WELCOME TO HORNYLAND

One day, you'd finally had enough and got your dad's old toolbox out of your storage and decided to try to figure out the AC unit on your own. A decision that you instantly regret once you get the thing open and see the wires and metal.

But it was at least eighty degrees inside of your house, your outfit of the day consists of a pair of cut of denim shorts and a bikini top. Your hair is up as high off your neck as it can get and you're still sweating. You groan at the tangled mess of wires and are about to give up and just live in the nude this summer when you hear a voice behind you.

"Need a hand?"

You turn to see the Captain of the Briar U Hawks, John Logan with his sunglasses up on his forehead. He looks concerned at how you're holding the tool in your hand and how much electrical you're around right now.

"My air conditioning blows but it's not cold," you explain desperately, "I'm dying," you confess. Hastings has been in the middle of an unseasonably warm heat wave. By mid day, it's over one hundred degrees and at night, even with the sun down it's around eighty five and it's very humid.

Logan winces and drops his backpack, "Yikes," he says and steps forward, taking the pair of pliers from your hand and eyeing them up with a soft chuckle. He drops them gently into the toolbox and moves a few things around before he finds a flathead screwdriver.

"I can fix that," he says as he manages his hand inside of the opening you'd just found earlier. He flicks his wrist and the screwdriver hits something metal and he looks underneath the unit before he gives a quick nod. "Go in, see if it's cold," he tells you and you walk around to the back door of your two bedroom little starter house.

You don't know much but it was a senior who graduated who'd lived here last — but you do know that student did not take care of the place. You'd spent the first few weekends of your first year here pulling weeds, throwing away old furniture and giving the place a thorough scrub down.

It wasn't much but it was yours and you were proud of it.

As you step into the living room, you walk up to the wall where an air vent is sitting at the top, you stand up on your tipped toes and hear the air conditioner start to whir outside and air kicks out of the vent.

And it's hot.

You huff. And just as you're about to call out that it didn't work, your fingers cool down slightly. It's working and it's getting colder.

For the first time in three weeks, you would be able to sleep in an air conditioned house. You could kiss him right now and you don't even officially know his name.

Sure, you're not stupid. Anybody with eyes on campus knows who John Logan is. But at the end of the day, being his neighbor has made him incredibly human. You've seen him stumble out of the front door ten minutes late for his first class, taking out the trash in his boxers, you've seen him say goodbye to countless women, usually in the early morning hours. John Logan didn't do morning afters, you'd noticed.

Realizing you sound like a fucking stalker; you shake your head and rid your thoughts for a second. You step back outside and give him a gracious smile.

"It's working now, holy shit," you gush. "Thank you so much —" you trail off.

"John," he places a greasy hand on his chest and it leaves a stain. "Logan, that's what everybody calls me," he nods. "You renting?" he motions to the house with the screwdriver still in hand.

"I'm Y/N, yeah, until grad," you nod gently. "I'm a sophomore."

"Locking a place down already," he nods appreciatively at the house then back at you. His eyes linger for a beat longer than appropriate and he clears his throat as if to let you know that he's aware he's messing this up. "Smart move," he says. "Me and the guys rent too, same; til we're outta here," he smirks.

You've had a few classes with a few members of the hockey team and they all seemed nice enough. Their playboy personas definitely preceded them.

"Well hey, listen, if you ever need anything around the house like this kinda thing," Logan taps the air conditioner, "Lemme know, it's kind of my hobby," he confesses.

You raise an eyebrow, "Yeah," you nod slowly. It couldn't hurt to have someone who actually knew the names of what the fuck fixed things. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," you smile.

He picks his backpack back up and places the screwdriver back in the toolbox, shutting the box. "Have a good day," he smiles sweetly before walking across the street and up the stairs to the hockey house.

You pick up the toolbox and walk back into your house, making a silent vow to yourself that you'd only ever call John Logan in case of emergency.

About a week later, you're working on the garden in the front yard that's by your door when you see the shadow of someone who's standing behind you. You squint gently before tilting your head over your shoulder and catching a glimpse of Logan.

You hadn't been avoiding him per say, you had just been going about your day to day life. But you had been noticing that he had been outside more, working out in the backyard and you could have sworn he'd been staring over at your house a few times.

He's shirtless, sweaty and has a bandana on that's damp at his forehead. His athletic shorts are hanging low on his hips and you can see the little trail of hair that goes from his belly button dow—

"How's the AC?" he asks, hands on his hips and you turn back to your pruning, desperate for a distraction. He's asking such a simple and innocent question and your thoughts are racing about how strong he was. You wondered if he could bench press you, but a voice sounds inside of your head.

Holy shit, Y/N, not fucking now.

You nod your head, "It's great, thank you again," you say again.

He shakes his head like it was nothing.

"I was headed to the hardware store this morning," he says and you're wondering why he's telling you when he motions to your back fence. "When I was over here last week, I noticed you're missing a couple of slats," he shrugs. "I can fix that."

You look over towards where he's pointing and sure as shit, there's about four broken or missing slats to your fence scattered along the back wall. You sigh. You haven't been in the backyard much yet this spring and are afraid of what you're going to have to face when you finally do get around to it.

"I could pick up a couple of boards," Logan offers nonchalantly. "Our shower keeps getting clogged," he says and he instantly knows that his roommate Dean is the culprit. "Since I'm there already," he trails off and glances at you.

You blink.

"Oh, uh, yeah - that would be great," you say with a shake of your head. This guy was too good to be true. You smirk gently when he nods happily.

"Cool," he says as he reaches back and pulls the t-shirt that's hanging from his pocket out and over his head in a swift motion. Like he's done it all his life.

"I'll be right back," he tells you with a wave before turning and jogging towards his pickup.

Forty minutes later, Logan is carrying plywood back into your jungle of a backyard. He sees the weeds and laughs, giving a low whistle.

"Lemme guess," you say with a sly smirk and he grins back at you.

"I can fix that," he nods once.

"At least on that one, I can help," you say as you watch him start to line up the boards in the missing spots. He measures twice, you notice.

You excuse yourself after a minute and go inside to lean against the kitchen counter.

John Logan is in your backyard, fixing your fence. The only thing that could make it better was if he was shirtless, you think as you make your way to the sink, looking out the window that sits in front of it.

Oh, and just like that..

Logan grabs the hem of his baby blue t-shirt and rips it off, tossing it to the side and you groan internally. You look down and see your hands clutching the counter.

"Fucking hell," you grumble softly. "This is torture," you mumble as you watch his shoulder blades flex as he starts to hammer in nails.

You search the kitchen for some way to show your appreciation and find some lemonade in the very back of the fridge. You see a chunk of ice in it floating so you know it's good. The iceberg clinks around the glass pitcher walls as you find a glass.

You hastily pour, looking out at him and biting your bottom lip. He has no fucking business coming to do chores at your house looking this fucking good, you think to yourself and place the pitcher down on the counter.

You inhale slowly and realize your hand is shaking. Like your entire body is slowly starting to gravitate towards the idea of reaching out and touching him.

You steady yourself before walking outside as calm as you should be with a hot guy working in your backyard, shirtless.

The sound of nails grounds you and you clear your throat and he turns, offering a genuine grin at the glass of lemonade.

"Oh, fuck yeah," he says and drops the hammer to the ground, taking the glass and chugging half in one go. He gasps as he takes a deep breath and nods in appreciation. "That's delicious," he says before his eyes widen and he rubs his temples, "Fuck that shit's cold," he laughs through his temporary brain freeze. "Thank you," he nods and takes another sip, slower this time. He's learned his lesson.

You laugh softly, "Are you kidding me? Thank you," you motion to the three new fence posts that are already in place.

"Ah, it's nothing," he waves. "I'd rather do this and be outside than fishing condoms out of the shower drain," he says and when you give a confused look he shakes his head. "Don't ask," he warns.

You hold your hands up in surrender and laugh once and Logan smirks.

He likes the sound of your laugh.

"So, next weekend I've got an away game," he says matter of factly. "But the weekend after that we're home, I could come and help you with some of this stuff," he kicks a bush that's just given up on the will to live.

You nod gently, "That would be great, I'll get out here next weekend and try to get some out of here before you come back," you offer and he shrugs.

"No worries if you don't," he says quietly. "I could get this clear in an afternoon, couple of hours if I loop a couple of freshman into helping," he smirks.

"That's cruel, even for freshman," you reason with a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

He lets a beat pass before gazing around the backyard and he states boldly, "So no boyfriend around to help ya."

It's more of a statement than a question and you don't know how to respond.

Your eyes widen slightly at his forwardness before laughing softly. Something you did when you got uncomfortable. You shift between your feet and shake your head.

"Nah," you say simply and leave it at that. John Logan doesn't need to know your entire relationship history since coming to Briar.

He eyes you up suspiciously before turning back to the fence, "Well, I'll get this last one done and get out of your hair," he says dismissively. He kneels down and grabs the hammer again, digging into his pocket for a handful of nails. He sticks a few between his teeth by their flat heads and he starts to hammer them into the wood and with each hit, you feel the opportunity of getting to know Logan more slip away until two weeks from now.

"Hey, can I get your number?" You ask suddenly between hits and he raises an eyebrow and looks over his shoulder at you. He's got a look that screams curiosity and maybe even excitement at the idea of you asking for his number.

Before he can get too cocky, you follow up with a bold faced lie, "My water heater has been weird lately—" you say quietly and make a mental note to go in there before he comes to fix it and fuck it up somehow. "In case it blows up or something while you're gone.." you trail off and place your hands in your pockets.

His lips slowly pull into a sly smirk and he nods, "Yeah, I can give you my number," he winks. "In case something blows up," he confirms before hitting the final nail on the head and placing the hammer into the toolbox at his feet. "Done."

You hand him your cell phone and quietly watch him type in his name and number before handing it back to you. He hit 'call' and 'end' quickly so that he'd have your number as well — he wasn't dumb. He wasn't going to wait for something to break to talk to you again.

"Thanks again," you tell him as you walk him towards the front of the house. He's wiping his face with his bandana that he's removed from his head. His hair is slightly sweaty and sticking to his forehead, he puts his hands in his t-shirt and lifts it up to wipe his face even better and you get a good glimpse of his abs before the shirt falls back down.

"Yeah, of course — get inside into that air conditioning," he tells you seriously. "It's getting fucking hot," he grumbles. He loved spring and summer but not when it was as hot as Hell outside, literally. He could feel the thickness of the air when he inhaled and that was something he'd learned that he did not like since this heat wave had begun.

You smirk gently and nod your head, "Yeah, you too," you muse and he waves you off.

"I'll talk to you later," he promises and crosses the street and you stand there for a moment, looking at your feet for a second before going inside and plopping onto the couch trying not to imagine him naked.

You end up taking an hour long cold shower.

It's only four days later when you're sitting in your bed, trying to read a book. Your eyes scan the same paragraph for the sixth time, trying to force yourself to comprehend.

You've been thinking about John Logan since the fence fixing and it was starting to consume your day to day life. In the middle of lectures, just as you were disassociating to your professor's monotone, you'd get a glimpse of the dimples behind his back that were more pronounced whenever his arms were above his head.

At the end of a long day, you would come back to your house and look over to the hockey house; wondering what he was doing.

Your phone vibrates on your thigh and you look down.

It's late, Hannah had already said goodnight a few hours ago and that was the only person that you been talking to that day. You close your book and place it to your side, looking at your phone screen.

Logan: Just checking in to make sure nothing has imploded on you before I head to bed — thought I heard a bang.

You smirk slowly and resist the urge to kick your feet at the sight of his text. No, this isn't an elementary school crush, no — you were fully lusting over John Logan and he was seemingly interested in seeing what could be between you two.

You slowly type back, "Nothing here at least from what I can tell, I think you're in the clear…"

And instantly, those three little dots slowly pop up and you inhale slowly.

Logan: That means nothing coming from you: I saw how you hold a pair of pliers. If you're trying to reassure me, you're doing a terrible job.

A grin pulls at your lips and you lean back in your bed against the headboard.

"Who needs to know how to hold a pair of pliers when they live next door to Fix-It Felix," you respond with a GIF from Wreck it Ralph. He gives a 'haha' to the image before responding quickly.

Logan: I'm not gonna be here forever — unlike some of my teammates, I take my schooling very seriously. I'm not planning on being here for a decade. When I graduate, you're fucked. 😭

You laugh and roll your eyes.

"Good thing I have your number then, huh?"

He starts typing but the dots disappear and you stare, waiting for them to show up again.

They don't.

You exhale and let your head fall back between your shoulders against the headboard.

Another vibrate.

Logan: What are you up to? Me and the boys just got back from Malone's & I'm about this close to refereeing a rock, paper, scissors tournament, I think.

You smirk and debate how you want to play this. You could easily turn this into a flirtatious conversation — ask Logan to come across the street and keep you company. Or you could stay just like you were, just talking. It seemed like a win win either way. You're in your thoughts when the phone vibrates again in your palm.

Logan: JK, Dean passed out on the couch and Garrett decided he's headed to bed. Another fun night at the Hockey House!

"Sounds like a blast, more fun than I'm having," you hit send and then send another message. "I'm trying to read a book but my mind is just elsewhere, I guess…" and you add a shrugging emoji to make sure he knows you're not being blatantly flirtatious.

Logan: Hate that for you. What's up? Something on your mind?

You swallow and stare at the message.

Yeah, you think to yourself, you.

And your thumbs start to move mindlessly, "Just nothing is keeping my attention and I just feel restless."

Logan: Except me.

And you can see the smug ass smirk that's probably on his face right now across the street.

You stand up and pace back and forth as you think of how to respond.

You type back with one word.

"Apparently."

Logan's little dots pop up and taunt you with what you imagine his response could be. He could be smug, he could be completely disinterested and respond with a 'quit it, freak' or worse, he could be totally fucking into it.

Logan: I can fix that.

And your heart skips a beat as you text back to explain yourself and you delete what you've got, going for a third attempt at an excuse when your doorbell rings.

Your stomach falls into your ass as you slowly lift yourself up off the bed and walk down the hallway towards the front door. Through the decorative windows at the top of the door, you can see the very top of Logan's head, moving back and forth.

You slowly reach out and open the door, looking at the hockey captain who has his hand behind his neck and he gives a gentle smile.

As you watch him, you rack your brain for everything and anything that could be considered 'broken' so that you can keep him here as long as you could, but he simply shrugs his shoulders and leans against the door frame.

He's switched out of his clothing from this evening at Malone's and is now in a pair of gray sweatpants, the drawstrings hanging between his thighs. His t-shirt is one size too big for his frame — either he doesn't care about flaunting his muscles or he doesn't realize how fit he truly is.

"I know nothing's broken," he states matter of factly. "Can I come in anyway?"

Instead of speaking, you probably couldn't if you tried right now, you simply step to the side and motion for him to come inside. He does so with a smile and looks around as soon as he's inside.

"Can I get you anything?" you ask him quietly and he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.

"Nope," he says, popping the 'p' as he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. "I'm all good, I uh, just wanted to see you," he confesses.

"Me?" you ask with a surprised look on your face. Logan could get any girl on campus with a bat of those long eyelashes and that stupid lazy smirk that he's got on his face whenever he looks at you.

"You," he nods with the same surprised look on his face, laughing softly. "Yeah, you," he states with a shrug. "Truth be told," Logan sighs dramatically and leans against the kitchen island, arms against his chest. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since you were trying to fix your AC," he tells you as if it's no big deal that he's been thinking about you for weeks.

There's a slight skip in your heart's rhythm when you think about if he's had the same type of thoughts about you?

He watches you intently as you stand in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at him with your mouth slightly agape.

"Y/N, you gotta give me something to work off of here," he begs gently with a pleading look in his eyes and you shake your head in disbelief.

"Sorry," you say simply with a blink, "I just… think my brain short circuited," you joke but you feel like doing literally anything but laughing. John Logan has been thinking about you, you remind yourself and you swallow before feeling yourself returning into your own body again. "Thinking about me," you try out quietly as you start to step towards him. "Like how?"

Logan stares at you as if you're a piece of prey as you step closer, dark eyes locked on your frame as you saunter towards the island. He bites down on his bottom lip gently, "Oh, if I told you you would think that I'm insane," he warns.

Eyebrows lifting slightly, you gaze up at him curiously and tilt your head to the side, "Try me," you say in an encouraging tone.

Logan swallows. Hard.

"I've been thinking about you—" he inhales sharply as if he really is considering doing this. He looks down at you and reaches over, grabbing your waist and tugging you between his legs. His hands find your hips as his thumbs gently graze at your hip bones. "In the worst fucking ways possible," he says, "—which is a problem because I haven't even taken you out on a proper date yet."

Ah, you think. A romantic, how sweet.

You smirk gently, "Oh, shit," you say in a low tone. "That bad, huh?"

Logan groans and shakes his head, "Like right now, all I wanna do is put you up on this counter and have my way with you," he says in a voice just above a whisper. He pulls his right hand up and strokes your cheek as if he's testing the waters. "I've been thinking about how badly I wanna fuck you," he confesses and your cheeks flush.

Your lips curl up into a smirk and you lean in, whispering into his ear. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," you say softly and he looks down at you with furrowed eyebrows.

"What? What's the bad news?" he asks, worry in his voice.

"I've been thinking about that too," you say. "And then you kept coming over shirtless and shit looking like a Ken doll," you groan and rub your hand over your face.

"Can I at least be a GI Joe?" he asks and you roll your eyes.

Logan's eyes light up slightly and he reaches forward, capturing your lips against his. He takes a step and spins you around, effectively caging you in against the countertop. Your tongues play against each others and both of his hands slip up to either side of your neck, deepening the kiss. After a moment, his hands slide down to your hips and he grabs you tightly, fingertips digging into your pajama bottoms and lifts you. He plops you right on your ass onto the counter, legs dangling and he steps between them effortlessly.

Your mind is fucking racing right now as his hands start to roam up and down your sides over your pajamas. Finally realizing what's going on, your arms instantly go around his neck and your leg hooks around his waist and pin him against the counter. He groans into the kiss slightly and lets his hand slip up your shirt.

His palm brushes against your breast and rolls your nipple gently between his index finger and thumb and he grins against your lips at the noise that comes out of your mouth.

You reach up and let your hand rake through his hair, sighing into the next kiss that he plants on your lips. He then breaks away, trailing kisses down your jawline as his hand switches over to your other breast and starts giving it some attention as well.

Logan's hands pull at the hem of your shirt and his eyes meet yours, asking silently for your approval before continuing on.

When you nod, he has the green light and he yanks the fabric up and over your head with no flair. He's too excited to be pulling out all the moves even though he knows he needs to slow the fuck down and savor this moment.

His lips graze down your jawline and down onto your neck and he nips gently at your pulse point before he sucks gently to ease the pain. Your lips part and you exhale, tilting your head to the side to give him the best angle of your neck that he can get.

You secretly hope he leaves marks. You want to walk around campus with makeup poorly covering his little claims on your body — at least the ones that are visible.

Logan's eyes drift down to your tits and smiles appreciatively. "Jesus," he breathes out as he reaches behind his neck and tugs at the collar of his own t-shirt. He throws it to the side and your hands rest on his muscular chest, fingers tracing the silver chain that he wears every day.

He presses you up against his chest and he closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours as your hand slowly slides down between his pecs to his abs. Your fingertips slowly trace small little circles along the muscles and his flinches his belly away from you instinctively before you smirk up at him and let your hand rest at the waistband of his sweats.

You watch his face intently as your hand palms against his dick through the fabric and you can feel him tense underneath you instantly. He sucks in a deep breath of air and grunts gently.

"You gonna tease it or you gonna play with it?" he asks gently, a slight challenge in his voice. He's never going to not be a smart ass when it counts.

You grin, letting your fingers curl around his fabric covered length. He hisses and closes his eyes, shifting his hips forward into your hand and he groans.

"Y/N," he warns, "I've wanted this all week," he tells you and you give him a sympathetic look.

He looks at you with a smile that shouts two can play that game and lets his fingers hook into the elastic of your shorts. In one swift motion, he's got you naked sitting on your kitchen counter and you feel like a million bucks as you sit in front of him with that grin.

He's looking at you like he's hit the lottery and he licks his lips before he leans back in, "You're fucking perfect," he whispers genuinely into your ear.

He grabs your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist and tugs you closer, picking you up off the counter with ease and walking you towards the living room where he saw a couch earlier that seemed like it would give him enough room for what he wanted to do to you.

He lays you gingerly back against the couch cushions, dropping to his knees on the floor in front of you and nudging your knees apart with his shoulders. Logan's lips plant kisses up your thighs and just as he's about to reach your center that's throbbing at this point, he hovers and hesitates.

Logan's dark eyes stare down at your pussy, all wet just for him, and he blows air against your exposed clit before he goes to your other thigh and starts to kiss down towards your knee. You whimper and squirm underneath him and lift your head up off the couch.

"Fucking tease," you mumble with a sigh and he laughs between your thighs, laughing and leaning in. His lips place a gentle kiss at your clit before he lets his tongue lap in lazy circles against you.

His tongue moves just like a skater on the ice and you can't help but fall back against the cushions as he starts to inch you closer to an orgasm. His arms wrap around your ass and tugs you down onto his tongue, humming happily as he eats you out.

Your hand reaches down and grabs a handful of his hair and as he slips a finger inside of you, you tug in approval. A shaky sigh escapes from your lips as he throws your knee over his shoulder, burying his face deeper.

Your eyes widen as he starts to suck at your clit, a second finger added to the mix with a moan from you giving him encouragement every step of the way. The way your hips are starting to roll against his fingers makes him grin and his cock twitches between his legs.

Not now, Logan says to himself as he curls his fingers up just right and rubs against your spot.

"That's right," Logan nods, eyes dark. "You like that?"

Your head bounces like a bobblehead.

Logan shakes his head down at you, pressing his fingers deeper. "Say it," he says.

"I like it," you say eagerly and he smirks gently at how much control he has right now in this moment — even though he knows you can switch that dynamic around real fast.

He curls his fingers and pumps his fingers out as he sucks at your clit again, looking up at you.

Jesus Christ, John Logan between your thighs looking up at you may be the sexiest thing you've ever seen in your entire life.

"Fuck," you manage out a moment later as he keeps his motions going, leaning up though and grinning down at you.

"What's up, baby?" he asks in that snarky little tone that makes you clench around his fingers slightly. "Mm, you're close, aren't you?" he asks.

You nod weakly and Logan lifts a finger to his earlobe.

"Use your words, princess," Logan growls gently as he tilts his ear down towards you.

"I'm gonna come," you breathe out, your fingertips digging into his forearm.

Logan grins, "Good, let go for me," he says softly into your ear, "C'mon, let me have it," he tells you.

Your eyes close and you whimper as your thighs quiver around his fingers and he slows his fingers yet adds an entirely new sensation at this moment: his thumb, rubbing gently against your clit steadily.

He holds you as you tense up under him, kissing any inch of your body that he can get his lips on as you ride out your high.

"There she is," he grins once you seemingly come back down to Earth and you giggle softly, leaning in and kissing his lips roughly.

Logan leans back into you and kisses you back before pulling away and exhaling. He glances down and bites down on his bottom lip.

"You're not done," he tells you quietly as he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and gives it a slow pump. His eyes are locked on you and you sit up slowly, grinning.

You lean over him and open your coffee table drawer, reaching in and grabbing a condom before taking the wrapper between her teeth and tearing it open.

Logan's seen women trying to make condoms sexy a hundred times but you, however, are the only one to succeed. He bites harder into his bottom lip as he pumps his cock once more, watching as you grab the latex and line it up with him.

He groans as you slowly roll the condom down with your hand, gripping him as you slide down and grinning up at him as you notice him twitch.

He crawls up onto the couch between your thighs and lets the head of his cock rub against your wet folds teasingly.

Your eyes roll at the feeling and you reach down to grab his forearms that are braced on either side of you.

And with one swift thrust, Logan pushes inside of you and you moan softly.

He pauses when he's fully inside of you and gives you a second to adjust before he rolls his hips back - only to thrust right back in. His head drops back between his shoulders and he groans.

You wrap your legs around his waist and he buries himself inside of you with each thrust, each one growing more and more passionate. He's savoring this moment just as much as you are, you notice, as he looks down at you as if he's memorizing this. The way your tits bounce with each thrusts, the sound that your bodies are making as they collide or maybe even how you feel.

"Just like that," you egg him on as he angles his hips just right and you feel a sudden sensation building in your stomach.

He beams at your words and tries to hit that spot over and over and over again.

He groans slowly, "You look so gorgeous like this," he tells you. And you don't care how many girls he's told this to before, you believe him. And your hands slowly reach up to your tits, squeezing them together as he brings your knees up to your chest and continues to pound into you.

You groan and know that you're on the edge and it's way too fast for your liking but you have no say in the matter. Logan for all intents and purposes has full control of you and this moment and you wouldn't have it any other way.

He leans down and kisses your lips as he bucks his hips, his thrusts getting more and more desperate and ragged as he rocks his hips back and forth. When he feels your thighs shake again and your breathing hitch, he groans deeply into the kiss and his hips start to slow down, looking down at you. His eyes lock onto yours as he fills the condom, moaning and kissing your jaw again.

And you two lay like that, just together, chest to chest on the couch, catching your breath. A comfortable silence falling between you two. You quietly wrap an arm around his shoulders as he places kisses against your collarbone, slipping out of you a moment later.

You sit up and Logan instantly walks over to the kitchen and grabs the roll of paper towels. He peels the rubber off of his dick and cleans himself off quickly and hands you the roll of towels for yourself.

He pulls his sweats back over his hips and he sits on the couch, running his hand through his hair and exhaling contently.

"You good?" he asks gently after a beat and you offer a grin that makes him laugh. "Jesus," he laughs, "You keep looking like that and I'm gonna get you for three tonight," he grins and leans in, pecking your lips.

"What's wrong with that?" you ask with a small smirk.

Logan chuckles lowly and swats at your thigh, "Nothing, but I'm gonna get hooked," he smirks. "And then you'll never get rid of me," he shrugs quickly.

"I thought I already couldn't get rid of you," you muse and he leans in, tickling your sides and making you writhe underneath him in an entirely different way.

"So I'm gonna take you out to dinner tomorrow night," he tells you simply, tracing circles up and down your arm.

You laugh gently at the shift of conversation.

"I'll see if I can pencil you in," you say gently. "Have you seen my backyard?"

He smirks, "Alright, fine, instead of going out for dinner, we'll get some take out and we can work in the backyard and get some work done before I head out on the road," he says, like it's the easiest decision to make.

You purse your lips and nod, "I don't think my sprinkler system is even hooked up," you muse after a minute and Logan hums behind you, hugging you tight to his body as he shrugs.

"I can fix that."

He nodded silently, trying his hardest not to let his attention wander from you. The instant you pulled him close, he buried his nose against the small of your throat, little hands clenching the sodden fabric of your shirt, now wine-dark. Your heart clenched painfully. The last time Jude had let you hold him like this was Easter a few years ago. 

While he had interest in hunting the plastic eggs, the rabbit that hid them was a horrifying concept. You couldn’t blame him, either. It was unseasonably cold, and the costume had been in circulation since the sixties. Despite Jules and his first wife’s attempt to assure him that it was just a costume, he was having none of it. 

You ignored the judgemental looks of your mother when you plopped onto the grass next to Jude. He crawled into your lap, and stayed there until it was time to leave for some big feast a chef had prepared. Even then, he seemed reluctant to let go of you. Now you wished he clung tighter, knew you were a solid constant in a sea of unknowns.

Despite your efforts to stay as careful as possible on the slick floor, purposely separating the idea of second and third cousins being what you were stepping over, the wood was still making your extraction slower. The air was heavy with a sweet metal scent, so overwhelming it clung to your throat and bubbled in your chest. 

The air was instantly cooler when you stumbled into the main corridor. Snow fell in the peaceful way it always does, unbothered by the chaos.  It was Jules who rushed you first, gently prying Jude’s face from your throat and assessing him much like you had. Nell flanked your other side, catching your gaze with gratitude and placing a hand on the small of your back. It was enough to stop your trembling, just for a moment. 

Rachel looked ruined. 

Of course she did. You had seen the explosion of pure horror and contempt the moment Nicky rushed out that he wasn’t going to marry her. The bottom of her dress was clotted in red, dingy and worn and reflecting much of the exhaustion that rimmed her eyes. Tears had been shed. Words had been spoken that couldn’t be taken back. Blood had officially begun to spill. 

Something sharp twisted in you the moment you saw blood dripping down your mothers face. Your fathers was clear, his stance silent. He had frozen much like you had all those years ago in the woods. Nicky cried openly. For who- you wondered. Portia paced the small length of the cold glass, biting her thumb in uncharacteristic worry. 

Rachel swallowed hard when she met your gaze, shivering as if something passed through her. Resignation. Pleading. Surrender. It was all there, swimming in her glossy eyes. You nodded at her, barely perceptible. It was a way to assure her that you were here. That you were on her side. 

During the ceremony you had sat next to an older man that you didn’t recognize. He was strange, had an accent and greasy gray hair. He was much too relaxed, much too loud, much too interested. 

“Are you Uncle Robin’s step brother?” 

“No,” He drew the word out like it was a game, nudging your shoulder with his own. “But you are a part of the direct family, no? Why are you not up there. Do you not agree with the annointment?” 

What an odd question. But, something must have flickered across your features because it was answer enough for him to smile at you. It was genuine and you had smiled back before glancing back towards the altar. For a moment it was like the two of you were holding a secret, no matter how small. 

You had only known Rachel for a short period of time, but you’d be damned if you didn’t know Nicky was wrong for her. Her lips had been soft and insistent against your own, her hand squeezing your waist to keep you steady. It was warm, hurried, and one of the only things that had ever felt truly right for you. 

Jules had walked in for a glass of water before it could go further. You had both moved back in a shock, extracting yourselves, letting the air get thicker with tension before Rachel faked a yawn and excused herself. Her cheeks were flushed and her makeup was smudged. 

“When did you start wearing lipstick?” Jules had asked, taking a slow gulp of water before placing it in the sink. 

More than anything, you wanted to go back to that moment. There was a smugness in Rachel’s eyes, a sureness to her stance, that wasn’t recognizable in the way she carried herself now. Not that you blamed her. 

Nell rushed out in a  mumbled whisper. “Can you-” 

“Of course.” 

Instinctively, you hugged your nephew closer. Your family watched you carefully, Portia holding your mother in a vice. Your hand went up to Judes head, gently cradling it. Something in your mother had accepted fate. Something in you didn’t want to confront it. So instead, you let your body’s natural warmth do most of the talking. 

Still, you whispered in her ear, nauseated by the scent of blood, “I love you.” 

True or not, it was what she needed to hear at the moment. It was what you needed to say. She deflated, red spidering from her ear, like your words were a trigger that was just pulled. It was Portia who stopped you with a hand on the wrist, gripping in a desperate plea. 

Her voice broke “Patch,” 

“It’ll be okay.” Your voice broke, cracked in a way that betrayed you. Your hand moved from her grasp and took her own properly. Her fingers were cold from standing much too close to the glass of the atrium. “You’ll be okay.” 

It was another placating statement, you knew. The fear in your younger sister’s eyes ran deeper than bone. You would have swallowed, but was apt to choke on your own spit with how dry your throat was. It was better this way. Excusing yourself was what you had always done, but this time, all eyes were on you and Jude as you retreated to his room. 

Once there, you turned on a singular light, bathing the space in a dull yellow glow. Jude liked the stars. His ceiling was plastered with little plastic ones, glowing a toxic green. His bed had been made, the solar system seemed inconsequential at the moment, but the vastness on his comforter soothed something. 

Your arms were aching by the time you lowered yourself on top of the covers. Jude made a small  noise for the first time since the horrors had begun. He clung tighter, as if you would leave him the second you had him settled. But, you didn’t let go. You didn’t want to let go. 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know.” 

“They’re all dead.” 

“I know.” 

At some point, he had succumbed to exhaustion. You couldn’t bring yourself to join him, though, that would be the easier choice. What you were doing now, was avoidance for a family who had cemented you into the background, both mentally and literally in oil paints. Right now, you were content to rub small circles on Judes back and stare up at the artificial constellation above you. 

Still, you jolted when Rachel appeared in the doorway, darkening it with sheer amount of red on her clothing, the stench of copper burning your throat. She wore a gray suit that you were pretty sure you had seen your cousin Gary arrive in. The white that rested under the blazer was dingy with smeared blood. She clenched a lighter in her palm like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. 

Jude had stirred with you, making a hiccup of a sound as his breath caught. Neither of you moved as Rachel stepped closer with a shocking wave of tenderness. You met her eyes. “You look like shit.” 

“That’s not a very nice thing to say about a bride on her wedding day.” 

“Almost wedding day.” You corrected with the slight upturn of your lip. “If I recall correctly, my douchebag of a brother left you at the altar.” 

Rachel laughed. It was a real laugh, which shocked your system, but didn’t stop the warmth in your chest. “Technically, according to the witness, we’re married. It didn’t stop things from spreading, though. It only gave me a dramatic death in the atrium in your mothers dress.” 

She looked pale, rattled, like someone who had just had all of the blood usurped from their veins. One hand was clenched around a lighter, the very one she had carried with her like a shield. There had been a reckoning somewhere along the way. This day was her worst nightmare. It was pretty high up on your list too. 

Your eyes flickered to Jude, then back to Rachel in a silent, pleading question. She gave you the slightest nods and something settled within you. Safe. Your brother was most likely re-traumatized, and Nell would most likely file for divorce. The boy that was curled into your side sniffled, hugged you closer. 

“Will you say goodbye this time?” He whispered. 

“I… Jude, I’m not-” 

You stopped yourself before you could say more. What were you intending to say? ‘I’m not leaving’. That’s all you’ve ever done, all you wanted to do. You didn’t belong here. You itched to go back to the familiarity of your studio apartment and your tattooing station at the same shop you’d apprenticed at all those years ago. 

Jude picked his head up, peered at you with glassy eyes. “It’s okay. You can leave.” 

There were little things you missed about Portia. She did not communicate with you often, but in her own condescending way, she loved you. You were her big sister, though she seemed to forget about your existence until the big holidays rolled around. Really- just when your birthday did. 

It’d been a little over a year since you’d watched Rachel Harkin drive away in an old Ford trailing rusted tin cans. You weren’t far behind her. You didn’t want to stay in that house, couldn’t, even before the blood began to soak through the wooden floors. Jules called the cops, stepping into a natural role of leadership after your father gripped your mothers corpse until it was cold. 

You’d silenced your phone while you were with a client, but even when you turned it back on, there was nothing. You had settled for Thai takeout and a slice of pre-cut cake. Despite having retired and left the shop to you, Jim arrived half-way through the day and presented you with your favorite piece of art that he’d made on a drunken weekend. He had hugged you like your father never did, took you to the coffee shop next door even though he only ever drank tea. 

You went to bed early, but still couldn’t sleep. So, you found yourself pulling on a robe and stalking into the kitchen, only using the guiding light of the moon streaming through your apartment windows. Half-asleep and lucid. All of the sluggishness left you when you saw a shadow crouched over your kitchen island. 

As silently as you could, you felt around for the nearest object, and fuck, it was just a wooden spoon. The way your stomach had dropped to your feet filled your mouth with the prospect of vomit. You’d have to move past the intruder to get to your door, and you didn’t want to turn your back. 

The floor creaked, betrayed you in one swoop. Two things happened at once, you flicked on the light, and threw the spoon as hard as you possibly could. Your eyes hadn’t gotten used to the blinding overheads, the wood cracking off the head of someone who was just as dazed as you were. 

“Ow! Ow! Jesus Christ, why are you attacking me?” That voice was familiar, gravelly and strained. Adrenaline still rushed blood past your ears like a river. Still you heard “Do I remind you of your mother?” 

“Oh, fuck off.” 

Rachel Harkin was standing in your kitchen, a fork in her hand and significantly less bloodied than the last time you had seen her. Somehow, the breaking and entering wasn’t what had offended you most right now. “Are you eating my cake?” 

“I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” 

“By eating my cake?” 

“I’ll get you new cake.” 

“I don’t care about the cake.” 

“It feels like you care about the cake a little.” 

“Rachel,” You sighed out, pinching the bridge of your nose. “What are you doing here?” 

Her eyes, those brilliant expressive things, were downcast, fork poking at a glob of icing that had dropped onto the counter. The atmosphere in the room dropped, became heavy in a way that was noticeable. You edged yourself into the nearest barstool. You were patient, would never push her. 

“I know it was stupid to come here. But, no one else has seen,” She swallowed hard, as if she was about to pitch forward. “What happened. I looked into therapy, but they wouldn’t believe me. They knew I was at the house, and that I probably had some form of PTSD from that mysterious illness that took out so much of your bloodline.” Rachel winced, eyes glassy. “Sorry. Sorry. I’ve been keeping low.” 

“That’s sounds lonely.” You decided to say, reaching out and pulling the fork from her hand. Her fingers were slack, letting you shove a massive bite of cake into your mouth. You handed it back, much like you had the first time you and Rachel had met. “I get it though. It’s hard to push through trauma when it’s all you’ve ever known. And it is lonely.” 

She nodded at you, stuck another bit of cake into her mouth. She pulled the fork back slowly, scraping the icing from the prongs. It shouldn’t have dropped straight to your gut the way it did, but you pressed your thighs together to quell the heat. Nothing was under your robe, and you could feel a warmth gather there. 

Rachel’s eyes flashed, she held the fork back out to you. “Did you get anything for your birthday?” 

“This cake.” you shrugged, slicing another moist bite onto the fork, your next words barely there for human ears. “You.” 

Her breath hitched in a sharp way that sounded almost like it hurt. She didn’t inhale clumsily, it was slicing and calculated. Rachel behaved like someone who had fired a flare and got nervous when the helicopter came into view. That was just fine with you, smirking as you passed the fork back. There was only so much cake to go around. 

Rachel peered at you, at the fullness of your lips and the tired wanting in your eyes. You wondered if you reminded her of Nicky. It was impossible not to. Though you denied most relation, you were a Cunningham through and through. Even if you weren’t, there was a shared trauma of Rachel’s wedding day. 

Her mouth was on yours in a moment, tasting of artificial sweet and something smokey. You stood, meeting her fervor. The legs of the chair scraped against tile. This wasn’t like the first time, tender and soft. This was all teeth and desperation for some type of human contact. Her fingers ghosted down your side, sending flutters to your stomach. You shivered, pressed close to her, felt her smile into the kiss. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” Rachel panted out, nipping at your jawline, soothing it with her tongue. 

“Okay,” You said, arching your neck to give her more access. “Then we stop.” 

Rachel stilled, deadly serious, fingers held firm on the lapel of your robe. She thumbed at the silk in a nervous habit. “We can stop. What do you want?” 

Something in your chest warmed at the earnest in her eyes. You had multiple one night stands, granted none with your brothers ex-fiance, but it was all desire, lust. Not whatever this was. You squirmed under her attention. Her presence filled your every waking moment, and the metallic taste of her was what you craved most. 

So you kissed her again, licking heavy into her mouth and swallowing the responding groan. Rachel’s hands moved to your hips, squeezed hard. She started backing you down the hallway that you came from, blindly walking towards your bedroom. Her touch was scalding, nothing but a silk robe separating you from where you wanted her most. 

“You’re sure?” Rachel panted, your knees hitting the edge of your bed. “Really, really, sure?” 

You pulled away, lips bruised, breath shaking. “Rachel. I’m sure. Do you want to feel how sure I am?” 

She made a squeak of a noise, half-way between shock and satisfaction. It was a purred growl. In the dark, you encircled her wrist and pulled her hand against you through the open slit of your robe. You gasped at the coolness of her hand against your scalding center, already soaked. 

“All for me?” 

“Well, it’s not for the cake.” 

She laughed, carefully leading you onto your back. Rachel’s weight was flat against you, her knee was pressed to your center. You were starting to get desperate, hot under the collar. You ground down, feeling the fabric of her jeans dampen under your cunt. 

“You’re impatient.” 

“You’re teasing.” You shot back, right on the edge of a whine. “It’s my birthday. Don’t be mean.” 

Rachel’s dark hair curtained her face, her arms on either side of your own. There was something devilish about her stare, her smile. Yet, that didn’t deter you from pushing on her shoulders. Her body rumbled with a sound of amusement, cold finger hooking against the ribbon of your robe. 

“Oh, Christ.” 

She was staring down at you, skin littered with ink and goosebumps from the sudden exposure to air. You arched upwards, nails digging into the strength of her shoulders. There was hunger in her expression- admiration. No one had looked at you like this in a long time. Her hands ghosted down your sides, making you shiver. 

“I need to taste you,” she purred. 

“I’m” you swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. “I’m not stopping you.” 

Rachel scraped her teeth against your hardened nipple first, swirling the warmth of her tongue. You shifted under her, desperate for contact, for tension, for something. But, she seemed to revel in drawing this out. She seemed to like the control of being in charge of your pleasure. 

She released your breast with a ‘pop’, licking and biting down your sternum. She dragged her teeth against the inked patterns on your stomach, using her shoulder to nudge your knees apart. It’s not like you were resistant in any way, you let them prop open, your desire outweighing any type of anxiety you would have about Rachel Harkin eating you out. 

Her breath was scalding against your core, your hands gripping the duvet. You felt like you were spinning, and her touch was the only thing that could anchor you. 

When Rachel’s mouth finally- mercifully- pressed against your skin, a moan nothing short of pornographic tore from your throat. You didn’t care about your neighbors, or the fact that the window was propped open by letters a-g of the encyclopedia, the air streaming into the room sticky and warm. 

Her tongue was masterful. 

She licked and sucked, and slowly worked you towards the edge. You jolted when her thumb found your clit, hands wicking into her hair. “Fuck, yes. Right there.” 

“Look at you.” Rachel snarled, you whimpered pathetically when she pulled back. “Falling apart from just a little bit of attention. You really needed this, hm?” 

Her voice had gone soft at the end, and somehow, that was more attractive than the lustful rasp in her words. Rachel smirked, easily sliding two fingers into you. A broken hiss dislodged, and her tongue returned to their ministrations. She was much too good at this. Criminally good. 

“Rachel I’m going to…” 

“Oh, you don’t need my permission, baby.” She continued working her fingers. “Take what you want.” 

And take you did. It wasn’t long before you reached your climax, tightening around her. You bit into your forearm, muffling the pleasurable noise that could disturb birds from a powerline. She worked you through it, one leg hiked over her shoulder, the other too weak to function. 

You watched her blearily as she withdrew her fingers, placing them against her own tongue without a second thought. Those darkened eyes were locked onto your own. There was a goofiness to her that was conveyed in the stature of her shoulders, the lilt of her smile. 

She kissed you hard, you could taste yourself on her, sweet and salty all at once. “Better than Cake?” 

Something in your heart stuttered, and dropped, when you woke the next morning in an empty bed. You’d slept through two of your alarms and had jolted at the third. You hadn’t gotten much sleep, body sore and bruised from where Rachel’s teeth had bitten down hard enough to leave a mark. The two of you had collapsed into sleep sometime past the witching hour. 

You groaned, arm slung over your eyes. Your first appointment wasn’t in for another hour, a simple piece where a moth met a butterfly. It would span the width of a calf, someone who was already fairly done up. They knew what to do, and so did you. You always made sure to send additional instructions to drink water and eat something after a Bachelorette party disaster in 2012 that resulted in three people passing out and one vomiting into your lap. 

Reluctantly, you showered and dressed, swallowed down a multi-vitamin that was sure to damage your stomach later, and made your way to the shop. 

Grace glanced up from her spot behind the counter when you walked in, the little bell above sounded much too loud for your liking. You must have looked worse for wear, because she sucked a breath in through clenched teeth. “Rough night?” 

“Rough existence.” You responded, taking the cup of coffee she slid across the counter, an old mug with hairline fractures that never stopped you from using it before. “Did Mr. Dalton confirm?” 

“Sure did. I have a last minute booking this morning, but after that, you’re on your own. I can stick around for any walk-in’s if you’d like.” 

You nodded, not giving her a solid answer. Grace was good- great, really. 

When the media released the news of what had happened, a self-contained disease that the CDC couldn’t identify, but was sure wouldn’t spread, she had left daily meals in front of your door with the officer stationed in the hallway. Enough for the both of you. Home cooked shepherd's pie and cinnamon rolls. She’d talk through the door, muffled, but there. 

Your back was often pressed against the oak door leading to your apartment, knees drawn to your chest. What had happened on your brother’s wedding day was alive and well in your mind, but often shoved to the side. It was moments of quiet when things started to press in. 

You remembered your mother for her soft moments. When you’d been stung by a bee in the back garden and she shushed you with gentle hands and a mix of water and baking soda that took the sting right out. She’d lifted you to the counter, told you all about how important bees were. One sting seemed like such a big price to pay. But she’d swept your hair from your watery eyes and kissed the round of your cheek. 

Then Portia, so damn sure of herself. But she had her moments of weakness too. She’d crawl into your bed in the night, much too cold to be alone. On reflex, you would curl around her, breathe in her floral scent. It was a silent understanding of love and protection. She’d bring a flashlight, turning it on the plastic stars stuck to your ceiling. They’d glow a neon green when the two of you were plunged back into darkness. 

“Hey,” Grace’s voice had gone soft “You alright?” 

You shrugged, trying to cut through the storm in your stomach. “Birthdays are hard.” 

It was something that you pushed to the back of your mind throughout the rest of your shift. You listened distantly to the chatter of Mr. Dalton, and the soft 2000’s rock that Grace had blasting from the speakers. You poured yourself into your work, careful with every touch of the needle and swipe of ink. 

You were cleaning up your area at the end of the day, gloves still sticky against your palms, when the little bell above the door chimed. Without looking up, you said “Sorry, we’re appointment only today!” 

“Well, that’s a shame.” 

With how quickly you looked up, you could have given yourself whiplash. Rachel’s voice was unmistakable, though there was a bit of nervous trepidation to it. You had to suppress a smile, still a little miffed at her Irish goodbye. Less miffed when you caught a scent of dark roast coffee and buttery croissants. 

Still, you focused on wiping down your table with alcohol and resetting the cellophane at your station. Clockwork. A distraction. If you looked at her, you would lose any will you held onto. Just the floral, vanilla scent of her lotion was making your head spin. 

“I’m sorry.” She said, standing close enough that you could feel the warmth of her. “I shouldn’t have just… left like that. Things kind of sunk in. Things like the fact that I was engaged to your brother. And then I thought about that day, you know? It all started spiraling. I mean, I’ve already fucked up your family enough, and just because I can’t seem to stay away from you, doesn’t give me the right to do it again.” 

“Rachel,” 

She snapped her jaw shut at your tone, setting her bounty on the nearby counter. It was finite in a way that conveyed how much you wanted her to stop talking. She worried her lip between her teeth, expression halfway to a pout that absolutely won’t sway you one way or the other. 

“We’re both adults, and we both made the decision to sleep together. We don’t have to put so much weight behind it. We’re both healing, and truthfully, just being close to you was enough to make me feel human again. Forget Nicky, and the wedding.” 

“It’s hard to forget something that’s all my fault.” 

You frowned, shoulders dropping in the slightest degree. “All your… Rachel I didn’t know you felt that way.” 

She let out a wet laugh. “How could I not? The fact that I wasn’t Nicky’s soulmate killed off more than half of your bloodline. Your mother, your sister. There’s nothing I can ever do to make up for that. Certainly not sex, or croissants.” 

Rachel had started crying. Small glossy tracks ran down her cheeks, her eyes red around the edges. She did her best not to tremble, but the movement still shot through her. She dropped her head, trying to hide from the tension that hardened between you both. 

“Hey, hey” You soothed, your hands cupping either side of her face as you tried to swipe away the tears. She looked at you with so much devastation that you felt your chest crack down the center. “Rachel, you were Nicky’s soulmate. He just wasn’t yours. Nothing you could have said, or done would have made him believe you. You are not the one wielding the blade here, you’re just forced to suffer the consequences from the blood spilled.” 

She winced, nose scrunching. 

“Sorry, that was horrible phrasing.” You nudged her forehead with your own, almost in a catlike manner. She scoffed out a breath. “None of this is your fault. That’s like blaming the fox for getting shot at in the first place.” 

Rachel sucked in a breath, held it within her chest. Her nose was nudged against your own, cold and startling. When she breathed out, it splayed against your skin, goosebumps forming. Her hands had found your hips, giving them a squeeze. “What if I want to put weight behind it?” 

You frowned, not willing to pull away, but making a questioning hum in the gestures stead. 

“This. Us. Whatever we’re doing. It wasn’t just sleeping together. If that’s all it was for you, that’s okay. It’s okay. But there’s this pull to you, almost like-” Rachel cut herself off abruptly. 

“Almost like, through some sadism, and one really shitty weekend, we were supposed to find each other?” 

He must have seen the discontent on your face. You always had such a tight control over your work, your narrative. There were split versions of you, all overlapping until you formed one indifferent human that switched masks with the setting. Here, you were professional. Well- Mannered. Alone. 

“Oh, don’t do that. Go, be with your family. Hopefully it’s for a good event.” 

Jim didn’t pry, never would. But there was a mystery around you that must have been too tempting. You’d worked under his supervision for five years, and the only thing he knew about you that wasn’t about your work ethic was that you had a gold fish and you loved him very much. 

Fuck it. 

“My brother is getting married this weekend.”. 

“Oh?” 

“We’re not very close.” You supplied, trying to offer a small, soothing smile. “But I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

And, god, had you hoped that a freak storm would make the cabin impossible to get to. Of course, you wouldn’t exactly call it a cabin either. It was a massive, unnecessary structure that brought darkness to an otherwise calm landscape. Your parents had hired a designer that made everything clinical in a way that lacked the warmth anyone would seek. 

By the time you were deemed old enough to consider joining the boys and your father fox hunting, you avoided the woods entirely. There was too much darkness, too much quiet. And by then, Jules had told you about the Sorry Man. Nicky had laughed, trying to be brave. But you were under no illusion. 

What Jules had said, tears streaming down his face and fingers shaking was not a joke. It was not a silly campfire story that he wielded like a blade. He had never been the same after that. He had been fragile, and you had kept your distance. By the time you were sixteen you had developed enough of your frontal lobe to realize that you slotted into the family like a specter. 

You were never brave enough to fit in with Nicky and Jules. Never patient enough to identify with Portia. Your mother regarded you as a fixture in the family portrait and your father, the person you were perhaps closest to, had diminished over the years. Folded into compliance, worry, and routine. 

You were the stable one. And because the Cunninghams were all chaos in a controlled environment, your lack of crisis edged into a separation that grew wider and wider by the day. The last interaction you’d had with any of them was at Julien’s wedding. His second wedding, where your mother gave you a chaste kiss on the cheek and lamented about having to hire someone to fix the portrait. Apparently, it was nearly impossible to find someone who could capture the beauty of oil paints anymore. You soothed her all the same, and left early the next morning after polite smiles and pulpy orange juice for breakfast. 

Nicky’s wedding, according to your older brother, was set for this Saturday. A storm was rolling in, fast and heavy, so you left the tattoo parlor, shoved some things into a duffel bag, and made your way to the house. The drive was never your favorite. In the summer, it was bearable: With produce stands and lush fields that swayed in the wind. The winter made it desolate. Abandoned. Marred with a small ice cream stand that you never remember being open. 

Halfway through the journey there was a rest area that you never stopped at because you were always alone. You would rather pee in an empty Big Gulp and have it slosh around in the cup holder then become the next victim of dark corners and uncleanly facilities. 

A little further up was a bar, one that was nameless and patronless. That was another place you wouldn’t stop at. But, it was a landmark that you were fifteen minutes away from home. And something like disregard would begin to settle in your chest. A cold, unnatural feeling that matched the fat flakes of snow that fell from the sky before melting against your windshield. 

You seemed to be the last to arrive. Nell and Jules had parked their SUV impeccably. Portia’s BMW was juxtapositioned in a way that took up two spots. And an old clunker of a station wagon was pulled very neatly next to the hewn wall. It had the thickest layer of snow on it; idling longer than the others. 

After you shut off the engine, you remained in the car, listening to the ticking of a metal heart under the hood. Your last moments of quiet. Of peace. Of anything that resembled the perfectly crafted normalcy you’d curated. But, you resigned yourself to the fact that you couldn’t stay out here forever. 

The house was quiet when you stepped through its threshold, kicking the snow from your boots before toeing them off entirely. A soft glow radiated from the study, assuring that you weren’t entirely in the dark. Your father had designed the cabin in a hexagonal shape. Corridors branched off the atrium before connecting again. He made sure there was an event hall that could be rented out for weddings. It was always weddings. 

Curled up in the lazy boy in the study, was the shape of your mother. A book was splayed on her chest, a blanket slipping from her shoulders. Your heart clenched at the sight. She looked so frail. Smaller, paler, than the last time you had seen her. She always looked soft in her sleep. 

You kept your bag shouldered and moved with purpose. You carefully closed her book around an old receipt, and pulled the blanket back over her. She mumbled something, breathy and undecipherable, before settling back into rest. You flicked off the light, and turned to feel your way to your room. 

Instead, you had to stifle a scream. 

A short silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by the moonlight in the atrium. You clutched your metaphorical pearls, trying to swallow the rush of adrenaline. You whispered harshly “Fuck, Portia. What are you doing?” 

You could hear her teeth click when she smiled. “Hi to you too, Patch.” 

Grunting, you shoved your way past her, comforted in the slightest bit that it was her. It was better than a Victorian entity or the Sorry Man himself. You clenched your jaw as you started to walk to your room. She followed like a sentient puppy, eager and with the intention of biting your ankles. 

“That’s it? That’s all I get? Your indifference!” 

“It’s two in the morning, I don’t have the energy for warfare.” You stopped, her socked feet skidding frantically to avoid colliding with you. “And don’t call me Patch.” 

Portia snickered behind you, and you started back towards your destination with a stride that you hoped conveyed your annoyance. You had taken buckshot straight to the eye and spent your 11th birthday in the emergency room, curled in your fathers lap. Not only did you have to wear an eyepatch, but you had a nasty pink scar that still spidered from above your eyebrow to the apple of your cheek. 

You’d nearly lost an eye, but Nicky had bagged his first fox that day. 

Standing on your toes, you retrieved the key to your room from the wooden doorframe. Most spaces in the house were free reign to renters, but each of your respective rooms were blocked off from the public. This, you were thankful for, despite the mildewy scent that filled your lungs. 

Portia did not enter your space, she lingered at the door in a way that reminded you of a time when you barred her from passing the threshold. She never wanted to steal your clothes, too little color, she said. It was the music that you guarded with your life. Records that you had inherited and cd’s that accompanied a massive stereo system. 

“Portia,” You sighed out, “I’m happy to see you. I am. But I am happier there’s a bed in this room. Which begs the question, why aren’t you in yours?” 

“Insomnia.” She chirped, giving your cheek a gentle pat. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about Rachel in the morning.” 

“Rachel?” 

“The bride, silly. She thought we were going to murder her. Can you believe that?” 

Yes. God yes, you really could. 

There was a sheet cake on the kitchen island that read ‘Sorry I thought you were going to kill me’ in a royal red script. There was a vase of flowers, store bought and emitting a fresh sweet aroma, placed next to it. You ran a hand through your hair, picking up the formal invitation that was right next to the cake. 

Rachel & Nicky 

Something about the combination sent a chill down your spine. Your mother would blame twin telepathy. You would blame the fact that you hadn’t seen your brother in years because he missed Jules’s wedding entirely. No; this was different. 

There wasn’t much time to contemplate. The bay doors leading to a swath of woods opened, letting in a cold blast of air and a flurry of activity. Shep skittered across the floor, not taking a moment to verify if it was really you before crashing into your legs. Snow from his muzzle tinted your jeans. You didn’t have to lean down far to scratch behind his large ears. 

“Patch,” Julien engulfed you with his sheer size. Your own arms stabilized around his waist. It was less irksome when he said it. Perhaps because it was his job as a big brother to torment you. His aftershave burned your throat, his grip strong and steadying. “I didn’t think you would make it.” 

“I almost didn’t,” you pulled back, giving him a faux lashing with your stare. “Someone waited until the very last minute to tell me Nicky was getting hitched.” 

He tensed up in your arms, something so minute you would consider it a nervous tick. But he was out of your arms within moments, and Nell took his place. Her embrace was stronger, wrapping fully around your waist and pulling you close. Her sweet honey and nectarine scent outruled the artificial icing on the cake. 

She hummed, the noise rumbling your chest. “Thank God. I thought you’d left me to the wolves.” 

No. You would never. Nell was familiar territory. She was borderline normal in a way that your family wasn’t. Rooted in a reality that wasn’t rank or atriums, or fox hunting. When she pulled back, she ran a thumb over the edge of the scar. You resisted the urge to flinch, instead leaning into the placatement. “You’ve gotten new ink. Not done yourself, I hope.”  

“No, no.” You chuckled, staring at the latest piece that was wedged between two flash designs you’d stood in line three hours to claim as a kid, freshly on your own and defiant. “My apprentice. She’s been with me over a year now. I trust her enough.” 

“Mm, she’s done well.” 

“Where’s Jude? It’s been quiet.” 

“Because Portia hasn’t left her crypt yet.” 

You scoffed, something easing in your shoulders. The nerves of being with your family never truly ceased. “I’m going to find him. Say hi. I still don’t think he forgives me for leaving without a goodbye last time.” 

None of them objected, fully engulfed in the sheet cake and the small card that was placed next to it. Rachel, you assumed. Though you had yet to meet her. She seemed to have a kind streak that Nicky would drain out of her if he got the chance. And it looked like he had, considering your summons. 

Judes room was small, somewhere off course. He had spent last summer in it, which was a step in the right direction from being curled up between Julien and Nell. Your older brother had told him the story of the Sorry Man. Or- it had been Portia with her unforgiving nihilism and deft cackle. 

And- okay- maybe you wouldn’t find your nephew after all. Instead, you’d found your way to one of the large windows, the latched pushed open, letting in the winter air. A detached blue glow shaded the features of a woman. Her back was to you, hair raven-black and falling over her shoulders in a tussled wave. 

An acrid, burnt scent hit your nose, one you recognized from sitting out on the fire escape of your apartment, all limbs and relaxation. The red tip of a blunt glowing like a third eye, each inhale bringing you closer to forgetting you had autonomy at all.  You had rolled your own, and they were nestled in the pocket of your jeans in a tin for mints. 

“If that’s your only one, make sure it lasts.” 

She startled like you knew she would, thankfully keeping hold of the lit object between her fingers. Her eyes met your own, dazzling and dark. You had another quip on the tip of your tongue that died instantly. She was stunning. And it might have been rude, but you wondered how Nicky of all people could pull someone that flashed a smile and stopped time. 

Rachel 

You felt unsteady, like the air had been knocked out of you. Though, you had a tendency to behave like a snowball on the edge of a cliff when it came to this house. It wouldn’t be hard to push the oxygen from your lungs, but she bounced back quick, holding the blunt out to you. “Want some?” 

You nodded frantically, reaching out and gently taking it. Her fingers were warm and calloused, brushing against yours. You felt the urge to pull back, but didn’t. Instead, taking note of the tattoos on her arms and the rings on her fingers. And holy fuck did your brother happen to charm someone interesting for once? 

“Thank you,” You murmured, inhaling a polite amount of smoke and letting it linger in your throat before you handed it back. You didn’t bother to lean out the window. There was no courtesy you intended to extend here. “Seriously though. You’ll need more if you want to survive until Saturday.” 

She laughed, a gravely rasp that reflected the cold. “Not a fan of weddings?” 

“Are you?” You asked curiously, raising an eyebrow. 

Something small and dark crossed her expression. “They’re not so bad. It’s a nice thing to do for your mom. Circumstances and all.” 

The quiet lapsed for a moment, and she handed you the blunt as if she knew you needed it more. Circumstances. Right. You hadn’t exactly heard from any of them in a few months now, save from the check your father mailed on Christmas. A simple ‘Love you’ with his signature. If something was wrong, if it was circumstance, then you wouldn’t know. Something in Rachel’s face betrayed that. 

“They didn’t… he didn’t know until last night.” 

You chuckled, something that sounded more like a scoff. “They don’t tell Nicky things to protect him. They neglect to tell me things because I’m easy to forget.” She winced, jaw clenched. Still a sight to behold. Your voice dropped to a whisper, smoke spilling from your mouth and clouding the minimal space between you. “Don’t feel bad. Being forgotten is the only way to survive in this family. Are you even sure he’s the one?” 

Your mother was dying. That much was clear when you met her eyes, open and wide, as if you’d slipped her mind. Of course, you had, but that didn’t dampen the twinge in your chest. Nor did it make the sight of a large, stuffed creature hanging from the mantel any less unsettling. 

Jude was pushed up against your knees, and you ran a hand through his hair absently. He’d supposedly made it, dressed it in Rachel’s wedding gown, and hung it from the trees. To deter her, he said. You felt bad for Rachel. But not bad enough to run through the grief exercise she had proposed. You would, however, sit back and watch the trainwreck unfold. 

Rachel was a therapist- or- therapist adjacent, really. 

Which was ironic considering your family refused to confront anything head on, and found the guidance of a professional as weak. As if you didn’t have weekly appointments scheduled out until March. Despite this, you weren’t absconded from the eyes that shifted towards you when the rotation finally landed like a punch in the gut. 

Now, standing in front of an amalgamation of hay and fabric that was intended to scare the bride off, you felt cold. Not in a way of indifference. In a way of someone who had stood too long in the elements until their fingers went numb. It was easy to fight off the chill at first, but in the end, it felt like warmth anyway. 

You hadn’t prepared anything, hadn’t even known about your mother’s illness until a few hours ago. She stared at you apologetically, but it had more of an indifference to it. An item on a shopping list she forgot to push into the cart before checking out. Before planning a wedding that was also a reason to gather in the means of death. 

“Okay, um.” you cleared your throat uncomfortably, glancing at the very-much present woman. “Mom, this sucks. And I get that it’s supposed to suck because death always does. But this is… different.” 

You could feel their stares on you, breath held, and you didn’t really care what they thought. You weren’t going to grovel or sing her praises. There was no need to. She would be gone in a month and you would be back in your shop, pretending you didn’t have a family, or a dead mom at a young age. 

“It’s hard to grieve for someone for a second time. The idea of you- of all of you- has been in the denial stage for, shit, for years now. It was easy to crave your approval, mom. You’re the center of every room, the warmth in it. But after so many years lingering at the edges, getting cold in your shadow” Your voice was clipped at the end, nearly choked with emotion that you swallowed down. “I’ve already grieved you. The idea of you. This changes nothing.” 

This time, when you flopped back onto the couch, Jude leaned against your side, having seeked warmth in your absence. You met your mothers eyes, the narrowed contemplation in them. But she didn’t rush to amend, or convict. She just relaxed into Portia’s many compliments that she’d written like a ledger on a piece of stationary. 

Rachel’s marble stare was on yours, gushing with emotion that made you shift uncomfortably. You were being seen. Not in a way that forced understanding, but one that already had it to begin with. 

You stood between Nell and Rachel when they lit the dummy on fire. The crackle of heat eating its way through bound hay was accompanied by a sickly-sweet scent. The light reflected off your eyes, your cheeks flushed with pink from the cold. You never knew if it made the disfigurement on your face stand out, or blend in. You told yourself you never cared. 

Rachel nudged your shoulder with her own. You glanced at her in question, expecting her to pull back. But she didn’t. Her presence was solid and warm and something you would surely miss when it was inevitably snuffed out. For now, she was here. Nicky’s stare met your own across the flames. He had given you a brief greeting, a forced smile and a hug that lasted a second too long. 

The dummy was nothing but ashes now, cracking and popping with a final hiss of air. Your mother was tense, your father was despondent, your sister was picking at her nail polish, your older brother was misty-eyed. You supposed maybe you did fit in, as sentient as your presence was. 

You couldn’t shirk the cold of the night, even after a hot shower and slipping under the quilt in your room. Sleep hadn’t come easily, but it was silent in its arrival. When you woke, your mouth was dry and sticky, you hadn’t shifted even an inch, still facing the ceiling and drawing a sharp inhale that was seeped with mint. 

When you turned your head to the side, still fighting the dregs of sleep, Rachel was crouched beside you, already bundled for the weather outside and backlit from the rising sun. Her eyes looked tired, a stunning and deep brown that reminded you of aged bark. 

“What is happening?” You whispered. 

“I need your help. I have an errand to run and want you to come with me. Nell’s already in the car.” 

She patted your hip, finding it under the blanket without issue. It was a signal that grounded you and flustered you all at once. Because there was no way in hell you were going to develop a crush on your brother's fiance, even if they were divorced within a year.

Nicky never played nice. As kids, you were meant to share everything. It was cheaper for distant relatives to show up to the holidays with a joint gift. He would pout and hit and your mother would always let him get his way because it was easy to soothe than teach. Not that you regarded Rachel as an object to share. You simply admired her spirit. 

“Get dressed,” 

“I’m dressed.” You groaned, turning your face into the pillow. 

“You’re not wearing pants.” You shot up, back arched from the awkward position you’d rolled into. You narrowed your eyes at Rachel, a pout on your lips. She laughed, an intoxicating sound. “Cute ink by the way. What is that? A cherry?” 

You let out a frustrated noise and pelted her with the nearest pillow. The stick and poke just below the curve of your ass had been a mistake in college, but an easily coverable one. Unless your boxers had ridden up, which they inevitably did. She laughed, filling the room with fondness. 

You pulled on the jeans you’d shed the night before, pinning her under an unimpressed look. “What time is it?” 

“Five,” 

Another noise of protest escaped you, but you pulled on your jacket anyway, gesturing to her to lead the way.  Nell looked just about as thrilled as you did to be thawing out in Rachel’s station wagon. She pulled up to a county building, one that was very much locked. And while Nell objected quickly, you couldn’t fight the snort pushing from your lungs. 

“Rachel, you can’t get married if you’re in a jail cell.” 

“Please, they’ll let her off with a warning.” 

Nell turned in her seat, shooting you a sharp look “Do not encourage this.” 

“I don’t know if I’m getting married.” Rachel said, matter-of-factly before pushing her way out of the car and taking the keys with her. It was either freeze out here, or break into the county clerks and you weren’t so opposed to the idea to begin with. 

Not getting married. You were out of the loop, had always been, but this still hit your shoulder with a certain amount of force that had you scrambling over her. There was something untethered about Rachel today that excited you and scared you all at once. She knelt and started to work on the lock. 

“It would be funny if you left Nicky at the altar, but why the sudden change of heart?” 

Rachel and Nell exchanged a loaded look before Nell said “Rachel is cursed.” 

“Metaphorically, or literally?” 

“Probably both,” 

The door popped open with some extra effort, but Rachel rose with ease. She had bulldozed her way into the back records room, something that reminded you more of a rec center with an abundance of files and boxes. This was- admittedly- not what you were expecting to do the day of her bachelorette party. 

With Portia at the helm, you were biding your time before having to confront glitter, and faux penises, and probably matching sets of pajamas to fit her narrative of a perfect evening. Instead, you used the cold light that moved through the windows to get a better look at old records. 

“Okay, not that I mind getting out of the house, but can someone tell me what exactly I’m looking for?” 

Rachel and Nell exchanged that look again, and you couldn’t stop the surge of jealousy from rushing through you, nor the huff of annoyance that followed. It only took a moment to realize this wasn’t a conspiracy between them, but an invisible fishingline of worry. You knew when to shut up, your jaw snapping. 

“My ancestors did some fucked up shit, and somehow got a curse unleashed on my bloodline that activates when I get engaged. If Nicky and I aren’t destined to be together, then I’m going to bleed to death just like my mother did when I was a baby. Which, ironically, happened in front of Jules and scarred him for life.” she drew in a gasping breath, words igniting like wildfire sparked by dread. “But if I leave Nicky at the altar, then the curse is passed to your bloodline, and I turn into a freaky fucking immortal that has to witness all of your weddings and that doesn’t seem appealing either.” 

The radiator in the corner of the room chugged on, clicking and hissing as the heat began to invade the room. Rachel looked deadly serious, and there wasn’t a moment you considered doubting her. Not with the way her voice shook and shattered, her hands wringing in front of her. 

“Then you asked me if I was sure he was the one. Point blank, exactly those words. And that’s what the current witness asked me before I stabbed him with my keys.” You startled, blinking wildly at her. “So I thought maybe you had something to do with this bullshit curse too.” 

“I told her it’s just because you don’t like Nicky.” Nell spoke from the floor, eyes scanning a brittle paper. 

“I just don’t like Nicky.” You confirmed “you don’t have your keys on you right now, do you?” 

“I’m not going to stab you.” Rachel’s breath shook. “That… you… believe me?” 

You watch the slow lift and fall of her chest, the paleness to her skin, awash from the weather. You held out your hand, unwavering. “Give me a file. I’ll start on the 70’s.”

Portia huffed dramatically into your face. You were uncomfortably close to her, knees touching and hands steady like they had been trained to be. You were an expert at keeping still, but your younger sister was not. She whimpered, the alcohol-soaked cottonball no doubt stinging against the cut on her nose. 

“You have to stay still. I don’t want to get any of this in your eyes.” 

“I don’t care,” She wailed, “My life is ruined. Rachel did this! God that walking-nightmare. She’s trying to tank this weekend.” 

You glowered at her, grabbed her chin and didn’t let go. She looked like she wanted to flee, but didn’t, not with the sharp look in your eyes. Despite this, your voice came out softer than you intended. “Or you’re making what is supposed to be the most important day of Rachel’s life into a spectacle because everyone in this family is fucking batshit insane. This isn’t about mom, and it sure is hell isn’t about you trying to impress her before she dies.” 

Your younger sister let out a frustrated noise before shoving away from the kitchen bar and stomping into some dark corner of the house. You groaned, dropping the cotton in your hands and closing your eyes against the harsh lighting above. The wedding was in two days, and the headache spidering from your temple hadn’t eased one bit. 

The bachelorette party didn’t help the throbbing. Any doubt about this curse was erased the moment the lights flickered off and the uncomfortable feeling of being watched by something not really there filled you. The beer that you were still nursing had gone warm now, but you reached for it and drained it regardless. 

“Thank you for that,” 

Your eyes fluttered open. Rachel had taken up the empty space where Portia had been. She looked impossibly soft in the pale-pink pajamas that she’d been goaded into. Her knee bumped against yours, the warmth of her alone shooting straight to your stomach. She smelled of cherry liquor and the undertones of smoke. Rachel was close enough to you that you could see the small smattering of freckles that bridged her nose. 

She’d caught you staring, you knew she had, your eyes glossy and mouth dry. Still, you found your words. “It’s no problem. Weddings are stressful enough. You don’t deserve to deal with her needling. Or… any of this.” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

You hummed, fingers moving to the label on your drink. You started to roll the corner of it, pressing the pads of your fingers into the adhesive before situating it. Looking at her would be devastating right now. Existing in her orbit on her wedding day would most likely have the same effect. 

“Nicky… didn’t tell me about you. I had to ask when he showed me the portrait. Even then, he was reluctant to say anything. Is there” She paused, her lip twitching downward. “Did something happen?” 

Swallowing hard, your fingers moved up to the soft scar on your face, ghosting over the slightly raised abrasion. It was out of instinct. You were suddenly self-conscious. But Rachel’s hand grabbed yours with a gentle insistence, not moving it away, but simply enveloping your touch with her own. 

“Hey, no, that’s not what I meant. You don’t have to hide from me. I think you’re beautiful. I just want to understand what happened. I thought I knew Nicky. I still hope I do. But the way he regards you, the way all of them do, it’s not right.”  

A light blush had bloomed on Rachel’s cheeks. She didn’t pull back when she realized how close she was, her eyes peering into your own with a palpable emotion that blended sorrow and curiosity. Your mouth was too dry to swallow, the sour taste of alcohol still on your tongue. You felt exposed. Seen. 

“Hunting accident,” You rasped, close enough to know that she’d hear anything you had to say. “We were eleven, and our father took us both into the woods. It’s a right of passage, to bring back a fox. But Nicky shot me in the eye, and of course I didn’t get a fox of my own. Nicky did, though. It’s what the family focused on. Not the disfigurement. But, even before that I was used to stepping into the background.” 

Rachel lowered your hand with her own, moved her fingers back up to the long scar. You inhaled sharply when she dragged the tips of her fingers over its length. You made a borderline embarrassing sound when her hand moved to cup your cheek. You couldn’t remember the last time you had allowed someone to hold you like this. 

“You’re beautiful.” She repeated, breath hot against your lips. 

She leaned forward, pressing her mouth against your own in something chaste, but steady. You wanted to chase her, the brief feeling of that touch. But she leaned back, eyes blinking at you, trying to gauge if she’d overstepped, if this was a mistake that was fueled by the strange happenings at the bachelorette party. 

Clearly, it was more. 

Rachel crashed back into you, the kiss loaded with heat this time. A desperation for closeness. She’s moved one hand to the back of your neck, the other using the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You moved with her on instinct, hands moving to her waist, making sure you were both steady. 

She begged for entrance, and you willingly gave it to her. Rachel made a small, desperate noise that you swallowed easily, her tongue licking into your mouth. And fuck- it was a mix of thrill and recklessness. You were flush with desire, you were frantic and wanted to feel all of her. 

When you parted, clawing for air, she kept her forehead against your own, eyes clenched shut. The feeling that flooded your veins was an odd one. You craved her, all of her. But, the reality that you’d just made out with your brother's fiance in the middle of your kitchen reared its head. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry- that was” 

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

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A powerful house, with influence and connections; a house whose members were full of treachery and sinister strategies.

Yet a house that also had an heir, unmarried and eligible for marriage: the Baron’s nephew – Feyd Rautha Harkonnen.

A marriage she could not refuse; not with the power that came with it, she could not ignore her father’s command.

“The Harkonnens have strength, their own honour…even someone like Feyd will look after you” Her mother’s words on the evening she had learnt of the marriage offered little comfort.

Feyd was feared, deadly, a formidable fighter against whom she had no defence.

“I pray I do not live long enough to witness his betrayal” she replied, her words tinged with mistrust and hurt, knowing that as the sole child and the hope of her house, marriage was her only option.

Yet the gentle touch of her mother, who held her hand, offered no relief; the look in her father’s eyes - perhaps something like an apology - remained, yet he remained stubborn.

A wedding ceremony was soon to take place on Ginaz.

Ginaz, her home planet, was covered almost entirely by water, a calm, open expanse of blue that could sometimes become turbulent, dotted with small yet numerous landmasses.

A home she loved, having known nothing else until the Harkonnen spaceships landed on the largest expanse.

She could see him from afar; the Baron was hard to miss in his dark robes, which barely concealed his massive frame, not hovering above them but high enough to appear imposing.

“Baron, it is a delight to welcome you to Ginaz” her father greeted the bald man; both made a slight bow.

“Likewise, Duke. If I may say so, your daughter will make an excellent bride for my nephew” the smile he offered them rather unsettled her; there was a certain familiarity in it, yet just as much of the unknown and his own plans.

The Baron stepped aside slightly, revealing a young man of imposing stature, equally pale, hairless, younger, yet strong.

“My nephew, Feyd Rautha, your husband” he introduced, and the two approached each other; just a few steps separated them as they stood face to face, her curtsy meeting his bow.

“I look forward to a shared future” her words rehearsed, everything meticulously prepared, from her dress to her jewellery.

His hand, resting upon hers, was surprisingly warm; she had imagined him to be cold.

His grip was firm as his dark eyes seemed to study her, “Our future, my wife” Feyd said.

A shiver ran through her body as he kissed the back of her hand - a gesture unbecoming of someone of his reputation - just as the two families began to move.

Yet Feyd did not let go of her hand; he seemed to want to keep her close as his gaze kept returning to her.

A gaze she could not resist.

A touch she had to return as they stood before the statues of their ancestors at the start of the ceremony, her heart full of excitement as the ancient words came over her lips - words Feyd did not understand as he continued to look at her.

“This fabric symbolises the union of our houses and hearts” an explanation that made him understand as the fabric, woven from fine gold and silver threads, was draped over both their hands.

His grip had not loosened; his gaze remained tense as he observed her and their surroundings whilst the relatives watched as the two knelt before the statues, asking their ancestors for permission.

“I will look after and protect my wife with everything I have” he repeated the words, insignificant to a man like him, sounding strange as they rose and kissed each other.

A kiss in which she felt the twitch of his fingers, the suppression of a reflex as if he wanted to pull her closer, closer to him, never letting her go.

A hold she would actually have returned, his warmth almost pleasant as she was seemingly shown the gentler side of the warrior.

Afterwards, the satisfied clapping of her and his family rang out as one part of the wedding was completed.

The celebration was a welcome change, with food, drink and conversation; family and relatives congratulating them, caring for them, hours in which nothing but contentment reigned…yet Feyds gaze still rested on her.

On the bride.

The other part would take place in his homeland, their new home, and for a moment she had forgotten that he was a Harkonnen, that she had to go to Giedi Prime.

For a moment she had let herself be captivated by him, for a moment she had felt affection for him.

To love Feyd.

~~~~~~~~~~

His home, the Baron’s planet, Giedi Prime, was everything Ginaz was not.

Dark, indifferent to the weak, barren, full of metal, death and oppression.

The light was so bright it seemed unnatural; blackness all around and everywhere, and nowhere could she find even a glimpse of nature that resembled her familiar home.

Alone without her parents, and with part of the wedding already over, she would have had to settle into life on Giedi Prime soon enough; the Baron had insisted she come alone.

Yet with a wedding of such influence, her father would never have said no.

The first thing she noticed was how cold Giedi Prime was - not an icy cold, nor a frosty one, but a shadowy chill as she stepped out of the shuttle.

White and black, shadows, it was all somewhat peculiar as she saw the small group on the landing dock.

Feyd was already waiting for her when he held out his hand for her to take.

“Welcome to Giedi Prime, wife” his greeting was brief, his smile narrow as he walked with her across the landing dock into the interior of the grand palace building.

“Your planet does justice to your house, no place for the unworthy” her words seemed to amuse him, at least, as he tilted his head for a moment as though he had never regarded his planet as dangerous.

The small group’s footsteps echoed through the high corridors; his dark fabric, his clothing, stood in contrast to her white.

It seemed a stroke of bad luck to meet an innocent as they both entered a large hall; the great door closed behind them as they appeared to have reached the dining room.

At least, that is what it seemed, for there on the long table lay all manner of dishes, and at the head sat the Baron.

He was already awaiting his nephew and his wife.

“Welcome, my dears, please do take a seat; the ceremony is about to begin” his inviting gesture caused the fabric draped over his body to shift slightly as Feyd let go of her for the first time when they both sat down.

The plate before her was empty; the food on the table was expensive, imported goods, a fortune’s worth of which the Baron was helping himself to generously.

Feyd, on the other hand, reached for a piece of fruit; she watched him open his mouth, his black teeth biting into the soft flesh, sweet juice coating his lips and now dripping down his chin.

“Oh, forgive me, your meal will be here any moment; it is prepared for every Harkonnen bride” the Baron said, gesturing towards her empty plate, aware of her reserve regarding the various traditions she had been trying to learn.

She was the newest member of the Harkonnen family; she was Feyd’s and he was hers…yet how much connection did she truly have to her new kin?

Moments later, the large double doors opened and a servant entered, wordlessly holding a small, finely crafted plate in his hands, upon which her meal was laid out and placed before her.

“It is meant to nourish your body, bring you security and strengthen our bond” Feyd explained, suddenly rising as she looked at the food before her; nausea washed over her.

A faint dizziness as she could make out the heart, despite the preparation, surrounded by dark fruits and white petals.

Trying to suppress the slight tremor as she took the cutlery in her hands, she flinched as Feyd’s hand glided over hers.

“I know you’ll enjoy it, my dear” he almost chuckled, black teeth flashing as he took the knife from her hand.

She watched, clinging to the table, not allowed to say a word, watching as her husband walked over to the servant and, without hesitation, drew the sharp knife across the innocent man’s throat, hard and deep enough to cause profuse bleeding.

The Baron watched, amused, as Feyds caught as much blood as he could with his hand before her husband turned back to her “Thank you for the sacrifice” her words came out completely beside herself.

What else could she have said as Feyds’s blackened eyes were visibly agitated by the murder, whilst the gurgling, wretched sounds of the near-dead man were the only thing filling the room.

Blood, thick and dark red, which Feyds let drip down onto her food.

Her meal was laid out, ready, as her husband watched her; the blood on the knife, her hand stained with it, as she began to cut the meat.

The knife was sharp, easily splitting the heart; as she picked up a piece with her fork, Feyd’s gaze lingered on her lips as she took the meat and blood into her mouth.

A metallic taste mingled with rich meat in her mouth...it tasted good.

Only when she had swallowed the bite and put down her cutlery did Feyd’s fingers touch her lips; the blood smeared cold and sticky across her lips as she clung lightly to him.

“Blood of my blood, part of the Harkonnen House, you are mine” he told her, there was a excitement in his black eyes as she began the kiss; the blood now covered his lips too.

She gripped Feyd more tightly; now that they belonged to each other, she would never let him go.

The two of them would belong to each other in blood for eternity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

masterlist

You were in love with Raymond Garraty the moment you saw him. No, not when you first locked eyes with him in kindergarten when he sat next to you during Storytime; it was when you saw him for who he was. When he was the gentlest, kindest man you thought you’d ever meet.

It was a dark and stormy Halloween night, and you had been dating him for three months. You were both seventeen, and it was your first argument. It wasn’t either of your first relationships, but it felt like it. It was almost as if, when he decided to sit next to you every day during childhood, that was already a declaration of pure love.

So, of course your first fight was horrible. In hindsight, it wasn’t anything earth shattering. He was still on good terms with his ex-girlfriend, Jan, and when you finally spoke up, he flipped out. Truth be told, you did first when bringing it up to him.

His mother was out with her own friends, so what was meant to be peaceful time alone with him, escalated into a mix of passive aggression, and pure animosity. Deciding to take a break, you both separated, and that was when the power went out.

It shouldn’t have been anything huge, but it was to you. Call it the stress from the night, call it an array of horror stories from the holiday, but your chest constricted. In the small bathroom down the hall, you felt like your heart was going to explode from the sheer fear that attacked you.

The door opened, and Ray was by your side.

He was calm the whole time. He soaked a washcloth in cold water, telling you to put it in your mouth. It wasn’t ridiculous at the time, and so you listened. The water brought you back down to earth, and it cooled your face from your hot tears. When you felt like you could breathe again, you embraced him.

Raymond Garraty held you on the tiled floor in that small bathroom until his mother came home an hour later.

That was when you knew you loved him, and you kept having that damn dream ever since he died.

You watched it on television with Ginnie. It was strange to call her that; she was always ‘Mrs. Ray’s Mom’ ever since you were a little girl. She had gone to see him when he and the other walkers passed by, but you didn’t.

He tried to be mean when he broke up with you a week before The Walk. He was, but you knew it was a farse. It was easier for him if he thought you hated him; just so that you wouldn’t get hurt if he inevitably lost.

You both knew, deep down, whether you broke up or not, it would still destroy you.

And it did.

Even when he sat down, accepting his fate, even when the Major shot him…you didn’t scream. Ginnie did, and you were there to hold her.

You stayed with her, even when she cried herself to sleep hours later. You didn’t rest at all; even while sitting in the kitchen, staring at artwork Ray had made as a child still stuck to the fridge, you got just a taste of what he must’ve felt on the walk.

Food came from the neighbors’ weeks after. Whether they were mourning because they had known Ray, or because Maine didn’t win The Long Walk that you, it was all the same. Ginnie didn’t see anyone, only you.

Until, a face you only saw on television showed up on the doorstep almost a month later. A face with a long scar running from the corner of his right eye to the top of his lip.

“I…” His voice was deeper than you thought. “I’m not sure I have the right house. Is Ginnie Garraty here?”

Peter McVries. Twenty-four, an orphan originally from Passaic, New Jersey who moved around ever since his parents died. The unlikely, underdog for The Walk who became a fan favorite when he spoke of nothing but hope and to ‘just keep going’ against all odds.

His wish was for a soldier’s carbine, he shot the Major, and he kept walking. Even after hundreds of miles, he still walked. Everyone and their mother was surprised he wasn’t hunted down. No, no if he was publicly executed, the public would grow restless from the confusion of how the winner of the Long Walk was meant to be untouchable.

If he was assassinated in private? Everyone would know.

Either way, it would end in a rebellion.

How sad…it takes a martyr to possibly make change, but who even knows if it would have meant anything?

You slammed the door in his face, and walked back to Ray’s room, wrapping yourself in his blanket.

It was losing his smell.

“Who was that?” Ginnie’s hoarse voice came from the doorway.

“No one.” You spoke for the first time that day.

She didn’t say anything, and you heard her socks pitter patter away from you. The front door opened, and you heard his voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know if-.”

You didn’t need to see to know that she cut him off with a hug. She did the same thing to you when she came home after dropping Ray off, and you haven’t left the house since.

Trying to put a pillow over your ear to muffle the sound of his voice, it didn’t work. The house was a small one, and that was when you finally decided to leave.

Packing up what little you brought, you stormed out of the bedroom, and your hand was on the doorknob when Ginnie called your name.

“Sweetie, won’t you come sit with us?”

“I don’t feel good.” You didn’t turn to look at them.

She said your name again, gentler. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, but I think-.”

“-Miss Garratty,” McVries interrupted. “It’s alright.”

“The hell do you think you are?!” You snapped at him, marching towards the table. “You go through so much trouble to find out where she lives just to make yourself feel better. You’re a fucking sick son of a-.”

“-I asked him to.”

You thought you couldn’t feel surprised anymore ever since Ray died; but to hear those words leave Ginnie? Your blood ran cold; you couldn’t say a word.

“I wanted-.” She wiped her tears. “I wanted to know what happened. What Ray was like, how he was feeling. Please, just try to understand-.”

You stormed out of the house. You didn’t live that far away, but it was just far enough for the sky deciding to rain as you walked, and for it to soak through your clothes. The moment you stepped inside, the damn broke. You didn’t even make it to your own bed, you just rested your back against the door and sobbed until you ran out of tears.

Days bled into each other after that. There were some where Ginnie would knock on your door, begging for you to open it. Every day she’d leave food, sometimes toiletries. Your parents and friends would beg you to open the door, but you didn’t for anyone.

Then, one night (or early morning. Your clock was broken, you didn’t know), another knock came, followed by a voice.

“You don’t have to open the door.” Peter said. “I know you’re not dead because you keep taking stuff from off your porch. And I know you hate me too, but I can live with that. I just wanted to let you know that I bought a house not far from here-.”

You almost ripped the door off its hinges. His eyes grew at the sight of you and lost all of his words. You spoke for him.

“Why?”

He blinked, gathering himself. “I never really had a place to call home-.”

“-So, you decide to take Ray’s?”

“We don’t have to see each other.” He sharpened his tone for the first time around you. “I don’t understand why Miss Garraty wanted to see me either. I sent her some money and-.”

“-You did what?!”

He tightened his jaw. “I have nothing else but the meaningless shit they call a prize, and I wanted to do some good. I sent her a letter with money, not even any words to it because what do you say to a mother whose boy died because of you? She still wrote me back, asking to visit. I don’t know what else the hell I’m gonna do with my life, but for the first time since…I actually laughed. Hell, I smile when I’m here. So yes, you never have to talk to me again, but I’m staying.”

There was nothing you could do, and you hated it. How dare he? How dare he try to replace your best friend, your other half? How dare he take advantage of poor Ginnie in her grief where she tries to find the closest thing to a son after losing hers?

“Which house?” You asked.

“On Mabel Lee Drive. The white one with the green door.”

“I won’t walk there anymore.”

Slamming the door, you thought that would be the end of Peter McVries. But it wasn’t. Of course you’d run into him at the market, the park, or the few places Freeport, Maine had to offer. Still, just as he said, you never spoke to him.

Life wasn’t as bleak as it was the first few months without Ray, but you wouldn’t say it improved. There were days you found yourself smiling again. Then, there were some where nothing bad happened to you, and it was beautiful outside, but you’d break down in the middle of your walk to work.

Your dreams still consisted mainly of Ray; whether you saw every inch of his face or felt his presence around you like a ghost.

The dreams where you were intimate with him would always be nightmares. No, nothing even remotely scary would happen in them; it was waking up to not have him beside you that was terrifying.

You were still just as close as ever with Ginnie; always would be. She rarely spoke of Peter, but you knew he saw her just as much as you did.

That’s why it shouldn’t have surprised you in December when she offered.

“I want to celebrate Christmas with you and Peter.” She stated. “Both of you here. We could just do dinner on Christmas Eve, or anything. You can say no, and we could just do something separately, but I would really like it if all three of us shared time together.”

It would be your first Christmas without Ray; hers too. You could’ve been selfish, but it was over half a year since The Long Walk, and you thought you could stand to be in the same room with the reason the love of your life was dead.

If that’s what Ginnie wanted for Christmas, then you were Santa Claus.

You brought the best thing you could cook and walked in the ankle-deep snow. It was Peter who opened the door when you knocked.

There was silence from both of you, until he spoke first. You hadn’t heard his voice for quite some time. “Merry Christmas.”

You thinned your lips. “Merry Christmas.”

The cold, New England air could not compare to the iciness between you.

“Do you want me to take that?”

“I got it.” You pushed past him.

A welcoming façade formed when Ginnie greeted you. She put in an effort to decorate for both you and Peter, and if you closed your eyes, it felt like how it was in the past, when the house was filled with life…

She’d gotten both you and Peter gifts, of course, and you had both given ones to her. Neither of you got anything for each other, which was to be expected.

But you could pretend to like Peter for her sake. He was kind; even after everything. He still had a look in his eyes you knew would never leave. If you stared at them long enough, you saw nothing behind them. Even if he’d look at you, you’d catch him looking through you. You knew he could see that in your eyes too.

And he still treated you with respect. It was all an act, you determined. The same one you were putting on. Never mind that he’d tell a story that would genuinely throw you into a fit of giggles, or how he complimented your cooking, or how you had to look away when he smiled because he almost looked like…

Christmas Eve wasn’t as horrible as you thought it’d be. And then you said goodbye to Peter like you were friends, and Ginnie asked you to sit down.

She smiled, but her voice betrayed her. “I found something in Ray’s room a few weeks ago.”

You slept in his room the whole time after the fact…what did you miss?

Ginnie placed a small pouch in your hands. Opening it, you reached in and took out a thin band with a diamond as its crown.

You couldn’t look at Ginnie, even as she talked.

“I don’t…I don’t know where he got it,” she whispered. “or even how he got the money for it. You can do whatever you like with it I just…I thought you should know.”

You were quiet for another minute, looked up at her, forced a smile and a ‘Thank you’, then left. She begged you to stay, but you insisted.

It wasn’t safe to wander around so late at night in the cold weather, but you did. Even where the snow rose to creep under your pants and pierce your skin, you still walked. Your tears flooded your eyes and sinuses clogged your nose to the point you were suffocating.

You thought you were doing better, but there you were, on the side of the road, crying and crying.

Someone said your name, and through your blurry haze, you saw a familiar truck. The window was rolled down, and after wiping your face, you saw Peter McVries.

He got out of the car and lowered himself in front of you. “What’re you doing out here?”

You could only heave in air through your mouth as he waited patiently. Taking out the ring, you held it in your hand to show him.

“He was going to…”

You’d talked about it with Ray before. Even when you weren’t dating, you’d talk about your dream wedding. When you were together, it morphed into what marriage would look like. You fantasized together about where you’d live, how many kids you’d have, and just about everything.

There was no doubt in either of your minds; you knew it would happen.

And then death had to have the last laugh.

Peter took a deep breath. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“I can’t get up.”

“That’s alright.” He soothed. “Can I?”

You nodded, and he went to your side, draping your arm around his shoulders and wrapping his hand around your waist. Of course you could stand but needed him to be a crutch for just a moment. He opened the door for you as you got into the car, and then he drove off into the night. The only time either of you spoke was when you told him where to turn to get to your house.

When you arrived a few minutes later, he parked the car, but neither of you got out.

“Are you gonna be okay on your own?” He first asked. “I know how you feel about me, but I’m not leaving you alone if you can’t promise you won’t do something stupid.”

His bluntness caused you to finally look at him, but you said. “I’m not gonna do anything stupid.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Yet, you still didn’t get out of the truck, and he didn’t ask you to.

“I still hate you.” You broke the silence. “I hate you, and that won’t change. But…you’ve been good to Ginnie and…you’ve been nice to me. So, I’ll try to be kind as well.”

How was he supposed to reply to that? You would forever despise him but never treat him as such? You couldn’t even say you respected him, he was part of the reason Ray died…

Still, and you would come to learn this about Peter, he had the right thing to say. “And I’m more than grateful.”

With a nod between you, he dropped you off and did not leave until you were inside your house. Whether you liked it or not, that was the change within your relationship.

You tried to avoid him at all costs, but when would you inevitably see him? You’d wave. If the two of you were waiting in line anywhere? You’d make conversation. Albeit, it wasn’t great, but it was something.

The next shift was The Long Walk…a few days before the anniversary of Ray’s death. It was like a horrible holiday; every non-essential worker had days off. Ginnie left town, going to see a friend from out of state she reconnected with. Without any deliberation, you offered Peter to spend the remainder of it at your house.

He couldn’t trust you not to do anything stupid at Christmas, you couldn’t trust him in May.

The rules you made were simple: The TV would never be turned on, and when the walkers would arrive in Freeport, you’d stay completely indoors. So, you had to get creative to entertain yourselves.

“You’re a songwriter?” You asked on the first day during lunch when he brought up how he used to spend hours at a music shop in New York, stringing on a guitar.

He shook his head. “Haven’t really for a long time. But yeah, I used to. Obviously didn’t make a living off it.”

“You’ve been eyeing my granny’s old piano.” You snorted. “You know how to play?”

“A little.”

“Show me.” You stood. “It’s your payment.”

He played ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ first to try and make you laugh (you didn’t, but he knew he got close), and then pieces of classical works you’d heard before, but unlike how he played them.

They weren’t the best, not at all, but it was nice to hear it live instead of from a record Ray’s father had smuggled ages ago…

As planned, you didn’t leave the house the day the remaining walkers were supposed to pass through Freeport. You also had barely paid attention. All you knew was that, as of the day before, there were four walkers left. Odds are, one or two of them would die in the night, or maybe three of them would, and they would never make it to your village.

Still, with disgusting excitement in the air when you looked out your window and listened to some of your neighbors excitedly gossip, you knew that they would still be passing through.

Peter didn’t speak to you at all. He rarely left your guest room either. You brought him food, but that was it. You tried to drown yourself in a book, and just as you were, it was only then did you actually realize:

The same day the walkers came to Freeport, was the same day Ray died.

It had been an entire year. The longest year of your life, yet you still felt frozen in time; the exact moment you watched as your husband-to-never-be was mercilessly killed.

You just laid on the couch and stared at the blank TV in front of you, tempting you to turn it on. You didn’t; you just stayed like that the rest of the day. You only got up to go to the bathroom, and then to go to bed and sleep when night came.

At an ungodly hour, you heard Peter in the room beside you. He was muffled at first, not just from the walls, but you knew the sound of when someone tried to smother their cries with their hand upon their mouth. Then, unmistakably, his cries grew louder to the point he couldn’t breathe.

You don’t know what possessed you to take action like you were a nightshift nurse. Immediately, you dashed to the kitchen and took a single ice cube from the freezer. Entering his room, you saw from the light poking in through the window, how hunched over he was.

He never cried once in front of you, not until then. It almost scared you, just frm how foreign it was. He was full on weeping, cradling himself.

“Put this in your mouth.” You sat on the bed.

“What?” He croaked, looking up at you with bloodshot eyes.

“Put it in your mouth.” You repeated. “Slow your breathing down too.”

Peter took the ice cube from you, following your instructions. He seethed at first from the freezing temperature, but his breaths naturally softened. Shutting his eyes, he bowed his head onto his risen knees, inhaling evenly.

You didn’t touch, didn’t say a word; only sat there with him.

“Thank you.” Peter whispered after composing himself. He brought his head up, wiping his face.

“What do you need?”

He shook his head. “Nothing; I’m alright.”

“You’re going to keep me up with your crying, at least let me help you.”

He choked on his laughter, and while it sounded like sobs, he was still smiling. “You’re too real, you know that?”

“What do you need from me?” You remained indifferent.

Peter sighed, taking a moment. “I see Ray a lot when I dream. It was…really bad tonight. That’s all.”

You wouldn’t have wanted to tell him your nightmares either, even if he had been nice to you for the past year. Still, a part of your soul felt compelled to ask.

“Do you want me to stay?”

He looked at you as if you’d grown another head. He acted like it too; he was too stunned to speak. Making an executive decision, you left the guest room and gathered pillows and a blankets from yours. Coming back in, you laid them all on the floor, creating a makeshift bed.

“If you try anything, I’ll kill you.” Was all you said before laying down.

Peter said nothing.

When you awoke that morning, sunlight filled the room. Rising up, you looked on the bed and saw Peter was not there. When you left the bedroom, the smell of every kind of breakfast food you had ever had in your life. Eggs, bacon, sausage, even pancakes. It wasn’t anything like what you saw in old movies where the table was filled to the brim, but it was still extravagant for you.

Peter turned from the stove to see you, then back to focus on whatever he was making. “Good morning. I didn’t know what you liked so…”

You sat at the table. “You cook.”

He nodded. “I’ve been trying to find things to do just to…It keeps my head quiet, and I’m good at it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” You stated, but when he turned around, you actually smiled.

He looked away to hide his own. Turned out, Peter McVries was genuinely good at cooking; dare you say, better than piano playing.

The winner of The Long Walk was a nineteen-year-old from Georgia who made it just on the outskirts of Boston. That was all you wanted to know.

Your relationship changed with Peter again. Now, you wanted to be near him. Not every weekend, but more often than not, you’d get together. Whether it was to go to a movie, or just sit and talk at one of your houses, you finally felt like…

Like he was almost a friend.

There would still be days you couldn’t even look at him; where all you could think of was the time stolen from Ray. You kept all of those days to yourself, not even telling Ginnie, who was more than elated you were finally getting along with him.

“I’m writing songs again.” He told you one night as you both walked home from the movies.

“Really? They any good?”

“No.” He snickered.

“I’ll have to hear them someday.”

“Maybe.”

You were existing alongside him; you were tolerating him. Nothing more.

So why was it that there were days he made you laugh so hard your stomach started hurting? Why were there days you’d spend with him and wouldn’t leave until he asked you to?

Why were there nights you began to dream of him instead of Ray?

Not all of them were sexual. Even so, you felt worse about the ones that weren’t, because you could plead to having no control over the intimate ones.

But you were losing Ray. You only had photos of him, and even then, you were forgetting his voice.

Perhaps that is why you were in a worse mood months later when Peter came to your door one morning.

“Do you wanna take a road trip with me?”

You blinked, holding the door open. It was close to Thanksgiving; the leaves had turned from green to red and gold, and the air had grown cold. The morning light nearly blinded you as you talked with him.

“Now?”

He shook his head. “Next week if you wanted. I’ve been…I got close to some of the other guys during the walk. I need to give one of their grandma’s his necklace, and I’ve been talking to one of their widows; they both want to see us. One’s in Minnesota, and the other’s all the way in Louisiana so I get if-.”

“-Why are you asking me?”

Why did he look so taken aback? It wasn’t as if you that close. Still, he answered. “Because I wanted to.”

A lump formed in your throat, and you didn’t know why. You glared at him, tears already threatening to spill. He spoke gently, as always.

“You’re giving me that look, what’s going on?”

Turning over your shoulder, you ventured back into the house but did not slam the door. He followed you in, beckoning your name.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

You looked at him with your steely gaze. “I don’t remember the last time he said he loved me.”

He stopped in his tracks, tucking his hands into his pockets. Of course he knew you had more to say, so you did.

“He didn’t even say it when he broke up with me, and he was already pulling away long before that when he knew he won the lottery and-!” You heaved. “I hate him.”

Peter rubbed his temples, saying your name again. “I’m going to be honest, but I don’t know what to say. I miss him so damn much, and I know that-.”

“-You got to hear him say it.” You revealed. “That he loved you.”

You knew it when Peter first came to visit. When his damn voice was so loud as he spoke to Ginnie. You were all the way in Ray’s room, but you still heard him confess that Ray’s last words he heard was him saying that he loved him.

That was the knife in your side that kept twisting whenever you saw Peter.

His eyes grew to the size of plates, and his mouth quivered as he tried to find the words. All he could say was your name.

You shook your head. “No, because if that is how he truly felt about me then why should I keep crying-?!”

“-How he truly felt about you?” He laughed, and you had never seen him like this before; even when you were horrible to him. “He talked about you on that damn walk like you were with us. No one would ask him, and he’d talk about you. How much he loved you, how you were too good for him, how he wanted to see you again. It doesn’t make a lick of sense to me considering he was more than ready to die for some cheap revenge fantasy.”

You hardened your tone. “What do you mean?”

His face dropped. “You don’t know?”

“What the hell do you mean, McVries?”

He breathed sharply in through his nose, bracing himself. “Ray was going to do what I did. Ask for the carbine, shoot the major…He thought he was going to die doing so.”

You didn’t need to know why he did that. His father. Raymond Garraty was open about everything with you, all except about his father. You had been dating when it happened, but he still didn’t say anything. You were honestly taken aback he hadn’t pulled away from you completely considering how early it had happened in your relationship.

“You’re a fucking liar.” You shook your head but knew he wasn’t.

“I’m not lying.” He said your name so softly you wanted to throw something at him.

“He’d never-.”

 “-You wanna know something?” He got closer to you. “One of the first things he said about you was that I would like you; that I reminded him of you.”

Your breath stilled. Had he really said all those things? He still thought about you? Wanted to be with you? None of it mattered the second Peter started crying.

“You know something else?” He tried to compose himself. “When he told me he loved me, he was talking to you.”

It was something you knew he’d been holding onto just as long as you’d been holding onto the fact Ray had said he loved him. Peter sat on the couch, trying to calm down, but the more he restrained himself, the more it was harder to cope. The damn had already broken with you, and you sat beside him. The only sound in the house was both of your muffled cries, until they fell into silent tears.

When all was quiet, you found your voice.

“Ray said he knew he loved me the third day of kindergarten.” You whispered. “I’d gotten the hardest math question right on the first try. He said he knew he’d marry me. He didn’t even know what it was, just that it meant he’d choose to spend the rest of his life with me.”

You turned to Peter, resting your hand on his shoulder, and he looked at you.

“The thing about Ray is that he loved quickly, but never often. He never said ‘I love you’ unless he meant it.” You swallowed thickly to say the next part. “I don’t think we’ll ever know how meant it when he told you, but believe me, he meant it period. And Peter…if he did love you the way he loved me…I don’t blame him.”

There was a terror in his eyes you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t one of typical horror; it was as if you were one of the very first people to see all of him. Relief poured into his gaze, and he let out a long breath he’d been holding.

As if it were second nature, you draped your arms around him. He reciprocated without any hesitation, holding you like you were something precious. You had been embraced several times by others since Ray’s death…

But Peter’s felt the warmest.

You didn’t go on the ‘pilgrimage’ with him until spring had come. You took three weeks off work to travel the road with Peter, and you both decided it was a much needed ‘vacation’. There was something unsaid about the two of you. Nothing changed with how much time you spent together, but you were closer.

Not just emotionally but in proximity too. You weren’t touching half the time, but even just feeling the heat of each other’s body hover around you was enough. You didn’t speak of it at all, and that was enough.

It was the first night of the trip where everything changed. You had made it all the way to a borough called Indiana, Pennsylvania. It was triple the size of Freeport, but you knew it would still be considered small to most. Yet, despite how small it was, apparently, there was only one room at the first inn you went to.

Peter, ever the surprising gentleman, offered to find another place, but you were exhausted. You were both adults as well; it’s not as if you never shared a room before.

It was different though. Yes, the elephant in the room of who would have the bed would need to be brought up, but you didn’t initially. Even after being stuck in a car together for nearly ten hours, you still didn’t run out of things to talk to him about.

Then, when it was nearly midnight, it was time to rip the band aid off.

“You took the floor last time.” Peter took one of the pillows off the bed.

“I chose to.” You rebuttal from the bathroom, slipping on a nightgown.

“And I’m choosing now.”

Walking out, you saw that he had his shirt off. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and he took notice.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He took a tank top from his suitcase. “I run hot, and I didn’t think-.”

“-Don’t change anything just to comfort me.” You stated. “I’ll live, it’s alright.”

And that’s all that was said about Peter not wearing a shirt to bed.

No matter how much you tried to convince him, he still slept on the floor. When the lights went out, you thought you could fall asleep just as easily as you did at home; but you couldn’t.  What gnawed at you was the same thing that ached within you the night before you told Ray you had a crush on him.

This time, you knew you weren’t going to sleep until you let it out.

“Peter?” You whispered. He grunted from the floor beside you. “Are you awake?”

“I am now.” He grumbled. “What is it?”

“I’m cold.”

Sighing, he sat up to look at you. “And you can’t go to the lobby to ask for another blanket?”

You said nothing, your eyes adjusting fully to the dark and making out the shape of his face. He was one of the most beautiful men, in body and soul, you had ever seen.

When you remained silent, Peter grunted, taking one of the blankets off his makeshift bed and holding it out to you. You shook your head, your hand cupping the right side of his face. He didn’t pull away; tensed at first but soon relaxed. Your thumb stroked his scar, and he leaned further into your touch.

Drawing yourself off the bed, you sunk into his lap, his hands resting on your hips. Your fingers explored his face, bringing yours closer to his without your lips touching.

With hooded eyes, he said softly. “I can’t do this if it doesn’t mean something to you.”

Your breath shuttered, and your heart was beating faster and faster by the second. You had to finally say it; it would be real once you spoke it aloud.

“I really really like you.”

It was childlike, but it was true. A part of you did love him; you learned how to finally love him as a person, as a friend even. You wanted to love him in the same way you did Ray, and maybe you already did, but saying it would be too much for both of you.

He smiled, voice lighter. “You don’t hate me anymore?”

You didn’t look away from him, feeling the words being pulled out from you effortlessly. “I think you’re my favorite person.”

That’s when Peter McVries knew you meant every word you said; the good and the bad. He stared at you for what felt like ages before kissing your cheek.

“Yeah?” He kissed your jaw. You hummed, trying not to shiver. He continued to tease you, kissing only parts of your skin. He lifted you up onto the bed, laying you down and finally (finally) kissing your lips.

You never thought you’d feel anyone’s lips on yours ever again. You hadn’t known you missed the feeling until Peter’s gently caressed yours, testing the waters, before immediately jumping into the deep end of passion.

Whining when he pulled away, he started kissing down your throat, loosening the buttons of your nightgown one by one, kissing your exposed chest. You mewled at the feeling.

Peter moved his hands under the skirt of your gown, slowly moving his fingers up your thighs until they reached your underwear. He never looked away from you as he slowly and painstakingly drew them down your legs until he threw them to the side. Peter brought his fingers down to your center, placing his lips back on yours, and began to gently rub.

You clenched your legs tightly around his hand, a sensation you hadn’t felt in a while followed by hollow grunts from you. Your back arched, bearing your neck to him. He kissed it, speaking against your skin.

“Let me hear you, baby. Come on, I know there’s something in you.”

He kept the pace of his fingers enough for a flame to grow inside of you. You moved against his hand, moans escaping your mouth as you braced a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Peter,” you babbled. “I-I need you.”

“I know, just-.”

You shook your head. “No, now.”

He smirked, pulling his sweatpants and boxers off. Your eyes grew, only then realizing what you were about to do. You wondered if you were pushing yourself too quick, considering you hadn’t so much as kissed anyone else since Ray, and there you were, ready to be intimate.

Your concerns melted away when Peter held your face in his hands. You never needed to say much for him to already know what you were thinking. It was a quality you only shared with one other person in this world, and it both frightened and calmed you.

 “You tell me if it’s too much, you hear?” He kissed your forehead.

You knew what he meant, and your heart lightened because of it. Still, to show that you were no longer worried, you glanced between his legs. “I admire your confidence.”

He snorted. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I said I was cold.”

He kissed you, more desperation built behind it. You parted your thighs to make space for him, and he slipped inside of you like he was always meant to be there. You thought you’d feel pain, but you didn’t. A tightness, yes, but it was Peter; and you never felt safer.

You wondered if it would have been better if he’d taken off your pajamas completely, but his bare chest pressing against your breasts just peeking out of the nightgown brought a new eroticism you never experienced before. A carnal but tender desire that presented itself in the gentle but desperate thrusts you and Peter shared.

“God, baby,” he breathed into your neck. “that’s it. I could be here forever if you let me.”

His name was the only word you knew how to say, your arms encircling his shoulders and just needing him closer. That’s how you felt the more he was inside of you.

Closer and closer and closer until-.

It happened. You felt like you were underwater as euphoria washed over you, and Peter wasn’t close to you anymore. He turned his back to you, his legs hanging off the bed as he took himself in his hands.

Sitting up, you reached over and took his cock into your own hand, resting your chin on his shoulder. Peter moved his hand to your face, pulling you closer to his mouth and kissed any part of you he could as you stroked him.

You couldn’t make out any of his babblings as they vibrated against your skin, and his voice grew tighter to longer you drew out his own pleasure. Sprouts of white escaped through the cracks of your fingers, and all that was heard was your erratic inhales and exhales.

“You’re fucking something,” he breathed into your mouth after kissing you. “you know that?”

Giggling, you fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “You only say that after I made you cum?”

He shook his head, kissing your nose and laying beside you. “I should of said it long ago.”

“I don’t think I would have believed you.”

“You would have, you probably just would have slapped me.”

Your gaze dropped in shame. “I was horrible to you.”

He wrapped his arm around you. “You were grieving.”

“So were you.” Your eyes became glassy all of a sudden. “I shouldn’t have-.”

Peter shushed you. “It’s okay. Just sleep, we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Of course you wanted to stay up and dissect everything this would mean for the future, and what it even meant for the past. Yet, just how sure he was, and how comfortable he seemed that this did not have to be at the forefront of your worries…it meant he was in it for the long run.

You were too.

And you slept that night with him by your side.

Nothing with his mind, but more with his body. At first he had some issues with seeing things- more like processing them, with following the Maesters’ fingers as they tested his injuries. He’d see and hear things that weren’t truly there, but after a week, he was well and fine again. 

Mobility was still a bit hard, he always felt sore as if moving his limbs and he always needed assistance with basic things, like bathing, clothing himself and sometimes walking (though he was mastering it now).

Baelor felt lucky, because all the people he loved were worried about him and by his side. He was sure that Lord Ashford couldn’t imagine that his daughter’s nameday would have the whole royal family in the castle. 

As Valarr took his duties as hand, he rested and recovered at Summerhall. It was the closest to Ashford, and Maesters deemed it fitting as he could not do long journeys yet, so King’s Landing or Dragonstone were off limits.

There were two people who never left his side. 

First: his wife. You were always fussing about him, making sure he was wellfed, that he felt worthy and always assuring him that everything will be okay. He felt invincible when you soothed him with encouraging words, telling him how much you love him, how you'll get out of this together, how you’ll help him no matter what. 

You slept by his side, careful not to bother his weary body, you woke up earlier than him and he broke his fast with your help. Even if he insisted on doing it on his own, most of the time you did it yourself. 

The second: was Maekar. He left his kids at King’s Landing, leaving in Aerys’ care and so he could watch over Daeron and his three youngest. It was rare for Maekar to welcome anyone at Summerhall willingly for long periods of time: it was his home, and he didn’t like to bring outsiders (perhaps only his brothers and parents, yet not for more than a moon…). Yet now, being with the burden of consequences… He delivered the blow that almost killed his own brother and he couldn't imagine a world without Baelor in it. 

Even if Baelor had forgiven Maekar, he didn’t forgive himself. He tried to make up for it, to help him in any way, to be there, to help him shave, to help him bathe, he was almost as worried as Baelor’s wife. 

And you had not forgiven him. When the three of you had supper, if looks could kill, you could have easily murdered Maekar long ago and Baelor wasn’t blind of how you scoffed or seem more irritated whenever his youngest brother was nearby.

“You shouldn’t be cross at him” He said once, as you fed him late at night. 

“Hmm” you grunted, not really agreeing with him.

“I have forgiven him. He did not mean it,” Baelor added, gently coaxing you into the idea. “We used to train together, and even younger than I, he always has been strong. It is not the first time I received a wound from him…”

“And did he also give you a brain injury when you both trained in the Age of Heroes?” Your tone was sharp, and perhaps too abrasive. 

“We did not live in the Age of Heroes”

“My point is the same. Is this not the first time he smashes your head to the point of injury?”

“Maekar is my brother. I love him dearly, always have. He is my favourite brother.” Baelor said, stopping those thoughts in your mind. “And he is your brother too.”

“My good-brother,” you say, almost bitterly. 

“Nonetheless,” he said simply, “you are to forgive him.”

“I’ll see to that,” you fed him another spoonful of soup.

“I have never understood this rivalry between you two.” he sighed, looking at you. “Was it because of his comment?”

You look at him, not understanding where he was going with that.

“About you being too young for me.”

The roll of your eyes was enough for him to understand that since then you had not liked him. When announcing your betrothal, he remembered that Maekar, in his perennially sarcastic manner, had said something along the lines of “would be a better wife to your son, not to an old man.” Baelor didn't take offense, being used to his brother’s antics and whines. 

You did. Baelor had seen how you pursed your lips, trying to keep the composure, yet you tensed. Since then, you weren’t exactly his number one fan, always answering half-hearted answers about his brother. If Maekar was coming with the kids, you’d say “how nice”, if he had sent letters “how considerate of him”, and when the Anvil was invited along to Ashford, you simply said “if you think is wise”

Maekar was pretty much indifferent as well, never going out of his way to please you or apologise. He thought of your actions as a tantrum over not being fussed over. 

And Baelor didn’t understand why two of his favourite people loathed each other. 

With his injury, everything changed, Baelor knew that much. 

You were a dutiful wife. You waited for him, you took care of him. “She’s much younger, she will have to take care of you when you are old,” his father had said, and Baelor had rolled his eyes, speaking on how long it would be from now. 

Not very long, it seemed. It made him feel guilty, having a young woman by his side, who should be at feasts, enjoying the finest luxuries that a future Queen should. Queens had duties, but princesses… not so many. And Baelor wanted you to enjoy many things that his mother never could, on account of his grandsire and his love for debauchery. Baelor wanted it to be different for you, as he had with Jena, and as his brothers did with their wives. 

“You have many scars” you told him, helping him button his linen shirt. Fine-motor skills were still a bit stiff for him. Even if he practised, he was always too tired when night came. 

“From many battles,” he had answered. “Haven’t you heard about…”

“The Hammer and The Anvi?” You finish for him. “I have” 

“Well, there is a song about us for a reason.” 

You rolled your eyes, amused, looking at his exposed chest, the buttoning up stopping for a second to look at him. “I always thought that it was hot. I like that nickname of yours.”

Baelor was just a man. And as every man, no matter where or when, he loved a compliment from the woman he desired and loved. 

“Which one? The Hammer or Breakspear?”

“Both.” 

When you kissed him, he moved you closer to his lap. It was a great effort from him to have you atop of him, where his hips burned just because he was alive, and his lower back muscles feel like he had taken a million blows there. Yet Baelor wanted you, always making an effort to make love to you, to show you how dear you are to him; more now than ever, taking care of him. 

He kissed, nibbled and caressed your body. Baelor felt like he should compensate you for everything, for being with him, even if he is a broken man. 

“You think we can?” You ask as he places a kiss on your neck. He pulled down the chemise, slightly to keep going. “The maesters will be upset.”

“Let them. I am alive to enjoy life, not to be a rock.”

“Can I ride you then?” you said to him. “I miss riding you”

It was an excuse not to have him move too much, but Baelor knew you loved riding him. He enjoyed it too, especially after a long day of meetings and council. Perhaps with time he’d be able to gain energy and fuck you from behind. He surely could do it, he had little to do these days. 

No matter how many kisses he gave your chest, your face, how you touched him, undo his breeches, lick and kiss his cock, stroke it, speak dirty to him… 

Nothing.

He was limp, his cock making no effort to get up, soft and a bit dry in your hands. Baelor wasn’t small either when he was soft, just not to the full capacity.  

You had never seen your husband so embarrassed and disappointed, because no matter how much you tried, nothing worked. And it wasn’t like he didn’t desire you, but your touch meant nothing 

“It is alright,” your tone was comforting, as you didn’t mind. “You’re still coming back to yourself.”

“I know that. I still disappoint.”

“You could never,” you assure him, sitting by his side on the bed now, and holding his hand “I am blessed to have you”

It felt like a pity party.

“I could not do the very thing that makes a man… a man. Even the lowest criminal, or the mightiest lord.”

“I do not care. I have no need for that, it is better this way. If you take care of your health.” 

Maekar remembered when Baelor was still mostly unconscious. Living by the milk of the poppy and other things Maesters gave him to be practically laying all day without having to feel.

You would be glued to his side, working on embroidery or reading, no matter the time, you wouldn’t leave him. 

Maekar had been  embarrassed to look you in the eye, but you never left Baelor’s side and he needed to apologise. He knew that much, to ask – beg to him and you to forgive him.  

He had dared to stay at the end of the bed, watching your hand in Baelor’s, looking like the image of a widow. 

“I…” he started, “I came to apologise. To him, and to you.”

You did not answer him, looking at him with pure hatred. He knew he deserved it… his son had demanded a trial of Seven, as it was his right… but why did Baelor have to take the bloody Hedge Knight’s side? Why did Maekar have to hit his beloved brother with a mace? 

“Maesters say that he will wake.” 

“I shouldn’t have let him go to that tourney,” you say bitterly, looking at your husband. 

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I need none of your absolution, goodbrother,” your tone was poisonous, not even faking how much you recoiled against him. “Begone with you. My husband might forgive you, if he wakes up.”

And so he did. His benevolent brother, not holding a drop of resentment against him. It was as if all of those feelings were within you, looking at him as if you wanted to stab him. You were there when Baelor had forgiven him, thanked him for allowing them a stay at Summerhall. For every coldness you gave him, Baelor melted it right away.

They were on the bed, Maekar had been reading to him some letters from King’s Landing, from their father and the council. It had not been a fun afternoon, but he made sure to read them all outloud. 

“Can I ask you something?”

Baelor’s voice made Maekar look up from the letters he had been reading to figure which one to read next. He had been busy bathing Baelor before laying him in bed, not minding working as if he was his valet, dressing his brother up in his linen chemise, as Maekar simply laid with his robe. 

“Yes,” he said, his tone gruff.

“Did you ever have problems with Dyanna?”

Maekar raised one eyebrow, turning his face to look at his brother. “We did sometimes fight over this and that.” His tone is nonchalant, as it was natural of a marriage to fight from time to time. “Is your wife giving you problems?”

“More like the contrary, I am the one with all the problems” 

“I doubt so. She’s always complaining non-stop… That you’re too fragile for that, that I am doing a poor job, that-”

“I fail to understand why you two hate each other,” Baelor cut Maekar as he starts whining about his complaints. 

“We do not.”

“You do. And I do not understand why. My two favourite people cannot get along.”

“It is not that,” Maekar groaned. “She is… She simply is…”

“Please, do not call her something improper for my wife.”

“I was not planning to do so!” Maekar said, his face red in embarrassment. “She is simply… insufferable, thinking herself above everyone else, and she makes these comments, full of envy and pettiness.”

Baelor seemed half amused, seeing his brother so passionately ranting about his wife. He should do the honorable thing, take a side between this rivalry, but he could not choose between his two favourite people. He simply would ask for you two to not pursue any damage to the other, and shut down any hurtful comments. 

“She is my wife,” Baelor started diplomatically. “She deserves your respect.” To that, Maekar rolled his eyes and grumbled. “She has done nothing but be at my side-”

“As have I,” Maekar interrupted, looking at him with his frows burrowed. “What is the problem you had, you said?”

“I might need a favour.”

Coming back from the sept, your lady-in-waiting had informed you quickly. Two of them were kind enough to come to Summerhall willingly to be by your side — and Gods knew you needed them. 

“Prince Maekar is again at your solar, my lady,” one of them said, as she came closer to you. 

Great. The last thing you needed: to face him today. 

“Poor you, my lady. You are so strong” 

Their words  were comforting and  gave you more security in this strange place. You were far from home, in the castle of a man that not only you disliked, but had almost killed your husband. 

You decided enough was enough. It was your husband, you had to take care of him, not Maekar, it was his fault. You wished Baelor would recover quick enough to go to Dragonstone and be alone.  

Yet you couldn’t hate Maekar. No… it wasn’t hate. It was more like… aversion. 

“Darling.” 

Baelor calls for you, sitting up in bed with Maekar by his side, both under the coverlet of the bed as if they had not a care in the world. You made a face looking at both, your husband in his usual clothes these days, a linen tunic for sleep, and Maekar… with an open robe with his chest at full sight. You bit your lip, swallowing the sigh of annoyance. Maekar was practically warming up your husband's bed while you were gone. 

“Hello,” you muttered, moving to take off the headpiece of your head with harsh movements. It takes you no effort to undo the braid your handmaiden did in the morning. 

You wait for your good brother to go away, to say his goodbyes and get out of your side of the bed. Yet he doesn’t. It was not late, the sun was still in the sky. Still, Maekar had his own life to attend to. 

“You can go now,” you say, coming to the bed, not daring to take off your dress as he was here. 

“He’ll stay.”

Baelor had never received a look so stern as yours but he wasn’t one to back down. 

“What?”

“Darling, can…, can you come closer?”

Maekar didn’t quite meet your eyes as you squinted at him, but Baelor did. He had infinite patience, that’s true, but you had your convictions. 

“What is this?”

“Just… Let me talk to you about it”

As you sit on the edge of his side, looking at him as he tries to pull you closer. 

“Brother, you shouldn’t…”

“Allow me,” Baelor said, and Maekar backed off without a complaint. 

You gave in, because you did not wish for Baelor to overexert himself trying to pull you in his lap. You had no idea what he planned, perhaps he finally will set peace between both of you. 

He set you on his lap, and you made a face at how undecorous that is to do with his brother present, sitting right next to him (and worst of all, he was still in your side of the bed).

“Don’t frown at me,” Baelor said, his tone is always soft yet could easily be condescending when you got bratty.  “I have missed your face all day.”

You look at his mismatched eyes, as he presses a kiss to your temple. Unsure of what his game was, you turn to look at Maekar, as if trying to seek any response in him. He turns his head away, his face becoming red as a tomato as Baelor moves his hands to unlace your dress. 

“Husband-”

“Allow me,” Baelor said, looking at you “to explain.” 

Your eyes don’t leave Maekar's face, suspicion evident to this whole setup. There was something strange about it all, something Baelor was yet to tell you. 

“Since we have come back from Ashford, you know I am at half my capacity.” 

Maekar didn’t look at you, you hope he’s ashamed of it. Perhaps that’s why the redness of his face. 

“Yeah” you murmured bitterly. 

“And you’ve been such a caring wife, as always… I am very grateful for it. I am rather ashamed that there is so little I can do for you now.” 

You want to reassure him that it was fine, that you do not mind his impediments, yet he raised a hand to signal that he wants to keep talking. 

“Like, the other day. It is shameful for a man… more so a man of my age, to not seem fazed by his wife’s beauty, body and nature.” Baelor’s tone was a bit sheepish, as he looked at you, “even though I  feel it more for you than for myself. It is you who I leave unsatisfied, and you already do so much, I feel like I give you nothing in return.”

“That’s nonsense” you say quietly “You being alive is everything you could have given to me.”

“That is very sweet,” he said, his hands still keeping you in place.  

Okay… Why is Maekar needed here, then? you think, not really wanting him to speak about such matters in front of his youngest brother. 

“I know that you and Maekar have your differences,” Baelor started then, looking over at Maekar who did not face him from shame… and some grumpiness too. “But, my brother was generous enough to do me a favour.”

“How generous,” you muttered. 

“Stop it.” He said to you. “Listen to me”

You grumble, just as Maekar had when Baelor proposed his idea. He couldn’t understand how two people so alike could despise the other that much.

“Maekar is mine blood. He is a part of myself, and I of him.” He explained gently. “I want nothing but to give you back what you have given me. I know it makes you frustrated to not have a husband who can fuck you properly anymore” 

You frown, feeling your cheeks redden. It may be true, but still, you didn’t want either of them to know that. 

“Because I know you,” he said quietly, his hands absent mindedly caressing your thigh. “And Maekar owes me. I do not trust anyone but him for this task.”

Then you realise what your husband really proposes; at first you thought of something of the sort, but surely you were imagining things… right?  There was no way that your own husband was trying to get you to agree to allow his own brother to fuck you. 

“What? But… But he’s your brother.”

“He is.”

“And you are my husband. Not him.”

“I know that” Baelor said “But it is what I want. For you to keep enjoying it. You have told me yourself, it is your favourite married activity.”

“Yes, but…” your face was hot, and Maekar was red in the face, still as a statue as he pretended not to hear a thing. It was a surprise for him to be quiet and not cursing. “married activity. Between you and I.”

“Indulge me, then” He said, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek. “Yeah? Just… Think about it, pass your dislike of Maekar and really think about it. Hm?” He asked, his hands moving to wrap his arms in your back. “Wouldn’t it be nice? I would be right here, making sure you feel good. And you’ll feel so good, my love.” 

“And you would… enjoy it? Seeing me with Maekar…” 

“I would very much do so.”

As Baelor peppers your face with coaxing, sweet kisses, your eyes lock with Maekar’s.

There was a harshness in Maekar that Baelor lacked. Not to take his kindness as a weakness, but he tended to be softer, more lenient. The younger brother was more stern, more temperamental in his emotions. 

“And your brother has agreed?” 

Baelor hums, and after a long silence from his part, Maekar speaks. 

“I have”  

Your nose scrunched in uncertainty. You were not sure, yes, you miss having your husband in your bed, as you would demand him almost every night, giggling in his ear as you sat on his lap, asking him to fuck you once again. He always said that you were a woman obsessed, one that loves to be bedded, more than any woman in a bed house. 

It all seemed distant now. 

You felt like a septa now, more pious in your lack of emotions in your marriage. Baelor could hardly do what he did, most of his time was dedicated to help him go back as before, to help him walk, sit up, even eat on his own. During the first weeks he couldn’t even read more than three lines in a scroll without his head hurting. 

And yet Maekar… He was the bane of your existence. Aerion had been bruised, his pale cheek cut open. Daeron lost half his ear. Ser Duncan had a grotesque swollen eye, your husband with a blow on the back of his head, even the new apple knight had wounds to be tended and yet… The Anvil had barely had any scratch. What were they? A small redness around his cheekbone? A bruise on the stomach where Baelor had unhorsed him with his lance?

“I am feeling better” Baelor said quietly “Perhaps I could prepare you for him. If my fingers don’t fail me” 

He undid your dress with a rather practised slowness. No, he was still recovering, you thought, he was still gaining finer motor skills. 

You had your reservations, surely. Being in your chemise in front of a man that was not your husband… but surely you could indulge Baelor in this. It won’t kill you.

Besides, Maekar might be many things, but he didn’t seem like a horrible lover. He had six children, and you had heard how his lady loved him. Surely, he knew how to please a woman into having six children willingly. 

“You’re so pretty” Baelor said, kissing your skin gently. “Isn’t she, brother?”

You cringed inwardly, not wanting to hear it. Gods give you patience. 

“Hmm.” Maekar hummed, only to amuse Baelor. 

You squint your eyes, trying to think how you will endure to bed him. Baelor was more enthusiastic than both of you, once your gown was off, and only your chemise remained, his hands moved all over your body. 

“Look at me” he said quietly, looking up at you. “I love you fiercely.” His tone is honest, absolutely smitten over you. You softened slightly, as you nodded. 

“I love you as well. Fiercely.” 

It was strange to kiss passionately in front of someone else, but Baelor made it easy to forget. As if you could merge into him without a worry in the world. As his hands moved to caress your thighs, you started to feel aroused, feeling the needy pout forming in your lips.  

As usual, he peppers your cheek with kisses, tailing over to your neck as his hands move under your chemise. He was still warm, and so gentle as always, which only helped to spur you on.

To be pretty honest, you were horny with so little. These few weeks you had felt the ache between your legs, which lasted so little because of how busy you had been. And now, with your husband kissing you, touching you and lavishing with affection, you were whimpering quietly against his chest. 

“Hmmm,” Baelor hums quietly. “So wet.”

It was true, you were shivering and dripping like a maiden.  His palm ground against your center, teasing you slightly as his fingers were probing against your folds, his touch just the way you liked it.

“Let’s show Maekar, hm? Come on, let him see” Baelor said, maneuvering you so Maekar could see all of it. Pulling your dress up with his other hand, his fingers didn’t stop their maddening ministrations on your cunny.

You felt a bit sheepish as Baelor exposed you, feeling vulnerable. You hid in Baelor’s neck, a bit shy, not wanting to see your good brother seeing your cunt… 

Fuck, you were so wet. Even more so knowing that Maekar was watching your husband touching your cunt and pleasuring you… preparing you for him.

As you peek to see Maekar, you can see his red face watching you. If you hoped to see an erection, the blankets and furs from the bed block the view. Still, you knew when a man was aroused. 

“Isn’t she pretty?”

“Yeah… she is.”

“Why don’t you sit on Maekar’s lap, love?” Baelor said, coaxing you to do it as he moved his hand to the back of your back to push you gently.  

You huff slightly, yet moving to comply with your husband’s wish, settling in Maekar’s lap. You felt the warmth in him, as the bed cracked from settling into his thighs. You have never shared honest kind words, it was always either too fake or as an insult. Maekar knew you found him dour, and he found you dull. 

“Careful-” he muttered as you accidentally pressed your knee too hard on his thigh. 

“I am settling,” you grunt, the air still hostile. 

“Do calm down, no one is dying” Baelor said, as he leaned back in his pillows. 

Sometimes you and Maekar could agree. About Baelor, mostly. You two cared for him, you two wanted only but the best for him, and it was a small concession that was shared… yet Maekar broke it, he smashed Baelor’s head, and you can’t look past it 

The gaze between you has always been hostile, and it is… yet now it is changed. You’re sitting atop of his erection, and he is going to fuck you. And you want him to. 

His hands were foreign on your body, they are big yet not quite as soft or warm as your husband’s. Baelor had less callouses in his hands now, and definitely has grown softer from his recovery. The Anvil was still as ruthless, it seems, as his hands were little rougher, and you had seen him training since you’ve met him… whereas Valarr and Matarys were mostly trained by a master-at-arms, Maekar was more hands on when teaching Daeron, Aerion, Aemon and Aegon how to fight. He would deem them to be passable knights only when they could defeat him at least once. 

He was so different, and yet, you could see Baelor in him. He was his brother, and they had the very same parents and blood, which shouldn’t surprise you to find them similar, but Baelor was more like their mother and Maekar resembled their mother. 

“Do not be shy, love,” Baelor coaxed you as you remained still, looking at Maekar as if you’d like to choke him. “You give very pleasant kisses.”

Oh, fuck off. You think, as it was cute once, but now it is getting annoying. Your nose scrunches, as you comply… for whatever reason. 

You are pleasantly surprised when kissing Maekar. It started stiff, to be sure, but as you decide to only enjoy the feeling, it came naturally to have such a sloppy kiss with him. His tongue is all over yours, his lips move on its own in a messy way as you grip his hair to keep him however you like. 

You loathed him, but you couldn’t deny that feeling his hard cock against your cunt while kissing was amazing. Much more after moons without any action, since you had no mind for that. And you thought that it could be the same for him, in a way, after widowing and having to care for six kids. 

“How should I take her?” Maekar asked Baelor, separating from your lips. And while tried to move his head, your hand was still gripping the hair on the back of his head, and you did not allow him to move. 

“I am right here,” You said through gritted teeth. “You think you can decide about me without consulting?”

“It is not-”

“You two agreed to allow my goodbrother to fuck me. I was not present” You repeat to Maekar. It came so easily to be mean to him. “You ruined my life and now you ask my husband how I want to be fucked? Fuck off.”

Maekar, for a moment, thinks that you will push him away and leave him with a pathetic erection in his brother’s bed… Baelor thinks the same. You don’t, simply staring at him angrily, with hatred in your gaze. 

You were telling him to fuck off, yet the words simply made his cock heavier and hurt even more. 

“Fuck off,” you repeat, as if telling yourself that. The grip on his hair was gone when you move your hand away, but he doesn’t dare to look away from you.

Feeling your hand on his cock, Maekar has to bite back a groan. He was no maiden, yet you make him feel like one, taking him by surprise as you decide to take matters in your hands, guiding his cock to your entrance. 

Maekar’s hands held your waist as he helped you sink onto his cock, the sensation making him groan from the overwhelming pleasure, more so when you moaned just the same, gripping his shoulders tightly. 

“Fuck me,” he grunted, leaning back in the pillows as you rode him however you pleased. He feels somewhat like a toy, being used for your pleasure. And he did not care one bit. 

“Shut up”

The stretch was delicious, feeling Maekar’s fat cock inside made your head spin and your eyes shut close. Settling on his cock, getting used to his size made your toes curl and forget, only for a second, that your husband was watching you both. 

You hated him, you had dreamed of him having an illness, of him disappearing and never coming back… And as he thrusts up inside your cunt, you moan loudly, eyes glassy as you could feel his balls as you sank all the way down. 

“You brute,” you said, trying to keep composure while bouncing on his dick. His eyes do not leave your face, watching your every expression as his hands resin firmly between your waist and hips, not deciding where to be. “I hate you.”

“I hate you too” he said, equally spiteful as he fucks you. The scowl on his face, his purple eyes intense and following your face, and how he had your breasts swaying with every thrusts, centimeters from his face.  

There wasn’t any gentleness in the way you bounce on his cock or how he takes you however he wants. And Maekar was sure that you also preferred it that way. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” You muttered, followed by whimpers and moans. What a mouth, he thinks. “Harder, fuck me harder.”

Maekar complied, moving you up and down on his cock however he wanted, hard and fast. He could feel his balls sticky from all the gush, he could hear as he hilts his cock inside,  the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies together. 

You watched his face, he was enjoying this as much as you were. He was pretty vocal, grunting, groaning and moaning, and of course, you could hear the insults coming from his mouth. His eyes were haunting, so bright against the light that it made you nervous, almost as light as his hair and beard. 

You faintly remember how Baelor’s beard felt against your cunt. Still, Maekar’s hair seems more silky, softer to touch. Would his beard feel softer against your cunny? His nose would feel delicious, you know it, as he had a much more prominent nose than the Hammer. No, your husband has a beautiful nose, but the Anvil had a bigger one. Imagining that nose rubbing against your clit, makes you moan loudly. 

“Ah, Gods! Fuck, fuckfuckfuck- ” you muttered, feeling your body simply give in as he hits a delicious spot inside you. And Gods, he notices it. His arms hug you against him,  wrapping them around your waist as he keeps you still to thrust inside that very place inside you. 

You rolled your eyes in pleasure, collapsing against him with no shame at all. You two were past shame at this point, especially since he was so deep inside you. Your head found his shoulder perfect enough to rest there as the fire in your cunt makes you see stars. 

The sticky sounds made it obscene, but you loved that sound. How you missed hearing it, feeling it, feeling strong arms keep you in place as you were fucked right. 

As your head was lolled against Maekar’s skin, your mouth slightly agape with a thin thread of drool as you gasped for air, you saw your husband. Baelor was perfectly against his pillows, with a perfect view of his wife getting fucked by his brother. 

There was no shame in your body, there was something vulnerable about being observed while Maekar fucks you. With Baelor, it has always been passionate, but very loving, safe and sweet. He has always been careful, kissing you everytime, adoring you. Maekar fucked you like he hates you, which he did, and he was not sweet, or considerate. It was primal, animalistic, and so good. 

Different than fucking your husband, either better or worse; just different. And when your eyes meet the mismatched eyes of Baelor, you are slightly afraid he might think otherwise. Instead, you find the pleasant sight of your husband finally roused by the spectacle of his brother taking his wife. 

You watch as his hand strokes his own cock, red and fully erected, which seems almost painful. The heat that Baelor must feel was almost agonizing, his own cock aching and weeping against his own hand, not able to look away; mesmerised by the way his wife’s body was against his Anvil. 

The bed creaks slightly, too much weight, too much movement, and you moan loudly.

“Maekar,” you moan softly, feeling the heat in your belly intensify with the new information. 

“Hmm” He grunted, not taking your words into consideration.

You moved one hand to make him look at Baelor, as if that was something you both should know. It was not the main purpose, surely, but not less important nonetheless. 

It was impossible for you to decipher Maekar’s thoughts, seeing his brother reduced and aroused by seeing his wife being fucked. He feels a surge of pure pleasure at the perversion of taking his brother’s wife, a forbidden act in any law… yet, in this room, no one cares. 

“Look at him,” Maekar grunted, looking at you for a moment. As he said that, he gives you a small, passionate kiss. “Look what we do to him,” he whispered against your ear, helping you to sit up straight. 

You really were enjoying being all limp against Maekar’s chest, but seeing Baelor jerking off, made you gain more control bouncing on his brother’s cock. The squelch of your cunt sliding up and down on his shaft was louder now, or perhaps it was your own impression. 

Maekar’s head fell back against the pillow, also unable to tear his gaze away from Baelor, moaning as you bounced with more force, your weight crushing him deliciously in place. His cock, nestled inside your warm pussy, was near cumming inside and filling you up. 

It was impossible for him not to look at you again, so pretty while getting fucked. Your mouth was finally to good use, perhaps even better if you could, at least once, suck his cock. And by how this was going, he hoped you would. 

“She feels so good,” he said outloud, as if to help Baelor to know what it was like. “She is gripping me deliciously, and she is so wet.” 

That makes you turn your head back to him, locking eyes with his. Your hands moved to caress his chest shamelessly, much less hair than Baelor, but so firm and hot. 

“I know she will cum in a few moments” Maekar added looking at you, arrogant prick. You want to hold back just to prove him wrong, but you are not willing to sacrifice your orgasm for that. “I will, too.”

“Cum inside me,” you demanded, and since Baelor had no objections, you kept going, “fill me up.” 

Knowing that Baelor was enjoying this as you were, made you already on the brick of pleasure. And knowing that Maekar was there as well was simply enough to cum with loud moans all over his cock. 

You liked having the attention of both men, enjoying far more than you realised of being fucked while your husband watches (how perverse!) and you are actually glad he thought of it. It had been a long time since you had been fucked in such a passionate, animalistic way. 

Maekar glanced towards Baelor and in the Hammer eyes there was no protest, he nodded in permission to encourage him “I’m gonna fill you so fucking much” The Anvil said to you.

His arms held you tight in place as you felt the way his cock emptied himself in you, the warm seed filling your womb as you wanted. You heard his grunts, the way he panted, how his thighs slightly trembled as he came. 

Laying against his chest, you let out a satisfied sound. Maekar sighed, accommodating you as he was unsure what to do now. He wanted to fuck his brother’s wife again and again, until he was utterly spent. 

Something catches your attention, because before he knows it, you’re crawling to Baelor’s side without notice. Maekar watched as you descended your head to Baelor’s hard cock, taking it in your mouth to suck him.  

Watching you, as his own seed drips from your cunt, makes him feel a small twitch on his cock. You were still young, being insatiable was in your nature… yet he feels too old for this now, his limbs and his lower belly are burning as he leans back, his eyes not leaving once the way you blow Baelor. 

The sight was obscene, yet the way Baelor locked eyes with him was perverse. Maekar has never found himself in such a strange position, and he has done many odd things to amuse Dyanna. And it spurred him on, once again. 

Baelor came in your mouth, and you’re quick to cuddle in his arms once again. It makes Maekar wonder… was that it? shall we go back and pretend this never happened?

“I do thank you,” Baelor said softly, as you simply are hugging him blissfully. How happy you were after being fucked, contrary to the frown you always had around Maekar. “It was pleasing enough for all of us”

“You enjoyed it?” He scoffs slightly surprised. 

“I did,” Baelor admitted, caressing your naked back slowly. He was too comfortable, as usual, too calm for a man whose wife had just been fucked by another man. “Did not thought it would arouse me”

Maekar raised his eyebrows, looking at the ceiling. What an odd situation, he thought to himself. Yet in all honesty, it had aroused him more than he thought, being watched by his brother, knowing that it had worked to harden his limp cock. 

“Hm?” Baelor hummed, as you whispered something in his ear. “Brother, my dear wife wants to know if you’d fuck her again… now.”

As the words hung in the air, Maekar froze for a second. You, the very same bane of his existence, a woman that had taken a jest so personal it made him scowl every time you were mentioned, only interacting with you by hostile words. You actually wanted him again. 

You, who were so reluctant at first, now were looking at him with hungry eyes, starving even. Perhaps it would take a long time for Baelor to get rid of his limp dick. 

“You insatiable wench,” the Anvil muttered.

It’s then that he noticed that you weren’t just difficult or stubborn. You were starving, craving this for a long time. During the moons of Baelor’s recovery time, you were left mostly alone.  You were insatiable because you have been empty for far too long now… yet now, here he was. 

Maekar always had felt second to his brother, sort of a shadow behind him… not because of anything that the Hammer ever did. Baelor was often praised by court and singers for their efforts in the Redgrass field, whereas he felt unappreciated, compared to his perfect brother. Now, you wanted him again. 

And Baelor, Seven bless him, was willing. Not an ounce of jealousy in him, looking serene and secure, granting Maekar freedom with his own wife. It was only natural for him to help his beloved big brother. 

“Alright.” Maekar agrees. He was not as honourable as Baelor, and you knew it. And you wanted him for it. “If it makes you happy.”

“It does.” Baelor said simply. “Go on darling, make everyone happy.” 

That you will, with no protests. As you tell Maekar that you won’t be under him, Baelor only smiles. He was a wise man, and every problem had a solution. He only needed his brother to do the task, as a Hammer needed its Anvil. 

Stella was dancing like there was no tomorrow, like time had stopped and the night would never end. The skirt of her short black dress spun with her as she kept her arms raised above her head. Eyes closed, head swaying, she looked like she was praying to some god in the sky. The music blasted through the nightclub, loud enough to drown out any thought. It was a moment of pure joy for her. Just being able to let go, free from the pressure of her profession, felt revitalizing. All the stress she carried inside her, all the pain in her toes, slowly faded away with the rhythm of the pounding bass. Her flats weren’t exactly the norm for dancing like this, but she didn’t want to ruin her feet with heels. They were her instruments, her way of making art speak through her body. She shook her long, wild curls, strands sticking to her warm cheeks as she smiled to herself. Her hips moved, her chest too despite how tight her dress was. No one was going to stop her, no one was going to take that away from her.

The swirling blue and red lights spun all around her. The center of the dance floor was packed, but somehow she found a spot where she could let loose without constantly bumping into people. And honestly, no one cared. Some were doing elaborate dance moves, others were jumping around, stomping their feet, but Stella focused on the tempo. The shifts in the DJ’s mix and the joy it brought her when she recognized a song. It was a simple night, just a girls’ night out. Her friends had gone to the bathroom together, she didn’t want to stop moving. She was impossible to contain, all that rage, all that pressure leaving her body with every drop of sweat. Her intensity, her sharp edge, didn’t go unnoticed. Some men pretended to dance with her, their hands wandering a little, and she slipped away each time to find a new spot. A restless, electric force. Untouchable.

Dex hadn’t noticed her yet. He was at the bar, sipping an ice-cold Coke through a straw. He occasionally moved his head, enjoying the festive atmosphere. It was the first time he stepped into a place like this without the intention to kill. He blended in, just a man drinking quietly in the middle of a wild crowd. He faced the dance floor, glass in hand, his gaze scanning every individual. It was a game, a pastime. The blue lighting in the room didn’t feel unfamiliar to him. It was almost comforting to see he wasn’t the only one immersed in that color. 

He felt at peace with himself, even more than that, he accepted every part of his personality. Why fight it? There was something to refine. One elbow resting on the bar, long legs stretched along the stool, head slightly tilted and a faint smirk on his lips, he watched everything that moved, searching for a stimulus. Like a dormant disease ready to infect its chosen host. Dex wanted to feel something new, excitement or just the thrill of the kill.

A woman raised her arm in the middle of a group of thirsty men. A real pack of hyenas. Dex immediately saw that she was signaling in his direction. Strange, but convenient. He set his glass down on the bar without taking his eyes off her. Beautiful was the word that came to mind when he saw her in that tight dress. His smile widened as she made her way through the crowd of music-crazed bodies. 

The lighting was low, but Dex caught every detail. Her slender body, toned thighs, messy chocolate hair, delicate hands, sun-kissed skin, and a face you just wanted to bite into. She looked like a painting, something from another time. His smile slowly faded as tension built inside him. She wasn’t calling him, but her friend who was ordering drinks with her back turned next to him. He was certain her eyes had been on him. A mistake? Impossible. It had to be him.

“Freya! I was waiting for you!” Stella yelled to be heard above the music. Dex noticed the accent, he didn’t move from his position, sitting facing the crowd but his attention stayed on her.

“I was actually trying to buy you a drink!” the blonde answered, holding two mojitos filled to the brim. A dark stain soaked the fabric of her dress near her chest, she had spilled some on herself along the way. The two women laughed together, taking sips.

“Thank- Hey! Careful!” A slightly drunk guy stumbled next to her. Stella spilled part of her drink on her shoulder but steadied herself before the rest could fall behind her. The guy completely ignored her and she widened her eyes at her friend, who just shrugged in response. “Why are they all rude here?”

“Some of them carry guns,” Freya whispered in her ear and she nodded. “Don’t say things like that out loud.”

“Yeah but- okay.” She tried to keep her footing, pressing herself close to her friend who had her back against the bar. She couldn’t stop swaying her hips to the beat.

“Elodie is tired, she’s already puking her guts out.”

“Freya, I can buy more drinks for the girls-” The blonde with the ponytail shushed her with a finger on her lips. Stella closed the small crossbody bag where her wallet and passport were.

“We’ll head back to the hotel. You should come with us.”

“No! Why? We’re in New York!” Stella protested, buzzing with energy while her friend rolled her eyes. “It’s too early to go to sleep. Please, I’m begging you!” She made a puppy face. Dex shifted slightly just to see it.

“You forgot what’s waiting for us tomorrow.”

“Don’t remind me, okay? It’s Friday night. We’re here to have fun. Try to have fun with me. Come on!” Stella grabbed her arm and started pulling her, but she struggled to finish her drink so she wouldn’t have to carry it.

Suddenly, Stella was shoved to the side, her drink slipping from her hands in the process and hitting someone’s leg. Her hands landed on something solid, a sculpted chest like a brick wall. The music was deafening, the lights strobing, but nothing could distract her from the man who was looking at her so intensely in that moment. He held her by the forearms as she had landed between his legs like a gift falling from the sky, a shooting star he had managed to catch by sheer chance. The attraction was mutual, Stella had never met a man this attractive since she had set foot in this notorious city.

“Sorry.” She immediately stepped back.

“You did nothing wrong,” Dex replied in his usual tone.

“What did you say?” Stella stepped closer and so did he. He leaned toward her, not touching her, just bringing his lips close to her ear beneath her hair.

“I said you don’t have to worry.”

His voice sent shivers down her spine. She turned her face and his rose as if he were lifting into the air. He now stood above her, having gotten up from his seat, towering at his full height. His broad shoulders made him look even taller. Dex smiled at her, tucking one hand into his pocket. Stella felt intimidated, not to mention he looked older than her. He tilted his head slightly, spotting the guy approaching before she even did.

“What the fuck was that?!” A guy burst in, clearly pissed. “You fucking hit my girlfriend with your glass!”

“It was an accident!” Freya stepped in, grabbing her friend’s arm. “We don’t want any trouble.” She waved her hand dismissively and pulled Stella with her but the man grabbed her.

“You fucking apologize to me now.” He said it right to her face. Stella froze, speechless.

She barely had time to see a hand grab the guy by the collar. Dex’s speed was terrifying. She blinked and the man’s head was smashed against the bar. Dex pressed his face into the broken glass while holding something against his ribs. Stella couldn’t hear what he was saying, she didn’t even have time to be afraid when Freya pulled her away from the scene. People kept dancing under the blasting music while someone was being assaulted because of her. The two women pushed their way out of the chaos. She looked back to see people gathering where she had left the mysterious stranger who had just helped her.

The cool spring air brushed through her hair and she shivered slightly, rubbing her arms. It was crazy how fast the temperature had dropped when the afternoon had been warm and dry. Stella followed Freya, who was walking quickly toward the group of girls waiting by the road. A black cab pulled up and they all got inside. Freya started jogging faster but Stella kept walking. The fluorescent lights of New York were hypnotizing. This city never slept. Screens flashed advertisements and people rushed along the sidewalks. She didn’t know what time it was, but it was late enough for the streets to start emptying. She looked up at the tops of the buildings, feeling small under the weight of all that concrete.

“Stella! You coming?” Freya shouted so loudly that she startled her out of her thoughts. The young blonde was already sitting in the back of the cab, one hand on the open door handle, the other waving her over. “They’re crazy. This place is not safe!”

“There is no safe place in this city.”

A voice rose behind Stella. She only turned her head as he walked up to stand beside her.

“Here.” Dex took off his zip-up jacket and shook it out. “I don’t want you catching a cold. I promise I’m one of the good guys.”

She could see him better under the streetlights now. A scar ran from his temple down to his left cheekbone, and there was a small cut above his brow, but it didn’t take anything away from his charm. His eyes were dark, his smile bright. He looked reassuring, and after what he’d just done, Stella thought maybe he had a protective side. She should’ve been scared of the violence he’d shown, but instead she liked it: the sense of safety, the control.

“Uh… yeah.” He draped the jacket over her shoulders, brushing her hair aside and grazing the skin of her neck. She shivered again, but not from the cold. “Thank you?”

“You can call me Dex.”

“Nice to meet you. My name is-”

“Stellaaaaa!”

Two horns cut through the noise of the night, mixed with distant sirens and chatter. The most frustrating part was that she couldn’t even finish her sentence. She ran back toward the cab, Dex’s jacket still around her shoulders.

“Yes, yes! I’m not coming, okay?” she said quietly, leaning toward Freya inside.

Her short dress rode up along her thighs under Dex’s watchful gaze. He waited patiently to see what she would do, slipping the passport he had just stolen into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Why? Don’t tell me you’re not tired. We spent the whole day training our asses off.”

“I know, but I don’t want this night to end and…” Stella turned to glance at Dex, standing there with his hands in his pockets. “I’m curious about him.”

“He looks like a psycho!”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, you said that last time.”

“Yeah, if the cover doesn’t look like a psycho!”

Stella laughed, then shut the car door. The other girls were already half-asleep in their seats.

“I’ll walk around or go back dancing, I don’t know. I just need to get ballet out of my head for once.”

“She didn’t mean what she said, you’re the best dancer out of all of us.” Freya leaned against the window. “She was jealous, a bully, you know that.”

“Yeah... I’ll text you when I’m back in my room.”

“You better. I hope you don’t end up in a cave!” Freya waved before the taxi sped off and she fell back into her seat. “Why are you driving so fast?!”

Her friend’s complaints faded into the night as the car disappeared. Stella pulled the jacket tighter around herself, her gaze drifting between the street and the people around her.

“I guess your name is Stella.” Dex’s voice came from behind her again before he stepped up beside her, so close their shoulders brushed.

“Oh- yes. I’m not from here.”

“I can tell.” She frowned. “Your accent.” Then she laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“It’s embarrassing you could spot it. I spent almost seven years studying in English, so yeah.”

“You’re doing great.” He said it with that same lingering look, like she was something to study, something he wanted to figure out completely.

Stella looked away, slipping her arms into his jacket properly. It smelled like clean laundry, no cologne, nothing strong. Talking to a stranger, especially one who was clearly capable of violence was a bad idea, but she felt like she had nothing to lose. If she played it right, he’d never know who she really was.

“Did you have a knife back there?”

“Yes.” He answered without hesitation and she looked up at him. He smirked, and she didn’t understand why. He was clearly terrible at flirting. Saying exactly the wrong things. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Should I be?”

“Yes.”

People started rushing out of the club, some screaming. Stella tensed, stepping a little closer to Dex, who briefly buried his face in her hair without her noticing. People were running everywhere, trying to get out, pure chaos.

“Let’s get out of here.” Dex took her hand and started walking. His stride was long, fast, she had to keep up. He pushed people aside as they moved through the crowd, those talking, those panicking.

“What happened inside?” She kept looking back. Someone had called the cops. An ambulance too.

“Let’s just say he’s gonna need jaw surgery”

His hand was large, rough, strong. She found that attractive. He stopped a little further from the club, in front of a slightly old, plain black Ford. He turned to face her, still holding her hand, looking down at her as she caught her breath. He let the silence settle, watching the movement of her lips, the way she clutched her purse.

“How about I take you home?”

“I think I’ll walk around a bit.”

“Don’t. These streets? You? Bad idea.”

“Okay… I guess I should listen to you.”

She opened her small green bag: her phone, passport, and wallet were inside. Dex was quick enough to take in every piece of information he needed, storing it carefully in his mind. She started typing a message to her friend, and he could see what she was writing even though she tried to hide it.

“Can you give me your full name?”

“Poindexter.”

“You’re Dex Poindexter?” She narrowed her eyes and he let out a soft chuckle.

“No. My name is Benjamin Poindexter, but people call me Dex.” She nodded, still typing. He liked the smell of her shampoo.

I’m getting in the car with the psycho guy. His name is Benjamin Poindexter. Don’t tell me it sounds like a porn name, I already know. Madam Mane said I need to get out of my comfort zone to become a better ballerina, so… I’m trying. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. Sleep well.

“Done. We can go.” She slipped her phone away, and when she looked up, Dex was already holding the passenger door open for her.

“After you… Stella.” He lingered on the syllables.

It felt unsettling and what was even stranger was that the more dangerous he seemed, the more drawn to him she felt. He had that satisfied little grin that confused her, but in a good way. Maybe it was his confidence. She wanted to know more about him. She sat down in the incredibly clean seat and buckled her seatbelt. There was no smell at all, like the car was brand new. 

Dex shut the door, got in, and started driving through the lively streets of New York.

“At some point, you’re going to have to tell me your address.”

Stella thought as he drove toward an unknown destination. Taking him straight to her hotel would be a bad idea. If he really was some kind of killer, which, well, he was, she’d regret it instantly. At this hour, there was nowhere to go. Restaurants were closed, shops too. She even thought about something touristy, but nothing worked. He could drop her off a little further away, but she didn’t know the street names, and sitting next to him, he’d notice if she used Google Maps.

She bit her lower lip. Maybe this was the moment. To do it. Lose her virginity with a stranger. A one-night thing. Just to get past that step, to become the version of herself she had always wanted to be. It felt like the only way to unlock something in her. And Dex seemed perfectly capable of handling that kind of situation. He looked like a control freak and she wanted to surrender hers. Perfect match.

“Can we go to-” She swallowed hard. “Your place?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Alright.” He turned the wheel, making a U-turn.

“Do you live alone?”

“I always have.”

“Oh my God… don’t make me regret this.” She sighed, rubbing her face.

“I won’t, Stella. I’ll give you exactly what you need.” He smiled at her, a small grin that didn’t reach his dark eyes, and she nodded, hopeful.