wasn’t in it, his movements sluggish, off-tempo. Coach chewed him out in front of everyone, demanding to know what the hell was wrong with him, but Bucky barely processed it. He wasn’t the only one who noticed, either.

“Yo, what is up with you?” Sam asked, tossing a towel over his shoulder as they walked out of the locker room after practice.

“Nothing,” Bucky muttered, keeping his gaze ahead, scanning the crowd in the hallway like an idiot. Like he was expecting to see you there.

Sam let out a low whistle. “Man, you’re really gonna sit here and act like I don’t know exactly what this is about? You’re looking for her.”

Bucky stiffened, but didn’t deny it.

“You fucked up,” Sam continued, like he was narrating Bucky’s entire downfall in real time. “You really fucked up and now you’re moody as shit, walking around campus like a ghost. It’s pathetic.”

Bucky finally turned his head, glaring. “Are you gonna help or just talk shit?”

“Hey, I would help,” Sam said with a smirk. “But I don’t think she wants help from me or you.”

That stung more than it should have. Because Sam was right, he usually was and he felt it, really felt it when he finally caught sight of you in the dining hall later that day.

You were sitting at a table in the corner, away from the noise, curled into yourself as you read. You weren’t alone, though. Your roommate, Wanda, was there, sitting across from you, flipping through a textbook. Wanda glanced up shooter daggers at Bucky, and if looks could kill, well he’d be dead.

Bucky’s stomach twisted uncomfortably.

He didn’t even realize he’d been staring until Sam nudged him hard in the ribs. “Don’t be an idiot,” Sam warned. “Don’t go over there and make shit worse.”

Bucky scoffed. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

“Whatever,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He tore his eyes away from you, because seeing you wasn’t something he could deal with right now.

"Look man, everything will work out how its suppose to." Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get food before you do something stupid.”

Bucky let Sam pull him away, but even as he stood in line for food, even as his teammates laughed and talked around him, all he could think about was you.

How he’d lost you before he even really had you, and you were the first thing he ever truly wanted.

---

The campus felt different or maybe you felt different.

You used to love walking through the courtyard in the morning, headphones in, drowning out the world with your favorite playlist. Now, every step felt heavier, like you were dragging the weight of last week behind you. The whispers, the stares, they weren’t imagined. You felt them. You could hear them. It felt different then when you lost your sister, you turn out the looks of pity, of sadness, of guilt but this was different, you had never felt anything like this before.

“That’s her.”

“Did you hear what happened?”

“Can’t believe Bucky would stoop that low.”

“Bet he didn’t even enjoy himself.”

You kept your head down, gripping the straps of your backpack until your fingers ached. You weren’t naïve. You knew how things worked here. How gossip spread like wildfire, how people loved to take a tragedy and turn it into entertainment.

You just never thought you’d be the subject of it.

Wanda was waiting for you outside your first lecture hall. She was leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone, but as soon as she saw you, her face softened with something that looked a lot like pity.

“Don’t,” you muttered before she could even say anything. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Wanda sighed but nodded, falling into step beside you as you entered the lecture hall. “Alright. No talking. But just so you know, if anyone tries to pull some Mean Girls shit, I will make them cry.”

Despite everything, a tiny smirk tugged at your lips. “I believe you.”

The first class dragged, your mind constantly drifting, your knee bouncing beneath the desk. You felt his absence. Bucky wasn’t in this class with you, but for so long, he’d been the thing that pulled you out of your head when you got too lost in your own thoughts. His dumb jokes, his teasing comments, the way he’d pass you stupid doodles on ripped piece sitting of paper.

And now?

Now you had nothing but empty silence and the lingering ache in your chest.

After class, Wanda stuck by your side. Steve was waiting outside the hall, leaning against the railing, watching the crowd. When his eyes landed on you, he straightened immediately, something unreadable flickering across his face.

He looked guilty.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I was gonna text you, but I figured I’d just wait here. Thought maybe we could grab something to eat?”

You hesitated. A week ago, that offer wouldn’t have even required thought. But now? After the things he said?

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Look, I know you’re upset.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Upset?” The word tasted wrong on your tongue. Upset didn’t begin to cover it.

Steve sighed, stepping closer. “I just wanna talk, alright? I didn’t mean for things to go the way they did.”

Your stomach twisted at the thought of Steve, your best friend, how he had stood across from you and spewed hurtful words right in your face after defending you, he acted like your pain wasn’t real. Like it didn’t matter.

You tightened your grip on the strap of your backpack. “I don’t wanna talk. I just wanna be left alone.”

Steve huffed, frustrated now. “How am I supposed to apologize if you won’t even listen?”

You flinched, the sharpness in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. “Apologizing isn’t just about saying sorry, Steve.” Your voice wavered, but you held your ground. “It’s about meaning it. And you? You didn’t give a damn about how I felt when it actually mattered.”

Something in his expression faltered.

Wanda shifted beside you, arms crossed, her presence like a shield. She hadn’t spoken, but you knew she would step in if Steve pushed too hard.

Steve let out a long breath, looking away for a second like he was trying to find the right words. When he looked back, his blue eyes were softer. “I was just trying to stick up for you.”

Your throat burned. “Stick up for me?” You let out a humorless laugh. “After everything you said? Yeah, well, I guess that worked out great for you, huh?”

Steve winced. “That’s not fair.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly. “None of this is fair, Steve. But I’m the one who has to live with it.”

His shoulders dropped slightly, but you didn’t wait for a response. You pushed past him, the weight of the conversation settling deep in your chest.

Wanda fell into step beside you, quiet for a few beats before finally saying, “I’d call that a well-earned fuck you.”

You huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. “I could’ve said worse.”

“Yeah,” Wanda smirked. “But I think you got the point across. So, the café? I could use a cup of something with an espresso shot.”

“Oh god, not the espresso shot,” you groaned, laughing despite yourself.

Wanda looped her arm through yours, dramatically clutching her chest. “Excuse me, I need caffeine to survive. One shot of espresso is the bare minimum. You, my dear, clearly lack appreciation for the finer things in life.”

You rolled your eyes, her warmth grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. The conversation, the teasing..it almost felt normal. Almost.

Then you felt that sensation of being watched.

It slithered up your spine, settling heavy between your shoulder blades. Your laughter faded as instinct kicked in, your eyes scanning the crowd and then you saw him.

Bucky.

He was near the entrance of the dining hall, surrounded by his teammates, but he wasn’t engaged. Not even close. His body was there, but his attention, his entire focus was on you.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

He looked the same but different somehow. His hair was damp from practice, curling at the ends in a way that once would’ve made you smile. His hoodie was loose, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable and his face….his face was unreadable except for the weight behind his eyes.

Regret. Thick, suffocating, undeniable regret.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeve. Maybe before, that look would’ve unraveled you. Maybe before, you would’ve been tempted to take even the smallest step toward him, to offer him some kind of solace.

But regret wasn’t enough. Not after everything, you couldn't let it be enough.

You forced yourself to tear your gaze away, to keep walking, even as the heaviness of his stare followed you, searing into your back like a brand.

Wanda didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t have to. She just squeezed your arm, her silent way of letting you know she saw it too.

After a few steps, she exhaled, shaking her head. “God, he looks miserable.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes straight ahead. “Good.”

Wanda glanced at you, expression unreadable for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Good.”

But as you reached the café doors, pushing inside, the lingering burn of Bucky’s stare refused to fade.

---

By the time you made it back to your dorm, the weight of the day had settled deep into your bones.

The moment you shut the door behind you, the silence hit. Not just quiet, silence. The kind that felt alive, pressing in on all sides, wrapping around your throat like a vice.

You dropped your bag onto the floor, toeing off your shoes with little care. Wanda had gone out with some friends, promising she’d be back later, but you hadn’t wanted to go. You told her you were tired, that you just needed to breathe for a second.

You lied.

The truth was, you didn’t want to be around people. You didn’t want to pretend you were okay, or like today hadn’t drained every last ounce of energy out of you, even though today had probably been one of the easier days this week.

You felt exhausted. Not the kind that sleep could fix, but the kind that settled in your soul and made you wonder if you’d ever really be able to shake it.

You sat down on your bed, staring blankly at the wall.

It was happening again.

That sinking, crushing feeling, like the ground beneath you was cracking, shifting, like soon there would be nothing left to stand on.

It wasn’t just about Bucky. It wasn’t just about Steve.

It was about everything.

You thought you had people. You thought you had friends. You thought, for once in your life, you weren’t completely alone.

And yet… here you were.

Alone in your room.

Alone with your thoughts.

Alone.

Your chest tightened, breath hitching as you curled in on yourself. You dug your fingers into your arms, trying to ground yourself, trying to pull yourself out of it, but it wasn’t working.

And now, on top of all that? You have lost your best friend. Steve, who had always been in your corner, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get past the look on his face in the locker room hallway that night, like you had betrayed him.

Maybe you had. Maybe you should have just pretended like nothing happened because even though he said hurtful things to you, he did defend you to Bucky right? Maybe you were selfish. Maybe you were the problem. Because this wasn’t new, was it?

You’d lost people before.

You lost her.

Your sister.

The thought alone made your stomach churn, shame curling around your ribs like barbed wire. It had been years, and yet, the grief still clung to you like a second skin. You could still hear her voice sometimes, still see the way she used to look at you, like you were someone worth protecting.

But she was gone and you were still here.

Still losing people.

Maybe that was just who you were. Maybe no matter how hard you tried, you weren’t meant to have people.

Maybe you were meant to be alone.

The thought sent a sharp, splintering ache through your chest, and before you could stop it, before you could even think to fight it, you broke.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just silent. A few shaky breaths, a few hot tears slipping down your face as you curled into yourself, pressing your forehead against your knees.

No one was here to see it anyway.

No one ever was.

---

The next day was like moving through concrete.

You barely slept, still burdened with the weight of last night that was weighing upon you like an object on your chest. You could not even count how many hours you stayed curled up there on your bed, rehashing every mistaken move, all your failures, each biting critique you'd gotten from you. When morning broke, your body felt leaden, eyes dry but aching from gazing at the ceiling for all those hours of mental thinking within your head.

Wanda was still out. She had most likely spent the night at a friend's, and you were kind of glad. You didn't know you could pretend to be okay, not on a day like this.

You stalled over dressing, not because you cared, but because you didn't. Every action was reflex, getting dressed, combing your hair, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

Outside, campus was a cacophony. Too much.

The moment you stepped outside, you sensed it all over again. The staring. The muffled whispers of gossip. The not-so-veiled looks thrown in your direction before folks turned back to their friends with a chuckle as if your existence was another fleeting news item.

You sped up.

You weren't naive, you understood what they were talking about. Bucky. Steve. You. The whole bloody mess. It was such a car crash. Folks just couldn't resist stopping, looking, gawking.

By the time you got to your first class, your stomach was twisting up with anxiety. You wished you could just sit down, get caught up in the crowd, be incognito. But as soon as you walked into the lecture hall, your body tensed up.

Bucky was already there and he wasn't alone.

Tiffany.

She was leaning against his desk, twirling a curl of hair around her finger, her mouth pursed up in that fake, sugary smile. You knew that smile. You'd seen it a thousand times.

And Bucky? He wasn't looking at her, not really, but he wasn't shooing her away, either. It shouldn't have stung. It shouldn't have. But it did.

Something hot and embarrassing twisted in your stomach, a knot rising up into your throat. Not because you wanted more with him than what he had given you. Not because you wished things could ever be so again.

But because it was just one more reminder that even though it had felt like everything was different, the rest of the world continued to go on as if none of that even happened.

As if you didn't even happen. You turned around and departed. You did not have anywhere to go. You simply walked. Through the courtyard, by the library, down the stairs that led nowhere in particular. You simply had to catch your breath.

The universe actually had it out for you today.

You were just trying to make it through the gory day. You'd swallowed the lump in your throat, concealed the lump in your chest, and kept moving, as if you didn't notice Bucky's stare still burning into your flesh. But Tiffany had plans.

She approached you on the library steps, that characteristic smirk twisting on her lips.

"Aww, fleeing again?" she cooed. "You really need to make this less easy."

You clenched your teeth, eyes fixed forward. You were not going to do this. Not today. But she wasn't done.

"Too bad about that photo, don't you think?" she said, mock sympathy dripping from her voice. "You were so pitiful. Practically like you didn't even realize someone was watching."

Your stomach roiled.

You had tried not to look at the picture when it first went around campus. But even if you had, you couldn't shake the sting of it. The naked embarrassment of being so exposed.

Tiffany edged closer, speaking in a lower tone like she was letting you in on some big secret.

"Strange thing is, I told Bucky precisely who took it." She tilted her head. "And you know what's so pathetic? He didn't even have the decency to inform you."

Your breath caught in your throat.

Tiffany's grin widened. "Guess he really doesn't care about you at all, huh? Probably just some fun little game, ‘sleep with Cap’s best friend’”.

Something in your chest split open.

You weren't sure what hurt you worse, that she'd taken the dumb picture to begin with, or that Bucky'd known. That he'd known and never even bothered to think of telling you about it.

Maybe that was the final proof you needed.

You didn't actually have anyone.

"Oh, look at the crybaby," Tiffany pouted mockingly. "Poor girl. Who are you gonna run to now? Stevie? Bucky?" She gave a hard, cruel laugh. "Oh, right, nobody wants you."

Your nails creased your palms. You weren't an angry person. You weren't. But God, you wanted to erase that smug expression from her face. Before you could even imagine what to say, the crack of impact split the air.

Tiffany yelped, retreating onto the ground.

Your eyes widened. In front of you, shaking out her fist, stood Natasha fucking Romanoff.

"Huh," Nat said, wiggling her fingers. "That kinda hurt."

You blinked, frozen. "Did you just—"

"Yeah." She didn't look even remotely sorry. She looked annoyed that Tiffany was still on the ground, blinking up at her in shock. "She talks too much."

Your lips opened, then shut. You were so stunned you couldn't even process it. Natasha turned to face you, eyes scanning your face, her voice softer now. "You okay?"

You hesitated. You weren't okay. Not even remotely.

Nat didn't even hesitate for an answer. She simply hooked her arm through yours and steered you off like she hadn't just punched a girl in the face.

"C'mon," she said. "Let's go."

She didn’t say much at first. Just walked you down the sidewalk, her grip steady and warm on your arm, guiding you away from the pulsing music and drunken noise of the party. It wasn’t until the street was quiet, the only sound of your breathing and the faint click of Natasha’s boots, that she finally spoke.

“I’m not gonna lie,” she muttered, glancing over at you, “been wanting to do that for a while.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline finally giving way to exhaustion. “I didn’t think you actually would.”

Natasha shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.”

That made your lips twitch. It wasn’t a smile, not really, but it was close. “I think I did.”

You walked in silence for a bit, your thoughts spinning. The cold air nipped at your cheeks, grounding you after everything that had just happened. Finally, you spoke.

“I feel stupid,” you admitted. “Letting it all get to me like that.”

Natasha gave you a look. “You were humiliated, lied to, abandoned. That’s not ‘getting to you,’ that’s being human.”

You blinked, your throat tightening. “I just thought I had people, you know? Bucky, Steve… and then it all just… blew up.”

She stopped walking, gently pulling you to a bench near the sidewalk. You both sat, the dim orange glow of the streetlights painting her face in warm light.

“They hurt you,” she said simply. “And I’m not gonna make excuses for them. What Bucky did, what he didn’t do and what Steve said? That shit sticks.”

You looked down at your hands, rubbing your palms together. “I still don’t know if I can forgive them. Even now.”

“You don’t have to forgive them,” she said quietly. “Not until you’re ready and not for their sake, for yours.”

You swallowed hard. “Steve was like my brother and Bucky… I don’t even know what he was. I thought we had something. Then it was gone before I could even understand what it was.”

Natasha’s expression softened. “What do you want now?”

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “I want to feel like myself again. Like I can trust someone without waiting for the moment they decide I’m not worth it.”

She nodded, leaning back on the bench, eyes on the stars above. “You’ll get there. I see the way Bucky looks at you. It’s not just guilt. And Steve? He’s… Steve’s dealing with his own shit. Doesn’t mean he was right. Doesn’t mean you have to make space for him again if it still hurts.”

You rested your head on her shoulder, the warmth of her presence seeping into your bones.

“Thanks for punching her.”

Natasha smirked. “Anytime.”

---

Steve’s apartment was dark when Natasha knocked.

Not unusual. Lately, he hadn’t bothered turning on more than one lamp at a time. Just enough light to function. Everything else, the clutter, the half-eaten takeout boxes, the clothes draped over the back of a chair was left untouched. Natasha barely waited before letting herself in.

She found him on the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent, elbows resting on them like the weight of everything he was carrying might crush him if he didn’t hold himself together.

She tossed her keys onto the counter. “We need to talk.”

Steve didn’t even look up. “Is she okay?”

Natasha nodded. “Yeah she’s okay but...”

His jaw tensed. “What happened?”

Natasha crossed the room and leaned against the wall near the TV. “Tiffany ran her mouth. Again went after her. Said some things she should’ve never said. I handled it.”

Steve blinked slowly. “Handled it?”

Nat shrugged. “Put it this way, Tiffany won’t be smiling for a while.”

Steve gave a humorless huff of breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Good.”

A beat passed.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Steve said, voice low. “None of it.”

“No,” Natasha agreed. “She didn’t.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and honest.

“She’s not talking to me,” Steve finally said, barely above a whisper. “Not really. Not since… the rink. And I don’t blame her.”

Natasha’s expression softened. “Give it time. It’ll work out.”

“I know,” Steve said. “It’s just… hard.”

He leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face.

“We’ve been attached at the hip since we were kids. She’s more than my best friend. She’s my person. The one constant I’ve had through everything. When I lost my mom, when things were shit at school, when I got hurt… she was always there. And I was supposed to be that for her.”

“You still can be,” Natasha said gently. “But she’s hurt, Steve. You said some things—”

“I know,” he cut in, the guilt written all over his face. “I said the exact thing I swore I never would. I used her pain against her. That night, I just, I lost it. I was so angry. At Bucky, at myself… and I took it out on her. That’s on me.”

He scrubbed his hands through his hair, the shame etched into every word. “And she trusted me. She’s been through so much, Nat. With her sister, her dad, the photo… I promised her I’d never leave, never make her feel like she had no one. And that’s exactly what I did.”

Natasha crossed the room and sat down beside him. “You’re allowed to mess up, Steve. You’re human. What matters is what you do now.”

“I miss her,” he admitted, his voice cracking just a little. “I miss just… knowing she was okay. I miss her texts. Her dumb playlists. The way she always knew when something was wrong before I even did.”

Natasha leaned her head against the back of the couch. “You’ll get there. You two? You’ve got history. Real history. She just needs space right now. To heal, to trust again.”

Steve stared at the ceiling for a long moment before finally nodding. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Nat smirked faintly. “I usually am.”

He smiled for the first time in what felt like days. “Thanks for checking in. And for… you know. Handling Tiffany.”

“Anytime,” Natasha said, standing. “You focus on cleaning up your side of the mess. I think Bucky’s actually trying on his end.”

Steve’s smile faltered, but he nodded. “Good. That’s good. I just want her to be okay. Even if it’s not with me in the picture the way it used to be.”

Natasha paused at the door. “I think she wants you there. She’s just not ready yet.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader angst

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godmadeaterribleerror · 4 months ago

Text

Chapter 4 - You Bleed Like Me

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Starting a tradition for my long series when chapter 4 is just love interest bonding. Enjoy!

Chapter title from clementine by Halsey

Word Count: 16.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have an arrangement. Usual warnings, extra graphic violence warning.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

Read on A03!

“This doesn’t really seem like an us case, De-“

“There are us cases?”

She glared up at Dean, her eyes narrowed. “Yes. And this isn’t one.”

“Why not?” He propped his elbows on the table, smirking at Her as he picked up his burger. “What’s an us case, sweetheart? So I know what I should be looking for-“

She snorted. “You’re full of shit, Winchester.”

“Oh, yeah, but that’s not going to get you out of this.” Dean took a large bite, grinning at Her expectantly, and she sighed.

“It’s something that goes fast. That’s strange enough to be interesting, but not dangerous enough that, if one of us has to go early, the other is left dead in the water. And it should play off of our strengths, to make it easier.”

“Huh.” Dean swallowed his food, watching Her carefully. “What’s my strength?”

She gave him an amused look. “What do you think your strength is?”

“I think it’s my huge, thick, throbbing…” He leaned forward, wigging his brows. “Brain.”

Her bright eyes rolled, but Dean didn’t miss the way there was no venom behind her annoyed groan, or how her lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. “You proud of that one?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, shooting Her a wink. “What do you think it is?”

She hummed, tilting Her head at him. “You want the honest answer, or the flattering one?”

Dean frowned. “Both?”

“Cool. You’re the face.”

“I’m…” Dean trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m the face?”

“Uh huh.” She grinned at him, poking Her own food with a plastic fork. “You get us in the door, so I can do all the work.”

“You do not do all the work-“

She gave him a flat look. “Who’s higher up on the kill scoreboard?”

“You. But,” he pointed an accusing finger at Her. “Only because I’ve have to leave early for the past three hunts.”

“And I’m up by nine, dumb dumb.” She sat up a little straighter, pride written all over her gorgeous face, and it made Dean feel all soft and gooey. “And that’s exactly why I should get to veto this hunt-“

Dean clicked his tongue, not even trying to fight his smile. “We’ll get back to this hunt in a second, sweetheart, you need to explain the face thing.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I already did-“

“Well, was that the flattering one or the honest one? Cause if it’s the honest one, you need to start appreciating me more-“

“I appreciate you plenty.” She snapped, flushing slightly. “And that was the flattering one.”

“Alright, what’s the honest one?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Dean gave Her his best puppy-dog eyes—nothing compared to Sammy’s, but he was getting better, at least with Her—and a pout that he hoped made him look adorable and not constipated. “C’mon, I can take it-“

“No. You’ll have to earn it.”

He scowled. “How the hell am I supposed to earn it-“

“Good question.” She gave him a teasing grin, Her eyelashes fluttering slightly, and Dean’s pout turned a little more real as warmth settled in his gut. “But that does sound like a you problem, Deano.”

Dean leaned back in his seat, rolling his eyes. “You suck.”

“I know.” Her smile grew, lips full and wide and slightly parted and fuck, Dean wanted her to suck on them- “You’re still here, though.”

“I am.” Dean stomped down his pathetic, unreasonable need for Her and took another bite of his burger. “But that’s just cause I don’t know how to leave, Princess.”

She flipped him off, returning the conversation to the hunt, and Dean wasn’t sure if the flash in Her eyes was from amusement or hurt. It shouldn’t be hurt. He hadn’t meant to hurt Her. He never wanted to hurt Her, it always made him feel ill. Hell, it had been three years since the poltergeist—three years since he’d seen real, pure hatred for him on Her pretty face—and Her expression before she stormed out of the bar was still shifting like ash inside that pit in Dean’s body, reminding him what a piece of fucking shit he was. He’d never apologized for that. He wasn’t sure how he would, because that would require a longer conversation to explain himself, where he finally demanded answers for what Dad had found on Her during the moroi hunt.

And he wasn’t fucking strong enough to have that conversation. Not now. Not when he finally had Her in the loosest possible way, and he didn’t want to screw it up. Didn’t want to open his mouth and poke and prod Her—demand more than he deserved to have—until she left him, like everyone else did. Dean would not whine about his feelings like a little girl. Not when he knew it would drive his only friend away. Not when it would ruin whatever this was with Her.

He wasn’t really sure what this actually was, but he knew it was something. Friendship seemed to be the easiest thing to call it, but there was more than that. It was over a year of meeting up for hunts, hanging out a little while after—laying on a bed or sitting on the floor or leaning across a table—before parting with grins and promises to call and meet up again. And they always did. There were always weeks where Dad was away, Dean was left alone, and he’d kill that time with Her. With another case that they handled together, as a team, and another week of falling into this enigma of a woman he couldn’t avoid if he tried.

Because there had been truth in the joke that he didn’t know how to leave. He’d tried. He’d gotten messages for hunts that were a little further away from his motel then was smart, and still gone to meet Her because it was Her. It was a chance to see Her and talk to her and watch her move through the world as if it had been designed for Her. The idea that Dean was the face was baffling, because She was the one who turned heads wherever they went. Backwater dive bars and small farm towns, crowded cities when they walked down the street and roadside diners where they met up, fancy gated communities where people made odd faces at Dean because they could see that he didn’t belong, but smiled at Her because she was meant to be there. She was beautiful, walked with a purpose—Her steps certain, her chin raised high—and said every word like it was a privilege to hear her voice.

And dammit, it was. In the weeks between seeing Her, Dean would be haunted by her voice. It hadn’t stopped following him into dreams, but now it surrounded him on the wind. Every other voice sounded crude and grating compared to Her’s, to the point that Dean had to tune out every woman he slept with, because their moans were like chalk screeching and scraping on his ears.

He’d started to imagine Her moans. When Dad was gone, and She wasn’t available for a hunt—too far across the country or busy with something else She didn’t need Dean for, although nobody ever really needed Dean for anything—he would wrap his hand around his cock and lose his mind to her in the dark. He thought, if She did moan for him, She’d say his name and smile at him, looking at him like he was the only person in the whole universe. And the longer he indulged those fantasies, the more they spiraled out of control. He had to fuck women on their stomachs, because it was easier to pretend that it was Her beneath him. He’d started to fucking look for chicks that had similar features to Her at bars, started to smell them like a goddamn creep, because if there was a fruity smell it turned him on all the more.

But even when there was, it wasn’t Her smell. None of them were ever exactly like Her, not enough for Dean to find real satisfaction. Their hair was the right texture, but not as shiny. Their eyes were the same color, but they weren’t bright. They seemed passionate, but they didn’t seem like the universe. She was the universe. She was bigger than the universe. She was some sort of ethereal royalty sent to test Dean’s self-control, all laughter and teasing and sharp words in a siren voice, pulling Dean into Her orbit without ever letting him collide.

And that wasn’t something friends were supposed to feel about friends. Which was the more part. Dean wanted more. He wanted Her under him, against him, around him, his skin slapping on Her’s until she moaned and Her smile became blissful and calm. He wanted to pull her into a long kiss until she sighed his name, wanted to have an excuse to see Her that didn’t involve death or blood, wanted to know everything about Her until he either held Her for as long as she’d allow or he found a reason to hate Her again.

Because so far, he wasn’t really having much luck on that last thing. He couldn’t work out how to ask what the hell was up with Her family—her past, her lies, or the way She seemed to shut down at odd moments—without ruining this. And he really didn’t want to ruin this. Even without that more, even without the explanation, this was good. This was the sole constant in Dean’s life. She was the only person who looked at Dean and saw him, the only person who didn’t seem sick of him, the only person he sat with in silence without ever feeling the need to speak.

Dean wanted to know every fucking thing about Her—beautiful, horrible, and twisted—but he also refused to be the one to fuck a good thing up. If She felt the same blinding, consuming pull to Dean that he felt to Her she would’ve mentioned it by now, because son of a bitch it was impossible to ignore. Dean had to spend active effort in Her presence to not touch her, to not blurt that she was the hottest woman he’d ever seen, to not pick Her up and fold her into his chest or fall to his knees and wrap his arms around Her waist, pleading with Her to just stay all the time.

He was pathetic. She was awesome. And he’d have to be insane to mention the pull, because She’d look at him like he was worthless and horrible for even thinking he could ever deserve to be the one she allowed protect her, then he’d be alone again.

It didn’t stop him from imaging a world where he was allowed to be Her knight. Be Her dark, following Her like a shadow and pulling her apart where only he was allowed to see. Which was, again, insane. But Dean had already lost his mind to Her enough.

Because he’d been lying. To Dad.

Dad didn’t have a clue Dean was doing this. Worse, Dean had no plans to tell him. And Dean fucking sucked for lying to Dad when all Dad did was help and protect him, but Dad was also stronger and smarter than Dean, and knew how not to fall for Her entrancing smile and words and face. Dad knew how to hate Her, and Dean didn’t really want to see the disappointment on his face when he found out how Dean would actively look for cases to work with Her, call Her whenever he could, and take any excuse to be in Her presence.

Dean didn’t need the extra shame, because it already flailed around that pit inside of him and ate at his bones. He didn’t need to be reminded of how easily this arrangement with Her could come crashing down, because the thought had been buried deep in his skull, but still managed to worm out whenever he was really, truly alone. Whenever he’d cum in his hand to the thought of Her, or squeeze his eyes shut to imagine that she was the one under him, and then realize was a perverted asshole he was. Whenever She’d look at him too long and he’d wonder if she was seeing that pit inside of him, seeing how hollow and disgusting he was, how he was never fully able to wash the mud off his skin to match the way She seemed to glow. If She was realizing that no matter what lies or tricks she pulled on Dean, he was so worthless that he’d always fall for her, so he wasn’t worth her time.

Even now, in a white tile food court of a florescent mall, She looked a flower growing in a junkyard. Not out of place, but strange. Too beautiful for a place where anything could be, too delicate and natural for anywhere at all. And She wasn’t delicate, but she was something a little to the side of it. She didn’t flinch at blood, and she didn’t balk at challenge, but She didn’t belong at Dean’s side. She was worth more than that. Worth more than the way he wore out everything around him.

And he hoped She never realized that.

Because he was a selfish piece of shit.

“I just think this case is too big.” She was watching Dean with a hesitant gaze, fidgeting with Her own fingers. “We don’t have any real leads, except this,” She made a loose gesture around the mall. “Is the epicenter. No connections between the vics, and most of them aren’t even from this town, which mean no feuds. There’re no connections between the ways they’re dying, either, and no reported odd events-”

“I’d call five random deaths an odd event-“

“But nobody’s ever died at this mall before.” She propped Her chin on her hand, a small, pretty frown on her face. “Which means it’s not a vengeful spirit, and that’s the only thing that would make sense here.”

“C’mon,” Dean said Her name, putting down his burger. “It’s a puzzle! Which mean it’ll feel so much more awesome when we solve it, right?”

“What if we don’t solve it? What if this is above our pay grade?”

“Nothing’s above our pay grade, Princess, we don’t get paid-“

She rolled Her eyes. “You know what I mean. These deaths are violent, random, and without any sort of monster or spirit MO. Hearts stay in the chests, no blood drained from the body, no EMF or temperature drops. Nothing.”

“So we’ll find something.”

“What if we don’t.”

“We will.” Dean grinned at Her, leaning a little forward. “That’s your strength, sweetheart. You’re the puzzle master.”

She snorted. “Puzzle master implies I create the puzzles, Deano. Not solve them.”

“Whatever.” He waved Her off, holding her gaze. “Still your strength.”

“If it’s my strength, why did you say we’ll find something-“

“Because that’s how teams work,” Dean drawled Her name with a smirk. “One person does all the work, and the other,” he gestured to himself, puffing out his chest slightly. “Gives the presentation. That’s my strength, right? I’m the face and the muscle?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

Dean raised his brows. “Really?”

“Nope. And I’m not telling you.”

He frowned. “Would you tell me if I guessed right?”

“Probably not,” She hummed, glancing around the food court with a frown, then looking back to Dean. “Do you really think we can handle this case?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, watching Her carefully. “I think we’ve got this, Princess. We’re gonna kick ass.”

She hummed, and Dean could read the hesitation behind Her eyes. Clouding over the usual light, Her brain obviously spinning as she weighed whatever doubts she had against Dean’s faith that they could handle this.

He hoped they weren’t doubts against him. He always fucking worried She’d get sick of dumbing herself down to his level, of slowing Her pace to match his. This case was right up Her ally—Dean knew how much She loved weird shit—but it wasn’t up Dean’s. Hell, he didn’t even have an alley, he just fought whatever he was pointed at. He knew he was only here because She allowed him to be, because She had, for some unexplainable reason, decided that Dean didn’t get in Her way like other hunters did.

He didn’t think that was true. And this was evidence of it.

But She still sighed and nodded, and Dean felt something tight around his lungs go slack.

“Fine.” She said, running a hand through her hair. Dean wished She’d let him do that. “How long have I got you for?”

Dean blinked at Her. “I, uh, what?”

“For the hunt.” She raised Her brows, giving him an odd look. “How long until your Dad is expecting you back?”

“Oh.” Dean felt his face heat slightly, and prayed She hadn’t caught how he’d short-circuited at the thought of Her having him. “Uh, Dad’s in Arizona, so at least a week and a half with the drive back.”

“Okay,” She ran Her thumb over that scar on her palm, her brow furrowed in thought. “Then I’ll give us a week to get it ourselves, but if we don’t get it by then, or the deaths get out of hand, we call in backup. Deal?”

“Sure, but-” Dean frowned. “Backup? You have backup?”

“You’re not the only one who knows other hunters, Deano.” She shrugged, shooting Dean a teasing grin that didn’t help him collect himself at all. “Let’s get moving, we’ve got some investigating to do.”

Dean muttered an agreement, shoving the rest of his burger into his mouth in one movement, and tried not to let the sore thought of who the fuck else does She know circle around his skull as he stood up. Dean wasn’t Her keeper or guard or partner. He wasn’t Her anything. He didn’t have a right to get pissed off and possessive over the very idea that She might think there were other hunters she’d want to handle this. Hunters She’d chose over Dean. Hunters She’d trust over Dean.

He could handle this. He could prove to Her that he could handle this. He could focus, and be serious, and work this case until they solved it—together, not just Her being cool and smart and Dean trailing in Her wake—so that She’d never worry about needing backup again.

Dean reminded himself as he watched Her comb over the mall map—Her nose adorably scrunched in thought and her tongue tracing over her slightly parted lips—that She only hunted with him. She might know other hunters, but Dean was the only one She sought out for cases. The only one She asked to work with her.

He was pretty sure he was the only one. She might be lying about that, but he didn’t think She was. She was still lying about Her past—Dean had only tried to learn more with careful, casual questions, but she always kept Her answers vague, and Dean didn’t know how to flat out ask—but he’d grown less and less certain that She was, in any way, a manipulative bitch. She’d gotten uncomfortable stealing a pencil from a diner once. That didn’t scream master thief and con woman, and Dean couldn’t understand how what Dad had showed him was the same person before him. Especially because everything She did say about her past seemed to be true. Most everything she said, ever, seemed to be true, despite Dean’s direct knowledge that should tell him it wasn’t.

But he’d developed a sense for when She was lying. Something would scratch at his head and he’d know that She did care that he was leaving a case early, She did think Dean’s joke was funny, and She didn’t actually care about cars, but She did want to hear Dean talk about them.

Which clashed with what Dad had told him all the more. Dad had repeatedly painted a picture of a spoiled brat, who didn’t care about people like them. That’s what he’d said when She left after the poltergeist. That Dean couldn’t have expected her to stay, because She’d never be able to even pretend to give a shit about people she saw as lower than Her. But then She’d watch Dean with an unwavering attention and soft amusement as he told Her about cowboys and cars and other stuff she obviously didn’t give a fuck about, but listened without ever complaining or trying to shut him up.

She seemed like that with almost everyone. Dean conducted the interviews at Her side—moving through store after store to ask about the various deaths—and watched Her look at everyone with a similar open, gentle interest in what they told her. At the Radio Shack a tall man with long, ratty hair somehow ended up talking about how his wife loved those solve the crime shows, saying that she would be thrilled he got to act as a witness, and She let out an intoxicating, sweet laugh before telling the man that, while She wasn’t a fan of those shows herself, she’d once been thrilled to be let into a big house like the one in the Sound of Music, so she understood. She said Her dad had to threaten to leave because they were the for work, and She shouldn’t be singing on the staircase.

Dean had frowned for a brief second after, because She should’ve been raised in a big house.

“Did you do the dancing too?” He asked as they walked out of the store, leaning down to mutter in Her ear. “On the staircase?”

She nodded. “Oh yeah. I even got to go back and do a different song after he was done with the case.”

Dean blinked. “Your dad let you do that?”

“His idea.” She looked back to give Dean an easy, mind-numbing smile. “He’ll never admit it, but he enjoyed it more than I did. He said I was big screen talented.”

She wasn’t lying. He didn’t get that story at all—not only the house thing, but Her dad letting her waste time on something pointless, let alone enjoying it—but She wasn’t lying, so Dean’s returning grin was wide.

“You think you’ll ever sing for me, Princess?”

“I don’t sing in front of people.”

“You just said you sang for your dad-“

“I’d kill someone for my dad.” She shrugged, waving Dean off with a casual hand. “He doesn’t count.”

“You wound me,” Dean mock-whined Her name, and She wrinkled her nose at him. “You wouldn’t kill someone for me?”

She hummed. “Night’s young.”

Dean’s heart almost stumbled to a halt as She just kept moving, and he had to physically shake himself to jumpstart his brain. She wouldn’t kill for him, or sing for him, but the night was young. Dean could jog after Her and walk by her side with the hope of being important enough to Her—Dean would like to be important to anybody, but being important to Her would be awesome—that she’s kill for him. That She’d sing for him.

Walking at Her side, though, was just as awfully simple as speaking to Her. Just as contradictory to everything about Her Dean was supposed to hate. He knew that already—from hunting and walking with Her for a year—but the force of that fact still shocked him. The person Dad said She was wouldn’t toss strangers genuine smiles as they passed each other in the crowd. Those smiles wouldn’t be softer for children, wide regardless of if people smiled back, and somehow bigger when aimed at Dean. She wouldn’t smile at Dean in the crowd like he was the only one she was truly happy to see. She wouldn’t walked so close to him, and look around the world as it parted for Her like it might cave in just as fast.

The person Dean should hate wouldn’t look so entranced by the dirty, loud mall around Her. Wouldn’t watch everyone with a fasciation that didn’t seem to come from watching animals in a zoo—caged and lower, made only for Her amusement—but like they were beautiful. Like She was water in a bottle watching the river flow, and longer to be a part of it.

Hanging out with Her was making Dean smarter. He wasn’t even sure what that meant, but it sounded pretty. And it felt right. That was how She watched people laugh with each other, how She looked at the clothing in the stores, and how She stared at all the little pastries in the bakery.

“Do you want one?”

She looked up at Dean with wide eyes, shaking Her head with a nervous laugh. “No, I’m- I don’t need one.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s food, ‘course you need one. C’mon, we can get one of the small ones, they’re like, two bucks-“

“Dean, I’m fine.” Her voice was firm, Her back a little straighter, and Dean frowned. She had called him Dean. That meant she was serious.

“Whatever,” he shrugged it off, watching Her carefully as he continued. “I’ll get one, I’m fucking starving-“

“You just had a burger-“

“Two hours ago,” Dean drawled Her name, lowering down to examine the display case. “I’m gonna get that one, it looks like a tiny pie-“

“This isn’t going to work, Winchester.” She snapped, and Dean glanced up to see Her glaring down at him, arms folded over her chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.“

“This.” She made a circling gesture over Dean’s hunched body. “You can’t guilt me into splitting one with you.”

Dean grinned at Her. “I’m not trying to guilt anyone-“

“Good. Because it’s not working.”

“Yeah, I don’t care, cause I’m not trying to do anything.” Dean turned back to the display, flagging down the chick behind the counter to grab four of those awesome mini pies, ignoring Her glare behind him. “You got something you wanna say, Princess?”

He could easily picture Her glare deepening. “Why’d you get four.”

“I’m a growing boy.”

She snorted. “You’re twenty-five.”

“Well, you’re not a doctor. I could grow some more.” Dean turned with his bag in hand, guiding Her out of the shop—they’d already decided it was a dead end, and Dean had pies to eat and a point to prove—with a smirk. “Never know.”

“I do know.” She mumbled. “You won’t.”

“Not if you don’t believe in yourself. That mindset, you’ll never get anywhere in life-“

“Shut up.”

Dean tossed the first mini pie into his mouth. “Bossy-“

“I’ll hit you, Winchester.”

He winked at Her, speaking through his half-chewed mouthful. “Promise?”

He dodged Her kick to his shins, only to fall right onto Her elbow in his gut, spluttering up some of his pie.

“Shit!” She grabbed his arm to steady him, Her eyes wide. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to get you that bad-“

“Nah, ’s fine.” Dean dusted himself off, pulling himself back to full height, giving Her his best winning smile. “You warned me, that one’s a freebie.”

“I’m still sorry-“

“Don’t be.” He winked at Her. “I’m careful, sweetheart. That’s why I got four.”

She flushed, mumbling another apology, and Dean really didn’t care. He still had three pies, She was adorable when she was embarrassed, and it was kinda funny. He’d spat that up like a cartoon.

He did only get two of those pies, but that was because he won the previous argument, so all was right in the world. Dean made it through his first whole one with dramatic and vulgar sounds of pleasure, watching Her scowl at the air, then flush, then start to glance at Dean with hungry eyes.

He was unable to hide the smug glee in his voice when he raised his brows at Her.

“Hey, Princess.”

She glared at him, Her lips in a pretty pout, and Dean’s smirk grew as he dug around through the bag, pulled out one of the pies, and offered it to Her.

She looked between Dean and the pie, snatched it like She was worried it was a bomb set to go off, and marched away as she shoved it in Her mouth.

Dean didn’t understand Her at all.

He didn’t really care.

Most of the stores were dead end leads—everyone they interviewed not able to mention anything strange about the mall or off about their store the day before someone was literally murdered in it—so they ended up fucking around more than any two hunters on a case probably should. Dean was cracking more jokes than Dad would usually allow, but She was a receptive audience, and Her giggle was like lightning through Dean’s blood. She kept watching everything with that same fasciation, and the pie had seemed to open some sort of dam in Her as the afternoon crept on. She spent the half the time in Yankee Candle smelling things, inspected over the stuffed animals in a toy store like she was choosing a counsel, and spent so long starting at books in Barnes and Noble that Dean decided it was fine for him to take an hour in the vinyl store.

“Of course you like vinyl.”

Dean frowned at Her. “Yeah, I’m not a freakin’ heathen-“

“I know.” She said the words simply, like they were obvious, and Dean felt something hum happily in his chest, just to the right of his heart. “But it’s been an hour, De, and I know for a fact you already have that album as a cassette tape-“

“It’s about appreciating art, Princess.” Dean shrugged Her off, turning back to the shelves. “You can head out whenever you want. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

She scowled, but didn’t leave. She stayed right at Dean’s side, even asking him a few questions about the albums and not acting like She regretted it when his answers were long and detailed. She scanned over the store with a small, thoughtful furrow in Her brow as Dean spoke, but he knew She was listening because then she’d ask fucking follow up questions. She must have been looking for a clue or lead, because halfway through talking about Metallica She grabbed his arm and dragged him to a corner of the store, crouching down to run a hand over a crack in the wall, and looked up at Dean with a sigh.

“Sorry, I thought I-“ She shook her head, frowning at the crack. “Never mind.”

“You thought it was something for the case?” Dean dropped at Her side, not really caring to examine the crack. It was a plaster wall, there were going to be cracks and he didn’t really think it was anything at all.

But She had. And Dean always wanted to know why she thought something.

“I’m not sure, I just-” She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, twisting a ring on Her finger. “I don’t know.”

Dean frowned. Lie. “Don’t know what.”

“What we’re looking for.” She muttered, her voice lined with frustration. Truth. “I don’t have a fucking clue, De, and I don’t like it. I mean, we can interview the victims’ families again, but they’re all different demographics, and I don’t- I don’t know-“

Dean said Her name cautiously, placing his hand on Her back, but She just kept talking.

“I don’t know, this, it feels bad.”

He frowned. “Yeah, it’s a bunch of gruesome murders-“

“No, I mean- I know you can’t- Only I- It’s just bad. It’s really bad and I can, I can feel- it’s like-” She sighed, slumping slightly into Dean’s touch, which made him feel like he was flying. “It’s wrong, Dean. It’s dark.”

Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue what She was talking about, or why She was watching the crack like it might spread up and collapse the building, but She looked really worried. He’d never seen that on Her before, and it felt like a blaring alarm in his chest, demanding Dean listen to Her. That he fix this.

“Look, Princess, I’m not sure what you’re talking about-“

“I know. I sound insane.”

“Yeah, you do, but-“ He offered Her a small grin, even though her attention was still fixed on the crack. “We’ve still got a few more stores to go, and we’re going to find something. No funny business on our watch, right?”

“No, but,” Her tongue peeked out between her lips as she let out a long breath. Dean wanted to pull it between his teeth. “This… I don’t really want to know what it is.” She finally looked to Dean, and there was something nervous in Her eyes that made his whole body tight.

“We can’t just give up,” Dean said Her name carefully, rubbing his hand in a careful circle. “We deal in the nasty and bad, that’s the job-“

“I’m not saying we give up, De.” She mumbled. “We’re going to fix this, but I’m saying I really don’t like this. I can’t describe why, but I don’t, and maybe we should call in the backup now-“

Dean shook his head. “You promised me a week-“

“I know, I’m just saying we don’t have anything. Not even a real lead.”

He shrugged, rising up and offering Her his hand. “We’ll find one. It’s about attitude,Princess. Fake it till you make it.”

“I don’t think you can fake evidence. I think that’s actually a felony.” Her voice was a little lighter as Dean helped Her to her feet, and it made him feel hot, bright pride. He’d cheered Her up. Just Dean.

“Lucky we’re not real cops then, right?” He winked at Her, and she snorted.

“No, that’s actually also a felony-“

“You’re focusing on the negative,” Dean drawled Her name, guiding Her out of the store with a hand on her back. “Remember. Attitude.”

She rolled Her eyes. “You’re a dork.”

“I’m hilarious and charming.” He corrected, trying not let Her small smile move too deep into his heart. “That’s my strength, sweetheart, I keep the spirits up while you get all emotional-“

She whacked his chest, giggling as Dean took a large, dramatic step back. “I am not emotional-“

“You just hit me because I hurt your feelings- Shit!”

He barely dodged the kick to his shins, taking a large step back to avoid the elbow.

“Ha,” he let out a loud, triumphant laugh. “I’ve learned all your tricks- fuck!”

Dean did not dodge the tackle. She side-slammed into him with a light force that Dean should’ve been able to absorb, but still sent him stumbling. Not because he was hurt—She never actually hurt him, her every hit controlled and delivered with a gleam in Her eyes that made Dean grin—but because She seemed to not anticipated catching him off guard, and ended up pressing Her whole body to Dean’s and setting him on fire. She fit there, soft and warm and natural, and Dean couldn’t stop his arms from flying to wrap around Her, to take her down with him.

Landing them both on the floor of the mall, looking more like teenagers than the official police investigators they were supposed to be. But if people were staring, he couldn’t see them. He could only see Her. Beautiful and consuming in his lap, his arms around Her torso and her hands braced on his chest. Smothering him with the smell of fruit and sugar, drawing him in closer as they just stared at each other.

He was blinded. Her eyes were wide and vast and seemed to be wrapping around Dean until everything in the universe was one color, and that color was Her. He couldn’t stop himself from glancing down to Her lips. Slightly parted, the feeling of them still branded onto his cheek, just as bright as the rest of Her and luring him closer like he was only moth-

She swallowed, shifting slightly above him, and it broke him out of the spell. She could not be squirming above him in public. Not when they had a job to do and Dean wasn’t sure She’d like or want the consequences of that action.

“We should, um-“ Her words were slow, as if she had to think every single one out. “Case. Evidence.”

“Right, yeah. Case.” Dean stood carefully, helping Her to her own feet. “What, uh, where are we-“

“Macy’s.” She mumbled. She was still standing too close, where Dean could feel the heat of her body. “It’s actually the last stop.”

“Good, awesome-“

“No, not awesome.” She gave Dean a flat look. “This is our last store, and we have nothing.”

“I told you, Princess, we’ll find something.” He trailed at Her side as they began walking, staring at Her as they moved through the crowd. She’d stop him from hitting anyone, and she was so much better look at than a bunch of random strangers and shops. “It’s all about the attitude and teamwork, about playing to our strengths. My strength is, of course, being the level-headed decision maker-“

She laughed. “No.”

“Alright, but you gotta tell me-“

“I don’t have to do anything.”

He sighed. “You’re so mean to me.”

“That’s because you’re a loser, Winchester.”

“If I am, you’re losing with me.” He grinned at Her, she glanced at him with a light in Her eyes, and those words didn’t stab him deep in the soft tissue of his stomach like they should’ve. Dean was a loser, but she didn’t say it the way most people would’ve. She said it like it was endearing. Like She wouldn’t want Dean any other way.

He hoped She wanted him at all. The most evidence he had that She did was that she was here. Hunting with Dean, talking to the cashiers and walking by his side. Giggling as he made stupid jokes about the glittering heels in the shoe isle, making Her own jokes about a rack of hideous dresses, watching Dean with amusement as he glared at a bedazzled belt in the men’s isle.

“What would you even use that for?” He asked Her, turning it over in his hand. “It’s all freakin’ sparkly-“

“I think that’s the point, De.” She shrugged, standing right at Dean’s shoulder as he continued to glower at the belt. “Sparkly cowboy belt, who wouldn’t want one?”

Dean scoffed. “This is not a cowboy belt-“

“Yeah, it is.” Her arm brushed over Dean’s as she grabbed the tag, and he almost completely forgot what they were talking about as every bit of his existence flew to that touch. “Bling Western Belt, Men’s.”

“That’s… that’s fucking dumb as hell, cowboys don’t wear glitter-“

“Fun cowboy’s wear glitter.” She nudged her shoulder with his, Her smile brighter than every stupid rhinestone on the belt. “Maybe you’re just a boring cowboy.”

Dean raised his brows at Her. “So I’m a cowboy? Is that my strength?”

She wrinkled Her nose at him. “That’s not a strength, it’s a characterization-“

“But I am a cowboy-“

“A boring one.”

He shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

“You do that.” She hummed, looking over Her shoulder with a frown—that little furrow in Her brow deep, her eyes focused—and Dean paused, letting the belt drop from his hands.

“You good, Princess?”

“Huh?” She looked back to him with an open expression, the wrinkle still there, and God, he wanted to touch it. “What’d you say?”

He scanned over Her carefully, looking for any sign of distress, anything he needed to fix. “I asked if you’re good-“

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She grabbed Dean’s arm and tugged him away from the belt, down the aisle. “Let’s keep moving.”

She didn’t seem fine, but she also wasn’t frantic or edged enough for pushing Her to be worth it. Dean had a feeling She’d just bristle and snap, or shut down completely, and he didn’t know how to the hell to fix it if She did. He didn’t want to ruin this. He couldn’t ruin this. He had Her as close as she’d allow, and he wanted to keep her there until he was forced away. Dean wanted to keep listening to Her speak about things he normally wouldn’t care about, but felt fascinating when She said them. He wanted to know Her every thought on this case, understand what she meant by it feeling bad, and maybe learn enough that, if She tested him, he’d pass and be allowed closer. Close enough that She’d explain herself without Dean ever needing to ask.

Close enough that he might be able to spend whole days with Her walking through a mall, no threat of death hanging over their heads. Just Dean making dumb jokes, Her explaining things to him, and Dean telling Her his opinions and kissing Her on the head when she hit his chest, both of them smiling and their hands tangled perfectly together-

Dean did not need to hold Her hand. He was not a toddler. His fingers might be aching to touch Her skin and his body might be straining to press against Her’s, but that was just his body. His body that didn’t seem to care that She was, still, lying to him. That Dean should be a lot more focused on the people being murdered part of this rather than lost these countless fantasies of Her. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t dream of them tonight, where they couldn’t affect anyone but Dean. Where all they did was carve into his resolve and pull him further down into Her, where he couldn’t afford to be.

Where he didn’t have the will to leave.

It was why he kept trying to get his head in the case, but couldn’t. He just kept thinking of Her in front of him, kept getting lost in Her voice with no need to be found.

“God, this shit is expensive.” She mumbled at Dean’s side, her eyes scanning over the price tags of various perfume bottles as she fidgeted with the EMF reader. “I mean, I use that one, and it is not worth a hundred bucks.”

Dean mumbles a passive agreement, glancing at the bottle She’d nodded to. Fancy and crystal looking, filled with golden liquid and labeled with a French word he couldn’t pronounce. He almost looked away—he didn’t really care about perfume at all—but then he realized that could be it. That could be the fruit smell.

He grabbed the bottle, turning it in his hands, and She gave him an amused look.

“You looking for a new perfume, Deano?”

“Shut up.” He muttered. “What’s a keynote.”

“It’s like the main smell of something.” She hummed, and Dean frowned between Her and the label.

“This says the keynote is vanilla.”

“Uh huh.” She looked back to the EMF reader. “I think this area is clear, which means we still have-“

“And you’re sure you wear this?”

“Pretty sure, considering I got it for myself-“

“This.” Dean held it up for Her to see. “Vanilla. You wear the vanilla.”

“Yep.” She gave him an odd look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,“ Dean placed the bottle back on the shelf, shooting Her his best winning grin. “I’m fantastic, Princess, just didn’t pin you for the vanilla type.”

She raised Her brows. “What did you pin me for?”

Dean couldn’t answer that, because he’d sound like an insane person. He already felt like an insane person, because every time he’d been near Her, he’d smelled fruit. He was goddamn certain of that, because it drove him out of him mind and made him feel like a giddy, dumbass teenage boy. And there was no universe where Dean would be able to look her in the eyes and say well, I think about how you smell all the time, sweetheart. And you do not smell like vanilla.

So he just winked, shoving his hand in the pockets of his jacket and moving right back to Her side. “I’ll tell you if you tell me my strength.”

She sighed. “Nice try.”

“Did it work?”

“Nope.” She was scanning the store around them, and Dean was about to ask what would work when She did a double take, grabbed his arm, and yanked him down to the floor.

Dean’s balance stuttered slightly as he went down, and he flinched as he landed flat on his ass. “Damnit,” he grunted Her name, rubbing his tailbone. “What the hell was that for-“

Her hand shot out to cover his mouth, Her voice falling to a whisper. “Quiet, I need to-“ She cut herself off, craning her neck up, then ducking back down a second later. “Fuck.”

Dean raised his brows at Her, and she glanced at him with a that little furrow between her brows.

“What?”

He gave Her a flat glare, pointing to her hand, and she flushed.

“Shit, sorry-“ She pulled Her hand away and Dean glowered her, his voice rising to a hushed shout.

“Why’d you do that-“

She covered his mouth again, giving him a stern glare. “Quiet.” She hissed. “I think we’re being followed.”

Dean blinked at Her, dragging her hand off of his face. “By who?”

“Tall, hot lady with the dark hair.” She whispered. “She’s been right behind us through the whole store, she was at the food court, and in almost all the shops-“ She paused, giving Dean an odd look. “You haven’t noticed?”

“No, uh, not really-“

“She tried to hit on you, De. Like, five times.“

Dean frowned. Nobody had hit on him today, let alone multiple times. It had just been Her and Dean the whole day, only ever speaking to other people when they were doing the interviews or getting food. He’d remember if a tall chick had been coming onto him. He’d remember if he’d spoken to a hot lady at all.

But he only remembered talking to Her.

“You said she’s has been following us all day?”

“She called you cute in the bakery, Dean. And complimented your music taste in the vinyl shop.”

Dean frowned into the air, trying to will the memory into existence, and came up blank. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She snapped, glancing over Her shoulder wearily. “I was right next to you.”

She sounded sour. Like the words tasted bitter on Her tongue. Shit, even Her pretty face was scrunched slightly, Her nails scratching at her skin and her body tensed.

Dean’s face broke out in a wide grin. “Holy shit,” he leaned a little closer to Her, dropping his voice into a loud whisper. “You’re jealous.”

She looked back to him with that gorgeous flush and wide eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

“You’re all pissy because I might have not been paying attention to you-“

She rolled Her eyes. “You literally don’t remember her. And even if you did, I would not be jealous.”

Dean knew She wouldn’t be. The sour thing was probably more from Her overall worry about them being followed. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep taunting Her until she shoved him, not when he got to see her all adorably and mumbly and embarrassed.

“It’s okay, I get it. You don’t have anything to worry though.” Dean’s grin was probably shit-eating, and he took the risk to lean in closer, until his body was almost covering Her’s. “I only got eyes for one lady to stick around in my life.“

She raised Her brows at him, her voice dry. “Your dads car?”

He shrugged. “Two ladies.”

“You don’t know two ladies.”

“You’re a lady, genius-“

She snorted. “I am not a lady.”

Dean waved Her off, bracing his other hand on the perfume self. “You’re the most lady lady I know, you use perfume-“

“Because I like smells, Winchester, not because I’m a lady.”

“You can dance-“

“I’ve told you, anyone with legs can dance.”

“Not me.”

“You can rodeo, cowboy.”

Dean gaped at Her for a long second—still scanning around them for his alleged stalker—and he couldn’t really remember how to speak. She’d called him cowboy. She’d said it like it was plain and obvious and shouldn’t set off fireworks along his ribs. Like it shouldn’t suddenly be incredibly important to Dean that she call him that again very soon, ideally now-

“Our shadow’s gone.” She muttered, looking back to Dean with a small frown. “I still think we should be careful.”

Dean shook himself out of the gaze, giving Her a lazy grin in the hope She hadn’t noticed his almost drunken daze. “I’m always careful, sweetheart-“

“Says the guy who didn’t even notice he was being followed-“

“I can’t be expected to remember every chick that hits on me, Princess.” He spread his arms wide, smirking as She rolled her eyes. “I mean, look at me. C’mon.”

She gave him a dry look, opened Her mouth to spar back at him, but froze with a gape and flash of Her eyes.

“Uh,” Dean waved his hand in Her face, saying Her name. “You good in- damnit-“

He lost his balance as She grabbed his hand out of the air, turning it palm up and running a light touch over his fingertips. Small sparks of electricity flew over his skin at the contact, at how feather like and gentle it was, like Dean was worth being touched carefully, and fuck, he wanted to hold Her hand so bad-

“What are you-“

She raised one finger, and Dean fell silent, watching Her examine his skin like it was priceless. Turning it between Her hands, leaning down to look closer, really touching Dean, lighting him up golden from inside-

“Hey, uh-“

“Dean.” She looked up at him with wide eyes. “I’ve got it.”

He blinked at Her stupidly. “Got what.”

“What we’re after.” She dragged two fingers over the pad of Dean’s thumb, then held them up for him to see. “Sulfur.”

His brain still wasn’t back to normal. Not while She was still holding his hand. “Huh?”

“There’s sulfur.” Her grin was almost manic, and Dean would be a little freaked out if it wasn’t Her, and he didn’t recognize that as Her I’m about to be right about something smile. “Which means…?”

She was prompting him, and Dean had to rub his head slightly to remember. “Uh, demons, right? They-“ His eyes widened as he finally caught up, all the pieces—violent murders, random victims, no normal leads—fell into place. “Shit. That’s not good.”

“No,” She hummed, squeezing Dean’s hand slightly. “But it’s something.”

——————

You can’t keep living like this. You can’t keep crashing into Dean over and over, expecting it not to leave a mark. It does. It always does. He keeps sinking into you in ways you don’t expect, until your back feels bare without his hand and everything is worse when he’s not there with you. You’ve spent the past year running your fingers over cassette tapes and fighting to urge to get one for him, lost money to buying food because you think Dean would like it, and wasted time staring at your phone and willing it to ring so you could hear his voice. It’s gotten worse the longer your arrangement has gone on. You still don’t know what it is, but you know it’s all only gotten worse.

It’s not a maintainable way to live. Dean has only left you in your motel room, and you already miss him. It’s been ten fucking minutes and you’re uneasy, the White twisting and coiling because Dean’s not next to you and it seems to believe that he’s a given. Everything falls into smooth harmony when he’s there, and when you separate it’s like being doused in ice water that grips your throat and drags the world to press against your skull. He’d walked you to your room with a wink and reminder that he was just down the strip, and you waved him off and told him you were a big girl who wasn’t going to hurt herself changing her shirt. Then he’d shrugged, you’d closed the door, and everything had been worse.

It all felt smaller. The room was too narrow, the ceiling too short, the mirror too close and its reflection too sharp.

And that’s not Dean. That’s just you. That’s how it always is, how it’s always been. The White glows and the darkness eats you and everything is too small until it’s not. Until the darkness makes you not only you, and it’s all vast and infectious until you drag yourself back down and it’s all small again. It’s dangerous. You’re dangerous. The darkness has gotten stronger in this past year, and you’ve grown sicker, and it’s dangerous. You can’t control it, and the old ways don’t work as well as they did before.

“I had another one,” you’d mumbled at few weeks ago, glancing up at Bobby from across the table. “Wendigo hunt, in Oregon.”

Bobby had grunted, running a hand over his beard as he watched you carefully. “You alright?”

“Yeah. But I,” you’d swallowed, a foul stench still trapped in your nose. “I ruined a creek.”

“Whatdy’a mean, ruined.”

“I mean the water flew out of it.”

Bobby had blinked at you. “Out of- out the whole damn creek?”

You’d nodded, and he’d leaned forward in his chair, his voice low and cautious.

“You’re still tryin’ to remember what sets them off, yeah?”

“I was…” You’d swallowed, because you couldn’t tell Bobby the full truth.

You’d been hunting with Dean. He hadn’t been answering your messages, and the darkness had started to expanded until you were the dirt and the leaves and the mud and the water, and the water had felt distressed, and you’d been falling apart and Dean wasn’t there and then-

He’d been fine. His stupid, dollar store pager had been snapped in his backpack while he was pissing, he hadn’t had signal to call you, and he’d just laughed and brushed you off when you’d shoved him and shouted that he couldn’t just vanish on a hunt when he was the asshole who insisted you hunt together in the first place. If he’d noticed the suddenly dry creek bed, he hadn’t said anything. If Dean has noticed any of the real outbursts—the ones you don’t catch before you lose control—he hasn’t mentioned it, or even given you an odd look.

But Bobby didn’t know you were hunting with Dean. He still doesn’t.

So you’d said you were afraid, because it wasn’t a lie.

“The… the wendigo was near me, I could feel it, and I freaked out.” You’d sighed, twisting a ring on your finger. “And that was it. No deaths.”

“Good.” Bobby had muttered, glancing down to your hands. “Any injuries I need to know about?”

“No, I got the wendigo-“

“Injuries on you,” Bobby had said your name with a knowing look. “I know how you handle this shit, kiddo, and it ain’t my place to tell you how to deal with it, but if ya’ got anythin’ I need to patch up-“

“No.” You’d whispered, hanging your head slightly. “Nothing.”

Nothing visible. Nothing Bobby could see. He knows about the scratching and biting and picking, but he doesn’t know about the iron. He still thinks you wear the rings because they’re fashionable. He doesn’t know about how they crush the darkness further down by force, or how they leave stains along your bones and over the White.

He doesn’t know how they seem to be fucking useless lately. How the blowups have not only been more powerful, but the darkness has risen with more ease.

You think that’s Dean. You’re not sure why, but when you’re with Dean with darkness and the White seem to meld peacefully, right up until they don’t. Right up until you’re in another situation like Vitus last year, and Dean’s by your side, and it’s all suddenly devouring. Over and over the blowouts have been bigger when you’re hunting with Dean, over and over you’ve had more… episodes when you’re together. When there’s a monster you know wouldn’t look or lunge at you, but now Dean’s here and he’s in danger.

Danger from the monster.

Danger from you.

Because you really can’t control it, and if you have a real blowup—not just everything being too big as you cling to a little bit of control with your teeth—Dean will pay the price. He hasn’t asked much about the episodes, only given you strange looks after and patted your head awkwardly when they linger a little longer, cracking soft jokes and refusing to leave your side. Thankfully, he just seems to think it a girl thing, because he’s an adorable dumbass who mostly hangs out with his dad.

Which is another problem. Every time you indulge yourself—every time you cave into this strange need to be wherever Dean is—you’re a step closer to a death at John Winchester’s hands. All it would take is one easy case, one slip up where he finds out what Dean does when he’s left alone, and you’d be fucked.

But you’re already fucked. Because you really don’t care. You don’t care that John might find out what’s happening and try to kill you, because you’re faster than that asshole, and you know how to disappear. You don’t care that Bobby will kick your ass when he finds out what an idjit you’re being. You only care about the way the world seems to fall into place when Dean greets you with a wide grin and shout of your name across a parking lot. You care about how he’s still here, and he hasn’t gone anywhere, and you don’t think he will. You don’t know if he’s grown blind to what you are, or forgotten, or simply isn’t bothered by it anymore, but you know he’s here.

In the same motel, just a few rooms down.

He’s tried to convince you to share a room—it’s just a room, Princess, and if I was gonna stab you, I’d have done it by now—but that’s where you draw the line. You simply cannot put yourself in that situation. Where Dean showers and you can hear the water, where you wake up and he’s sleeping across the room. You can’t allow yourself to find out whether or not he wears a shirt to sleep, or what side of the bed he prefers, or if he tosses and turns through the night.

You’ll get weird. You’ll be tending to a part of this desire for him that will consume you if you’re not careful. It’s already pathetic and strange that the White is always tugging you to his side. That you always smell grass and spice, even when Dean must be states away. It’s bad enough that you dream about him, that his touch is like a cure to the pain that lives in you, that it feels like you’re growing and for once it’s not malignant. It’s already too much how the darkness is soothed into the White when he’s there, that those fractured pieces scattered through your body always grow towards each other like a spiderweb that’s learned to mend itself. That when Dean smiles at you all those pieces start to catch light and throw it across the darkest, deepest corners of your innards.

It’s worrying that when Dean’s gone, they curl and fester until he returns.

It’s the fucking worst that whenever he’s even near you, you want… more. Not just his hands on your bare skin or his lips wherever he wants to put them, but all of him.

So you can’t share a room with Dean. Because if he wanted all of you, if he had even a sliver of what kept calling you back to him, he would’ve mentioned it. He would’ve had to, because the words tell me you feel this too, please, just so I know I haven’t lost my mind always live on your tongue.

But he hasn’t said anything.

And you don’t want to destroy this. If it breaks, you won’t know how to live with only the pieces left in your hands.

Not when it’s been this good.

Because you’re crashing into Dean every single moment, but you’re bending to him too. You’re allowing him to be something you’ve never really had.

He’s your friend.

He looks out for you. He talks to you like you’re not only ever speaking out of turn. He’s even convinced you to start hunting with a weapon.

“What’s this?” You’d asked him, and he’d shrugged, a wide grin on his face.

“It’s a knife, Princess, it goes chop-“

You’d rolled your eyes. “I know what a knife is, I’m asking what this one is doing here.”

“It’s for you.” His voice had dropped slightly, his eyes scanning over your face slowly. “So you don’t get yourself killed when you hunt alone.”

“Dean, I’ve never gotten killed before-“

“Yeah, it’s kind of a one-time thing,” he’d drawled your name, his hands in his pockets so you couldn’t shove the knife into them. “And now I’m not gonna have to worry about you-“

“Aw,” you’d grinned at him. “You worry about me?“

“No, I-“ He’d scowled. “Just take the goddamn knife.”

“Say you worry about me.”

He’d swallowed, his eyes narrowing, and grumbled so low you’d barely heard it. “I worry about you. Pinky promise you’ll actually use that thing.”

Dean had raise his pinky, you’d beamed at him as you locked it with yours, and now that knife stayed under your pillow when you slept. And Dean worried about you. As a hunting partner. As a friend.

You think that’s what this will have to be. It doesn’t seem to be enough for any singular part of you, but it’s more than you’ve ever had before.

It’s poking fun at each other in a way that doesn’t bite and sharing amused looks when someone says something dumb. It’s telling him most everything about yourself and him acting like you’re the most fascinating person in the world. Him doing the same to you, and you hanging onto his every word like they’re the most important things you’ll ever know. It’s not as if you never tell people about yourself, but you really like telling Dean things. He only looks at you when you’re speaking, then he makes stupid jokes that pull a giggle from your lips, and his face wears a shit-eating, prideful grin that makes you want to touch his lips to check that he’s real.

If you don’t count Bobby—and you usually do—Dean might be the only person in the world that knows you and likes you.

Mostly knows you.

Knows everything but that one last, foul truth. And sometimes, you do want to tell him about you being… whatever you are. A witch, a monster, something bigger, something worse. Times like when he sits with you after one of your episodes and you want to explain. Times like when he seems to think you’re more important than you are, when he makes a passing remark about you being fancy.

Times like at the mall, when you’d felt something sicker and darker than you in that crack on the wall. Rotting and molding inside of and around it, reaching out to you and trying to wrap around your skin.

It had felt like you, but with nothing colorful cast around it. The whole mall had felt like that, but that crack had been worse. Focused.

You’d checked your notes when you’d gotten back to the motel. Checked what you’d gotten on the vic in the vinyl shop.

A lumberjack who’d had skin under his nails, like he’d fought back. Bruising on his ankles like he’d been yanked down by them.

So now you’re bent over the sink, trying not to choke on bile or look in the mirror. Because unless you’re wrong—and you don’t think you are—that had been damage left by the demon’s anger and pain. Damage that had been like you.

You pull it together. You run a shower that burns your skin, sit in the tub with your knees folded into your chest, and pull it together. Dean will be here soon, so you have to fucking pull it together.

But you take off the rings. They’re not nearly enough to stop anything, and even when you stop feeling the suffocation of your tangled sheets, pure pain is still wrapped around your skull like a halo. You know taking the rings off won’t heal or mend it, but at least it will lessen the agony.

And that will have to be enough.

Dean knocks on your door with a wide grin and dramatic bow, and from here the night should be simple. You’ll go to a bar, Dean will get a beer, you’ll get what he calls a girly drink, and you’ll figure out the Demon’s pattern so you can kill it. You’ll lean back in your booth as he leans forward, and you’ll laugh and talk until you realize it’s almost midnight, then you’ll have to actually work on the case.

From there it will be easy. For you. You’ll lay out all the pieces—it’s a demon, Dean’s pointed out that all the killings seem to happen at night, and you’ve been caught on the fact that over half of the victims seemed to live outside the county—while Dean offers adorable and mostly useless comments. He’s not dumb, but he seems to think he is, and likes playing it up for the bit. And White always sings when you tell him he put something together and his grin becomes toothy and boyish, so you never bother telling him to shut up in a way that you mean.

And that is how the night goes. Dean’s foot keeps pressing against yours—making everything silver and your body melt closer to his—and he orders a lot of food when you finally get to work, but you’re still thinking aloud and Dean’s still cracking dumb jokes, so it’s easy.

Right until around 1am, it’s easy.

“I don’t understand why all the murders are different.” You lean your head back onto the booth, keeping your eyes on Dean’s. “It’s not just the different stores. There’s never the same kind of murder. One blunt-force, one neck snapped, one hanging, and one girl’s report said she was flayed-“

“Hey,” Dean points to his burger, raising his brows. “As much as I love your dirty talk, Princess, I’m kinda eating.”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just…” You trailed off, frowning at the ceiling and rubbing your palm with your thumb. “Demons don’t always follow a pattern, but they usual have an MO. A favorite type of victim, a favorite way to kill them, something that can be used to figure out where they’ll strike next.”

Dean shrugs, speaking through a mouth full of fries. “You’ll find it. I’m gonna get more fries, you wanna basket?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes as Dean shuffles out of the booth and racking your brain for anything you can use. Night killings, never in the same store. Inconsistent timeframes, too, because it seems to have been two nights since the last murder. But that means there’s probably a new one coming, and if it’s nighttime right now-

“Hey, baby, what’s a pretty girl like you doing here all by herself?”

You open your eyes to see a man that’s definitely not Dean dropping across from you. He’s a litter shorter, a little more wiry, with gelled hair and a smirk that crawls on your skin instead of sparks on it.

“Uh, I’m not by myself.” You glance over to the bar, your eyes finding Dean in a second. His back is to you as he leans over the counter, and you can easily imagine his wide grin as he watches the bartended collect his fries. “My friend’s just getting food.”

“Well,” the man settles into the booth, leaning forward with a wink. It’s not as pretty as Dean’s. “I can keep you company until she gets back.”

“Actually-“

“Name’s Frank.” He extends his hand, and when you shake it, his hands are clammy. “Pretty girl got a pretty name?”

You say your name, watching him wearily. “And I’m kind of working-“

Frank laughs. “It’s one in the morning, baby, you should take a break-“

“I got two, ‘cause you always say you don’t want any then you try to fucking eat mine-“ Dean cuts himself off with a scowl when he sees Frank, and you think he’s suddenly standing a little taller. “Hey, buddy, you’re in my seat.”

Frank shrugs. “Sorry, man, I got here first-“

“You did not.” Dean snaps, dropping the fries down on the table. “Cause that’s my seat.”

“Didn’t see your name on anything, bro. And she,” Frank gestures to you, and you blink. “Is way out of your league, so beat it.”

“Beat it?” Dean laughs, and that’s his hunter laugh. You’ve mostly heard it right before he kills something. “Listen, bro, I’m asking one more time before your ugly mug and my fist have a chat-“

You grab Dean’s wrist—you’re in no position to get in a bar fight, especially not over a seat—and give him a pointed look. “De, my root beer is empty, I’m gonna go get another.”

He frowns at you. “That’s your fourth one-“

“And?” You squeeze Dean’s wrist slightly as you rise out of your seat. “You’re not my dad, Winchester. I’m a grown woman, I’ll have fifteen if I want.”

“Damn right you’re a grown woman, baby-“

Dean shoots Frank the most venomous glare you’ve ever seen. “Shut it, haircut. And you,” he turns back to scan over your face. “I can go get your root beer, you eat the fries-“

“I’m not hungry.” You nod to your booth. “And you can have my seat. Compromise.”

Dean stares at you, an emotion you can’t read painted over his every feature, and shakes his head slightly. “No, I’ll, uh, I’ll come with you.”

“Sure.” You shrug, giving Frank a sweet, polite smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry, we have to go-“

Frank frowns, his words clipped as he cuts you off. “So you are with pretty boy over here-“

“Yes.” Dean snaps. “We’re partners, douchebag. C’mon.”

You don’t get another word in before Dean’s pulling you to the bar, sitting you on a barstool and dropping at your side.

“Are you okay?” You ask, watching him scowl at the bartender. “You look like someone shat on your burger.”

“I’m fine.” He grunts, giving you another odd look. “Did you give him your number?”

“No, why would I have done that-“

“Good. Wouldn’t be safe.” Dean turns back to the bar, ordering your root beer as you stare at him.

“Yeah, I know.” You tilt your head at his bitter expression, and let it go for now. Dean can be strange, and you’ve learned to mostly ignore it. Besides, you have bigger things to worry about. “I had an idea by the way, while you were getting the food-“

“Before or after Slimy McHairgel sat down-“

“Before.” You shrug, giving the bartender a full-lipped smile as she passes you your root beer. “I got distracted after, but-“

“You got distracted-“

“Yeah, he was talking to me. But look, all the murders have been happening at night, it’s been a minute since the last one, and they’ve never hit the same store twice, so, if we patrol the mall tonight-“

“We might catch the demon in action.” Dean finishes your thought, turning his own beer in his hands. “Good plan, Princess. See that’s your greatest strength-“

“You’re really hung up on that, huh.”

Dean throws up his hands, his voice almost a whine. “Sue me for wanting to know what my-“

“Is this seat taken?”

You and Dean blink at each other as a silky voice cuts him off, and you turn to see a tall, hot woman with dark hair smiling at you.

The lady from the mall. Who’d been following you all day, and Dean apparently had never seen.

You didn’t go insane.

“No.” Your hand shoots out to grab Dean’s on instinct, and he tenses, sitting a little taller. “We’re actually talking-“

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I saw you at the booth with him,” Mall Lady points back to Frank, still wallowing in Dean’s seat. “And thought you were together, so-“

“They’re not.” Dean snaps. “We are.”

You’re going to kill him later. He can’t just say shit like that, because he means you’re at the bar together, physically, but the White grabs those words and flies away with them. You’re together. You’re two things, but now you’re one because you’re together, and that’s not true but it doesn’t stop the bellowing of your whole body to move further down into Dean. It’s annoying.

Mall Lady said something to you. You didn’t hear it.

“Sorry, can you-“

“Oh, I was asking where you’re from.” Mall Lady doesn’t even seem to be looking at Dean, her eyes focused on you with a strange glint that makes your skin crawl.

“America.” You keep your voice flat, raising your brows at Dean in a silent confusion. He just shrugs.

“Where in America?“

“The part with land.”

Dean snorts, and you kick him under the table.

“I see.” Mall Lady still won’t look away from you. “And have you always been… on the land part-“

“I dunno, I’ve on a boat a few times-“

Dean says your name as he stands, and you realize you’re still holding his arm. “I’m getting tired, you wanna get out of here?”

He’s squeezed himself between you and Mall Lady. You’re not sure he knows he did that. It still makes you smile.

“Yeah,” you rise up, linking your arm through his. “Let’s go.”

Dean drops his voice as you move out to the parking lot. “That was weird.”

“Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “Are you actually tired, or are we ready to look at the mall.”

“You mean break in-“

“It’s not a break in. I’m picking the lock, nothing’s getting broken. So,” you raise a finger at him with your best stern glare. “Shut up.”

Dean chuckles. “Bossy.”

This time, he dodges your every hit, laughing the whole time.

It’s not a big mall, but there’s still a lot of space to cover, and Dean flat out refuses to let you split up. You suggest it three times on the drive and twice as you pick the lock, giving it one last shot as you scan over the colorful, peeling map, and he’s just pretending he doesn’t hear you.

“Real mature, Winchester-“

“I’m not trying to be mature.” He grumbles, watching you pull out your knife out of your bag. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t get killed.”

“I am not going to get killed-“

“Yeah, you’re not. Because we’re not splitting up.”

You’d lost the argument, and now you’re wandering through the mall in the dead of night—Dean only a pace behind you—finding absolutely nothing and only listening to Dean’s slow breath.

“You breathe really loud,” you grumble, and he scoffs.

“Yeah, well, you breathe really quiet.”

You shoot him an amused look over your shoulder. “Good one.”

“Shut up.”

You hum, turning around and scanning over the empty halls. The darkness feels hot. The air is heavy and burning in your lungs, your skin is covered in a phantom cold sweat, and everything is so quiet. Too quiet. Quiet in a way that buzzes in your ears and rattles your head.

“Something’s wrong.” You whisper, your voice sounding small in your own ears.

“I’d say, this whole place is freakin’ freezing-“

“No, I’m worried-“ You stop, turning to face Dean with a frown. “No, it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is, look,“ Dean lets out another loud breath, and it clouds the air around him. “And my fingers are like damn ice, can we stop at a gas station for hot chocolate when we’re done-“

“No, we’re not getting hot ch-“ You cut yourself off with a sigh, another flash of heat hitting your body.

You’re losing your mind.

Dean says your name slowly, taking a tentative step forward. “Are you feeling alright-“

“Yeah.” Your voice is tight and clipped, every breath scraping at your throat, and you don’t sound fine. “I, uh, c’mon. If it hits dawn and nothing happens, we’ll go get hot chocolate.“

You turn on your heels and march away, Dean’s voice slightly out of breath as he jogs after you.

“Wait, you said no hot chocolate-“

“Don’t question me, Winchester.”

He laughs as he lands back at that pace behind you, and you feel dizzy. “Yes, ma’am.”

You waste another hour, finding nothing. Hearing nothing. Doing nothing. You’ve checked all the spots that haven’t been hit yet multiple times, nothing. Not even a drop of blood.

“I need to pee,” you mumble, and Dean grunts from behind you.

“Let’s go to the bathroom-“ You turn to frown at him. “Let’s?”

He nods, and you give him a flat glare.

“You’re not going to the bathroom with me, Dean.”

“We’re hunting a freakin’ demon, Princess, I’m not leaving you alone-“

“You are so I can pee!”

He shakes his head. You’re going to punch him. “No, it’s not safe-“ “What if you stand outside?” You offer, because he’s a fucking toddler you have to barter with. “And I get to piss alone.”

He scowls, but gives in, and you go into the bathroom alone.

You don’t see it until you’re at the sink. And even then, you feel it first. Dark without any reprieve all around you, withering and drenching your head in something spiked and heavy.

The sink cracks, but your hands are by your side. There’s a feeling like you’re underwater, you see your reflection grow jagged in the mirror as it shatters from the edges, and when you turn, she’s there.

Mall Lady.

And you’ve seen dead bodies before.

But something about this one is worse.

It’s filled with that same rot that was in the crack. Her eyes are bloodied, and her arms and chest are covered in scratches, and her fingers are missing nails and her teeth have little bits of something soft and sickening caught in the gaps. Like she’d fought for her life.

Then, she’d lost.

And now she’s strung up by her neck for you to see, and you can feel the strain of the rope to hold her up and the suffocation of the water trapped in pipes over your head and it’s too big, this is all too big-

You think you screamed, because suddenly Dean’s there and his hand is in yours, but he can’t be here right now, because this is too big and you don’t want to hurt him-

Something strong wraps around you, and it doesn’t drag you back down, but it keeps all the darkness inside you. Not soothed, not pushed, but just down. Pressing at the edge of everything but not trying to explode.

You’re not at ease until cold, untainted air hits your lungs. Until something steady grabs your head and brushes sticky hair from your eyes, and you know that you’re you. You’re not the coldness of the building behind you, or the wear of the concrete under your feet. You’re just you, sitting on the curb of the parking lot as Dean tries to talk to you, his thumb running down the bridge of your nose.

He looks worried. He looks panicked. Eyes wide on yours, his grip nervous—like he’s worried he’ll make one wrong twitch and you’ll burst apart—and he keeps muttering your name in a tone that’s almost too low to hear.

“Hey.” You whisper, and Dean lets out a long breath, dropping his head.

“Shit,” he mutters, looking up at you under hooded eyes. “You good?”

You nod, unable to break his gaze. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you petting my nose?”

He stares at you, then at his thumb. “I dunno.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”

“I’m gonna, um,” Dean’s grip on your face tightens slightly, his expression filled with something you don’t understand. “I’m gonna go get the car.”

You nod, and Dean still doesn’t move. He just watches you in the dark, his thumb still pressed to your nose, and neither of you move.

Then he leans forward and kisses the top of your head, and the world does a strange sort of stutter. Like a vinyl scratch or static on the TV, all color and noise when Dean’s lips press against your skin, leaving a glowing stain you know will linger when he’s gone.

It had been like that last time too. The same feeling, the same tattoo, the same burst of silver over your ribs, blooming and twining through your body as the fractured pieces on your body begin to grow back together.

It lasts only an infinite second, and then Dean’s gone. Walking away to get the car, with one last glance at you over his shoulder.

You don’t want him to go. You can walk. You can go get the car with him, then drive somewhere that’s not horrible to work out your next steps. You really don’t need to wait here. You really don’t want to be alone. You should stay with him, just so you can see him and know he’s real and you’re you enough to touch him-

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you flinch as someone says your name over your head. “Funny meeting you here!”

You glance back and it’s Frank. In the parking lot. At almost 4am.

“Uh, hi.”

“Small world, right?” Frank grins at you, leering above you. “First the bar, now here. Some might call it fate!”

“Yeah, sure.” You glance around the lot, entirely empty. You’d made Dean park off to the side. You’d been a fucking idiot. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Just out for a walk.”

“At 4am?”

Frank laughs. It’s bone-chilling strange, and it’s a little harsher than it had been in the bar. “I like to get a head start on my day, babe. What are you doing here?”

You push down the bile in your throat from babe. “I’m, um, waiting. For my friend.”

“What, your partner who talks like he thinks he’s some big shot?”

You frown. “No. I mean, yeah, but-“

“I don’t see him.” Frank does a dramatic sweep of the abandoned lot, then grins at you. “How could anyone stand a pretty thing like you up-“

“I’m not a thing.” You snap, your nails digging into your skin. “And he didn’t stand me up.”

Frank shrugs. “I mean, you could do better.”

“No,” you mumble, trying to curve your body away from where Frank’s still touching you. “I don’t think I could.”

“You could. With someone better.” Frank’s hand creeps over to your neck, and you freeze, looking up to see a strange glint in his eyes. It was the same one Mall Lady had, before her eyes were only blood.

And something snaps into place in your brain.

Fuck.

“Like…” You trail off with your best innocent look, letting the pain of Frank’s grip hold the darkness down for you. “You?”

“Oh yeah, babe.” He says, and you think it’s meant to be charming. “I know a back entrance in there,” he jerks his head to the mall. “And we could have a little fun, get some privacy. What’d you say?”

There it is. You’ve got it. And this time, when you narrow your eyes and focus all the darkness with a deep scratch on your skin, you can see something revolting and glinting roll around inside Frank, leaving the same horrible imprint on him it had left on Mall Lady.

The demon. Trying to lure you as he had lured all the other victims, like he had probably meant to lure Dean with Mall Lady.

A date or hookup, a strange, interesting spot to explore. People from out of town who won’t know about all the previous murders. The most horrific death the demon can think of in the moment, probably for some sort of sick sport.

You don’t really want to be a part of his score. You don’t want to know why he’d switched from Dean to you so quickly, why he was so set that he’d follow you. Why he’d still target you like this, when he must know that you’re a hunter.

When he might know that you’re something like him. Something wrong.

“So?” The demon leans down, barely a breath away. “Wanna have some fun?”

You open your mouth—hoping you figure out how to talk yourself out of this one when you start speaking—and feel relief wash over your body as headlights blind your vision and Dean screeches to a stop right before you.

“Hey!” You almost melt at the sound of his voice. He can never know. “What the fuck are you doing here, bitch-“

“I’m talking to your bitch.” The demon sounds proud of his not-joke, and you scrunch your face. “You dropped a hot piece of ass, bro, sorry she’s moving onto bigger things. Right, babe?”

The demon squeezes your neck right as Dean looks to you with a deep glare. “Right,” you whisper, holding Dean’s gaze as he blinks at you.

He’s only blinking at you.

And you blink back. Two firm times, keeping your eyes wide otherwise.

He catches it instantly, his eyes flicking down to the demon’s hand near your throat, then back to yours. Blinking once. Check in.

And you blink twice. Not safe.

Dean’s moving in a flash. Gunshots echo around the lot, and you duck and roll as Dean charges forward. When you push yourself to your feet he’s already trading blows with the demon, but they’re not even. The demon is stronger, far stronger, and you think the only thing that’s keeping Dean matched is all his pure fury. You can see it covering the profile of his face, cast in the shadows of the streetlamps, but there’s already blood on his lip and a swelling mark on his cheek and he can’t keep this up-

You fumble for your knife, but Dean must have taken it and put it in the car. You can feel the darkness crashing back up and out, but you can’t detonate, not here, not now-

The demon raises Dean up by his neck, you hear a strangled sound that might have been a scream leave your throat, and there’s a crunch when Dean falls down.

And there’s the rush. Big and not all yours to control, the darkness all around you and a little more, but aimed where it needs be. Over Dean’s slumped body, and right at the demon.

Your hands don’t move this time, but the demon still implodes. You’re everything around you—chilling wind and cracked sidewalks and chipped paint on the pavement—and it’s crushing the demon, folding and caving it in inside of Frank, gathering it into a tiny ball before bursting like a nebula out of his body. Frank’s eyes flash with gold and orange and red light, his mouth opens in a distorted roar, and then the darkness sucks itself back into your body, and it’s over.

You fall to Dean’s side, barely feeling the scrape of your knees of concrete. He’s groaning, eyes fluttering slightly, but you’re certain he’s survived worse. This just needs rest and water. The crunch looks to be only his hand—at an odd angle and completely slack—and there is a larger bruise near his temple, but he’ll be alright. You will make it so he’s alright. You’ll move his big-ass body as carefully as you can into the car and ensure that he’s comfortable in the passenger’s seat before you set off to the motel. You’ll keep careful attention on him as you call 911 for the real Frank, who will be traumatized, but live. You’ll keep a hand on Dean’s chest as you drive, because he keeps slumping forward and it makes your blood cold.

When you park, you’ll run to unlock your room before lugging him inside. You’ll lay him on your bed and take his hand in yours, wincing slightly as you hold his hand and feel the cracks in his bones.

This is the first time since the poltergeist that you’ve seen him knocked down like this. The first time since the poltergeist that the darkness has felt like it could fix something. Fix Dean. It’s right at the tips of your fingers, moving in an odd harmony with the White, and you could fix this.

You let a little of it out. Just a drop, moving from your hand to Dean’s, and you might chew through your lip because what if this just hurts him, what if this makes it worse-

Dean’s fingers flex. And when you trace over his hand, there’s nothing. Not even a fracture.

It worked. You fixed him.

And it hurts. The White and darkness are starting to clash against each other, and every part of them that touches seems frayed and fragile. It hurts just as much as when the darkness gets the better of you, but this is somewhat worse, because it’s just you hurting. Just you caving in on yourself, and just you deserving it because what if you hadn’t healed Dean. What if you’d infected him, and now he was going to be in pain like this too.

You fist your hands, tuck them behind your back, and move to your couch. You can’t be close enough to Dean that you could touch him. You might make all of this worse if you touch him again. But you can’t leave him, not when he might need something.

So, couch.

You track Dean’s every, even but slow breath as he lays on your bed, and your own exhaustion begins to catch you. It creeps over your eyes until you’re eased down into soft, dreamless sleep. You’re not sure when you fall fully under, but you blink and suddenly there’s light leaking through the slats of the motel shades, and Dean’s not passed out on the mattress.

He’s sitting up on the headboard, his jacket discarded to the side, watching you with another one of his unreadable expressions.

“Morning, Princess.” He mutters, and his voice is low and rough and still filled with sleep.

This is exactly why you hadn’t allowed yourself to sleep in the same room as him. His hair is messy and sticking up at funny angles, and there’s still some dried blood on his chin and a bruise on his cheek, but he’s also relaxed. Splayed out on the bed, his eyes softer than you usually see them, and it’s really amazing how the universe keeps finding new ways to fuck you. New reasons to crash and bend and mold further and further into Dean, until you’re all the way down and there’s no turning back.

So all you can do is rub your face clear of your own sleep, and give him a small smile. “Are you feeling okay?”

He raises his brows. “No morning back?”

“You know what time it is,” you sit up a little straighter, studying his face for any further evidence of injury. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“I’m feeling like I want you to say good morning-“

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Good morning, Dean Winchester.”

He clicks his tongue. “Shit, full name, I’m in trouble-“

“You will be,” you give him a pointed look. “If you don’t answer my fucking question.”

“Bossy,” he mumbles, his eyes glimmering as he tries to coax you further down. Even if he doesn’t know it, he’s trying to make you crash fully into him.

You’re going to re-break his hand.

“Dean-“

“Jesus, alright, I’m okay.” Dean gives you his wide, winning grin that’s usually designed to make you roll your eyes and giggle, but right now just makes you scowl. “See, barely a scratch. All that’s left of that demon douchebag is a headache.” Dean pauses, his grin faltering slightly. “Shit, what happened to the demon.”

“I exorcized it,” you lie through your teeth—he can’t know the truth, he’ll either call you crazy or try to kill you—twisting your skin on your finger as you watch his reaction. “We’re good.”

Dean’s face drops into a frown. “You’re lying.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“You didn’t exorcize the demon.” He mutters, watching you through narrowed eyes. “I know you didn’t.”

“You do not know-“

“Yeah, I do.” He snaps, sitting up a little higher in the bed. “I’m goddamn certain, sweetheart, so tell me the truth.”

“Dean-“

“Truth.” He spits, and you might be drawing blood on your skin with your nails.

He’d called your bluff, and it might just be luck, but it doesn’t seem like it. He didn’t sound like he was making a gamble. He sounded like he was taking a shot a foot in front of him. But you can’ttell him the truth. The truth will take him away from you forever. The truth is building wider and wider around you, all while strangling your throat, and your tongue always hates lying to Dean but everything else in you doesn’t want to lose him-

“I didn’t-“ You try to swallow the words, but you can’t seem to keep them down. “I didn’t exorcize it, I-“

“Son of a bitch!” Dean shouts your name, running a hand over his face. “You just like the asshole get away! Just because I was injured?”

Your brow furrows as you gape at him. “You were passed out, Dean-“

“And that was a goddamn demon, who’s killed over half a dozen people in two weeks! You always prioritize the hunt-“

“Over your life?!” You rise up on your knees, glowering at Dean, the darkness starting to rumble as he glares back. “We’re partners, Dean, my job is to have your back, that’s the whole point of hunting together-“

“Not over the case.” He pushes off the bed and moving to tower over you, his hand braced on the couch. “Other people are going to die because you decided to play hero for me-“

You laugh up at him. “Like you never play hero, Dean. Dragging me out of the building like I’m little damsel for you to save, like you’re rescuing me and I’m just too fucking pathetic without a big, strong, white knight serving me.”

The words hit their mark. Hit deeper than you’d meant them to. You don’t even know where you were aiming, or why you’d fired, or when you’d found the bullet, but you’d hit Dean so far down, you can almost see him flinch.

He doesn’t say anything. His jaw ticks, and his fists clench and unclench, but he won’t just say something and you’re losing your mind because you didn’t mean it, the darkness had just been everywhere and it had all been too much but Dean had felt real. He’d still felt real and it all hurt because you’d always prioritize him over some stupid demon, and you were still lying to him, and you hadn’t played hero. You’d just matched the demon, and gone darker. You were the monster, and you’d always save Dean-

Suddenly he’s moving. Hunching down to grab his jacket and stomping to the door.

Going away.

You don’t want him to go away.

“Dean, wait please-“ You know sound pathetic. You don’t really care. “Just- I’m sorry-“

You’re faster than he is, and you manage to fly over the couch and move in front of the door before he can reach it.

“Wait, I’m sorry, I-“ You shouldn’t be about to cry over this, but you’re clenching your jaw until your teeth break to stop the tears. “Dean, I’m sorry, I-“ He tries to move around you, and you shift to block his path once more. “Just wait-“

“Why, you still need a hero?” He sneers, leering down at you

“No, I didn’t- I didn’t mean-“ You take a long, shaking breath, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “I don’t think you’re trying to play hero, Dean, I just, I think you’re-“

“Your knight?” He sneers, raising his browns. “Your fucking bodyguard or toy-“

“I think you’re my partner!” You shout, because even calling him your friend feels like it’s too much right now, because it would make this need for him all little more real. Something that you really could break. “I think I’d probably have been fucked without you, and I didn’t- I didn’t mean to- You’re-“

You run a hand over your face, scratching slightly to try and drag the words together, and Dean’s frown almost seems to falter.

He mutters your name, but you push on.

“Your strength is that you’re a fighter, Dean.” You snap, and his eyes widen slightly. “But not just in a muscle way, you’re… smart. Under pressure. Any pressure. I freak out but I get to freak out because I know you’ve got me. I don’t think you’re trying to play hero. I think you’ve got my back.”

“Oh.” He blinks, and all the electrically in the room seems to dissipate as he just looks at you. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “No problem.”

Neither of you move for a long moment. The darkness is settled back down, and the White is straining for Dean, but it’s always doing that so everything is back where it’s meant to be. But you’re still watching Dean to make sure he doesn’t flicker and vanish. To check that you’re not asleep, or this isn’t an odd torture from the demon or your own mind.

Dean looks like he’s watching you the same.

And he’s really close. You’re drowning in him. In grass and spice and gunpowder, in his eyes on yours and the warmth that radiates off his body.

You can’t touch him.

You really want to.

“Are we-“ You rub your arms as you hug your body, and it’s a dumb question but you have to know. “Are we good?”

“Yeah.” He gives you an odd look, but his words sound like the truth. And if they’re not, you’ll just pretend they are. “We’re good.” “Cool.” You mumble, trying not to lean forward as Dean takes a step back. “Do you, um, do you want hot chocolate?”

His brow furrows slightly. “Aren’t we gonna look for the demon?”

He won’t find the demon. The demon’s gone.

But you can waste a little more time looking for it. Eventually you’ll suggest that maybe it just skipped town, and if you see another series of mall killings, you’ll know exactly what’s going on.

And you’ll get to stay next to Dean a while long. Talk to him. Laugh with him until you forget the look of real, hateful pain on his face.

“Yeah.” You shrug, offering him a small smile. “After hot chocolate?”

Dean chuckles. “I think I can live with that.”

“Good.”

You’re watching each other, and it’s not angry, but it’s tense. Dean looks like he wants to say something. You know that you want to say a million things, and you’re not even sure where to start. Another apology, an explanation of your episode in the bathroom, the truth about the demon, a scream of can he feel this, is that why he’s staying, he shouldn’t stay, he should run and never look back because you’re stuck with you, but he can go-

“Can I ask you something?”

You nod, and Dean’s lips drawn into a small pout.

“You, uh, you talk about your dad a lot.” He mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Are you guys still close?”

“Yeah, we are. He, um,” you glance down at your hand, running your thumb over your palm. “I visit him all the time-“

“Where does he live?”

“North.” You keep your words simple and vague, and Dean gives you an odd look. “But when I visit him, we always try to do something that isn’t…”

“Fucking depressing?” Dean offers, and you let out a small laugh.

“Yeah. Fucking depressing.” You let out a long breath. “Usually it’s just going grocery shopping and not buying doomsday bunker food, eating something sugary and stupid, and sitting out in his yard to, um, watch the stars and talk. I tease him about the cashier that flirted with him at the grocery store, how his best friend pulls more that he does, and he tells me that I shouldn’t talk when I-“ You cut yourself off, flushing slightly. Dean does not need to know that you’re worse at flirting than Bobby is. And you’ve seen Bobby try. It’s horrific. “I- uh- I need his house and food for the next week. Then we go inside and watch a really old movie, then go to bed.”

You glance up at Dean, and find his mouth slightly open.

“That’s… awesome.”

You look up at Dean’s open expression, so pretty, and real, and here. Dean’s still here. Not touching you, but close to it. Not trying to push past you anymore. He’s staying.

And you smile at him. “Yeah. It is.”

End Note: I love leaving little clues for things that won't be evident until chapters later.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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minkdelovely · 1 year ago

Text

love and power

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chapter eight

“i want everything i asked for.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags/warnings: ‘fuck it, do him scared!’ or whatever the saying is, no plot cuz y’all have had enough of that, pheromones are putting in work cuz you have heart eyes, y’all are touch-starved and pent up, half-transformation demon alastor (i hope that makes sense lol), implied demon alastor, little bit of angst or even hurt/comfort at the end? 🥲 smut: clothes ripping, scratching, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, slight degradation & praise kink dynamics, blood play & biting, handjob, orgasm denial, cream pie

word count: 6.6k *maniacal laughter*

author’s note: it wouldn’t be right to start this off without a formal apology for the cliffhanger and then, subsequently, the publishing delay 🥲✨ this ended up being more of a labor of love than i had expected; i just seemed to have such bad luck, this week of all weeks. thank you for your patience, and i hope this makes up for it! @hazelfoureyes one of these days i’ll have some more for you, but until then darling, you ever so kindly ‘asked’ me for smut so… 💅🏻💖

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine ; chapter ten: part one ; chapter ten: part two

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Alastor meant for it to be chaste, really he did. And while he had desperately hoped for acceptance, the ardor with which you returned the kiss was unexpected. The grip of your hands around his wrists was fierce, pulling him in; fingers like sticky fibers against the patch of bare skin nestled between his gloves and the cuff of his shirt.

So you were hungry, too… He couldn’t help but smile against your mouth at the thought.

Finally, his luck was turning around.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

When you offered your help to Alastor, a kiss was the last thing you ever expected.

Actually, you had been fully prepared for him to hurt you somehow, whether it was his intention or not. He had gotten upset so quickly, you assumed it must have been residual animosity from the meeting with Valentino that he could no longer contain. The more you thought about it, you truly understood how degraded he must have been by the whole affair, filling you with a guilt you worried might never go away. He needed a victory.

So offering your help was the least you could do.

But you never could have imagined the way he took your face in his strong hands, holding you with such care despite the intensity roiling off him in his half-formed demonic state. The strain on his face as he struggled to compose himself, his eyes switching back from black with red dials to that familiar searing red. The storming hunger you saw in them, half-lidded, as he closed the gap between you…

Your mind was practically rendered blank, running on instinct; the warm ache throbbing between your hips quickly taking up any remaining space that was left.

His mouth was softer than you expected but his press against you was firm and wickedly practiced. You felt him smile against you and for a moment you forgot to breathe, the resulting gasp being the perfect opportunity for Alastor’s tongue to snake into your mouth. If your eyes hadn’t already been closed, they would have rolled to the back of your head. His tongue was soft and big and hot, his movements steady and filled with purpose; not a drop of wasted effort. You could only hope to keep up…

It was such arduous work keeping your hands at his wrists, floored by the intense desire you had to reach out and touch him. But you didn’t know your limits here. He was still riled up — if anything, you had heard his antlers grow — and you didn’t want to make any wrong moves.

So you put all your longing into the grip of your fingers and mouth, your mind wandering on the feeling of him. Large, elegant hands cupping your face like glass. His body looming over you, offering shelter you were more than willing to accept. His mouth so hot against yours it would leave you feeling cold once it was gone. And he smelled so good this close, smoky and verdant like a bonfire on a crisp autumn night.

Your thighs rubbed together from the pulse radiating there, and he let out a small groan against your mouth as your nails absently dug into the skin of his wrists. The sound of him simultaneously made your legs weak and fanned the flame between them. His voice had always been nice — he didn’t build a career for himself on the radio for nothing — but you felt a growing fear at the aspect of never hearing something like that again after he was sated; knowing that no matter what it would haunt you for eternity.

I really am so fucked…

He was pecking now, his breath and teeth and tongue ghosting over your swollen mouth and face as he feverishly placed multiple at a time. You wanted to reciprocate so badly, whether with your lips or hands, but it was clear he needed to ravish you first so you stayed put in a shocking exhibit of will-power. But when you felt the tug of his teeth against the corner of your jaw you couldn’t stop the shaky moan that escaped you, not even noticing how your hips rolled on nothing but air.

That’s all it took.

Alastor pulled away and gave a quick kiss to your hands before dropping them to take up the torn fabric of your collar. He gave it a sharp pull, tearing your dress straight through to the waist; the sound ringing out in the quiet of your room with the promise of what’s to come. You were too stunned by the suddenness of the action, but the look on your face must have really been something if the expression you were seeing on his was any indication — ravenous and wild.

Your chest heaved with quickening breath, heartbeat kicking and head empty as you felt all the blood in your body rushing down. Too overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, you dared to bury your face in his chest, grateful to be just tall enough to reach. Mortifying as it was, it was all you could think to do.

Though safety wasn’t the only thing you found, pressing in so close to him like this, your throat going dry at the feeling of his arousal against you. No amount of time or experience could have prepared you for this, for him. You were beginning to think that there would be nothing left once he was through with you.

Just need a minute…

Mercifully, he let you. Even going so far as to cradle you against him, cupping the back of your head with his left hand. You relaxed into him, a hot puff of air leaving your mouth to soak into the fabric of his clothes. Alastor’s pleased hum in response vibrated against your face, and you brought your hands up to grip the lapels of his coat for fear of crumbling at his feet.

As you steeled yourself, he didn’t desist from his poking and prodding at your exposed back with his free hand. It disappeared briefly, followed by the faint sound of something falling to the carpet before the air was ripped from your lungs at the touch of his hot, bare skin against yours. You whined into his chest as your back arched against his palm, your fingers nearly ripping through his coat with the force of your grip, earning a gruff and sinister chuckle from him. Being able to bask in the feeling of the rumble in his chest against you was a lovely consolation, though. And just under that… his heartbeat.

His hand against your back regained your attention then, scratching and massaging at its leisure; nails tracing indistinguishable shapes along your skin. Traveling up and down your spine at first, then your shoulders and, finally, the back of your neck where he paused.

His message read loud and clear: time was up.

Alastor pulled you away from him with a gentle firmness, managing to handle you delicately despite his clear desire for haste. You could see it burning in his eyes with no intent to extinguish any time soon. He was so mystifying like this, you couldn’t help but drink him in. Stately, powerful… beautiful. It felt impossible now to have ever been afraid of him in this state of half-transformation. He didn’t seem to mind the admiration, soft smile and lust-heavy eyes radiating with ego.

His antlers look so handsome when they’re branched out like this…

“Shouldn’t you have offered to take my coat by now? I’m your guest, aren’t I?” he teased as he swiped your dumbstruck mouth with the pad of his thumb. The filter dipped in and out over his quiet, low tone of voice, sending a fresh wave of heat to your core and cheeks as you fought the urge to nuzzle your face against his bare hand. How had he already reduced you to this? “But I suppose I haven’t been well-mannered myself. Just look at what’s become of your dress.”

His face was smug as he played with the decimated fabric, fingers dancing across your exposed neck and shoulders before pulling down the long sleeves. They had been the glue, apparently, your dress falling past your hips with ease and into a heap on the floor in near silence. Goosebumps pricked your skin as you stood before him in your underwear, already feeling naked as he took you in. You noticed him focus in on your shoulder and neck, the draw of his eyebrows confirming your earlier suspicion that he had left a bruise.

“It’s fine, it didn’t hurt,” you lied self-consciously, unable to keep the nerves out of your voice. It sounded like an apology. He hadn’t meant it and in the grand scheme of things was a bruise really so bad? It would be gone before you knew it.

He didn’t seem convinced, a sound of disapproval coming from behind his closed lips before a smile took its place. “Hmm… if you say so. Perhaps a kiss to make it better?”

Alastor wasted no time leaning down to place his mouth there, and you sighed as the heat of his wide, wet tongue swiped over it before he closed his lips with a small smack. As he nuzzled in — kissing, licking, sucking, nipping — your shaky fingers took to the task of unbuttoning his coat as he had suggested. The action earning you a growl and a bite, not yet enough to break the skin but taking your breath away all the same; the fire in your belly now flickering up into your chest.

Once the coat was loose you ran your hands under it, starting near his waist to travel up his chest until you reached his broad shoulders. Was he the one who was so hot, or was it you? It was impossible to tell. You used the top of your hands to start working the coat off of him, and he paused from his effort at your neck to assist with removing his arms from it before tossing it off to the side — his remaining glove along with it. You caught sight of the saliva glistening around his mouth and chin before he resumed his station and didn’t even try to hold back the soft moan that escaped you.

What was the point?

With a snarl — that was the closest thing you could think to call it — his hands hooked behind your knees and hiked you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around him for purchase as you gasped. Alastor’s mouth found yours again and you held his face to keep steady as you hunched over him, tears forming at the corner of your closed eyes from the relief of being able to touch him this time.

This kiss wasn’t as poised as the first had been. It was hurried and open-mouthed, messy and deep. Not enough, not enough, not enough. You broke away this time, seizing your opportunity to explore his face with your lips as he had yours. His claws bit into the flesh of your ass as your mouth latched onto his neck, sucking at the pulse you found there. The resulting buck of your hips from the action and the moan he let out only pulling another from both of you.

You didn’t even notice that he had been walking until you were suddenly tossed onto the bed, his body immediately caging you in beneath him. You hooked your legs around him as he ground into you, your cry of pleasure from the friction echoing off the walls. He did it again and you whined, squirming, his hands on either side of your head as he leered down; red eyes glowing with satisfaction.

✧ ✧ �� ✧ ✧ ✧

Alastor took a moment to take in the sight before him, feeling his eyes glitch as he roamed over your flushed face, but made quick work of grabbing it with one hand to pucker your mouth before returning to explore it with his tongue.

It surprised him how much he was enjoying this; kissing you with abandon, somehow never scratching the incessant itch despite his efforts. He captured your bottom lip with his teeth, resiliently managing not to bite straight through it as you moaned into his mouth.

“Alastor…!”

His name was a song on your breath, scorching down from his ears to his cock, all of which reacted with a twitch.

One string loose.

How many more would he need to cut before you went slack?

Who had bound you up like this in the first place? It certainly hadn’t been him. On the contrary, he was so eager to see you torn open and bare, stripped of all the little secrets tangled like knots on your tether to him. Always keeping your guard up around him wasn’t only irritating… it was selfish. And there was only one of you here allowed that luxury.

Still, this was quite the consolation prize, seeing you surrender to him so easily. He had barely gotten started and you were already making such a pretty face for him; a new favorite, even. Your little pout that normally inspired vexation looked sweet like this, swollen with his kisses. It was an image he would soon not forget, being so much better than what he had imagined.

Your scent had truly blossomed now, dizzying him with the potency of its floral, nutty musk; just a hint of sweetness underneath. It complimented his own smoky, green, and bitter scent so well. But Alastor was ready to make his next new discovery, his hips finally lifting away from you as he gave you a final peck on the mouth.

“Hmmm, delicious as your mouth is, there’s another place I’m quite eager to kiss.” He could feel the wickedness on his face as he said it, unable to contain the static that flared around him as you breathed out a curse, body trembling.

Alastor made a slow descent, teasing you with licks and bites and kisses to draw out as many moans and whimpers as he could from you. Such music you made for him. Only for him. It was a good thing he had already resolved to avoid sleep as much as he could in the future; he wouldn’t get much anyway with the sounds you made ringing in his head like church bells.

He could see the damp soaked into your underwear before he even touched them, already intoxicated by the smell and heat wafting off your core. He’d have to be careful here… not an easy task, but he’d manage. The self-advised warning did little to stop him from tearing the garment in half with ease, enjoying the wide-eyed look you gave him as you quickly propped up on your elbows from the sound.

“I’d apologize for frightening you, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t mean it,” he said, holding your gaze as he palmed your bare sex, thrilled by how wet you already were. You were having such a hard time keeping your composure, serving only to egg him on. He hummed and continued, almost surprised by the words that came out of his mouth, “You don’t seem to mind, though… how lewd.”

Your head fell back with a loud whine, arms giving out so that you were flat on your back again; face scarlet as his fingers moved against you, collecting your arousal. His dick throbbed against him at the sight, leaking onto his skin and clothes. He couldn’t help the hiss that spilled from between his teeth when he tested you with his middle finger, tight as you were wet.

“Oh my… it’s been a while for you too, hm? I’m honored,” he cooed, relishing the way you whimpered and clenched at his words. “I do worry how you’ll fare… Contrary to the restraint I’ve shown so far, I must warn you… I don’t have the capacity for gentleness today.”

Your eyes shot open with shock, and with that he removed his finger and brought it up, putting the entirety of it in his mouth to suck you off as you watched. His eyes closed in pleasure, groaning as his tongue lapped up every bit of you, savoring every second. Clean and tart… like a ripe summer cherry. He couldn’t stop the bit of drool that escaped the corner of his mouth, the rush of saliva incensed by your taste coming on too quickly to swallow it all.

Alastor was breathing hard through his nose, a fresh wave of hunger — he wasn’t sure what else to call it — trembling through him with a fierce burning need. His smile and voice were sharp, static fraying as he spoke, “Hmmm… My imagination wasn’t even close. Aiming to please, dear?”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

His fascination with licking you off him would be your second-death. Not only that, but you hadn’t expected him to say any of the obscene things that were spilling from his mouth, let alone the way you were responding to them. You had been subject to dirty talk before and enjoyed it (if done well), but… there was just something about it all coming from Alastor that set your veins on fire.

“Alastor, please, it’s embarrassing,” you pleaded through gasps, watching through half-open eyes as he licked away at his hand. You felt as if you had a fever, your face was so hot, hair already beginning to stick to your forehead with sweat.

As if falling on deaf ears, he merely proceeded to give a sharp tug to his bowtie, removing it in one go before unbuttoning his shirt. Something about the harsh way he pulled his shirt from the belted waist of his pants made you dizzy, but you felt a scream die in your throat watching the way his shoulders and chest moved as he freed his arms, with just the slightest flex of his abdomen; your eyes unable to resist following the trail of hair below his navel that disappeared under his belt.

You had made peace with your budding attraction to him — it was easier that way, considering your near-constant state of proximity — but this felt like being tossed directly into the fire.

Burning at the stake.

As he towered over you, you took in the large, pink scar lacerated across his chest from left shoulder to the right side of his ribcage. There had been mentions of the battle against Adam and his Exorcists within the group; how terrifying it had been, how brave everyone was. The loss of their friend Sir Pentious, who had died trying to help protect them against Adam. That was when the conversation normally tapered off, the grief still too close at his loss, but also because of what led up to it.

From what you understood, Adam had been Alastor’s appointed target to handle. One he was unmatched against, if the scar was any indication. A killing blow he had managed to survive. You hoped the pity you felt wasn’t making its way into your gaze as you looked at him, knowing he’d dislike it. Still… You sat up with hands stretched out, the instinct to touch and comfort him too strong to fight. But he pushed you back down, a shadow coming over his face as he bent over you.

“Patience, sweetheart. I still owe you a kiss.”

You didn’t have time to process the dismissal before he raked his nails on your skin as he dipped down, your back arching up to meet them as you breathed through the small sting of pain. A splash of sobriety hit you as you felt the heat of his breath hovering over your cunt, your stomach tight as he moved closer, a wanton cry as he finally lapped at you with his tongue; a slow, wide, firm sweep from hole to clit. Sealed with a kiss, as promised.

You shuddered and gripped the duvet as if your life depended on it. The image of him nestled between your legs making your brain short-circuit. His eyes were shrouded with a predation that should have terrified you. So why did it thrill you instead?

“Oh my god…”

That wicked grin of his…

“Last I checked, Hell is the absence of God. Let’s try again, shall we?”

He hiked your legs over his shoulders, looped his arms around to grab the top of your thighs, and pulled you to his mouth. You saw white as he didn’t hesitate in setting a voracious pace, his tongue dipped into you — long and thick — as his nose pushed against your clit with every open-and-close of his mouth. His chin providing a pleasant hardness that nearly knocked the wind out of you.

He was incessant.

Sucking, prodding, licking, and swallowing; a starving man who may never eat or drink again. Your hands found purchase on his antlers, a bit smaller now but still looming, earning a moan of approval into your heat that blossomed in your chest. The room was filled with the sound of wet smacks and a harmony of throaty groans from him; keening, breathy moans from you. Both unabashed.

In between breathing his name, words were tumbling from your mouth that you couldn’t register, too lost in the feeling of him on you. Not just your pussy, but your legs, too. His hands gripping your thighs so fiercely as your hips rolled against his face that you hoped for bruises. A keepsake. It was impossible to know if this would ever happen again.

You hadn’t even realized you were slipping away from yourself until he pulled back with a sharp gasp, finally coming up for air, jerking his antlers from your hands. The lower half of his face shimmered with a blend of your arousal and his spit, the sclera of his eyes gone black, dials taking the shape of his red irises. Again, your arms reached out, shaking from the effort as you tried to catch your breath.

“Kiss…,” you barely managed to say, dizzied as you were.

Alastor obliged, climbing up to your open hands as you pulled him down to you, unable to find the strength to meet him halfway. He flinched as you ran your tongue over his left cheek, licking up some of the mess there as he wiped at the other side with the back of his hand. The taste of your combined fluids sent a jolt of pleasure through you and you moaned through the sloppy, open-mouthed kiss that followed. The laugh that escaped him was sinister but sent another wave of warmth through you all the same.

He rewarded you with a finger, followed quickly by another. And before you knew it, another. Pumping in and out of you with a delicious stretch and a maddeningly consistent pace before they curled, teasing your spongy core as his thumb circled your clit at the switch; the sudden onset of your orgasm had your body trembling under his touch.

“Ohh… mm, fuck…! Hmmmnn… Ah—! Alasto—ahh!”

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” His voice was rough but soothing. A crackle of static melded into your moans and the wet sounds of your cunt, and he gave his head a violent shake as if to clear it. There was nothing but a growling need when he spoke next. “I’ve got you, don’t fight it. Let me see how pretty that sullen face of yours looks when you cum…!”

It was all too much. Just the intensity of his eyes on yours boxed in between your hands holding his face could have sent you over the edge. But his words again, that pet name…

The tether snapped so viciously you were fairly certain you passed out for a moment, your vision gone black as you screamed. Only to be brought back to consciousness by Alastor’s fingers slowly riding the wave of your orgasm, no longer stroking with purpose — you were clenched around him so tightly his previous pace would have probably injured you both — but with a languid solace. Graciously accepting every roll of your hips into his hand as you moaned his name and gasped for breath.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

God, it was so fucking satisfying to see your face twisted up, eyebrows knit and your pouty lips salaciously framing your open mouth as you cried out for him. Another perfectly shattered expectation, much like the rest of this experience had been. He didn’t even mind that your eyes were shut. The consolation being the glimpse he caught of them rolling to the back of your head before they were out of sight. That, and, this would only be your first. He was determined to get at least one more out of you before this was over, truly unsure how much you could handle.

He was surprising even himself, speaking to you in the manner he was. He enjoyed a good tease, but he couldn’t recall going to this extent before. Perhaps it was a result of the pheromones, but he simply couldn’t seem to help it. The reactions it was pulling from you were too exhilarating to deny himself… and by extension, you.

His static was filling the air, buzzing with the energy of a lightning storm as he sucked you off his fingers once more with a snarl; his free hand sloppily undoing his belt before giving it a freeing tug, desperately hard erection weeping slightly at the bit of alleviation. As the realization that he was preparing to enter you sunk in another ripple of goosebumps pinpricked his skin, causing him to bite down on the inside of his lip from the sensation.

The taste of his own blood came with inspiration.

Alastor tucked back some of your damp hair before bringing his face down to meet yours, swiping at your lips with his blood-coated tongue. Testing the waters. Your eyebrows drew together and you stretched underneath him, as if waking from a night’s sleep, before blinking your eyes open. He watched as your tongue responded with a quick prod of what he had left there, and felt his smile grow when you let out a hum of content.

He would never tire of being right.

“I thought you might like that, my little killer… Have some more,” he whispered against you. Giving your lips another rough lick before taking your mouth again, groaning into each other as your tongue soothed his still-bleeding lip.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Something about this kiss was different.

There was a fierceness this time that hadn’t been there before, no doubt spurred on by the blood pooling in Alastor’s mouth. It had been shocking to taste at first but then… you found that it wasn’t too bad. Diluted with saliva, it was almost sweet, and you relished the way he enjoyed your tasting of it.

Your hands traveled up to the back of his head, gently scratching the prickly velvet of his undercut with one while the other pulled at the hair on his crown. His hiss into your mouth made you moan with another jump of your hips, and you felt him shift over you then; vaguely aware of the sound of him unceremoniously tugging down his pants before he took your hand from his crown and brought it between you.

The gasp that escaped you was sharp, your hand instinctively wrapping around his length as he guided you through stroking him. He was so hard, wet, and heavy, burning to the touch, but distant alarms were ringing about your ability to take him all. It scared you how much you wished to try.

His moan of relief was another keepsake, the sound of it so soft and pleading in your ear that you nearly sobbed from your desire. You couldn’t help but wonder what his face looked like, making a sound like that, and found yourself jealous of the skin of your neck he was hiding in. You stayed like this for a moment, his hand leaving you to work on its own as he cradled the opposite side of your head to lick and kiss your neck between gasps and moans. With a final nip to your skin Alastor pulled back, the mattress dipping as he put all of his weight onto his forearm to the right of your head as he adjusted himself.

“Don’t close your eyes,” was all he said before pressing into you, the tip of his cock already threatening to overwhelm you as it teased your entrance.

It was not an easy task, your eyebrows drawing together in such a way that it nearly blurred your vision. You whined between closed lips, doing your best to breathe through the sweet stretch of him finally entering you. Despite his direction, he didn’t seem to be doing much better; sweat beading on his forehead over furrowed brows, kiss-swollen mouth open with panting breaths. Flushed cheeks. Even in the state he had reduced you to, you were trying to sear the image of his lust-strained face into your psyche.

He was rocking his hips slowly, allowing you to adjust to him with each little thrust as your arousal coated him, easing his advance; breathy moans collecting between you in puffs of steam, joining the two of you together in all the places you weren’t touching.

All the while, your eyes were locked on each other. Had anyone else ever seen his the way they were now and found them beautiful instead of horrifying? You moaned as you stared at him; taking in his large, elegant antlers and sweat-damp hair, reminding you of the bedhead you had seen the other morning. His handsome and sinister face. He could easily tear you to shreds — and in a certain way, he was — but you were overwhelmed at the amount of care he had shown you so far, even with his earlier warning.

His thrusts were building in sharpness, parting you with a tantalizing push-and-pull until he finally bottomed out with a growl. You cried out from the fullness he gave you, already twitching around him despite his stillness as he gave you both a moment to try and catch your breath.

Alastor peppered your face with kisses and licks as you relaxed into him, testing you with a shallow thrust that had you biting down on your lip. Another. Another. Another. Until your mouth was hanging open, your hands traveling up to hold onto his triceps in your need for stability and to keep him close. Suddenly you felt him leave you completely, not even able to process the emptiness before he slammed back into you with a harsh grunt that made you squeal; writhing as he pressed up into your cervix.

He must have really enjoyed that, because he did it again. And again. And again. Settling into an excruciatingly blissful pace, his hard length massaging knots out of your body you didn’t know where there. Your legs instinctively hooked around him, nails digging into the flesh of his arms as you gasped and whined.

“So — ah..! Good… Alastorrr…!”

“Fuck!” he hissed between gritted teeth as your hips bucked, brows knit tight as he shook his head as if to clear a fog.

You didn’t know he was actually trying to keep something at bay, the additional inch of growth in his antlers lost on you in your current state.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Alastor’s hips stuttered for a moment before muscle memory guided him back to rhythm, desperate to regain the ecstasy that was torn from him. It had been a close call, but he managed to keep the switch from happening. Though the monster inside was still there, clawing at him just below the surface.

He felt as your hands moved from their place on his triceps (which he had quite enjoyed) to settle on his chest, your fingers delicately tracing his scar. The line wasn’t steady though, perforated by the impact of his thrusts, which you were handling with a surprising welcomeness.

It was almost…

There it was again, lying in wait; that ravenous, goading shadow roiling inside of him.

Take the risk…

Could he, though? Composing himself was practically second-nature, after all…

Say it!

Alastor exhaled, somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” He allowed himself to relish the sound of your cry and the blissed out look on your face, which in turn provided a moment to steel himself before continuing, “I didn’t think you’d be this greedy.”

“Fuuuck…! Alast — oh my god…!”

A fresh wave of your arousal flooded over him as you desperately rolled your hips to meet him, but the intention had been to make you climax — and judging by the way you were spasming around him, you were close. Not drive him to his own at the sight of your glowing eyes, just as they had that day in the alley.

He had miscalculated.

With an agonizing force of will he pulled out of you, harsh breaths straining his lungs as he got off the bed to hastily remove his pants and shoes. He groaned through the ripple of adrenaline that was tearing through him, heartbeat pounding in his ears like a drum, the feeling of it causing his hair to stand on edge. Fuck. He wouldn’t be able to hold it off… not this time.

“What’s wrong?” Despite the question, your voice was still so thick with lust that it made his back hunch over.

It was taking all he had not to wrap his arms around himself in what he knew would be a useless attempt at containment. Even breathing was painful. The air saturated with the smell of sweat and sex and Valentino’s goddamn pheromones!

I really am going to kill that son of a bitch!

“Alastor…?”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Burning at the stake.

It had been a good way to put it.

He had been burning you alive before dousing you with ice.

What had gotten into him? What had gotten into you? No one had ever said something like that to you before and received anything but a slap in the face. Greedy… The word made your heart stutter, some of the blood from the lower half of your body traveling back up to your face. Was it true?

Embarrassment was beginning to sober you up. Had you gone too far? It seemed strange that you had, considering the words came from his mouth and not yours. Fuck, all of this had started because of him. How else had he wanted you to react? Or was he ashamed of himself?

Was he regretting this already?

“What’s wrong?”

You watched as his back arched up like a spooked cat, the force of his breathing revealing the ribs and notches of spine under the skin. He looked like he was in pain… Maybe the scar on his chest wasn’t as healed as it seemed? You climbed off the bed and made a timid approach.

“Alastor…?”

He flinched at the touch of your hand with a hiss, the shock of his reaction making you trip over yourself and fall back onto the bed. He kept his back to you when he spoke next, the absence of his filter making you shiver in pleasure and worry.

“You remember what I told you earlier, yes?”

I don’t have the capacity for gentleness today.

How could you not remember that?

“I do,” you answered, just above a whisper.

He straightened himself then, still turned away from you and managing to look regal despite his trembling. “I need you on all fours… and you must promise not to turn around. Do you understand?”

It was a question that didn’t leave room for any response other than yes. So you just positioned yourself on the bed, facing your headboard and gathered the pillows there underneath you for support. You had just finished settling when you felt his weight dip the mattress behind you, heart in your throat as he ran his nails down your spine before slipping his fingers into you.

You both sighed as he pumped you, filling the room with that familiar lewd sound between breaths. Stoking the embers of your stolen orgasm with every drag, until he removed them completely. You whined at his absence, the tightness in your belly teetering somewhere between pleasure and pain as you heard him shudder through stroking himself. His free hand resting now on your hip.

“Don’t get comfortable. If you cum facing away from me I’ll never touch you again.” His voice was tight with effort, the filter over it harsh and pocketed as he adjusted himself behind you, the grip of his hand on your left hip promising to bruise.

To your shame, the threat alone almost made you, a graceless moan tumbling out from your chest as you barely managed to nod your head in confirmation; your cunt flexing around the words echoing in your mind. The obscene sight of it drew out a sound from Alastor that could only be described as animalistic, earning the plump skin of your hip a few punctures as he thrust into you, bottoming out.

It was a brutal pace, his cock nearly leaving you with every thrust before plunging back in. He still had one hand on your hip while the other grabbed your shoulder, the slapping sound of your skin meeting quickly overpowering the gasps and moans falling from your mouths.

“Haahhh… nnghh…! …fuck!”

“Alastor…”

You felt him twitch inside of you at the sound of this name before he practically shouted, “Again…!”

The blush burned down from your face into your chest, but you complied and whined his name again. And again. Until it seemed to be the only word you knew.

“Ohhh, fuuuck…,” he hissed, followed quickly by a snarl.

You could’ve sworn you heard fabric tearing before a green glow reflected off the lacquered wood of your headboard. Alastor’s huge silhouette taking shape as it intensified; invoking the image of a nightmarish spider more than the deer demon you knew. You closed your eyes and buried your face in the pillows you had gathered, refusing to turn around despite your instinct to do so. And even through the fear, you still felt your orgasm building, the battle to keep it at bay quickly turning against your favor.

“Alastor… I… I can’t… I—”

The words were stolen as he suddenly bit into your shoulder, his mouth so wide you felt his teeth sink in from shoulder blade to collarbone. You screamed into the pillows as his hips stuttered, until there was a final thrust so deep it would have pained you if it weren’t for your throbbing shoulder. His seed spilled out hot and thick, fueling the aching fullness inside you as he grunted into your flesh; teeth still latched to you as if making a primal claim.

Hot tears fell down your face as he rode out his orgasm behind you, unsure if they were caused by the savage bite to your bruised shoulder or lament over the deprivation of seeing his face. But you had done as you were told, managing not to turn around or climax. The bite he was now nursing with licks and sucks and kisses providing plenty of distraction.

Almost too much…

As he tried to catch his breath, you could feel him shrinking behind you as he pulled out, his slick torso laying flat against your back as he lapped up the blood dribbling from the bite. And in between his kisses that traveled from your shoulder to your tear-stained face, his hands were petting you with such a tenderness it only wrought more tears.

His soothing whispers of shhh, I know, I’m sorry, I’ve got you, I’m sorry ringing in your ears as he brought you to lie down, cradling you to him as he caressed your face with his hands that inflicted such pain and comfort… protection.

For what seemed like hours, the two of you laid in silence, looking into each other’s eyes as his thumb stroked your cheek. Until finally you buried your face into his chest, hands over his heart.

And slipped into shadow.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

ps: phew! we fucking made it y’all… i truly hope it was worth the wait. but i do want to announce here that i will be taking a little break. i know this one was already late, but it kinda took a piece of my soul lmao since we only have two more chapters i need to make sure i have all my ducks lined up to wrap this with a pretty little bow. thank you for your patience and love, i really do appreciate you. and i’ll see you on may 5th 💖

tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmic-lavender

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fan fiction #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #alastor smut #hazbin hotel smut #slow burn #alastor slow burn #song fic #if i can't have love i want power #love and power #x reader #alastor the radio demon #the radio demon #alastor x reader slow burn

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lovecla · 8 months ago

Text

IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW | jack hughes.

chapter nine:

➴ warnings: none, just pure, domestic soph and jack

➴ word count: 2.8k

➴ author’s note: we’re so close to the end of IYLM,LMK that i’m feeling a little bit emotional :,) hope u guys like this one and as always, thank u so much for reading

“HAVE you guys thought about how you’re going to announce your relationship?” Grace asked, throwing herself in the chair by the fireplace.

You were all in your house, Jack, Grace, Nico and you, chatting after a dinner together. It was the 19th of December, and you were all extremely busy: Jack and Nico with the season, you and Grace with your concert next week, at the Jingle Ball in New York, on the 23rd

“I think the best thing you could do is soft launch it,” Grace answered her own question, nodding. “It would be the move.”

Jack rested his chin on top of your head. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Soft launch means hinting that you’re dating someone without actually saying who it is,” you offered, sitting closer to him. You were all on the floor, and you were between Jack’s legs, drowning in his arms.

“Why would I do that?” He asked, and you can hear the annoyance in his voice. “If I am dating Soph, I want everyone to know about it.”

You smiled, amused with his answer.

“I know that, caveman, but it would be fun to let your fans speculate.” Grace answers back, rolling her eyes.

“Bullshit.”

You and Nico laugh, watching as Jack and Grace argue back and forth over the topic.

You haven’t thought about how you’d share your relationship status with your fans. Sure, you were head over heels for Jack and you— now— knew he felt the same, but you still had your fears and worries. If you announced that you are dating Jack and you both end up breaking up after that, you knew it would cause a commotion— lots and lots of people talking about you and your bad taste in guys and how unlucky you are.

But Jack was so… he was your forever, and you knew it.

It might be soon to say this, but it is just how you feel; Jack makes you feel special in a way only your family had done before and you could see your future with him, and you actually wanted it.

Nico and Grace left shortly after that, because you needed to start packing for your trip. You and Jack organized the kitchen, putting the dishes away and wiping the counters. Surprisingly, Jack did most of the chores himself and even liked doing them.

After you were done, you both went back to your bedroom, and you started organising your things.

“Are you going to perform in sweatpants?” He asked, looking genuinely curious.

You rolled your eyes and laughed, putting another pair of socks inside your bag. “Of course not, Hughes. The outfit I’m supposed to wear during the concert is in New York, because it’s just borrowed. I don’t actually keep the dresses or the skirts and tops I wear during events.”

“That sucks,” he laid on the bed. “I’d love to see you wearing one of those little skirts while you cook lunch.”

“Pervert,” you mumbled, trying to remember if you needed anything else.

“Do you really have to go tomorrow? The concert is on the 24th, baby,” Jack questioned, for the third time today. You smiled.

“You already know the answer, handsome.”

He got up and closed your bag, before putting it on the floor and picking you up, making you laugh. He threw you on the bed, gently, and stood on top of you, his hands on each side of your head.

“I’m gonna miss you, y’know,” he whispered, before placing a gentle kiss on your lips, making your heart beat faster. How’d you get so lucky?

“Me too,” you replied, placing your hands on his cheeks. “I’m still feeling shitty for telling your mom that I wouldn’t be able to spend Christmas with you guys. I really wanted to,” you confessed, furrowing your eyebrows.

Ellen called you when she found out about you and Jack, and rambled for thirty minutes about how she knew you were the right person for him and how she adored you and that you now needed to spend Christmas with them.

You expected yourself to feel overwhelmed and anxious because they were great people and you wanted them to like you, but you found yourself feeling nothing but happy when Ellen called.

But you couldn’t miss the concert and it was damn near impossible getting a plane ticket on the 25th, especially with all the snowing happening in New York. So, Christmas with Grace in your hotel bedroom it is.

“I still can’t believe you’ll be all alone with Grace.” Jack added, looking distressed.

“It’s just how my job works, baby,” you shrugged, giving him a half smile. “I’m sure that if you had to play during the holidays you would.”

He blinked twice before getting under the covers and dragging you with him, so you could be the little spoon, but facing him still.

“Yeah, I would, but it doesn’t mean I’d be happy with it.”

You wanted to tell him that you really didn’t mind that much, you loved performing and you loved to make your fans happy. But you could see he was genuinely upset about the whole situation, so you just snuggled closer and kissed his neck.

“Let’s just sleep, okay?” Your voice sounded lazy and tired, just like how you were feeling. “I leave early tomorrow and you have to go to practice.”

He didn’t say anything, just held you tighter, sighed and kissed your head. “See you tomorrow, baby.”

“Mhm,” you smiled. “Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Even if you thought that was up for debate, you didn’t say anything, embracing the sleep with open arms.

— ⛄️

“FIVE minutes!” You heard the stage manager’s yell in your earpiece, while you read Jack’s texts on your phone.

Texting before concerts and games was just another way of trying to be closer to each other, even when you were away. One of your fears was Jack getting bored of your relationship because you couldn’t be with him whenever he needed— sometimes you had to work on his days off and couldn’t see him.

But whenever he texted you before his games, or when he FaceTimed you before you went to bed, no matter what time it was for him, you could feel your fears stepping back. Jack was a really nice boyfriend for a guy who had never had a girlfriend before, that you had to admit.

You replied back, giving your phone to Grace before you stood behind the curtains, waiting for them to open so you could enter the stage.

The Madison Square Garden Arena was filled with people and screams. You were the opening act, so it was a huge deal. Grace gave you a good luck kiss before you stepped on stage, smiling at how many people were there.

As you step on stage, the energy is electric, with the twinkling holiday lights reflecting off the excited crowd. The first few beats of the "Nonsense Christmas Remix" kick in, and the playful, festive vibe fills the air. You can feel the audience sway with anticipation, and you smile, your mic ready in hand.

‘Think I only want you under my mistletoe.

I might change your contact to “Has a huge North Pole,”

You lean into the light-hearted, flirty tone of the song, weaving your voice through the fun, upbeat rhythm. The holiday bells add a sparkle to the track, making your performance feel like a holiday party. Every line you sing is filled with a blend of mischief and charm, and the cheeky Christmas-themed lyrics keep everyone grinning and tapping along.

You said you like my stockings better on the floor.

Boy, l've been a bad girl, I guess I'm gettin' coal (no).

Lemme come warm you up, you been out in the snow.

Baby, my tongue goes numb, sounds like "ho-ho-ho"

As the chorus hits, you play with the playful nature of the song, giving it a bit of sass while staying in tune with the holiday spirit. You make eye contact with the crowd, as if you’re sharing an inside joke. Each note you hit feels effortless, and the remix’s fun twists on the original song’s lyrics bring a fresh energy to the room.

I don't even know, I'm talkin' Christmas

I'm talkin', I'm talkin' (ah)

I'm talkin' deckin' all the halls, I'm talkin' spikin' eggnog

I'm talkin' opposite of small, I'm talkin' big snowballs.

As you continue singing, the festive mood only grows. The crowd is now fully engaged, swaying and singing along with the infectious, cheeky lyrics. Your voice dances through the light-hearted verses, especially when you hit those playful lines that make the audience chuckle. The jingle bells and upbeat tempo add a sparkle to every word, and you let your personality shine, matching the quirky vibe of the song.

You can’t help but play with the crowd, flashing a grin as you hit the fun twists on holiday references, dropping flirty lines with a wink. As the chorus repeats, you raise your mic toward the audience, inviting them to belt out the words with you. It’s not just a performance—it’s a holiday celebration, and you’re at the center of it. Your confidence grows with each note, feeding off the energy of the room, and by the final line, everyone is wrapped up in the joy and fun of the moment, feeling that special holiday magic you've helped create.

By the end, before you started saying the outro, you could feel the audience wrapped up in the joy of the season and your vibrant performance. You kneeled on the floor besides the crowd:

Tell me is that giant package for me?

Santa's too excited, he came early

Jingle Ball you're so hot I'm not worthy

The screaming was loud, even with the earpiece in. You were smiling so hard, your chest going up and down, your legs feeling like jelly from all the dancing and jumping but you were so freaking happy.

“Thank you so much, New York,” you breathed, blowing kisses left and right. “I hope all of you have a wonderful Christmas and I love you all so, so much. Thank you.”

You bowed before leaving the stage, thanking the band on your way out. You removed your earpiece, still hearing the screams outside. The backstage was a huge mess, with other artists coming at you to say “hi”, and you greeting them back.

Some random man escorted you to your dressing room, and you thought it was weird because usually Grace was the one to do this, but she was probably just busy. Thanking the man, you entered the room, ready to change into some normal, warm clothes because you were freezing—

“Hi, baby.”

Jack was standing in front of you, with his winter jacket and white teeth.

You stopped midway, covering your mouth with your hand.

Jack Hughes was standing in front of you, in the middle of your dressing room.

What.

“Jack?” You asked, even though you were clearly seeing him in front of you. You smiled back, jumping into his arms, happy when he picked you up— you were sweaty from all the dancing but you still squeezed him strongly. “Baby, what are you doing here?”

He held you closer, kissing your temple.

“I don’t know much about this boyfriend thing, but I’m pretty sure a good boyfriend wouldn’t let his girlfriend and her annoying best friend spend Christmas all alone so I thought I’d ask for a few favors.”

“The annoying best friend in question is still in the room, you fuckhead,” you heard Grace’s voice behind you and you removed yourself from Jack’s hold, turning around and facing Grace, who was now smiling back at you. “Surprise, babygirl.”

“Oh, Grace, I love you so much!” You hugged her, kissing her cheeks. “Could kiss you right now!”

“Let’s not do that, right, baby?” Jack pouted behind you, and you giggled. “Save the kisses for your man only.”

“You’re crazy,” you whispered, looking at Jack and then Grace. “Absolutely batshit. What if someone saw you?”

Jack opened his mouth to reply, but Grace was quicker. “Jack was supposed to be here the entire concert, but somehow he convinced the bodyguard to let him watch the show from the pit, and if that wasn’t enough, he took a picture with a fan and the fan’s girlfriend posted it on Twitter. So, yeah,” she shrugged, throwing daggers at Jack with her eyes. “Pretty much everyone knows he’s here.”

You stared at your boyfriend, only to watch him smile naughty. It was clear he didn’t give a fuck about people knowing.

“I wish I could say I knew what to do with you, but I don’t,” you told him, kissing his cheek lightly so that the lipstick wouldn’t smudge. “What about your family?”

“They actually encouraged me to come,” he put his hands inside his pockets. “Ma wanted to send a gigantic apple pie.”

“Let’s call them later, mhm?”

“Sure thing, baby,” he tilts his head, kissing you gently and quickly. “You killed it tonight. My little popstar.”

You blushed and opened your mouth to answer, but Grace was faster— again. “Guys, I’m still here. Please.”

You laughed, hugging her.

“Let’s go home, I’m still jet lagged and so fucking hungry I could eat two entire large pizzas alone.”

“New York pizza sucks, by the way,” Grace added, grabbing your clothes and handing them to you. “Can we have sushi?”

You looked at Jack, silently asking what he thought of it. He just nodded, sitting on the couch and waiting for you to change.

It was going to be a great night.

— ⛄️

“JACK, we shouldn’t be doing this, oh my God, what if I fall, what if I die here—”

You heard Jack’s precious laugh beside you. “You’re not going to die, baby. And if you fall, I’m here to catch you,” he winked at you, and you rolled his eyes, not finding the situation funny at all.

You convinced him to walk around New York, to see the Christmas decorations and drink hot chocolate, but it somehow backfired at you because the minute that man put his eyes on an ice rink, you were done.

You and Jack spent the entire 24th of December sightseeing together. New York was full of people, so you didn’t really bother hiding yourselves.

Grace said she wasn’t going to be the third wheel so she stayed at the hotel. You and Jack walked around, taking pictures and eating food that definitely weren’t in your diet plan but neither of you cared.

At the end of the day, when you were both ready to head back and order takeout, but now, you were both wearing skates.

With Jack skating smoothly beside you while you were holding onto his arm for dear life. The last time you skated on ice you were like twelve years old so your fear was understandable.

He put his hands on your waist, guiding you from behind, not letting you fall. You were still surprised with how secure he was on ice, but then you reminded yourself that he skated more than walked sometimes.

“See? You’re doing great, baby,” he whispered in your ear, and you smiled, feeling proud of yourself; forgetting completely that he was the one doing all the work. “You’re one step away from stealing my job.”

“Shut up,” you laughed, feeling more certain of your steps now. “This is actually super fun.”

He hums behind you, skating a little bit faster and taking you with him.

You were having so much fun. Jack felt warm beside you and you wanted nothing but to kiss him all the time.

He laughed at your jokes, took dozens of pictures of you, held you the entire time. He listened to your rambling about the lights and how good the city looked.

He bought you doughnuts and hot chocolate, and watched with a funny face as you shoved them in your mouth, only to complain about the hotness of the drink.

“Be careful, baby.” he said, kissing the tip of your cold nose.

“Thank you,” you whispered, giving him a kiss.

He held the side of your face with his right hand, while his left pulled you closer by the waist. You stood on the tip of your toes, trying to match his height. The kiss tasted like chocolate, sugar and something else that you couldn’t remember the name of, but it didn’t matter.

You ended up spending Christmas Eve eating take out inside a hotel room with your best friend and your boyfriend, facetiming your mom and sisters— your nieces loved Jack— and Ellen and Jim— she cooked the gigantic apple pie either way— but you never felt so whole and happy.

If it could get any better than this, you weren’t so sure.

— ♡

liked by njdevils, lhughes_06, canucks and 245,982 others

jackhughes Merry Christmas from soph and I

View all 1,990 comments

sophiamontenegro i love u

nicohischier Finally 🫡

user86 I TOLD YALL WHAAT THEYRE DATING ?!!/!/?/??:

user1 I think imma start doing drugs

user78 How tf did he pull her

user21 The way jack’s feed is hockey hockey brothers hockey and then BOOM famous popstar girlfriend is insane

trevorzegras heartbreaking 💔

jackhughes trevorzegras keep crying

_quinnhughes Congrats, Soph and Jackie! Merry Xmas 🤶

morgan.grace is this the “soft launch” we were talking abt jack😭

jackhughes morgan.grace bullshit

njdevils our future miss HUGHES 💜

user93 who even runs this account lmfao 😭😭😭

user11 we got jack hughes dating before gta6

user12 THEY’RE TOGETHER AGAIN?? WHAT ABT THAT GIRL AVA WHO SAID SHE WAS DATING HIM

user13 user12 she deactivated her account after this post so i can only imagine she was lying 🤷🏽‍♀️

#jack hughes #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x oc #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fic #jack hughes smut #jack hughes x singer!fmc #jack hughes x singer!reader #jack hughes insta edit #jack hughes au #IYLMLMK

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multi-fandom-imagines8 · 6 months ago

Text

A Song of Ice & Shadow

Part 13

You can read previous chapters here.

Summary: As Y/n spirals out of control, Feyre steps in, forcing a change that leaves the sisters at odds.

Warnings: substance abuse, mention of death, trauma, angst.

WC: 4 K.

A knock sounded on Y/n’s door. Then another, and another, insistent, until she finally opened it. She was high as hell on some new drug when she saw Azriel standing in the hallway. Squinting, she rubbed her eyes.

“Am I hallucinating, or are you really here?” Her voice was languid, tinged with disbelief.

Azriel’s eyes narrowed, scanning her face. “What the hell did you take?”

Y/n shrugged, swaying slightly. “What do you want? I think it’s too early in the morning. I just fell asleep. Come back another time.” She moved to close the door.

A groan sounded from her living room, low and slurred. Azriel’s brow furrowed as he glanced past her. “Who’s in there?” he demanded, his tone sharp.

“I don’t know,” she replied with a lazy shrug, her lips curling into a careless smile. “I don’t usually let anyone stay over. I guess whatever I took was good enough to make me forget.” She let out a giggle, her hand hovering over the door as she moved to shut it again. But before she could, Azriel’s foot slipped into the gap, holding the door open. His expression hardened as he stepped inside, casting a critical gaze around the dim room. This was the first time he’d been here, though there wasn’t much to see.The sparse, cluttered apartment revealed little about her, save for the state of the coffee table, scattered with substances potent enough to kill with a single wrong dose. He wasn’t sure if she was lucky or if she hadn’t taken much, but judging by the state she was in, he guessed it was the former.

On her couch lay a male, barely conscious, his eyes glazed. But one piercing look from Azriel sent him scrambling out the door. Y/n pouted, throwing herself onto the couch where the male had been seconds earlier.

“Aww, you scared the poor thing,” she murmured with a mock scold.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. “What the hell is this, Y/n?” He gestured to the array of vials and powders on the table. A flicker of anger shadowed his eyes, tinged with something close to concern. She shrugged.

“Feyre wants you at the house,” he informed her, his voice taut.

“Which one? Doesn’t she, like, own a dozen?” she replied with an eye roll.

“The new one.”

She smirked, “And why send their lap dog? Couldn’t she have come herself?”

His gaze darkened. “Feyre is High Lady of the Night Court. She has more important things to do.”

“Since this is not important, she can come another day. When she’s not so busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need some sleep,” she muttered, closing her eyes and sinking back into the cushions.

“That’s not happening. I was specifically instructed to get you there by nine.”

She cracked one eye open, glancing at him with feigned irritation. “What time is it now?”

“Seven.”

“Then let me sleep for two hours, and then we can go.” She closed her eyes again.

Azriel folded his arms. “You need to look… presentable.”

“Fine. Whatever. Leave, and I’ll be ready by then,” she grumbled, rolling onto her side.

“The moment I leave, you’re going to fall asleep again.”

She huffed, opening her eyes fully to glare at him. “Fine. What will it take for you to stop talking?”

“You need to take a bath,” he replied, his voice still firm, ignoring her question.

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Well, I’m not doing that while you’re standing here.”

He sighed, his expression exasperated. “I’ll get you some food. Just be done when I get back.”

When he returned with breakfast, she was nowhere in sight. He assumed she was still in the bathing chamber and set the food on the small table before scanning her chaotic apartment. Fifteen minutes passed, and concern began to cloud his patience. He knocked on the bathing chamber door, once, twice, three times. There was no answer. Then he asked, his voice tinged with worry. “Y/n, are you in there? I’m coming in.”

She finally spoke, her tone sharp. “Don’t you dare.”

He exhaled, relief barely masking his frustration. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

“Mother above, I was just relaxing,” came her indignant reply.

“Be out in five minutes,” he ordered.

Her laughter was faintly mocking. “I don’t take orders from you.”

Azriel’s patience thinned, his tone sharpening. He was done playing her little games “Let me make this clear: if you’re not out in five minutes, I will have to come in and get you.”

“You’re such a brute,” she muttered, but after a pause, he heard movement.

She emerged a few moments later, dressed and looking marginally more awake. He handed her a cup of tea, his expression still neutral.

“Did you put poison in it?” she quipped, an eyebrow raised.

“If I wanted you dead, that wouldn’t be the way I’d go about it,” he replied dryly.

She chuckled, amused. “Oh? And how would you do it? Please, do tell.”

Azriel’s eyes lingered on her, a brief flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “You really don’t care, do you?”

“What’s there left to care about?” she replied, her voice hollow. “And if you say my sisters, I will electrocute you.”

“You still have your powers?” His question was calm, but his eyes searched hers intently.

Her gaze shifted, guarded. “That is none of your business.”

—

The riverfront house loomed before them, its elegant structure casting long shadows under the morning sun. Y/n gazed up at it with a flicker of disdain. She had been here only once before, when Feyre had shown her around during its construction. They even had a room made for her, not that she’d appreciate it.

The rooms had felt cold and empty then, even with her sister’s warmth. Now, they felt like a cage.

Azriel led her inside without a word, his pace brisk and purposeful. The scent of fresh wood and lavender filled the air, but it only heightened her unease. The inside was as pristine and lifeless as she remembered. Her gaze flicked over the walls adorned with portraits, smiling faces of people she knew. But there were none of her, none of Nesta, and none of their mother. She felt the absence like a sharp knife to her chest.

Y/n loved her mother dearly. With her, she had been different—kind, caring. Everything a mother should be. At least, that’s how Y/n remembered her. She had been four and a half when her mother had Nesta, and even at a young age, Y/n could recall how happy her mother had been before marrying her sisters’ father. He hadn’t been horrible to her; on the contrary, he had given her a luxurious life and loved her deeply. But she did not love him. She had married him for stability, and for Y/n’s sake, and then she had his children.

Although her mother grew colder with time, Y/n never felt the brunt of it. She had been her favorite, her constant, and she knew from a young age that she was destined to grow into a stubborn woman. Her mother had believed Elain would marry for love—she looked like a doll, after all. She trained Nesta to marry a prince and mostly ignored Feyre. Y/n, however, was simply allowed to be. She had been spoiled, indulged, never told no.

She had enjoyed dressing up, but not the attention that came with it. Balls were tolerated, not loved. She would attend one or two with her mother, then leave the rest for Nesta. She even endured dancing and etiquette lessons with her sister but never stayed long enough for them to leave an impression. They just didn’t interest her. What did interest her was adventure—exploring new places, finding hidden corners of their world. She had done that with her childhood friend. But that was a story for another time.

The scent of lavender snapped her back to the present, clashing with the memories that swirled like smoke in her mind. Those fleeting moments of joy and comfort felt so distant now, their warmth overshadowed by the cold reality of the house she now stood in.

Azriel led her into the spacious sitting room, where Feyre, Rhys, Amren, and Cassian were gathered, their expressions expectant.

Y/n leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms as a smirk tugged at her lips.

“So, this is what kept you too busy to fetch me yourself?” Her tone was cutting, her gaze flicking to Feyre.

Rhys bristled immediately. “She doesn’t have to answer to you,” he snapped.

Feyre rested a calming hand on his arm, but her gaze remained steady on her sister. “You look like hell. I heard you had a rough night.”

Y/n tilted her head, her smirk widening. “That’s none of your concern.”

“It is,” Amren interjected, her voice like steel. “When you spend exorbitant sums on substances and parties...You and your sister.” She shook her head, clearly disappointed.

Y/n scoffed, ignoring her, and flicked her gaze back to Feyre. “Why is she even here?”

“We’re here to have a discussion with you,” Feyre said evenly.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, feigning interest. “We? I don’t want to discuss anything with you.”

“You will sit and listen,” Rhys ordered, his voice cold.

Her posture straightened, her smirk vanishing. “Do not tell me what to do. I don’t take orders from you.” Her words were sharp, deliberate, and the tension in the room rose several notches.

Cassian exhaled heavily, muttering under his breath. “Mother above. You are just like your sister.”

Y/n turned to glare at him, her voice dripping with venom, “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Yet here you are, panting after her like a stray dog.”

“That is enough,” Feyre said sharply, her authority cutting through the brewing argument, before Cassian could respond. She turned to look at Rhys and the others. “I told you to keep out of it. You can either leave or stay and keep your mouths shut.” Then she focused on her sister again. “Y/n, you need to make some changes.”

“Like hell I do,” Y/n shot back.

Feyre softened her tone, standing up and taking a step closer. “Listen, I know you’ve had it rough. I understand how you’re feeling-”

“You understand nothing about how I’m feeling,” Y/n interrupted, her voice rising.

“Then talk to me,” Feyre pleaded. “Tell me.”

“I’d rather drown myself,” Y/n spat, her eyes flashing with defiance.

Feyre’s expression hardened. “And that’s exactly why things are going to have to change. Starting now.”

“Oh?” Y/n arched a brow, her smirk icy. “You think you can do anything about it?”

Feyre squared her shoulders, her voice steady. “The life you’ve been living the past year is over. You will move to the House of Wind and train with Cassian and Nesta in Windhaven.”

A snort escaped Y/n as she shook her head. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” Feyre said. “Elain is packing your things as we speak. You’ll move in after this meeting.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Amren’s sharp voice cut through. “This is not up for negotiation.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed, her defiance unwavering. “And if I refuse?”

“You’ll either go to the House of Wind or back to the mortal lands, Amren replied coldly, offering her the same deal they had offered Nesta.

“That’s not an option,” Feyre clarified quickly, casting a warning glance at Amren. Apparently, they forgot to mention to Amren that Y/n is not like Nesta. When it came to her pride, Y/n’s was a fortress, unyielding and absolute; she would sooner die than allow anyone to tear her down. And seeing as she had wanted to leave long before the war with Hybern, this wasn’t an option. If they thought the threat of the mortal lands would deter her, they were sorely mistaken- she’d choose them in a heartbeat, and Feyre knew that.

Y/n’s grin returned, but it was colder, crueler. “Interesting. It’s like you knew what I’d choose.” She turned her mocking gaze to Feyre. “I’m not going back to that house.”

Feyre faltered for a moment. “Well, you can’t go back to your apartment either. You’ve burned through all your money,” Amren interjected coolly.

“Amren-” Feyre warned, her tone low, but Y/n cut her off.

“That’s fine,” Y/n said with a careless shrug. “There are plenty of ways to make money.”

“Rhys offered you so many positions, and you turned down every single one,” Feyre reminded her, her voice tight with frustration.

“And I never will. I will not work for your mate,” Y/n replied with a sneer.

“You wouldn’t last a day,” Cassian muttered. “Rhys could have every employer in Velaris turn you away with a single word.”

Y/n’s sharp gaze shifted to him, looking him up and down like he was nothing, a dangerous smile tugging at her lips. “And you think that would be a problem for me?”

“I know it wouldn’t,” Feyre interjected. “And I know you’d rather go back to the mortal lands than face any of us or your problems, which is why that is not an option.”

Y/n’s smirk twisted, colder now. “Well, I’ll just walk there then.”

“Again, not an option,” Feyre repeated.

“So, what? You’re going to drag me to the House of Wind against my will?” Y/n’s voice dripped with mockery., her arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“If that’s what it takes,” Rhys said, his tone calm but his jaw tight with restraint.

“Lo and behold,” Y/n clapped her hands slowly, her smirk sharp. “The people fighting for freedom and free will are the same people who want to lock me up. Magnificent. Could’ve fooled me with that act.”

“Y/n, you’re not well,” Feyre pressed, her voice soft . “We’re not keeping you a prisoner.”

Y/n let out a short, bitter laugh. “Coming from the girl who let her ex lock her up for months and stayed with him? I don’t think you understand the definition of being a prisoner.”

“Do not talk to your sister like that,” Rhys said, his voice lowering as he rose up from his seat and took a step forward, his tone darkening.

“Oh, so you and your self-righteous clowns are allowed to say and do whatever you like, but when someone else gives you a taste of your own medicine, you can’t handle it?” Y/n’s sharp gaze darted between Rhys and Feyre, her words deliberate.

Feyre took a breath, trying to steady herself. “Y/n, please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“What did you think was going to happen?” Y/n shot back, her words biting. “You’d just tell me to move in with that brute and Nesta, that I’d have no say in the matter, and I’d just thank you for it?”

“I- I didn’t want it to come to this,” Feyre stammered, the weight of her words visible in her expression. “But with the amount of money you’ve spent on your nightly activities-”

“Oh! There it is.” Y/n cut her off, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You’re saying I owe you, aren’t you?”

Feyre flinched at the accusation but didn’t back down. She didn’t want to say that, but she knew it was the only way Y/n would stay. If she felt like she owed someone a debt. So, she nodded.

“Because my life wasn’t enough for you. My help wasn’t enough?” Y/n’s said, her voice low, dripping with venom. “Fine, you got what you wanted. I’ll stay until my debt is paid.”

The silence that followed was heavy, every word reverberating in the space between them. Finally, Y/n’s tone dropped further, each word laced with ice. “I’d like a word with your High Lady. Alone.” This was the first time Y/n had called her sister that, the title a deliberate choice. The formality of it created a barrier, a cold, impersonal distance that made it clear just how far apart they had grown.

The others hesitated, exchanging glances, but eventually filed out of the room. Rhys lingered by the doorway, his dark gaze warning, before following the others into the hall. They stayed close to intervene, should things spiral out of control.

When it was just the two of them, Y/n spoke again. “Why the sudden care?”

“I’ve always cared, Y/n” Feyre reached out, her hand brushing her sister’s arm.

“Don’t touch me,” Y/n snapped, stepping back sharpy, her eyes blazing with something Feyre couldn’t quite name.

“Y/n, please. I’m your sister.”

“And you only remembered that now? Because I spent a little bit more than usual?” Y/n’s voice cracked slightly, but her expression remained hard.

“A little more than usual?” Feyre’s tone rose slightly, the tension breaking through. “Do you know how much money that was? How embarrassed I was when Rhys got the bill-”

“So that’s what this is about?” Y/n interrupted. “I embarrassed you in front of your new family?... I think you stopped caring about us the moment you became High Fae.”

“You think I stopped caring about you?” Feyre’s voice trembled, and for a moment, the hurt in her eyes was almost too much to bear. “If I did, would I allow you to stay here, disrespect everyone, spend our money recklessly, and destroy yourself?”

“We are here because of you!” Y/n shouted, the words spilling out in anger. “Sometimes, I wonder what our lives would’ve been like if you had stayed dead.” The words left her mouth faster than she could stop them. So cold, and sharper than any blade. It was the last thing she wanted to say to her sister, but now it hung in the air, irreversible. Feyre’s face crumpled, the weight of the statement hitting her like a blow.

“Oh,” Feyre whispered, her voice barely audible. “I guess we’ll never know.”

Y/n turned her gaze away, her expression unreadable, but her hands trembled slightly at her sides. “Once the debt is paid,” she said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. “I want to leave. And I never want to see you again.”

Feyre blinked, struggling to hold back tears. “Y/n, please-”

“No,” Y/n cut her off, her tone final. “We’re done.”

Y/n had perfected this- pushing away anyone who dared to show they cared about her. With those chilling words, she turned on her heel, striding to the door. She yanked it open and stepped into the hall, where the others stood waiting. Azriel’s heart ached at the sight of her in this state. He had stayed silent through it all, unable to find the right words or intervene in the confrontation. When she stepped out of the room, he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, the weight of his silence pressing heavily on him.

To Cassian’s surprise, Y/n didn’t say anything when he flew her to the house. The flight was quiet, the only sound the rhythmic beat of his wings and the rush of the wind. She stared right ahead, her posture tense but her face carefully blank.

They made sure to place Nesta and Y/n on two separate floors, seeing as they weren’t on speaking terms. No one knew why, and they didn’t dare ask. Feyre hoped they’d at least train together, but Y/n made it clear that she doesn’t wish to be in the same room as her sister.

When they landed, Cassian let her step down before speaking. “You still have your Illyrian leathers from the war? You’ll need them tomorrow,” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

“I’m never wearing that thing again,” Y/n replied, her tone icy.

“It’s going to be cold. You’ll need them.” He hesitated, clearly choosing his words carefully.

“You’ll be on your own floor. Nesta has settled in her old room. Mine is a level above, and Az’s is just down the hall from me,” Cassian informed her, his tone soft and cautious, despite the tension between them.

Y/n glanced around the sprawling House, her expression still unreadable. “He’ll stay here with us?” she asked flatly, her gaze flicking to the horizon.

“When he’s in Velaris, yes,” he replied, watching her closely. “Don’t worry, though. You won’t see him much.”

“Good.” Her voice was clipped, her eyes fixed on the mountains in the distance. But beneath her detached tone, a storm churned. The mention of Azriel, his proximity stirred emotions she couldn’t quite place, ones she had long since tried to bury. She had told herself it didn’t matter, that his presence or absence had no bearing on her. And yet, the idea of him being just down the hall brought with it an uneasy tension, one she refused to examine too closely.

Her gaze remained fixed on the distant peaks as though they could steady her. She couldn’t let her thoughts stray, couldn’t afford to acknowledge the flicker of something unfamiliar threading through her otherwise rigid defenses. It was nothing, she told herself firmly, Just an echo of some old familiarity. Nothing more.

Cassian tilted his head slightly, studying her before hesitantly asking. “Did something happen between you and Az?”

Her head snapped toward him. “No. Why would you think that?” she replied dryly, her posture stiffening.

“It’s just… before the war, you two seemed to get closer and now-”

“Your observation is wrong,” she interrupted, her voice flat and dismissive. “There was nothing to begin with.”

“Whatever you say.” Cassian raised his hands slightly, signaling he wouldn’t push further. “You should eat something. You’ll need all the energy you can get for training tomorrow.”

“I’m not training with you. Especially not at that horrible place.”

Cassian’s brows furrowed, irritation flashing across his face. “Don’t you have a debt to repay?”

“I’d rather see that place burned to the ground than train there,” she snapped.

“You sound like Az,” Cassian muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he turned away.

—

That night was a horrible one for Y/n. She had nothing to dull the pain, to quiet the voices in her head, and mostly, to stop the nightmares. She screamed her father’s name in her sleep as she watched his death replay over and over again in her mind.

Azriel had just returned from wherever he had been, and the sound of her screaming pulled him toward her room like a magnet. He stopped just outside her door, hesitating. He knew she didn’t want him there, or around, she had made that clear. She didn’t want his help, didn't want his presence, didn’t want anything to do with him since the war. But the sound of her suffering clawed at him, each scream like a blade twisting in his chest, a cruel reminder of how powerless he felt to reach her.

He debated whether to go in and wake her or just stand there and wait for the nightmare to pass. As another anguished cry shattered the silence, he decided to go with the former as he couldn’t just stand by and listen. He reached for the door, his resolve firm, until his shadows whispered, informing him that she had just woken up.

His hand froze, hovering over the handle. Relief flooded him, but so did disappointment. He stood there, torn. He wanted to hold her, help her, tell her it would be okay, to be the comfort she wouldn’t let herself have. But he knew better. She would never let him in, not in that way- not now, not ever.

Inside, Y/n sat upright in the bed, her breathing ragged. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to block out the lingering images of her father’s death. The nightmares had been worse than usual, sharper, more vivid, without anything to dull the edges. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she tried to steady herself.

Azriel lingered outside her door for a moment longer, his shadows brushing against the wood like a quiet offering of solace. When the silence in her room stretched, he finally turned and walked away, his footsteps silent as he made his way to his own quarters.

Tags: : @st4r-girl-official @judig92 @5onedirection5 @nayaniasworld @blackgirlmagicforever @stained-glass-eyes0708 @slytherintaco @aehllita @nebarious @t0uch-starved-h0e @bravo-delta-eccho @sylvermoon @going-through-shit @latinxbipride @i-am-infinite @azrielrot @fuckingsimp4azriel @theravenphoenix26 @hanatsuki-hime @fantanbietsson @rcarbo1 @weasleymagic @secretsicanthideanymore @spymaster03 @elaselat @minnieoo

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nubiawrites · 3 months ago

Text

chapter nine

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Black Original Character

Warnings: Slow burn. 18+. Smut. Sex. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Aaron and Iriye find out some things are better left unsaid and raw.

Notes: so... y'all gonna hate me after this. i'm running away. love yall. leave a comment or a grievance.

MASTERLIST

A cloudy haze of smoke rose from Tamara’s lips as she and Iriye sat in Cece’s office, the headshots of the many actors placed on a cork board. But one constant remained true: Aaron’s beautiful face, eyes staring back at her through his headshot.

“Looks good, doesn't it?” Tamara asked. Iriye looked at her friend, feeling just a little discombobulated from the few hits of weed she had smoked. It was a ritual for them when they were making final casting picks to go into a room and smoke a little till they were both confident of the picks. But this time felt different. The elephant in the room being Vivian Kincaid’s perfect headshot that Iriye wanted to throw darts at.

“Hm,” Iriye responded. Tamara chuckled at her friend.

“You’re such a fucking lightweight,” Tamara shook her head, passing the blunt back over to Iriye.

“You’re a lightweight, lightweight.” Iriye shot back, her words brows furrowed as she was high as a kite. She took a deep drag from the blunt, coughing some as she released it from her lips. “We really can afford good weed now.”

“Thanks, Daddy Warner,”

“Don’t say that,” Iriye chuckled. “Wow…” Tamara got up and moved to tap on the corkboard.

“I think Vivian is the better choice,” Tamara stated.

“Excuse me,” Nelly pushed open the door with her shoulder, balancing an array of snacks. Iriye grabbed the box of cosmic brownies, opening it up to retrieve her favorite snack. Nelly placed the rest of the snacks down on the desk.

“Sam is excellent. Don’t get me wrong, but Vivian, she killed it. Whatever you said to her, Iriye, it worked. Even when I talked to her afterward, she was much more chill,” Tamara stated.

“Yeah, kissing Aaron would do that,” Nelly remarked. Iriye bit into her brownie after removing the plastic, needing something to distract herself.

“Oh, is Nelly jealous?” Tamara teased, passing the joint to Nelly. Nelly wasn’t a smoker, enjoying edibles mostly, but she wasn’t going to pass up free weed. She took a deep drag and handed it back.

“No, I’m not,” Nelly exhaled after smoking, her eye looking to Iriye. Iriye nestled back into her chair, trying to avoid Nelly’s look, feeling she would give herself away.

“Cuz, if you like Aaron, just say it. You were teasing Iriye about her emails with him,” Tamara popped a chip into her mouth.

“No one likes that man. Right, Iriye?” Nelly coughed. Iriye was frozen, her high slowly and steadily hitting her.

“Iriye-” Iriye swallowed the brownie part she had been chewing.

“I think we should go with Vivian,” Iriye stated.Nelly cut her eyes to her and Iriye shrugged. “Vivian has the grit. She made it flow effortlessly with Nora. Plus it’ll make the studios happy and atleast her stylist will make sure she’s a gem on the press run,”

“I agree. This could be a beautiful work relationship blossoming for us. Plus, her and Aaron are easy on the eyes,”

Nelly turned to Iriye as Tamara arranged the photos better on the board.

“What the hell are you doing?” Nelly whispered.

“I’m just doing my job,” Iriye stated, grabbing for a chip, but Nelly snatched it away.

“No!” Nelly let out. Tamara turned to Iriye and Nelly.

“Y’all good?” Tamara asked.

“We’re fine,” Iriye stated. “Right, Nelly,”

There was a look of chaos in Nelly’s eye that Iriye was battling with as she stared back at her.

Don’t do it. Iriye raised her eyebrows.

Come on. Nelly pouted.

“Y’all not even related, and you’re doing that freaky twin shit,” Tamara whined, taking back the joint and taking a hit. “What am I missing?”

“What?” Iriye sat up straight.

“On the board. What am I missing?” Tamara looked at Iriye with a chuckle.

“I think… the headshot for Grant,” Iriye moved the headshot up and stepped back.

“Perfect,” Tamara smiled. Iriye took that as her cue to grab her sneakers and slip them on.

“I think that’s my cue to call it a night. We finished the cast board,” Iriye stated. Tamara brought Iriye in for a hug.

“I’m so glad I’m getting to do this with you. The both of you,” Tamara pulled back to reach for Nelly. Nelly came over, and the three women hugged. “Imagine us doing this in London when we’re shooting this film. It’s happening, y’all,”

Nelly looked over at Iriye, and she smiled back softly.

“It’s just like we all dreamed,” Nelly said, the words biting Iriye in the ass. “All together. As one. All upfront,”

“I’m proud of us,” Iriye changed the subject, pulling both women closer.

Iriye had managed to get out of Tamara and Cece’s apartment, and her Uber was waiting outside. She had slinked into the back, trying to stay aware as she was slightly high. She shared her trip with Nelly and Iriye, wanting them to know she was good.

She then opened her messages and saw that Aaron had texted her.

Iriye bit her lip, seeing the sweet little text messages they sent to each other, a dopier smile coming onto her face as she reread them. She bit her lip and went back to her Uber app. She shared the trip with him as well, biting her lip. She was going back between Instagram posts and such, her fingers tempted to type in her name.

“Vivian,” Iriye said softly as she began typing into the search bar, but her screen showed an incoming call, and she playfully rolled her eyes.

“You know, I thought you would be busy being British and suave in your apartment?” Iriye stated with a chuckle, relaxing back into the seat.

“I was, but then I saw you shared your ride with me,” Aaron said into the phone. “What would it take to get you to reroute to my place?”

“Are you asking me for a bootycall?” Iriye chuckled. “Bootycall?

“More like a sleepover,” Aaron chuckled. “You and Tamara and Nelly must have had a time?”

“We have a ritual. Something we do once we get towards the end of prepoo,” Iriye chuckled. “I mean, preproduction,”

“The wordsmith that you are,” Aaron said.

“You know how good I am with my mouth,” Iriye whispered.

“Come over,”

“I should. But I have soooo many snacks at my home. And I just got that bed warmer for my mattress,” Iriye giggled.

“I have snacks,” Aaron stated.

“Yeah, but I need the cheesy puffs. The kind that melts in your mouth,” Iriye nodded, her head feeling fuzzy. “Can you get me some,”

“If you come over,” Aaron bartered back. Iriye hummed for a second. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Fine. But Cheeto puffs. All the junk food,” Iriye said.

Once her detour was completed, Iriye leaned against the door, knocking lightly. It opened, and Iriye saw Aaron, her face immediately moving to smush against his chest.

“You feel nice,” Iriye purred. Aaron pulled her further into the apartment, shutting the door behind them.

“You are properly knackered,” Aaron stated, feeling her turn in his arms, and she began leading him to the kitchen.

“You sound even more British when I’m high,” Iriye admitted, keeping his hands around her as she began looking for things to snack on. “Where are the Cheeto puffs?” She said in a lower voice, Aaron chuckling at her.

Aaron moved to the top of the fridge and picked the bag down; Iriye smiled, moving to sit on his counter and giggling as he gave her the bag of chips.

“This is amazing!” Iriye opened the bag and put a Cheeto into her mouth, chewing. Aaron watched from the doorway as she dug into her treat. “Oh, you want one? Does John Stewart eat Cheeto puffs? I don’t know if it’ll go with the green,”

“You are very chatty when you’re high,” Aaron came closer to her as she sat on the counter.

“Very much so. It’s kind of like a weakness of mine,” Iriye popped another Cheeto puff in her mouth, still trying to have manners with him as she covered her mouth and chewed.

“So if I asked you anything, right now, it’s sort of like a truth serum,” Iriye swallowed the cheesy residue in her mouth.

“Maybe,” Iriye shrugged, licking the residue off her fingers. Aaron caged her in on the counter.

“What’s your favorite color?” Aaron started with a small question. Not too much pressure.

“Purple. Black. Whatever shade your eyes are right now. They’re pretty,” She admitted.

“Thank you,” He chuckled. “No one has ever called me pretty,”

“Well, we need to make a habit of saying that,” she said, pushing the chip bag to the side. He moved to clip it, and she hummed, grabbing a paper towel and wiping her fingertips. “What else do we you got for me on your version of fifty questions with Vogue,”

“Is that one of your little obsessions?”

“Yes. Ask away the questions,”

Aaron took a moment to rub his chin.

“Why don’t you like to talk about your dad?”

“Wow, no chaser at all,” Iriye chuckled, leaning back softly.

“I could have probably been better about my words,” Aaronnsaid apologetically. She shook her head, her arms around his neck, and hugged him.

“Don’t be sorry,” She whispered before she pulled away. Iriye began to try to take her sweater off, Aaron helping her, and her goddess locs came down. One unraveling and her sighing. “I’m in dire need of a hair appointment,”

“You still look good,” Aaron fixed her hair for her and leaned in for a kiss, her pulling back.

“I taste like weed mouth. You know. The taste when you smoke afterwards,” Iriye explained. Aaron rolled his eyes and kissed her, purposely licking into her mouth. She moaned into his mouth.

“Still you,” He kissed her again before pulling back and helping her off the counter.

He led her to his bedroom, taking one of his sweaters so she could wear it to bed.

“Don’t think I forgot you didn’t answer the question,” Aaron said, pulling her under the covers once she was in his sweater and panties. Iriye bit her lip, playing with a loose thread on his cover while his hand rubbed up and down her back.

“My dad left when I was ten,” Iriye stated. She saw Aaron’s face, and she gave him a sad smile. “He and my mom always had an interesting relationship. When they were good, they were great. When they were bad, you could feel it. But my mom refused to show me anything less,” She explained. “Until he left. He didn’t even say goodbye until months later. He sent a letter. My mom read it and said I could, too, if I wanted. But seeing how upset she was. I didn't want to make her more upset. So I threw it away,”

Aaron watched Iriye, seeing her vulnerability. She was looking anywhere but in his eyes. His hand moved to trail up her arm and cup her cheek.

“Aaron, you don’t have to,” He silenced her with a kiss on her lips. “I don’t want you feeling sorry for me, okay?" She mumbled against his lips. He pulled away.

“I don’t feel sorry for you, Iriye,” He said, stroking her cheek. “I just… I care about you,” Iriye saw the tenderness he was treating her with and she relaxed into his embrace.

“You care about me?” Iriye asked, looking up in his eyes. He nodded.

“I do. Especially when you care about me too,” Aaron stated.

“I care about you. And it scares me. But I don’t want to close myself off to it.” She admitted. “Ask me another question… please,” Iriye said softly. Aaron pulled her closer to him, his hands rubbing up and down her back.

The different questions had lured a sense of truth and comfort out of Iriye. One she would have been afraid of, but Aaron had held her through it all and kissed her softly. He made her feel safe.

“And that’s why I can’t eat there anymore,” Iriye said with a chuckle, her hands around his waist as she laid her head on his chest.

“You’re a wild thing,” Aaron chuckled tiredly.

“It was four-dollar margaritas. I loved it,” Iriye nuzzled her head closer, kissing over his heart and letting her leg intertwine with him. “Can I sleep here?”

“I was hoping that was the plan. And it’s late.” Aaron pulled her leg higher over his hip. She shut her eyes, lulling herself further into sleep until Aaron watched her and shut his own eyes.

Iriye jostled awake a little when she felt Aaron moved when his phone alarm went off.

“Ignore it,” Iriye mumbled as she clutched onto him.

“I gotta work out, love.” Aaron let her clutch his pillow. He kissed her softly. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be back when you wake,”

Iriye hummed, returning to sleep as she heard him moving around his space.

Iriye had woken up two hours later, lazing around in his bed for a bit. She felt relaxed, and her mouth felt dry. She got out of bed, realizing she was in Aaron’s black pullover sweater, and smiled.

Iriye went over to where her things were in the room, and she found her phone, seeing that it was dead.

“Shit…” Iriye looked around and quickly found a charger Aaron had lying around. She plugged her phone up and went to the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of water and moved to sit on the counter, seeing the Cheeto bag neatly on the top of the fridge, and she smiled softly. She heard the front door jostle and bit her lip, hearing Aaron come in.

“Morning,” Iriye said, her legs swinging as she sat on the counter. Aaron pulled his headphones out and smiled at her as he came over. “I hope you know I’m not letting you have this back. It’s too comfy,” She shrugged.

“Comfy for you. Sexy to me,” Aaron said, kissing her softly.

“We’re a mess. You’re all sweaty. I haven’t gotten a chance to brush my teeth,” Iriye felt his hands moving up her thighs and hummed. Aaron chuckled as she tried leaning away again.

“Well, there’s two ways we can go about this,” Aaron licked his lips as he took Iriye in.

“Okay, what are you thinking?” Iriye asked, her hands going around his neck. Aaron lifted her off the counter, letting her slide down against him.

Well, you can join me in the shower. We get cleaned up, and then you let me fuck you in the shower,” Aaron stated.

“Oh, getting clean and getting dirty,” Iriye rolled her eyes. She felt him shift her to turn in his arms, having her face the counter as he pressed into her from behind.

“Or we get dirty and then get cleaned up. Either way,” Aaron moved her hair out of the way and kissed down the side of her neck. Her eyes shut, a moan slipping out of her as she pressed back into Aaron. “We get dirty together,”

“You are… something else,” Iriye could feel him hardening against her. “Aaron,” She breathed. She felt his hand skim underneath the sweater she wore, and she pressed her legs together as he slipped it into her panties.

“Relax and let me have fun,” Aaron kissed her cheek. Iriye opened her legs for him, and his hand slid between her folds, collecting her wetness.

Iriye moaned as he found her clit, her feeling his lips trailing up to her ear. “Aaron…” She whimpered, his fingers rubbing circles into the bud.

“I got you,” He groaned, pressing his length into her backside, rolling against her backside. His fingers slid down to her entrance, and she felt him push two fingers inside of her, a cry erupting from her body. “Fuck, you’re so wet. This all for me?”

“Yes, it’s for you,” Iriye whined, her nails gripping his arm and digging in. She felt him gradually riling her up.

Iriye rolled her hips into Aaron’s hand as she wanted him to go faster. She felt his fingers peed up some, and she whined, turning to kiss him softly as she pulled his head towards her.

“You want something; use your words,” He said as he slowed down his hand, feeling Iriye’s impatience in the kiss and how her hips rolled against him.

“Aaron, please,” Iriye moaned.

“Please, what?” Aaron’s free hand came up to tilt her head to face him, his hand pressing against the sides of her throat. A soft gasp left her because no one had tried that before, but discoveries were always fun.

“Fuck me,” Iriye whined. Aaron pulled his fingers out of her, and she felt him step away, knowing he was going to get a condom, but she grabbed him. “Just fuck me and pull out,”

Aaron groaned, and his hand pushed her panties down, Iriye kicking them away. She leaned forward and looked back at him, seeing him take his shirt off. Then, he pushed her down his sweats.

Iriye moaned out as she felt his length press against her lower lips, the first touch of his bare length to her pussy making her whine. She heard him groan.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Aaron kissed the nape of her neck, his hand finding her shoulder, and he pressed into her slowly, Iriye crying out.

“Oh my god,” She cried out as she felt him inside of her without a condom. She felt him so deep inside of her, and every vein and ridge was pulsating.

“Fuck…you feel so good,”

“I know. You too,” Iriye wanted to cry about how good his length felt inside of her. Write poetry about the dick. He was so thick that she could feel the tip hitting her g spot. She whined when he pulled back and delivered the first thrust and then another; his hand pulled her back by her shoulder onto his length.

Iriye cried out as she felt Aaron’s length keep hitting just the right spot and honestly, she was so turned on by him. The lack of protection.The fact that she trusted this man. God she trusted him with herself. Much quicker than she would anyone else.

“Aaron! Aaron! You’re fucking me so good baby,” He had her on her tippy toes, wanting to push back against him as he fucked her.

Aaron was amazed at everything Iriye did. The way her arched back. Her ass smacking against him. The sounds matvching his as he pushed into her. It was all so much and he wanted more, especially feeling her without a condom. It was risky but he felt so much closer to her.

“Aaron! Fuck!” Iriye leaned forward to push back against him. But it wasn’t enough.

“Come here,” Aaron moved his hand around her to pull her up to his body, his arm moving around her collarbone and neck as he held her back to him. Iriye cried out louder as he slid deeper. “You’re so wet wrapped around me. You always get this wet for me?”

“Yes Aaron,” He held her tighter to him as he fucked her harder, her voice crying out louder amongst his groans.

“You wanna come for me?” Aaron pressed his face against the side of hers, his arm tightening around her neck as she could feel him throbbing inside of her.

“Yes I wanna come for you,” She gasped, trying to catch her breath.

“Rub your clit for me. Don’t let up,” He kissed her cheek before she felt him thrust himself faster into her. Wet slaps and cried echoed through the kitchen, Iriye’s hand between her thighs as she rubbed her clit in the way she knew could get here there.

Moving in tandem, Iriye cried out as Aaron grunted and moaned, his hips working against hers. Iriye could feel it. Her orgasm just right there. Finally, the right roll of her fingers against her clit sent her spiraling into her end. She cried out, knees going week but Aaron pressed her against the counter, his hips bucking into hers still.

Aaron felt how much wetter Iriye got as she orgasmed around him, his hips pumping into her more and more as he raced to his end. Her moans and cries, growing louder as he pounded his length into her.

“I’m close,” Aaron warned her, giving her the moment to back out unless she wanted him inside of her, filling her up untils he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Come for me,” Iriye moaned out. Her head turned to the side, catching how wild and out of control he looked. “Please,”

Her asking so politely was all it took for Aaron’s orgasm to pulse through him, coating her insides and making his length creamy with both their ends. He caught himself against the counter, not wanting to crush her with his weight.

“God,” Aaron groaned, feeling her quake around his length. Iriye bit her lip shyly as she felt how wet they were together.

“Come here,” Iriye leaned up, her lips connecting with his. She moaned softly as he kissed her back, pulling her closer. She giggled against his lips as Aaron playfully brushed his hand against her breast. “Stop before you start something again,”

“Like you wouldn’t mind it,” Aaron kissed her cheek. “You got your land legs again because if I remember, I had to hold you up,”

“Go start the shower,” Iriye said playfully. “We should get cleaned up. I’ll see if I can get a, you know… morning-after pill delivered, I guess,” Iriye didn’t know how to not be nervous at this new milestone. She felt Aaron pull out of her, their combined essences sliding down her leg. She shivered as she thought Aaron collected it to push back inside of her.

“Don’t be too long, Love,” He turned her to face him so he could thoroughly kiss her, Iriye leaning into him before she felt Aaron smack her ass. He pulled away with a smirk, pulling his sweats back up. Iriye watched as he walked away, chuckling more so to herself. She found her panties, pulling them on.

Iriye saw her phone powered on and quickly checked it while she heard Aaron run the shower. Sliding it open, She was bombarded with texts.

Tamara: you good?

Tamara: you made it home?

Tamara: Iriye

Text after text, Iriye saw the panic rising in her until she got to the last one.

Tamara: Why are you at Aaron’s place?

Iriye tried her best to collect herself.

“Fuck…” Iriye breathed out.

As much as Iriye tried to focus on the shower she and Aaron were sharing, she kept thinking about Tamara’s text, and that continued as they got dressed.

“Something on your mind?” Aaron asked Iriye once they left his parking garage for the day. The plan was to stop by a pharmacy, Iriye would get a morning-after pill, and then they would head to her place so she could grab clothes to spend the weekend.

“Um… yeah,” Iriye tried to explain her discovery. It’s a funny story. Tamara knows I’m here… with you.” Iriye needed to stop sharing her location with her friends.

“Oh.” Aaron kept his eyes on the road.

“Turn here. The pharmacy is here,” Iriye directed. Aaron followed, and she bit her lip as they pulled into a parking lot. “I’ll be quick,”

“Iriye,”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell her about us?”

“Aaron, there is a timeline for getting the pill. I’m not on birth control,”

“You have plenty of time,” Iriye rolled her eyes.

“I-I don’t know. I don’t know,” Iriye shrugged as she looked at him.

“Right,” Aaron turned back to stare out the window.

“Aaron,”

“I get you want your privacy, and I like mine, but hiding me from your best friend,”

“Your director-” Iriye pointed.

“Your best friend,” Aaron challenged, and Iriye huffed. “I like our little world. I enjoy getting to know what makes you tick. Maybe I hope I’m something or someone who is a part of that,”

Iriye looked at his side profile, and she saw his jaw clench. She hated that she had caused it.

“I’ll be in and out,” Iriye said, knowing it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. But it was what she needed.

@wildwomanalereyia @teenage-aria @skvrpion @absentmindeddreamer @blackpinup22 @liv10002 @styleismyaddiction @jungwonsgfs @hooliemooliedonutshawp @hippiesandpeacesigns @blowmymbackout @justagirlwho-believes13 @caribbeangyalsworld @melovedorks @moihasarrived @ashanti-notthesinger @xx-mintyxx @iluvchrisbrown @ash-ketchumzzz @deijalee @pyramidlight @xosharieee @kaylaahisthebestest- @chaniceandrea @kimmivlixx @saveadanc @kaylalb @queenbritbrat @kceeee @naughtynolly-blog @myawesome56 @chainingxday @nononoks-blog @kinginwithbreezy-blog @apple123cg @jazziejax @lauren1000000 @withoutmusiclifewouldbflat @venusincleo @loveschrisbrown20 @brwnskingirlll @iamfredtina @cozyashhh @modelmemoirs @kimiasinterlude @rpayn22 @mscarter123 @lolola22267 @thesweetestdrug @valarghoulis @nyifly22 @zimsilandela @teheeboo @blveeeeeee @5starsirl @yassbishimvintage @23jammy @prettiegal @vadeadiugularis @gabbywontlose @pinkkycherrish @slashervalley @aqueenwasmadehere @lee-jennie @wuzzzgoood

#aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre #terry richmond fanfic #terry richmond #terry richmond fic #aaron pierre fanfiction #aaron pierre fan fiction

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empressdede · 2 months ago

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The Secretary - 9

Chapter Nine

Serena had never in her life wanted to strangle three people at once, but Naomi, Jey, and Jimmy were testing her patience.

She was already trying to navigate the fact that she had stopped running from Roman, that she had let herself feel this thing between them—now she had to deal with his messy family rubbing it in her face?

It was too much.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are we done here?”

Jey smirked. “I mean… we could leave, but this is too much fun.”

Serena exhaled sharply, looking up at Roman. “Can you control your family, sir?”

Roman was grinning, clearly enjoying the hell out of this. “Nah. They do what they want.”

Serena glared. “That’s helpful.”

Naomi smiled sweetly. “You know, I could get them to leave, but…” She trailed off, tapping her chin. “I feel like we deserve one more moment to celebrate the fact that you’re finally letting yourself be happy.”

Serena groaned dramatically, flopping against Roman’s chest while the Usos cheered.

Roman laughed, shaking his head. “Y’all done now?”

Jey held up his hands. “Aight, aight. We’ll let y’all breathe.” He pointed at Serena. “But for real? You good?”

Serena sighed, lifting her head.

And to her surprise… she was good.

For the first time, she wasn’t fighting this. She wasn’t pushing Roman away. She wasn’t convincing herself she was making a mistake.

She was letting herself have this.

She nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Jey’s grin softened just a little. “Good. ‘Cause my Uce don’t play when it comes to you.”

Serena glanced at Roman, who was already looking at her like she was the only person in the room.

Her stomach flipped.

She cleared her throat, looking away. “Y’all can leave now.”

Naomi chuckled, grabbing Jey by the arm. “Come on, boys. Let’s let them be in love in peace.”

Serena gaped. “NAOMI!”

Naomi just winked. “Love you, boo!”

And then, finally, blessedly, they were gone.

Serena exhaled, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I hate all of you.”

Roman chuckled, sliding his arms around her waist. “You don’t.”

Serena sighed, finally looking up at him. “This is insane.”

Roman smirked. “Maybe. But it’s real.”

Serena studied him for a long moment.

This was real.

And for the first time…

She wasn’t scared of that.

She let out a slow breath, her hands resting against his chest. “So, what now?”

Roman tilted his head. “We figure it out. Together.”

Serena exhaled. “Together.”

Roman smiled, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead.

And just like that, she knew—she had never been more sure of anything in her life.

Two weeks later, Serena was finally settling into a rhythm—both in her actual job and whatever this thing with Roman had become.

She and Naomi were in the women’s locker room, chatting while Naomi laced up her boots for her match later that night.

“So,” Naomi smirked, leaning in, “y’all ‘taking it slow’ still?”

Serena rolled her eyes. “Don’t start.”

Naomi laughed. “Girl, I been started. I told you—you’re stuck with me and my nosiness forever.”

Serena sighed dramatically. “I regret becoming friends with you.”

Naomi grinned. “No, you don’t.”

Serena chuckled, shaking her head. “Fine. But to answer your question—yes, we’re still taking it slow.”

Naomi gave her a look. “And how’s that going?”

Serena hesitated.

Because technically, yes, they were taking it slow. They weren’t flaunting anything, weren’t making anything official in front of the entire company.

But behind closed doors?

Roman was Roman.

Attentive. Protective. Intense in ways she definitely wasn’t ready to unpack yet.

Serena exhaled. “It’s… going.”

Naomi smirked knowingly. “Mmm-hmm.”

Before Serena could respond, the door to the locker room swung open, and in walked Charlotte Flair, a smirk already painted across her face.

“Well, well, well,” Charlotte drawled, arms crossed as she leaned against the lockers. “If it isn’t WWE’s new golden girl.”

Serena blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

Charlotte’s smirk deepened. “Oh, come on. You didn’t really think people wouldn’t notice, did you?”

Naomi immediately tensed beside Serena, her eyes narrowing. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Charlotte ignored Naomi, keeping her gaze locked on Serena. “I mean, it’s interesting how much pull you have around here, considering you’ve only been here a couple months.”

Serena folded her arms. “I got here the same way everyone else did—hard work.”

Charlotte chuckled. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.” She tilted her head. “But I do find it funny how much special treatment you seem to get.”

Serena’s jaw clenched. “I don’t get special treatment.”

Charlotte shrugged. “If you say so. But, you know, people talk.” She smiled innocently. “And they have noticed how close you and Roman have gotten.”

Naomi shot up from her seat. “Girl, you better choose your next words real carefully.”

Charlotte held up her hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m just saying—when you’re that close to the top guy, it’s only natural for people to wonder if that’s why you’re still here.”

Serena inhaled sharply, her fingers itching to throw something.

She had worked for this job. She had earned her spot.

But now, because of Roman, people were questioning whether she had actually earned anything at all?

She opened her mouth to snap back, but Naomi beat her to it.

“You know what’s funny?” Naomi said, tilting her head. “You’re always worried about someone else’s business instead of minding your own. Maybe if you focused more on yourself, you wouldn’t have time to be jealous.”

Charlotte’s smirk faltered for just a second.

Serena stepped forward. “Listen, Flair,” she said, her voice steady. “I don’t need to explain myself to you or anyone else. I’m here because I worked my ass off to be here. Roman had nothing to do with that.”

Charlotte’s smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“If you say so,” she said smoothly, before turning to walk out.

Naomi scoffed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

When the door shut behind Charlotte, Serena exhaled, rubbing her temples. “I hate people.”

Naomi sighed, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You good?”

Serena hesitated.

Because, honestly? She wasn’t.

She had worked too hard to have her credibility questioned because of who she was dating—even if they hadn’t even gone public yet.

And if Charlotte was saying it out loud… that meant others were already thinking it.

Serena exhaled sharply. “I need to talk to Roman.”

Just a lil something to post this cute Sunday🫢

VIP TAGLIST : @wrestlingprincess80 @whatdoeseverybodywant @pr0tost4r @paigereeder @alyyaanna @raya-hunter01 @mzv11 @trippinsorrows @partypoison00 @isabella-2025 @jstarr86 @chrisevanswife0405 @fearlesschimera @cyberdejos2 @whowrotethenote @potatosackk @ajaxcleaningsupplies @sayyestoheav3nn @chasssssworld @christinabae @glittergirl7 @itskii01 @fame-ass-ers @li-da-savage @ashykneee @kianaleani @holisticcoach @pittieprincess22 @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @amandairene88 @luvrsluxe

#empressdede #empresswriting #wwe #black reader #roman reigns #roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns x oc #roman reigns x black reader #wwe x black reader #the secretary

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superblysubpar · 10 months ago

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<- part seven | part nine -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: Was it real?

the song: we can’t be friends by Ariana Grande

also for your listening pleasure: Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper, One More Night by Phil Collins, Where Do Broken Hearts Go by Whitney Houston, Who's Crying Now by Journey, I Ran (So Far Away) by A Flock of Seagulls, What About Love? by Heart, and Can't Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon

5,839 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / brief descriptions of scars-previous head injury, new injuries & blood / mentions of getting high, but not reader / douchery to the highest order in the form of Brendan - he ignores boundaries, doesn’t listen, and a physical fight ensues - I made it as brief and nondescript as possible, but take care of yourself and do not read if you find it could be triggering (I’ve marked the scene with Brendan between red lines, and all you’d need to know is Steve saves the day) | my blog is 18+

Somewhere near Cornwallis Street - Sunday

The screech of metal on metal continuing to alert you of his presence only makes your feet pick up their pace on the grass, pavement of the sidewalk too hot for your bare soles.

“Sweetheart, just get in the van. You’re wearing out my brakes, here.”

Eddie’s been trailing behind you for five minutes, calling out the open window to get you to look at him.

“You know,” he calls, pausing at the stop sign as you look at the empty intersection and begin to jog across hot tar, “You’re being a brat!”

“Excuse me?!”

Your foot twitches to stomp, like the thing he just called you, while fighting the urge to look at him as you continue down the neighborhood’s street.

“You heard me! Get in the fucking car. You gonna walk all the way across town without shoes on?”

“Yes!”

“Really?” He scoffs, “Okay. What happens when you get there and you’ve got no keys?”

Your feet slow, but you call out confidently, “I have a spare hidden.”

“Fucking stubborn,” he mumbles as he brakes and puts the car in park and hops out.

Eddie rounds the hood of his car, sneakers untied and black swim trunks dripping wet still, hair pulled into a low bun with curls falling out around his face. He glares at you with hands on his hips.

“Get. In. The. Car.”

“No!”

You do stomp your foot that time, and then make a break for it, a full out sprint to get around him.

It’s childish, is what it is. There’s no other way to describe the way you try to run away from him, literally, or the way he snakes his arms around you, shouting about what the hell your actual problem is. No other way to describe the way you swat at a hard chest doing absolutely nothing as tears start rolling down your cheeks again and you yell the word asshole at him.

“Me?! I’m the asshole?” Eddie’s fingers circle your wrists, stopping your useless attack. His brown eyes blink at you, “For what? For-“

“For lying to me, Eddie!” You shout it around a sob, knowing you’re leaning towards ugly snotting crying territory quickly. Your vision blurs as you keep going, “You manipulated me for Harrington. For some extra cash. For…for what?” Lips spitting words out around salty tears, “You started this whole fucking bet and-and you let him…why’d you do this? Why’d you-“

“Because hello!” Eddie shouts, letting your arms go and holding his out wide, “Breaking news to literally only you because the entire fucking planet can see it: You’re totally in love with the guy!”

“I’m no-“

“You are,” Eddie cuts you off, eyes soft but jaw hard. “And you were never gonna give him a chance without our help because, aside from him,” Eddie laughs and gestures down the road behind you, “You’re the most stubborn person on earth. You both set your sights on something and you won’t budge till you get it. And you…yours were set on hating his guts.”

Your hand swipes at your cheeks as you look away from him, refusing to admit he’s right and Eddie shakes his head, speaking softly now.

“And I don’t think you told yourself you were gonna hate Steve Harrington forever because of some moment when you were twelve. I think you decided you were gonna hate him, so there was never any chance the opposite could be true. Because if you hate him, you could never love him. And if you never love him, you can’t get hurt.”

A sob cracks your chest, head hung as tears fall and darken the pavement burning your feet. It only takes three drops for Eddie’s arms to wrap around you and five for you to wrap yours around him. He waits until his white cut off tee is plastered to his chest but no longer getting freshly damp to run a palm up and down your back and kiss the top of your head.

“Want some pie?”

Eddie makes a disgusted scoff as you swipe your nose on his shirt and then look down at your bare feet.

“Can we stop and get my shoes?”

He smiles, head nodding towards the van still idling next to you.

“Would Prince Charming show up at Cinderella’s doorstep without the glass slipper?”

Your eyes roll as Eddie walks you over to the van, helping you in as you pick up the shoes in the wheel well.

Eddie closes the door, face twisted in hesitation before he taps the open window frame and clears his throat.

“To be clear, so I don’t get accused of manipulating and lying again,” he raises his eyebrows at you and you duck your head as he softly tacks on, “I’m not Prince Charming in this scenario.” He nods at the shoes in your lap, “Before I could even think to follow you, Harrington was shoving those at my chest and telling me to.”

Your chin wobbles, lip quivering as you sniff and ward off a fresh wave of tears.

It doesn’t matter who brought them, not really. Because all that does matter is the fact that they’re here and you want to put them on and keep running.

Away from your arguably skewed view of the past. Away from this street and that house and the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands on your body, the ache in your stomach and chest that you worry won’t ever go away.

Run far, so far that Eddie’s words can’t ever catch up and make you face them head on - admit the truth behind them.

All you can think about doing is running away from Steve Harrington, because that’s all you’ve ever done, but now, now there’s a small new thread.

A thread like the one in your skirt a week ago that you wonder if you keep pulling, you’ll find where it starts.

A thread that runs parallel to the feeling of needing to run away from him. One that makes you pick and pull and wonder:

If you keep running from him, will Steve ever give up trying to catch you? And if you stopped running, what happens when he does?

What happens when the chase is over?

Hawkins, Indiana - Monday A.B. (After Bet)

You’re not proud of it, on Monday morning when you call Keith and tell him you can’t come in, lying about being sick.

The feeling in your stomach as you move a shirt, a sweatshirt, and pajama pants to your dryer later that day makes you wonder if you were really lying though.

Rain tapping against your windows and the glow of the TV screen lull you to sleep on your couch.

You don’t dream about Steve Harrington.

And when a crack of thunder jolts you awake right when he’s not about to kiss you, you decide you’ll never watch a movie with Harrison Ford in it again.

Hawkins, Indiana - Tuesday A.B.

Your hand smacks the buttons of your radio as Cyndi Lauper’s voice croons out of the speakers, ironically the dark storm clouds from last night are fading to gray this morning as you drive to work.

Fingers rub soothing circles into your temple while the warm summer breeze blows through your open windows, placating you into calm energy until the radio lands on it’s next station.

“But if you change your mind, you know that I’ll be here. And maybe we both can learn…”

As you roll to a stop at a red light, you blink at your radio with a clenched jaw as Phil laments about getting one more night. Thankfully, the song is almost over, so when the light turns green, your shoulders roll back as your wheels go forward again.

But it seems the universe is out to get you, and soon Whitney’s voice is prying your already cracked chest open, voice filling every vulnerable nook and cranny it can find in your body.

“Nope!” You tell your radio, the universe, while your hands frantically grab for a mix out of your cupholder and shove it into the dash as you make the last turn onto Family Video’s street.

And if the Journey song isn’t enough to make you fall, as you turn into the parking lot, the sight of Steve is.

He looks up at the sound of your music and you quickly slam it off, able to feel the tiny people going to work inside your chest, shouting orders about reinforcements around your heart with the wall back standing.

Steve’s car is backed into a space, and he sits on the hood of it. He holds a to go coffee cup and a brown paper bag that he grips tighter as you get out of your car and walk past without looking at him.

“Honey-“

“Don’t.”

He says your name, feet scrambling behind you until you slow to a stop.

“That was a shitty way for me to tell you, I didn’t mean to make it sound like we were all…conspiring against-“

“But you were,” you interrupt, spinning to face him in a grave mistake. The leader inside of you shouting about more! You need more glue, more bricks, more! He’s too powerful! The walls are breaking again!

Steve’s hair is a mess, wild brown waves with zero product in it. Circles under pleading amber eyes and you’re fairly certain the shirt he’s wearing isn’t washed if the wrinkles and mustard stain are any indication.

It makes you feel guilty, but then you remember that you’re not sure what was real for him this last week. Not sure if any of it was, or if you were just the thing he had his sights set on winning - the thing he couldn’t have till he could.

He shakes his head but you hold up your hand, “Let’s just forget anything happened, okay?”

“Wh-what?” Steve blinks profusely and you look anywhere but his eyes, and freckles, and neck, and-

“I just want to…forget it. Let’s just be coworkers who share friends again, okay?”

“We…you don’t even want to be friends?” His voice cracks and you blink your own eyes too many times, feeling a sting behind them.

“I…I can’t be your friend Ste-“ your voice wobbles and you correct, “Harrington.”

Your fingers fiddle with the strap of your bag and his crinkle the brown bag in his hand and you both stand there, staring at the sidewalk for what feels like forever.

“I s’pose you don’t want these then,” he offers the items up limply, before he walks over to the trash and tosses them. He clears his throat and calls over his shoulder, “Have a good shift, co-worker.”

His fingers slide on the bridge of his nose as he gets into his car, but it’s no use. You don’t see him crying because you’re walking into the store, and he doesn’t see you crying, because his vision is too blurry to see much of anything.

The truth of the matter is, you can’t be friends with Steve.

Because you’d rather be so much more than friends.

But if you’re more than friends with Steve Harrington, it was only a matter of time before something, someone, new came along. A new challenge and thing to chase after.

You’re swiping at your eyes still as you get into the back room, greeted by an apologetic looking Robin and Keith slurping on yogurt.

“Good thing you called in yesterday,” he speaks around the pink snack in his mouth, “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” you snap sarcastically, dropping your bag on the table which wobbles when you do.

“Huh,” Keith gets up, holding the spoon in his mouth as he walks over and shakes the table. He pops it out and holds the spoon at it accusingly, “Who broke the table?”

Your body heats up remembering Steve laying on top of you on it, the way he felt between your legs, the way he-

“I did!” Robin scrambles up from her chair, waving her hand over it and talking too fast, “I’ll pay for it! I’ll work extra shifts! I’ll-“

“She didn’t break it.” You look at Robin who you’re worried may offer to sell her own soul if she thinks you’re mad at her. You’re not, though you do wonder how she knows about the table. “I did.

Keith kicks it and mumbles a ‘whatever’, tossing the yogurt cup into the trash can and licking his fingers free from the creamy substance as he talks, “How was Harrington?”

“Wh-what?”

“Harrington?” Keith raises his eyebrows, hooking his thumb at Robin, “I can’t trust a thing she says, the traitor’s best friends with him.”

“He…” Robin looks at you with a pout, pleading blue eyes and you sigh, “He was actually really good. Did extra work. Did the whole shipment by himself…he was…he was great.”

Keith nods, eyes narrowed at you and then shrugs. “Whatever, he’s the new full time guy then. Spread the good news Buckley.”

Robin’s eyes squeeze shut in a wince as you shout, “What?!”

Keith is already walking out into the front of store and you trail behind him as he explains, “We needed a replacement for Tracy. This week was a trial run for Harrington. Thought he told you?”

“He…” you trail off, remembering your first shift with him last week, “He said it was while you looked for the replacement.”

Keith starts stacking tapes and Robin starts bringing them to shelves as he rolls his eyes at you. “Yeah, but why would I go through the trouble of posting the job, interviewing, and training a new person when one of my employees wants it?”

“But-but, I’ll do it! I’ll interview and train! You don’t have to do a thing! I’ll-“

“What’s the issue, I thought you said he was great? Give me a reason and I won’t give him the position.”

Keith blinks at you, bored, and Robin holds her breath next to you.

This means Steve and you working together most days.

This means watching him flirt and date and parade around Hawkins with every girl other than you for the foreseeable future.

This means you’ll never outrun Steve Harrington.

Robin raises her eyebrows at you and clears her throat as Keith snaps his fingers in your face, which you plaster a smile on to.

“Give Harrington the job, what do I care?”

You spend the rest of your shift silent, listening to Keith explain to you how he wants the big fourth of July display to go and reminding Robin to tell Steve he can be in charge of the park, like he asked, whatever that means.

You stopped listening the minute his name was mentioned and focused on finding every movie with fireworks in it.

Hawkins, Indiana - Wednesday A.B.

You’re balancing on the window’s ledge, one hand holding the display of Patrick Swayze up and the other reaches for the tape that’s just out of reach on the shelf.

The tips of your fingers brush it as you stretch another centimeter and a huff falls past your lips when you can’t get it. You rise up onto your toes, craning just a little bit further when you start to lose your footing.

Large hands catch your waist from behind, holding you up. In the process of steadying you, your shirt rose, and Steve’s fingers now rest against your bare skin.

His hand lingers on your lower back as he reaches for the tape and hands it to you, both returning to your waist as you tape Johnny & Baby to the window.

“Thanks,” you clear your throat, realizing it’s the first word that’s been spoken in several hours.

Steve just hums from behind you before he lets his hands fall, the sound of his feet dragging on carpet only just louder than your heartbeat.

It isn’t fair, to know how his lips feel against yours.

It isn’t fair, to know how he looks without his shirt off.

It isn’t fair, to know how good it feels to come around his fin-

The chime of the door pulls you from your self-sabotaging thoughts, the scent of peaches almost immediately overpowering.

Blonde ringlets bounce as long legs approach the counter where he leans over a clipboard.

“Hi there,” her voice so sugary sweet it makes your stomach ache.

“Hi, welcome to…H-hi,” he stands, clearing his throat.

She pouts and leans across the counter, fingers traveling up his arms and making yours erupt in flames.

“You never called me, Steve.”

“Oh,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, “Yeah, I’m so sorry. Something came up.”

Something came up.

Your scoff is loud, loud enough to have both of their heads turning, so you face the window again, putting pieces of tape aimlessly on the back of the posters.

“That’s okay,” Brit assures, syrupy and sighing, “But how are you gonna make it up to me?”

“Oh, well, I…”

“Hey, Steve?” You call, looking over your shoulder.

He blinks at you, Brit’s fingers on his forearm now and swirling circles into it. “Ye-yeah?”

“I’m out of tape,” you respond sharply.

“And?” His brows furrow at you.

“Can you get me some more, or are you too busy not doing your job?”

His eyes narrow under furrowed brows but then he turns to Brit, voice low and daring to sound smooth now, “Sorry, babe, I gotta get back to work, but I promise I’ll call this time?”

Brit smiles, gives a nod and a little wave with her fingers and then the scent of peaches is replaced with cedar and mint.

You smack another piece of tape haphazardly to the window.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” His voice comes from right behind you, and you don’t dare turn around and face him.

“You have that tape?”

“Yeah,” Steve scoffs, handing a roll over your shoulder, his breath hot against the back of your neck, “Looks like you missed a spot.”

“Thanks,” voice biting as your fingers yank the tape from his.

He snorts, hand pressing to the glass next to your waist, “I seriously cannot believe you have the audacity to be jealous.”

Your knees wobble as you spin and he steadies you again, hands on your hips and just low enough for you to look down at where your bodies press together as you swallow. Steve raises his eyebrows at you, expectantly, waiting.

“What? You want a reward for using audacity correctly in a sentence?”

Steve’s jaw pulses, his forehead furrows again, but then you tack on, “And I’m not jealous.”

His fingers squeeze involuntarily and he shakes his head slowly.

“There you go again, what’d I say about that, huh?”

Chests heave with each of your intense breaths, his tongue wets his lip as you swallow and push against the glass behind you.

“I have no reason to be jealous,” you respond quietly as Steve’s fingers brush back and forth under the hem of your shirt. “I hate you.”

Steve’s eyes shift in color, darker, like the forest is being covered with storm clouds as he shakes his head no again, “Quit,” he takes a deep breath, exhaling the word as he tilts his chin, “Lying.”

The chime above the door rings and Robin’s honey tinted waves are bouncing under it as she looks around. Steve takes a step back from you, pink cheeked and swallowing, hands shaking a little as you quickly climb down.

Your eyes avoid his as you grab your bag and wave to Robin, mumbling something about seeing her tomorrow.

You’re not even surprised at the lyrics that fill your car when you start it.

“I ran. I ran so far away. I just ran, I ran all night and day…

I couldn’t get away.”

Hawkins, Indiana - Thursday A.B.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Thunder booms overhead when you ask, like it’s protesting this conversation.

Robin sits on top of the counter across from where you lean, tossing skittles in the air and catching them.

Or well, trying to catch them.

A yellow one evades her and joins a green and blue one on the floor as she says, “Shoot.”

Your fingers fiddle with the button on your vest that says ‘May The Force Be With You’ as Robin foregos throwing and starts to dump the bag directly into her mouth.

“How…” your arms cross as you sigh and squint out the window at the gloomy evening, “How’d you become friends?”

“Wha?” She asks around rainbow goo, blue eyes blinking rapidly as your nose wrinkles at the sight.

She swallows quickly and waves her hands for you to elaborate, “What?”

“How’d you become friends…” you swallow down the butterflies that ache to come out just from saying his name, “With Steve?”

“Oh,” she says, softly.

“We just,” you’re back to fiddling with buttons, with the keys of the computer, “We never really talked about it, y’know? Like you hated his guts just like me and then all of a sudden you were tricking us into movies together. And getting him this job. Helping him with…”

The unspoken activities of last week hang in the air and she smiles tightly.

“Right, um, well,” she scratches at the back of her neck, legs swinging as she blows out a breath. “We worked together, at Scoops, remember?”

You nod as she continues to ramble, talking with her hands and skittles spilling on the floor as she does, “And well, aside from making me laugh all summer and actually being not so terrible at conversation and listening like I’d pegged him for, there was this one night, where we got a little high and he…we were playing truth or dare.”

She trails off and looks at you, pink cheeks and biting her lip and you stand up straighter.

“You what? You didn’t…”

“No!” Robin shudders, she waves her hands, “Absolutely not! He…” She groans and looks out the door and hops down, pacing as she mumbles, “Gonna freaking kill me.”

“What?”

“Uggh! I asked him if he’d ever been in love.”

Your heart beats erratically, like it’s trying to keep up with the constant pelt of rain against the pavement, like each thump is trying to break you from the inside out.

“And? His answer made you become best friends for life?”

Robin shrugs, “Sort of, yeah.” She smiles, avoiding your eyes as she fiddles with the skittles wrapper. “This guy who seemed so high and mighty, so douchey, so…well, you know how he is,” she waves a hand with a laugh, “After a Summer of proving all of that wrong, making me eat my judging ways, this dingus goes and tells me that he isn’t sure what it’s supposed to feel like, but he’s pretty sure he felt it holding this girl’s hand on a ferris wheel when he was twelve.”

Robin tosses the wrapper in the trash with a sigh, “And I don’t know. I folded. Now, whenever he says something dumb, whenever he’s an idiot, all I see is a guy laying on my floor telling me that. All I see when I look at him is this front covering up for a kid who thinks love is holding a girl’s hand. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with a guy like that?”

“Did,” you start quietly, almost so quiet you’re not sure you’re even saying anything. The words muffled by rain and thunder and your heartbeat,

“Did he tell you to tell me that?”

“What?” She asks, wrinkles deepening under parted bangs. “No, absolutely not. He told me if I ever told anyone that my ass was grass.” She snorts and rolls her eyes.

Robin never knew how you met Steve. She never knew why you hated him, you just bonded over the fact that you did.

She frowns at you, “Why do you as…oh shit.”

You’re certain she’s connected the dots you already have but then she’s looking over your shoulder and your mouth is parting at the sight of who’s running with his jacket over his head towards the store.

He shakes out hair as the door chimes, swiping at his eyes as he starts up and down the aisles, searching and your hands start to shake.

“Go in the back room, I can manage till he’s gone,” she says softly behind you, nudging you towards the back of the store and away from the man dressed in a nice suit squinting at new releases.

Your head nods as you quickly and as quietly as possible make a break for it.

But then you trip on the Predator cut out and his voice sounds just like it did all those years ago.

“Well, what do we have here?”

“Hi,” you scramble to your feet, floundering with the cut out pieces as you mumble his name, “Brendan.”

He tilts his head at you and has the nerve to smile at you, “Thought that was you! You look…”

Your body warms under his appraisal, his hold nothing back rake of his eyes over you from head to toe and back up. Only hotter when he says, “Different.”

“You…” your mouth is dry, suddenly able to recall all the things you’d planned to say to him if you ever saw him again. A plan to rub all of your success in his face, hopes of having another beer to toss.

Brendan squints at you, then around the store. He scoffs, “So…this is what you’re doing, huh?”

You’re faintly aware of the door chiming as you take a step away from him, back pressed to the shelves as he takes a step towards you, arm caging you in. “What’s a girl like you, still working in a place like this, babe?”

Why can this guy do this to you? How does he make you feel so small?

“Don’t…don’t call me that.”

Your head shakes, but that seems to be about the only thing your body remembers how to do.

Brendan pouts his lips, mistaking your breathless panic as being smitten, as being nervous around him for a totally different reason. “You used to like it.”

He touches your waist and in your peripheral you see Robin take a step towards the phone as he speaks lowly, “You know, I never thanked you.

After you threw that beer at me and he kicked my ass, I actually took it seriously. Passed Biology, graduated. I work at a law firm now.”

His hand runs up your waist, squeezing just below your ribs as he leans in, “I feel like I should take you out, to say thank you, babe.”

Your mouth parts, but someone else beats you to it.

“Pretty sure she made it clear not to call her that.”

Brendan backs away from you, if only slightly, to look at Steve standing at the end of the aisle.

“Seriously? Go ring up my rental,” Brendan snorts, tossing the tape at him harshly before he turns back to you. “Where were we, babe?”

Steve’s reflexes let him catch it, while he glares and grits through clenched teeth, “Call her that one more time, see what happens.”

“I’m not a drunk high schooler anymore Harrington, don’t think I have anything to worry about. Right bab-“

Steve’s fist connects with Brendan’s jaw, sending him staggering away from you. Steve’s eyes are on you, frantic as he breathes heavily and pants out, “Are you oka-shit!”

Brendan barrels into Steve, knocking him down to the ground, fists connecting with his stomach and the side of his head.

You shout out both of their names, shoving at Brendan to get off of Steve who coughs after the hits stop coming.

Brendan staggers to a stand, swiping at a bloody nose and spitting at Steve. You stand and shove at his chest, “Get out! Before we call the cops on you, you arrogant, pathetic-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Brendan waves you off, “Fucking deserve each other.”

The door swings shut behind him, and you stare ahead, breathing heavily, sure it’s the rain running down the glass making your vision blur.

“Steve?” Robin’s on the ground next to his head.

He moans, but motions for her to help him up as you turn back around, so she swats at his chest, “Why’d you do that! What is wrong with you? He could have killed you, you idiot!”

“Christ Robin,” he grumbles, “I’m fine, just-hey.”

Steve’s over to you in two steps, bloodied and bruised hands cupping your cheeks and swiping at them.

Even through blurred vision, you can see the bright reds and darkening purple on his forehead, your fingers brush the scrape that’s just above the two freckles on his cheek.

“Thanks,” you hiccup out of a sob trying to break.

“Of course,” he murmurs, thumbs still brushing over your cheeks gently, “What are…” he swallows, “What are friends for?”

The sob cracks just as the thunder does and Steve shakes his head, eyes big and worried, “Hey, hey, come on, that asshole is not worth these and I’m not either and-“

“St-Steve,” you sniffle, interrupting him. Trying to reign in all the extremely big feelings that have been held back for a long time, “Will you drive me home?”

He looks surprised but quickly nods, “Yeah, yeah of course honey.”

“Steve, I really don’t think you should be dri-“

Robin’s hesitation cut off from the look he gives her and answered only with her eye roll.

Your hands shake in your lap, fingers playing with the seams of your jeans as Steve drives silently. The radio plays softly, lost in the rain pelting the windshield and the swoosh of the wipers getting it off. It’s only when you make it to your street that you finally are brave enough to talk again.

“How,” you clear your throat, sniffling away any residual tears, “How are you doing? With the storm I mean?”

“Oh,” Steve nods, frowning at the road, “Yeah, good.”

“Was that…was it real?” Gaze falling to your lap as you dare to ask.

“What?” He stops at an intersection, looking over at you, ducking his head to catch your gaze. “What do you mean? The storms? There’s no way, you gave them too much credit. Those kids are smart, but they’re not that smart.”

“No, I mean…are you even afraid of storms? Or was that just another part of the plan? Was it real?”

Steve blinks at you until a horn honks behind him and he nods as he pulls away, “Yeah, yeah it was real.”

You nod and he looks at your profile as you stare out the windshield, tear stained cheeks and bottom lip bitten raw, your hands won’t stop fiddling with things. When he pulls into the parking lot of the complex, he faces you.

“Is that why you won’t talk to me? You won’t even be my friend? Because you think it wasn’t real?”

Your shoulders rise in a shrug, heart beating harder than it ever has as Steve shakes his head. He reaches for you, but hesitates, murmuring a plead.

“Please look at me honey?”

Your exhale is shaky, eyes watery again as you do what he’s asked. Heart’s What About Love starts playing. You close your eyes, shaking your head with a laugh as you swipe at your cheeks.

When you open them again, Steve is watching you carefully, and he speaks so softly, so sincerely, like he wants you to have to lean in to hear what he has to say.

“Everything was real. Eddie let me take you to the diner and Robin put on Peter Gabriel, but that’s it. I swear, honey. How you reacted to those things, what I said, what you said, all of it, was real. And I thought, at my house, I thought it was clear how much I want you.”

Tears rapidly fall down your cheeks as you nod, “Okay, but, what happens if you only want me because you can’t have me?”

“What?” Steve looks at you, frowning, eyes glassy.

Your hands swipe at your eyes as you shrug again. “What happens when you get what you were chasing, but another, more challenging want, comes along?”

He swallows, looks up at you with his own watery eyes, “You really think that’s all I want? Do you hate me that much?”

Images of your hand in his on a ferris wheel stir in your mind, of what could have happened after you threw that beer in Brendan’s face, images of a kiss and another kiss and another until you’re crying again.

As you lean over the console, you whisper against his skin before pressing a kiss to the two freckles on his cheek.

“Never hated you.”

You’re quick to climb out of his car, and run through the rain up your stairs and slam the door on the storm. Your back falls against it as you suck in a breath and cry, the lamp and radio flicking on as you do.

Heart’s song that was just playing in his car stops, and a familiar tune starts playing. It’s melody making you think of Steve between shelves, whistling. Making you think of a pool table in a basement on Cornwallis Street.

Your hand swipes at your cheeks as you try to get your breathing under control.

What if Steve Harrington has been chasing you all these years, but it’s never been about the chase, he just didn’t know you kept changing the rules and finish line on him? What if all he’s ever wanted was to run the race alongside you?

Robin’s voice accompanies REO Speedwagon’s, making you spin towards the door.

Who wouldn’t want to be friends with a guy like that?

As you fling the door open, wondering if you can catch him, Steve’s fist raises to pound on it.

He stands on the stoop, rain pouring down, making his hair stick to his forehead and his eyes squint.

“Give me one more chance,” he breathes heavily, his car lights and wipers still going from the space below.

The music from inside your apartment plays loudly as he takes a step towards you and keeps pleading.

“I’ll literally get on my knees right now, honey. I am begging you, to give me one chance. One date. No help from Eddie or Robin. Nobody. Just me, and you. Let me prove it’s real. Let me prove it to you?”

It’s the moment right before a storm starts, when it’s like the earth is taking a deep breath of, soaking up the silence before it won’t get a chance of clam again for who knows how long.

He blinks at you through rain droplets clinging to his eyelashes, squinting under a bruised forehead and pouting through kissable lips. Your voice wobbles even after you shove the butterflies back down, giving them no chance to escape, not yet.

“Ask me nicely.”

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#superbly subpar's writing #BICFTF #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington series #steve harrington fic #cw injury #cw blood #cw marijuana

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storiesofsvu · 9 months ago

Text

Decadent Desires Ch 14

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, smut eluded to briefly, mentions of typical BAU type stuff. If any of y’all are my ao3 ppl, bless you & thank you for all the extra comments & chatting about this story! I absolutely love hearing all your thoughts/opinions/what you think is gonna happen. Like, yes please, send me your full book reports! Everybody gets an A++

After last chapter; for anyone who might want to look into more Heather Dunbar, all her works can be found here

Your eyes twitched, daring to open long before you wanted them to and you stifled a yawn, shifting slightly in the bed. As your senses came to you could feel Heather’s arm very loosely thrown over your waist, though it wasn’t an act of intimacy and definitely wasn’t cuddling. You’d accidentally fallen asleep in her bed the night prior before she could even bring you a bottle of water, exhausted from the heat and sun and thoroughly fucked. She stayed up for another couple of hours before turning in herself and sometime during her sleep had rolled over closer to you, her hand flopping across your hip.

The chirping out the window became too much and you knew you weren’t going to get anymore sleep, no matter how hard you tried. Your eyes cracked open, looking at the clock on the nightstand, at least it was already past nine, you’d gotten a little bit of a sleep in. Tossing Heather’s arm off you, you groaned softly as you sat up, stretching out your body and rolling your neck, a couple of joints cracking as you did so.

“Why the hell are you up?” She grumbled, burying her face into the pillow.

“Our flight’s at noon.” You yawned, “I’ve got to start packing.”

“I own the fucking plane. We take off when I say we take off.”

“Check out is also at noon.” You chuckled, swatting at her hip as you stood from the bed, beginning to collect your clothes that were scattered across the floor.

“You really think I didn’t already pay them off for a three p.m. checkout?” She finally opened her eyes, rubbing at them as she looked up at you and you laughed softly again.

“Then sleep. I need to shower and pack and probably get a few things ready for the week, we were so focused on the retreat I know I must’ve been missing a few things back home.” You crossed through the open door back to your room.

“God.” She huffed, dropping onto her back into the pillows as she picked up her phone, “it better not be fucking snowing back home.”

“Heather please, it barely snows in D.C.” You laughed as you hastily folded the clothes in your hands, dropping them into your open suitcase as you glanced around the room. “Hey, is Rob still off on Sundays?”

“Yeah.” She called back, “he said something about wanting to make a late dinner tonight.”

“You think you can ask him to meet us at the jet?”

“Why?” She sat up, holding the bedsheet to her chest as concern took over her face, knowing just how much a week of travel and this amount of sun exposure could affect you, “are you feeling sick? I need you for that merger meeting.”

“I’m fine.” You cast a look over your shoulder as you wrapped a towel around you, “I’ve just got a date with Prentiss on Wednesday.”

“Sweetheart, you’re in the clear.” She assured and it was your turn to chuckle.

“Heat… how many people are you currently fucking?”

“In D.C?” She asked and you nodded, “three not including Rob. But you know I don’t let them fuck me and I don’t share toys.”

“Not the point. It was in the contract I signed and Rob is far faster and more convenient than me taking time off my precious and very important job to see my gyno.”

“I will call him and tell him what time to meet us.”

“Thank you.” You shot her a smile, digging through your suitcase for classy yet comfortable clothes for the plane ride home.

“If you’re going to all that effort you may as well come back in here for one last round.”

“Go back to sleep Heather!” You called back, disappearing from the doorway and Heather heard the shower starting a moment later, letting out a sigh as she dropped back into the bedsheets.

Emily could not wait a second longer to get out of this hell hole and back home, preferably without a stop at the BAU first. Every case was teetering the line on rough, things that no normal human would be okay with witnessing or being around and this one was no different. This time there was the added affect that no matter how hard the team tried, they were always a second too late, never finding a living victim, an hour behind the unsub every step of the way until they’d finally baited him into it. Not only was she exhausted and not looking forward to the amount of paperwork that was going to come across her desk because of this week, but she really didn’t want to get the lecture she knew was coming from Bailey.

She stashed her bag into one of the cupboards, retreating to the back of the jet to drop down into the corner seat, letting out a weary sigh as she ran a hand over her face, pinching at the bridge of her nose. She just needed to get home and she would be able to handle this. Thankfully no one else really wanted to socialize either, finding more private spots on the jet, curling up in seats and couches until the plane was at cruising altitude and most everyone was asleep. She dozed off a bit herself, thankful for the rest though she wished it was more when she stirred in her seat, eyes cracking open to find they were still another few hours from Washington.

A fresh mug of steaming and very welcomed coffee found itself on the table in front of her as Tara hovered in the aisle beside the quad of seats.

“You okay?” She asked gently.

“Yeah.” Emily replied with a huff, picking up the mug, “that just… fucking sucked.”

“Man it really did.” The other woman groaned, dropping into the seat across from her, “but remember…we got him.” Her hand reached out, squeezing at her knee, “he won’t hurt anyone else.”

“I just really wish we’d clued in earlier, could’ve saved a lot of people a hell of a lot of hurt.”

“I know.” Tara replied, “so do I.” With another squeeze of her knee she settled back into her chair, taking a sip of her coffee, “we’ll do better next time.”

“Mmm.” She nodded.

“Thanks, for the extra days off by the way.” Tara commented, noting that while they were heading home on a Sunday that Emily had made the call the BAU wouldn’t be functioning until Wednesday.

“You guys need it.” She sighed, “after a case like this, everyone needs time to disassociate and pretend like there’s nothing wrong in the world.” Her gaze drifted out the window, “JJ needs to see her family, spend time with them, hug them so tight it’s like she’ll never let them go. You better be going to see Rebecca; remember why we do what we do to keep the world safe….”

“And what about you?” She asked after a quiet moment, watching the way Emily’s face twitched as she stared out the window a moment longer before turning back to her and waving her off.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“I know you have, and I’m not profiling, I’m doctor-ing, so you can’t lecture me.” Tara leant in on the table between them, “deny it all you want, but you have someone right now who means something in your life. It could be a new friend and that’s it, but it also could be something more and I don’t need to know any details right now, but I want to make sure you’re not just going home alone to a bottle of wine tonight.”

Emily huffed, taking another sip of coffee, “she was out of town this week, I’m not even sure when she’s back.”

“Hey…” Tara’s hand slid across the table, squeezing at her own, “whatever change you’ve made recently? It’s been a good one. You’ve been happier, more energetic, getting out of work on time and spending your weekends actually doing something. I haven’t seen you do anything other than work since we came back, so call her please… for me?”

“I’ll think about it, but I’m not making promises. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork and god knows Bailey’s gonna be blowing up my phone once he hears about the case.” She sighed, though her lips curved up into a soft smile and Tara relaxed into the seat across from her, giving her a knowing look before Emily’s gaze drifted out the window again.

Once home you began the usual post travel routine, make sure to immediately unpack, dumping clothing directly into the laundry and setting aside those that needed to go to the dry cleaners. You sorted through your work bag, filing everything correctly, stashing half away in your home office and packing the rest back up to have on the go. A quick clean out of the fridge, tossing anything that had unfortunately gone bad over the course of the week before putting in a grocery order and deciding to rely on take out for dinner. Finally, it was time for a luxurious everything shower. It didn’t matter how expensive or fancy the resort was, you always preferred your own shower, the water pressure and temperature was perfect, you had all of your own skin and hair products and didn’t have to worry about taking too much time or how many other people’s feet had touched the tub.

You wandered back downstairs just in time for your dinner to arrive, making sure to leave a hefty tip for the driver as it was much later than you’d normally order and the weather was starting to turn. Not even waiting to fully unbox everything you dug a fork into the chow mein, your stomach growling heavily already, stuffing a few forkfuls into your mouth. When you turned to grab a bottle of wine your eyes landed on the practically overflowing recycle bin and glancing over to the calendar you let out a groan, it was getting picked up in the morning, but only if it was in the alley.

With an annoyed sigh, you grabbed a sweater, shoved on a pair of slip-ons and grabbed the bin to trek through the yard and dump in the appropriate place. Back inside you locked the door behind you, a shiver moving through you at the chilly air lingering in your kitchen as you washed your hands and finally poured out a glass of wine. A sip of that and another mouthful of noodles and there was a knocking coming from the front door. A quick glance to your phone confirmed you hadn’t missed anything so you padded over to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open to find Emily on the other side.

“Hey.”

Your voice broke her out of her trance of worry, fully registering that she actually had shown up at your door in practically the middle of the night. Her eyes flicked over your form, her shoulders relaxing at just how cozy and at peace you looked, leggings and loose sweater, your hair still damp and messily braided to keep it out of the way while your face was bare of any make up.

“Hey.” Emily replied, mimicking your soft smile. Her ears picked up the sound of laundry going in the distance and she spotted your work bag sitting right inside the entry, eyes flicking up to the kitchen to your barely touched take out and she suddenly put it together, wincing, “oh shit! I’m so sorry, you just got back.” She couldn’t help it, glancing over her shoulder as if it would be a better idea to retreat to her car, “this is outta line, I should’ve called. I just… man today really fucking sucked…”

You practically snorted at the out of line phrase, your hand reaching out to pinch at her elbow, waving her into your home, “it’s fine, come on in.”

You lead her into the kitchen, urging her to take a seat at the island as you stripped off the sweater, now back in the warmth of the house. “Wine?” You asked, opening the cupboard, “or something stronger?”

“Something stronger, please.” She grumbled, running a hand over her face. She glanced up at the sound of you sliding a tumbler of bourbon over to her and her eyes landed on the cotton ball stuck to the inside of your arm, “are you okay?”

“Hmm?” You asked, looking over your shoulder to her as you stashed the bottle back in the cupboard and she gestured to your arm. “Oh,” you let out a small huff of a laugh, ripping the band aid off and tossing both into the garbage, “yeah, just had some blood taken.” You slid back onto your stool, picking up the carton of noodles and gesturing to the others, “you hungry?”

“No, thank you.” She let out a weary sigh, taking a long drink of her booze.

“Emily… are you okay?”

She glanced up at you, her eyes flitting between your oh so cozy aura, the barely touched food, prime wine that you were trying to enjoy and she let out a huff, nearly pushing back from the island. “god, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have just shown up like this.”

You managed to catch her hand before she had managed to actually push her stool back, “Em… I said it was fine.” You squeezed gently, urging her to sit back down and she did.

“It’s just.. I’m not exactly.. uh.. up to my normal caliber and definitely not in the headspace for our normal activities…” She nearly avoided your gaze and you let out a soft laugh.

“And that’s perfectly fine.” You reassured her, nudging her glass closer toward her, “compensation doesn’t always have to be sexual. There’s an entire other dynamic to it, companionship means support too. Contrary to what you may think, I do actually enjoy spending time with you and that will always include outside the bedroom.”

She let out a deep breath, “my brain is still trying to sort out the whole sugar baby situation and I think I’m just overcomplicating things. I kind of figured it was a sex for money but make it…morally legal.” She nearly laughed at her own words, pulling a small grin from you.

“There are plenty of sugar baby relationships that don’t even involve sex. Some people are just lonely, or scared of doing things by themselves so they have someone go with them to lunch, movies, opera, the theatre. Hell I’ve heard of a few old married couples where the wife has a passion for arts and the husband would much rather sit at home with the game on, if he doesn’t have to suffer through it himself, he has absolutely no qualms with a much younger man escorting his wife.”

“So I really am overthinking things?” She asked, looking back up to you with a soft smile and you chuckled.

“Yeah.”

“I still feel bad about intruding on your evening.”

“It’s not like I had much planned.” You shrugged, “now c’mon, help yourself to food, I’m definitely not going to finish it all.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Em..” you warned, “when was the last time you ate? Truthfully.”

“Before we got on the jet.” She winced and you cast her a glare.

“We’ve got noodles, rice, beef and broccoli or ginger chicken.” You pushed the containers toward her, “help yourself.”

She picked up a fork and the container of rice, taking a couple of bites while a comfortable silence took over the room and she was finally able to relax a bit. It was then that she started to realize more of the meaning behind your words, and why she was so drawn to showing up at your house in the first place (and why Tara had been so insistent on it). If she had just gone home she would likely be pouring over case files and attempting to get as much paperwork done as possible to get ahead before Bailey got into things with her. Sleep wouldn’t have been an option until it was all done, she definitely wouldn’t have eaten and a bottle of wine would have been her best friend. Instead being inside your kitchen felt warm, welcoming, simply having another human in the same room made her remember that there was so much else to life than just work. Things didn’t have to be so dreary and boring all the time.

“How was Florida?” She asked after a few moments.

“It was decent.” You shrugged, “secured a good amount of supporters, got some up and comers onto our ideas, reminded myself I’m not actually terrible at tennis and managed to only have my ass grabbed four times while congressmen tried to teach me how to golf.”

“Ew.” Her nose crinkled and you laughed, “I hope this doesn’t sound bad, but do you… have to like, play dumb a lot around them?”

“Oh no, I actually am completely horrible at golf. And you only get one chance to truly play dumb around them before they realize how much potential you could or do have and only certain ones feed into the dumb, some see right through it.”

“So you’ve got to know how to read them even quicker?”

“Yup.” You took a sip of your wine, “Heather always said it’s best to slide in with a hint of sensuality, let that be the bait and you have a matter of minutes to figure out whether you’re going low or high status to get them wrapped around your finger. The guys, it was go low. Do I have a very successful career with one of the highest ranked Senators in the country? Of course, but that completely slips their minds on a retreat like that when I’m wearing a cute outfit serving them drinks filling the role of cart girl.”

“Huh.” She replied, digging through the container before taking another bite and silence took over the room again. Though this time there was something lingering in the air and after a few minutes you chose to speak up.

“I take it your week wasn’t as good?”

Emily let out a heavy breath, “just a really bad case. I don’t want to drag you down with details but it was one of the worst we’ve seen in a while and in the end we barely caught the guy.”

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it? I promise I can handle the gory details; Tony never holds back; I actually think he over exaggerates to make himself sound cooler…”

“Tony?” Her brow furrowed.

“Agent friend.” You replied with a shrug.

“Ah,” she poked around at the rice again, “and no, but thanks. I think I just really didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

“Alright.” You cast her a warm smile, closing the lid on your take out as you stood from the island. You were full and Emily had done nothing but play with her food for a while now, you were sure she wasn’t going to eat anything else. “How about we take the bottle of wine upstairs then?”

“Oh, but I—” she stumbled over her words and you laughed softly, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder.

“I’m not going to pounce on you, don’t worry. The tv in the bedroom’s nicer and it’s getting late, may as well fall asleep in the bed rather than have to drag ourselves from the couch later.”

She let out an awkward laugh, closing the rice container and sliding it over to you, “oh, right.”

You looked back at her, reaching your hand out as she slipped off her stool, “C’mere.” Tugging her to you she let out a little ‘oop’ as your arms wound around her, wrapping her into a tight hug. A wave of relief crashed over you as she let out a content sigh, relaxing into the embrace and the tension in her shoulders finally began to drip away. You pressed a soft kiss to the side of her head, squeezing at her once more before gently pulling away.

“Thank you.” She murmured softly, giving you a tired smile.

“Anytime.” Your hand trailed down her arm, curling around hers as you turned to the staircase, “now come on, you need some good cuddles and sleep, number one recommendation from doctors after a rough week.”

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