#stale weariness almost?

[thewulf]

Bulletproof Bonds || Aaron Hotchner

Summary: Request - Maybe a husband!Aaron x Long Time BAU!wife and how there’s a new member to the BAU and she keeps trying to flirt with Aaron but he keeps turning her down🥲 but the new member doesn’t know that Aaron and reader are married, and new member just thinks of reader as competition to get with Aaron, eventually leading to reader getting really mad cause new member does something really stupid on a case that leads to reader almost getting seriously injured??... Read Rest Here

A/N: Really loved writing this one. Hope you all enjoy! Thank you for the request @viscade !

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader,

Word Count: 3.1k

TW: Yelling, gunshot (non wounded)

In the bustling chaos of the BAU bullpen, Aaron Hotchner sat at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sifted through the multitude of case files scattered before him. A usual sight for the unit chief. The harsh fluorescent lights cast stark shadows across his features, accentuating the lines of exhaustion etched into his face by years of chasing monsters in the dark.

You sat by his side, a silent sentinel amidst the whirlwind of activity. Your own workspace dedicated beside him cluttered with documents and crime scene photos. The faint aroma of stale coffee hung in the air as you both delved into the intricate web of clues left behind by the latest serial killer to plague the streets. It was always so easy with him, your husband. The way the two of you were able to bounce ideas off each other was like none seen before.

The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on everyone present as they grappled with the enormity of the task at hand. Each unsolved case seemed to loom over them like a specter, a constant reminder of the lives lost and the justice yet to be served. Amidst all the usual chaos, Agent Sarah Miller made her presence known. Her arrival heralded by the soft click of her heels against the linoleum floor. She moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, her youthful exuberance a stark contrast to the world-weary countenances of her colleagues. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

Sarah's eyes lingered on Aaron as she sauntered past his open aired desk, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She was young, ambitious, and hungry for success. Her gaze fixed on the formidable figure of the BAU's leader like a moth drawn to a flame.

Despite Aaron's cold indifference, she persisted in her attempts at flirtation, undeterred by his lack of response. Her tactics were shamelessly transparent, her words dripping with false sweetness as she sought to capture his attention. Agent Sarah Miller yet again walked past Aaron's desk, her gaze lingering on him for a moment too long before she turned her attention to you. There was a subtle flicker of annoyance in her eyes as she took in your presence, her lips curling into a barely concealed sneer.

"Hey, Hotch," she purred, leaning against the edge of his desk with practiced ease. "You must be tired of staring at all those files. Why don't you take a break and grab a coffee with me?" Her eyes kept looking back to you in brief flashes to gauge your reaction. You decided early on after her brazen attempts that you would give her none. A layer of disgust masked on top of the doe eyes she was attempting to give your husband was meant for you. She was very forward, you had to give her that one.

Aaron's response was polite but firm, his tone devoid of any warmth. "I'm sorry, Agent Miller, but I have work to do," he replied, his eyes never leaving the papers in front of him.

Undeterred, Sarah flashed him a flirtatious smile, her gaze lingering on him expectantly. "Maybe some other time, then," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness before she finally strolled away.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at her blatant display of interest, the subtle scoff escaping your lips as you returned your focus to the files sprawled across your desk. "Some profiler she is," you muttered under your breath, the sarcasm dripping from your words like venom. It was a small act of defiance, a way to vent the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface as you watched Sarah's failed attempts at seduction.

Your comment earned a small smirk from Aaron, his lips quirking up in amusement as he glanced up from his work. His eyes met yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you, a shared understanding of the absurdity of the situation. In that fleeting moment, you found solace in the unspoken reassurance that he was not blind to Sarah's antics, nor was he unaffected by them.

As the tension in the room continued to get heavier, you exchanged a knowing glance with Aaron, the unspoken bond between you speaking volumes. It was a silent reminder of the unbreakable connection that bound you together, a tether grounding you amidst the disarray swirling around you. In that moment, you drew strength from the knowledge that no amount of flirtation from the new agent could ever hope to rival the deep-seated love and loyalty that defined your marriage.

But beneath the surface, resentment simmered, fueled by the blatant disrespect for the boundaries of your marriage. Each lingering glance, each flirtatious comment served as a reminder of the fragile line Sarah was treading, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the calm facade. Yet, as frustrating as her antics were, you knew that the true test of your marriage lay not in her misguided advances but in the unwavering trust and devotion you shared with Aaron. A bond that would withstand any challenge thrown your way.

You had to give the girl credit. She certainly didn’t stop. It was not even an hour later that the girl came crawling right back to him. In the dimly lit bullpen of the BAU, the seasoned agents huddled together, their eyes darting furtively around the room as they exchanged knowing glances. Reid, Garcia, Morgan, and Prentiss stood in a tight circle. Their voices hushed as they leaned in conspiratorially.

"So, who's going to crack first?" Garcia whispered, her eyes sparkling mischievously behind her glasses.

Prentiss smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. "My money's on Y/N. She's got that poker face down pat."

Reid nodded in agreement, adjusting his glasses. "And she's got a wicked sense of humor. I don't think she's sweating it."

Just then, Morgan, ever the observant one, interjected with a grin. "You know what, I'm with both of you on this one. Y/N's handling this like a pro. She's probably just waiting for the perfect moment to drop a witty comeback."

The others turned to look at you, noticing your bemused expression as you observed the scene unfolding with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. The new agent, eager to impress, leaned in a little too close to Hotch, her voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. "So, Hotch, any plans for dinner tonight?"

Hotch glanced up from his paperwork, his expression remaining impassive. "Just finishing up some reports, Agent. Nothing planned."

Undeterred, the new agent persisted, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. "Well, if you change your mind, I know this great Italian place down the street."

Hotch merely nodded, returning his attention to the file in front of him. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Agent."

Behind his back, the BAU members couldn't contain their laughter, stifling their giggles as they watched the new agent's attempts fall flat. It was clear that Hotch was immune to her charms, his focus unwavering even in the face of relentless flirting.

As Sarah retreated, finally somewhat defeated, the BAU members exchanged triumphant looks, their silent bet settled. Hotch may have been unflappable in the field, but when it came to dodging unwanted advances, he was truly a master of his craft. And you, well, you were just enjoying the show, your amused smile barely masking your annoyance as you watched the scene unfold.

The breaking point came during a particularly intense case, where the unsub's erratic behavior had everyone on edge. You felt the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors of an abandoned warehouse, every nerve on high alert.

In the heat of the pursuit, Sarah's impulsive decision shattered the fragile equilibrium you had struggled to maintain with your team. Ignoring protocol and disregarding the safety of the team, she charged ahead recklessly, her actions sending shockwaves rippling through your ranks. Bullets flew past you like angry hornets, the deafening roar of gunfire echoing off the walls as chaos descended upon you.

It happened in the blink of an eye, a split-second decision with far-reaching consequences. A bullet sliced through the air like a deadly whisper, its trajectory aimed straight for your chest. But thanks to the protective barrier of your bulletproof vest, the impact was nothing more than a forceful shove, the fabric absorbing the blow with a sickening thud. The impact knocked the wind out of you, pain searing through your body as you stumbled backward, clutching your chest.

As the adrenaline faded and the reality of what could have been sunk in, fury ignited like a wildfire within you. You rounded on Sarah, your voice a crescendo of anger as you unleashed the pent-up frustration that had been building for weeks. Each word was a dagger aimed straight at her heart. Your tone laced with a venomous ferocity that mirrored the intensity of the emotions raging within you.

Coughing up blood, your vision blurred as you struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Anger surged through you like a tidal wave, drowning out the pain as you staggered to your feet. With a primal roar, you lunged at Sarah, grabbing her by the collar with a strength born of desperation.

"What the fuck was that?" you yelled, louder than you ever had before. And certainly not in front of the team. Your voice raw with fury. Each word was a thunderclap, reverberating through the warehouse like a warning shot. "You could have killed me! Or them! Do you even realize what you've done?"

But Sarah's response was a defiant sneer, her gaze unwavering in the face of your righteous indignation. "I did what needed to be done," she spat, her voice laced with arrogance. "I'm not afraid to take risks to get the job done."

The words were like a slap to the face, a cruel reminder of the recklessness that had nearly cost you everything. With all your rage, you shoved her away, your hands trembling with anger as you struggled to contain the tempest raging within you.

"You're a liability," you growled, your voice a low, dangerous whisper. "And if you ever put my life, their lives,” You pointed to Spencer and Emily behind you, “in danger again, I won't hesitate to take you down myself."

As you stood there, trembling with fury and pain, the rest of the team made their way over. You still hasn’t seen Aaron yet but the rest of them looked on in shock and disbelief. Derek surged forward, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you back from the confrontation. "Easy there Y/N," he said, his voice low and soothing as he tried to calm the storm raging within you. "Cool off."

Emily and JJ exchanged worried glances. Finally, Aaron found you after too many moments of losing it in front of everyone. His eyes widened in alarm as he took in the sight of blood staining your lips, his heart clenching with fear at the sight. "What happened?" he demanded. His usually calm voice was laced with urgency as he reached out to gently touch your arm. His fingers trembled against your skin, his touch a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos of the moment.

Still reeling from the confrontation and the shock of narrowly escaping serious injury, Spencer stepped forward, his voice calm but tinged with urgency. "Aaron, Sarah made a nearly fatal mistake," he said, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "Her impulsive actions endangered everyone on the team, especially Y/N." You were thankful he was willing to step in because you weren’t quite sure if you had the right words.

Aaron's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury as he turned his gaze on Sarah. The air around him crackled with palpable anger, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive. "Is this true?" he demanded, his voice cold and steely as he pinned her with a hard stare.

Sarah shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny, her bravado faltering in the face of his unwavering gaze. "I...I was just trying to apprehend the unsub," she stammered, her voice wavering with uncertainty.

But Aaron's patience had worn thin, his temper flaring like a raging inferno. "You made a reckless decision that put the entire team at risk," he snapped, his voice echoing off the walls of the warehouse. "Until you can prove that you're capable of following protocol and putting the safety of your teammates above all else, you will not be back in the field."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the consequences of her actions. Sarah's expression fell, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his judgment. It was a harsh lesson, but one that she would need to learn if she ever hoped to earn back the trust of her colleagues and prove herself worthy of wearing the badge.

As Aaron turned away, his attention returning to you with a renewed sense of protectiveness, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude for the unwavering support of your team leader and husband. But as you tried to catch your breath, a sudden coughing fit wracked your body, drawing Aaron's attention back to you. Concern flashed across his features, his eyes narrowing with worry as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to steady you.

"Hey sweetheart," he murmured softly, his voice a gentle caress against your ear as he brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead. "Let's get you checked out, alright?"

You attempted to speak, but the coughing fit continued, leaving you gasping for air. So, you shook your head in protest. You were fine and you knew it, but the damn bullet hit you right in the lung leaving you gasping for air. Aaron's worry deepened, his brow furrowing with concern as he knelt down beside you, his hands hovering anxiously over your shoulders.

"Honey, just breathe," he urged, his voice filled with tenderness as he placed a comforting hand on your back. "We'll get you to the hospital, and they'll take care of you. I promise." It wasn’t usual that he dropped those sweet terms of endearment to you in front of the team, but he couldn’t really care. Not when he could’ve lost you.

Despite your protests, Aaron's determination remained steadfast. With gentle insistence, he scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest with a strength born of love and concern. "You're going to the hospital," he declared, his voice unwavering as he carried you towards his SUV. “I’m not taking no for an answer sweetheart."

As Aaron settled into the driver's seat beside you, his eyes flickered with concern as he stole glances, his hand reaching out to brush against yours in a silent gesture of reassurance. But despite his unwavering determination to get you to the hospital, you couldn't help but feel a stubborn sense of resistance bubbling within you.

"I'm fine, Aaron," you insisted, your tone tinged with frustration as you crossed your arms over your chest. "This is incredibly dramatic. You’ve been hit in your gear too."

Aaron's expression softened at your words, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Maybe I am," he admitted with a chuckle. "I also know what it feels like honey. I’d rather be safe than sorry."

You shot him a playful glare, unable to suppress the teasing smile that danced on your lips. He cared for you, truly. Every inch of himself loved you more deeply than even you could have fathomed. You also knew that love bore stubbornness and there was no talking him out of what he knew he had to do. You were just along for the ride now. "You just can't resist playing the hero, can you?" You spoke up after a moment of silence between the two of you.

Aaron chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he glanced over at you. "Guilty as charged," he replied. "Always remind me never to get on your bad side," Aaron quipped, a lighthearted smile playing on his lips as he attempted to alleviate the tension that hung heavy in the air.

You managed a weak laugh trying your hardest to hide the pain radiating from your chest. However, so grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. "You looked like you were about to take matters into your own hands back there," he teased gently, his voice laced with affection.

The image of you, ready to throw down with the new agent, brought a genuine laugh bubbling up from deep within you this time. "Well, she did have it coming," you admitted with a mischievous grin. "But I guess I'll let you handle the heroics this time."

As the laughter subsided, Aaron's expression turned more serious, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry things got so heated," he said softly, his voice tinged with sincerity. "I should have stepped in sooner. I thought she was harmless. Dealt with her type so many times before." He sighed, running a hand through his hair before finding your hand and lacing his fingers within yours.

You squeezed his hand, a warm smile spreading across your face. "It’s not your fault you’re such a silver fox," Tossing him a wink you couldn’t help but to tease him right on back. It’s how you knew everything was going to be just fine. The two of you had dealt with so much worse and come out even stronger, this would be nothing but a minor blip on your journey together.

Aaron laughed at your playful comment, a warmth spreading in his chest at your familiar banter. "Ah, so you're saying my charm is both a blessing and a curse," he retorted with a grin, his gaze softening as he looked at you.

You nodded, a fond smile playing on your lips. "Something like that," you agreed, feeling a surge of gratitude for the ease with which you could navigate even the toughest moments with Aaron by your side.

As the car glided through the streets towards the hospital, a comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the engine. Despite the events that had unfolded, you found solace in the quiet intimacy of the moment, knowing that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. With each passing mile, you felt the weight of the day begin to lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of reassurance that only Aaron could provide. His unwavering love and support was everything you needed. He guided you through the darkness, illuminating the path forward with hope and determination.

As you arrived at the hospital and Aaron helped you out of the car, you knew that this was just another chapter in your life together. You couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the man beside you, your literal partner in crime, your rock, your everything. Together, you were truly unstoppable.

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[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Blank Spaces [Javier Peña]

a/n: she’s done it, she’s written smut. y’all can blame the couch. yeah, that couch. be gentle with me. it’s my first time.

pairing: javi peña x reader

word count: 5.1K

warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, mastrubation, strong language, references to violence and trauma, drinking & smoking, infidelity, pining

The crime scene is a blood bath and it looks as if every police officer in the city is here. There are red lights and blue lights, flashing through the jungle, and the cicadas screaming into the acrid night. There are loud voices and sounds, and there is silence, loudest of them all. 

You crouch over a body.

Or… well, what’s left of one before the narcos had their way with it. 

They like to send a message, and this one couldn’t be clearer if they’d painted it in ten-foot high letters with all the blood that’s pooling around your scuffed boots: no one fucks with the Medellín cartel. Not judges who can’t be bought. Not politicians who don’t know their place. Not innocent bystanders who get caught in the crossfire of this endless, senseless drug war. And sure as shit not some insignificant DEA agent from America who can’t mind his own fucking business.

Adjusting the focus with hands that tremble from exhaustions and other things you don’t care to examine too closely, you try to remember the last time you slept.

It’s been days, but it feels like weeks; months. A fucking year.

—

You hear him before you see him, the sound of his footsteps as familiar as your own heartbeat. Even in the chaos of the crime scene, with the crunch of gravel under dozens of boots and crackle of police radios, you would know him anywhere. It’s in the way he moves, the cadence of his walk. Authoritative. Unhesitating. Like he’s going somewhere important and he knows exactly how to get there. 

Even with your eyes on your work, you can’t help but track him from the corner of your eye. Watch him as he exchanges greetings and handshakes with other agents and members of CNP. You catalogue the details like you’d do when staring at the surveillance photo; you just can’t help it. The hair that’s just a tad little too long, curling slightly against the nape of his neck. The moustache that should look sleazy but instead makes him seem rakish. Dangerous. The ever-present cigarette dangling carelessly from his fingers. 

His gaze lands on you and your breath catches in your throat as you fumble with the rewinder. And then he’s walking through the sea of uniforms and grim faces until he’s standing next to you. Zippo between his fingers flicks to life and he inhales a lungful of smoke, exhaling through his nose seconds later. 

“Tell me you got something,” he says by way of greeting. 

You stand, joints protesting, and turn to face Javier Peña.

“And good evening to you too,” you reply, aiming for sarcasm but landing closer to weary resignation. “I got plenty, but you ain’t gonna like any of it.”

He squints at the tarp-covered lump that used to be a human. Clenches his jaw. Rubs a hand over his face and you watch his throat work as he swallows. He looks how you feel, you think. Wrung out and nauseous.

Catching yourself staring, you quickly look away, heat crawling up the back of your neck. You then snap a few final shots of the scene, just to have something to do with your hands, and pull the camera strap over your head.

"Buy you a drink?" he asks, already turning to leave, confident you'll follow.

So, you do. Just like always.

—

The bar is a dive, but that's nothing new. It’s the kind of place where the floor sticks to your shoes and the air tastes like stale cigarettes and broken dreams. Javi sits with his back to the wall, one booted foot resting on his opposite knee, his posture seemingly relaxed. You know better. 

He knocks back two fingers of bottom-shelf whiskey like it's the water. You do the same. It burns going down but you almost welcome the pain. Anything to feel something that isn't the cold, creeping despair.

You don’t talk much, but that suits you just fine. There is no energy left for conversations. Or empty platitudes about how you’re fighting the good fights, how your work matters. It’s all so goddamn futile.

Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening than getting wasted with Javier Peña, you suppose. Even though you’ve heard the rumours about him. That he’s a cowboy. A hothead. Quick with his fists and even quicker with his dick.

But, you’ve also seen another side to him these past months, ever since you got assigned to assist DEA as the body count rises and the streets run red. You’ve watched him sketch portraits of the victims so their families will have something to bury. Seen how he never flinches from the brutality of his job, just squares his shoulders and wades back in. Seen him wrap a trembling, half-naked body of a young girl with his jacket, shielding her.

He's a good man, Javi. Rough around the edges, sure, but who isn't in this place? You’re all hip deep in shit creek without a paddle,  just trying to keep your nostrils above the stink, long enough to do some good.

“Another one?” 

He doesn’t wait for your answer, just signals for another round. His knuckles are bruised and you wonder who he hit this time. 

When you lift your gaze, you find his eyes are already on you, dark and glittering in the dimness of the bar. And it feels as if he’s pinning you down, flaying you open. Reading. Observing. Trying to see right into the marrow of your bones. It sends a shiver down your spine and you look away. Wrap your trembling fingers around the cool, rigid surface of your glass, condensation dripping onto the scarred table.

Javi’s hand then reaches for yours, and for a reason you can’t explain, you don’t pull away. Don’t tell him to fuck off, to keep hands to himself. Instead, you let him. Let him trace idle patterns across your wrist, each point of contact searing you like a brand. You should stop this. Should make an excuse and leave before you do something stupid. 

But you’re tired. So fucking tired. Of death and of ugliness; of feeling numb. You want to feel alive, if just for a little while. Want to feel something. Anything. 

When he speaks again, his voice is low, suggestive. “Wanna get out of here?”

Warning bells clang in your head like a distant echo of self-preservation, but you ignore them as you nod once, decisive. “Yeah.”

—

Javier’s apartment is bigger than yours but darker. The AC-unit rattles but it barely makes a dent in the oppressive heat as you stumble inside. Sweat prickles along your hairline and between your breasts as he crowds you against the door. 

His mouth is on yours before you can overthink it. Whiskey and smoke. Tongue and teeth. It’s not gentle but that’s okay. You don’t want gentle. You want to be consumed. Want to forget. And he is ready to give you what you want because his hands are like a fever on your warm skin, pushing under your shirt to palm and cup your breasts—callouses rasping against your nipples. You arch into him. Shameless. 

Fumbling with his belt, you get a hand into his underwear and take him into your fist. He’s hard, and hot, and throbbing against your palm. You stroke once, twice and he groans into your mouth. 

“Fuck. ”

Moments later, Javi’s boot slams against the doors to his bedroom. Walks you back to the bed; a graceless tangle of limbs as he bears you down into the mattress. Rips your shirt as he yanks it over your head. Still, you can’t care less. Because it’s what you want. What you need.

Heat. Fever. His skin against yours. 

After that, everything narrows to physical sensation and a handful of filthy words. The slick slide of your tongues. The ache between your thighs as he wrings orgasm after shuddering orgasm from your willing body. You scratch angry marks down his back and he hisses but doesn’t stop you. Just grips your hips hard enough to bruise and thrusts into you harder. 

It’s messy and it’s desperate. Artless. There’s no finesse, just a furious coupling. An exorcism. You cry out his name over and over again and for a few blissful minutes the rest of the world ceases to exist. 

Afterwards you lay side by side, not touching. Chest heaving. You stare up at the nicotine stained ceiling and will yourself not to cry. It’s just sex, for fuck’s sake. A means to an end. You don’t need it to mean anything more. 

You’re still telling yourself that an hour later as you hunt for your underwear in the golden glow of his bedroom. They’re a lost cause, ripped and unwearable. You ball them up and shove them in your pocket as a memento of Javier’s impatience. 

Behind you, Javi lights up a cigarette. Clears his throat. 

You ignore him. Focus on the task of getting dressed; of putting yourself back together piece by piece.

But then he says your name. And it's so foreign coming from his mouth that it stops you in your tracks. It's as if he's tasting your name on his tongue for the first time, savouring the way it feels; the way it sounds.

You tense, your back to him as you button up your jeans with shaking fingers, trying to brace yourself for the inevitable brush-off. 

“This can’t happen again.”

Even expecting it, the words still land like a punch to the gut. You force yourself to turn around and face him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, sheet pooled around his waist, looking as wrecked as you feel, and it would be funny if it didn't hurt so fucking much.

“I know,” you say.

And you hate how small your voice sounds, how pathetic. Hate yourself for even thinking that this could be anything other than what it was — two broken people using each other to feel something other than despair for a little while.

So you leave without another word. Walk home in the hazy dawn light, feeling emptier than ever. Later, in the shower, you stand under the spray until the water runs cold. Let it wash away the smell of him on your skin. You place Javier Peña and the ghost of his hands on your body into a box in your mind and lock it tight, throwing away the key.

Tell yourself it's for the best.

And if you slide your hand inside your panties night after night to thoughts of his mouth between your thighs and his fingers digging into your hips, well. No one needs to know.

—

Six months later…

"So I hear congratulations are in order."

The words startle you so badly that you nearly drop the tongs you're holding. 

You've been hiding out by the grill for the past twenty minutes, using the excuse of tending the hamburgers to avoid making small talk with Steve's DEA buddies from Miami. It's his birthday cookout, and it's the last place you want to be, but Connie had insisted, and you couldn't think of a believable excuse fast enough.

You paste on a smile that feels more like a grimace and turn to face Javier Peña, smirking at you over the rim of a sweating bottle of Corona. You've barely seen him in weeks, your paths crossing only when strictly necessary, and even then, you've done your best to avoid being alone with him. Still, you can’t deny that he looks good. Too good. The bastard.

"Excuse me?" you say, trying to keep your tone light. Casual. Like your heart isn't suddenly pounding in your chest. Like your palms aren't slick with sweat that has nothing to do with the heat of the grill.

Javi leans a hip against the table, his body loose and relaxed in a way you never see him at work. "You and Golden Boy. Connie says it's getting serious."

Golden Boy. That's what they call Michael Whitman, the attorney sent to DEA from the Langley office that the Murphys have been not-so-subtly throwing in your path for months. You'd finally agreed to a drink with him just to shut them up, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that you actually have things in common beyond a mutual love of cheap tequila and bad action movies.

He's not the kind of guy you usually go for — too clean-cut, too earnest, with a boyish charm that makes you feel old and jaded in comparison. But he's funny and smart, and most importantly, uncomplicated. There's no baggage there, no messy history. Just easy conversation and the promise of something simple. Something you can control.

"I don't know if I'd call it serious," you say carefully. "We've only been on a few dates."

Javi takes a long pull from his beer, his throat working as he swallows, and you look away, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of char marks on the hamburgers.

"He's here today."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway.

"Yeah, Connie invited him." Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, like it's coming from somewhere far away.

Javi makes a noncommittal noise, a hum that could mean anything or nothing at all. You risk a glance at him, and immediately wish you hadn't. He's looking at you with an intensity that makes you want to squirm. Then, his gaze drops to your mouth. Lingers there for a moment that stretches into eternity, and you feel heat crawling up your neck. 

"He seems nice," Javi says finally, his tone carefully neutral, and you almost laugh at the banality of it. Nice. The ultimate kiss of death, the faint praise that damns with its very blandness.

"He is." The words come out more forcefully than you intend, and you punctuate them by flipping a burger with a vicious twist of your wrist. Hot grease splatters your bare arm, and you swear under your breath, reaching for a napkin to blot at the stinging pain.

But Javi is already there, his long fingers wrapping around your wrist in a touch that is achingly familiar, a sense memory that transports you back to that night, to the heat of his skin against yours.

He examines the angry red welt rising on your forearm, his brows drawn together in a frown of concern. "You need to run this under cold water."

You try to pull away, but his grip is implacable, his fingers like bands of steel around your wrist. "It's fine," you mutter, avoiding his gaze.

Your name falls from his lips, low and serious, and the sound of it sends a spike of heat straight through you, pooling in your belly. 

Memories of the last time he spoke to you in that voice, mouthed your name into the sweat-slick curve of your neck as he moved inside you, threaten to overwhelm you, and you ruthlessly shove them aside. 

That way lies madness, a rabbit hole of longing and regret that you can't afford to tumble down.

"I said it's fine, Javi." You finally manage to twist out of his grasp, taking a deliberate step back. 

Hurt flashes in his dark eyes. It’s brief, but there nonetheless. Then, he nods once, a sharp jerk of his chin. Message received.

"I'll leave you to it, then." He turns to go and you exhale shakily.

But then he stops, his back to you, his shoulders tense beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. 

"I'm glad you're happy," he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the hum of conversation and the sizzle of grease on the grill. "You deserve it."

And then he's gone, striding across the lawn without a backward glance, leaving you staring after him, your heart in your throat and a hollow ache in your chest.

Are you happy? You’re not unhappy, that’s for sure. 

So why does it feel like Javi just ripped the scab off of a wound you thought had long since healed, exposing the raw, festering hurt beneath. You shake your head in disgust at your own weakness. At the part of you that still years for his touch, his taste. The way he made you feel alive in a way you never had before. 

This is ridiculous. You are being ridiculous. It was one night, months ago. A mistake. A moment of weakness that meant nothing. Less than nothing. And you need to get over it. Need to move on.

So, you focus on the task at hand, determined to push all thoughts of Javier Peña out of your mind. And as your brain struggles to do so, a pair of arms circle your waist from behind. You stiffen for a moment, but then relax, recognising Michael’s clean scent of soap and aftershave. 

“Hey you,” he mumbles, nuzzling your ear, blissfully oblivious to your inner turmoil. 

“Hey yourself,” you answer. Force yourself to relax into his embrace. Tip your head back onto his shoulder and let him press a chaste kiss to your cheek. Curse your traitorous body for yearning for another man's touch, a man who made it clear he doesn't want anything more from you than a quick fuck.

You just need time, that's all. Time and distance. A chance to let the wounds Javi inflicted heal properly, without constantly picking at the scabs.

And if your heart feels like it's breaking in your chest, if every breath is an effort, a reminder of the emptiness that yawns inside you... well. That's no one's business but your own.

—

You join the others at the picnic table and you let the conversation wash over you. Laugh in all the right places. Deflect Connie's good-natured ribbing about your cooking skills. Studiously ignore Javi where he sits at the other end of the table, a pretty secretary hanging on his every word. You think the girl's name is Maritza. Or Mariana. Something with an M. You try not to care.

It doesn't matter. You and Javi are ancient history. You were never even history to begin with. Just two people seeking oblivion in each others' bodies for a few hours. Hardly the stuff of epic romance.

So you smile and nod and make a show of enjoying Michael's arm around your shoulders. Listen attentively as he tells a funny story about a deposition gone wrong.

He really is a good guy, Michael. Steady. Dependable. The kind of man you could maybe build a future with someday, if you could just get Javier fucking Peña out of your system. Out of your head. Out of your goddamn heart.

But every time you look in Javi's direction he's already watching you, dark eyes inscrutable. It's unnerving. Like he's trying to see right into your battered, cynical soul. You drop your gaze to her plate, appetite gone. Push potato salad around with your fork as your stomach churns.

The seconds drag by with agonising slowness but finally, blessedly, the party starts to wind down. People drift off in twos and threes until it's just you, Michael and the Murphys left. You make your excuses, pleading an early morning at work. Hug Connie and wish Steve a final happy birthday. Determinedly don’t look around for Javi. He slipped away at some point without saying goodbye, Maritza, Mariana, whoever giggling on his arm as he escorted her to his car.

And that's just fine. It's not like you expected anything else.

Michael drives you home, one hand resting warmly on your knee. You lean your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the city lights blur past, and try not to compare the feel of his fingers to another's. Rougher. More gun-callused. It's a losing battle, and you know it.

When he walks you to your door, you half expect him to try and invite himself in. Brace herself to demure. Things between you haven't progressed much beyond some heated kisses on your couch but you know he wants more. Can feel him holding himself back, trying not to scare you off.

But he just smiles. Touches your cheeks with tenderness that makes your heart ache. Tells you he'll call you tomorrow to arrange some plans for the weekend. You nod vaguely, murmur a goodnight and escape into your apartment. 

The door closes behind you with a muffled click, and you sag back against it, the exhaustion hitting you like a physical blow. You feel wrung out. Hollowed out. Like someone has reached inside you and scooped out all your vital organs, leaving you empty and aching.

"Get it together," you grit out. Push yourself off the door and head for the bathroom, stripping off your clothes as you go. A shower. That's what you need. A long, hot shower to scour the day from your skin. 

You stand under the spray until the water runs cold, forehead pressed to the slick tiles. Think about the night six months ago when you let Javi fuck your sadness and self-loathing into something resembling peace. 

And the memories come in flashes. Teeth sharp at your throat. Fingers dragging down your sides, digging into your hips, holding you steady as he pushed inside you, stretching you, filling you, his eyes locked on yours in the dark, seeing you, all of you, in a way no one else ever had.

You shove a hand between your legs almost angrily. Find yourself wet and wanting. It only takes a few rough strokes before you’re coming with a bitten off cry, Javi's name trapped behind your teeth.

And only after, when it’s over, you stand with your face tipped up into the spray of water, allowing yourself to cry. 

—

The next morning you’re in your cramped closet of a darkroom, a negative strip held up to the low light. You look for patterns in the grain. Clues to illuminate the black and white. Explanations that make sense. Pieces to solve the bloody puzzle. You hang the sheet with steady hands and reach for another. This is your comfort. Your penance. Your grace. In this red-tinged womb of a room you reconstruct narratives and build cases, one damning frame at a time. Javier Peña and his big sad eyes and dangerous hands have no place here.

Except the door is opening behind you, a sliver of fluorescence creeping across the floor to illuminate those shoes. Black boots. Great. Just what you need today.

You sigh and square your shoulders.

“Something I can help you with, agent?”

You don't turn around. Focus instead on the photos in front of your face. If you ignore him maybe he'll take the hint and fuck off.  But Javier Peña has never been one to fuck off when you want him to.

Instead, he steps fully into the room and closes the door with a soft snick. The darkness swallows you once more. And once more he says your name. Low and rough like the rasp of his calluses on your skin. You shiver despite yourself. Set down the negatives with fingers that tremble.

“What do you want, Javi?”

There's a rustle of fabric as he shifts his weight, and you can picture him perfectly, even with your back turned. You imagine him placing his hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side. That stupid stance he adopts when he's trying to be casual. Harmless. As if a man like Javier Peña could ever be harmless.

“I want to talk.”

“So talk.”

A frustrated exhale. “Can you at least look at me? Please?”

The ‘please’ snags at your chest like a fishhook. Pulls you around to face him against your better judgement. He's haloed in the dull red glow, edges lined in shadow, and he looks like something out of a fever dream. Or a nightmare. You can't decide which.

“I'm looking. Talk.”

He drags a hand through his hair, already mussed from the humidity. Or maybe from someone else's fingers, and you stomp down on the curl of jealousy that licks up your spine, hot and bitter.

“I don't like how we left things.” 

You nod only once and look down at your hands. “Well, you made yourself pretty clear, Javi. “This—,” you gesture between you, “can't happen again.”

“That's not…” He makes a frustrated noise, moustache twitching as he presses his lips together. “I didn't mean for it to sound like that.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable, in the thin cotton of your tee. "How did you mean for it to sound?" 

He takes a step forward, then another when you don’t immediately back away. “I'm not good at this. Relationships. Emotions.” He says the word like it tastes foul in his mouth. Like it’s a foreign concept he can’t quite wrap his head around. “I’m fucked up. You know that.”

"Everyone's fucked up," you counter, your tone flat, unimpressed. "What's your point?"

"My point," he grits out, his jaw clenching, his hands curling into fists at his sides, "is that I care about you. More than I should. More than is wise, considering our line of work."

"You care about me." It comes out flat. Disbelieving. "Peña, I've got work to do...," you trail off, hoping he will take the hint. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he sighs, shoulders slumping. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Yes, you want to say. Yes, it's hard to believe that a man like you could care about someone like me. A man who could have anyone, anything, with just a flash of that devastating smile. A man who fucks his trauma into faceless, nameless women and tosses them aside like so much garbage when he's done.

But that's not fair, and you know it. Javi's not that man, not really. Oh, he plays the part well enough, all swagger and smirks and devil-may-care attitude. But you've seen beneath the mask, seen the wounded, vulnerable boy lurking in the dark wells of his eyes. The boy who's seen too much. Lost too much. The boy who's just trying to survive in a world that wants to eat him alive.

“Javi,” you start, then stop. Swallow hard. “What do you want from me?”

He's close enough now that you can feel the heat of him. Can smell the familiar mix of cigarettes and cologne that always makes you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in. His eyes are intent on your face, searching for something you're not sure you can give, something you're not sure you have to offer.

"I want..." He pauses, his throat working as he swallows, his eyes never leaving yours. "Fuck. I want everything." His hands come up to cradle your face, his thumbs sweeping over your cheekbones. "I'm so tired of pretending I don't feel this," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over your lips, his forehead pressing against yours. "So goddamn tired."

And you know the feeling. That soul-deep exhaustion that comes from holding yourself apart. From denying what you want, who you want, because it's safer that way. Except it's not safe at all, is it? It's just a different kind of pain.

"What about your reputation?" you ask, trying to be cheeky. Trying to lighten the mood, but your voice comes out breathless. Shaky. "Wouldn't want to soil that with something as pedestrian as feelings."

Javi huffs a laugh, warm and fond. “Fuck my reputation. Fuck everyone else's expectations.” He leans in, nose brushing yours. Voice dropping to a rumble you feel in your bones. “I just want you.”

It's too much. The words. The weight of his gaze. The nearness of him. It's everything you've ever wanted and everything you've ever feared, and you can't take it anymore. 

You fist your hands in his shirt and yank him down into a bruising kiss. He makes a hungry noise against your mouth, a growl that vibrates through your entire body, and angles his head, deepening the kiss until you're dizzy with it. Until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

He tears his mouth away from yours, blazing a trail of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, his tongue soothing the sting. 

"Fuck, you feel good," he mumbles into your skin, his breath hot and damp against your flesh. "Been wanting this, wanting you."

"Javi, please..." 

"Please what?" He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. Your shoulder. Slips his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear, his fingers finding your slick heat. Circles your clit with a teasing touch, a barely-there pressure that makes you want to scream. "Tell me what you need."

You writhe against him, shameless. "You," you gasp, your voice raw, ragged. "I need you."

And then he is lifting you onto the counter, scattering negatives and bottles of chemicals. You’ll care about that later. Right now all you can focus on is the heat of his skin against yours as he peels you out of your tee. The scrape of his stubble on the tender skin of your throat. The sound of his belt being unbuckled and the rustle of his jeans. The perfect stretch and ache as he pushes inside you, filling you up until there's no room for anything else. No room for doubt or fear or the certain knowledge that this will end in disaster.

You wrap your legs around his waist and urge him deeper, your fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his back. 

“Fuck—” he grits out, hips snapping into yours at a punishing pace.

You gape, unable to breathe, the cry lodged somewhere in your throat as your head rolls into his neck, your entire body surrendering to the pleasure. He doesn't stop, though. Just keeps going. Thrusting. Claiming. Filthy words in a mix of English and Spanish falling from his lips and into your ear. Words you both understand and have no idea what they mean.

Javi slides a hand between your sweat-slicked bodies, finds your clit and rubs in tight, focused circles, and you keen. Tip your back against the wall as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He follows a moment later, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he pulses inside you. 

You stay like that for a long moment, trading lazy kisses as your heart rates slow and your breathing evens out.  Finally Javi pulls back to look at you. Smiles the way you’d never seen him smile before. 

"This is probably a terrible idea," you say, only half-joking.

His mouth quirks. "Probably.

"We'll probably blow up in each other's faces.”

"Most likely.”

You sigh, looping your arms around his neck. "But you still want to try?" you ask, your voice small, uncertain, afraid to hope.

He kisses you again, slow and sweet. Rests his forehead against yours. "More than anything."

And God help you, but you believe him. Believe in this impossible, improbable thing between you despite every instinct screaming that you’re setting yourself up for heartbreak.

But that's a worry for another day. Right now, at this moment, you have everything you want. Everything you need.

The rest you’ll figure out together.

[honorarysimp]

Interlude: The Diner

series masterlist

Out of everywhere in town you’ve been since you arrived two weeks ago, this is the only place you’ve truly felt safe.

The diner was a blast from the past, a relic of a time long gone. The checkered linoleum floor worn and scuffed in places, and vinyl-covered booths gave the place a retro feel, while the crackled and faded wallpaper added a touch of nostalgia.

The smell of stale coffee and fried food hung in the air, adding a distinct atmosphere to the place.

The diner was dimly lit, the fluorescent tubes above the counter casting a harsh, almost clinical light over the small space. In one corner, an old radio played quiet music, the sound barely reaching a few booths in the room.

You are currently sat in a booth towards the back, visibly exhausted beyond measure as you nurse a cup of black coffee.

Coffee is suppose to be the answer to everything, but you’ve had to reconvey your initial claim the last week.

Your phone suddenly rings loudly in the quiet diner, the sharp sound causing you to flinch, jarring and breaking the ambiance like a hammer against glass. You glance down at the screen, expression darkening as you saw the word "Mayor" flash across the display.

With a heavy exhale, you let the call ring through to voicemail. The Mayor was the last person you want to deal with at the moment. You’re frustrated and exhausted, as this investigation seems to be leading nowhere.

Why answer her when you have nothing to report? She knows where to find you if she’s that desperate for results.

You reach into your coat pocket and retrieved your tape recorder. You lay it on the worn tabletop and looked at it for a moment with a slight grimace.

You hesitate before starting the recording, the weight of your lack of progress weighing heavily on you. With a weary sigh, you hit the record button and began speaking, voice low and tired.

"It's been two weeks since I arrived here, and so far, I've got nothing. No leads, no suspects, just a whole lot of dead ends."

You continue, your voice growing more frustrated as you detail your efforts thus far.

"I've tried everything," you admit, hand running through your hair in exasperation. "Witness interviews, forensic analysis, even digging through records going back decades. But every time I think I'm onto something, it just leads nowhere."

You lean back in the booth, shoulders slouched in exhaustion. "It's like this town is intentionally keeping secrets."

You pause for a moment, expression thoughtful.

"The people here," you begin, voice a bit softer. "They're just as much victims as anyone. I've started to get to know some of them, and they're just trying to live their lives. But then there's this..."

You trail off, expression conflicted. You knew you’ve always tried to be logical and professional when it comes to your job, ruled by rationality and evidence. But this case is pushing your boundaries, forcing you to question your own beliefs.

"Maybe... maybe there's no logical explanation," you admit, voice barely a whisper “the only thing that’s consistent is the fact one person goes missing a month, but even that doesn’t make sense because it stops and starts randomly- goddamn it.”

You hit the pause button on the tape recorder, frustrated. You sit back, the silence in the diner somehow making the weight of the case even heavier.

You sat for a moment, eyes unfocused as you mull over everything that has happened in the last two weeks. The disappearances, the dead ends, the strange events... everything about this case was slowly chipping away at your certainty, your usual rational mind struggling to find footing.

You start the tape recorder again, voice weary but determined.

"The attack in the woods," you began. "I've tried to make sense of it, but it just doesn't add up. The masked figure came out of nowhere, silently and unexpectedly. The knife cut me, but there was no blood, no trace of any kind at the scene. And even after searching, there were no footprints or tracks of any kind. Nothing."

You trail off, eyes fixed on the tabletop. "It's like the assault never even happened."

You again continued, tense with disbelief. "And then there's Wes," you say, shaking your head. "He just vanishes after walking into the lake. We've searched the lake more times than I can count, and we haven't found a body. Nothing. It's like he just vanished into thin air."

Your frustration and confusion becomes more and more evident the more you spoke, the mystery of the case growing more complex with each passing moment as you verbally try to debunk it aloud. "It makes no sense," you mutter, raking a hand through your hair once more, knee bouncing in a fidget underneath the table.

You pause for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm your frustration. "The disappearances, the attack, the lack of any solid evidence... everything about this case just feels wrong. Like there's something bigger going on, something just out of my grasp.”

You look down at the tape recorder, brow furrowed. "But how do I solve something when I can't even see all the pieces? How do I find answers when everything I've tried leads to more questions?"

You sat slumped in the booth, gaze unfocused as you wrestle with your thoughts. "I need... I need..." you repeat in a low voice, frustration and desperation mingling in your tone.

I need a fucking cigarette.

You clench your fists, refocusing on trying to piece together the elusive clues in your mind. "I need something decisive, something concrete," you continue, eyes sweeping over the steam rising from your mug as if the answers were etched within the small bubbles resting on the liquid’s surface.

You let out a heavy sigh, the frustration etched on your face. You reach out and hit the pause button, shutting off the tape recorder.

You lean back in the booth once again, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. The weight of the case hung heavily on you, the lack of progress a crushing disappointment. Never has a case had you so in the weeds before, you should have something by now.

"I need to find something," you mutter to yourself, jaw clenched. "I can't keep spinning my fucking wheels like this."

You rest your elbows to the table for a moment, rubbing a hand over your face as if trying to scrub away the fatigue and temporary defeat. Everything about this case was getting under your skin, the lack of progress wearing on your already frayed nerves.

The Diner's bell jangled as someone entered, causing you to look up from your thoughts. Your gaze lands on Tara of all people, who had just walked in.

You register the first responder uniform she is wearing, coming to the conclusion that she must be working the night shift. Or just got off it, depending on what time it is, that of which you aren’t sure. Your eyes lingered on her for a moment, taking in her tired but determined expression.

Her head turns and you’re already meeting her gaze, a pause between you, and then you silently gesturing for her to join you. You see the hesitation on her face, the fatigue and worry that mirrored your own. But after a moment, she relents and walks over to the booth, sliding into the seat opposite you.

“Hey” you start softly, watching her take your coffee mug off the table and take a small whiff before taking a sip.

You don’t question it.

“Nothing yet on our end, you?”

You shake your head, “even if we did, I’m sure Sam would be the first one to let you know.”

Tara nods, and you both fall silent.

The one waitress that seems to be working tonight walks over, she gives you both a kind smile.

“You’re working late tonight, Cici” Tara says politely, which makes the woman laugh good naturely.

“I could say the same to you, coffee?”

“Please.”

She scribbles it down, glancing back up “and the usual?”

Another nod from Tara, which then has Cici’s gaze going to you expectantly.

“I’m still doing okay with just coffee-“

“The Detective will have what I’m having Cici, thank you” Tara cuts you off, making Cici glance between you knowingly as she jots the order down and heads off without another word.

You look to Tara and narrow your eyes, but she beats you to it before you can speak.

“I wish you’d stop making assumptions about me, you know.”

A pause, you reach across the table for your mug but she pulls it from your reach.

There’s a good chance Tara is talking about the last conversation you two had before you found Wes and Chad, but of course you’d hate to assume.

So you wait for her to continue, after a moment her expression softens slightly and she nudges your coffee mug back across the table to you.

“For what it’s worth, I’m rightfully in the same boat. Worrying certain people are only around for information, for wanting to know things rather than-“ she stops, clearing her throat.

That’s when you get it. The hot and cold.

“Look… I’ve never once been dishonest with you, I’ve got no reason to be” you start slowly, giving your still aching shoulder a little roll before reaching across the table to accept your mug back.

“But-“ you pause, as your fingers brush against hers, neither of you acknowledge it as you pull the coffee mug back to your side “unfortunately that’s the one thing I’m under contract not to tell you, which is who hired me. You already know why I’m here, and if there’s one thing I can promise you is that I’m not using you for any reason.”

She is clearly skeptical, you can tell by the way she looks at you. But you can also see that slight softness between her brow, like she wants to believe you.

You sip your coffee, sitting it to the side before placing your palms flat on the table top, “ask me anything you want, no pool games, no deals, no trades, no bullshit. And then I’ll do the same.”

That look returns, the one Tara gave you a week ago when you’d asked her out for drinks.

“You still are trying to pick my brain” Tara says with an amused tone, you offer a smile and shrug.

“I wanna know you, is that so hard to believe?” You say as you nudge your coffee mug back over to her, a silent offer.

Tara eyes you, then the mug, then you again. She’s fighting back a smile, something you’ve noticed she does a lot with you. In a way you consider it a win, because it means she’s starting to like you even when she doesn’t want to.

“Fine” she agrees, pushing the coffee mug back across the table to you before crossing her arms, “but you’re on thin ice hot shot.”

You grin, trying not to feel triumphant for finally managing to somewhat get through to her.

“First things first, what’s your favorite scary movie?”

The disapproving look Tara gives you makes you laugh harder than it should, which in return, makes her smile more than she should.

And for the first time in a while, a sense of normalcy envelops you both. It won’t last, but for now, it’s nice.

previous, next

[f3mme-f4tale]

☾ bound by bloodshed ☾

part four

⇠ part three word count: 3.7k potential warnings: explicit language, mean!ellie, mild sexual content, fluff at the end?? pairing: seattle!ellie x female reader ☾ mood board authors note: this is more of a filler chapter than anything else, so i apologize. theres been a lot of changes in my life over the past few months -- so i've been trying to deal with that. regardless, i have a lot more free time now that ive graduated form college & moved (yay!), so hopefully (fingers crossed), i'll be more active on here :)

FREE FREE PALESTINE!

You kick at the dirt with the rubber sole of your shoe, feeling the grit shift beneath your feet, a tiny cloud of dust puffing up like a sigh too weary to lift off the ground. It’s the same sigh that escapes your mouth, the sound barely more than a breath of resignation. Ellie pretends not to notice – or maybe she does and just chooses to ignore it – her determined stride carrying her further ahead, her silhouette hunched slightly under the weight of the days and miles. It’s infuriating how stubborn she could be, how she can walk right past you, eyes set on the distance, as if the tension between you doesn’t hang in the air, thick and unyielding.

It’s been two days since you’ve tasted each other, two days since that frenzied collision of lips and limbs. Two days, and Ellie is still reeling in the aftermath, the memory of your shared warmth now a cold space between you. The military base should only be a few more days out, but every mile feels like it’s dragging the earth with it, the ground itself conspiring to keep you from reaching any sense of normalcy.

“Up there,” she mutters, digging around in her bag as she gestures up ahead to the remnants of an storefront – Walsh’s General written in faded ochre lettering above the door. Ellie goes to mess with the front door only to be met with an unmoving lock. 

“Hold up,” you say, lightly pushing past her to kneel in front of the latch. A disordered piece of discolored metal slips from your front pocket, your fingers pushing the shiv into the lock with practiced ease. The familiar click of the tumblers falling into place is a small victory, a sound that seems to echo in the stillness of the abandoned street. You push the door open, and it creaks in protest, the wood swollen and warped from years of neglect.

Ellie steps in first, bravado always hindering, eyes scanning the dim interior. The air inside is thick and stale, filled with the scent of old dust and decaying wood. Shelves stand half-empty, their contents long since looted or ruined. A few cans of food, some faded clothing, and a scattering of other forgotten items are all that remain.

"Let's see what we can find," Ellie says, her voice low but determined. She moves deeper into the store, her movements careful and deliberate. Despite the tension between you, there's a sense of unspoken understanding; you both know what needs to be done.

You follow her lead, moving to the back of the store where a set of stairs leads to what was once an office or storage room. The floorboards groan under your weight, and you have to tread lightly to avoid falling through. Ellie remains on the ground floor, rifling through the shelves, while you ascend the creaky staircase.

At the top, you find a small room, its walls lined with dusty boxes and old papers. A single window lets in a thin beam of light, illuminating the dust particles that dance in the air. You approach the window, peering out at the deserted town beyond. Outside, the world is a tableau of decay, the buildings slumping like weary travelers, their facades peeling away in layers. A deer cautiously steps out from behind a crumbling wall, its sleek body almost ghostly in the fading light. For a moment, you watch it, captivated.

The deer suddenly freezes, its ears twitching as if it senses something you can’t see. Then, in a blur of movement, it darts back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. The stillness that follows is almost suffocating, and that uneasy feeling in your gut tightens once again. You turn away from the window, pushing the momentary distraction out of your mind. There's nothing to gain from dwelling on what you can't change. Instead, you focus on the task at hand; the room offers little in the way of comfort or safety, but there’s a chance it might hold something of value. 

Your eyes land on a particularly large, dust-covered box in the corner. It’s sealed with old packing tape, its once vibrant logo now faded and peeling. Curiosity, or perhaps the need for something to distract you from the growing tension, drives you to your knees, your fingers carefully peeling back the brittle packing tape that holds the box closed. The box gives way with a soft crackle, revealing a jumble of items inside.

You sift through its contents, finding old rags, a few yellowed notebooks, and a tarnished ring. Nothing of immediate value, but then your fingers brush against something cool and metallic. You pull it out, revealing a small, rusted tin canister. The label is barely legible, but you recognize the symbol – it's an old military supply canister, the kind that usually held emergency rations or medical supplies.

Excitement flickers in your chest as you twist the lid open. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a small stash of medical supplies – a roll of bandages, a few vials of antiseptic, and a couple of syringes. It’s not much, but in your world, it’s a treasure.

“Ellie’s going to be thrilled,” you whisper to yourself, carefully tucking the canister into your bag. A crumpled up piece of paper drops from the canister – a curious predicament.

You unfold the paper, its edges fragile, and find not just a note, but a letter that seems to have been written in a rush. The handwriting is small and neat, though the ink is slightly smudged, as if the writer’s hand had trembled. Nestled within the folds of the letter is a small, faded photograph of a man and a woman, standing close, their expressions solemn but tender. They aren’t smiling, but there’s a quiet intimacy in the way they lean into each other, a shared understanding.

Annabell, I’ve fought against everything that’s kept me from you. I tried, Annabell, I really did. But trying wasn’t enough, and that will haunt me. Of all the choices I've made, the one that keeps me awake at night is not being by your side. We were always more than just two people – more like threads spun together, impossible to separate without unraveling completely. This letter isn’t a goodbye, though I fear it feels like one. We were never ones for dramatic gestures or tearful farewells, were we? So I’ll spare you that. If you find yourself heading north, there’s a place that might offer some safety. Look for the old oak in the front – the one with the hollow trunk where we used to hide our notes when we were kids. I left something there for you. I hope you find it. I hope you make it. And if you don’t… well, if you don’t, then at least know this: Every decision I made was to try and make the world a little less cruel for you. For us. Maybe I failed, but it was never for lack of trying. If someone else finds this letter, I hope you carry it forward. Maybe it’ll mean something to someone. Maybe it won’t.  I'm sorry Annabelle. Matthew. 

The letter hits you with a quiet intensity, the words measured and grounded, stripped of any romanticized finality. You gently pick up the photo, studying the faces of the couple. Their faces are looking at one another, a knowing look passing between them like a punch to the gut, raw and real in a way that makes the dusty room around you seem even more desolate. 

When you make your way back downstairs, Ellie looks up, her gaze curious but wary. You pull out the letter and the photograph, handing them over without a word. She doesn’t react much at first, just taking in the words and the faded image. After a moment, she hands it back, her expression a little more thoughtful than before.

“Did he make it?” she finally asks, her voice subdued.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” you reply quietly. Ellie shifts slightly, moving her weight from one foot to the other. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her eyes instead fixed on some distant point in the room, as if looking directly at you might break the fragile peace that’s settled over this moment. The tension between you has been a constant companion, a silent third party in your journey, but now it feels different, heavier, more present.

“They were holding on to something,” she says, her voice quieter than usual, almost as if she’s speaking to herself rather than to you. There’s a sadness in her tone, a kind of weariness that you recognize all too well – the exhaustion that comes not just from the miles you’ve walked or the battles you’ve fought, but from carrying the weight of memories. 

“Seems like it,” you reply, slipping the letter back into your pocket. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Ellie’s gaze lingers on you for a second longer than usual, her eyes searching yours for something – understanding, perhaps, or maybe reassurance that the words you’ve just exchanged mean more than they seem. But before you can offer anything, before you can even think of what to say, she looks away, the moment passing like a brief pause in the rhythm of your steps. It’s a fleeting connection, a moment of vulnerability that’s here and then gone, lost in the vast expanse of everything else that remains unsaid between you.

You both know the score, the unspoken agreement that binds you – survival first, everything else second. But something has shifted in the dynamic between you, even if neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it yet.

Then, without another word, you both move on, the creaking floorboards underfoot the only sound that accompanies you as you head toward the exit. But as the door closes behind you with a soft thud, the mood shifts, subtle at first. You can sense it before she even speaks; Ellie’s demeanor changes, her shoulders tense as her steps grow more deliberate, more forceful. 

“Was that all you found?” she asks, her voice sharp and laced with impatience. The softness from just moments ago is gone, replaced by a hard edge that catches you off guard

You’re taken aback by the sudden change in tone, but you quickly shake off the surprise and respond with a controlled voice. “I mean, there were just some old rags and useless company papers up there, if that’s what you mean.”

Ellie’s eyes narrow, the frustration in her gaze intensifying. “So you didn’t actually find anything useful, then? Great. Just great.” Her tone is dismissive, almost accusatory, and it stings more than you’d care to admit. The way she says it, the implication that you’ve somehow let her down, it’s like a slap in the face after everything you’ve been through together.

You raise an eyebrow, your irritation growing. “I didn’t see you finding anything of value. Maybe you should’ve gone up there yourself if you thought it was so easy.” The sharpness in your voice reflects your own mounting frustration.

Ellie’s face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Her hands ball into fists at her sides, her posture rigid. “It’s not about the supplies,” she snaps. “It’s about you acting like you’re doing everyone a favor by finding something we already knew was probably useless.”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, your frustration boiling over. “I’m not acting like I’m doing anyone a favor. I’m just trying to make sure we’re prepared for whatever comes next. But if you’d rather sit around and wait for something to magically appear, that’s fine too.”

Ellie shakes her head vigorously, her voice rising with each word. “You know what? Maybe I would if you didn’t keep making everything so complicated. You’re always trying to prove something, and it just makes everything worse.”

“Prove something? What are you talking about?” You shoot back, your patience wearing thin. “I’m just trying to survive, same as you. If you stopped making everything a competition, we’d actually get somewhere.”

Ellie’s laugh is bitter, her frustration palpable. “God, you love to pat yourself on the back. But I guess that’s just your thing – acting like you’re the hero when you’re really just making a mess.”

You’re silent for a beat, fully taking in her jab. Is that what she really thinks of me? Sure, you had exasperated your fair share of insults; but that seemed over the line. It’s one thing to clash over strategies or tasks, but her comment feels like a personal attack.

At this point, you can feel the argument spiraling into pointless bickering, the tension in the air thick. “Fine! If it means that much to you, I’ll let you handle it. I’ll let you handle everything. I’m done trying to help. ”

Ellie scoffs, the exasperation clear in her voice. “I never asked you to.” 

⭒⭒⭒⭒

Ellie and you sit on opposite sides of the campfire, the darkness amplifying the unspoken frustration that lingers between you. The day’s patrol had been grueling, and the tension between you two is nearly unbearable. Ellie glances at you from across the fire, the glow from the flames dancing eerily on her freckled face.

You chance a glance at Ellie, her lips tightly pursed, and her knuckles white as she grips the edge of the rock she's sitting on. She seems lost in her own thoughts, and it's clear that she's just as uncomfortable with the situation as you are. Ellie breaks the silence first, her voice harsh and cutting. “You know, you really have a talent for pretending everything’s fine. How do you manage it? Acting like you don’t care about anything except what’s right in front of you?”

You shoot her a sharp look, the accusation hitting hard. “Oh, don’t even start. It’s not like you’re any better. You’ve been walking around with this chip on your shoulder, acting like I’m the cause of all your problems!”

Ellie's eyes widen slightly, her grip on the rock tightening even more. Her jaw clenches as if she's holding back a flood of retorts. "Excuse me? Me? I'm the one with the chip on my shoulder? That's rich coming from you." Her voice is laced with both anger and hurt. She leans forward, the fire casting shadows across her face. "Ever since we got paired up, it's like you've been counting the days until we're done. Like I'm nothing more than a nuisance."

“And you’re just so perfect, right?” you snap back, standing up, your frustration boiling over. “You act like you’re handling it all, but you’re the one pushing everyone away because you’re scared of actually dealing with it!”

Ellie stands as well, her voice rising. “Scared? Scared of what? Dealing with your endless stream of excuses and half-assed attempts at being a decent partner? Newsflash: I’m not here to babysit your emotions!”

“You know what? Fuck you,” you shoot back, stepping closer, your anger palpable. “You’re so sick of me? Tomorrow I’ll be gone.” The argument is raw and unrelenting, every word a dagger. The emotional weight of the day, combined with the unresolved tension, erupts between you. Ellie’s frustration and your own anger collide in a chaotic, volatile mixture.

And in a moment of impulsive recklessness, Ellie grabs your collar, yanking you closer. It’s not a gentle kiss, but a clash of emotions and raw need, driven by the tension that’s been simmering for so long. You respond with equal fervor, your hands finding their way to her face, pulling her closer.

The kiss is a desperate release, a tangled knot of emotions unraveling in a moment of primal need. It’s messy, rough around the edges, but it’s also real and unfiltered. You push her back against a nearby tree, the rough bark pressing against her back as the kiss deepens. The pain blends with the heat of the moment, and despite her internal conflict, you find yourself returning the kiss. Her hands rest on your waist, unable to decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you manage to utter, fingers running through auburn locks. The other girl scoffs against your mouth.

"And you're just as annoying," Ellie snaps back between kisses, her fingers digging into your hips. “Insufferable... Aggravating... Impossible..." She mutters, the words lost in a clash of kisses and tongue.

“Say you need me,” you demand, holding her face. Ellie pauses, the words caught in her throat. She hesitates, her eyes locked on yours. The admission hangs in the air, caught between desire and pride. But slowly, reluctantly, she concedes. Her breath shivers slightly as she speaks. 

"I need you.”

She unfastens the buttons on your shirt, one by one, her movements deliberate and filled with barely contained need. Hesitantly, you capture a stray piece of hair between your knuckles and brush it behind her ear. Ellie's attention flickers to the touch, leaning into your hand and expression softening for a moment. You swear she could feel the fast pace beat of your heart against her chest, breath hitching in your throat. You pathetically whimper as she palms your stomach, wanting nothing more in that moment for her to do inappropriate things to you in the middle of the fucking forest. 

A hushed moan left Ellie as she traced patterns onto your lower abdomen, the other woman getting off on your body’s reaction. In turn, your skin felt on fire, Ellie’s touch igniting a blaze within you; as if she was the match and you were burning. Her kisses move from your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck, each one like a scorching brand against your skin.

"Ellie... you're maddening," you pant, a needy edge to your voice. "I want to strangle you... and kiss you senseless."

She drags her lips back up to yours, capturing them in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as it is a surrender. It’s rough and needy, like she’s trying to prove something, trying to make you understand just how deep you’re both in. You clutch at her shirt, desperate for something to hold onto, feeling like you might fall apart if you don’t.

But beneath the rawness, there’s a tenderness that neither of you can deny. It’s there in the way her hand trembles slightly as it trails up your side, in the way she hesitates just for a fraction of a second before deepening the kiss, as if she’s afraid of breaking something fragile between you.

There’s a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before, a vulnerability that takes your breath away. “Don’t leave,” she says quietly, almost like a plea.

Within minutes, Ellie was on her knees. 

⭒⭒⭒⭒

Ellie’s face is soft in the dim light, her features relaxed in a way that you rarely see anymore, the hard edges of survival temporarily softened by the quiet peace of the early morning. There’s a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, a subtle curve that you catch out of the corner of your eye, and you turn to her, curious. 

“Hey,” she begins, her voice low, almost hesitant, as if she’s not quite sure she wants to break the spell of silence that has settled over you. “Remember that time we tried to make a treehouse out of scrap? We thought we’d live in it and everything.” Her words are light, almost playful, a stark contrast to the usual tension that accompanies your conversations, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your own lips in response.

The memory she’s conjured is vivid, a flash of color and sound that washes over you in an instant, transporting you back to a time when things were simpler, when the weight of the world hadn’t yet settled on your shoulders. You can see it clearly in your mind’s eye – the two of you, younger, more carefree, standing in a sun-dappled clearing back in Jackson, surrounded by the scattered remains of what was supposed to be your masterpiece. The air had been thick with the scent of pine and freshly cut wood, the sound of your laughter echoing through the trees as you hammered and sawed, your hands sticky with sap and dirt.

You laugh now, shaking your head at the memory, the sound of your voice startling in the stillness of the morning. “Yeah, and we ended up with a pile of broken wood and a lot of splinters. Didn’t exactly turn out like we planned.” The words are tinged with nostalgia, a warmth that spreads through your chest as you recall the look of determination on Ellie’s face, the way her brow had furrowed in concentration as she tried to fit the mismatched pieces of wood together, her tongue poking out slightly in that way it does when she’s really focused.

Ellie’s laughter joins yours, a light, genuine sound that fills the space between you, breaking through the tension that has lingered there for so long. It’s a rare moment of levity, a brief respite from the seriousness that has come to define your lives, and you find yourself savoring it, the sound of her laughter like a balm to your weary soul.

“Yeah,” she agrees, her grin widening, her eyes bright with the memory. “But it was fun. And it was ours.” There’s a note of pride in her voice, a quiet satisfaction that comes not from the end result, but from the effort itself, from the shared experience of creating something together, no matter how imperfect.

You look at Ellie, really look at her, and in the soft light of the approaching dawn, she looks younger somehow.. There’s a lightness in her gaze, a vulnerability that she rarely allows herself to show, and it makes your heart skip a beat, a quick, fluttering sensation that catches you off guard. It’s not just the memories that have stirred something within you, not just the shared experiences that have brought you closer over the years – it’s the way she looks at you now, the way she allows herself to be open, to be seen, if only for a moment.

“Yeah,” you say softly, the word barely more than a breath. “It was.”

fic taglist: @seraphicsentences @onlinelesbo @yumimak @elliewilliamsblunt @bready101

[cynassa]

countermelody

1.

Gimli has witnessed, before this, the grief of a father or a mother who has outlived their child. Even as his craft lay elsewhere, like all young and strong Dwarves half his life was in the military. As he grew in stature and wisdom, he had begun to lead patrols, or even the occasional skirmish against orcs and spiders and other dark creatures innumerable and unnamed. With this came the duty of going to parents and telling them that their child had perished bravely and gained much glory, whether it was true or not. Perhaps it brought them some peace, although Gimli doubted it.

Some of that grief he could see in Elrond's face, from time to time, as the day wore on, and the gentle lordliness occasionally slipped away to reveal the father. More than one parent, in Gimli's knowledge, quietly gave themselves to the forge after completing their child's last rites, but elves, of course, had no such recourse.

So Gimli dances, when Legolas and Pippin drag him off, and drinks as much as he can to the King and his new Queen's happy marriage, he scatters gold according to his own customs, and flowers according to elven, and cheers when the bride and groom dance on a shield until it is beaten flat, as the custom of Gondor calls for.

And when the wedding ends, he walks long with Legolas, hither and thither, to balconies and roofs, but when they reach the final juncture he unhesitatingly goes to his own room. He does not ask.

2.

Despite what elves seem to believe, occasionally to Gimli's amusement, Dwarves too can love living things. Sometimes they even love Dwarves back. Gimli has had to gently counsel a young dwarf, not even two full decades old, to let go of a wild parrot that she had found half-dead and nursed back to health. It was almost as much a task to coax the parrot away from her, she who had fed it grain by grain when its beak was barely capable of movement. Yet, once it was out of the cold and dampness of the Mountain, it immediately burst into song, voice going from a stale croak born of disuse to the richness born of joy, calling forth many of its own kind to come sing with it. In forty years, the parrot has ever and anon come back to the edge of the forest, but it grew too dangerous to allow their children, so it could only sing from afar. Even were it willing to come back, Gimli told the dwarf, it would waste away again so far from the greenness of its home and the song of its own kind.

In the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, Legolas is as a tall young tree, and as silent as one, a shock to the eye amongst the lovely veins of ore that go line by line unending into the far deepness. His green and grey travel cloak conceals him entirely, and yet the rippling gold of his hair marks him out to the eye at once.

In Fangorn, where finally they walked only two alone, Gimli sees much to wonder at, not only in the trees and fauna around him but in his companion. Legolas seems young indeed, laughing and singing, even more than usual.

And so, even as they make a fire and lay their bedrolls, Gimli does not ask.

3.

After they had walked a long road, they rest, weary yet happy. Unknowingly, Gimli comes to tell Legolas the story of a Firebeard bride. Her Ironfoot husband took her to the far South, and she left all she had to follow him, but after the marriage they came to much misfortune. Many of his kin died and those who lived a while before succumbing told of a terrible beast who ripped them apart with claws alone.

Gimli pauses and Legolas says, with surety, "It was the bride."

"Yes," Gimli says, "and it ends very sadly, with her laying hands on her own babe. Unable to accept it when in her right mind, she ultimately took her own life."

"I pity her, although you may not," Legolas says.

"You are mistaken, she is indeed pitied by all," Gimli replies. "But we also take it as a lesson, that a diamond must be set in its own place and coal in its own."

Legolas laughs quietly. "And yet, even I, ignorant elf that I am, know that one cannot have diamonds without first having coal."

His eyes glint challengingly at Gimli, who finds himself rising to it on instinct, who says, "And yet one would not expect diamond to burn like coal, or a parrot to live long in a cave, or a father to outlive his son."

Then he flinches. I did not ask, he tells himself, surely I did not.

Legolas laughs again, ringing out like bells or the sound of a waterfall from far off, beckoning. "A parrot may nest in a tree outside a cave, and with time coal may do a diamond's task. I have outlived the deadly quest we were on, and what there is beyond this is not in my ken, but my father will not have cause to grieve me for many years yet."

"Some things cannot be asked for," Gimli says, his heart beating like it would escape his chest and fly to his love, if Legolas holds out his hand for it.

"You need not ask," Legolas replies and leans down to hold his furred cheek and chin in two long-fingered hands and kiss him like gentle rain after scorching summer.

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Ten

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Fireheart was left to ponder that vision for the rest of the night. Even more confusing, he didn’t see Yellowfang or Cinderpaw go to Bluestar with this news. He caught sight of Yellowfang speaking to Speckletail, at least, but he had to be content with that by the time he went to sleep. Maybe Bluestar would be talked with tomorrow.

But Yellowfang didn’t talk to Bluestar. In fact, no one did. She didn’t leave her den. Fireheart and Whitecloud were the only ones to see her for a couple days; any time they checked in, she was curled up and asleep, often with half-eaten remains of the prey they left for her lying near the entrance of her den.

“Do you think she’s sick?” Fireheart asked Whitecloud one night.

Whitecloud’s answer was delayed and quiet. “I can only hope that’s the case.”

Speckletail, at least, was pulling her weight admirably. She only had to be told once that Bluestar was feeling unwell for her to double her efforts, recruiting Whitecloud to help her schedule patrols and decide on where the night’s hunters would be sent to level the prey supply. Fireheart did his best to show his appreciation with thanks and not bothering her with questions about Bluestar.

Not to say that Bluestar didn’t come up. A couple nights after Fireheart’s question, he went for breakfast to find Speckletail tiredly pawing around the pile, her ears poorly resisting folding back and her tail twitching. Her cream-and-brown coat had lost a bit of its usual shine, dull with exhaustion.

“Good evening!” Fireheart said brightly, coming up to the side of the pile across from her. He tilted his head, concerned. “You look like you didn’t sleep. Are you alright?”

“Evening.” Speckletail gave him a weary blink. “I slept, don’t worry. It’s just been a busy few nights.” She barely managed a huff of what failed to sound like amusement. “Seems like I’ve got to do everything myself lately. I haven’t gotten Bluestar to come inside and do her job.”

“Oh…” Fireheart nodded, valiantly hiding the immediate spike of worry in his chest. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Do you want me to talk to her for you?”

Another attempt at a chuff, slightly more energetic than the last, and she shook her head. “You don’t need to worry about that, Fireheart. You’ve been taking care of Bluestar like she was Yellowfang. Don’t think I didn’t notice—bringing her prey and making sure she’s alright.” Speckletail gave him a warm look. “I appreciate you trying to help, but it’s not your concern.”

Fireheart almost squinted at her in bafflement. “She’s the leader of ThunderClan and my mentor, and suffering with something she won’t talk about. I would darn well think it’s my concern.”

The deputy’s whiskers twitched. “Right. I forgot I was talking to you.” She sighed, her eyes turning in the direction of Bluestar’s den. “Well, I won’t order you to, but if you think you can get a word out of her, or even get her out of her nest, you have no complaints from me.” She looked back at him. “But perhaps eat first.”

Fireheart obeyed with a head-bob and quickly took a mouse while Speckletail continued to look through the pile. He ate with no ceremony or thought, shook out his fur and trotted out of camp with a tail-flick to Speckletail, who had finally found a squirrel she wanted.

Fireheart took a breath as he approached Bluestar’s den. It was deathly silent out here, a particular void of sound seeming to coalesce specifically behind the lichen curtain. A moment of hesitation, and then Fireheart quietly pushed past the lichen and stepped into Bluestar’s den.

As before, he only saw his mentor’s back, the fur of which was more ruffled and stiffer than usual. She was tightly curled up, breathing so slowly and softly that Fireheart had to watch her side rise and fall to be sure she was still alive. The prey she’d tossed aside, at least, was mostly eaten, but it had gone stale and was starting to stink a little. A few little prey-bones were scattered around where Fireheart or Whitecloud had missed them in scooting the remaining meat outside.

Carefully, Fireheart cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Bluestar?”

Her head did not jolt up as it usually did; instead, she lifted it with groggy surprise, looking around blearily and slowly twisting from lying on her side to on her stomach. In a voice creaky with disuse, she said, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Fireheart said, stepping sideways to get into her view. “I didn’t meant to interrupt your sleep, but I wanted to check on you.”

Bluestar did not meet his eye, or even really look at him beyond a glance as she turned her head this way and that. Fireheart could swear he heard her whisper, “Where…?” before she shook her head like she was clearing away flies and finally looked at her apprentice, though their eyes still didn’t connect.

“Er…” Fireheart cleared his throat again and took a step closer. “Well, I was thinking—you’ve been in here for a few nights now, and the Clan’s a little worried, so I thought maybe you could come in and order a patrol. And, um, get some food, too.” He nudged the mostly-eaten prey with his paw. “This is a little old to finish now.”

“Oh—” Bluestar blinked like she’d been hit in the head and slowly got to her feet. “Yes. Right. Patrols.”

Before Fireheart could say anything else, she walked past him, her tail sticking straight out. Fireheart caught sight of a few bits of dry moss clinging to it.

He hurried out after her, trying to match her pace to stand at her side, having some foggy notion that she was about to fall over and he needed to catch her. She didn’t, obviously, but he was still reluctant to let her walk in front of him as they went through the entrance to camp.

Her arrival was welcomed with many heads turning her way and sparks of conversation and greeting. Fireheart caught up to her, some small part of him relieved at the warm reception for reasons he couldn’t name, and turned to speak to her.

Then he stopped. Watched her eyes roam over camp, mouth ever-so-slightly opening and closing, posture stiff. She was staring at everyone like they were strangers.

Why does she look so confused?

Before he could follow that line of thought, Bluestar vigorously shook her head again and her eyes cleared. She straightened up and, with steps that had a bit of forced regality, made her way over to Speckletail, who had stood up from her meal to greet her leader.

Bluestar got to the point. “Have you sent out a patrol for Sunningrocks’ border?”

“Not tonight,” Speckletail said. “I was busy with the hunting patrols. Should I—”

“No, no.” Bluestar waved her moss-spotted tail. “I can do it. You’ve been working much more than you should have to.” She looked around again, inspecting her Clan distantly, then looked to her apprentice. “Fireheart, will you take…” Again, a scan of the clearing. “Lizardtail and Willowpelt, and their apprentices, to Sunningrocks?”

“Sure!” Fireheart nodded, eager to help. “Should we have someone else come with us, since we have apprentices?”

“It… should be fine.” Bluestar’s eyes fogged for an instant before she blinked the fog away. “Swiftpaw is nearly a warrior. He can count as an adult for this patrol.”

Swiftpaw, sitting by his mentor, brightened up, looking at Lizardtail excitedly. Lizardtail purred and flicked him with his tail.

Willowpelt nudged Brackenpaw and stood up, the golden-brown apprentice jumping up after her. The pair of pairs trotted up to Fireheart, who turned and nodded to Bluestar.

“Get something to eat, too,” he said to her in a low voice. “And please eat all of it.”

At this, Bluestar’s gaze swung over to the prey-pile, and without responding she walked past him and to the scattered animals. Barely holding in a sigh of relief, Fireheart gestured with his tail and led the warriors and apprentices back out of camp.

All in all, it was a rather peaceful walk. Swiftpaw and Brackenpaw hung at the back of the patrol, Swiftpaw telling a story about his first encounter with a deer and Brackenpaw hanging on every word, staring with big-eyed awe at the older apprentice. Fireheart half-listened in, but mostly enjoyed the breeze wafting towards the patrol and winding around them. With the lack of foliage to block it, scents from much further off in the territory greeted him. He was so caught up in trying to identify which particular plant he was smelling, however, that he didn’t notice Willowpelt picking up her pace to catch up to him until she whispered in his ear.

“Is Bluestar okay?” she asked.

Fireheart flinched in surprise and looked at her. “Huh?”

“Bluestar.” Willowpelt glanced back at Lizardtail, who was walking a little faster after them with his ears perked. “She was… well, she felt off. You’re the one who’s seen her the most, so you’d know what’s up, right?”

“Oh,” Fireheart said, scrambling for a satisfying answer. “I have a feeling she’s ill with something. She’s just been sleeping these past few nights. She ought to get better soon.”

Willowpelt nodded, though she didn’t look entirely convinced. Lizardtail, now very close behind, shared an expression of scrutiny with her.

“Just give her time,” Fireheart whispered to them both. “She’ll be okay.”

The faces were much more doubtful, though Fireheart didn’t miss that glint of hope in their eyes. They said nothing more, just walked along their way, the unaware apprentices still talking.

Sunningrocks came up quickly, announced far in advance by the rush of water. Fireheart let himself feel that stab of grief as the thought of Silverstream came back to his mind, and it dutifully drifted away once he found something else to think on. His nose twitched at the faintest smell of fish that grew stronger as they closed in on the stretch of flatland. RiverClanners were near, it seemed.

Good thing Greystripe isn’t with us, he thought. They’d all try to kill him.

Why just him? a mean little bite of an idea snipped. They’re the ones that let Silverstream die. All Greystripe did was love her. He didn’t scare her enough to make her starve herself.

Fireheart unconsciously clenched his teeth on that snip. Don’t. It’s done.

Even with that firm rebuke, he could feel the thought tapping around in the back of his mind, muttering anger. He tried to breathe it out, didn’t succeed, and chose to file it away to consider later.

“You smell that?” he asked brightly of the other warriors. “There must be some RiverClan cats by the water.”

Lizardtail sniffed. “Then we’ll have to remind them where the border is.”

“RiverClan?” Brackenpaw’s voice popped out of the quiet of the forest. “Do I get to see them now?”

“You should, yeah,” Swiftpaw said. “You’ll think they’re funny. Big heads and short tails.”

Brackenpaw’s eyes sparkled. “I bet I’m taller than all of them already.”

Swiftpaw chortled. “You’re at least a better fighter than them.”

“Really?” Brackenpaw tilted his head. “I thought when you guys fought them, you lost.”

“That was a fluke,” Lizardtail said quickly. “They had the element of surprise and more cats.”

“We really ought to go for Sunningrocks again,” Willowpelt muttered, seemingly to herself. “That land will be useful in winter.”

Fireheart sighed, grateful that his head was now turned forward so they couldn’t see him roll his eyes. He’d been happy about the lack of comments about the stupidest quarrel in the territories for the past couple of months, but now that prey was guaranteed to run thin, he expected it would come up again. Fabulous. Exactly what he wanted on this peaceful walk.

“Don’t you sigh like that,” Willowpelt said, more warm than annoyed. “We’re going to need all the prey we can get.”

“There’s no prey on that land, Willowpelt!” Fireheart looked back at her. “It’s a bunch of dumb rocks no one sits on, who cares who owns it?”

To his relief, Willowpelt just crinkled her eyes and shook her head. Even Lizardtail seemed amused by Fireheart’s frown, rolling his own eyes more jokingly than seriously. Fireheart himself just turned forward again, curling his tail good-humoredly.

That cheery mood lasted about as long as it took for a new scent to hit Fireheart’s nose—one that he was very familiar with by this point, but stronger and more disgusting than usual.

“Anyone smell blood?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Lizardtail picked up his pace to catch up and walk by Fireheart, his nose in the air. His eyes narrowed. “I do. That’s not prey blood, that’s…”

“Cat blood,” Willowpelt finished. Her tail bristled. “Someone’s hurt.”

The apprentices fell quiet, sniffing too. In unison, the patrol broke into a run. Fireheart lost his lead to Swiftpaw and Lizardtail, choosing to hang back a bit to block Brackenpaw’s view from whatever it could be. The scent of blood, and now raw meat, strengthened enough to make the mouse in his stomach curdle.

They all skidded to a halt as they reached Sunninrocks’ border. Fireheart poked his head out of the treeline and stared at the sight before him in horror.

A crowd of RiverClan cats were clustered in a pair of groups, the larger one surrounding a large streak of bloody grass and the smaller by the water, where blood joined with the river and melted into it as it was carried downstream. The cats were blocking most of the view, but tails, legs and a familiar warm brown head could be seen, the head with its jaw nearly disconnected and the eyes faded and empty.

“Is that Oakclaw?” Fireheart said, his voice almost cracking.

At his voice, the broad heads shot up and turned the patrol’s way. Fireheart recognized the pale grey calico Pansyheart, and she in turn seemed to realize who he was and relaxed, though her face lacked any of its usual merriment.

“It’s Fireheart and a patrol,” she said dully to her Clanmates. “I’ll talk to them.”

A few cats nodded and looked back down at their deputy and the smaller cat by the water. Pansyheart walked slowly and lethargically up to the treeline, not even seeming to have the energy to twitch her tail at the intrusion.

“You all wouldn’t happen to have found evidence of any dogs in your forest, would you?” she asked when she was standing across from them.

Willowpelt had the good sense to be professional. “We’ve scented them on our border near the neutral grounds, but we haven’t spotted them ourselves, no.” She tilted her head. “What happened here?”

“Take a sniff,” Pansyheart sighed. “Once you get past the dead cats.”

Obligingly, the patrol all lifted their noses, Fireheart opening his mouth to taste the air. The stink of dog was there, just under the meat and blood.

“That’s awful,” Fireheart said softly. “I’m sorry. Who’s been killed?”

“Our deputy and his apprentice, Burdockpaw.” Pansyheart hung her head. “They were out here to mark the border. We thought… we thought, with our land being flat, we could see the dogs coming from far off. I suppose that wasn’t the case.”

“Or it didn’t matter,” Lizardtail said, and to Fireheart’s surprise (and relief) his tone was solemn and empathetic. “Dogs are faster than we think, usually.”

Willowpelt nodded and asked, “Did you see them at all? Where they could have gone?”

Pansyheart gestured limply with her tail behind her. “Across the river. We can smell them on our side.”

Hesitantly, Swiftpaw came forward. “Is everyone else alive?”

“For now, thank the stars,” Pansyheart said with no enthusiasm. “I assume you all came to mark the border. Feel free to. We’ve got this handled.” Her eyes lowered to the ground. “I suggest you all be careful, in case they swim back this way.”

Before anyone could respond to her, she turned around and dragged her feet back over to her Clanmates. They didn’t greet her as she rejoined them, instead just looking back to the bodies in silence.

Fireheart looked at the rest of the patrol and whispered, “We can put off marking, can’t we? They don’t need that right now. It’d be in poor taste.”

Willowpelt looked at Lizardtail, the two communicating silently. Lizardtail tilted his head in thought, then sighed, saying, “Fine. But if they come over here, I’m tattling on you.”

“They’re not going to,” Fireheart said firmly. “Don’t assume that of them when they’re like this. Let’s get prey and go home.”

Swiftpaw and Brackenpaw were giving him highly surprised looks as he turned away from the clearing and walked deeper into the forest, the older warriors following him and the apprentices quickly coming along.

The entire patrol was silent, but Fireheart was more quiet out of a horrible, nauseating ice in his stomach. He’d have to report this, and of course he would. That was just facts.

But how do you tell your ailing leader in a kind way that her former mate is dead?

[ahsokathegray]

Rain Over Me

Pairing: Rexsoka

Prompt: Rexsoka Monthly Dec. ‘23 - Unexpected Encounters

Summary: When it rains, it pours. At least, that’s how Rex had always heard it. But he soon finds even the most dreadful of rains give life back to that which lacks it.

Tags: angst, bittersweet, rainy confessions, lost without each other, established relationship, post bad batch

Word Count: 3,426

A/N: this was just an excuse to write sad, lonely Rex with a reunion in the rain and I’m only somewhat sorry (@rexsoka-monthly)

read on ao3! / masterlist

The wood on the dusty, old shack was darker now with the onslaught of rain. Its months dry boards drank in the water and was hydrated once more, appearing to be in its prime again if only until the rain cleared. In more ways than one, it had been a dreary summer and the rain was much needed.

Rex had grown fond of the little restaurant — if one could call it that.

It wasn��t kept up to standards, he was most certain. He’d only seen someone sweep the place once. It was a sad little place, but comforting in its own right. The only faces that were constant here were those of the owner or the employees. Rex never saw anyone else twice.

Maybe he saw a bit of himself in the old shack — weary, unkempt, a stranger to itself, lacking energy.

He wasn’t an old man, no, the cure had stopped all that. But he did feel like it, and he’d always look older than his true age. Seventeen years of life didn’t reflect what he felt in his joints, what he recalled in his mind, what was on his false chain code, and what he saw when he looked back at himself in the mirror.

Yeah. Like the shack in the rain, he felt he was falsely young in appearance. It felt wrong not to age so quickly anymore, even though it was the most normal part of human life.

Rex carded a few fingers through his short, blonde curls, wicked the rain off his coat, and ascended the creaky steps. He took a menu, even though he knew he’d order the same thing as always, and seated himself at his usual booth.

The owner, who was old, wordlessly brought him a steaming cup of caf.

“I see we are past the point of asking now,” Rex observed, a corner of his mouth turning up.

A raspy laugh filled the stale, humid air, “What can I say? You’re my favorite regular, Rex!”

The other corner of Rex’s mouth raised, “I’m your only regular, Mr. Kip.”

“And a damn good tipper too,” the Ithorian man smiled, winking before walking back into the kitchen.

Well, he had nothing else to spend his credits on.

Rex scanned the menu items as if he didn’t already have the selections memorized. Even the daily special was the same every single day. Nothing changed and he found he had no qualms about that. After years of unpredictability and pushing his body, mind, and heart to their limits of strain, he found peace in the monotony of routine.

After much deliberation, Rex settled on the Single Sun Breakfast to no surprise. He half expected his meal to be brought out without confirmation, but old Kip stopped back by to make sure anyway.

He could get used to it — the not talking. It was rare he did much of it anyway these days, what with living alone. And, truly, he did enjoy the company of the staff, but the more minimal the interactions the better. Getting attached to people was a flaw he would never risk again. Losing so many loved ones in such a small frame of time would prompt anyone to make such vows.

Rex very much hoped there was a version of himself out there that hadn’t sworn it off, that he was happy and surrounded by those he held dear.

His fork was turned around in his fingers as he tried to ignore the fact he’d finally acknowledged that he was unhappy. It had been that way for years now and it was difficult to revisit the last time the opposite had been true.

It had been warm on Mandalore, when rumors of the war ending sparked hope rather than memories of almost; when battle felt good and he felt invincible and life had been first punctuated by something like love and a woman like her.

Squeezing the cutlery, he set it back down and threaded his fingers together, glancing out the condensating window instead.

Rain came down violently onto the flora just outside the establishment, but pattered softly on the windowsill. Every now and then, a drop found its way inside, or perhaps it was the water droplets still clinging to his hair. Oh, if that illustrious Captain could see him now. That version of himself would disapprove immensely of so many things — but his hair would be at the top of the list.

He did not wish to remind himself of what came second and was thankful when he spotted his plate emerging from the kitchen. His breakfast was brought out with little fanfare and looked as if always did. This pleased him.

As he ate, he thought of what he needed to get done in the upcoming week. He needed to give the old Y-wing a fresh coat of paint; the Republic and medic insignias were becoming visible again, as well as a damning shade of blue. The hole in the roof of his tiny home needed to be patched still. He kicked himself for not doing it sooner and added purchasing a bucket to his growing list.

Something like a laugh escaped him around a bite of rolled omelette, thinking about his helmet being used to collect water from a roof leak. It was when his head lifted up to do this that he saw a pair on montrals facing away from him, seated at a booth closer to the door.

There was a tightening in his lungs and the gaping hole in his heart was reopened; discarded of anything he’d ever used to cover it with. Rex swallowed hard and placed his head in his hands, counting as he regulated his breathing.

This happened every time he thought he saw her.

And, without fail, it was never her.

He ought to have internalized that by now. It had just been so long since the last time he mistook someone else for her. Lone Togrutas were not a sight seen often; they didn’t tend to stray very far from Kiros or Shili.

Rex wished that wasn't the case.

Seeing them more often might’ve kicked this fool’s hope earlier — the one that bubbled up violently inside him whenever he caught a glimpse of three lekku rather than the usual two or, like today, a set of montrals.

They were femininely shaped and blue, just like he knew hers to be, which didn’t help matters.

Getting up from the table to visit the refresher solely to see if it was her was something he was not going to let himself do. He had to get over this. He couldn’t let it control the trajectory of his day each time it happened.

Exhaling and centering himself, Rex finished his meal with a difficulty that hadn’t been present before and told himself his appetite was still there even though that was far from the case. Memories of similar breakfasts in similar restaurants with her bullied their way to the forefront of his mind. Small bouquets of freshly plucked flowers, dirt still clinging to them, being given to her and then placed in a cup of water from wherever they’d been eating.

Rex couldn’t help himself.

Once his plate was clear, he looked across the six booths that separated them. But the woman’s montrals were nowhere to be seen. Rex waited a little longer to see if she was just leaning down looking over a menu or taking a bite of food, but the montrals did not reappear.

Panic swept through him, his veins turning into hot plasma underneath his skin.

He rose promptly from his booth, eyes glued to the one she’d been at. Only a half finished mug of tea sat on the table. She never did like caf. His heart rate shifted into high gear and he made a beeline for the register, already fishing around in his pocket for credits, his fingers shaking.

“Oh, there’ll be no need today,” Kip said with a particularly pleased smile.

The hand in Rex’s pocket stilled and his heart leapt into his throat. “What do you mean?” His voice rattled as he spoke.

“Why, the young lady who just left covered your meal. Said to thank you for your service,” The Ithorian pointed to the entrance as the door slid closed.

For the first time in a long time, the world around Rex melted away and began to slow. Everything became muffled. The credit chits he had in his hand were placed onto the counter despite what the owner had just told him and before he could even tell them to do so, his feet were carrying him to the exit.

“Rex, what do you want me to do with this?”

“I don’t care,” he answered without looking back. “Pay it forward.”

Thick sheets of rain now came from the sky, pouring down so heavily that the world around him had turned white. The clouds flickered and thunder sounded, accompanied by angry strikes of lightning. Any footprints that might’ve been left behind in the mud had been washed away as quickly as they were made.

Whoever she was… she was gone.

A hand was clapped to his shoulder but Rex didn’t look down.

Kip sounded confused yet sympathetic. “She’s not gettin’ away in that, if that’s what you’re thinking.” The old man paused. “If you’re after her, I reckon’ she’ll be back again tomorrow.”

The hand was removed and Kip walked away, but Rex stayed frozen in the doorway. If it was her, he was doubtful she’d be back for breakfast the following morning. She could get away even in the most hopeless conditions.

Rex clenched his teeth, pulled his raincoat tighter and set out anyway.

It was like he hadn’t been living on Dantooine for the past year and a half. He was directionless, as if all the memorized paths, landmarks, and shops had been washed away with the rain. There was no departing vehicle, no lights, and no indicator of where the woman had gone.

Defeated, Rex looked up into the sky with his eyes closed, letting the rain fall over his face and streak through his hair. His chest had knotted itself and his knees threatened to buckle under the torrential downpour.

But Rex stood firmly, shoved his hands into his pockets, and let the rain soak him to the bone as he walked towards the small town.

He spent the remainder of his morning stopping by every establishment there was until the shopkeepers started closing up due to weather. The folks he did manage to speak with hadn’t seen her and each tried to hand him an umbrella or invite him inside until the storm passed.

He declined.

Straggling passersby still caught in the rain gave him funny looks as they ran to get to cover. Rex was in no such hurry.

The overgrown road that led to his tiny home was taken in the shortest possible strides. He did not wish to return there, especially not to a datapad he knew would have no messages on it. He had half a mind to turn back to the restaurant if he didn’t think they’d already closed up like everyone else.

Rex stepped into his home and was greeted by the sound of dripping water. He sighed deeply, unmoving in the doorway until he could suppress the viscous tears that taunted him behind closed lids. Once they were managed, his boots and raincoat were discarded, the mess from the leak was mopped, and his helmet was removed from its place under the bed to sit and collect the intruding water.

He watched the rain fill his bucket until it went past the visor before he fell into the awaiting embrace of sleep that was always there to help temporarily subside the pain.

More than anything, Rex wished he could say that he hadn’t woken up early, that he hadn’t gotten up before the neighbor’s nunas began to stir. He wished he could say it wasn’t in his plans to go sit up at the restaurant and wait all day to see if the woman turned up.

Really, he should be using his time to buy paint for his ship as well as a proper bucket for the leak, but neither of those things seemed to matter much at the prospect of running into her.

It was pathetic. He knew that.

He could’ve just saved himself all this trouble if he’d gotten up and used something as an excuse to see her face. But no, Rex chose to be strong when it mattered the absolute least.

His thin blanket felt as though it weighed ten tons when he rose out of bed, dreading vehemently the idea of waiting around all day for nothing — dreading the pit in his stomach he knew all too well when it wasn’t her after all and just some stranger. Rex’s feet hit the worn wooden floor and he rubbed his bleary eyes, aiming first for the refresher and then for his helmet.

A considerable amount of rainwater had been collected in the makeshift-not-makeshift bucket and more was being added still. The rain had yet to cease but it had slowed a great deal. He picked it up carefully and walked it to the door, yawning as he did so. Soft sheets of rain greeted his bare feet as the door slid aside, coming down now in a gentle shower-like way as opposed to yesterday’s storm.

Rex decided that when the rain stopped, he’d call it. He’d tie his mood to it, give himself an allotted period of time to feel this incessant pain before forcing it down again.

He swung his helmet to the left and watched as the water landed on his long-dead flowers, before looking out at the state of the rest of his yard.

The helmet nearly fell from his hands.

A hooded figure was inspecting his ship, an orange hand running across a partially revealed red sigil and skirting across blue paint. Any fleeting thoughts of making a grab for his blasters vanished. Rex knew that hand better than either of his own.

She turned and lifted slightly the hood of her cloak to get a better look at him.

There she was. Then she was as if no time at all had passed. As if she’d been down the road all along.

Ahsoka was dressed in that gray cloak he knew well, with lekku he used to know but that were now nearing her waist. Her montrals were taller than they were last time. He wondered if they’d be eye to eye this time, and if looking her in the eyes would still feel the same as it always did, as he wanted it to — needed it to.

Even from this distance, he could see her bottom lip quiver.

“I had to be sure,” she called out over the rain.

Rex struggled to speak, suffering from having too many words in his mouth and yet not at all.

She glanced back at the Y-wing behind her and ran a hand over the chipped paint job, revealing a bit more of that 501st blue.

“I knew your face as soon as I walked into the restaurant yesterday, but I wasn’t certain that it was the one… that it was the one I had loved,” she continued.

He joined her in the rain now. It was cold on his bare shoulders and worse as it streaked down his torso, but he didn’t shiver, nor did he care he’d be tracking yet more water inside. Rex’s chest tightened and his mouth dried. “Loved? As in the past tense?” he called, water beading on his hair and lashes. Not all of it was from the rain.

Ahsoka shook her head, droplets running off her lekku.

The pause between them was occupied by the steady fall of rain.

“You know the worst thing about love?” he asked.

She nodded, looking briefly at her feet, “That you remember it.”

Rex’s tongue pressed into his cheek and he nodded with her, “I knew from the moment we parted the first time that I’d spend a lifetime missing you.” He waited a bit. “It’s proved true so far. Each time it gets worse.”

He couldn’t tell her tears from the rain, but knew that she was crying. Rex was always aware that it hadn’t ever hurt any less for her. “I never intended it to be that way,” she called.

“I know.”

She stepped closer, weighing her words. “Rex, the hardest thing I’ve ever done is walk away still madly in love with you. There’s not a minute that goes by that I don’t regret it — that I don’t sit and wonder about what you do each day.”

“Well currently, it’s wishing I’d gotten up as soon as I saw you sitting at that booth. I’d know your montrals anywhere. Convinced myself it wasn’t you.”

“And before that?”

“Wishing I never let you say goodbye.”

She swallowed hard. “I have a lot to make up for. I know that. And I know this doesn’t begin to cover it, but do you think I could start with breakfast?” she asked, holding up the takeaway box that was under her cloak. “Mr. Kip told me where I could find you, said you ran out after me.”

Rex couldn’t suppress his smile. “No. Breakfast was covered yesterday. I think you’ll have to get more creative than that today.”

Ahsoka laughed and bit her lip, her eyes overcome with emotion. Shaking his head, Rex dropped his helmet into the flowerbed and all but ran to her, holding her trembling frame to him with possibly too much strength. The box fell. Her arms wrapped under his and he found that she fit better than she ever used to. He removed her hood with desperation and his chin fell into place between her montrals, still having at least one head in height over her. Rex kissed repeatedly the space between her uppermost chevrons as the sobs took control of her body.

The rain slowed to a drizzle and, as he’d vowed earlier, his mood lifted with it. Morning rays peeked out at them from behind the trees, warming their skin.

Being with Ahsoka was like walking into the sun, like walking directly into sunlight after the longest winter.

She pulled away first, though by the look on her face, it seemed to be the last thing she wanted to do. Her eyes were glued to the mangled scar on his chest, momentarily ashamed of looking him in the face.

But Rex’s hand slid under her jaw and moved her to look up at him. “I can’t think of anything better than breakfast with you. We’ve suffered enough, Ahsoka. Come inside. Stay with me until we have no choice but to leave; and even then, stay with me until there are no more planets left to run to. Let’s have breakfast together for as long as this life allows us because life without you is no way to live.”

“I haven’t had breakfast in a year and a half,” she said, tears streaking her cheeks.

Rex wiped them away. “You’re not missing out. It doesn’t taste the same when we aren’t together.”

Ahsoka eyed the slightly crumpled box of food on the ground and Rex picked it up, popping it back into its correct shape and wicking the water from it.

Apologies tumbled from her lips, but Rex wouldn’t hear any of it. She’d fought and offered her aid to the Rebellion until she couldn’t any more; until she was sure they could manage without her and that Rex wouldn’t die if she came home. It was the type of thing he had long since accepted — back when it had been cold on that moon, when rumors of another war began, and battle no longer felt good and he no longer felt invincible unless he was with her. Only one thing stayed the same. Life had still been punctuated with something far greater than love and a woman named Ahsoka.

His eyes did all the asking as he leaned in close. Ahsoka gave the faintest of nods, allowing him to kiss away her apologies; first slowly and then with an energized passion only she could provoke.

And just as he hoped they would, Ahsoka’s fingers found his curls, and he carried her and their very cold breakfast inside, leaving his helmet to become the home for several long years of blossoming flowers.

[lifeofpriya]

Jack with a sleepy girl :’-) my heart

i got you, bestie 🤭👍🏼

Will They, Won't They?

wc: 3.5k

"Come on, get up," you say, gently shaking Jack's shoulder. His eyes flutter open, and you're met with a sleepy smile that quickly fades into confusion as he takes in his surroundings—the crowded bar, the disco lights reflecting off the sweaty faces of the people around you, the sticky floor beneath his feet.

Jack groans, his head lolling to one side. "What time is it?" he mumbles, his voice thick with the weight of the drinks he's had.

You check your phone with a sigh. "It's almost two in the morning. We need to get you home before you pass out."

Jack nods, looking a bit green around the edges. "Yeah, you're right." He tries to stand, but his legs wobble like a newborn fawn's. You wrap an arm around his waist, bracing him as he sways precariously. The bar's music thumps in your ears, a relentless bass that seems to echo the rhythm of your own pulse. The smell of stale beer and sweat is overpowering, and the strobe lights make the room spin even for you, who's had nothing but water all night.

You navigate through the throng of people, the floor sticking to your shoes with every step. Each flash of light reveals a blur of faces, some lost in their own worlds, others watching you with a mix of amusement and envy. You're the designated sober one, the reliable friend who's always there to keep things together when everyone else falls apart. It's a role you've played before, but tonight you're feeling the weight of it more than usual. Your eyes burn with the need for sleep, and your body begs for the comfort of your own bed.

Outside, the cool night air slaps Jack's cheeks, bringing a little color back to his face. "Come on, Jack, work with me here," you say, as you help him stumble down the street. The sidewalks are uneven, and every time he missteps, your heart jumps in your chest, afraid he'll tumble into the gutter. You've had your share of late nights, but this one seems to be dragging on longer than usual.

The journey to Jack's apartment feels like an eternal trek. The streets are eerily quiet, the occasional car passing by casting elongated shadows that dance along the pavement. You can hear the distant hum of the city, a stark contrast to the loud, pulsing bar you just left. Each breath you take is a little easier than the last, and you're grateful for the relative calmness outside. The chill seeps into your bones, reminding you that you're dressed for a night in, not a walk of shame.

Jack leans heavily on you, his weight a constant reminder of the responsibility you've taken on. His speech is slurred, and his laughter—though muffled—rings out, echoing through the stillness. You manage to steer him away from a particularly nasty puddle, not wanting to deal with wet shoes in addition to his inebriation. The street lamps cast a warm glow, painting the world in shades of gold and shadow. You can't help but feel a little envious of the sleeping houses you pass, their windows dark and silent.

As you approach Jack's apartment building, you notice the lights are still on in the lobby, illuminating the path to the entrance. The buzzer feels like a lifeline in the quiet night, and you press it with a sense of relief. It takes a few moments, but finally, the crackle of an intercom breaks the silence. "Jack, is that you?" a groggy voice asks.

The crackle of the intercom appeared to have woken Paul, Jack's roommate and close friend, up from his deep sleep. "Jack, you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Jack slurred, barely coherent. "Just had a little too much to drink."

Paul's sigh of relief is audible through the speaker. "Please tell me someone is there with you."

"Yeah, it's me," you reply, your voice firm but weary. "I've got him."

"Thank God," Paul says, the intercom clicking as he buzzes you in.

The lobby is a welcome respite from the cold night, the warmth enveloping you both as you stumble through the double doors. The carpet feels plush under your feet, a stark contrast to the gritty sidewalks. You help Jack into the elevator, his body lurching against yours as the doors close with a gentle ding. The metal walls seem to close in around you, the quiet whirring of the elevator's ascent a strange comfort in the otherwise chaotic night.

When you reach the floor where Jack lives, the elevator lets out a soft ding, and the doors slide open. You guide him down the hallway, his arm slung over your shoulder, his feet barely touching the floor. The fluorescent lights cast a cold glow on the patterned carpet, making it look like a river of sickly green waves beneath your feet. The sound of your footsteps is muffled by the quietude of the building, the only noise the occasional snore or muffled TV show seeping through the walls.

Finally, you arrive at the door to Jack's apartment. You fish the keys out of his pocket and unlock the door with a click that seems unnaturally loud in the silence. The living room is a mess of half-empty takeout containers and dirty laundry, a stark contrast to the pristine courts he's used to. You help him to the couch, his body collapsing onto it like a ragdoll. "Thanks, buddy," he mumbles, his eyes already closing.

Paul emerges from his room, his hair sticking up in every direction, a clear sign of his hasty exit from bed. He takes one look at Jack and shakes his head, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Same old, same old," he says, his voice filled with affectionate exasperation.

"Unfortunately, there was no killer rendition of 500 Miles tonight," you joke, remembering the moment Jack shared with Andy last year during a four-hour car ride.

Paul chuckles, the sound low and tired. "More like 500 meters before he conked out," he says, approaching the couch. "Let's get him to bed before he throws up everywhere."

Together, you and Paul hoist Jack up from the couch, his legs dragging behind him like a ragdoll's. His arms hang loosely around your shoulders, his weight a surprising burden for someone so fit. You manage to maneuver him down the narrow hallway, the walls seemingly closing in with every step. The smell of his cologne, usually so pleasant, is now overpowering and sickly sweet.

In the bedroom, you help him onto the bed, the mattress groaning in protest. He flops down, his head landing with a thud on the pillow. You remove his shoes, the sound of them hitting the floor echoing through the room. You both breathe a sigh of relief as he stays put, not even bothering to kick off his socks. The room is a mess, clothes strewn across the floor, but you know better than to try to clean it now. That's a battle for tomorrow.

"I'll get him settled in, you go back to sleep," you couldn't help but yawn mid-sentence. The room felt stuffy, a cocoon of stale air and the faint scent of Jack's sweat.

Paul nodded, his eyes drooping. "Thanks, mate. I owe you one."

"Don't worry about it," you reply, smiling despite your exhaustion. "Just make sure he doesn't miss his morning practice, okay?"

Paul nods, his eyes already half-closed. "I'll set an alarm for him," he mumbles, his feet shuffling back towards his room. "And for me, I guess."

You watch him disappear into the hallway before turning back to Jack, who's already snoring softly, one arm flung over his face. With a sigh, you pull the blanket over him, tucking it around his body as best you can. His breathing is deep and rhythmic, the occasional snort punctuating the quiet. You can't help but feel a pang of adoration at the sight of this usually poised athlete, now a rumpled mess on his bed. But your smile fades as you remember the walk here, the weight of his body leaning on you, and the sheer exhaustion that's taken over your own limbs.

With a last pat on his shoulder, you slip out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you. The hallway light feels like a spotlight on your bleary eyes, and you squint against it as you make your way back to the couch. The living room seems even messier than before, but you're too tired to care. You kick off your shoes and drape your jacket over the arm of the chair before collapsing onto the couch, your body melting into the cushions.

The quiet is a balm to your ears, the only sounds now the occasional snore from Jack's room and the distant hum of the city outside. You let out a deep, shaky breath, feeling the tension slowly seep out of your muscles. Your eyes drift closed, and for a brief moment, you're tempted to just stay there, to let sleep take you in the warm embrace of the couch.

But you know you can't. You have your own place to get back to, your own bed that's been waiting for you all night. With a grunt, you push yourself up, your bones protesting the sudden movement. You gather your things, the cold floor a shock against your socks as you tiptoe through the apartment. In the kitchen, you grab a glass of water and a couple of painkillers for Jack, placing them on the nightstand next to his bed.

As you exit the room, you pause for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. You've known Jack for years, seen him at his best and his worst. Nights like these are just part of the job description of being his friend. You tiptoe back to the living room, the couch calling your name like a siren's song. But you know better than to give in.

Before you could even pull your phone out to order a taxi, you could hear Jack mumbling something incoherent from the bedroom. You groan, your body begging you to stay put, but you know you can't leave him like this. You trudge back down the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet.

Jack's room is a disaster, clothes scattered everywhere as if a tornado had ripped through. You make your way to the bed, where he's tangled in the blankets like a drunken octopus.

"Jack," you whisper, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. He stirs, his eyes cracking open. "I'm leaving now. Do you need anything?"

He mumbles something unintelligible, his head rolling to the side. "Stay here with me," he slurs, his grip on the blanket tightening.

Your heart raced faster at the thought of spending more time with Jack, but you knew your own bed was calling your name. "I can't, Jack. I've got to get home," you whisper, your voice filled with reluctance. "But I'll be here for you tomorrow, okay?"

Jack's eyes searched yours, "please? Just a little bit longer?" His voice was small and desperate, a stark contrast to the confident tennis star you knew.

You sigh, feeling the weight of his request tug at your already stretched patience. "Alright, just a little bit," you concede, your body dropping back onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and Jack shifts closer, his head lolling onto your shoulder. His breath is hot against your neck, and his hand finds yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles. The intimacy of the moment is unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome.

For a few moments, you sit in silence, the only sound the steady rhythm of his breathing and the occasional snore. The room spins gently around you, the remnants of the night's events playing out in your mind like a fuzzy movie reel.

Jack's hand tightens around yours, and he mumbles something you can't quite make out. You lean in closer, your ear brushing against his hair, which smells faintly of shampoo and the lingering scent of the bar. "You're the best," he whispers, his voice thick with sleep.

You smile despite yourself, the warmth of his hand in yours bringing a strange comfort to your weary body. The room is a cocoon of darkness, the only light a sliver of moonlight peeking through the blinds. The coolness of the sheets against your back is a stark contrast to the warmth of Jack's body beside you. You know you should leave, but there's something about the vulnerability of the moment that keeps you rooted to the spot.

"You know, you're pretty amazing too," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. You feel his chest rise and fall with a sigh, his grip on your hand loosening as sleep takes him fully. It's a gentle reminder of the friendship that's grown between you over the years, a bond that's seen you through countless late nights and early mornings.

The room feels eerily still, the only movement the occasional rustle of the curtains as the wind whispers outside. You sit there, your eyes drifting shut, lulled by the sound of his breathing. You're on the edge of sleep when Jack shifts again, his hand finding its way to your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt of something unfamiliar through you. You look at him, his eyes closed, his face relaxed in sleep. It's a side of him you rarely see, stripped of the layers of confidence and charm that he wears so easily.

You can't tell if it's the exhaustion or the intimacy of the moment, but your chest feels tight, your heart beating a strange tattoo against your ribs. You lean in, your nose brushing against his hair, and breathe in his scent—the faint smell of sweat and alcohol mixed with something deeper, something uniquely Jack. You've been here before, but never quite like this.

The room spins a little more, and you realize that maybe you're not as sober as you thought. Or perhaps it's just the lack of sleep playing tricks on you. Either way, Jack's touch feels surprisingly comforting. You're about to pull away when his eyes flutter open again, his gaze hazy with sleep. For a moment, you're trapped in his stare, the hazel of his irises swirling into the darkness of the room.

"Thank you," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."

You nod, unsure of what to say next. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy with unspoken words. You can feel the warmth of his hand on your cheek, his thumb still making lazy circles on your skin. The urge to lean in and kiss him is strong, but you fight it, telling yourself it's just the exhaustion playing tricks on you.

Jack's eyes drift shut again, and you sit there, your mind racing. You've had feelings for him before, but they've always been buried under layers of friendship and mutual respect. But now, in the quiet of his room, with his hand on your face, those feelings feel closer to the surface than ever before. You tell yourself it's just the intimacy of the moment, that it doesn't mean anything.

With a deep breath, you gently move his hand away and stand up. You need to leave before things get complicated. You tiptoe to the door, the floorboards groaning beneath your weight. The hallway seems to stretch on forever, the light from the living room a beacon of safety. You grab your shoes and jacket, feeling the weight of the night's events pressing down on you.

As you slip into the cold embrace of the night, the sound of the door closing behind you echoes through the empty streets. The cool air is refreshing, waking you up a little. You pull out your phone to call a taxi, your thumb hovering over the screen. But before you can press the button, you hear footsteps behind you.

You turn to see Jack, still in his rumpled clothes, his hair sticking up in every direction. "You're leaving?" he asks, his voice tinged with surprise.

"Yeah, I have to get home," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. "You're all set now."

Jack's eyes search yours, a hint of something unspoken passing between you. "Would you…stay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just for a bit?"

You hesitate, the cold night air stinging your cheeks. You're tired, your body begging for rest, but you can't ignore the vulnerability in his voice. You nod, and together you make your way back to the couch, his arm draped over your shoulders. The living room is a mess, but you don't care. You just want to lie down.

Jack's weight shifts as he sits beside you, his hand still clutching yours. You can feel the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his thumb. You're so close that you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the faint freckles across his nose. The room feels smaller, more intimate, with just the two of you in it.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. You can't help but smile, the corners of your mouth tugging upward. You've been there for him through countless matches, interviews, and parties. But this… this feels different.

You lean your head back against the couch, Jack's hand still clutching yours. The fabric of the couch is rough against your cheek, but it's a comforting sensation in the quiet room. His breathing evens out, and you listen to the sound of his slow inhales and exhales. The TV is still on, playing some infomercial at a low volume. The blue light flickers across the ceiling, casting strange shadows.

As your eyes drift shut, you feel a nudge. "Hey," Jack whispers, his voice raspy. "You okay?"

You nod, the couch feeling more like a bed with every passing moment. "Yeah, just tired."

Jack's grip on your hand tightens, pulling you closer to him. "Me too," he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut again. His breath is warm and even, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You can feel the thump of his heart, a comforting beat against your side.

For a while, you just sit there, the silence stretching out between you like a tightrope. You're aware of every breath he takes, every little shift of his body. The room feels charged with something you can't quite put your finger on—it's not just friendship anymore. But you're too tired to analyze it, too sleep-deprived to do anything but let it wash over you.

Jack's hand is still in yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. It's a comforting gesture, one that makes you feel less alone in the quiet of the night. You lean your head against his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt rough against your skin. He feels solid, real, a comforting presence in the chaos of the night.

For a while, you just sit there, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the low murmur of the TV in the background. It's peaceful, almost too quiet. You're aware of the line you're crossing, the one that separates friendship from something more. But the darkness of the room and the weight of your eyelids make it easy to ignore.

Jack's breathing deepens, and you feel his body relax further into the couch. You know he's asleep, but you can't bring yourself to move. Your heart thuds in your chest, the silence echoing the questions in your mind. What if you leaned in a little closer? What if you let your head rest on his chest, just for a moment?

But you don't. You sit there, the couch's springs digging into your side, Jack's hand still wrapped around yours. The TV drones on, the infomercial now a white noise lullaby. You're so tired, your eyelids feeling like they're made of lead, but you're afraid to move, afraid to break the spell.

Finally, you can't resist anymore. You lean in, your cheek resting against his chest, the thump of his heart a steady rhythm beneath your ear. His arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and you let out a sigh of contentment. It feels right, like you've found your place in the world, if only for a moment.

The TV's glow dims as your eyes drift shut, the soft hum of the city outside the only soundtrack to your slumber. The tension of the night fades away, replaced by the warmth of Jack's body and the comfort of his embrace. You've never felt so at peace, so safe.

But sleep doesn't come easy. Your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, racing through the moments of the night, replaying every touch, every look. You've been friends for so long, but now, in the quiet darkness, it's like seeing him with new eyes. You wonder if he feels the same way, if he's ever felt the same way.

[ladylucksrogue]

Hi! Could I pretty please ask for Rexsoka with 32 - A kiss while someone watches!

Thank you for this one!

Set post order 66, at some point while they are on the run...

Ahsoka paused at the stand, her eyes scanning the items on display. They needed clothing, and this stall seemed promising. She reached out to touch a cloak, inspecting the fabric and weave. The color reminded her of the 501st blue on Rex’s armor. She wondered if it might be too obvious a choice. Before she could decide, a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“That color would go great with your eyes,” a human man said, stepping closer. Ahsoka blinked, pulled from her reverie. The man might have been handsome once, but now he had the weary look common on the Outer Rim. His hair, streaked with gray and a bit greasy, hung to his shoulders, and his smile made her uneasy. Something about him set off her instincts.

She took a step back almost unconsciously, offering a polite smile. “Oh, it’s not for me,” she said.

“A pretty girl like you should treat herself,” he pushed, launching into a sales pitch. He began showing her various items, most of which Ahsoka had no interest in, and many far beyond her budget.

She tried to steer the conversation toward what she was actually looking for, but he paid her no attention.

“Don’t see many Togruta out here. What brings you to these parts?” he asked, moving closer again. The scent of stale sweat mixed with cheap cologne made her resist the urge to wrinkle her nose.

“Oh, this and that,” she said vaguely. What was she supposed to say?  She was on the run?  Not that he was even interested in her words, especially when he was eyeing her with all the subtlety of a gundark sizing up its prey.

“Look, thanks, but I’m going to look elsewhere. Have a nice day,” she said, forcing a strained smile. She turned to leave, but the vendor’s hand closed around her wrist. Her first instinct was to use a close combat move that probably wasn’t appropriate to use on a civilian, but she restrained herself. Still, as she tried to pull away, the urge grew stronger.

Just then, she felt the warmth of a familiar presence seconds before an arm wrapped around her shoulders from behind, a very familiar arm.

“Sorry I’m late,” Rex said, his voice low beside her montral as he moved in front of her, his lips brushing hers. Ahsoka almost flinched in surprise but quickly understood what Rex was doing. To the vendor, they would just look like an affectionate couple, much less dangerous than causing a scene. She felt the man’s grip loosen and disappear as she instinctively leaned into the kiss. She felt the stubble on Rex’s face, tasted the hint of jogan fruit ice they’d shared earlier, smelled the clean scent of his soap. 

All too soon, it was over. When Ahsoka opened her eyes, she found Rex watching her with an unreadable expression. The move had defused the situation, safer for everyone involved, except maybe her heart. It pounded so hard she was sure Rex could hear it.

“Ready to go?” Rex asked.

Ahsoka nodded, sparing only a brief glance at the vendor, who had retreated behind his counter, pretending to busy himself with his wares. She didn’t miss the glare he sent Rex’s way.

As they moved through the crowd, Ahsoka’s thoughts spun. She was grateful for Rex’s quick thinking, but was that all it had been? She couldn’t shake the look he’d given her. Should she ask him about it or pretend it never happened? As they walked, she felt his hand brush against hers. She thought it was an accident until it happened again, only this time, his hand enveloped hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. She glanced over at him, catching his bashful smile.

And she couldn’t help but smile back.

[seoksgrl]

happier than ever, 4. : knj namjoon x reader friends to strangers to lovers

tws: alcoholism, depression, suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide

note: this chapter was a hard one to write, and a hard one to read, please heed the warnings!

m.list prev | next

You’ve been staring at the shop window for twenty minutes now, and you know the only reason you haven’t been shooed away with a broom is because you know the owner. Mrs Ahn’s shrewd eyes watch you from behind the aged glass, her knowing gaze watching you with equal parts pity and weariness. You’re still dressed in the clothes you went out in last night, and you haven’t been back home to change - you stink of stale booze and cigarettes, but people pass you as if you’re not there. 

The necklace is still in the window, and you come to stare at it every so often when you’re feeling particularly sorry for yourself, when you want to remind yourself of the waste of breath you have become. The necklace only fetched a few won, being fake and all, but the night you’d pawned it, the few notes it got you was enough to buy three bottles of whiskey. 

Today, you’ve decided to punish yourself a little longer than usual, staring at your mother’s necklace on the other side of the glass, letting the cubic zirconia glint at you like a wicked wink, mocking you for being the worst human being on planet earth. It almost hurts a little, and that's all you allow yourself before you turn away, walking down the street like a coward. 

“Y/N, dear,” Mrs Ahn calls, and you stop for a second, pausing in your step because this moment has strayed from the usual routine. When you turn, the old woman is watching you with those same eyes that remind you of the liquor you’d bought after seeing her that night, and you look away, down at the pavement, “Did you need something?”

Mrs Ahn has never been a cruel woman, nosey, yeah, but never cruel, and you know she is only asking with the hopes that you might suddenly morph back into the old version of yourself, the one that's easier for everyone to digest. 

“I know today is a hard day for you,” She says, her voice on the icy breeze carrying that same sorrowful lilt that drives you insane, “it’s the first since she passed, isn’t it?”

She knows it is, so you’re not sure why she’s asking, and you’re not going to answer either. The slur in your voice almost seems permanent now, but for some reason you don’t want her to hear it, so you nod and turn away, ignoring the several other attempts Mrs Ahn makes to call your name. 

It’s been two days since Namjoon came to your house, kicking out some guy whose face you don’t even remember, let alone his name. Any normal person would’ve thanked him, but you didn’t, instead you kicked him out and smashed up the living room, making it more of a mess than it already was. At least now you don't have to clean up your own messes anymore - not that you have been lately, anyway. 

Everytime you see Namjoon, it feels like swallowing cement, like you’re rooted in place with nowhere to go. His eyes make it impossible to move when you’re in their sights. Perhaps that’s why your immediate reaction upon seeing him is always anger, to look away from him for fear of him seeing all your ugliness. There sure is a lot of that lately. 

The sun begins to set, and you let your hazy mind focus on the one thing you planned to do today. It’s not often you make plans anymore, not ones that don’t involve the bar anyway, but today is important. It may be the most important plan you’ve ever made, but first you have somewhere to be. 

Taking the brown-bag covered bottle of wine from your coat pocket, you take a swig, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and walking across the street towards the cemetery. 

“Looking good, man,” Jooheon says, wiping his hair back off his forehead. 

The heaters in the lobby have managed to ward off the sudden icy weather that’s fallen over Yeocho. Namjoon’s almost positive that if he looked outside, snow would begin to fall, and he can’t deny he always loves watching the first snow of the year. He always used to sit with you, usually watching from your bedroom window, his head automatically turning so he could see your twinkly eyes staring out at the dark, nose twitching in anticipation. 

The memory is a sharp, swift kick to the gut at moments like this, especially after the last interaction the two of you had. He wants to make it right, to go see you, but he doesn’t want to smother you into accepting his presence again. You’re going through shit, terrible shit, and he knows most of how you’re feeling. 

When his mom died, you were there for him day in, day out, much to Seokjin’s annoyance. The older man never said anything, but Namjoon could tell at the time, even during your hushed phone conversations with him when Namjoon was sat by the fire, as you snuck off into the kitchen to make hot chocolate and call Seokjin to explain why you wouldn’t be coming over again. 

The house had always felt empty when you had to leave for work at the studio, and Namjoon can only imagine it’s a hundred times worse with you in the house alone every day. He feels ill at the thought of you curled up on that old sofa crying. 

“Namjoon?” Jooheon says again, shaking Namjoon from his own form of torture, “You good?”

“Uh…yeah,” He smiles weakly at Jooheon who stands over him, handing him a beer. Namjoon’s hand aches from pulling up floorboards all day, and he’s sure he’s gonna have a couple of calluses on his hands. Though, it’s almost nice to feel the hard days work in his whole body instead of the usual lower back pain he leaves the office with, “Thanks, man,”

“Still thinking about, Y/N?”

Namjoon almost startles a little like when he was a teenager. Oh, there were so many times he was asked questions about you, mostly by his mom. How’s Y/N, honey? Did you see Y/N today? Have you asked that girl out yet? Namjoon fights off a smile at his mother’s insistent voice replaying in his mind, glancing up at Jooheon as he sips at his beer, “Yeah, actually. Just worried about her,”

“Aren’t we all?” Jooheon blows out a whistle, “She shouldn’t be on her own in that house. If she sold that place, she would be able to buy back the studio in no time,” Jooheon snorts, “Or better yet, get outta this place,”

“Yeocho has it’s charm,” Namjoon says, feeling oddly defensive about his hometown, “Besides, Y/N would never sell that house. She loves it. Aside from that asshole ex of hers, it was probably the only thing holding her back. The house and her mom,” his voice grows wistful, “I should go see her,”

“I can come if you like? I mean…” Jooheon gives Namjoon a cheeky smile, “she still likes me,”

Namjoon rolls his eyes, almost missing the flicker of jealousy in his chest, “Thanks for the reminder,”

By the time Jooheon and Namjoon get to your house, Namjoon can already tell you’re not home. The lights are off, and there’s a stony silence that surrounds the property, it’s almost eerie, and it sends a chill running down his back. When he knocks on the door a second time with no answer, he starts looking around, trying to shake his memory. 

“What you looking for?” Jooheon asks, cupping his hands to look through the darkened window, he backs away just as Namjoon finds it - the spare key under the plant pot. There’s an odd sense of warmth that flows through him, another thing that hasn’t changed, “A spare key? I don’t know, man. Isn’t this breaking and entering?”

“Not with a key,” Namjoon says, not feeling totally thrilled by the idea, but he has to get this icky feeling off of him. Something feels wrong, “I just want to check,”

When the two men enter the home, it’s trashed, smashed glass in the kitchen, a mirror toppled in the hallway, sofa cushions ripped and tossed aside like garbage. The scent of alcohol drifts throughout the whole house, and when Namjoon steps in a puddle of liquor, he finds something that makes his blood run cold. 

“Is that a match?”

Jooheon’s perplexed voice rings loud in the silence house, and Namjoon bends to pick it up. The match is black at the nub, a signal it had burnt, and from the smell of it, recently too. “Yeah,” Namjoon says, his voice sounding very far away to his own ears, “she missed,”

“What?”

“She threw it to hit the booze,” He walks further into the house, the alcohol staining the dusty carpet in dark blooms, and suddenly Namjoon can’t breathe, “she…she meant to burn it down,” 

Jooheon is deathly silent beside Namjoon, and it’s only within a few seconds that he springs into action, a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, “I’m gonna call the cops, you check upstairs and I’ll take another look around here. Try to stay calm,”

Namjoon is so beyond the point of calm that he feels as if he’s gone into shock. He can’t imagine what you were thinking, or maybe he can and just doesn’t want to admit it. His body moves independent of his brain, and he’s sure it's just pure adrenaline fuelling his actions as he drops the burnt match in the wastepaper bin by the stairs, gripping the hand rail as he takes the stairs two at a time. 

Your bathroom, his first choice to look, is clear. He chances a look in your mother’s room, his heart sinking and lifting within one breath as he finds it completely untouched, your mom’s hospital-grade bed still tilted upwards as if she had been sitting up. His eyes fall to the chair beside the bed, and he shakes his head, a lump rising in his throat. 

You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone, to watch your mom slowly pass away. Why the fuck wasn’t he here? His chest is heaving by the time he pushes open your door, and he’s not sure if it’s relief or panic that has his blood rushing in his ears. Your room is empty, save for the utter chaos that perfectly summarises your life. He smells alcohol and vomit, and he wants to retch, mostly because of the reality of how your life has been. If he didn’t realise it before, he does now, he can’t ignore it as the sight of clothes, bottles and grime lay scattered around your bedroom. His eyes glance up, muscle memory from the years he spent laying on your bed with you and looking at the freshly painted planets done by your mother, an artist just like you. 

He feels a tear leak from his eye, dribbling down his cheek to where his jaw tightens. He turns away from the room in shame, jogging down the steps just in time to see Jooheon race from the kitchen, his eyes wide and hopeless as he shakes his head. Even as Jooheon confirms it, Namjoon knows exactly where you are, and he doesn’t wait for his friend, racing out of the door and into the freezing night air. 

His breaths sweep around him in clouds of white smoke, his chest almost aching from how cold it’s gotten in the moments he spent searching your house, and he doesn’t have time to get out his phone for the flashlight before he’s taking that well-beaten patch, his feet slipping on a rock or two along the way. He’s pushing aside the grass, breathing hard as the tears cool on his face, this heavy dread sitting in his stomach, almost painful, enough to make him want to lean over and retch onto the waterlogged bank of the lake. 

He gets to the clearing, finding the pier, but you’re not on it like last time. He skids to a stop, almost slipping on a patch of black ice as he runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands. Jooheon must’ve followed him, because a pool of white light comes up beside him followed by his friend, panting. 

“Y/N!” Namjoon cups his hands, Jooheon standing close by as he swings the flashlight out to the lake, “Fuck!”

“The lake’s frozen,” Jooheon says, almost too quiet, his eyes narrowed as he continues shining the light out to the water’s surface. It’s on the second or third sweep that Namjoon grips his wrist, forcing the light towards a hunched, black shape on the water. “Jesus,”

Namjoon is panting, his eyes almost blurry from the adrenaline running through his system, and his lips are numb when he speaks, “The lake isn’t strong enough,”

Jooheon’s hands reach up to clutch at his hair as Namjoon speaks, realising the predicament. Namjoon tugs the flashlight out of his hands, the pool of light finding the back of your head as you begin to turn. 

You’re far away, but Namjoon can see your blotchy red cheeks, the bottle in your hand and the sway in your steps. You slip once, and Namjoon’s heart jumps into his throat, but when you right yourself, you stare at him with lifeless eyes. With a trembling lip, you raise your hand, doing something he never thought he would see you do again. 

It’s an old game the two of you used to play, spelling out letters on each other’s palms so the other could guess the word, but this time you’re not close enough to reach his palm, so you settle for spelling it in the air instead. The light on you is trembling as Namjoon fights to hold the torch steady, and you manage to spell out two words. 

I’m sorry

And then, Namjoon’s world ends as you stomp your foot once, breaking the ice and falling into the dark, cold water below. 

taglist: @maryseesthings @rkivesfilm @btsffreader92 @creolesoul2seoul @kissme-ornot

[firstkanaphans]

Desperate for some domestic horny SandRay, like deep in their DEFINITELY EVENTUAL relationship. If you'd ever spare some mercy on my soul and decide to write something about this I'll be eternally grateful 🥺

Hiii!! Since we just met these characters and they’re both disaster muffins in their own unique ways, I can’t actually picture them in a long-term relationship right now. I can, however, picture them in a slightly toxic situationship that they both refuse to acknowledge is real. So I wrote that instead. It’s definitely horny, though, so I hope you still like it! 💕 [Rating: Explicit; Word Count: 1542]

Sand would be lying if he said he wasn’t exhausted. Between school, the three jobs he was currently juggling, and the nights he spent entertaining Ray, there was hardly any time left for sleep. And yet, as soon as his alarm went off, he sat up in bed and silenced it. Next to him, Ray grumbled out his dissatisfaction at the noise, but he didn’t open his eyes. Unlike Sand, he wasn’t beholden to any schedule—a few missed classes were nothing a hefty donation from his father couldn’t handle—and although the system that allowed such inequality to exist irked Sand, for some reason Ray didn’t. 

Sand looked down at him, sleeping peacefully on a silk pillow, and instead of the irritation that had been commonplace when they first met, all he felt was fondness. Although their lives couldn’t have been more different, Sand knew that Ray needed rest just as much as he did. That should have been his first clue that he was already in too deep.

With a weary sigh, Sand stood and began getting dressed in a bedroom that was bigger than his whole apartment. Only once he was done did he turn to find that Ray had been watching him.

“Don’t go,” Ray said, his voice half-whine, half-command. Sand sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked Ray’s sleep-mussed hair. Ray still hadn’t picked his head up off the pillow and he had an air about him of a prince being serviced. He usually did. 

“Some of us actually have to work for a living, rich boy,” Sand said, but there was no bite to his words. “I have class in an hour. I have to go.”

“Five more minutes,” Ray countered as if they were bartering. 

“No. Now,” Ray said, but before Sand could stand to make his words a reality, Ray grabbed his wrist and held him in place.

“Please?” he begged, pulling on Sand’s arm like a child trying to get their mother’s attention. When that didn’t work, he pulled harder. “Please, Sand? Please?”

“Ray,” Sand grumbled, but—as usual—he found it impossible to say no when Ray was looking up at him with those eyes and that pout. Especially when what he was offering was so tempting. So, against all logic and common sense, Sand lay down in bed next to the boy he had so stupidly given his heart to and he watched as his face lit up like sunshine, pleased to have gotten his way. 

“See,” Ray said, stroking Sand’s cheek. “Was that so hard?”

No, Sand thought. Being with Ray like this was easy. It was the parts that came after that were hard. But before he could dwell on that too much, Ray closed the distance between them with a kiss.

The kiss was passionate and hungry—the way all of Ray’s kisses were, as if anything less were too intimate—and although his breath was stale from sleep and Sand was still on a time crunch, he found that he didn’t mind it. 

Ray threw his leg over Sand’s hip and flipped them so that Sand was lying flat on the bed with Ray above him, his hands resting on Sand’s chest as if to hold him down. When Sand looked up at him, he was smirking.

“I really do have to go,” Sand said, “unless you plan to support me financially once I flunk out.”

“Well…” Ray pursed his lips as if he was considering Sand’s request. “What if I make it worth your time?”

Ray liked to do this. He liked to pay for things. It was almost as if he didn’t know how to have a relationship that wasn’t transactional. Sand didn’t know how to make him understand that when Sand stayed, he stayed for him. He was pretty sure if he told him outright, he would leave. The thing about Ray was that he didn’t actually want somebody to love him because he didn’t believe that he was a person worth loving. It was easier to let him think that Sand only wanted him for his body and his money than to explain that he cared for him despite those things, not because of them.

He placed his hands loosely on Ray’s hips and sighed. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

Ray’s answering smirk could only be described as diabolical. He shuffled his way down Sand’s body, never breaking eye contact, and made quick work of undoing his pants. Then, when Sand didn’t stop him, he pulled them down completely. Sand wasn’t hard—not yet—but all it took was one swipe of Ray’s tongue to make him stiffen to attention. That was all the motivation he needed to forget his obligations and just enjoy it. After all, he knew that whatever this was was temporary.

“Do you want me to stop?” Ray asked coyly, nosing along Sand’s cock like a cat with a toy. 

“Ray, I swear to god…”

Ray smirked at his annoyance and then swallowed him down.

Although Sand was loathe to admit it, Ray was by far the best sex he’d ever had—at least when he was sober. He’d told him as much a few weeks back and ever since, he’d noticed a change in Ray’s drinking. They now fucked sober more often than not and it was nice. When he looked into Ray’s eyes, he could actually see him there.

Sand moaned and let his head fall back against the pillows. Ray made quick work of him, sucking up to the tip and then back down far enough to bury his nose in the hair at the base of Sand’s dick, his rhythm slow at first and then unforgivably fast. He kept his eyes locked on Sand’s the whole time.

“Ray,” Sand said breathlessly. “I’m going to come.”

He wasn’t wearing a condom and it seemed polite to give a warning, but Ray didn’t seem bothered by the announcement. He did pull off of Sand’s cock though, replacing his mouth with his hand, and then he stayed there, his tongue resting at the tip of his dick, mouth wide open, as he jerked him off. It was that image that finished him.

Sand came with a grunt, closing his eyes tight, and Ray stroked him through it until Sand was spent and sated. It was only once he opened his eyes that he realized what a mess he had made. Ray’s face, smirk and all, was covered in come. 

Ray crawled back up Sand’s body and hovered over him as he licked his lips clean. Like he was proud of himself. Like he wanted Sand to see.

“Jesus Christ,” Sand groaned, throwing his arm over his face so that he wouldn’t have to look Ray in the eyes. “You did that on purpose.”

Ray removed Sand’s arm and then shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. “You like me when I’m dirty,” he said. Sand swallowed hard. He hadn’t realized he had been so obvious about it, but there was just something about seeing Ray without the crisp, clean, rich boy facade around him. It made Sand feel like the only person in the world who truly knew him. It made him feel special.

He sat up, forcing Ray to sit down on his lap, and kissed his own seed from Ray’s lips. It was intimate and seductive and he realized immediately how dangerous it was to indulge such an urge, but he was too come-drunk to care. He let his lips roam farther, cleaning Ray’s cheeks, his nose, his eyelashes, and Ray just sat there and let him do it. As if he had expected no less. 

This was Sand’s favorite Ray—sassy and spoiled, but sober. He wanted to reward him for it, to show him that the alcohol wasn’t the only thing that could make him feel good. So he reached into his boxers.

Ray smirked and let Sand get his hand around him, but before he could do more than touch, Ray stopped him and put Sand’s hand back into his lap. Sand looked up at him, baffled.

“You’ll be late,” Ray said simply.

“I’m already late.” 

“Not if I drive you,” Ray said, climbing out of bed. “Just let me wash my face and we can leave.”

Then he got up and did just that, leaving Sand dumbfounded in his wake. It was moments like this that made him wonder if what they were doing was more than it was, but he found it best not to dwell on the possibility too deeply. Instead, he cleaned himself up, straightened the clothes Ray had rumpled, and then watched Ray get dressed from his spot on the bed, pretending that everything was fine, but knowing deep down that he was already too far gone.

[blooming-violets]

CREATURE LIKE ME || CHAPTER EIGHT: PYRRIHIC VICTORY

[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]

Story Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.

[link to chapter index]

A woodchipper. 

That’s what her body felt like it had been shoved through. 

She had been wrapped up and pushed through the spinning blades until she was nothing more than bloody pulp. 

“Fuck me,” she groaned. 

Aylin forced her stiff, heavy lids to open. A layer of sleep crusted over her lashes, making it difficult to see. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand to clear them. When they finally came into focus, she was nose to nose with wide, golden eyes staring expectantly back at her. Black, sleek fur rubbed against her forehead as her cat, Kedi, rammed face first into her head with a long, drawn out whine. 

“Yes, good morning to you, too,” she grumbled. 

“It’s actually evening. You slept almost 16 hours. Thought you might not ever wake up.” 

A familiar voice popped up from behind her. 

Aylin rolled over, wincing from the shooting pains electrifying her body, to find Peter sitting on the edge of her bed. Except this wasn’t her bed. She glanced around the small room and recognized it as the same motel she brought Peter on the night they met. She could tell because of how cheap and ugly the decor was; like it had been redecorated once in the early 70’s then never touched again. It had the same musty smell of mold and stale cigarette smoke that she remembered so well. The thick, avocado green curtains were drawn closed so the only source of light was the flashing colors from the television. He had kept it on silent, probably so as not to disturb her sleep, and he was sitting as far off the edge of the bed as he could without being on the floor. She noticed the only chair in the room was propped up under the door knob as an added line of defense to keep anyone out. 

Peter was wearing one of her brother’s old, navy blue sweatshirts and gray joggers she had brought him to try on a few days ago. A pair of run down work boots lay tossed against the back wall as if he had nonchalantly kicked them off his feet after he got settled. Her brother’s borrowed clothes seemed to fit well enough. It was strange seeing him wear Emir’s things. It had been over five years since anyone had donned them. It was about time they got put to use instead of collecting dust in his bedroom tomb. It was also strange to see Peter wearing a shirt, regardless of who it once belonged to. Since she met him, he had always been shirtless.  

She sort of missed the view. 

Aylin glanced down at her own self to see what sort of disheveled state she was in. She had been respectfully covered with the hideously floral bedspread but, underneath, she was still in the same attire she’d fled in. Underwear to cover her lower half and tightly wrapped bandages to cover her top half. Nearly naked and covered in blood, dirt, and sweat. Funny how their roles had been reversed since the last time they had taken refuge in this motel. 

“Why is Kedi here?” She croaked through dry lips. She was in desperate need of water. 

Peter looked between her and the cat perched at her shoulder, “I’m guessing that's Kedi?”

She nodded. 

“Before you passed out, you were really upset about not being able to find your mother. You didn’t want to leave anyone behind when we ran,” he gave a sheepish shrug. “I assumed that meant taking the cat, too.” 

She raised her brows in surprise, “He let you pick him up and put him in the car?” 

Peter gave a weary glance back at Kedi and shook his head, “It didn’t go as smoothly as you’re making it sound…” He raised his arms to show off a myriad of red scratches clawing down his skin and pointed bite marks sunk into his hand. The cat had put up a good fight but it seemed Peter came out victorious. 

Aylin gave a soft chuckle of amusement, “Yeah. That sounds more like it.”

She looked over her shoulder to smile fondly at her cat, happy that he was safe with them, then turned back to Peter. “How’d you pay for this room?”

He shrugged again, chewing on the hard bit of calloused skin next to his thumb nail, “You had your wallet in the car. You also had a bunch of stuff packed into the trunk. I brought some of it in after I got you settled in bed.” 

She struggled to prop herself up onto her elbows to get into a sitting position but the pain was too much. She collapsed back onto the stiff mattress with a muffled whine. 

Peter scooted closer over to her and held out his arm for her to take, “Here. Let me help you.” 

He heaved her up with ease and held her steady until she was sitting on her own. His eyes raked over the red stained bandages wrapped around her chest and covering her back. She could tell it wasn’t the first time he had taken in the sight of her injuries but it still made him uncomfortable. He quickly averted his eyes when he noticed her watching him. 

“I knew something was wrong,” he whispered, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know how I knew it but I did. I kept telling myself to give you time to come back. You said it might take a while. But then it got to be past midnight. It’s almost a full moon, you know. In two nights. Everything feels stronger when it gets closer to a full moon. Maybe that’s how I knew. I felt some kind of intuition. It was like I was being pulled to find you. I still waited, though. I told myself it was just in my head. That I promised to wait for you at the camper.” He swallowed, sounding as culpable as she felt. “I should have looked for you sooner. I shouldn’t have let you go back there at all. I knew how dangerous Kraven was. I should have kept you safe. What happened when you went back? What did he do to you?”

Guilt rained down on her as the memories opened from the dark cloud above her head. Murderer. She had killed the Lycan girl. Stabbed her straight through the heart. Ripped her life from her without ever knowing her name. She was a murderous Silver Colt, born and raised, destined to be nothing more than an oven for her leader to stick his seed into. A plaything, perfectly groomed to his liking. Was any part of her real? Or was she entirely constructed to be the person he wanted her to be? 

She could feel Kraven’s hands all over her body. They lingered and clung to her skin like an unshakable memory. It made her feel sick. Dirty. She would have gladly taken Calypso with the whip over ever having to be in the same room with that man again. Calypso may have broken her body but Kraven had shattered her soul. Whatever dreamlike bliss she’d felt upon waking in the safety of this motel beside Peter had sizzled out faster than she could blink. He had become a beacon of hope for her to cling onto and a pleasant memory for her to dissociate to. 

But he wasn’t real. The Peter she dreamed of in that basement lived only in her labyrinth. The one sitting beside her was someone else. He was his own person. Not a perfect figment of her imagination. He felt liable for her safety only because she had saved him his captive fate. He was in her debt.  

She felt a vacant, numbness settle into the depths of her blackened mind as shadows crept around her sharp edges. Her escape from the basement was a pyrrhic victory. 

“Nothing happened,” she mumbled, her words sounding mechanical in her ears. “I’m fine.”

Aylin felt constricted in her every move. The dried blood, splattered over her, pinched at her skin. The wraps Calypso had done felt too tight. Her underwear was crusty and hard from the blood that dripped from her back and soaked through the fabric. Her hair was stiff and sticking to everything. She felt suffocated inside her own body. Not even the tall walls of her labyrinth were a safe place to linger for long. It had become polluted with the toxic chemicals Kraven had spilled over every part of her. She didn’t know who she was anymore. 

She needed to crawl out of her own skin. 

“I need a shower,” she stated. 

Peter’s eyes darted between her and the bed spread at his legs like he was afraid to keep her in his gaze for too long but equally afraid to have her out of it. She knew he didn’t believe a word she had said. She obviously wasn’t fine but he was either too shy, or too smart, to confront her on her claims. 

He nodded slowly as if every move he made was calculated to keep the peace between them, “What, uhm, what’s under the bandages?” He quickly added, trying to play it off like it was nothing more than a nonchalant question, “Just because it might hurt to put any wounds under running water. Are you sure you don’t want me to check on them first? Just to be safe?” 

Aylin ignored him and shoved herself to her unsteady feet with a grunt. Peter stood in sync with her, keeping a hand out to catch her should she fall, but not actually closing the gap to physically touch her. He kept his sights on his bare feet. He looked terrified to disrespect her by staring at her in just her underwear. He still didn’t know where he stood in her allegiance. The last time they spoke she had vacillated between being his friend and cursing him out with little warning. He wasn’t sure what wrong move he could make that would get him in trouble this time. 

She gave him a sad smile in the hopes to ease his concern. He didn’t need to be frightened of her. He had saved her life. He had done everything to erase his debt. She no longer considered herself a true Silver Colt. She would never be able to return to her home again which meant that she had no more use for him. No information he could give her would ever erase her knowledge that her entire life was a lie. He was free to leave whenever he wanted. 

“You don’t have to stay anymore, Peter,” she muttered under her breath, stopping halfway to the bathroom with him still hovering at her side. “I think we’re even now. I saved you. You saved me. You’re a free man. You’re not a prisoner. I don’t need you for information anymore. I’m not going to kill you. I refuse to. Our deal is over. Nothing matters, anyway. It was all for nothing. You can go.” 

Aylin leaned down to collect her duffle bag from the floor beside the television stand. It was sitting next to a case of water bottles and some camping food, her bucket of first aid supplies, and her crossbow. He had brought in everything that she could need for when she awoke, including a weapon to protect herself with if she felt the need too. When she tugged the strap of the bag over her sore shoulder, she straightened up to stare back, forcing herself to make eye contact with him.

Peter had a look that was hard for her to read. Apprehension. Dismay. Melancholy. Rejection. Confusion. They all flashed across his warm, brown eyes while he processed what she was saying. It hurt to see him like that but he deserved to be free. He didn’t need her. She was useless to him. 

“No,” his assertion was evident in his tone. “I’m staying.” 

Her heart sank with sorrow and an anger rose in her chest. She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want him to look at her with those pity filled eyes. She didn’t want to be responsible for another unnecessary death. Kraven would hunt her down and find her. He would slaughter anyone she was with. She would never be safe from his hold. People don’t get to leave the guild without consequences. She knew that now. Peter was better off on his own. 

“No, you aren’t. You’re leaving. Go,” she shot back. “I don’t want you here anymore. Thank you for getting me out and bringing me here but I no longer need you. You repaid your debt. You balanced the scales. You can go.”

He shook his head in defiance, “I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.” His arms crossed over his chest and he planted his feet firmly against the worn out, red carpet as if daring her to try and move him.

Aylin stomped her foot with annoyance, “There’s no point in you sticking around! You’re only going to get hurt. I bring death wherever I go! I’m the reason they’re all dead.” Her voice cracked but she kept her chin held high. “My father, my brother, probably my mother and Leah and her family, Sierra…that wolf girl…I’m…cursed. I’m not a good person. I’m a murderer. A fraud. I’m not anything you should be around. I only bring pain. It’s not worth it. Just go. You’ll be better off. ‘M gonna go wash up and when I come out, I hope you’re far, far away from here.” 

She turned on her heels, refusing to look any longer at his perturbed face stinging with rejection, and slammed the bathroom door behind her. The bag fell from her shoulder to the tiles under foot. Aylin nearly collapsed onto the edge of the sink, holding herself up with the palms of her hands, and hanging her head. 

She didn’t want Peter to leave her. Not really. He was the only friend she had in this world. He was the only one who could ever even attempt to understand her but she still felt the need to push him away. She was toxic. Every bit of her was shriveled up and soured. When she lifted her head to stare back at her reflection in the mirror, she didn’t recognize the woman on the other end. A stranger. Dark bags encircled her barren eyes. Red stained up her cheeks and over her lips. She pulled back the corner of her mouth and tilted her head to see the gap in her teeth. The top, second molar from the back on her left side was now nothing more than a bloody hole. She poked her tongue up into the gap, feeling the smoothness of her gums, and pressed it in harder to feel the jolt of pain. 

Pain was starting to become the only feeling she could accurately recognize. Everything else couldn’t be trusted. 

Aylin pushed away from the sink to strip herself from her soiled underwear. She kicked them into the trash before turning on the shower to heat up and taking a tender seat on the toilet. With the sound of the water pounding against the tub, she could no longer hear Peter standing outside the door. He had been pacing back and forth only moments ago but now there was nothing but silence. 

A pang of anxiety settled into her stomach at the thought of him actually leaving. There would be a chance that when she left this bathroom, she would be alone. Truly alone. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was supposed to do then. Try to find her mother? Make sure she was safe? She couldn’t live in a motel forever. If she did end up finding her mom, they’d be homeless. It’s not like either of them had any work experience or life outside of the guild. She didn’t even think she had a social security number or was on any government records. Aylin didn’t exist outside of the Silver Colts. 

After she finished up on the toilet, she washed her hands the best she could. Her pinky and ring finger on her right hand were still tightly bound together and held straight by the splint. She was missing three finger nails on the same hand. The soft nail beds stung as she applied soap to them in an attempt to clean the blood. With her hands still dripping with water, she dug her toothbrush and toothpaste out from her bag to brush her teeth, careful to avoid the few in the back that ached with pain whenever the bristles got too close to the missing tooth. She desperately needed to rid the taste of Kraven from her mouth. She gulped down the water flowing from the sink to satiate her thirst and finally turned to the shower. 

Before stepping in, she wanted to remove her bandages. Everything needed to be cleaned. It wasn’t like Calypso washed her back before she threw the salve on it and bandaged her. Her body needed to be completely sanitized for her to feel human again. From looking behind her shoulder in the mirror, she could see where the end of the wrap was tucked into the middle of her back. She tried again and again to manipulate her arm around her back to grab at the end piece but it evaded her reach every time. Her shoulders were too sore from holding her body upright for hours. They ached with sharp stabs of pain each time she tried to reach the end of the bandage until tears pricked up in the corners of her eyes. 

All she wanted was to be clean. 

Aylin let out a frustrated yell and threw herself to the floor with the dramatics of a toddler throwing a tantrum. The tiles were dirty and cold under her bare bottom as she draped herself over the edge of the tub with her head cradled in her arms. She couldn’t do it. Everything she knew, her home, her people, her entire history, was ripped away from her. She had nowhere to go. Her mother was missing. She had no way of knowing if she got her note and escaped. There was no way to contact her. They didn’t have cell phones in the guild. They were cut off from society. Her mother could be anywhere. She could be in trouble and Aylin would never know. There was nothing left. 

She was an outcast. Banished from her people. A traitor. A pariah. 

She wasn’t part of the Silver Colts. She wasn’t part of the Lycans. She wasn’t part of the normal, human institution. She was no one. 

Loud, heavy sobs shook through her chest and blubbered out her mouth. Hot, fat tears poured down her cheeks and splashed to the floor. She had never cried like this before. She had never felt so vulnerable and lost. Even when her father and brother died, she had never been this broken. 

Adrift in the void of stray souls with no one to turn to. 

The bathroom door creaked open. Peter padded up softly behind her. She couldn’t move to look at him. His presence only made her cry harder. He should be gone. He should have run. His loyalty was misplaced. He was confused. 

She felt him quietly kneel down behind her and gently untuck the bandage from its hold. He carefully and silently unwrapped it around her until it lay in a bloody pile at her side. The tips of his warm fingers ghosted over the slashes from the whip as he took in the sight for the first time. She tried to gain back control of her sobs but it was useless. The flood gates had been released. 

Her wet eyes squeezed closed at his touch. So soft. So careful. He had no right to be this gentle with her. He should hate her for who she had been associated with. 

Peter’s hand landed on her shoulder, giving it a delicate squeeze. 

“Get up,” he whispered. “Let’s get you clean. You’ll feel more like yourself then. Trust me.”

Trust him. 

Aylin did. She trusted him more than anyone. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and allowed him to grip under her arms to help her stand. He guided her into the tub, keeping his eyes politely averted from her naked form, and waited until he felt she was stable enough before pulling his hands away. Slowly, he pushed the shower curtain closed to give her privacy. 

“You okay?” He asked. 

A fresh wave of tears hit her and she doubled over with more sobs under the weak stream of water, “Y-yeah.” When she heard him start to leave the bathroom, she called back out, letting the panic take over, “Wait! Peter…can you…can you stay with me? Don’t go…don’t leave me. I-I need you.” 

She could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“I was never going to leave. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

He flipped the toilet seat closed and settled down on top of it. His long legs extended out to perch his feet on the edge of the tub. She could see the shower curtain pull tighter where they rested and felt a sense of calm settle in her mind now that she knew he was with her. 

Maybe she didn’t have to be alone. Peter was alone. They could be alone together. 

The water cascaded down her chest. She placed her face into the stream to scrub at her cheeks with her hands. Brown, dark blood washed from her body and circled around the drain. She was afraid to turn her back to the shower, knowing how badly it would hurt when the water hit her wounds, but she needed to wash the blood from her hair. 

“Are you alright?” Peter asked when he heard her muffled wince of pain as she turned around. 

Aylin smiled woefully to herself, lathering her scalp with the cheap motel shampoo, “It just hurts. I’ll be okay.” A few more lingering tears slipped down her face to mix in with the steaming water. The water pressure was weak but at least it was hot. Her guilt clung to her tighter than the steam clouding around her face. “Peter?” 

“Hmm?” 

Her eyes gazed down at the sun seared into her thigh. It was blistering with angry, red lines outlining the rays of the sun. The mark of a Silver Colt, the mark of Kraven, festering with a growing infection. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry I was a bitch to you. I’m sorry I was a part of the group of people who hurt you. I’m sorry I kept you when I should have let you go the day I found you. I’m sorry for promising to kill you and refusing to go through with it. I’m sorry for being a Silver Colt.” 

He was silent for a long time. She tenderly washed her body with the soap provided to her as she waited for his response, grazing over her wounds the best she could, and letting the water carry away her filth. With each passing moment under the stream, she cleansed herself further from Kraven. 

“I don’t blame you,” Peter finally whispered. She could hardly hear him over the shower. “You acted within the parameters you knew. You saved my life. You showed me that things could be different. I didn’t have to live the way I was. There was still something more out there. Everything was hopeless until I met you.” 

Was it no longer hopeless? 

She felt hopeless. Directionless. She couldn’t see the same vision he did. They were moving in opposite directions. 

“I don’t want to die anymore,” he stated with finality to his tone. 

She did. 

Aylin turned the knob of the shower to shut it off. The water sputtered to a halt, leaving her wet, dripping, and quickly chilling as the warm droplets cooled on her skin. 

Peter shuffled behind the curtain and soon a white towel poked through the side. She gladly took it, gently wiping herself dry. 

“I’ll be in the other room,” he said. “I’m going to set up the first aid kit for when you come out. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just be on the other side of this door.”

She listened for the light click to indicate the closing door before she pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out. Condensation clung to the mirror. She whipped it away with the palm of her hand. She looked rough but there was a glimmer of Aylin staring back at her. Underneath all that blood and sweat, she was still human. Her red trimmed, puffy eyes stayed locked onto herself as she scrunched the water out of her long hair with the towel. 

There was still softness in the world despite what she had gone through. Peter was proof of that. He had stayed. He didn’t run the first chance he got. He wasn’t helping her because he felt like he was forced to. His compassion was able to extend further than his trauma. 

He didn’t want to die anymore. 

She wondered what caused that change.

Aylin knelt down to dig through her bag. She grabbed a pair of clean underwear and some loose fitting workout shorts. Anything else would rub against her brand. She was worried about the infection that was beginning to form around the edges and guessed her back was probably looking the same. After quickly getting into the clean bottoms, she held the towel against her bare chest to keep herself somewhat decent before stepping out of the bathroom. Putting on a shirt before she wrapped her back wounds would be pointless. 

Peter was standing at the edge of the bed with the bucket of first aid open in front of him. He had laid out some gauze and bandages on the bed spread and was reading the back label of a yellow tube. He casually glanced in her direction with raised brows, “Is Neosporin what you need? It says antibiotic ointment. That’s probably good, right?” 

She gave him a quiet nod. He was beautiful. Forgiving. Tender. She had the urge to be held by him, cradled in the safety of his arms, with her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. There was a newly found desperation growing where all she wanted to was to feel loved by another person. By him. Anything to make the pain go away. 

His eyes wandered back over to her, slowly toying down her body then back up to her face. She didn’t mind and found herself blushing under his obvious ogling. He gave her a lopsided grin, “Who knew there was an actual person under all that grime?”  

A smile broke out across her face, cracking through her hardened exterior. Her first real smile since she left him at camp. Those were the same words she had spoken to him the night he shuffled out of the shower the last time they were here. Their roles had been completely reversed. 

For a fleeting second, they held onto each other’s eyes, finding a common place between them. An appreciation. A care. A yearning.

A love. 

He was the first one to break the moment, hoisting the bucket off the bed and patting his hand on the mattress, “Come lay down. Let me look at your back.” 

Aylin did as she was told, happy to let someone else, someone she trusted, take control for a little a while. Once she was face first on top of the bed, she pulled the towel out from under her chest and rolled it up to use as a pillow. It was wet and cooling on her cheek as she closed her eyes. Her hair was tossed over her shoulder, away from her back. She could feel Kedi pawing at the dripping ends before he flopped over and dozed off. 

She wasn’t alone. 

There was life in this room besides her own. Life that she cared about. Life that she wanted to protect. 

Peter leaned over to examine the damage then looked back to the small tube of ointment, “I don’t think this will be enough.” 

Aylin cracked her eyes open to stare at him through half closed slits, “Does my back look infected? If not then I’ll use it on my thigh instead. That definitely needs it more.” 

She watched him glance down to the back of her thighs which were parted in a wider stance to keep her skin from touching. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. 

“Yeah, about that,” he spoke with a timid inflection. “What exactly am I looking at? When I brought you in from the car, I could kind of see it. It was all blistered but it looked a bit like it was spider shape or something. I didn’t want to push your legs apart too much to get a better look, not that you’re not nice to look at or anything, you were just sleeping…and I was…I was just…trying to…see…and make sure you were okay…” 

Aylin rolled her eyes and cut off his anxious rambling, “It’s a sun. Half of one. Kraven burned it into me to prove I was still a Silver Colt. That I was still one of them. That I was his.” 

Peter took a delicate seat on the edge of the bed beside her. He raised one brow with a look of mild intrigue, “Kraven?”

She huffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “Yes? You remember him? The guy who ruined your life?”

“I know who you’re talking about.” A smile danced across his lips. “It’s just, well, you’ve always called him Sergei. The last time I brought up Kraven the Hunter you got all pissed off and had a look of death on your face like you’d kill me for disrespecting him by calling him that. Suddenly, he’s no longer Sergei. He’s Kraven. That’s what all the Lycan call him. You flipped sides.” 

Aylin let out a long breath, her eyes stared emotionless at the bare wall across from her, not finding the same amusement he clearly did, “That’s me. The traitor.”

Peter flopped down on his stomach next to her. His arms curled up to form a place for his head to rest as he stared, nose to nose, at her. He was becoming more comfortable around her by the second. She enjoyed the change. 

“I like Aylin the Traitor better than Aylin the Cult Member,” he muttered with a grin.

He was so close. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to feel something besides guilt and shame. He was so delicately handsome. 

And he was still here despite everything. 

“My entire life was a lie,” she whispered back to him, needing to share the burden of her life with someone she trusted. “Everything. He wanted me before I was even born. He wanted me to be his perfect…” She didn’t know what. Wife? Baby mother? Side piece? “He wanted me to have his children.” 

Peter’s brow furrowed, his joy fading, “What do you mean?” 

“Him and his wife. They couldn’t have children. He wanted an heir. They decided that the best way to do that was to create the perfect person from scratch. Someone loyal and obedient. Someone they could manipulate. Someone who would do whatever they asked,” she felt the tears pressing back up. “Someone as pathetic and naive as me.”’ 

She let out a dark, humorless laugh, “And the crazy thing is, if I had never met you, I would have done it. Without a second thought. I would have willingly agreed to it because I trusted him. He would have known best. If that’s what he said I needed to do to help our people, then I would have done it. It’s only because of you, I knew better. I’m so fucking stupid.” 

Peter’s hand reached up to capture a stray tear rolling down her cheek with his thumb. He gently wiped it away, letting his fingers push back through her hair, and lacing them against her skull. 

“You’re not stupid,” he murmured. “You were manipulated by a very bad man. If your life is full of isolation, then how could you ever know anything else? You did what you had to do to survive in the environment you were given. It’s not your fault you were born into a life like that. It’s what you do once you find out the truths that show what kind of person you really are. Look at you, Aylin. You’re not dead. You’re still here. You escaped. There is still more life out there. Don’t be like me. Don’t give up yet. You have no idea what kind of person you’re capable of becoming. Your life is just beginning. Mine is, too. We can still start fresh. They don’t deserve you, anyway.” 

“I killed her,” Aylin breathed. If he wanted to start fresh with her then he needed to know the truth. There were already too many lies in her life for her to keep anymore. “Remember that night I came to the camper and you had heard a girl screaming? They had wheeled out a young girl, a Lycan girl, inside a cage. They wanted me to kill her. I couldn’t do it. I ran back to you. I thought…” She swallowed at the lump forming in her throat. “I thought they would have killed her themselves after I ran.”

She buried her face into the towel, breathing in the scent of the motel shampoo, and closing her eyes to block out the memories as she spoke, “When I went back, when Kraven found me, he locked me in his basement. A torture chamber. It was hidden underground behind a secret bookcase. I wasn’t alone. That Lycan girl was there. She was still alive. He-” She took a deep breath. “He made me kill her this time. She was so weak. They had tortured her so badly. It was horrible. Her body was already shutting down. I think she would have died on her own had I just held off a few more hours. But I did it. I killed her. I didn’t even know her name. She wouldn’t tell me. She was young. Couldn’t be any older than 19. It was me who killed her. No one else. Just me.”

He entangled his hand from her wet hair, much to her heartbreak, and went silent. She could feel him breathing softly next to her as he mulled over what she had said. He still had the choice to leave and walk out if he judged her to be too irredeemable. 

After a quiet minute ticked by, Peter finally spoke, “I killed Kateri Deseronto’s son. He was only little. Five years old. That’s why she had me locked up when you found me. I’m responsible for his death. She wanted me to give her a new child. It was some sick, fucked up power play fueled by her grief and resentment. She lost herself the night he died. It’s hard for me to hate her, despite everything she did to me, because I felt like I deserved it. Her child is dead because of me. You said earlier that you bring death wherever you go. That you were cursed. That everyone was dead because of you.” He shook his head in disagreement. “I thought that, too, about myself. But it’s not us. I didn’t murder Kat’s son with my own hands. It was Kraven’s men who killed him. They were there because they were hunting me but I didn’t kill her son. If you look close enough, every string of blame leads straight back to Kraven the Hunter. He’s the source of everything.” 

Aylin peaked a curious eye out from the safety of her cave. Peter had propped his head up onto his hand, leaning on his side, as he looked down at her with a quiet contemplation. Suddenly, another puzzle piece fell into place. 

“Wait,” she said with a realization. She had heard that story before. She quickly sat up, forgetting she was topless, then hastily threw the towel to her chest when she saw Peter’s eyes widen. “When was that? When did the thing with Kat’s son happen?”

Peter thought for a second, his ears reddening from embarrassment, not quite understanding the gravity of what he was about to say, “I don’t know. Five years ago-ish?” He could tell by the paling look of horror on her face that something wasn’t right. “Why?”

Aylin filled her lungs with a gulp of air to try and settle her nerves, “The night my father and brother died, the night Kraven left them to die, the three of them were hunting you. Kraven told me in the basement that they had found you along with a woman and a little boy. He said that you were trying to regrow your pack after he slaughtered your last one.” 

Peter’s jaw clenched at that statement but he remained quiet. 

“He told me that they found you, he said…oh god…he said Emir ran after the woman and her son while he fought with you. He said that after he stabbed you, he fought with my father. Then he shot Emir. Then he left them both to be killed by a wolf.” Her voice lingered down to nothing but a mere whisper. “By you.”

Peter sat in a stunned silence. His eyes slipped closed and he brought his hands up to massage at his temples. With one hand keeping the towel in place, Aylin reached out with the other to gently caress his knee and drag his attention back to her. 

“I don’t blame you, Peter. It’s not your fault,” she muttered. “They were Silver Colts. They attacked you first. Like you said, everything leads back to Kraven.” 

He frantically shook his head, “No. That’s not how it happened. I told you. I never killed your family. I didn’t know…I didn’t know that was them…but I didn’t kill them. It wasn’t me. I was bleeding out after Kraven attacked me. I could barely move. Kat killed them.” 

Aylin’s eyes widened as ice froze her veins. The memory of running from the pack of wolves with Peter bursts behind her vision. A large, towering black wolf. Hunched over in the middle of the dark, slick wet, rain covered road. Heavy, smokey breaths puffing from her saliva coated jaws. She didn’t chase the car speeding away with her captive. She only stood and watched. Waiting. Plotting. 

Kat was the wolf that had killed her family. 

“Because Emir killed her son,” Aylin stated. 

He gave a solemn nod. 

Her stomach sank. She loved her family. She thought the world of them but, in their death and her grief, she had memorialized them as saints. She had stopped seeing them as people with flaws. They were people who could do no wrong. Frozen forever in her mind as the perfect father and big brother. 

But, like everything else in her life, that wasn’t always the truth. 

The world wasn’t black and white. People were all shades of gray. The people she loved and admired were capable of doing bad things. They were capable of doing wonderful, nobel things, too. They were complex, layered people. Emir could stand up for his little sister and protect her honor down to his last breath and he could also murder someone else’s child because they were associated with a Lycan. He had grown up in the same cult as she did. Generation after generation, the cycle of violence and hate would continue. 

It stopped with her. 

“Why were you with Kat and her son?” She asked. 

Peter gave a small shrug, keeping his sights set to study her face, trying to read her emotions through each little detail he could find, “She found me. She was running from her husband. He was Lycan and had turned her when they got together before she even really knew what that meant. She was young and in love with him so she ignored all the warning signs of him being an abuser. After their son was born, he got worse. Finally she decided to run but she didn’t have the experience of being a Lycan around normal people. She didn’t know how to care for her son as he started going through changes. Her husband had kept them sheltered for years. She didn’t have friends or anyone to go to. I guess she heard that my people-” He cleared his throat, struggling to speak about his pack. “She heard that I was alone. She wanted help. I told her I could help her. I told her I would try to keep them safe. I shouldn’t have done that. I knew Kraven was hunting me. I shouldn’t have had them so close but…I suppose lonely people do stupid things.” 

“Were you in love with her?” She wasn’t sure why that was the first question she asked. A strange sting of jealousy poked at her heart at the thought of him loving someone like Kat. 

A small, sad smile tugged at his lips, “No. The woman I loved is dead. Her name was Gwen. She would have wanted me to help a lost mother and her child, though. Maybe that’s why I did it. Her voice was in my head begging me to do the right thing.” He gave another shrug. “It only served to get a kid killed and look where I ended up because of it.”

Aylin licked her drying lips, “I think the person I loved is dead, too. I think Kraven killed her and her family. I thought they just left in the middle of the night but…I don’t think anyone leaves the Silver Colts without consequences. I think Kraven did it to punish me. Her name was Leah and she was beautiful. She would have liked you. She was always a bit of a rebel while I was always straight laced. She’d be amazed to know I, of all people, befriended a Lycan.” 

Peter smiled at the thought, “We are two very fucked up people with freakishly similar backgrounds.” 

Her sweet chimes of laughter filled the space between them. It felt good to laugh. Healing. 

“I think I was meant to meet you,” she breathed. “I think-” 

She stopped herself from saying what she really wanted to and shook her head to brush away the thought. 

I think you were meant to be mine. 

She rolled back onto her stomach and balled up the towel into a pillow once more, “I think you should help me put as much Neosporin as you can onto my back and then wrap it back up.”

Peter stood up to stand at the foot of the bed and clapped his hands together, “I have a better idea! I know exactly what can heal you in no time. Forget about ointments and creams. I’ve got all the cure you need right here in these veins.” 

Aylin shook her head and grimaced, “Absolutely not. I’ve drunk enough Lycan blood for one lifetime, thank you very much.”

Peter’s head jerked over to stare at her with an incredulous look, “Drank? Why are you drinking blood?”

She frowned, “That’s how Kraven is getting his superior strength. He’s drinking Lycan blood. I got only a few drops in my mouth when I killed the Lycan girl and it almost gave me a heart attack. I’m not doing that again.” 

His nose scrunched up in disgust, “Nasty. You don’t need to drink it. It’s much more effective to go blood to blood. Like, I cut my wrist and let it drip directly into your wounds. Straight to the source. It heals so much faster. I assume drinking it would take more time for it to get absorbed and lose some of its potency. Not to mention, it’s also disgusting and wrong on so many levels.” 

A tiny smile crept onto her face.

“So you’re telling me that Kraven and Calypso are gulping down blood when they could actually just be injecting it straight into their veins for better and faster results?” 

He shrugged and nodded. 

Somehow the thought of their stupidity made it more humorous. The Silver Colts really didn’t know the first thing about Lycans. All that hatred for a species they never cared to research further. 

“I still don’t want your blood. I almost died last time and then I slept for 16 hours. It was horrible,” she said. The sleeping part wasn’t actually horrible. She needed it. It was all the other stuff before that, that she’d rather never experience again. 

“That’s because you were panicking.” He said this like it should have been obvious to her. When he saw no light bulb go off over her head, he explained further. “When a human is given Lycan blood, it enhances everything. Physically, it makes you heal faster, you’re stronger, you have better eyesight and hearing and smell, your endurance and agility heighten, faster reflexes…you get it. But it also enhances your emotions. Whatever you’re feeling when it’s in your system gets enhanced. Seeing as you were running for your life through the woods, half naked, and covered in blood, your heart was racing. It would have been racing without the blood and then, suddenly, it’s going twice as fast as it ever should. You were scared and panicked. Thus, the blood made those emotions worse, which made your heart beat faster, which made it almost explode.” 

Interesting. 

She remembered how frantic Kraven’s hands had felt as he lusted after her like he could scarcely control his desires for her. She remembered how each whip from Calypso was harder and more violent than the last, like she was feeding off her own hatred towards Aylin. She remembered how scared she felt when she tumbled into her mother’s bedroom to find her missing and how the panic had felt like it consuming her every pore. 

It would make perfect sense that Lycan blood was heighting more than just their physical abilities. 

Then she remembered something else. 

“Kraven said something strange when we were in the basement. When you were fighting all those years ago, he cut your throat, and your blood landed in his mouth. Once that happened, he felt like he could no longer kill you. He walked away from the fight and left you there. Then, when he was drinking the girl in the basement's blood, he told me that he nor Calypso were able to kill her themselves. They had to wait for me to do it. He said it was like a mental block that happened.” 

The Lycan had already been dead once Aylin got a taste of her blood so she hadn’t experienced anything Kraven had described. 

Peter nodded, “I’ve heard of that happening. Figured that’s why Kraven walked away that night. I don’t know how or why it happens. It’s not like there are books that study our anatomy. I think it’s probably a last line of defense. If someone is using our blood, we become a part of them while it’s in their system. Killing the wolf that’s living temperarely inside of you would be like suicide, I imagine. I doubt it would literally kill the person but that’s how it would probably feel. You have an instinctive need for self preservation, which now includes the wolf inside of you, so you can’t bring yourself to kill them.” 

Peter’s blood is what saved him the night Kraven attacked. 

She wouldn’t mind having a part of him flowing inside her veins for a little while. 

“Promise it won’t be as bad as last time?” She asked. 

He smiled, “We’re in a motel room. You have your cat. It’s just me and you here. There is no danger. No one knows we are here. We can put on the tv and watch something chill while it works its magic. You have no need to be scared or panicked. You’ll feel heightened senses but as long as you keep your emotions calm, you’ll be okay.” 

Aylin thought it over then gave a final nod, “Fine. Do it. Whatever can heal me faster, I'll take. You and I have a lot of planning to do.”

[CHAPTER NINE]

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[cupcakemolotov]

A City Broken

What should have been a single shift as the on call surgeon instead turns into a all-nighter when a man dying of multiple stab wounds is brought to Caroline's ward. What follows is a six hour surgery, a hospital lock-down, and Klaus, her maybe boyfriend? suitor? potential lover?, shows up with more than just murder on his mind.

Relationship: Klaus/Caroline

Tags: Alternate Universe; Alternate Universe - Fantasy; Alternate Universe - Magic; Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse; Canon-Typical Violence; Magic; Implied/Referenced Torture; Attempted Murder; witch/wolf hybrid!Klaus; Witch!Caroline; Political Shenanigans; where Klaus has decided on conquest; where Caroline has decided on her dinner; They are not mutually exclusive; Developing Relationship; orgasms are discussed; No Smut; not for lack of offers

The soft sound of the breakroom’s door creaking open broke through the silence, but Caroline didn’t bother opening her eyes. It wasn’t uncommon to find the table she was sitting at used as an impromptu nap spot, no one would bother her. She’d probably already have fallen if she wasn’t so hungry. Dinner was supposed to have been six hours ago, and lunch had been a sugar laden coffee and half a stale donut.

Not ideal for a surgeon, when magic took its price from her personal energy. In a perfect world, she’d never have performed her last procedure. Six hours, multiple stab wounds, several perforated organs. It’d been a miracle her patient made it to her table at all. They’d been even luckier still that she’d still been on shift. Her incoming replacement was good, but Caroline was better.

Unfortunately, saving him had required the sort of magical intervention that would take her off the schedule for the next three days. Beneath her feet, she could almost hear the hum of magic just out of reach, and if she put her head down on the table the soft sound would lull her straight into sleep. Her stomach growled, and she breathed in slowly, trying to rally.

She needed food, a shower, and a bed. Maybe even in that order. Mentally she tried to picture the leftovers in her fridge, and judge what was still edible. She’d bet the fried rice would probably be fine, even if she ate straight from the container like a starving med student.

Five more minutes. She just needed to sit here for five more minutes and she’d find the will to move. Maybe.

“You look exhausted, love.”

Caroline’s eyes snapped open and she straightened so fast she had to grab the table to support herself, stomach lurching with a mix of unexpected butterflies and sudden, aching awareness that bloomed into befuddled pleasure. “Klaus?”

“Hello, Caroline.”

Scowling a little, because as always, he looked casual and far too good for her sanity, and here she sat messy, bare-faced and barely scrubbed post-surgery, she squinted at him. “You’re not supposed to be here. Can’t you read? Staff only.”

Her chin jutted towards the sign on the wall and the curling smile that she knew all too well lifted the corners of his mouth. A mix of amusement and arrogance, and his tongue dragged distractingly along his lip as he watched her, as if he’d been looking for her, as if she was the sole reason he was there.

Caroline doubted Klaus did anything for a single purpose, but that look warmed her cheeks anyway. They had finally stopped dancing so hard around this livewire of attraction between them barely two weeks ago, and even weary to the bone she found herself wanting to touch him. To lean into that barely contained strength, and probably would have if he hadn’t strode into this small refuge as if he owned it. It wasn’t as if anyone in the hospital would have been to stop him once he decided to go wandering, but it was rude to put the staff in her crosshairs.

“Klaus,” she repeated, waving a hand at his silence, taking in the room, the hospital, the entire block the building sat on. “Neutral territory. Begone.”

His dimples deepened, delight brightening his eyes. “I brought presents.”

“Bribes,” she accused with no heat.

His eyes flashed with a sly amusement she refused to find enduring, and he lifted a brown paper bag from behind his back. “Hungry?”

Her entire body came alert and hyper focused on that bag. “Do not taunt me with food right now.”

“Double cheese burger, extra pickles, no lettuce, add jalapeño,” Klaus cited as if he was reading her order from a text message she’d definitely never sent him. His other hand appeared, and he wiggled it slightly in her direction. “And a chocolate shake.”

Right then, she had murdered a nun for what he had in his hands. Some things took priority even over magical treaties. “There better be fries.”

An indignant shift of his shoulders. “I would never be so foolish as to forget your love affair with potatoes.”

Holding out a hand, she made grabby gestures. “I accept your bribe. You may sit. Give me.”

Indulgence turned the danger of his dimples into something softer, but he obligingly stepped close enough to her table to hand her the bag. Caroline dove into it, yanking out napkins and ketchup packets, magnanimously ignoring him as he settled across the table from her, the familiar, dangerous spark of his magic moving through the room. It brushed against her skin like a caress, familiar and not unwelcome.

Not anymore, at least.

Not-so-gracefully, she shoved a handful of fries into her mouth as she worked on unwrapping her burger, ideally cataloging the spells he used as easily as breathing. She flickered a glance at his face as she realized he wanted this moment to be absolutely private. Swallowing, she spread her wrapper as a makeshift plate, and decided it was a question for later.

Her food was still hot, the fries crispy and she hadn’t checked yet, but she was willing to bet the shake was still perfect and not all melty. The spell work wasn’t difficult, but it felt like Klaus. With magic so regulated, knowing he’d done this just for her, it left her insides squirming with pleasure. The man across from her might have had more magic than was good for any human, the results of his werewolf blood mixing with witch, but the effort still meant something. She'd have eaten conjelled cheese and soggy fries, and was immensely thrilled she didn’t have too.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him open his mouth and she flapped a hand at him. The noise he made wasn’t quite a snort, and she side-eyed him carefully. The corner of his mouth curved at her suspicious face, but he obligingly stayed silent and she bit into her burger with a little noise of pleasure. Cheese and grease dripped onto the paper and she did not care. She didn’t know what diner he had gotten this from, but she was going to find out.

Later. When she would actually remember the name of it. Plowing through her food, Caroline felt better with each bite, until she didn’t quite feel like she was scraping herself off the bottom of a barrel. Klaus, for his part, seemed content to simply watch her and she was too tired, too hungry for it to bother her.

Once, she would have been spitting nails that he was so close, but even with her magical reserves maxed out, her defenses on the fritz, it was… nice. Comfortable.

Reaching for her milkshake, Caroline took a long drink of cold sugar and chocolate and nodded. “You may speak now.” She squinted at the clock. “The food buys you maybe thirty minutes of my time.” Then she’d need to find a flat surface asap.

“I’m honored,” he said and she rolled her eyes, taking another bite and juggling the remaining jalapeno when it tried to escape. His eyes narrowed a little. “Next time, I’ll bring you two.”

Spirits, she could eat two. She’d probably even have managed three, after her night, but telling him that would only encourage him. Instead, she pointed a fry at him. “You aren’t supposed to be here today. Who let you back here?”

“Caroline,” Klaus drawled, his ankle brushing up against hers and staying. Shivery awareness skated down her spine. “Do you think I asked permission?”

“That,” she said tartly, “is not the same question as if you should.”

He made a low noise in his throat. “Perhaps, but aren’t you a little happy to see me?”

A03

Gentle reminder: all of my stories are now locked to register users only, to avoid them being scrapped by AI as much as possible.

[lilies0fthevalley]

the feeling of your heart shattering

fem!readerxjamespotter, no specific house for the reader/kind of implied gryffindor

You always knew that James adored Lily, he made sure to tell everyone. Of course you didn't really mind up until your fifth year when you suddenly started to feel your heart crack a little every time he brought up Lily. (It is now nearing the end of your sixth year)

"She's got the most amazing eyes, have you seen them y/n?" You felt the familiar feeling of your chest tightening at his words but you put on a smile. "yeah...I've known her longer than you have." James would have to be an idiot to not hear the sadness in your voice, and that's just what he was. James put on his biggest, brightest, smile as he spoke. Tapping his fingers like he was playing the drums, "I asked her out today, and guess what?" You dreaded the answer to his question but smiled back and asked in almost mock excitement "what did she say?" James let out a deep sigh, hunching over before springing up happily, "SHE SAID YES!! We are going to the Three Broomsticks tomorrow!" With that you stood up and hastily made your way to the door. "Y/n? Are you alright?" Without turning around you flatly muttered "headache, see you later."

Once you made it out of the library you started sprinting to your dorm hoping no tears would fall until you made it there. Eventually you did make it, feeling as though you were losing air. Closing the door to your empty dorm room, you slowly slid down to sit against the door.

That's when you felt it, you felt your heart shatter.

----------

You didn't leave your dorm for days, too afraid to face the now happy couple that is Lily and James. James had tried to check on you asking if you were sick or injured, but your dormmates always had an excused ready for you. You were incredibly grateful for them, they hadn't once asked you what was actually bothering you when you told them your lies. They also brought you food as did the other mauraders. "Y/n?" You see and ignore the raven hair of Sirius Black peek through the doorway, listening to him sigh sadly as he leaves you alone. Despite you not speaking much to anyone, he and Remus had been especially kind to you. Remus bringing you chocolate every so often, it mostly sat untouched on your night table. If chocolate could go stale his most definitely already had.

By the end of the third week, you had decided that your heart had healed enough to go back to class. You also had to go because your grades were dropping and no one was worth your future.

You were cautious leaving your dorm that morning, nervous that any sighting of James would send you into hysterics once more. You had skipped breakfast to avoid him but you knew that wasn't the reason you felt sick to your stomach this morning. You had Charms next, the class in which you sit next to James. You took slow, weary, steps as you walked up the large staircase. But as you walked you thought, slowly forgetting the nervous pit that had dug itself into your stomach this morning. As you rounded the corner, you slowly start to smile. You and James could still hang out, you guys could still be friends. You made your way to your seat which was not visible from the door, "morning Sirius, how are you?" He smiled, "Better now that your looking a lot better." You smile at Sirius' compliment, it only boosting your confidence in the fact that James would sti-

The she was, her long, red, hair and beautiful green eyes. There she was, in your seat. In that moment, it all clicked. The reason James stopped checking in on you after the second day, the reason Remus had glanced at you with eyes full of guilt. James didn't need you, in fact, he didn't want you. Had he been waiting this whole time? Yes you may have been friends with Lily but James wouldn't ever use you to get to her...

Soon enough, your suspicions were confirmed as James turned to you with smiling eyes. Because hidden in his eyes, his beautiful brown eyes, was guilt. It took all of thirty seconds for your entire world to come crashing down, you had been used, James never loved you in any way. With one last sad smile at him, you turned on your heel and left.

Feeling your heart shatter once again.

[undead-merman]

Blood Monster Harper With GN-Reader NSFW

Taken to The Asylum

You had reached the end of your fraying rope. You didn’t feel real anymore and your body just felt like a meat sack weighed down by flesh, fat, and bone. Horrible, you couldn’t find anything good, even your dreams were filled with nightmares of faces and hands forcing themselves on you. You felt like your body wasn’t your own and your mind was hazy.

The nurses weren’t gentle. Even when you were limp they yanked and tightened your bonds until they dug into your skin and shoved you around. They even knocked your head a few times bringing unconscious tears to your eyes.  

You were wheeled in with your arms and legs bound. The white hallways and artificial light burned your eyes and all you could do was squint and it still burned through your eyelids. 

But it was when you got to a much dimmer wing and passed by an open door that you could see a muddled figure that could have been humanoid but everything was swirling and you couldn’t tell, or even bother. 

When the doors closed on your new room it echoed a bit and the room was so dark you couldn’t see a thing. But you swore you could hear the softest of whispers like mice tip-toeing over a tile floor. But they sounded weary, scared, and almost manic. 

It felt like years in the dark, eternity, like you were living a thousand lifetimes with the disembodied voices and you could never understand them at all. Only feel their fear, this place… was hell.   

Strange Doctor

Harper, that was the name of the good doctor. His name was repeated over and over like a mantra. ‘The doctor will see you now.’ but the words were just the babbling of syllables. You just stayed limp as they carted you to the office. 

You didn’t take anything in as words were spoken when you were prodded, even groped. The trace of a pen over your jaw and a push so you looked up into his eyes. Deeply enchanting yet off-putting. They draw you in like a fractal image and he smiles. 

You swear you can see something just beyond him but your brain is far too frazzled to comprehend it. 

It took weeks before you started to realize what was going on and you started feeling just a bit more connected to yourself. You started noticing the features of Harper’s face, his blonde hair, and his detached smile. It was unsettling. And those whispers were getting louder every single night. More and more they became distinguished enough that you could hear the doctor's name. You hear it over and over. Now whenever you saw him, your hair stood on end when you saw him. 

Whenever you met his eyes, they still seemed to shift, and the shadows seemed to jitter like the lights were flickering. But that wasn’t the worst. The worst was his perverted experiments where he’d gleefully watch as other patients, or victims, would be forced to touch you. Or Harper himself with his ice-cold fingers and something that you swore was an extra hand. But he always assured you it was just your mind playing tricks on you. You could feel his lukewarm cock pressing against your back…         

A Witness

You had been out just a little too late, and as you were trying to find your way to your room you heard just a small noise, a squelching and slurping. Yet it was decidedly wetter than any of the depraved acts you’ve seen here. And turning the corner you see it- A form of wriggling tentacles digging into flesh and bulging as they sucked something down. The smell of blood heavy in the air. 

“You’re not in your room.” Harper’s voice was like second nature to hear and it sent a shiver of terror up your spine. His eyes gleaming in the darkness of these stale walls. One of those pink tendrils dripping with gore slowly rubbed against your body smearing hot red over you. He approached as those extra limbs slipped into your loose patient’s gown. 

But feeling you quake under his touch and seeing how your eyes shifted into pure horror his smile almost split his face in half. “How interesting.” you weren’t sure what he was referencing but it didn’t matter when the pink appendage slipped against his hole and rubbed up against it the tip poking up your rim. “Let's take a little look inside.”

He spent a few hours opening your hole and during that time he spilled something inside you that only made you crave more and it wasn’t until you passed out and sat up in your bed did the nightmare end. Or so you thought. 

When you went to see Harper again, his eyes still had a glow to them, and you could see the pink appendages gently drifting about. The nurse who brought you in had no reaction, but he was grinning wide at you. 

A New Victim

His experiments worsened, got more deranged and ever more wicked. He made sure your meeting with him doubled and the nurses took you in like it or not. Even if you scream and refused they bind you up and bring you to him like a little meal on a silver platter. 

He would makes small little nicks on your body for the tentacles to drink up and he’s shiver in delight. Drooling at whatever he was tasting before ruining you over and over again. He’d used his fingers to swirl your insides around like some kind of drink and listen to the sound like music. When you begged for mercy he’d only go further, fucking you with vigor and spilling whatever cursed seed he had inside. 

He’d do it openly in font of other nurses and patents, the hesitation he had before was gone and he even made jokes about you, his favorite, his pet project, even just pet. You noticed your body started reacting to those odd pet names. A rush of pleasure like a dog drooling over their meal. 

He more you struggled the more he seemed to enjoy, even when he told you he was just trying to help. Trying to make you relax even with how maddening everything was. 

And if you break he’s just as excited as the night you first saw all this, fucking every hole you have like it was his last night alive. 

You were never getting out. The whispers warned, and you could only agree with them. This was hell, and Doctor Harper was your personal demon. 

[miseries-mistress]

FIDELITY | ARAGON

Synopsis: The burden of sleep weighs heavily on your body and consciousness while you and Aragorn are forced to attend a banquet after a long day of riding. The only thing that makes any of this bearable is the company of each other, lost in your moment of careless whispers. 

Warnings: gender-neutral reader, kinda angst ig, but also fluff???, i know this didn't actually happen before the battle in rohan, but this is fanfiction, so who cares, no spoilers. W/C: 872

Notes: This is just a little drabble while i work on actual oneshots. also, i do plan on getting to my requests; it's just taking me a lot longer than i imagined. (thank you guys so much for 200 followers, ily)

lotr masterlist

The smoke of pipeweed drifted from the slight draft, curling upwards before dissipating into the stale air. Laughter rang out; chatter boomed as the distant language of lovers remained a faint whisper, hidden behind the shadow of feelings. As each moment passed and the night grew bitter, the people grew weary, their bellies full of brew and rich food. However, you and Aragorn remained silently seated, your plates barely touched while others danced and sang with fat smiles blistering their faces. 

He inhaled and exhaled, the pipe loosely caught between his forefinger and thumb, his fitted shirt clinging to his biceps while he rolled up the rest of the sleeves to his elbows, exposing the artwork of veins spiraling down his arm. His posture is loose, an arm lazily propped up while the other is slung over the polished wood, an almost foreign demeanor from the battle-hardened man you are used to witnessing.

Words evade you as you admire the details of his figure, watching his face for any hint of emotion to pick at and dissect, knowing far too well his reluctance to share his woes with you. 

It's not only him that is dispirited but you as well, for you are too weary to care about much else. The two of you had battled orcs and traveled across roves of land to scout, all while you prepared Rohan for something much more fierce than anything they had ever encountered. 

Both of you are beyond drained, reduced to silently basking in the presence of one another for the brief time you get to indulge in the simplicity of understanding before you must part ways. Secrecy is of the highest importance, for rumors would drag a freshly sharpened blade through your bond, which runs more profound than any mere friendship. He's a future king, and you are a hopeless romantic with a dream. 

Your head comes to rest on his shoulder, and the heaviness in your eyes, threatening to pull you under is like fighting an uphill battle. Each moment you strain to stay awake, but the pressure that settles over you is too great to ignore. As each moment passes into eternity, and you fall further into the creamy fabric of his freshly washed clothes, the smell of musk integrated with the woodlands wafts to your nose, and with each breath fall, you can't help but inhale more of his homely aroma. 

Aragorn moves his arm to settle around your waist, simultaneously pulling you into a more comfortable position by his side. Your eyes betray you by fluttering closed as you melt into the tenderness in which he holds you. 

The chatter is white noise, and his chest's steady rise and decline is your guide to the pitfalls of sleep that claim your dreary form. 

Aragorn cannot help but let his eyes wander to your stature as he grimaces. In the next hour, he would have to sneak away from the festivities with you in his arms, tucking you into your makeshift bed, only to mesmerize your face as if it would be the last time he would ever see it before leaving. Aragorn would then carry on with the charade that every waking moment he didn't spend at your side was not pure agony, ripping his soul into bloody, gruesome shreds over his yearning to be near you once more. He was resigned to being a mere bystander as you unwittingly devastate his stone heart over the laughter you share with other men- men who could provide you with the life you merit. 

It's a cruel game that fate is playing with his heart, and he tries to remain impassive to his internal struggle every time he can whisk you away from prying eyes, but he's cracking under the weight of his own facade. He can tell by the way your eyes carry a concern for his sake that you know of something of that which troubles him, but he can't bear to place that burden onto you. After all, there's nothing either of you could do to ease the pain. 

Aragorn brushes the hair straying into your eyes, letting his irises wander a moment longer before tearing them away. His heart longs to keep you for a moment longer, but his mind insists he takes his leave and ends your moment of tranquility, but by fault, he is a selfish man. Despite all of the caution both of you heed, his worries seem to fall away like rainwater off a building, and the consequences of indulgence become too enticing to ignore. His rational mind, just for a second, gives way to senseless logic. 

Aragorn's hand stutters for a moment before falling to your head, stroking down your hair in the cover of the shadows far from the senses of anyone who might bear witness to his devotion to someone who deserves more than he could ever offer, no matter what his blood might claim. His hand pulls your hair back, only to place the barest of kisses upon the crown of your head, not enough to disturb you but enough to offer him a second of solace before your inevitable separation.

"Losto mae, meleth nin."

(translates: sleep well, my love.)