MARK LEE / SMOOTHIE (240328)

wayfaring stranger | 0.2 | rhett abbott x reader

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synopsis: betrayal sends Rhett veering further West, searching for answers and searching for himself. Instead, he finds you.

warnings: 18+, minors dni. Will be smut, violence and swearing. No warnings for this particular chapter other than Rhett smokes. Enemies to lovers in a very loose sense.

…

Your bedroom faces the bunkhouse. With the corner room, one of your windows faces the miles of acres to the west and the other faces down the hill towards the driveway, with a perfect view of the bunkhouse. An even better view if you pull down the loft hatch and climb up to look through the window up there.

This does mean, however, when you choose to sleep with your window open, they all wake you up at ungodly hours of the morning. It’s late April now, and the temperature is in the high fifties. Warm for April, still not that warm. You wake up with a chill, having forgotten to close the window last night before bed.

With a soft groan of complaint, you roll onto your side and pull the covers closer around you. You peek one eye open and it’s still dark. They might be all the way down the hill, but those deep voices carry just fine through the night air. The manual alarm clock beside your bed tells you that it’s just after four.

Another groan of complaint and this time you push yourself up, immediately hit with frigid air after being wrapped up warm under the duvet. You walk quickly over to the window and pull it shut, catching a quick glimpse down the hill at the cowboys as they ready themselves for their day of work.

It’s been a week since the rude cowboy with the long hair turned up and decided to test how far he could push you. You haven’t spoken to him since and your mother gave you a huge lecture for smacking his cigarette from his hand. It wasn’t anything he didn’t deserve — you could have hit his face.

He seems to be fitting in well enough, he’s at the bottom of the hill now, perched on a brown horse and leaning down to talk to Duke. Your father seems to like him, he came back up last night chatting away about how ‘that kid from Wyoming’s not half bad’ — and in Bud Hawthorne speak, that means Rhett must be pretty damn great.

You pull the curtains the rest of the way shut and return back to your bed.

When Lena had said she had sent a guy your way, you had at least expected her to have sent a nice one. Lena doesn’t date nice boys, though, so you figure that that makes sense.

She had gone to the same high school you had, but she was two years older. You hadn’t talked back then. You had been warned to stay away from girls like Lena. Too much eye make up, skirts too short. People around town had plenty to say about her. And the male company that she keeps.

Dottie had said that this would happen. She had said that there was plenty of work for you to do around the ranch and that there’s absolutely no reason that you would need to get a job in town, especially not at that dingy little diner where the bad girls work.

But, you’re like your father — your mind was made up and that was the first place that would hire you. Lena had trained you when you had first started a few months ago, the two of you had grown pretty close since then.

Dottie has noticed the change in you and she doesn’t like it one bit. Talking back, picking up extra shifts whenever you feel like it, skipping dinner on account of this new job.

She remembers what it was like being a young woman and she knows how easy it is to be led astray. The further you are from her watchful eye and the closer you are to that wicked girl, the easier that’ll be.

Your alarm rings out at a little after eight. You wake with a couple of different sounds of discontentment, slapping your hand around the bedside table until it hits the top of the clock and silences that awful sound.

Sunlight peeking through the curtains, you can hear your mother vacuuming downstairs already. You sigh softly and push yourself upright. It takes a couple of minutes for you to gain the motivation to finally leave your comfy, plush white sheets and head for the bathroom.

Your sister is already awake and singing in her room down the hallway. Scarlett is younger than you, she just turned fifteen a while ago. You pass by her room silently. There just isn’t as much in common between the two of you as there used to be.

Since your parents took the lock off of your door last month, the bathroom is the only true privacy left in the house. The mechanism clicks under your fingers and you’re alone.

The shower streams to your left, you let it warm up whilst you brush your teeth. You slip out of the house whilst your mother is still vacuuming, heading down the hill with your bag slung over your shoulder.

Your truck is too shitty to be up by the house now, the rumble of the engine wakes your mother up, so it stays parked down by the bunk house.

“Hey, Duke!” You call down to the aging cowboy, the tread on your sneakers struggling to keep up with the incline on the dirt path down to the driveway.

Busy watching a horse buck around the pen, he turns his head and smiles when he spots you, even if you did interrupt his conversation with Rhett.

“Morning, sunshine.” Duke smiles at you.

“Would you mind taking a look at my truck later? — it’s making that weird noise again.” You call over to him, swinging your keys around your index finger as you walk over to the old rust bucket that’s been keeping Rhett up at night. It’s exhaust is shot and so you can hear it coming from a mile away.

He looks you up and down in your waitressing uniform. Your eyes are on him when he finally gets to your face. His lips quirk at the edges. He raises his hand and waves his fingers at you tauntingly.

You scowl, rolling your eyes as Duke calls back a good-natured agreement, pulling yourself up into the driver’s seat.

“Hey, new guy, do you like having a right hand?” Chuck, a man rather aptly named, asks from Rhett’s left. Rhett turns his head and raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for the second part of the joke. “If you do, I’d stop waving it at Mr. Hawthorne’s kid.”

Rhett chuckles and shakes his head, “I’m just messin’ with her.”

Duke and Chuck exchange knowing looks. Rhett continues on, making it a mental note that making jokes about Mr. Hawthorne’s daughter is apparently off limits.

“That was flirting. He was flirting with you.” Lena scoffs as she flips through the pages of her magazine. She chuckles off-handedly and shakes her head. This is all so simple to her.

You swallow, twirling the straw through your Diet Coke, knocking the ice cubes into the side of the glass. Watching the ice cubes bump into each other until you can actually see them getting smaller, you consider what she has just said.

Lena doesn’t seem to notice how long you’ve been quiet, chewing her gum at your side, pursing her lips and exhaling to form a blue bubblegum bubble between her lips. It pops at your side and brings you back to this reality.

“Are you sure?” You lean down, resting your forearms on the counter as you sip from the straw.

Lena chuckles again. “Yes!”

You swallow the fizzy liquid and pout your lips slightly in consideration, turning your gaze towards the polished, Hollywood couple kissing on the page of her magazine.

“So, what was I supposed to say?” Sometimes, you like to pretend that you’re more experienced around Lena than you really are. There’s only a small age difference between the two of you but in terms of experience, there might as well be years.

When you had first started working here and she had been telling you about everything — all of the boyfriends, the midnight makeouts, the steaming up the windows of old trucks, that one married man that you still struggle to look in the eye in church now — it had been daunting.

So, you had told a little white lie. “Sure, of course I’ve had sex before.”

Just a boy from church. She didn’t ask much about it, and she had seemed to believe you. Sometimes you worry that you’re getting close to being uncovered, that she’ll know you’re lying, but in times like this — you could just do with the advice.

“So, when he said ‘you’ll do it for me, won’t you?’ — you should’ve said ‘if you make me’.”

She says it so nonchalantly. You scrunch your nose slightly as you look over at your relatively new, and informed best friend. You had only met him right then… no way does she say that kind of thing to strangers.

Plus, you didn’t want him to make you throw away his trash for him — that’s ridiculous. Who would want that? It makes no sense to you. Still, you nod knowingly and hum, returning to your Diet Coke.

“Hey, you want to go out this Saturday?” Lena suggests, turning her attention towards you finally. She smacks the blue gum between her lips again.

You snort at the idea, “Like to a bar? — Fat chance, my parents are barely okay with me coming here.”

She raises her eyebrows disapprovingly at you, then scoffs, turning back to her magazine. “Y’know, most people stop letting their parents give them a curfew when they turn eighteen.”

Pressing your tongue into your cheek, you glance down at the glass in front of you. Easy for her to say, she’s been going to rodeos with guys she barely knows since she was in high school. It’s harder when your parents are the way that they are.

“Hey, sugar — any chance of me getting a refill on this, or what?”

You both look up in unison while he taps a dirty nail against his coffee cup. It’s not clear which one of you exactly the trucker in the far booth, with sweat stains on his white t-shirt and his belt unbuckled after his lunch, is talking to, but Lena answers.

“You’ve got a better chance of getting a refill if you stop calling me sugar, slimeball.” Lena answers. Your lips quirk slightly as the man’s smug little smile drops right off of his face. You love it when she does that.

It makes you feel powerful even when you’re not the one saying it. This time last year, you wouldn’t have dared speak to anyone like that, much less a man that was older than you. That was a level of disrespect that your mother never would’ve tolerated.

Speaking like Lena does is fun. Dropping curse words here and there, knocking that sleazy looking smile off of a man’s face without ever even touching him, it makes you feel big. Being Lena’s friend feels good.

It’s just hard to switch that off when you get back home, which is what at least ninety percent of your arguments with your mother have been about since you started here. “I don’t like that attitude, young lady.”, “don’t you dare talk back to me like that, girl.”

Things of that nature.

“Could I get a refill, please?” The man tries again. You smile softly, grabbing the coffee pot and walking politely over to him. You pour his cup, noticing the way his head bows in shame.

Rhett hears you before he sees you. The shitty truck that keeps knocking into stuff late at night pulls up the driveway so fast that he has to take a couple of steps back. His boots skid on the gravel as the truck screeches to a stop.

You turn the engine off and hop down from the truck. The look on your face tells him that that wasn’t an unusual arrival. His brows scrunch disapprovingly as he wonders what kind of idiot gave you your license.

He takes a second to look over your uniform, quirking an eyebrow as you unroll the skirt. It gains about three inches in length once you’re done, falling down just past your knees.

You look up, swinging the truck door shut behind you and meeting his gaze. You smooth out the skirt and smile sheepishly.

“Guessing that your Dad doesn’t stop by your work too often, does he?” Rhett teases, cigarette wobbling between his lips as he leans up against the smoking sign. He’s wearing a baseball cap today, it suits him more than the cowboy hat. You like it.

In fact, there’s nothing you don’t like about what he’s wearing. Sensible boots, faded pair of blue wranglers and a blue button up shirt. He’s handsome when you’re not mad at him.

“Sometimes he does.” You reply, hoping that if you convince him that your father already knows then he won’t snitch on you for shortening the skirt.

Rhett inhales and let’s the cigarette hang at his side, tapping some of the ash onto the floor. “Cute get up, kid.” He expects some kind of explosive reaction that’ll provide him with a little entertainment for the quiet evening.

Instead, you drop your hip and smile sweetly at him, taking your time in slowly looking him up and down, then shooting him a quick wink. “Thanks. You too.”

Rhett’s smile falters, brows scrunching.

Your heart thuds in your chest as you turn and walk away from him. He watches you the rest of the way up the hill, features creased in confusion. Irritating you is fun, flirting with you is going to get him in trouble.

“Young lady, where have you been?” It all begins before the screen door has even closed behind you. You lean your head back and sigh softly. You’re less than twenty minutes later than usual.

Helping with dinner. Sitting politely whilst your father rattles on about cattle and your mother periodically interjects about Sunday service this week. Begrudgingly helping Scarlett with her history homework a little after that.

Not only under this roof, within these four walls does it feel that your every waking moment belongs to your parents, but also under lilac clouds and powder blue skies. You kick your shoes through blades of uncut grass, reveling in a few minutes to yourself before the sun sets.

Friday night and you’re wandering aimlessly to your fences, along the treeline and back along again. Lena’s probably out right now, building some exciting story that you’ll hear about on Monday, bubbling with envy.

Rhett takes a sip of his beer as the door to the bunk house swings shut behind him. He walks over to his truck and drops the tailgate, taking a deep breath as he sets his beer down and sits down.

Leaning back on his palms, his intention is to look towards the sky and think about what comes next. Instead, his gaze lands on you. A while away still, trailing your fingers along the longest blades of grass by the treeline. You’ve changed out of your uniform and are wearing a modest, loose fitting dress.

He picks up the beer bottle and brings it to his lips as he watches you. As a lion watches a gazelle through the tall grass. It’s no wonder than Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne keep such a close eye on you.

Pretty in the way that you are. With an attitude like that, he bets that you’ve been catching the wrong kind of attention from guys like him for a while now.

The next time he sets his beer down, he clocks that you’re heading towards him. Whether or not you have noticed him yet, he isn’t sure until you get closer.

You’ve noticed him. Sitting on his truck bed in a thin green t-shirt, a pair of jeans and that black cap from earlier. As you trail the fence line, knowing that I’ll lead you in his direction, you think of one of the first stories Lena had told you.

The first time she’d had sex. With a boy from her grade in her junior year of high school, in the cab of his truck. Every detail had seemed so seamless. So easy.

You’ve never had a conversation with a man that has led further than some hand holding, let alone that leads into something like that so flawlessly.

“Am I in trouble, officer?” Rhett calls out to you first. Initially, your instinct is to roll your eyes and straighten up. Taking it in your stride, you think of what Lena would want you to say. Your mind races. It’s a mishmash of needing to not take too long to answer and having no idea what to say.

“Depends.” You decide. That doesn’t sound too bad. Your tone wasn’t off, it’s confident enough to have fooled him. His lips quirk softly as you grow closer. Gravel crunches under your soles as you continue towards him.

“On what?” Rhett quips in response, leaning back on one of his palms. Your eyes trail the pronounced veins in his forearms, intricate lines on tanned skin. Finally, you meet his gaze again.

Another brief panic. Lena. One of Lena’s answers. Something. You look at his face for the answer, nothing. Your eyes land on the beer bottle at his side.

“Whether or not you’re willing to share.”

Rhett follows that impish look on your face down to the glass bottle at his side. His lips quirk softly, gesturing his head for you to sit beside him. One drink never hurt anyone.

Your feet carry you forwards, turning and sitting down on the truck bed at his side. He passes the glass bottle into your hand.

Swiping a thumb through the condensation on the side, you toy with it first. Rhett watches your thumb trail the glass bottle, then lifts his gaze to look at you. Seven days and you’re the only woman he has seen, he’s starting to wonder how bad your father’s temper could possibly be — and more importantly, how good you are at keeping secrets.

Whether or not you’re interested in him isn’t drawn into question, not with the way you trail around him like a fly on a hot day. He’s already made up his mind on how you feel about him.

You lift the bottle and take a big sip. The liquid sits on your tongue, all bubbles and bitter fizz. Rhett raises his eyebrows expectantly. He waits a few seconds, then frowns.

“You going to swallow that?”

Embarrassed and not at all impressed by the cheap beer, you swallow it anyway and hand the bottle back to him again. Rhett laughs at your side as he takes a drink for himself.

Your cheeks and ears burn all at once, even as the temperature drops along with the sun, both of them disappearing hand in hand beyond the horizon. Your burning discomfort is more than enough to keep you warm, luckily.

He trails his thumb along the bottle as you had, watching as his larger digit slides through the path yours had taken, covering over any trace of your touch on the bottle.

He looks down at your hands in your lap, unmistakably smaller than his own, then back out towards the field. He won’t make the first move — that’s sensible enough. If you come onto him, then so be it, if not, he’ll leave you alone.

“I’ll bet you’re used to the good stuff. German beer, something like that? — Actually, I’ll bet you go for your dad’s liquor cabinet.” Rhett muses, expecting an answer but still halfway talking to himself. His voice is rumbling and deep, always quiet.

You drank a sip of vodka once when you were fifteen, then you prayed for forgiveness. More recently, you slipped a bottle of gin from the liquor cabinet. It’s under your bed and you drink from it when you feel like it, but it’s not good.

“Better than whatever that crap is.” You answer calmly. Rhett glances across at you as you lean back on your palms. You’re bolder than he thought you’d be, and he has no idea that it’s an act for the most part.

He smiles as he glances down and reads the bottle. He’s not a brand loyalist, and the beer really is too shitty for him to defend it to you.

He sets it down between the two of you and digs a hand into his front pocket, “You smoke?”

You swallow softly, the taste of that shitty cheap fizz on your tongue. Lena would say yes. “When I feel like it.”

He pulls his cigarettes from his pocket and pulls one from the pack, offering it to you first. Looking at the thin Marlboro extended towards you between his calloused fingers, something in your brain short circuits.

You’re a smart girl, you’re college educated, you know how people look when they accept a cigarette, you’ve seen it before. And yet, some backwards, incorrectly functioning part of your brain leaves your hands static in your lap.

Rhett watches as you part your lips just slightly. His brows scrunch just briefly, it’s a fraction of a second type movement but you catch it happen. He flips the cigarette between his fingers and leans in to set the butt of it between your lips.

Your eyes are on him. He stares back at you as your lips close around the end of the cigarette. Breeze sweeps your hair back slightly away from your forehead and reminds him to move.

He pulls his lighter from his pocket and clicks down the spark wheel, igniting the small flame, cupping his free hand around it to shield it from the wind.

You hold it between your lips, letting him light then end and taking a small puff. His lips quirk instantly. You realise that you must’ve done it wrong.

All that you did was pull a bit of smoke into your mouth and then breathe it back out. That’s right. He can see your mind working, trying to figure out where you went wrong.

“Try again.” Rhett nods. You steady the cigarette between your index and middle finger and take another drag. “That’s it. Breathe in, hold it.”

Your brows furrow as you hold the smoke in your lungs. He smirks, then nods. “Now exhale.”

It seems like it’s going to go well, you’re about halfway through the exhale when it catches in your throat and you splutter, leaning forwards and coughing.

Rhett nudges at your hand with the bottle, prepared already as he swaps it for the cigarette.

“You’re a real pro, kid,” He comments as he sets the cigarette between his lips, you sip tenderly at the beer beside him and rub at your throat. “I’ll bet you could teach me a thing or two. Y’know, since you smoke all the time.”

There it is, that’s what he was looking for. He’s under your skin. You turn your head and glare at him as you set the beer down again.

He turns his head to look at you. Quiet, just watching you struggle to come up with something witty to say now that he has caught you in the lie. You’re pretty sure that Lena’s never been caught in a lie, it’s not in her nature.

He nudges his knee softly into yours, the worn out denim of his jeans skimming over your bare skin. You still your hands as they go to pull your dress down further. You let it stay where it is, letting him brush his leg into the side of yours. It’s a friendly gesture, letting you know that he’s not making fun of you.

Your fingertips brush his arm as you go for the beer bottle once more. Maybe you’re sitting too close, but he doesn’t pull away. You bring the bottle to your lips and take another sip. It’s starting to not be so bad. Plus, it’s getting that bad cigarette taste out of your mouth.

There’s a period of quiet, sitting knee to knee, elbow to elbow with this man that you know next to nothing about. His name’s Rhett, he’s from Wyoming. That’s about all you know about him, and it makes your heart jump.

Sitting here with him, this is what Lena was talking about, this is how it’s meant to feel. All of those times you were nudged towards supposedly charming sons in church, it hadn’t ever felt right. Your heart racing in your chest and the warmth from his skin burning it’s mark into yours, that’s got to be right.

You flinch at the sound of your mother's voice. She’s calling you from the porch again, you had left your phone on the kitchen table.

“Mommy’s calling.” Rhett quips, taking the beer bottle from your hand and taking a small sip as he flicks ash onto the ground. You shoot a narrow-eyed look back at him. He smirks.

“You’re smoking too close to the building again.” Your voice drips with triumph, thinking you’ve shut him up, pushing yourself down from the truck and standing up right.

“You’d better hurry on up that hill, or she might just ground you.” Rhett taunts in response. Your lips press together. He hums in amusement as you turn on your heel and walk away from him, kicking gravel in your path until you reach the dirt.

That’s not flirting. Belittling is not flirting. You scowl, not bothering to look back at the stupid cowboy sitting on his stupid truck. Asshole. The word remains on the inside of your mouth as you brush past your mother and walk back inside. You’re getting better at turning it off around her now.

…

@xoxabs88xox @whisperofsong @perpetuelledaydreaming @laluneveillesureux @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger

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Steam II

Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader

Genre: ATLA au, enemies(?) to lovers, forbidden romance, royalty au

General Warnings: violence (bending fights), injuries (mentions of broken bones, burns, blood, bruises), alcohol consumption, mentions of prostitutionSmut Warnings: multiple smut scenes, fingering, dry humping, slight exhibitionism, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex, handjob, hair pulling, marking, virgin!reader, wonwoo has a tiny bit of a corruption kink

Length: ~16.4k | Fic Length: ~64k

Credits: banner: @caelesjjk and @shadowkoo | betas: @tomodachiii @miniseokminnies @gyuswhore @haologram and @wqnwoos

Note: part 2 is here! pls reblog and lmk what you think. also! the poem mentioned near the end. part 3 will be up friday because wednesday is reserved for a very special bday fic for one of my favorite people.

summary: Wonwoo is the best fire bender in Capitol City. Or he is. But a water bender he's never seen before changes everything.

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Wonwoo’s first day as your personal guard was a case study in public humiliation.

Your grandmother sat high on her dais in the council debate hall with you seated on a slightly lower platform at her side, stiff as a board. The meeting had already taken hours. Councilmen and nobles argued back and forth across the aisle, every topic of debate hammered into the ground for them to ultimately agree to the same terms the proposed at the beginning of the discussion. It was a waste of time and energy to argue superfluous details but it kept them content which was a priceless luxury. Better to let men yell their silly insults across the debate chamber than across the battlefield.

Their raucous chatter served another purpose: preventing you from falling asleep. When that stopped working, your nails stung into your palms and you pinched your thighs, hands hidden beneath the sleeves of your gown.

Wonwoo moved into the servant’s quarters of your apartment last night and you hadn’t slept a wink, tossing and turning all night. He’d arrived and disappeared into his new room without so much as a glance in your direction. It shouldn’t have confused you as much as it did. Nothing could ever happen but it didn’t stop the tension from thundering through the entire suite; knowing you fantasized about having him in your room only for him to actually be there. 

Then that morning when you rose, servants and lady's maids fluttering about to prepare you for the day, you felt his judgment even though he never vocalized it; a heavy weight around your neck. Face hot, you shoved the new found shame down as far as you could and tried to ignore it.

The burden didn’t lighten as he followed a pace behind you throughout the day, to every appointment and lesson. He watched in somber silence as the royal jeweler presented fine gems set into crowns, necklaces, and rings. He stared at his shoes while your seamstress pinned and unpinned in a new dress. And now, he hovered somewhere behind you in the very meeting you wished would end.

“And now our last order of business,” Chancellor Dak started, scanning the long document before him. “Lord Belaor, you have the floor.”

Lord Belaor rose from his seat at the end of the chamber and approached the wide center aisle. The billowed sleeves of his robes resembled a peacock. He was dramatic as ever, demanding full attention for whatever gripe possessed him.

“As we all know, it is customary that the 25th birthday of an heir to the United Islands’ throne is a matter of great significance. It—” 

“‘It signifies that this heir is eligible to assume the throne’,” Chancellor Dak finished. “Of course we are aware of this Lord Belaor, but Princess Y/N and Her Majesty agreed she would delay her ascension until she felt comfortable assuming the throne. This has been long discussed.”

Murmurs of agreement whispered across the chamber, nobles and councilmen rolling their eyes.

“It is not Princess Y/N to whom I was referring,” Lord Belaor said. “Last month, on the occasion of his twenty-fifth birthday, my nephew, Duke Tsao, became eligible to assume the throne.”

A terrible silence filled the room. Nobles and councilmen gaped like fish as what their peer suggested: treason.

“I beg your pardon?” you gasped.

Belaor turned his head not towards you, but your grandmother. “My nephew is ready to take his place as United Island’s rightful king.”

Your jaw clenched so tight your teeth threatened to crack. Tsao, that bumbling idiot, wasn’t fit to pour water in a bucket without supervision, couldn’t bend to save his life. Tsao flaunted his mistresses without shame and starved his tenants with burdensome taxes to fund his affairs. He’d get the throne over your dead body.

“Princess Y/N is the first in line for the throne, a direct descendent of royalty. Are you challenging the line of succession, Lord Belaor?” Lord Gaha asked. Of all the nobles, he maintained the most influence and he didn’t seem sold on the idea Belaor presented.

“I am simply providing a potential consideration given that Princess Y/N is of age and yet remains unmarried. Not all of the council is completely confident she is the most suitable choice to govern our great nation with that information in mind.”

Freezing Belaor and his Spirits forsaken nephew until their hearts stopped became more and more appealing. If that didn’t work then drowning was another solid option; however, it’d require far more work. Murdering a noble would be frowned upon but Lord Belaor, frozen to the far wall, bloody and bruised from your fists was a satisfying image. He probably hadn’t considered that outcome before opening his mouth.

Your grandmother appraised Lord Belaor, a look you were familiar with. “We have never required princesses to marry in order to rule our country and I will not start now.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty. But my nephew is already married with several children. His line is secured in the event something unfortunate happens. Can we say the same of our dear princess? Spirits protect her, but we must prepare for the worst possible outcomes.”

He didn’t mention that six of Tsao’s ten children were bastards with rumors of more.

“I will take your concerns under consideration, Lord Belaor. You are all dismissed.”

Chancellor Dak echoed your grandmother’s sentiment and followed your grandmother to her private office, whispering urgently. 

Princesses did not rush, or stomp. They did not slouch or shrug. They did not fantasize of murder no matter how righteous. But of all the things you were not allowed to do, you refused to break in front of self important nobles.

You marched through the palace, pulse hammering in your ears with each step. If you were born with your mother’s fire instead of the late king’s water, then the palace would’ve crumbled to cinders. But you were in control. You just needed to get to the private pavilion at the edge of the gardens and then—

Your attendant, Lin, struggled to match your pace. “Your Highness, you have a tsungi horn lesson with—”

“Cancel it. Clear my schedule for the rest of the day.”

“But!” Lin objected but you already turned the corner before she could attempt to argue.

Wonwoo watched you destroy the training pavilion in fury. Targets exploded like fireworks from ice blades the size of his torso. When there were none left you bent ice into the shape of what looked suspiciously similar to the noble from earlier and started destroying those as well.

He was…terrified. You were not the poised princess he met at the barracks, nor the crafty opponent he met in the warehouse. This was something new. Something volatile. The leash of carefully crafted control slipped from the typhoon that waited beneath the surface. You held back all those times he watched you bend. Were all princesses trained to be so deadly?

A small part of him, a piece he didn’t know existed, felt relief when the nobles revealed you were unwed. He wasn’t a part of some grand betrayal. His only crime was being overly friendly with a woman above his station which shouldn’t really be considered a crime. Wonwoo hadn’t compromised you no more than you compromised him. 

“AH!” you screamed and the remaining effigies shattered into a million pieces. 

Despite the noise, no one came. This far edge of the gardens, so far from the palace that the hedges blocked the spires, seemed to be the one place not crowded with servants. 

Wonwoo remained in agonizing solitude as you collapsed on the ground, closed your eyes, and huffed like a toddler. You looked so similar in the orange and pinks of sunset as you did in moonlight and yet nothing was the same. The eerie calm you maintained during a fight, the confident sureness you’d win, had waned into whatever he had just witnessed.

You made a disgusted noise and rose to your feet, surveying the damage. When you finally turned, you gazed at him as if you forgot he existed. “Can you go away?”

“I’m doing my job.”

“Then do you have to be so loud about it?”

“I haven’t spoken to you since I got here.” 

Here as in the palace, simply because he hadn’t known what to say last night and chose to hide in his room instead. A room larger than any he had before, even those he shared with others. It was all so new and strange. He imagined you alone in your room, just down the hall. The benign realization that he was effectively alone with you returned those horribly vivid memories; the feelings of longing. 

Wonwoo kept his mouth shut because he wasn’t sure what would come out. Another teasing jab, or something more damning. Now with witnesses in every corner and maids who liked to barge in without a care, he couldn’t afford to slip.

You glided across the pavilion where there was a stack of towels and began wiping away the dirt and sweat clinging to your face. “Yeah, well, I can feel you judging me.”

“I’m not judging you,” Wonwoo sputtered. 

“Yes, you are!” you argued.

Wonwoo really wanted to say he was judging those old men and their unabashed scheming. He knew Lord Tsao, or of him. Knew he wasn’t fit to rule a pile of dirt let alone a kingdom; heard the stories of his tenants going hungry season after season to pay the lord’s gambling debts. 

But Wonwoo did not say those things. He doubted fanning the flame of your ire would have much benefit other than more destruction of more unfortunate targets and he’d prefer not to become one. Besides, he really does not want to talk about politics and marriage; he wants to go back to your apartment and take a long bath and try to find the sleep that evaded him last night.

“I’m just not used to having servants do everything for me,” he said.

“They’re doing their jobs,” you snapped before mumbling, “We’re all just doing our jobs.”

With the sun sinking below the line of the hedges, the pavilion cast in deep shadows. 

“Can you at least tell them not to be so thorough? One of them offered to help me bathe last night.”

“That's Han’s attempt at flirting. She thinks you’re handsome.” A blip of amusement crossed your face, so brief it could have been imagination but he savors it all the same.

“Glad I’m making a good impression,” Wonwoo said. He looked to the sky above, the stars already dappling the sky. They’re more visible here than in the city. “So if you’re old enough to be queen, why aren’t you?”

You deflated and Wonwoo instantly regretted the question. “All I’ve done since I was a child was learn what it was to be queen. I’ve studied history, war strategy, tax reforms. I’ve attended council meetings since I was twelve. It is all I am, all I have been raised to do from the second I was born. And yet… there is so much I do not know.”

“So you sneak out of the palace?”

“Partially,” You admitted, taking a seat on a nearby bench. “If I told them I wanted to see the city it would take days of planning, countless staff and guards. A full royal procession. Even then I’d only be allowed to see what's considered ‘proper’ which excludes pretty much everything. I wouldn’t have known there were places like the Red Lanterns or the homeless encampments near the warehouses. They all pretend those issues don’t exist so they can spend money on stupid parties or whatever else they want.”

“So you want to be a queen of the people.”

“My decisions affect those people. They are my people. Every war we enter, every tax collected, they pay for it while I sit on a throne behind ivory walls and treat them as numbers on a page. I will not let those arrogant old ass holes run my country into the ground while people suffer.”

“Such language from a princess,” Wonwoo gasped in mock shock.

“Shut up, before I freeze you to a wall.”

“How scandalous!”

You looked genuinely thrilled at the idea of sticking him to a wall and leaving him there until morning. 

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

“I am going pray there is at least one suitable man at next week's festivities and marry him. My grandmother won’t make me but I know it’s why she’s decided to host every single dignitary, ambassador, and wealthy noble she could find. I have a stack of dossiers back in my apartment to review before bed.”

In his world, marriage was for love. Sometimes duty if there was a kid involved but mostly love. Two people choosing each other above all others, for the rest of their lives. That did not appear to be the case for royalty. Marriage was another political decision, picking someone from a catalog after ensuring they checked whatever important boxes.

“Oh. That’s…a good idea.”

“Yes,” you huffed like a petulant child refusing to eat their vegetables. “I can’t wait to have some random spoiled prince try and boss me around my own kingdom.”

“Then don’t marry a prince, I guess.” Wonwoo shrugged. “Or just make him watch your attack some targets again, he’ll be too busy pissing himself to think about telling you what to do.”

“Or I could freeze him to a wall,” you said but when Wonwoo risked a look at your face all he could see was sadness and defeat.

He didn’t like it. Defeat fit you like a jacket six sizes too small. Wonwoo didn’t have words of comfort, what could he say? But when words failed him, he had action.

“Alright, get up. Enough moping.”

“I’m not moping!” you argued, eyes locked on his with defiance.

Good. 

Wonwoo strode to the center of the pavilion without looking back, smiling at the click of footsteps following. “You are and it’s freaking me out.”

“Well, I’m so sorry to inconvenience you.”

“You’re a bad liar, Your Highness.”

You fumed, “I told you not to call me that.”

“And just what are you gonna do about it?” Wonwoo tensed, already prepared for the hit of ice against his skin. It felt good. Familiar. If you were fighting him then he knew what to do instead of feeling that odd desperation to make you smile. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

Two hours later, the pavilion was covered in soot and ice. The ground was scorched in some places and flooded in others. You finally tired and called for a truce that Wonwoo eagerly agreed to. How intimidating it must have been for the princess and her personal guard to limp back to your apartment together, covered in sweat and filth. 

Wonwoo slept like a baby.

The welcoming procession lasted hours. All manner of speeches, gifts, and presentations from the different delegations blended together into a dull thrum. 

Cheeks sore from smiling and butt numb from your perch on your throne, you thanked Prince Bavruq for the abalone chest filled with jewels that reflected light like the sea; greens, blues, and whites projected across the throne room as sun filtered in from the large windows. They were truly beautiful. Just like the other chest of rubies and diamonds from Admiral Gyan or the ensemble of lapis carvings from Senator Maoki. Or any of the other gaudish presents serving as a means to impress you and your grandmother and soften your opinion towards one of them. 

Perhaps you would have been impressed if your neck didn’t ache from the heavy combs of silver and gemstones littering your hair. 

Dinner was an entirely different fiasco.

A feast in the name of camaraderie served as an opportunity for all the guests to appraise and gawk at you like a prized komodo horse. It wasn’t unusual or new sans for the unabashed way they all seemed to be sizing each other up as well. There had been a stand off for the seats directly across and beside you; grown men acting like children wanting first turn with their favorite toy as they shouldered one another and mumbled threats under their breath. 

Your wine glass sat empty before the first course ever arrived.

“Your Highness, I hear you are partial to the tsungi horn. I would be honored to play for you.” A man beside you, dressed in a fine coat that clung to his broad shoulders, said. His golden eyes gleamed like a falcon’s.

“That would be lovely, Lord Char. Thank you.” You lifted your spoon once again from the full bowl of cold soup. Everyone else at the table had nearly finished but your guests insisted on keeping you occupied with conversation rather than eating.

“Princess!” called another man across the table. “I’m not as skilled on the tsungi horn, but perhaps I could play the dramyin for you?”

“I would be delighted, Commander Raza.”

You hated the dramyin.

Someone else began speaking and the edges of your bowl frosted, ice crystals floating across the oily surface as you tried to gain composure. A servant intervened before you could follow through on the idea of throwing it at the scraggly bearded noble boasting his accomplishments in poetry. Princesses did not launch their meals at unsuspecting men. 

Others began clearing the remaining dishes before new plates arrived with thick slices of meat covered in peppered sauce and vinegared vegetables. You were quick to take a bite before someone new could interrupt to discuss another dreadful instrument.

“We shall make an event of it,” your grandmother clapped from the head of the table. “A night to display the unique talents of your kingdoms. My granddaughter is partial to cultural affairs.”

“What a lovely idea but I don’t believe we have the time with—”

“Nonsense! Night after next we shall have a splendid performance,” she gazed at you with a bright smile as if to say deal with it. “But tonight, we will eat.”

You bit your tongue until dessert came. A terrible coincidence that the moon peach tarts with cream were your favorite. Maybe Han can bring some up to your room. A servant passed by, filling Lord Char’s glass. You waited with both hands tucked beneath the edge of the table for Lord Char to grab for his cup. When he did, you tugged at the blood in his veins, barely enough to make the muscles jump.

“My dress!” you gasped.

The few people who had not been watching you like a petting zoo animal whipped around, mouths open in horror.

“Your Highness, I am so sorry! I didn’t mean…Let me help you!” Lord Char stammered, the contents of his drink puddled across the table and your lap. He grabbed for his napkin but floundered with the realization he couldn’t touch you.

“I believe you have done enough, Your Grace,” you bit out. Wine stained the front of your gown in large splotches, the blue of the fabric mixing with red to resemble a giant ugly bruise. A true shame, to destroy such fine silks. But ruining a brand new dress was worth escaping the evening. “Excuse me.”

You ignored the silent reprimand blooming on your grandmother’s face, allowing servants to crowd you with towels as they led you from the dining room swiftly. Her ire would be dealt with later when the voices of whiny nobles no longer rattled through your ears.

Lord Char followed spouting more apologies. “Princess Y/N, my hand slipped! I would never mean to—”

“Excuse me, Lord Char. I find myself needing to change out of my favorite gown since it is ruined.” 

He deflated and stepped aside as you continued on your path.

“I am fine.” You brushed away the servants once the heavy doors shut, dismissing them back to their posts. “I will be retiring early this evening.”

Bending the liquid soaking your gown into a potted plant, you continued to your room with a pair of footsteps echoing behind.

Wonwoo watched the skyline of the city glow with light from your bedroom window while you…did whatever you did with your lady’s maids in your bathroom. 

Logically, he knew but refused to dwell on such things. He had plenty of knowledge of what you looked like naked and soaking wet, at least from the waist up. And plenty of imaginations of the rest. There was no reason to add to his suffering by ruminating the gentle splashes echoing through the door.

Or the…giggling.

How many times had you looked at this same view? Watched a city you never experienced right at your feet thrum to life every night while you remained out of sight? Locked away in your tower night after night, wallowing and alone after your staff retired for the evening; imagination running wild with all sorts of activities might be taking place and wanting a slice for yourself.

And then you did just that. An incredibly foolish endeavor but his chest warmed with fond pride. He imagined what you would say if presented with that fact.

Only foolish if I was caught. 

Wonwoo hadn’t considered the trouble you went through to sneak out the palace and down into the Middle district. It was at least an hour on foot assuming you didn’t encounter any delays, probably more since there was never a word of suspicious activity taking place in the Nobles Quarter. Foolish but not foolish at all.

Then he thought, how many nights had he paced the same streets just outside the palace walls, completely unaware that you were locked in this tower. That you ran straight across his path while he remained none the wiser. The night after he met you in the market, when he wandered the streets during his rounds consumed with thoughts of you; only for you to be right here.

Two people so close yet worlds apart.

After what felt like hours, your maids, Han and Sami, filed out to prepare your room, turning down the bed and stoking the dwindling fire.

Sami fed the flames another log and looked at him. “Mind helping?” 

“I’m not a butler,” Wonwoo said but manipulated the dying flame until Sami waved him away.

Technically, Wonwoo was allowed to retire to his rooms now. He’d swept the windows and building tops for potential threats and found none (he never did). But Han and Sami were good company despite their constant teasing. It felt good to talk to someone other than you or Mingyu. 

“So what did you think?”

“Of what?”

Han rolled her eyes as if he was an idiot to not understand exactly what she meant. “The suitors.”

Wonwoo could have said a great many opinions. Lord Char smelled like a brothel and Senator Maoki’s carvings looked rather phallic to be the sea serpents and lion turtles they were meant to be. Prince Jao’s singing made him want to jump off a building but not before pushing the man off first. Wonwoo especially didn’t care for the way they leered at you like starved wolves.

But his opinions did not matter.

“I’m not a matchmaker either,” he huffed.

“Men really undervalue the fun of good gossip.”

“What did you think then?” he asked, arms crossed. 

“Prince Bavruq is so dreamy,” Sami crooned.

“He’s forty!” Han laughed.

“I’ve always liked an older man. He’s so…dignified.”

“Then maybe he’ll take you back to the North Pole with him,” Wonwoo added. It felt good to be a part of something again. In the barracks they played games and joked every night. He didn’t realize how much he missed it until now.

“A flower is only as good as its petals and my petals are too delicate to be locked away in the North Pole!”

Han snorted from across the room. “You’re as delicate as those rocks Chancellor Kabaar gifted her.”

“Now talk about a man,” Sami swooned.

You entered the room wrapped in a thick robe. “You are dismissed.”

Han and Sami bowed out but not before giggling again. When your face soured it only grew louder.

“Something funny?” he asked, watching the maids leaving through the door as they cackled to themselves.

You sat on the chair next to the window – eyes on the same sights Wonwoo watched earlier – and blew out a disgruntled breath.“Besides the fact that I was doused with wine in front of a hundred people?”

“Yeah, considering you did that to yourself.”

You raised an eyebrow. It was difficult to keep track of the masks you wore: a proper princess in front of others, the confident siren of the field, the force of nature from the training pavilion. They all slipped and rose so swiftly Wonwoo couldn’t keep track. “You dare suggest that I would purposefully sabotage dinner?”

“Based on past experience I can empathize with Lord Char on being made a fool at your hand.”

“Save your sympathies for someone more deserving than him. He is a terrible flirt with a gambling addiction which I supposed would be less of an issue if he ever actually won,” you said sourly. 

At least he had a concrete reason to dislike Char besides his smell.

“So you admit you did it on purpose?”

“Of course I did it on purpose but if you want to go rejoin them then by all means. Jao is probably performing some of those Earth Kingdom poems still.”

“Are they always so self important?”

“They are princelings from the richest and most powerful families in the world. Usually they’re worse.” 

You passed Wonwoo a tea cup, and without thought he warmed it between his palms until it was steaming before handing it back. “Hard to imagine that.”

“At my eighteenth birthday party a game of ice marbles turned into a wrestling match and they destroyed the south courtyard.”

“Well then,” he clapped. “At least the talent show will be interesting.” 

Wonwoo turned to leave, the sound of your amused snort tugging at that warm place in his heart carved just for you.

If someone asked what he thought a princess’ day looked like before he came to the palace, he would have assumed it was days full of tea parties and mindless chatter. An easy life filled with nothing but comfort and luxury.

But the more time Wonwoo spent attending meetings and meals, the more he realized the palace was a viper pit covered in the finest lace and gold.

Meetings upon meetings upon meetings left his head swimming. Every conversation was layered with double meaning, from chatter on tea selection to the actual topics. It seemed like a knot that only became more tangled as he focused on unraveling it. 

You seemed to navigate it easily though, the eerie mask of diplomacy firmly in place. 

“Admiral Gyan, I understand that we have trade agreements,” you said, face smooth as a pearl but your eyes gleamed like you had your boot on his throat. “However, it is in the best interest of both of our people to make amends to terms that predate our births.”

Gyan picked at the spread of tea cakes and snacks, ignoring you completely in favor of snagging the last sweet bun. “All this talk of trade is rather tiresome, don’t you think? Tell me Princess, what is your favorite flower?”

Wonwoo watched you shut your eyes with a deep silent breath. 

He prepared to intervene if needed; however, the admiral deserved to be knocked around a bit. An hour long discussion and all he asked was about your favorite sweets and candies (his were cherry nut tarts and jennamite), if you preferred the summer to winter (he liked summers), and your opinion on whether the Royal Theater’s production of Love amongst the Dragons outdid The Lost Slipper (nothing compared to The Echoes of Spirits).

Wonwoo made the mistake of implying the need for a chaperone for these meetings, considering most verged on courting rather than business, and he knew most guards waited outside the door during private meetings. Wonwoo was mortified to learn he was not only a guard but a nanny as well. 

“Two birds one stone,” you said as Han smoothed the creases from your robe. “I need a guard and chaperone, and most leaders do not want to talk business with too many prying ears.”

The unsaid parts were clear; Wonwoo was a servant. Wonwoo was nobody next to these men who demanded respect for simply being born to the right people. The more appointments he attended, the more his resentment boiled. It was no different then the hundreds of times he stepped aside for men of higher status in the Nobles Quarter or the barracks. He never thought much of it before, it was simply something he’d been trained to do for years. So why did it bother him now?

Each dignitaries had done quite the same as Gyan, only perhaps a touch subtler; at least their attempts at flattery were related to trade agreements. Every asinine inquiry They were eager to make up for time missed at dinner the previous night, and your absence at breakfast this morning. Every single one began their time with a high chin and starry eyes, only to leave disillusioned from your insistence to discuss policy and finance. To their knowledge you were not officially seeking marriage, they were simply hopeful for the inevitable day you did. 

How unaware they were of how soon that day came. Wonwoo read the dossiers; scanned them for anything of consequence: questionable relations, suspicious behaviors. For security purposes, of course. But one was the same as the last. Second borns never trained to take their own crowns who liked to spend their days indulging in hunting or drinking. Or, sons of rich families with strategic influence and holdings dating back centuries. And then, there were the well off military figures with armies more loyal to them than their nation.

Admiral Gyan happened to be all three. 

“Ice lilies,” you sighed. “As I was saying—”

Gyan picked at some invisible lint at his sleeve. From his position against the wall, Wonwoo could see the way Gyan stared wistfully out the window instead of the papers you presented across the table. Not that Gyan could see them if he looked, his snacking left them covered in powdered sugar. Your attempt at serious political engagements turned into a place setting. 

Wonwoo focused back on one of the paintings across the room. It wasn’t his concern and yet, despite everything, he’d begun to consider you a friend, or at the very least an acquaintance; someone he felt familiar enough with to feel annoyed on their behalf. But Wonwoo didn’t need much familiarity for the way these men talked down and disregarded your words to leave ash in his mouth.

“I’m allergic to ice lilies,” Gyan said pensively.

You blinked. “How unfortunate. Again, these trade—”

“If your husband did not like something you preferred, what would you do?”

“Not marry a man allergic to my favorite flower.” You stiffened, realizing the error of your ways. Then you dipped your chin and whispered. “However, a man that helps my country would be far more valuable as a husband than a man who can tolerate my…floral preference. Would you agree?”

Admiral Gyan studied for a long moment before speaking again.

The ink of the new agreements dried by that afternoon.

A long day of discussions left you irritable. It would have been different if any of the lordlings you met argued their terms on tariffs and trade, or introduced their own nation’s concerns. But no. They’d rather interrogate you on asinine details like your favorite teas and opinions on Earth Kingdom literature. 

Perhaps that would be important after you officially took suitors into consideration but presently, they were invited with the intent of international diplomatic cooperation. Not eat all your food and ruin court records.

Dinner continued in the same fashion as the night before: too little eating and too much chatter. And since you couldn’t get away with bowing out early again, you were forced to remain through the entire ordeal. You managed a few bites between their lengthy monologues but after the meal you left with a grumbling stomach and a thunderous headache.

Back in your apartments, you fell into deep thought while Han and Sami flurried around as they pulled away your outer layers and plucked out the jewels in your hair. 

“Any interesting developments today? Men declaring their undying devotion?” Han asked as she untied your slippers.

“Prince Bravruq promised he would perform some water tribe dance tomorrow night…shirtless.” You smiled at Sami’s reddening face. “But other than that, thankfully, no.”

“Not even our favorite broody guard?”

“For the last time, Wonwoo is simply doing his duty. He does not have…feelings.”

“I don’t know,” Sami sang. “He seemed upset when we asked him about all your new suitors last night. And after the council meeting? He is rather handsome when he’s all roughed up.”

“I think he’s handsome all the time,” Han said.

“Even if he did like me, nothing could come of it,” you reminded yourself. 

“How many stories do you know where a princess falls in love with a commoner and they live happily ever after?”

“And how many do the princess and commoner lose their heads?”

“You’re always so serious. It’s not good for your complexion.”

“Well why didn’t you say that earlier?” you gasped. “There is nothing between Wonwoo and I. We are… friends. Maybe. But that's it.”

Sensing the end of the conversation, they drew your bath before you waved a dismissive hand. 

The hot water soothed away your anger from the day, softening the tense muscles of your shoulders and back. Your eyes slipped shut as you sunk further into the tub, head resting back on the rim of the tub. Events of the day replayed, your mind sorting successes and failures, what agreements remained unsigned and how to do so. And then there was the matter of courting. Your intent to marry was barely a whispered rumor amongst staff and yet these men tripped over themselves like bumbling idiots.

But you no longer wished to think of business and wedding bells. You’d rather indulge in more relaxing imaginations.

At first there was nothing at all, just the lap of hot water at your throat sending prickles along your flesh. The water was adorned with different oils and soaps and felt like liquid silk. It allowed your hands to glide without friction, teasing drags of fingers against your sides until your nipples tightened. You remembered what it was like when Wonwoo touched them, first his hands, then his mouth, then the satisfying sting of his teeth. The times you tried to imitate those sensations only left you wanting.

Memories of the encounters had brought little satisfaction. Recalling how it felt was nowhere near as good as it actually had been, never brought the same pleasurable ending. And yet you tortured yourself with trying.

He really was handsome. Not just in the narrow cut of his uniform that clung to his shoulders, or when he removed his outer layers to reveal what hid beneath. He was most handsome when he didn’t realize you were looking. When whatever lordling tried to win your favor with overzealous compliments, Wonwoo couldn’t help rolling his eyes and biting back a laugh.

Or when his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked through a particularly challenging form, muscles flexing and bunching; sweat gleaming off his skin, sticking his hair down. 

Your hand ventured lower, a tease between your thighs, fingers soft against your clit just how he touched you. The bathroom is quiet sans your breath; miniscule sighs breaking through your lips as candles flickered around the room. It’d do nothing to think about the field but maybe what you needed was a new fantasy.

With firmer pressure, you imagined Wonwoo walking in, finding you touching yourself and offering to help; taking advantage of the slick glide between your legs, filling that horrible emptiness with the warmth of his hand. The tub was large enough for him to join. You could plant in his lap and ride his fingers like last time or, he could sit behind you, the heat of his chest firm against your back as he left those maddening kisses against your neck again. 

You slipped a finger in, the tight squeeze nothing next to the desperation for more. The water muffled the sound of depravity as you fucked yourself timidly, only gentle splashes betraying movement and mute whines. Your chin tipped back as your hips rose in search of more. Rocking into the heel of your hand, you bit back a moan. The Wonwoo of your fantasy dragged you out of the tub and into bed, spread you beneath him to use his mouth against your core; kissing and sucking the same place you desperately touched. He teased how badly you needed him, eyes trained on your reactions from between your legs.

“Oh!” you exclaimed. Your muscles twitched again, clenching around your fingers, pretending they were his until your back arched and then—

The walls of the tub proved far too slippery as you thrashed into an orgasm, sinking beneath the surface unexpectedly.

You gasped for breath once surfacing again, flailing and splashing water onto the floor loudly. The bath had run cold in your mentally wandering and jolted you back to your senses. The delirious lull in your muscles fled as you kicked off from the bottom of the pool sized tub and back to your perch. 

Wonwoo chose that moment to barge in. 

He slammed the door open, rushing in and eyes scanning the room. “Is everything okay? I heard—”

“I’m fine!” you shouted, face heating as your voice bounced around the room. “I slipped.”

Wonwoo looked like he didn’t believe it. A waterbender having trouble in the bath? Unlikely. But he accepted it without question and straightened before asking, “Where are Han and Sami?”

Whatever warmth and longing rooted in your chest moments ago fizzled at his question. “Do you think I’m incapable of bathing on my own?”

“No, I…”

At that moment, Wonwoo recognized your state, eyes tracing the slope of your neck down, down, down until the surface of the water obstructed his view. The bubbles from earlier had fizzled to nothing, fine as sea foam and scattered like wispy clouds. If he stepped closer then everything would be visible. You were torn between sinking deeper and rising up, revealing your bare chest for his gaze. What would he do?

There was no one to interrupt, servants gone and the day done until sunrise. Wonwoo could touch you. You’d let him for as long as he liked, as many times as it took for that terrible clawing, demanding need to cease. You could drag him into the water and make every horrible dream and intoxicating fantasy plaguing you for weeks a reality.

But Wonwoo did nothing, simply stood there blankly, eyes trained on your throat. The warm light from dozens of candles danced over his face, flickering wildly but not revealing what was brewing beneath the surface of his glazed stare. You had an idea from the way his breath became labored and his fingers flexed but he didn’t move a muscle.

And then he promptly turned on his heel and strode back towards the door. 

“Wait,” you called, startled by your own voice. What were you doing? “Can you warm this for me?”

Wonwoo stopped immediately. You watched his shoulders tense, slowly rising to his reddening ears before he responded, “Your bath?”

The candles around the room grew for a moment. But he didn’t turn around, instead he looked over his shoulder and pinned you with an expectant look. You began to speak, a dismissal at the tip of your tongue, but ultimately nodded. Silently, he approached, eyes glued to your face. A jolt of heat cracked through your veins. Ears ringing, your breath grew stunted with every step that brought him closer. 

Wonwoo loomed over you, shrugging off his uniform jacket, still maintaining eye contact as each button loosed beneath his fingers. Your own twitched in response, aching to return between your legs for him to watch. He pushed the sleeves of his undershirt up to his elbows. He only broke eye contact to perch at the edge of the tub, back facing you. His hand sunk just past his wrist beneath the surface of the water. He grazed your knee and jerked away with a splash. You bit your tongue to stop from pushing your knee against him again.

His hand bunched into a fist, heat blooming through the water until steam rose from its surface. The contrast of his skin next to your beneath the water made your mouth water as he forced out more heat. 

As his hand rose once again, rivulets clinged to sinew and ligaments in his arm. You remembered how he looked in that field, soaked to the bone in the moonlight. The cling of his pants revealing the muscles below. Every ripple of those muscles when he moved, when he rolled into your grip on his cock.

“And this.” You nudged his hand with your wash rag, swallowing thickly when he accepted it. Again, Wownoo refused to look as his fingers flexed around the fabric, veins rising from the force of his grip, more of those tempting drops of water clinging to his skin. The strangest urge to suck them from his fingers rooted in your head. Steam rose from the cloth and he passed it back, hot and dripping.

“Anything else?” His hand remained floating between you. How badly you wanted to slide your fingers between his and tug until he found the arousal between your legs.

Now reach back into this tub and warm me, you thought.

“That–” you stuttered. “That's all. Thank you.”

Wonwoo left and the candles returned to their dim flutter.

After scrubbing your skin raw, you exited the bath. Despite your earlier fatigue, you knew there was no point in trying to sleep now. You’d only lay awake, tempted by the idea of sneaking down the hall to Wonwoo’s room and making your imaginations reality. There was no point sitting in your room, tossing and turning and itching and pining for something else. You could have slipped out your window and hid in the gardens, burn the restlessness in the training pavilion until exhaustion took over. 

But Wonwoo would find you. You knew he would; he managed to do so repeatedly. When you refused to retire for the evening he would offer to train with you. And then it was back to square one, the same tension from the close quarters of the bathroom, except with the bloodrush of bending and memories of the last time you both fought beneath the moonlight. 

The thick stack of papers balanced on your bed table; treaties and amendments forged during the day, signed in your own blood, sweat, and tears. Additionally reports from different advisors shuffled through the stack. If you couldn’t sleep then getting work done for tomorrow was the only solution. 

In the dining room, you rung a servant to bring leftovers from dinner you never ate. They returned with a spread of stuffed cabbage rolls, salted meats, and other dishes. Far more piled on the table than you could ever hope to eat, despite your ravenous appetite. Without the pretense of formal dining, you nibbled and read a new batch of reports from Lord Gilen about the Lower Block hospital you’d invested in since the spring. The numbers provided little distraction as you heard Wonwoo move around the apartment like a ghost.

“Sorry, I thought you’d be asleep.”

“Can’t.” You flashed the papers in his direction and went back to reading. You couldn’t look at him. Not sitting there in a robe and nightgown, skin still warm from the bath. He could part it easily, reach inside and—

He remained in the doorway, gaze like a heavy weight on your shoulders. 

“Eat. It’ll go to waste if you don’t.”

Wonwoo hesitated but then shuffled forward and took a seat at the opposite end before piling a plate with food. Still, your eyes remained glued to another row of swirled ink that turned illegible to your distracted mind as he slurped and grunted. More horribly tempting thoughts seeded as he continued.

Appetite vanishing with your sanity, you focused on carefully sipping your cold tea and read on. Lord Gilen’s missive was long and detailed and a perfectly appropriate distraction from the fact Wonwoo hadn’t put his jacket back on. 

“What are you reading?” Wonwoo asked.

“Reports for a hospital in the Lower Block I’ve been funding. Lord Gilen has been handling it for me.”

You continued reading. The lapse in judgment in the bathroom was just that, a mistake. You were a princess and needed to act like one; not some bumbling infatuated maiden. 

Still, you wanted to snag the pitcher from the table and hurl it at the wall.

“A hospital in the Lower Block? Yeah, sure,” he snorted. 

Your head snapped up. “I have the documents right here.”

“I’m telling you, there is no hospital in the Lower Block.”

“Look for yourself.”

Wonwoo scanned the pages, brows furrowed. A bit of sugar from the coconut puffs clung to his lip. You wanted to lick it off.

“I walked this street every time I went from the barracks to the warehouse. Unless he somehow demolished a condemned burnt out building and built a brand new one in its place in the time I’ve been here, then it doesn’t exist.”

The poise you’d painstakingly clung to since exiting the bath dissolved. If what Wonwoo said was true then Gilen was a liar. If the hospital didn’t exist then over twenty thousand gold marks were unaccounted for; twenty thousand gold marks vanished into nothing, and Lord Gilen was to blame. Lord Gilen who’d been in court since you were a baby, a favorite advisor of your grandmother’s, a close confidant. It was impossible.

Stacks of falsified documents with forged signatures, counterfeit invoices for materials to rebuild and train healers. Sketches and blueprints of the building. Patient records for people who didn’t exist. If Gilen was embezzling the money there was a paper trail of his misdeeds a mile long. 

But he had encouraged your investments; presented multiple projects of his own design, touting the needs of the people with zeal. Managed the entire process with assiduity and constant progress reports down to the last detail. Gilen wouldn’t conspire a tangled plot like this. It only took a gentle tug at a loose end and the entire tapestry of his scheming unraveled.

And yet, Wonwoo never provided a reason not to trust him.

Whatever simpering girl you’d been in the bathroom holed up behind a hard mask of anger. “Show me.”

“What?”

Brushing the papers aside, you rose. “I’m going to the Lower Block and you’re going to show me.”

You didn’t wait for him to follow, blinded by rage. The rest of the apartment was empty of servants as you paced the seating area. 

You ripped the overstuffed couches to shreds.

You screamed until your throat bled.

You stood in frozen silence and did nothing but stare blankly ahead.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“If you think I’m going to sneak you out of the palace you’re out of your mind.” Wonwoo said as he entered the room.

You turned towards him and stared for a moment. “Then I’ll go by myself.”

“You’re not going to the city this late at night, it’s at least—”

You rounded on him, until you were toe to toe with a finger digging into his chest. “You do not tell me what to do. I’m the princess and you are my glorified nanny.”

Wonwoo glared down at your hand twisted in his shirt. You began to withdraw it, realizing your mistake, but he snatched it with a firm grip and kept it between your bodies and met your gaze.

“I’m not one of your little lordlings you can push around and make agree just because you bat your eyes. Go to the city, and I will walk out that door and tell everyone.”

It wasn’t fitting for a woman of your age and rank to stomp and huff like a begrudged child but you did it anyway.

“Why don’t you just chain me to the bed and leave me until morning!” you sneered but faltered at the spark in his gaze.

“If you give me no other choice, I will.”

Yanking your hand back, you retreated to your room. “You are so infuriating!”

Wonwoo didn’t know how you got into the city. He didn’t know the passage in your office or the labyrinth beneath the gardens that lead outside the palace walls. Sneaking out your window was less convenient but no one knew the gardens better than you. If he chased, you’d lose him and he could only reveal your location by admitting he failed his one job. 

You blew out the candles and sat in the dark for a long moment as the moon rose outside your window. Shedding your robe and nightgown, you donned the servants clothes and cloak you stole long ago then stuffed the robe and some pillows beneath the covers in the shape of a body. 

Careful of the squeaky hinges, you cracked the window open slowly with baited breath. 

“Going somewhere?” Wonwoo asked from the doorway.

You stiffened. “If you must know, I was feeling a bit stifled and thought a breeze would be nice.”

“And the breeze gave you a chill so you got dressed?”

“Is that so difficult to believe?”

He entered your room and dragged the covers back with a quirked brow as if to say ‘Do you think I’m that dumb?’

“If you recall, I’ve done this countless times without you and never been caught.”

“There's a line between bravery and stupidity.”

“Are you calling me stupid?” you gasped, even in the dark you could see the exhaustion on his face.

“I’m calling you heedless. You can’t just run down to the Lower Block on a whim. It’s dangerous,” Wonwoo said, voice thin. “Where Galin says the hospital is is no place for—”

“For a princess?”

“For anyone to go alone. I wouldn’t go there alone because I know what happens on those streets. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into and you don’t care.”

In your haste safety seemed like a minor concern. You held your own enough times and this would be no different. Wonwoo didn’t seem to understand this wasn’t a matter of pride, it was principal. You weren’t a puppet that nobles could tug at your strings however they pleased. And if Galin, trusted and venerated Galin, was playing you a fool then there was no telling what the other, less favored, nobles did in the dark. 

Treachery was an infection in the open wound of your trust and you needed to amputate the limb before it could spread. But not without proof.

“I am being made a fool of by my own councilman,” you started. “He is stealing from me and thinks he can get away with it, that I would have no way of knowing because I’m kept under lock and key here. I need to see it with my own eyes. You do not have to come with me but you cannot honestly expect me to stay here."

Wonwoo watched for a long moment then stormed out of the room without response. You feared he ran to tell someone of your plan and raced to open the window.

“If we get caught I swear—”

You whipped around at the sound of his voice. Wonwoo strode in dressed in casual clothes similar to yours; trousers and a long sleeved tunic, a hood to conceal his face. 

“You’re coming with me?”

“Of course I’m coming with you. Knowing you, you’ll blast some poor drunk with a canon unprovoked and we both know how that turned out. Let's go.”

You silently led Wonwoo through a secret door in your private office, down, down, down until the walls transformed from the stone of the palace to dirt with wooden slats supporting the structure. There were no lanterns so he kept a small flame alive in his palm. He tried to keep his bearings through each twist and turn but soon failed. He figured the walk had been long enough to be far outside the palace grounds but each switch back left him more unsure.

Suddenly, the dirt floor turned into cobblestone and the walls followed soon after and then an iron ladder leading up appeared from nowhere. 

“This lets out beneath the crystal elephant statue in Emerald Park,” you said before climbing.

Wonwoo walked the perimeter of Emerald Park hundreds of times; circled the statue dozens of times and never realized there was a secret passage in all this time. He knew there were secrets the Nobles Quarter kept from him but not a path into the palace right under his nose.

The park was empty. Fountains bubbled and frogs croaked, the low light of gas street lamps providing enough cover to reach the southern exit towards the Middle District gates.

The shuffle of feet alerted him to a patrol up ahead. It was only another block to the gates leading into the Middle District and yet, he found himself having to crouch in an alley while a few guards walked past. You hid somewhere behind him. Truly, it was the last place he wanted to be with you after the incident in the bath.

He should have said no; refused to come anywhere near you while you were undressed. But he couldn’t help it. It was as if you were a siren singing straight to his blood. When you asked him to come closer, he tried not to look beneath the surface of the water but it was in vain. Even in his peripheral he saw the slope of your breasts, the pinch of your nipples. It hadn’t been better to look at your face. Your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks, bitten lips. Just like the night in the field.

It took all his willpower not to drag you from the tub, spread you on the bed, and taste you until all he heard were hoarse cries of his name; begging, praising, even a reprimand. He wanted them all and he half expected you to ask for them when he took his coat off; prepared to unbutton his trousers as well. A single glance would have told you everything, the tightness of his pants unbearable. But you asked him to heat your water and your rag and then dismissed him without another word. 

When he heard you pattering about the dining room, he planned to ask just what game you were playing but you pretended nothing happened. 

Now, he was hidden in the shadows of an alley with you less than a foot away and rather than worry about guards catching him, all Wonwoo’s thoughts were captured by images of you pressed between his body and the wall.

The patrol passed by without suspicion. Wonwoo signaled you to follow once again. The sooner you saw the imaginary hospital in the Lower Block, the sooner he’d be free to lock himself away until sunrise. 

As the gates came into view, you tugged Wonwoo’s sleeve and directed him off the main road, through narrow side streets and more alleys until the stone wall separating the Nobles Quarter and the Middle District came into view. Here, there were no guards and Wonwoo didn’t remember ever circling this area during his years of patrols. Another secret.

The wall was a foot taller than him so he hoisted you up before following. Restaurants and shops backed up to the wall on the Middle District side. This late, few were open, most windows and open doors framed employees sweeping or cleaning up the last bits of mess. None looked up from their work as you both snuck past.

Wonwoo’s feet pounded against the cobblestone as he darted down the street, you behind him, footsteps echoing loudly. Physical exhaustion felt good. His lungs burned and muscles strained but it gave him something to think about other than the heat of your chest against his body when dipping into an alcove to hide from a passing group. Most of the streets this far out were still crowded with late night partiers.

“Take off your hood,” he commanded, removing his own.

“Why?”

“Because we look like thieves. No one will recognize you out here and it’ll be easier to get through.”

Your hood came off, and Wonwoo was struck by how similar you looked to the night at the market. Hair fluffed around your face, the sheen of perspiration for the balmy night. He wanted to kiss you.

He stepped out from hiding and started down the street. 

“I’ve never been this way before,” you shared. The crowd grew thicker and forced you to remain tight to his side or risk drifting away. 

“You have. Down that street,” he gestured, “are the Red Lanterns.”

In all fairness, Wonwoo wouldn’t have known about the seedy avenue unless he stumbled on it as a teenager. It was the first time he saw…many things and he’d avoided it ever since. They were not memories he ever thought of voluntarily. 

The crowd flowed further away from the palace, until the stacked buildings of Merchant’s Row transformed into warehouses and empty lots. The people changed too. No longer did couples of all ages and children flitter about, gone were poets and musicians and artists busking on the corners. The only light came from the waxing moon and windows, not the gas street lamps up the block.

The Lower Block was a slum.

Wonwoo kept walking as you looked  around as if the street was a zoo full of exotics; eyes wide and shining in the light like coins. The streets used to be pristine, organized chaos at all hours. Guards, manufacturers, and merchants would weave between the buildings like armies of ants, raw materials pouring in from carts and goods immediately replacing them for transport. The Lower Block used to be pristine.

Now, old men crouched around overturned crates as they played cards and drank from green glass bottles; wiry kids chased stray dogs across the poorly paved street; vendors hawked fruits and vegetables more rotten than fresh, cloying the air with sickening sweetness. Uneven cobblestones hosted potholes large enough to bath in when it rained.

Luckily, no one paid much attention to a couple stumbling about like drunkards, they were all too absorbed in themselves. However, one glance and the entire charade would unravel. Your posture was straight as a razor edge, chin tipped back; as if you owned the world. You did, Wonwoo guessed. Everything – from the smallest pebble to the gigantic steamers in the western harbor – was yours. 

Wine houses lined the street, dirty alleys wedge between. Wonwoo knew the wine houses well enough; where other fighters from the warehouse went after matches to find another conquest for the night or drink themselves numb. He’d done both enough times to fear being recognized.

“Come here,” he commanded. You gave in easily when he hid his face in the curve of your neck. The scent of wildflowers and soap tickled his senses, and Wonwoo barely contained himself from pressing his nose more firmly beneath your jaw.

“What are you doing?” you murmured but didn’t push him away.

“Hiding.”

“What for?”

“Not all of us have the benefit of being anonymous.”

“You’ve been to these places?” you said. Wonwoo followed your gaze to a brothel, scantily clad women and men lounging around the wide porches, attempting to lure passersby. 

He didn’t answer.

“Is that why you said I’d be a bad prostitute? Speaking from experience?”

“I never paid anyone,” he argued.

“It’s okay if you did,” you laughed. “Not everyone can be so lucky with women.”

Even through his frustration, Wonwoo wanted to bottle the sound of your laughter; taste it on his tongue, feel it against his lips. He wanted to push you back into the darkness of the alleyway and remind you just how lucky he’d been not so long ago. He wanted to rip his hair out because agreeing to spend more time with you tonight was a horrible idea. 

At the next intersection, Wonwoo turned you down a narrow street. The lively crowd’s absence left a hollow silence. A handful of people milled about, shifting through the shadows like sharks. The warehouse Lord Gilen posed as a hospital stood halfway down the block. Covered in rotten boards and rusted chains, there was no trace that anyone had been near it in years. 

You pulled away from Wonwoo as you approached the ransacked building. “You’re sure this is it?”

“Even if I wasn’t, do any buildings here look like a hospital to you?”

Your fist clenched and he stepped back slightly. Wonwoo expected tangible anger like in the training pavilion; icicles the size of a human, a flood pulled from the humid air of the night. But you stood silently, unmoving. If your anger in the pavilion was a storm, Wonwoo felt as if he was in the eye of a hurricane. 

Hurricanes always brought wreckage.

You drew some water from a pouch at your hip, weaving it into the lock before it cracked and the chains slouched. Wonwoo didn’t wait for an invitation to follow you inside. 

There was no light inside, the windows were caked in thick dust. He lit a flame in his hand but there wasn’t much to see. An empty warehouse full of garbage: broken machines, rotten newspapers, broken crates. Something rustled beneath a heap in the corner. A fat elephant rat scurried out and darted out of sight.

Again, you stood still like a statue, soaking in the realities. Silence spread into the warehouse like an ink stain.

“Let's go.”

The walk back to the palace was in thick silence; not the silence of before when Wonwoo couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss you or turn around and renounce his assignment for the sake of his sanity. It was the unnerving silence just before something went horribly wrong. 

You kept ahead, shoulders square, head high. It wasn’t the performance you gave nobles, or the wildness from when bent your element. This was a new mask Wonwoo couldn’t decipher. 

In your apartment, you walked straight to your room and Wonwoo watched as the door shut with a quiet click.

Wonwoo woke covered in sweat. Even hidden behind a curtain of dark clouds he could feel the sun just peaking above the horizon. 

He wasn’t sure what the day held but he showered and put on his uniform like every other morning. When he exited his room, maids and footmen fluttered about like every other morning, you at the center of the storm. You acted the same as every other morning as well, sipping your tea and scanning a stack of documents.

Wonwoo hovered in the hall entrance, unsure of what to do. The anger charged atmosphere of last night vanished from the sitting room though that might be due to the presence of others than anything else. Displays of emotion were reserved for private, when no one but Wonwoo paid witness. Your face was impassive in the early dawn light, completely unperturbed. Unlike other mornings, he noticed the usual jewels pinned in your hair and clinging to your throat were absent. Only a pale ribbon tied around your neck. Your dress was a modest lavender, no flashy embroidery or outlandish cuts; but it was more to do with the woman wearing it than the dress itself. He didn’t know when he started paying attention to such things. But the first lesson you taught him was looks can be deceiving and you would bank on that fact.

“Stop hiding in the shadows like a ghost, it's off putting,” Sami said as she strode by him.

“I’m not hiding,” Wonwoo argued. If he was hiding it was for good reason; a man never knew he stepped foot into a riptide until it was too late.

“Like a little boy afraid Koh is hiding under his bed,” she teased.

“Leave him alone, Sami,” you called from the table. 

Sami turned and stuck her tongue out at him. This must be what it was like to have sisters.

“Everything in the Solarium is set and this,” Sami placed an envelope on the table in front of you. “Han is making copies of the records now.”

“After she’s done, Mingyu is to escort her to the archives after the meeting. Make sure people see them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Finally, you looked at Wonwoo. “Let’s go.”

You glided through the palace hallways, greeting everyone who crossed your path. Again, just like every other day. The longer you pretended last night didn’t bother you the more unnerved he became.

He’d never been in the Solarium and wouldn’t soon return back if it could be helped. It was a spectacular enclosed glass structure on a terrace overhanging the gardens. That was not the problem. The Solarium was a greenhouse turned into a meeting room with a low table in the center surrounded by cushions, with a tier of teacakes and pitchers precariously placed. Gigantic plants with leaves the size of dinner plates crowded so thickly around the walls it was like entering a forest. Blossoms in shades of red and blue and white and yellow peppered throughout, their floral scent thickening the air like a putrid perfume. There was no wind to move the smell, it stagnated in the humidity as fountains bubbled cheerfully in the background.

“What are we doing here?”

You ignored the question. “Can you firebend in here?”

Wonwoo conjured a small flame in his palm but with the abundance of moisture it swiftly began to choke and flicker. “You came to a greenhouse for what exactly?”

You started to answer but a knock at the door interrupted.

As the footman entered to announce Lord Galin’s arrival, Wonwoo moved towards the wall next to the door; his station where he oversaw your meetings time and time again. Best to play his part even if you refused to share the script you were operating from.

“Lord Galin,” you smiled in greeting. Every inch of you reverted back into the meekness Wonwoo witnessed that first day in the barracks. A delicate flower, so beautiful you forgot it’s filled with poison.

“Your Highness,” the old man bowed deeply. “You look more radiant than the last time I saw you.”

“I apologize we couldn’t meet in the Azure Chamber. It flooded sometime last night.”

Whatever happened in the chamber last night, Wonwoo figured you fashioned it somehow.

“No apologies necessary, the Solarium is just as magnificent though it is quite humid here.”

“I forget not everyone is as unbothered by it as I am.” You led Galin to the table, taking the far seat so you faced Wonwoo. He kept his gaze trained on the back of Galin’s head.

“Let us eat first and then we shall talk business, yes?” You sat and plucked a slice of pear from a serving plate. “How are your grandsons?”

“Citree just began his tutoring. He’s a very gifted firebender.”

You glanced at Wonwoo over the man's shoulder. “Like his grandfather.”

The puzzle pieces clicked into place in Wonwoo’s head. This was where you’d confront Galin, it’s why you chose a room so humid no flame could survive or thrive in its cradle. You wanted to ensure if Galin thought to retaliate, he’d have no ability to do so. Wonwoo rested a hand on the pommel of the blade at his hip and titled his chin in understanding.

“You flatter me, Your Highness,” Galin hummed.

You continued to chatter about all matters; Galin’s other committees, his wife’s health, the plum orchard on his property in the East. The man talked about himself too eagerly; bumbling through long anecdotes that made Wonwoo’s eyes glaze but you kept a warm smile on your face the entire time. 

A knock interrupted and Sami entered with a new plate of desserts and a wink at Wonwoo. 

“Your Highness, Your Grace,” she bowed and placed the treats in the center of the table. Wonwoo noticed she slipped something from her pocket into your hand.

But Galin didn’t seem to notice, too entranced by the pastries placed before him. “You remembered my favorite!”

“Of course, my Lord. My cook was worried they wouldn’t come out in time but it seems she is a miracle worker.”

You did not eat and Wonwoo wondered if you had them poisoned. 

“Fickle thing, star lace. You can spend all the time and money on the best ingredients, preparing them just right, but if the cook isn’t careful to see the process through then the entire thing is for naught. And then, you have hungry people who are only able to eat their disappointment.”

Wonwoo couldn’t see Galin’s face but his body tensed. He wasn’t sure what new role he was playing in your game. Not a chaperone and certainly not a protector. A witness? An insurance policy? 

You continued, “And if those people were royals, princesses perhaps with the ability to make assassinations look like accidents, well it wouldn’t be very wise of a cook to disappoint her, would it?”

“I have no idea—“

“I’ve heard recent reports of wildfires in the northern provinces. Uncommon but not exactly rare I suppose. How unfortunate would it be for one of those fires to consume the temple Citree is studying at?”

Despite sitting, it was as if you grew an inch taller with each word. Staring down your nose at Galin, Wonwoo wondered how anyone doubted that you were born to rule.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Lord Galin,” you cooed. “I’m only speaking in hypotheticals. However, I suppose that if someone decided to steal twenty thousand gold marks from the crown and leave a trail of evidence, then I’d be left with few options. Strip him of his title, take everything he values…really the possibilities are only as limited as my imagination.”

“What do you want?”

“Forty thousand gold marks and the names of any other nobles who have been cheating the crown.“

“Fort—forty thousand?” he sputtered. “I haven’t got forty thousand gold marks.”

“How unfortunate. You know what I’ve got? A condemned building in the Lower Block and months of documents pretending it’s not. So find forty thousand gold marks by tomorrow evening or you will find yourself mourning your grandsons by the next day.”

So this was diplomacy. Wonwoo’s skin prickled at the realization. It was as if he was witnessing a tsunami preparing to crash into land, taking everything and leaving nothing behind in its wake. Unforgiving. Ruthless. Brutal. Wonwoo softened towards Lord Galin but swiftly remembered the only reason the noble became the target of your rage were his own deeds. Galin was a thief and a liar. This was justice.

“You haven’t told Her Majesty about my deeds, have you?”

“No. I am offering you my mercy but if you prefer to beg for hers then so be it.”

“Fine, but I have no names. I don’t know the other ministers’ deeds.”

Wonwoo doubted that. Where one went, the rest followed. How many other projects were nothing more than shams to line their own pockets?

“Forty thousand gold marks returned to my coffers and a list of names with proof of crimes. Or is there a price too high for your family’s safety?”

Galin tensed, hands flexing at his sides. You warned him Galin was a firebender and Wonwoo recognized the signs of his element. He stepped forward to intervene but found your eyes over the old man's shoulders, a single look and he knew you didn’t need his help. The temperature in the room dropped until his breath puffed in a foggy cloud. Wonwoo didn’t need to see the tea cups to know they were frozen too; the glass walls and ceilings frosted despite the harsh sun beating down outside. The fountains silenced, and the plants twisted like snakes poised to strike. Wonwoo had been terrified of you before, but now he found himself too impressed to think beyond the fact you could send an ice blade through Galin’s throat before either of them realized what happened.

“You will sign these confessions,” you said, passing over the papers Sami slipped you earlier. “In the case you do what is required, then no one will ever discover them. But if you don’t…then I’m sorry for your loss.”

The plants relaxed and the fountains began bubbling enthusiastically once more. Frost receded, and you sat primly, plucking a fig from the tray of fruits as if you were discussing the weather. You wore as many masks as Wonwoo had teeth and the ever shuffling nature unnerved him.

Lord Galin glowered, “I was unaware royalty resorted to blackmail these days.”

“I won’t fault you for it, you don’t seem to be aware of much these days but I’m honored to bring you up to speed.”

After signing the confessions and sealing them, you dismissed Galin, face smooth, the wave threatening to destroy everything in its path receding beneath the surface without a ripple. As if it never existed to begin with.

Galin rose to his feet, wrinkled face red as rose petals, ink staining his fingers. His mouth opened to say more but shut when you raised a brow in question. Wonwoo became a new victim to his indignation.

“Filth!” Galin spat, chest puffed. “Get out of my way!”

You didn’t rise from your seat, or shout, or freeze the air again. Your voice was unnervingly calm, gaze as cold as ice. “Lord Galin.”

“Yes, Your Highness?” he bit without turning back.

To Wonwoo’s horror, your fingers bent at a rigid angle and Galin jerked to face you like a grotesque puppet.

Bloodbending.

It didn’t matter if Galin could bend or even if he had a knife hidden in his pocket. A flick of your wrist turned him into a living marionette, doomed to do whatever crossed your mind.

Wonwoo’s stomach sank. 

One hand held steady and you poured yourself a cup of tea with the other, spoon scraping the bottom of the porcelain cup when you added sugar. “I’ve heard the strangest tales of people drowning on dry land in the Umber Islands. It might do well to warn your daughters of such a phenomenon. They’ll be celebrating the festival there this year, won't they? I’d hate for anything unfortunate to happen to them.”

Galin’s eyes widened with horror and Wonwoo knew his face must have looked the same but you remained unaffected; sipping from your cup. 

“Thank you for sharing, Your Highness.”

“You may go,” you said, hand dropping to snag one of the pastries and pop it in your mouth with a pleased hum.

Galin scurried from the chamber and Wonwoo nearly followed. 

Wonwoo realized, among a great many things, that your threat to Galin is on his behalf; you’d go to the same lengths to get your money back as you would to settle an insult against him. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it’s a drop in the bucket of your ire at the noble, at everyone, at circumstance. Maybe you’d been looking for an excuse to put Galin in his place, flex your power over him completely. 

Wonwoo didn’t need anger on his behalf.

But he also realized he’d like if you were.

In the garden, the scent of honey suckles and damp earth perfumed the air. The clipped bushes and hedges stood proud, like rows of miniature soldiers as they carved a maze towards the ornamental pond bustling with turtleducks. You sat in silence with Wonwoo, pretending to read a novel by a new poet while he actually read his own. It felt odd to have him stand at attention while you relaxed, same as when Han or Sami or Mingyu hung around waiting for some task to do when all you craved was company; more friend than servant but Wonwoo felt more something than friend.

You weren’t sure what he’d think of the ruthlessness you wielded in the Solarium, and a part of you wilted at the idea that you cared so much for his opinion. It’s what had to be done. 

It didn’t stop the sick satisfaction knowing Galin wet himself when you yanked him around by his veins.

Han and Mingyu ensured Galin’s footman witnessed them delivering the fake confession envelopes to the archives while Sami hid the real ones throughout the palace. When Galin visited the archives that night hoping to destroy evidence against, he’d realize the fool he thought you to be was a grave miscalculation. And when he sent a messenger to ensure his grandsons’ safety, you had a spy set to follow; same with his daughters. He’d play right into your web just as you had his but this time you’d win; it was up to Galin to define what that meant.

Wonwoo had not spoken to you since leaving the Solarium and you wondered if it had been worth it. You felt like a child playing pretend; the first trial of being queen, what it would take to keep the nobles in line. You could have turned over his confession to your grandmother and been done with the entire ordeal but you wanted to beat Galin on your own; needed to outmaneuver him without her help.

Only time would tell if you had.

Now, you sat in the gardens and tried to carry on as normal as if you didn’t owe this success to your guard. You trusted him. Not just to protect you if someone should attack, Wonwoo would do that for anyone. You were sure of it. Even with Sami and Han’s constant teasing he would protect them if needed. But it was beyond expecting him to do his duty. He gave you proof, put himself at risk of getting into trouble if you were caught together. He helped you in a way no one else ever could.

You’d have to find a way to thank him later, when the rush of the day wore off and you didn’t replay the hundreds of things you could have done differently.

You knew he wouldn’t appreciate the money from Lord Galin, he’d insist it went back to the people. He liked to read, you knew that much. Maybe a book? But that didn’t feel grand enough to convey the level of your gratitude. Recommend him to Aiko for a promotion? You’d have to ask him.

There were other things you could do for him. Indulge in the urges that plagued you since you spotted him the first night at the warehouses; let him touch and taste and tease as much as he wanted; finish what started against that wall in the market and rekindled last night. It’d be an entirely inappropriate reward but you wanted him and it was a convenient excuse to let him have you.

Wonwoo interrupted your spiral. “You’d do it, wouldn’t you?”

For a moment you thought he meant the fantasies flashing in your head. Yes. Without question. Wanna run to the gardener's shed right now? But when you looked away from your book and towards his face, something unfamiliar clouded his face. Something like awe and fear and disbelief morphed into one.

He meant Galin.

“Yes.”

“Is it that easy?”

You shut your book with a snap; no point in saving the page, you’d have to start from the beginning anyway. “It's not easy.”

Galin’s daughters had been your playmates as a child, before they married and went with their husbands. You attended Citree’s and his brothers’ first birthdays, sent gifts for the Winter Fete every year. It was not easy but Galin made it necessary. Wonwoo didn’t understand. He never would.

Rising with the intent of excusing yourself to somewhere he couldn’t follow, you found one of your guests approaching.

“Your Highness,” Senator Maoki bowed. “I apologize for interrupting you but I was hoping I may accompany you on a walk through the gardens? I’m told you know them best and I’d be honored with a tour.” 

I would rather hang upside down completely naked and recite my family lineage back fifteen generations. 

Senator Maoki was several inches shorter than you with a boyish face, baby fat firmly in place despite his age. He didn’t look old enough to drink let alone wed, and he wouldn’t; not to you at least. But Maoki could serve a purpose now.

You smoothed a hand down your skirt. “That would be lovely.”

He trailed behind as you swept towards the arch leading back to the palace; a short tour through the more impressive parts of the garden, then you could hide away in your room until night came.

“I’ve been trying to introduce myself but your schedule is so packed, Your Highness,” Maoki huffed.

“Lots to do when running a country.”

“It’ll be grand when you're married,” Maoki said. “then you won't have to worry about such things.”

You stopped abruptly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean to say,” Maoki stammered, “you’ll be busy raising your children so your husband would naturally step in as king.”

“The man I marry would be Prince Consort, not King.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Maoki must have sensed your discontent and scrambled to change the subject. He looked over his shoulder and turned back to say, “Does he follow you everywhere?”

You continued down the pebbled pathway, flowers exploding in the greenery like vibrant fireworks, Maoki and Wonwoo on your heels. “He’s my guard, it’s his duty to protect me.”

“I could protect you, Your Highness.”

You couldn’t protect a block of ice in the South Pole.

Maoki puffed up his chest but looked more like an baby otter penguin than something intimidating. There was a noise behind you that sounded suspiciously like a snort. At least Wonwoo found him entertaining.

“I’m sure you’re very capable,” you dipped your chin to the orange blossoms, their sweet scent offsetting the sour taste of that lie. 

“I’ve never understood women’s affinity for flowers. They’re just silly flowers.”

You drew back to full height, your chin an inch or so higher than the top of Maoki’s hair. “These flowers will become fruit that will feed everyone at the palace. That hardly seems silly to me.”

His eyes rolled. “I guess but not all flowers turn into something useful.”

“So you only see value in things that may be of use to you.”

“No! I mean, yes, but I wouldn’t—”

“Some things’ only use is the comfort they bring by having them near.” Like Wonwoo. The realization jumped at you like a bolt of lightning in broad daylight; you shove it away before thinking too much of it. “Did you not have a favorite toy or blanket as a child?”

“I had a rock.” Maoki declared proudly.

“A…rock?” 

“My favorite rock, come I’ll show you.”

Maoki trudged past, leaving you and Wonwoo alone for a moment. When you look up at him he’s smiling; an amused twist on his lip like he too can’t believe Maoki cuddled with a rock as a child. 

That comfort you described crept up, the warmth in your chest, the knots in your muscles loosening. All by just standing there with him as the birds chirped and the breeze rustled the leaves and swirled the scent of fresh rain and the blooms. You knew the want he brought with him; the urge to touch and be touched, to be pressed into the wall and drag him against you. But this was different. A new urge to stand in silence, knowing Wonwoo stood only a few inches away, and enjoy the gardens in soft silence; share looks you both understood without speaking; laugh at nothing and everything and look to see if he was laughing too. 

“Your Highness?” Maoki called.

“Coming.”

Next to the fountain, Maoki held a stone the size of a fist. “A good rock is a lot like a woman. Some may be unassuming from the outside, but, if you take the time to look at what's within, it can dazzle. Look.” He cracked the stone open and the inside glittered in the afternoon light like a thousand stars captured together.

“That’s beautiful.” If you didn’t have hundreds of things that sparkled then you might have been more sincere in your compliments. You might have bitten your tongue. “Does your rock do anything?”

Maoki frowned. “No, Your Highness. It’s meant to be admired for simply existing, a thing of great beauty and great value that lasts far longer than flowers.”

“But it doesn’t smell as nice as flowers,” you sniffed.

“No, I think flowers might have the advantage there,” he joked back. “Shall we walk some more?”

Walking the gardens is nice even if you’ve traced the same paths so many times there are permanent footsteps to follow. It’s the time of year the grass is as soft as feathers and you wish to toss away your shoes and to feel it beneath your feet; you would if Maoki wasn’t there and it was just Wonwoo.

Another fountain came into view; water trickling down the many tiers in thick sheets to the basin where turtleducks paddled across the surface and fish swam just beneath. Maoki led you around the edge and the turtleducks and fish followed close, expecting the treats you frequently spoiled them with. You focused on ignoring whatever Maoki rambles about, thinking through meetings and to do lists. 

That’s when something crashed into the water behind you.

“Wha—” you gasped. 

Wonwoo sat in the fountain, soaked from head to toe, the fabric of his uniform dark and clinging like a second skin. His eyes blazed, trained on Maoki. “I tripped.”

“You should go change, Captain Jeon. Wouldn’t want you dripping all over the gardens.” Maoki straightened, back rigid as if he was sizing up Wonwoo. A ridiculous sight; like a puppy sizing up a wolf.

The birds no longer sang, and the wind held its breath.

“Are you alright?” you asked, extending a hand.

Wonwoo ignored it, rising to his feet. “I’m fine, Your Highness.” 

The correction is on the tip of your tongue but you bite it back. The last person needing to witness your familiarity with him was Maoki, the horrible gossip. You wanted to laugh; you would have if Wonwoo didn’t look so vicious and Maoki’s face didn’t burn red with fear. 

You tried not to stare as he tugged off his soaked coat, revealing the fabric of his undershirt nearly translucent from the water. Tried as did, you failed spectacularly. What was a woman to do when a man as handsome and defined as Wonwoo stood in front of her practically naked from the waist up? It wasn’t fair to expect anything other than gawking and imaginations.

You could have bent the water from his uniform and left him perfectly dry, continuing your walk with the senator as if nothing happened. You could have turned around and left Wonwoo standing there to dry his uniform with his own body heat. Of the many things you could have done, you decided to leave Maoki to his rocks and give yourself privacy before you scandalized the rose bushes.

“I think I’ll retire with Captain Jeon, I must prepare for tonight's festivities anyway,” you said. 

“But, Your Highness!”

You turned on your heel, a soaking wet bodyguard following behind. What you didn’t see was Maoki and Wonwoo sneering at one another but you guessed as much. You hid your satisfied smile in your sleeve.

Wonwoo soaked in the tub for what felt like hours but knew the sun barely began to set when he returned to his room. You had been whisked into your room by Han and Sami for last minute alterations with the Royal Seamstress and he was clearly not invited by the door slamming in his face. Fair enough, he didn’t need to see you naked. Not after what happened in the bath.

He didn’t have many possessions in his room: a few books, his clothes, a framed picture of his family. It’s why he noticed someone left something on the unused desk in the corner so quickly.

A pristine copy of The Pearls of Drak sat on his desk; not the one ruined by the fountain or more specifically Maiko. The pages were aged and the cover softened, but far nicer than the one Wonwoo owned. 

He brought his books from the barracks with the assumption he’d have a little free time, not realizing he’d need to ration their entertainment. Wonwoo had nothing but time these days. Mornings started late, and you seemed to prefer ending the evening early – at least publicly. He couldn’t sleep well knowing you were just down the hall, or the nights he heard you pacing in the sitting room.

There was another book beneath it. Poems of Stars. The title had faded to the point it was nearly illegible, the leather cover worn to the point it thinned around the edge. Many of the pages were nicked or ripped at the corners, and as he flipped through he found stains from tea cups and smudged ink, the spine creased and broken that it laid flat on almost any page.

He never read it before but someone clearly loved it, poured over the text over and over again. As excited as he was about the books, his heart squeezed at the orange blossom, petals dried and browned, pressed between the pages. 

Some things’ only use is the comfort they bring by having them near…

He knew they were both from you. Were these gifts or loans? Wonwoo needed to ask. The poems were well loved and he doubted you part with it but the fact you left it to him at all, even only temporarily, made him flush.

One second you were asking him to heat the bath you sat in, the next threatening nobles on his behalf, and now you gifted him something you held dearly. Wonwoo couldn’t begin to think what any of it meant.

The idea of you in his room made him nervous, seeing the few things that belonged to him in the space that certainly wasn’t his own. What did you think of it? Of him? How little he had in comparison to you? 

Maybe if he had the money to study he’d be at a university and not in the palace; and if he was at university then he’d never be guard, and if he had that kind of money he’d never have stumbled into the warehouse that one night to fight and lose. He’d never have gone back to fight and win. Never would have fought and lost against you, never would have found you again in that field. 

There was no point in obsessing over what ifs or hypotheticals. But if Wonwoo had, then he supposed if none of this happened, he’d never have a book with a silly flower with no use at all other than the comfort that it came from you.

He dressed and left his room, entering the hive of the main apartment buzzing much like the morning. You were tucked away in your room, out of sight but not for long.

You came out in pink silks, so pale they looked white, and the jewels absent from this morning were back in place, woven intricately through your hair.

Wonwoo found comfort in the fact he wasn’t required to speak, he had no idea what would have come out of his mouth if he did. You didn’t seem in the mood to talk either. After this morning he couldn't blame you.

Rows of chairs filled the Grand Room, a makeshift stage at the front for each man to present his talent. Most of the seats were already full but two upfront were left empty for you and the Queen. 

Servants wove through the clusters of nobles and dignitaries with trays of lemonade and wine, others with plates of cookies. 

Wonwoo stationed himself against the wall at the side of the room, a clear view of you and the performances from the shadows. He didn’t want to miss the bumbling fools embarrassing themselves; it was too good an opportunity to pass up. 

It started innocently enough. Lord Char played a ballad on tsungi horn; Admiral Gyan recited a long winded ode from Poems of Laghima and ended up making up the latter half after he clearly forgot the words; Commander Raza’s dramyin performance was loud and off beat, impressive given he performed solo. Maoki turned a rock into a turtleduck figurine which was almost realistic if the turtleduck’s body had been flattened but its head enlarged.

You accepted it with a tight smile and a small dip of your chin. Someone else would have thought it modest but Wonwoo caught the shake in your shoulders, and the clench of your jaw.

More followed with less than impressive routines: hoop rolling, card tricks, and slight of hand that wouldn’t impress a toddler. Polite claps filled the hall after each stint. 

The entire time Wonwoo cut glances at your face, waiting for flashes of amusement or confusion to match his own. Admiral Gyan danced on clunky feet without music and you hid a smile in a glass of wine, a private smile you look at Wonwoo to share and he’s happy for the shadows because he’s gnawing on his lip to keep from reciprocating. Prince Jao sang, loudly and off key, the look that passed between you and Wonwoo nearly ended with you both in tears of laughter.

Then, Prince Bavruq’s turn came around.

Sami would be disappointed to miss the man shirtless, chest obviously oiled. You peaked back at Wonwoo with an arched brow as if to say ‘Seriously?’

Bavruq flexed and stretched through different tumbles, commanding the water from two large barrels rolled in for his performance. Wonwoo watched with admiration. Obviously the man was a skilled bender but he couldn’t help thinking you were better. Bavruq dropped into a low stance, two arches of water spiraling overhead, and your head tilted in interest. In the light of the candle chandeliers, the water glittered much like the stone Maoki presented in the garden. 

Your eyelids dropped, head tilted in thought. If he didn’t know better then it’d appear you were enamored with Bavruq but Wonwoo saw the challenge. You were sizing Bavruq up, like a predator assessed potential prey. If it came to it, Wonwoo bet on you.

Bavruq froze the water in a spectacular arch, bowing for applause. You clapped politely and Bavruq left the stage. The dread of Sami’s comments later tonight started to root in Wonwoo’s stomach.

“Wonderful!” the Queen turned towards you, her next exclamation echoing through the hall. “You are all so impressive, I don’t know how you will choose a husband.”

Your eyes widened as you floundered. Wonwoo couldn’t believe it himself but he knew this was the plan from the start; however, the Queen clearly desired to speed the entire thing along. All the men that just performed swooped to surround you like moths to a flame, you sneered something to your grandmother before looking at Wonwoo with pleading eyes.

It wasn’t his place to intervene, even if you wanted him to, even if he wanted to. Standing on the sidelines, Wonwoo watched you navigate the viper pit as your grandmother smiled boldly.

Another hour passed before the swarm dissipated. Your smile remained fixed the entire time but Wonwoo noticed the strain in your cheeks, the dull glaze cast over your eyes, the clench of your jaw. When you were finally able to get away, he followed you back to your suite ten paces behind like he always did.

Back in your apartment, you dismissed Wonwoo and others with a wave of your hand, locking yourself in your room without a word. 

In his own room, try as he might, sleep evaded him. Every time he came close Maoki’s sniveling face flashed in his mind, or the panicked look on your face in the crowd of hungry suitors. Or the way you looked at him in the garden, like there was a joke just for you two. 

He couldn’t sleep and he refused to call the kitchens for tea to help so Wonwoo decided to read. He read The Pearls of Drak enough to recite the entire thing in his sleep so he grabbed the new book and flipped through the pages until his eyes caught on “The Belle Dame.”

I met a lady in the meads,  Full beautiful—a spirit’s child,  Her hair was long, her foot was light,  And her eyes were wild. 

Well that certainly sounded familary.

Wonwoo scoured page after page of the poem. How the man yearned for a woman he couldn’t have, enchanted by her to the point of despair. Wonwoo’s chest ached as he read on, hoping for some happy ending. And then the poem ended; no happiness, no peace. The man woke up on the hillside – alone – wandering in ruins forever looking for the woman he loved who will never be found. 

Wonwoo read over and over again, obsessed in his own way, trying to work out a new angle, some way to spin the story into one he’d be satisfied with. But finding that ending proved as easy as finding sleep. After the tenth time, Wonwoo snapped the book closed and shoved it beneath his bed.

He didn’t sleep very well. Every time he verged just on the seam of sleep, a pair of wild eyes stared back at him.

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i wanna thank damon for letting jure be sexy, he doesn't get that opportunity enough

---

He gotta stop doing those heart eyes

---

Behind Closed Doors:

Bojan Cvjetićanin x fem!reader

Chapter Three:

Masterlist

No murderer was knocking on innocent women's doors, unfortunately. Only a guilty Bojan. So, at least you got one thing correct?

"I'm trying!" You grunted as Jere's boot slipped from your grip, hitting the ground with a thud.

And you certainly felt innocent - a target even - in all this as you had to help with this mess.

The mess in question is an unconscious Jere.

After the worrying yet annoying texts from him, you found a puffed-out Bojan and a passed-out Jere outside your hotel room. Bojan was equally as tipsy as you were but insisted that you helped carry - or more like drag - Jere to bed. You both had decided on taking him to Bojan's hotel room, which he shared with Kris and Nace, hoping that way if he woke up sick or just very hungover, Kris would be there for him, instead of leaving him alone in his own hotel room. (poor Kris) And also because Jere didn't have his key on him. You only hoped it was misplaced back at the bar so he could retrieve it tomorrow but for now, you were struggling to carry him, and regretting ever leaving him on his own with Joker Out. God knows what happened.

"Well, try more!" Bojan grunted as all of Jere's body weight shifted to his hands, his legs staggering to keep himself steady.

"No shit Sherlock, THAT'S WHAT I'M DOING!" Your voice raised out of frustration as you glared at him while bending down to pick up Jere's legs again, accidentally revealing your cleavage in the dress you still had on from earlier, and grabbing onto his ankles. "My eyes are up here." You spoke flatly as you felt Bojan's eyes on you.

"I mean, it's not like I haven't seen it before," Bojan admitted nonchalantly as he smirked, provoking another glare out of you. You had been doing that a lot today.

You kept a firm grip on Jere's legs as you carefully carried him again and asked, "So, you remembered what happened then?"

"Hmm, I think you need to clarify." Sarcasm oozed off his tongue as he smirked again, making you groan, either because you were using all your strength to carry Jere or because you were fed up with Bojan. Probably both.

All Bojan could do was laugh at your reaction, "I remember us having some fun. Much more fun than well...what this is," He gestured to the passed-out Jere who was flopping about as you both hauled him.

Your eyebrows knitted together, "You say 'having some fun' as if implying we did...something..." You knew the pictures were well, suggestive, to say the least, but you knew for sure you never had sex with him...or either of them!

Bojan laughed, his eyes crinkling as a grin formed on his face as well as his dimples which were faint but still showed themselves to you, only making you want to stare at him for longer than you should. "No, we didn't. Only a little kiss...unless we did and we can't remember," He joked yet this didn't really amuse you. "I know for sure this guy is not gonna remember anything in the morning." He glanced down at Jere and chuckled to himself again, reminiscing on the partying they just enjoyed. A little too much, it seems.

"Good. I mean, I would want to remember that..." You awkwardly cleared your throat. Oh God, you were really talking about this. Changing the subject you asked, "What did you do to him anyway?!"

"Don't blame me! You are Finnish. Aren't you known for this?"

"I guess," you sighed, faintly laughing at your blacked-out best friend and his predicament.

Bojan didn't say anything other than muttering expletives under his breath as you worked up a sweat lugging Jere to the lifts. As soon as you reached them, both of you dropped him to the floor as you stood in front of the lifts. "Oops," While you caught your breath, you chuckled and eyed Jere on the floor but Bojan stayed silent. For a second you thought he was catching his breath like you were, but there was no sound of that. So, you wondered if what you had said about wanting to remember if you did it caught him off guard and made him uncomfortable and/or because the whole sauna situation had made him uneasy - even though he seemed to be making jokes about it just a moment ago and the day before. 

However, the moment you looked up from the still passed-out Jere and onto a shocked Bojan, you observed him staring unexpectedly at the lifts. Your confused self continued to watch him for a second before your eyes finally followed his gaze, immediately scanning an OUT OF ORDER sign that was stuck on the doors of the lift, almost mocking you. Not to mention additional caution tape that was stuck around for safety, as if you needed to be rubbed in the face more at the fact you'd have to carry Jere upstairs.

Your expression was just as equally shocked as Bojan's, but at this point it increasingly became irritated. "Of course." Your voice exuded sarcasm before scoffing, shaking your head as you turned back to face Bojan, expecting him to have disappeared, having given up on this whole journey.

But that was far from what would come out of his stupid mouth next.

"Well, we have a mission to complete. You know what they say, seize the day!" Trying not to act absolutely annoyed at the broken lift he cheered his signature line, almost making you automatically roll your eyes. Yet deep inside you wanted to laugh.

Well, this was one way to completely sober up.

____________________

Having almost tripped and fallen down the stairs while hauling Jere you were thankful when you saw Bojan's hotel room in sight. You thought carrying him was hard, until you tried carrying him while walking up stairs...

"Finally!" Exhausted, you flopped on the floor outside the hotel room next to where you rested Jere on the floor. Your head pounded. You and Bojan had successfully made it to the hotel room. Now you just hoped Bojan had the key.

"The key..." his voice sounded uncertain.

You hoped Bojan had the key-

"Uhh-" Looking up at him from the floor, you hoped to see the key in his hand but you couldn't.

"I don't have the key."

A long and tense pause lingered in the stuffy air. You stared at him with an almost blank stare, needing a moment to figure out how you were going to react.

"You what?" You laughed in disbelief.

"I, uh, may have lost the key..."

You were going to react angrily. "YOU WHAT?!" After all that hard work carrying Jere across the hallway along the hotel carpet - which you regret laying on now as the scratchy carpet digger into your skin - and up those steep stairs to the next floor, since the lifts conveniently happened to not be working so you could take Jere to bed, he hadn't thought to care more about keeping the room key safe... "What do we do now?!" Standing up before him, you half asked yourself and the guilty culprit in front of you.

Bojan shifted uncomfortably, "Umm...it must have fallen out of my pocket as we were carrying him!"

"Ugh. Well, you have Jere's key right? We can just go back and put him in his room, it's fine. Not what the plan was but-"

"Nu-uh! Do you know the leading cause of death from being hungover is puking while lying down!"

"Wh-"

"HE'LL CHOKE AND I'LL GET THE BLAME."

"Damn, okay, but you got us into this mess! One hundred percent I'll blame you. So what do you suggest?!" Your hungover headache is creeping its way back, harder this time, as this situation escalates. Although part of you thinks it's not just the hangover causing it.

He scratched his head and avoided your glaring eye contact. "We trace our steps and go back-"

"ARE YOU SERIOUS--"

A noise from beside you pulled your attention from Bojan. You looked over and saw it was Nace who had slammed the door open. "Shut up already! You woke me up and I'm very hungover. And what are all these texts about-" his eyes landed on the wiped-out Jere on the floor. "Oh."

"Thank god you're awake, I lost our room key-"

"Yeah, no thanks to you," Nace grumpily interrupted.

"Please just take him," You sighed and began handing Jere's legs for him to hold, Bojan following your lead. Nace sighed and accepted his fate. It's not like he had a choice anyway, and he just really wanted to go back to sleep, which you could relate to.

After putting Jere to bed, with a glass of water next to him for when he wakes and with the help of Bojan making sure to position him lying on his side to avoid any vomit-choking death, the two of you were ushered out by Nace, who now portrayed a snide smirk plastered across his face. "You're lucky Jan isn't here. He'd have a field day with this," he stifled a laugh, not wanting to make any more noise and wake Kris up, who was still sleeping blissfully unaware of the chaos that just occurred. Nace shut the door in both of your faces, not even bothering to ask where Bojan would sleep, which would be your room. He'd probably find that out from the Queen of Gossip, Jan, in the morning.

Together, you released a sigh of relief and Bojan high-fived you which you grudgingly reciprocated, nonetheless still annoyed at the whole situation.

When you made it back to your own hotel room with Bojan, you sank down on the bed with another sigh. Noticing your tiredness, Bojan handed you some water and stroked your stray hair away from your face, which you weren't expecting him to do though you didn't push his hand away. "Thanks for helping," he spoke lowly, but lightly.

Once his fingertips finished pulling the last strand, tucking it behind your ear gently, your skin burned, yearning for more. But you knew it was wrong, right? That sauna situation embarrassed you and those pictures, even worse. And you still hadn't talked to Bojan about it. Not properly anyway.

You were supposed to be colleagues. But it seems a lot can happen behind closed doors.

Realising you hadn't replied to him you uttered, "It's fine,"

God, of all the things you could say, that was all that came out?

You should shout at him for letting Jere get that drunk - even though everyone knows no one can stop him. You should tell him how embarrassed you are about whatever happened in the sauna. The kiss...The photos...

"I know what you're thinking about," Bojan whispered, almost sing-song-like. As if this was a game. Whatever this was.

"Go on then,"

His eyes squinted as if he was trying to mind-read, and you wondered if he did somehow get more drunk being near a blacked-out Jere for too long because he was staring at you longer than needed, with that piercing glare.

Tauntingly, his eyes quickly lowered to your cleavage again and back up to your eyes. Oh, how you wish you could roll your eyes right now but you were stuck. Frozen. Yet still burning from his touch.  You kicked yourself over how fast you seemed to swoon over the singer from Slovenia. That was all he should be to you.

"The kiss." he finally declared.

You took a deep breath, drinking him in, as he seemed closer than he was before. The strands of his fluffy hair fell perfectly on his forehead. Your fingers instantly brushed them away, just as he did yours. entangling with the rest of his dark blond hair. His eyes never left you. They couldn't.

"Is that why you've been ignoring me?"

"I haven't-"

He quirked an eyebrow at you, not believing you for one second.

You sighed again, softly this time. "Okay, maybe I have. So you do also remember taking those photos? Don't you think I'm some kind of slut?"

"What? No way. We were joking around."

"Oh, good. I'm glad they didn't get accidentally posted online or something. That wouldn't be good. Especially for our managers."

He chuckled, "No, it wouldn't,"

"Was this some sort of plan you two came up with?"

He hummed in question, eyebrows furrowing.

"The whole passed-out-Jere-I-need-somewhere-to-sleep fiasco."

"You said we should take him to mine,"

"Yeah because you screamed about how if he dies you'll get blamed, which is still what's gonna happen if he does. For now, Kris and Nace can deal with...that." Your mind wanders to the texts and for a second you imagine it all unravelling. God knows you've seen it happen before, being friends with Jere for so long.

"Did you want it to be? Did you want it so I planned to get in your bed," Bojan's voice was hot, you could suddenly feel it. He was moving closer and closer to you by the minute. And you didn't move away or tell him to do so. You didn't want to. "Because it seems like it. Not to mention" - he leans down, fingertips caressing your leg down to your heels - "your naughty trick."

Naughty, he says.

You blushed intensely, feeling goosebumps rise across your skin at his touch, and at remembering your caressing his leg with your heel. You didn't know what possessed you then in that moment but, boy, you did not regret it. Especially if it meant Bojan would be this close to you right now, making you feel light-headed in an excited way.

His fingertips glide back up, tingling. He leans in and you do too. Tingling now on your lips, just as the photo of him kissing your cheek made you feel. Just as he made you feel in the sauna. Just as he made you feel whenever he looked at you. Kissing never felt this good. A wave of almost relief washed over you. If he thought you were 'weird' or 'a slut' then he wouldn't be kissing you now, would he?

Seeing you were more comfortable, he spoke softly, yet with a hint of something else. Desire.

"Let me make it up to you.

Behind Closed Doors

Bojan Cvjetićanin x fem!reader

masterlist

Chapter One:

A/N: Apologies if I got some of the timeline wrong I'm trying lol. I used Käärijä and his real name Jere interchangeably so if you get confused that's why. Also when they're talking they're obviously talking Finnish irl but I only know some sentences so just pretend 🥴 (Definitions of Finnish words I may use are at the end of the chapter) I still don't know whether to turn this fanfic into a Bojan x reader x Käärijä...help me pls, comment below (I am deranged for them both I'm not sorry)

Being one of Käärijä's dancers for Eurovision 2023 was the best job you could ask for. You and Käärijä, or should I say, Jere, grew up together and have been through thick and thin. Nonetheless, you are still just as close as you were when you were younger.

To say you and Jere were friends would be an understatement. Best friends, sometimes slightly more if you had too much alcohol...It seemed either way Jere would always be the protective one, constantly looking out for you and prioritising your needs (and everyone else's) rather than his own. You would tell him that he had a habit of doing that, yet he would simply shrug it off.

You had the chance to meet a couple of the other contestants before arriving in Liverpool at a pre-party, specifically two nights ago at the Nordic Party, but unfortunately, or fortunately, you cannot remember a single thing from it. Thank you Finnish drinking culture! (Seriously, drink responsibly.)

Currently, the turquoise carpet was happening and Käärijä had finished his short interview which was the cue for you and the other three dancers to join him on the small make-shift stage to pose for the camera.

As soon as he saw you his eyes lit up, finding someone he was familiar with amongst the chaos of not only the carpet event but later on in the entire competition was comforting, and with having to mostly talk English (which he wasn't hugely knowledgeable on) in interviews and with the competitors, only made it more difficult. Despite this he had you and that's the only thing that mattered, and doing well in his performances, of course. You knowing slightly more English helped too...

Embracing you in a side hug was his way of showing he cared for you, for now, words are for later. While you hugged you turned to each other and smiled, both still not believing that you were in this together, at Eurovision!  At this, the camera took its last snap of you two like that. You could certainly foresee it being featured in a video titled "Fave moments of Käärijä and Y/n" or something along those lines.

Once you all began making your way to the carpet your nerves kicked in, something which Jere picked up on and whispered you some words of comfort making you struggle to shake the fuzzy feeling he gave you. Now is not the time to fixate on whether you have feelings for your best friend...

You all moved along the carpet, which consisted of talking to fans and more posing for different cameras.  While Käärijä was distracted with a fan you and the dancers decided to have a mini 'Cha Cha Cha dance moment' in the middle of the carpet for the cameraman to film. He was shifting his attention to you when he heard loud cheering. seeing you leading the dancers at the front, Cha cha cha-ing away, as he does. A laugh escaped you as you noticed him giggling at you out the corner of your eye so you dragged him by the arm to join in before embarrassment kicked in.

"You're already trying to replace me?!" Jere joked as he brought his hands on his hips.

"Maybe. I think I'll make a great Käärijä."

"I think you'll be more of a Juoppo, or better, Kalsarikänni" He teased back resulting in you playfully punching his chest, huffing, crossing your arms and facing away from him. From the corner of your eye, you thought you noticed him gazing at you for a little longer than normal but you brushed it off...

Of course, the cameras couldn't get enough of this. Another moment to add to that video!

****

After the carpet event, a few contestants were at a small bar table nearby, wanting to meet some other contestants.

You all had been there for around twenty minutes and the dancers had already left to get another drink leaving you and Käärijä to enjoy the last of your drinks together before planning on joining conversations with fellow opponents around you when a band had come over to the bar t order drinks.

"I think that's the guy I saw at the party!" Jere turned to you with a glimmer in his eye before waving and catching the man in question's attention. You followed his gaze and your heart skipped a beat. He had a black sequined flowing shirt on that made him sparkle in the light and complimented his dark blond locks, and you had to admit, he was nice to look at. Most importantly he was very familiar. Had you seen him at the party? You couldn't quite remember...

You hadn't had time to think about anything else as you noticed the man striding over, forcing you to take a sharp breath in, primarily because you were worried you were going to make a fool of yourself which left you to also mentally curse Jere for putting you in these ridiculous neon pink outfits and blinding white fake teeth and orange tan that gave uncanny valley to anyone who looked at you for longer than five seconds.

"Hey, I'm Bojan, singer of the Slovenian act, 'Joker Out'...We saw each other at the party!" He smiled at you both as you started to just about recognise him from the first time you and Jere met him at the party.

"Yes yes, Joker-man!" Jere joked in remembrance, making Bojan laugh and at that moment you thought you were dreaming. Hearing his voice again without the loud party music was nice but hearing his laugh? That was heavenly.

Jere finally (officially) introduced you to him. "This is Y/n, remember?" The man shook your hand. Your nerves were slightly eased when none of your fake tan left any marking on him, although they came right back as he spoke. Now you knew he was not only hot but had a pleasant voice too. All you had left was to hear his singing voice...

"Yes! I remember!" Bojan eagerly replied. You noticed a tinge of redness appear on his cheeks and hoped he was just feeling hot, as he physically does anyway, and not because of a recollection of something embarrassing at the party (that you still could not remember any major details of...) Deep down you knew the latter was probably true yet tried to keep yourself calm and collected.

"Good to see you again," You lied, wishing you were saying the right thing. What if you had done something stupid and now you're saying it's good to see him again? What if this isn't good?! Is it good? It must be. He is being nice to you after all...

Your thoughts were interrupted as the rest of Joker Out came over and once again said how great the party was...Even they had memories of it and they weren't even invited!

Leaving you and Bojan alone, Käärijä and the other boys began steering away, closer to a table by some other contestants the boys wanted to introduce Käärijä to.

"Hey, remember that drinking game we played at the party? That was fun..." Bojan trailed off, speaking of a moment that must have happened at the party.

"Oh...yeah! That was so fun!" You lied again, having no idea what he was talking about. Oh god, what if you had kissed him and not remembered...

Almost like an angel, Jere began walking back over with two drinks in hand, clearly seeing what you needed. Or he was sabotaging you because at this point you were ready to leave your Finnish roots behind and vow never to drink again, seeing the circumstances.

Before leaving to join the others Bojan leaned over and whispered into your ear.  "You don't remember anything at all, do you?" At that, he simply walked away, leaving you standing there even more confused...and concerned.

"Smooth." Jere had obviously heard the last of your conversation with Bojan and sent a smug smile your way.

You weren't sure but had Jere sensed the tension or were you going crazy?  Guilt was filling you up now. How could you not remember the Nordic party? You Nordics are known for liking a drink but not remembering anything, at all, is a new low even for you. Even in Käärijä's view. That hasn't happened since you were a teenager, he would know.

You felt like Jere was not telling you something or maybe he thought you had remembered what happened already... Again, you had no time to think, which was a typical thing lately much to your hatred, because a young woman around your age approached you. "Hi, I'm Alessandra! You're Y/n, right? I saw you at the Nordic party!" She smiled. Ah, yes, the party you barely could remember. As if you needed any more reminding.

"Hi! Good to see you again." You could lie for the whole world at this rate.

Alessandra introduced you and brought you over to the table where Joker Out and Käärijä were as well as the last few people who were at the bar; Luke Black who was representing Serbia and Alika who was representing Estonia. You got along well with them and you all decided to plan a get-together where tomorrow you'd all hang out at a café nearby and everyone was so excited about it! You were too, but, after that interesting interaction with Bojan, you were nervous to say the least.

As time passed the bar became quieter and quieter as they began leaving to go site-seeing, and back at the hotel, the day turned into night.

Even though you were sad to do so, even with Jere protesting otherwise, you both knew you leaving him to have an early night was for the best. To him, he assumed you were tired but you knew the only way you could escape from all the confusing and slightly flirty looks from Jere and Bojan was the comfort of your hotel room which was overwhelming at this point.

Taking a nice hot bath would surely do the trick of ridding your mind of not only them but also the stress of the competition...Until you had a vision, of yourself in a sauna. Kaarija's sauna. A pleasant steaming sauna with two other figures sat close to you. Bojan and Jere. Then it vanished away like a dream.

What was that supposed to mean?

****

While you clambered into bed for the night in your hotel room you tried to rest but something was keeping you awake, or someone, orrather two people. That bath did nothing but further confuse you!

Maybe watching Joker Out's interview from the carpet event would (worsen) help you... At that, you flipped over to your right side where your bedside table was and grabbed your phone, opened Youtube and the first thing to come up was the video in question. Seems like even your phone knows something's up.

The first was the official interview by the two hosts of the Turquoise Carpet. It opened with the usual questions like "How are you finding it all?" and "Do you like Liverpool?"    Although, as the interview progressed it built up to "Have you been anywhere you like?"

The band responded with site-seeing places like The Cavern Club where The Beatles performed but to you, the most important place was the Nordic Party..."Okay, that wasn't too bad," you thought to yourself.

The next video was by one of the reporters who was one of many along the Turquoise carpet and you thought it couldn't get any worse...but it did. The question that stuck out the most to you was "Which contestant would you rather get stuck in a sauna with?" which caused the band to erupt in laughter.

Luckily, while the video was being recorded earlier that day, you and Käärijä and the other dancers were further along or had left the carpet by then, otherwise, the answer they gave would have probably provoked anyone within reach to ask you about: "I think I've already done that already..."  Bojan hesitated yet finished the sentence; "...with two people here already..."

He then had the cheek to mutter under his breath: "Someone close to Käärijä." Bojansmirked and the rest of the band giggled. If you weren't slick you wouldn't have caught it but it looked like Jan said something under his breath to Bojan...something that looked to be your name.

So, in conclusion, that 'vision' you had in the bath was in fact, a memory.

Well, fuck.

****

A/N:

Juoppo = drunkard.

Kalsarikänni = getting drunk in your underwear at home. (I still find it so funny they have a  word for this...I love Finnish😭)

ALSO THE DRAMA, GUYS, THE DRAMAAAA!!!

Please reblog if you enjoyed! Thanks!

𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟏𝟎

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You and Rooster are in uncharted territory. It makes you act out. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.6k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

When Rooster comes into your bedroom just after sunrise, his lip caught between his teeth and a robe shrugged over his shoulders, he feels guilty. Your room is still dark, hardly touched at all by the yellow light of the sun.

There you are, alone on your waterbed, tangled in your comforter and breathing steadily into your down pillows. Your limbs are a mess and your pajama pants are crooked on your hips--it makes Rooster smile fondly and shake his head. You sleep hard. And before he met you, he never understood what that meant. But looking at you right now, with only a few hours of sleep in your system, he understands it immediately. How else could anyone describe this scene before him? 

He kneels on the ground beside your bed, careful not to rustle the waterbed. That guilt is sitting like ice water in his throat right now--but he knows he has to wake you up. 

“Cherry,” he whispers quietly, laying his flat palm in the middle of your back. “Babygirl.” 

You’re in a dreamless sleep. It’s what you prefer, honestly. You always feel like you sleep better when your brain isn’t busy flooding the back of your eyelids with false images. 

When you don’t stir, Rooster leans forward and presses a few kisses to your bare forearm, carefully pushing the comforter down so it’s under your shoulder. 

“Baby,” Rooster whispers again. 

Finally, you rouse. 

It’s only a little bit--just your eyes barely cracked open, your breathing harsh and curt before steadying itself. You’re blinking at Rooster rapidly, still not entirely sure where you are, and swallowing hard. 

“There she is,” he whispers, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Morning, sunshine.”

Mumbling incoherently, you rut yourself until you’re closer to Rooster. 

He thinks you’re going to get out of bed for a moment but then you open up the covers and close your eyes again. You’re inviting him into bed with you, knowing full well that Rooster can do little except bend to your will. 

He glances at his wristwatch. It’s already 7:21. You two need to be in the makeup chair by 8:15--and even that’s pushing it. But then he feels the plumes of your body heat, the rose and vetiver still staining your skin from the bath he drew you last night, and he’s slipping off his robe and climbing into bed beside you. 

“You’re a real minx, you know that?” He asks. 

You’re already molding yourself against him, tangling your legs in his, snuggling yourself against his throat, smiling lazily. He’s very warm--warm enough to make you wanna pur. 

“Uh huh,” you whisper. 

He strokes your hair carefully, knowing that you’re well on your way to falling back asleep. But he can’t be mad--how could he? He’s holding you. 

“Dennis rang,” he says quietly. “We’ve got a shoot today.” 

You groan quietly, screwing your eyes closed. 

“Me and you?” 

“And Jake.” 

“Three’s company,” you mutter, worming your fingers in the waistband of Rooster’s shorts and letting his hot, taut skin soothe the pads of your fingers. “No scripts then?” 

Rooster shakes his head, lashes fluttering when your fingers dance along the elastic of his briefs. 

“Improvising today,” he says. “You’ve gotta earn your way into Heaven.” 

Wrinkling your nose, you sigh. 

“That’s sacrilegious,” you whisper. “Didn’t Jesus just rise or something?”  

Rooster kisses the top of your head and lets his lips linger there for a long time. 

“Like we’re going to Heaven anyway,” he teases. 

Grinning tiredly, you yawn and then nuzzle your nose against his warm throat. 

“You are,” you tell him. “St. Rooster.” 

He shakes his head. 

“That’s generous,” he whispers. 

Both of you glance down to his knuckles in tandem. They’re still split, but they’re scabbed over and healing now. They’re still pink from breaking that man’s nose and now when he gets angry, the skin there tingles. 

“You take in orphans, fistfight pervs, make me cum,” you yawn. “That’s, like, a golden ticket through the pearly gates.” 

He sighs. 

“What did I do before you?” He asks. He’s only partly teasing.

“Question your status in the afterlife, I guess,” you answer with a sigh. “But I’ve always known where you’re going, daddy.” 

He shakes his head. 

Laying in bed with you, on this lazy morning that is not supposed to be lazy at all, makes him think about Sunday mornings when his ma was still alive. She would do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, eating peach jam on rye toast, as he snuggled into her side and pretended to read the sports section. He was little then, newly a fatherless child, and tried hard to be around his ma whenever he could. She never said it, but he knew that it helped her. He could smell the tears on her cheeks sometimes when he came in early in the morning, warming up his father’s side of the bed even though the space was far too large for him to fill. His feet never touched the end of the bed; his father’s feet always hung off.  

He doesn’t think about this often--not really. He honestly doesn’t think about either of his parents very often at all, but if he does, it isn’t like this: these sun-drenched memories that fill him to the brim with the sweetest and stickiest kinds of grief.

You feel it when he gets quiet.

“Dream anything fab?” You whisper. 

He doesn’t answer, just pulls you closer. You understand that he doesn’t want to speak for a little while. You’re okay with that. You’ll make yourself okay with that. But you also know that you won’t be able to fall back asleep--Rooster won’t let you, anyway. 

So, you begin to gingerly trace the elastic band of his briefs. His hips stiffen beneath your touch, but he doesn’t move away from you. 

When you press that first chaste kiss to his jaw, he knows he’s done for.

With his eyes screwed shut, with his chest tight and growing tighter with every one of your movements, he relishes in this closeness. You with your open mouth pressed against his throat, your hand wrapped around his hardening cock, his arm securing your body against his. 

“You okay?” You ask quietly, feverishly kissing his cheeks. 

Gripping the sheets, grinding his teeth, he just nods. Your pace is something between languid and merciless--he knows he won’t last long, especially when you move his hand to your underwear and let him feel how thoroughly soaked they are. 

He tries to start moving his fingers against your clit, but you halt him. Instead, you hold onto his wrist, let his hand fall over his own cock, and smear your arousal over his length. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Want me to touch you, babygirl?” 

You shake your head, dizzy with excitement. 

“No,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.” 

When your thumb presses that deliciously sensitive spot on the underside of his cock, the spot that your tongue is well-acquainted with, he instinctively reaches out and grabs onto your hair. He isn’t rough, doesn’t pull; he just anchors the two of you together that way. 

“Cherry,” he whimpers. 

Your chest is hot now. Still, you’re feverishly kissing his flush skin, ignoring the ticking clock and the sunlight that’s beginning to lighten the bedroom. 

Rooster’s suddenly thinking about this being his reality. About waking up with you in the morning, kissing your eyelids, letting you wrap your hand around his cock. He’s thinking about this bed beneath the two of you being your marital bed. He’s thinking about marrying you and moving to wine country and having you all to himself. And fuck, it’s getting him so close, making his throat so tight and warm, tightening that coil in his belly. 

Suddenly, he’s not just thinking about you and him. He’s thinking about the bed having little tiny bodies squished in between the two of you. He’s thinking about their feet never reaching the end of the bed. He’s thinking about little tiny palms pressed to his cheeks, little tiny lips pressed to his knuckles. He’s never thought about this before--with anyone, ever, at all--and it’s pushing him to an edge he’s never stood on before. 

“What, daddy?” 

He groans, a pitiful and loud noise, and holds onto your hair tighter. 

“I wanna cum inside that pretty cunt,” he tells you. “Can you do that for me, babygirl? Can I cum inside you?” 

You comply with vigor. You’re wet enough to ease him into you at once after you’ve pulled your pajamas off. Holding yourself steady with your hands planted on his belly, your hair still messy and sand still peppering the corners of your eyes, you look down at him and he looks up at you.

He pushes his feet into the waterbed, ignoring the sloshing, and thrusts himself into you. You don’t dare tear your gaze from his pretty face, not even for a moment. 

You can tell he’s thinking about something deeply, can tell from the strain of his lips and the furrow of his brows and the heat that’s gathered in his cheeks and over his chest. 

“What?” You ask breathlessly, rolling your hips into his. 

He’s pressing into a gummy part inside of you, one that makes your toes curl. 

He considers saying it. He really, really considers saying it. But then he just does it instead, letting his hand hover in the air for only a moment in hesitation: he presses his palm against your belly and presses down. 

For a moment, you wonder if he’s trying to feel his cock moving inside of you. But then he softly strokes the skin of your belly with his thumb--a fluid and soothing motion--and it dawns on you. 

Oh. 

You clench around him, maybe not even on purpose, and he cums suddenly. It’s all too much for him--you squeezing him, your pretty and tired eyes pouring into his, your partly-naked body doused in sunlight. It’s romantic and beautiful and so fucking hot. 

Every moment of his release is felt in your body--deep inside of you, where the pulsing feels concrete and sacred. 

You stay upright for a moment as he comes down, panting as his bottom lip quivers. And after just a moment, one where he peeks at you through half-shut eyes, he tugs you down and against him. 

He’s too afraid to say anything. He’s worried that he overstepped. He’s never in his entire life felt like that before--hasn’t even wondered about it. He’s just as surprised as you are. 

But you’re not moving away from him. You’re not disgusted. You’re just trying to catch your breath as he softens inside of you. You decide, all at once, that you’re not going to say a word about it unless he does. 

“You alright, kid?” He asks quietly. 

You nod immediately. 

“Super,” you whisper. 

He starts to wriggle his hand between you, starts to press his fingers against your clit, but you just pull yourself tighter against him. 

“You’ll get me later,” you insist. “Just breathe, baby.”

His heart squeezes. He nods, wraps you up in his arms, and kisses your head. 

You liked it. Maybe that’s what is surprising you so much right now. You liked those few moments of make believe where you pretended like you were someone that could get pregnant and he was someone who would get you pregnant. 

He liked it, too. He didn’t think he ever wanted to get married--not to anyone at all, not even Farrah Fawcett. But you change just about everything for him, which is something he’s still growing accustomed to. 

After his parents died, he knew concretely that children were never going to be a part of his future. He didn’t want to be responsible for one--didn’t want to be responsible for breaking their heart if he died prematurely, either. So, he’s always been content just knowing that he will be childless. 

But with you on top of him, your weight heavy and familiar, his fingers are tingling. Something is going to change. Something is already changing. 

“Big plans for tonight?” You whisper, unable to stand another moment of silence. 

He shakes his head. 

“Phoenix is gonna come over for some cocktails. You down?”

You nod at once. 

“I’m down.” 

Neither of you talk about it. 

But you think about it--the way you won’t ever be able to give Rooster what he wants unless you’re playing make-believe. And in big and small ways, that devastates you.

☿

The set is pretty today--prettier than it normally is. There are white curtains, pristine and steamed, covering all the walls of the soundstage. There’s a machine that is emitting a thin layer of sweet-smelling fog, the stuff biting at your knees and permeating the polyester all of you wear. The lights above you are bright and white--the kind that you have to squint against if you tilt your face towards the sky. 

You wish, maybe because the set is prettier than it usually is today, that you were in a less sour mood right now. You’re still partially reeling from your encounter with Rooster this morning, which was so sudden that your neck aches just thinking about it.  

Right now, dressed in this terrible polyester jumpsuit that’s genuinely designed to be ripped apart easily, you wish you were at home with Rooster and Jake. Instead of standing here in these big heels, coming down from that bump you took half an hour ago, watching Dennis direct Rooster to be rougher with you, the boys with their silly little halos on, you wish that you were sprawled out on the sofa. You wish that there was a mirrored tray before you, one that you can snort off of, one that lets you look into your own eyes as you ingest all that shit you’ve been so keen on. 

“I want you to take her real deep. Don’t be a pussy about it, either, alright? Chery’s down, right, babydoll?”

Picking the lint off the glittery, thin fabric covering your thighs, you nod absently. You don’t really care today. You just wanna go home. 

Dennis moved this shoot up an entire month. He watches the market carefully and knows what people want and when they want it. Apparently, just around Easter, there’s a surge in religious stag films. And, for whatever reason, double penetration.

That’s why you’re earning your way into Heaven today--less than a week after Easter. 

Rooster is standing with his arms crossed, his lips a flat line. 

“Shouldn’t we be asking Cherry about this?” He asks. 

Dennis glances at you--you’re unusually still, borderline despondent. You just blink at him, eyes heavy with that gold glitter the makeup department caked you in. 

“She’s good for it--right, babydoll?” He doesn’t wait for your response before he turns back to Rooster grinning. “Cherry’s always down.” 

Jake, who took a short intermission to powder his nose, is noticeably lighter as he bounds back to the soundstage. He throws his arms around your shoulders and presses some lewd kisses to your throat as you lean into him. 

“So, I’ve got the pink, huh?” Jake asks, glancing at you. 

You shrug.

“Looks that way, cowboy.” 

Honestly, you don’t really care either way. It’s unusual for you to feel so apathetic about this, because you really do consider pornography to be your art. Especially in the past few months as everyone flocks to see your films, as men come up to you on the street and ask to motorboat you or kiss you, as the world is starting to learn about the existence of one Miss Cherry Arsan. 

But today, you don’t want to be filmed. You want to have sex--you always want to have sex--but you were hoping for it to be more private. You just wanted to lounge in your panties all day, suck some cock, drink some orange juice, smoke some marijuana, get fucked on the sofa, and maybe swim. 

Instead, you’re here. And you can’t get the feeling of Rooster’s big hand cupping your empty, empty belly.  

“Got a stick up your ass today?” Jake asks, still peppering your face with kisses. 

Sighing, you shake your head. 

“Not yet,” you whisper. 

He barks out a laugh--Rooster glances over at the two of you but doesn’t move from his spot before Dennis. 

“Lemme take you out tonight,” Jake offers. “C’mon, we’ll boogie down.” 

 “You’re supposed to do dinner before fucking,” you sigh, smiling softly despite your sour mood. “Besides, Rooster’s got drink plans with Phoenix tonight. Wants me to be there, I guess.” 

You’re trying to sound casual about it--even though you really, really don’t feel casual about it. You love Rooster and you like Phoenix; but after learning that they tried going steady, that they were in a relationship, you don’t dig the idea of them alone together. 

Fuck, you don’t know who you are anymore to feel this way. You don’t know what Rooster’s doing to you. 

It’s juvenile and it’s silly and it’s the antithesis of everything you believe in to be jealous; but some things just are. And the thought of them alone together, her delicate collarbones begging for his supple lips, makes your knees feel a bit weak. 

Jake watches you carefully--he’s high, but not high enough to disregard your jealousy. And he knows right away that it is jealousy that keeps you where you are right now, in Rooster’s home, away from him.

He wants you to be wrapped up in him for a little while--wants you to bend to his will, to sleep at his house, to fuck him in the mornings. He knows, distantly, that if he just asked that you would say yes. You would do all of that for him. But he doesn’t wanna have to ask you.  

So, he does it. 

First, he shrugs like it’s all casual. Then he stuffs his hands in the pockets of the white robe he’s wearing and watches you watch Rooster. 

“Sure you wanna be there for that?” Jake says. 

He watches your face: your eyebrows knit, your lips purse, your eyes widen. But you’re careful to not snap your head in his direction even though that is what you want to do right now. 

“I’m not picking up whatever you’re trying to lay down.” 

Jake pretends to be all-knowing, making a show of shrugging and yawning before tucking you under his arm again. 

“You don’t know what happens when they’re alone together?” Jake says, sucking on his teeth before shrugging again. “Man, I envy you. They get real nasty together. And, like, not even in a fun way. Like there’s no room for anyone but them. You dig?” 

Something peculiar is happening inside of your body now. It feels like something has dislodged--something big, something heavy. An anchor or a boulder or a fucking ten-ton weight that’s been sitting pretty in your gut is suddenly free-floating through your body. You’re steaming and shivering at the same time, skin goosing, jaw clenching. 

But you don’t so much as let your brows twitch. 

“Is that the skinny?” You ask without breaking your gaze from Rooster. 

Jake nods, swallowing hard. 

It suddenly sets your body on fire--thinking about the two of their bodies connected, washed in the glow of a sunset, their skin smooth and crinkled from bending or pinching. When you think about his flat palm on her belly, when you think about him cumming inside of her, a bitter taste floods your tongue. 

“You’re better off coming with me,” Jake says. “I’ll take you back to the pad once they’re finished.” 

Once they’re finished.

Jake doesn’t know why he’s saying this to you. Rooster and Phoenix hardly, if ever, fuck off-screen. Really, when she comes to the house tonight, they’re probably going to talk about art and film and politics. Jake just finds it all so boring--who wants to talk about Mary Tyler Moore and Sweeney Todd and the Egypt-Israel Peace Treaty when you can go to the disco instead? Jake knows--or at least thinks he knows--that you would much prefer to go dancing anyway. He just has to get you there. 

But suddenly, there’s guilt pooling at the pit of his belly. Shit. He knows you’re upset when you hardly react. If you didn’t care at all, the way you’re pretending not to, then you would tell him so. You’d guffaw and wrinkle your nose, pretending to be grossed out. 

You’re just silent and still now, watching Rooster. 

Jake almost starts to say that he’s fucking with you--almost even gets himself to abandon the disco and come to Rooster’s pad tonight for cocktails and stimulating conversation--but instead, he says, “You good?” 

You just nod, pretending like your heart isn’t tight now.

“What’s the hold up?” You call to Dennis and Rooster, crossing your arms over your chest. “Deeper and harder. Got it. It isn’t rocket science, you know.”

Rooster’s spine prickles at your words. He knows you’re high--or at least, you were high twenty minutes ago when he pulled Dennis aside to talk about this scene. You bring the ax down when you’re high--and sometimes you bring it down again when your high is fading. He can’t tell which is which right now. 

“She gets it,” Dennis says, already stuffing a cigar between his lips and patting Rooster on the back. “Just fuck her, okay? It’s real tight back there--you’ll have a good time. Heard it’s out of this world!” 

Rooster swallows all the saliva that’s pooled under his tongue and resists the tingling in his still-split knuckles. 

“Cherry,” Rooster says. “C’mere for a minute.” 

You comply, arms crossed, and stand just a few feet before him. 

“What’s up?” He asks, voice hushed. There’s crewmembers hustling and bustling around you and he doesn’t want them privy to this conversation. “What’s the ‘tude for?” 

Biting the inside of your cheek, you shrug. 

“I’m fantastic,” you tell him. “I just wanna film, alright?” 

“What’s the rush?” He follows. 

The two of you stare at each other for a long, long moment. He knows something is wrong--you’re being frigid right now. Maybe by other people’s standards--to the untrained eye--they wouldn’t understand that this version of you is cold. But Rooster’s had the softest, warmest parts of you. And right now, with your spine straight and your eyes dark, he knows that version of you isn’t here now. 

“You know,” you start softly, throat burning at the very thought of Rooster’s lips wrapped around Phoenix’s pert nipples, “I think you’re the only dog in the world that questions where the bone came from instead of just eating it.”

“Ouch,” Rooster says flatly, frowning at you. “Don’t be cruel.”

You don’t miss a beat. 

“You think that’s cruel?” You ask. 

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You’re waiting for him to give it up.  

“What’s up?” He tries again, a bit desperate now.

He shuffles a bit closer to you, inhales that expensive perfume on your pulse points, tries not to get lost in the storm in your eyes. Everything around him dissolves as he stares at you, hands on his hips, trying to have a serious conversation while he has a fucking white robe on and nothing else. 

“You tell me,” you say. “Look, I’m trying to get out of here at a decent time so I can hit the town later. I know you and Phoenix are gonna have all the time in the world at the house, but the clubs close eventually. So, fuck me. And then we can both leave.” 

His brows knit. 

Without really meaning to, he scoffs. 

“What?” He asks, incredulous. “Cherry, I thought you were gonna stay in with us. I bought a new record.” 

Biting your lip, you shake your head. 

“Don’t wanna interrupt,” you say tersely. “I’m going out.” 

He shakes his head. 

“What changed?” 

Everything. Nothing. 

He’s terrified that you’re going to bring up this morning--he tries not to let his face show that. 

“It’s the weekend,” you say. “Why would I wanna stay in?” 

“It’s Monday,” Rooster says, eyes narrowed. 

You shrug. 

“It’s all the same to me,” you say flatly.

Rooster sighs, shaking his head. He’s never seen your mood shift so suddenly. 

He decides, right then and there, that you’re coming down. That’s all this is. You’re coming down, you didn’t want to come into work today, and you’re taking it out on him. You’re taking it out on him because he takes good care of you. 

He loves you. You love him. That’s all this is.

He’s good at talking himself down. He pretends like this is the truth--it’s totally fathomable, anyway. 

“Fine,” Rooster says, voice softer now. “You’re more than welcome to hit the town, babygirl.” 

You blink at him. You weren’t asking for permission.

A part of you, a tiny little piece, was hoping that he would abandon all plans with Phoenix and come with you and Jake. But maybe this proves exactly what Jake told you--there isn’t room for anyone else when Phoenix and Rooster get together. They’re probably relieved that they’re gonna have the house to themselves. 

“I know,” you say. “C’mon.” 

He doesn’t wanna do it like this--doesn’t wanna fuck you while you’re in a bad mood, when you don’t wanna fuck him. But you’re not giving him an option, really.

You wish you were doing this anywhere but here. You wish that you could be somewhere more private, so you could be more vulnerable. You wish that you could relax into this, but you can’t. 

Rooster is lying on his back, stupid robe discarded, and you’re laying on top of him. Jake is between your legs, lips attached to your throat as he buries himself inside of you. It feels good as he does it, pulling out of you then pushing himself back inside. Rooster’s holding your body steady with his hands firmly holding the curve of your waist, his breaths coming out in short pants by your ear. 

“Now, Rooster,” Dennis directs from beside the camera. 

Rooster, with a lump in his throat, lets a hand slide behind your body. You’re taking deep, deep breaths, trying to get yourself ready for this. It isn’t exactly fear or anxiety or worry that’s making you ache--it’s still that sick jealousy. It’s because of the thought of Rooster’s hand on your belly again. 

“We’ll go nice and slow,” Rooster whispers against your ear, kissing the lobe there. “Just breathe, baby.” 

Without another word, he lets two fingers fall between your cheeks. Your skin is hot, damp from your arousal dripping, and he carefully lathers it. He awaits your reaction, kissing your throat when you moan very softly. 

“That okay?” He whispers to you. 

You just nod fervently, trying to focus on the feeling of being full. 

So he gently presses the tip of his index finger in, digging his other fingers into the skin of your belly. 

It doesn’t necessarily hurt--but you have the distinct feeling that if anything changes, if anything moves, it will. So, you’re trying to keep yourself occupied by kissing Jake, who’s pounding himself into you with his eyes screwed shut tight. 

“Get on with it,” Dennis says. Rooster knows he’s talking about him. “None of that pussy finger shit. Use your cock, Rooster.”

You don’t know very much about anal, but Rooster does. He knows that it doesn’t go like this. Usually, it’s something you work up to. But neither you or Rooster or Jake knew double penetration was happening until you got to set this morning. If Rooster had known, he would’ve been working with you at home. Coaxing you into it, showing you how good it can feel. It’s not meant to be something that’s done so randomly, especially not with his entire cock inside you at once. 

Dennis is pushing you because you’re young, hot, and bring in the fucking cash.  

Rooster begins to pull away--but you pull him back to you. You’re afraid that he’s going to ruin the shot. So, you lean back against him and let your mouth fall by his ear. 

“C’mon,” you encourage. “S’alright. I can take it. Fill me up.” 

It’s like you’ve uttered some magic words. He’s been hard, but now he’s aching for you. He’s so hard that it’s making his entire body hot, flushed with arousal. 

“No,” he manages to stutter out, shaking his head. “Don’t wanna hurt you, baby.” 

You’re thinking about Rooster and Phoenix again. Jesus, it’s making your belly turn. 

“Just fucking do it,” you hiss. 

“Stop makin’ her beg,” Jake hisses, honing in on the conversation suddenly. “Do it, man.” 

☿

“No prep?” Phoenix asks, nauseous at the thought. “Fucking Christ.”

Rooster nods, stroking his mustache absently as he gazes down at the spread of cured meats and cheeses he set out on the coffee table. 

“Dennis pushes,” he says. 

Phoenix nods. 

“And Cherry doesn’t push back.” 

Rooster nods now, sighing. 

Phoenix has been here for a few hours now. They’ve finished a bottle and a half of merlot, which they sipped on between bites of fig and brie. She’s only in a sundress, her bare legs tucked beneath her body, as she sits on the couch across from Rooster. 

Neither of them are very tipsy, but they’re loose enough to talk about what happened today. He told Phoenix everything--even about early this morning when he held onto your belly and came inside of you. She is the only person in the world he would tell all this to--because besides you, she knows him the best. 

“I tried to--!” 

Phoenix cuts Rooster off by pressing a manicured hand to his knee. 

“You’re not always gonna be there when she films, baby,” Phoenix says. “And then what? She’s gotta learn to say no.” 

Rooster knows this. Really, he does. But the thought of not being there when Dennis is really pressing something makes him want to throw up. 

“Sure,” Rooster nods. “Fuck.” 

He groans, leaning back so his head is hanging off the couch. He blinks up at the ceiling, the entire room drenched in warm orange light, and wishes that you would just fucking come home. 

“Oh, baby,” Phoenix coos, squeezing Rooster’s knee. She hasn’t seen him so distraught about anything--anyone--ever before. “She’ll learn. She’s a youngblood.” 

He shakes his head. 

“Yeah. I know. I just want her to fucking come home.” 

Phoenix glances at the clock--it’s almost one in the morning now. 

“She will,” she says, trying her damndest to be comforting. “I’ll wait with you.” 

Rooster pats her hand a few times and shakes his head. 

“No, no,” he insists. “You don’t have to.” 

As if to prove her point, Phoenix pulls a throw blanket over her body and cozies up into the sofa, not hearing another word about it. 

“Flip the record,” she insists, nodding towards the record table. “C’mon.” 

Hours pass and you’re still not home. 

Phoenix finally left just after three, apologizing and pressing kisses to Rooster’s cheeks. And Rooster’s been sitting on the couch ever since, waiting to hear Jake’s car rumble up the drive, waiting to hear your obnoxious banter. 

It’s four in the morning when Rooster decides that you’re spending the night at Jake’s. 

He’s in his own bed, arms crossed over his chest, by 4:15. He isn’t tired--knows that he won’t sleep a wink--but decides that it is much less pathetic to sleep here than on the sofa like a dog waiting for its owner to come home. 

Jake pulls into the driveway just after Rooster’s shut his eyes. His car, his precious car, screeches to a halt just before his bumper collides with Rooster’s mailbox. He knows for certain that there are skid marks on the driveway now, knows for certain that he’s probably woken everyone up in this hoity-toity neighborhood. 

But it doesn’t matter right now--not when you’re in and out of consciousness, head lulling from side to side, a steady stream of vomit dribbling out of your mouth and onto the front of your dress. You’ve gotten worse since the two of you left the club half an hour ago--you won’t respond to him. 

“C’mere,” he says, panicked and not attempting to hide it, “I’ve gotcha, Cherry-berry.” 

And then he’s picking you up, holding your head against his shoulder and scrambling to the front door without turning his car off. His heart is racing, his temples are pulsing, his stomach is turning. 

Something’s wrong with you. He doesn't know what, he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know where it happened, he doesn’t know when it happened. But something’s gone wrong.  

You’re not here. You’re somewhere else, somewhere between Nebraska and California, drifting weightless across a plane of black poppies. You don’t know what’s happening to you--only that you’re sorry you had that last drink. 

“Rooster!” Jake screams. And it really is just that--a scream. “Fuck. Rooster!” 

You vomit suddenly all down Jake’s back as he hurries into the foyer, shaking his head wildly, stumbling around in the dark. 

 Rooster feels every hair on his body stand at attention as he sprints down the hall, his heart racing, his mouth dry. And then he sees Jake standing right there in foyer, holding your crumpled form, panicked tears streaming down his red face as he stumbles towards Rooster. 

“She’s in a bad way, man,” Jake sobs out, shaking his head. “I-I don’t know what fuckin’ happened!” 

Rooster is wide awake as he pulls your body off Jake’s and onto his. With the movement that jostles your body, it restarts the heaving again. You’re vomiting all over the tile, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your shoulders instinctively coming together as your fingers go limp. 

“The fuck you mean you don’t know what happened?” Rooster asks. “What the fuck happened to her, man?” 

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: GASPS

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

AN ICON

Okay I swear this is last clip I am posting!

facing the music

pairing: joel miller x reader (pairing from the soccer parents au, but can be read as a stand-alone)

summary: joel’s got a secret. you’re determined to figure it out. 

word count: 4.4k

warnings: mentions of cheating and insecurities around cheating (but no actual cheating), joel is being a little suspicious, joel in his musician era, a bit of arguing, angst, fluffy at the end, au: no apocalypse, very lightly edited

author’s note: thank you all so much for 2k followers!! i hope you enjoy this fic! comments and feedback are always appreciated :)

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