Below are the links for the masterlists and other works I have going on currently. I hope you enjoy, and happy reading! <3
The colors of the titles correspond to which band member the fic is about. Color Code is as follows:
Vessel
II
III
IV
In Our Wake (multi-chapter, dead dove content, slow-burn friends to lovers, 32.5k word count)
All In (multi-chapter, fluff, slow-burn friends to lovers, 23.5k word count)
Unspoken (long blurb, enemies to lovers, smut, 13.3k word count)
Sanctified (one-shot, 18+ MDNI, one-shot, heavy smut, 6.5k word count)
The Love You Want (one-shot, fluff, prequel to Mine, engagement vibes, 5.1k word count)
Mine (one-shot, fluff, wedding vibes, he sings to you, word count 3.5k)
A Taste For You (one-shot, 18+ MDNI, one-shot, heavy smut, sub!III + !dom fem reader, 3.7k word count)
Provider (one-shot, 18+ MDNI, one-shot, heavy smut, soft!dom II + sub fem reader, descriptive aftercare, 3.4k word count)
Rain Down On Me (one-shot, 18+ MDNI, detailed smut, fluff and aftercare, rainy day, 3.3k word count)
Download (one-shot, 18+ MDNI, heavy smut, post-Download festival Vessel + fem!reader, shower fluff, aftercare, 4.3k word count)
Always (one-shot, 18+ MDNI, angst, emotional vulnerability, verbal fight between Vessel + fem!reader, fluff and suggestive content at the end, aftercare, 5.3k word count)
You Know I'll Be Yours (part 1 of 2, same vibe as TLYW, with fem!reader + II instead of Vessel, fluff and cute stuff, suggestive content at the end, 5.4k word count)
When The Bough Breaks (multi-chapter, angst, toxicity from partner of fem!reader at beginning, slow-burn friends-to-lovers with Vessel, MDNI, 16.7k words thus far, WIP)
Halloween made me wanna write something, so this happened. Please be nice, I’ve not written any fanfic before. Reader is written as gender neutral but with female anatomy. Minors DNI!
Poly!Token, gn!reader (female anatomy but neutral pronouns used), inhuman!vessel, inhuman!ii, inhuman!iii, inhuman!iv, oral (f receiving), vampires, no beta readers we die like gods who were sharpening their blades
As you step outside, the cold air hits your face. Even under the layer of makeup and the numbing effects of the booze, it’s a cold night, and you are not wearing much, but it’s Halloween, a night for costumes and fun, and a little chill in the air wasn’t going to stop you. The bar was loud, metal blasting through the open door, and the area out the front was almost completely full, people crammed around tables and under heat lamps, cigarette smoke and laughter filling the air. You just needed air - a brief respite from the noise and the heat and the press of bodies - but this bar was not good for that. Still, the drinks were reasonably cheap and the atmosphere was good, so you’re here anyway. But that’s when you notice him.
He’s tall, really tall, no - obscenely tall, stood at the other end of the small, fenced in patch of street that counts as a smoking area in this tiny, ancient city, smoking through a mask. You’re not entirely sure how he’s managing it, given that the area over the mouth is almost like a muzzle, but manage it he does, as well as drinking with the aid of a straw. His laugh is rich, low and easy, echoing over the busy bar, his lanky frame stretching as he makes his excuses and slips through the throng of people toward you.
“Like what you see?” he says, leaning casually against the wall beside you, bleach-blond hair sitting above the most gorgeous pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. You notice a sigil in his mask - the white of it stark against the black and gold that hide the rest of his face. It flows from his forehead down to just beneath his eyes, eyes that are now locked on yours. He must have caught you staring.
“If you’re gonna look at me like that, darlin’, at least let me buy you a drink.”
“Like what? I’m just trying to work out what exactly you’re meant to be dressed as.” You cross your arms, almost defensive, leaning back a little, as he looks down and snickers before replying.
“Oh, y’know, all the usual masks get a bit dull, thought I’d mix it up a little this year and try something new. So, how about that drink, huh?”
As annoying as his non-answer was, you do kind of want another drink, so you follow him inside and round to the bar, staffed by a Walking Dead-style zombie and a werewolf tonight, the bass from the speakers pounding as you hum along to a familiar tune. He orders a tequila sunrise for himself and an espresso martini for you, and manages to snag a recently-vacated table, sliding into the bench seating, one leg propped up as he sits at an angle in the corner, the leather of his jacket creating a horrible squeak as it drags against the bench.
“Anyway, I’ve got a while to spare before my friends catch up to me, and I’d like to spend it chatting to a pretty little zombie if they don’t mind the intrusion. What’re you doing out alone, anyway?” He asks this casually, staring at his phone as he does so, tapping away furiously, the telltale click click click of a phone keyboard barely audible above the music.
“Well, my friends ditched me to go clubbing and that is…not exactly my sort of scene, and this place is open the latest. The music’s a bonus. Figure I’d either have a good night and make some friends, head home when I got tired, or meet back up with them when they get bored with cheesy 2000s hits.” You sigh as you tell him, not entirely sure why you’d tell this admittedly friendly stranger that the few friends you did head out with were elsewhere, but the bar is busy enough and you’re not exactly a stranger here, so it can’t be too bad of an idea, right?
“Aw, don’t knock 2000s pop! Some of it’s awesome! Don’t get me wrong, I like this sort of music more but you’ve gotta admit, some of it is bloody catchy.” You can almost hear him pouting as he says this, half-shouting over the speakers, currently blasting Supermassive Black Hole, but you laugh along and agree. After all, he’s not wrong.
The pair of you waste time chatting, moving from what you do for work to what brought you to the city onto opinions on various horror movies and Halloween films. Turns out he loves The Lost Boys (“David’s just…cool. And hot. And badass.”), despises the remake of The Wicker Man (“The original is just so much better, it’s a classic!”), and Twilight is a guilty pleasure (“The soundtrack makes up for it, and the Volturi are awesome.”). Just as you finish debating which Cullen is the best (his vote is for Emmet), he jumps up excitedly as three more people join you, all different heights, and all masked - the same sigil on each one, too. One, the tallest of the new men, wearing a long black robe that cannot be offering any sort of protection against the chill in the air, least of all since he’s not wearing a shirt underneath, shifts his weight from foot to foot, visibly uncomfortable.
“Hey, took you long enough! Guys, this is…wait. Fuck. I forgot to get your name, sorry, I feel like an idiot now.” The bounding energy fading as he curls up into himself out of embarrassment.
“Y/N” you supply, giggling a little at how overexcited was. “Guessing you’re this guy’s friends, besides, don’t hold it against him that he didn’t get my name - we didn’t exactly do introductions”.
The shortest, wearing a ripped-up black hoodie, mask formed into a frown with the sigil over his mouth, laughs and slides in next to you, and starts going round each of them to make introductions.
“So you’ve met III, I’m II, the one standing awkwardly over there is Vessel-“ the taller figure in the black robe looks up, eyes widening behind the mesh of his mask, his painted black mouth moving with wordless utterances as he reaches up to scratch the back of his head,
“-and this is IV.” He finishes, gesturing at a man in a mask mirroring that of the man you’ve just learnt is called III, sliding into the bench seat beside him, snuggling into his chest a little as he does. Vessel looks around awkwardly before noticing the empty glasses on the table, and offers to grab everyone a round of drinks as he scoops up the empty glasses to take them back to the bar.
“I know what you two like,” he says, gesturing to II and III, “but what about the pair of you? IV, I know you like the classics but…”
“Oh…uh….whisky sour for me please, unless that’s what you were going for, then just grab a second one you’d like and we’ll share.” IV replies, his pale blue eyes almost dripping with affection.
“Not sure - how about I come up, decide when I get there, and help you carry the drinks back to the table?” you say, sliding out of your seat and standing up, stretching a little as you realise how stiff you’ve become from sitting at the table for as long as you have.
“So…you and III seem to be getting along?” Vessel says, or asks, you can’t really tell, staring at his hands after putting the glasses on the bar and waiting for one of the bartenders to come and take your order.
“Oh…um…yeah…I didn’t realise that…well..” you stumble out, feeling almost as awkward as Vessel looked, the realisation of what he was on about setting in.
“No, no, don’t worry, he wouldn’t do anything if the rest of us weren’t ok with it, I’m just wondering him what got him so…bubbly. He’s usually more aloof with strangers but-“ Vessel’s rushed apology and explanation is cut short by the zombie looking at the pair of you expectantly.
“Please can I get a whisky sour, a dark and stormy, a double vodka red bull, a tequila sunrise and…uh…” he looks between you and the bartender quickly, suddenly realising he didn’t ask what you wanted and that the bartender got to you a lot quicker than he thought they would.
“Another dark and stormy, please.” You fill in for him, and see him visibly relax as you do. The bartender grunts a nod, and turns around to make your order, keeping in character the entire time, before presenting a card reader and five full glasses to Vessel with a grunt. Vessel reaches over to pay quickly, lightly touching your arm to assure you that he’s got it, before picking up three of the glasses, rings on his long fingers, painted black like the lower part of his face, clinking gently against them. You pick up the other two glasses - one of them yours - and follow him back to the table, putting the second drink in your hands, a rather concerning yellow colour, next to II, assuming it’s his. Before you can sit down, Vessel reaches round and pulls your chair out for you, then squeezes in next to III, who slid closer to IV to let him in.
The five of you begin to chat, each of you taking turns to get more drinks as and when they run out, but the four men never seem to let you pay for the rounds. You put it down to them trying to be gentlemanly - Vessel is certainly living up to that - but III’s flirting becomes more obvious the later it gets, even with IV getting more and more tactile with him, as II begins to test the waters with you, too. A glancing look here, a gentle touch there, and before you know it, his hand is on your thigh. Vessel seems to be relaxing too, toying with III’s hair and occasionally giving you an almost timid smile.
You learn that they’re all together, in a band, and they all live together. Turns out Vessel sings, and after long enough, he sings along to the songs playing over the bar’s speakers when the conversation lulls. His voice is beautiful, the low notes rich and sultry; the high bare and vulnerable. You can’t help but fall silent, entranced by the absent-minded vocals drifting effortlessly from painted lips. It doesn’t take long for the others to join in, IV humming softly into III’s chest, II tapping on the table as if it were his drumkit. As beautiful as it is, you feel as if you’re intruding, and try to carefully slide out of your seat to head outside into the cold.
You get out, and feel your phone buzz against your thigh. Fishing it out of your pocket, you see several missed texts from your friends, and one new one coming in telling you all about their exploits at the club, and how they’re now trying to get one of them into a taxi after she got plastered, demanded chips, and almost passed out, face now covered in cheese and gravy. You sigh, half laughing, remembering all the other times she’s done that, and part of you wishes you’d been there. You love your friends, you really do, but some of them are not the smartest when they get drunk.
“Everything ok?”
You turn, surprised to see Vessel standing behind you, a worried look visible on the half of his face not covered by his mask.
“Oh, yeah, I just…I felt like I was intruding. The four of you looked like you were having a moment and…” you stumble out, words failing you at the end of it, awkwardness at being spotted beginning to take over. You had managed to stand beside the window next to their table though, so you aren’t too surprised that you’d been seen.
“It’s alright, you weren’t intruding, I just…sometimes I get overwhelmed by places like this and getting lost in the music helps. Are your friends ok?” He asks, gesturing at your phone. “III mentioned you split up earlier and, well, he figured you’d check.”
“Yeah, they’re ok, Amy got a little too drunk and faceplanted into her chips, so they’ve headed home. They’ll let me know when they’re back if they don’t collapse into bed the moment they all get in.”
“Sign of a good night, I guess,” he chuckles, tentatively reaching out to grab your hand. You let him, the soft skin of your palm meeting calloused fingers as he gently traces shapes across and over your skin.
Every touch crackles beneath your skin, and he moves in closer, his left hand reaching up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear before it dances beside your cheek. You press into his hand, quietly closing the distance between you two as he looks you up and down.
“I think I understand why III was so excited now.” he whispers, leaning in, the ghost of his breath making you shudder, a small smile flickering across his face before his lips meet yours.
The kiss is slow and tentative at first, but builds to a more sensual one as Vessel becomes more sure of himself, his arms snaking around you to pull you closer. The lips and tongue that can create such beautiful sound work magic against yours, a soft moan escaping your mouth as one hand dances across your back and the other slips into your hair. Even when it ends, he keeps you pressed close to him, a look of pure reverence on his face as his gaze fixes on you. Your heart flutters, the soft smiles and gentle touches making you feel safe with him, with the others, with all of this.
“Shall we go back inside, or should I get the others and we could head off?” his tone is gentle, but there’s a husky note to it, thick with desire but carefully held back, kept in check by a mix of awkwardness and care.
“Oh…I….wait…all of you?” This comes as a bit of a shock - whilst II and III had clearly been interested, you hadn’t realised Vessel and IV were too, and you’d never been with two people at once, let alone four…
“Only if you’d want that, of course. But we…all of us want this. Want you.” As he says this, the others join you, III rocking on his heels, brimming with anticipation, II and IV looking up hopefully. 3 sets of blue eyes were trained on you, each one filled with hope, excitement and nervousness.
“We’ll take care of you, I promise. In every way you could want.”
The concept was intoxicating, almost as much as Vessel’s kiss was, and the idea of getting that again, from four men…well…they do say you only live once.
The walk back to theirs is not a long one, broken up only by a quick stop in a 24 hour corner shop for snacks and some juice.
“Don’t want you feeling too awful tomorrow, and you’re going to need the energy.”
III had his arm wrapped around your shoulders now, IV’s hand brushing against your hips as his arm hung lazily around III’s waist, much as II’s did yours. Vessel led the way, humming to himself quietly in the dark, and stops before a door.
Their home really wasn’t far, and is grander than you thought it would be. It’s old, that’s for sure, but that’s not unusual in this city. The door before you is a thick, old wooden slab with intricately carved metalwork filling in the rest. The hinges and fixings attaching them are painted black, with delicate flowers etched in each one, along with a brass handle sat above a matching keyhole. In the centre of the door sits a window, set behind a cage of black iron, a large peephole that must have seen thousands of faces over the years.
“Well, this is us, darlin’!” III mutters, scooping you up to carry you through as the lock clicks and the door swings open, Vessel evidently anticipating this move of his. Vessel steps through, the plush red carpet silencing his already soft steps, and the rest follow. III kicks his boots off rather unceremoniously as IV reaches round to carefully remove your shoes, placing them on a shoe rack next to the trainers he and II had already taken off, Vessel busying himself with his tabis. The moment your and III’s shoes are clear of your feet, he excitedly bounds through the house, quickly moving through a living room, up the carved wooden stairs, and into a large bedroom before tossing you onto the bed. You hardly had a moment to catch your breath before he lands beside you, hands exploring, sliding up your shirt as he looks at you filthily.
“Mmm, I can’t wait to see what’s beneath all this” he growls, voice dangerously low, as the door closes as the other three men catch up.
“You’re not the only one, mate, but slow down. Let them breathe.” II utters, leaning against the door jamb, peeling his hoodie over his head and tossing it over a chair before gently prizing his mask up. Tattooed, muscly arms rippled as he tensed, pulling his shirt over his head, revealing an equally tattooed and muscly torso, dark hair grazing perfect cheekbones.
He moves over quickly, eagerly planting his lips on you, up your arm and over to your neck, as III sits back and pulls his mask off too, revealing cheekbones sharper than you could imagine and a jawline to match, covered in the slight stubble that comes from skipping a shave for a day or two. His lips begin to mirror II’s, gently tilting your head back and into the soft pillows resting on the bed behind you, hand sliding up your stomach, pushing your shirt up a little as he moves. II spots this, and sits you up a little so he and III can pull your shirt off, before kissing down your chest, III nipping gently at you as he does whilst II’s hands trace shapes across your stomach.
Vessel takes this chance to slide in behind you, chest pressed against your back as his mouth meets your neck, the cold porcelain of his mask brushing against your cheek. A soft moan drips from your mouth, the feeling of three mouths in you, all moving in perfect tandem, more arousing than you could ever have imagined. Vessel’s hands meander to your hips, gently tugging at your belt before nudging the waistband down so his hands can rest on your skin. IV had stripped himself almost bare, only his boxers left, and slides between your legs, filling the only gap on the bed left before tentatively drawing your jeans down and tossing them to the side, letting them land atop your already discarded shirt. He’s less toned than II, with more to him than III and his lanky figure, but just as attractive. A small trail of hair leads up from the waistband of his underwear, becoming a thin line on his chest, a tantalising hint at what lies further down. His lips meet your thigh and you begin to lose yourself to the ecstasy of it all.
As time and space slip away, leaving only the four men surrounding you, teasing you, worshipping you, they all end up in a similar state of undress to you and IV. Vessel’s arms and torso smear paint all over your back as he kneels behind you still, II’s hands exploring every inch of your exposed skin between peeling off layers of clothing, III’s teeth nipping gently at your chest, your neck, your hips, your nipples, wherever he can reach as IV grips at your thighs and arse, lavishing you with kisses. It’s almost too much to handle, and small whimpers begin to tumble from your lips from the four men. You barely even notice II and IV slowly swapping places, lips never leaving your skin.
But you do notice II hum to himself, visibly excited, face so close and his breath dancing across your clit.
“Oh, I am going to enjoy this.”
That’s all the warning you get before he pushes your knees back to your chest and his lips wrap around your clit, tongue gently probing it, moving in slow circles, as if searching for something. He’s eating like a man starved, and that same man has just had his favourite dish placed in front of him. Shock and pleasure shooting your spine, body writhing from pleasure but held down firmly, though not harshly, by the four men who surround you. II’s calluses fingers find your entrance, already slick, and he deftly slides one in, tongue still lapping at your clit hungrily. Fuck, the man is good. Then he hits that spot…
“Fuckkk…right there…so good…”
You can barely form words from it already, but II doesn’t need any more encouragement than he just received, having found the exact point that makes you squirm and moan and drool and melt all at once. His focus is like a laser, pushing and prodding and drawing with just the right amount of pressure to make you shake from anticipation, fingers dancing inside all the while. You two aren’t the only ones enjoying this, either, as the others are all hard, cocks pressing into you as they begin to grind almost mindlessly, just as lost in what was happening as you were. Vessel was kissing your neck now, sucking slightly to match II’s assault down below.
And that was when you felt it, something sharp, something painful, right in the crook of your neck, right where Vessel’s mouth was…no…is.
“Aaaargh! What the FUCK?”
All four men pulled back suddenly, II’s mouth still shiny from your slick, clearly confused until he locks eyes with Vessel. You push yourself up a little and whip around to see blood, your blood, dripping down his chin and sharp fangs protruding from his open mouth, head hanging ruefully.
“I…uh…I can explain…”His tone was riddled with guilt and fear, his legs beginning to curl up as his arms cage his chest, drawing in on himself.
“You’d better.” You cross your arms over your now naked chest, feeling exposed and a little angry.
“I…well…I’m…it happens when I get too excited, if you catch my drift? I didn’t realise I was doing it until you cried out and…fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I should have said, I should have asked...”
“Ok, I got that much - but more to the point, what the FUCK are you?” You cut him off in his rambling, neck still stinging, thankful he apologised for the sudden, pointy intrusion but still confused and angry about what just happened.
“I guess you’d call me a vampire?“
“And you?” You hurl, almost accusingly, at II, III and IV. “Are you…”
III hung his head, awkward and uncomfortable.
“Well, those two are-“ he gestures at II and IV, “and I am too, I guess, but I’m also…kinda like a werewolf? But it’s not what you think!”
“And what do I think, III?” He went quiet then, curling up in a similar way to Vessel, face like a kicked puppy.
II moved to sit next to you, biting his wrist before smearing it on your neck. It itched, but once the itching passed the pain had faded with it.
“I’m sorry, we should have told you but…none of us could find the right moment and it’s a lot of explaining. We were all turned at different points, and a lot of the stories you’ve heard about people like us are completely wrong. We don’t glitter or burn up in sunlight, but it can give us migraines or a nasty sunburn. We need to drink blood to survive, but we can eat human food too. We can get drunk or high, but it takes a lot more or drinking the blood of someone who already is to actually do anything. Silver and crosses don’t do anything, either, by the way. Oh, and III can turn whenever, but will always turn on a full moon. When he first started, he didn’t have much control, but that comes with time, and the worst he ever did was confuse several journalists and terrorise a shit-tonne of sheep.” He explained gently, clearly trying to calm you down and set things straight.
“We’re not going to hurt you, I promise. We’re still the same four men you met in a bar and got chatting with.”
“This is all too weird…” you curl up as you saying this, suddenly completely overwhelmed. You want to run, to get out and never look back, chalk this all up to a drunken stupor, but you can’t. Your swirling cocktail of emotions paralyse you as the tears begin to fall, despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. III pulls you into his arms, rubbing soft circles on your back with one hand as the other reaches up to brush away the tears, still not saying anything.
You spend a while like this, Vessel uncurling to place a hand on your knee, an action mirrored by IV as II rubs your shoulder gently. This is all far too confusing - you meet four guys, four lovely guys who were so gentlemanly earlier, so caring and so genuine, and it turns out they’re fucking vampires? What on earth is someone meant to do in that situation? They don’t seem to mind though, in fact, they seem quite happy that you haven’t run out screaming, despite how much your body continues to insist that you should. It becomes comforting quicker than you thought it would, the fear of them having started ebbing away the moment III’s arm wrapped around you.
“It’s getting pretty late, you should get some sleep, darlin’, I’ll bring up a glass of that orange juice for you, ok?” III slips out of the bed, laying you down gently as he does, grabbing for his trousers.
“Wait-“ he darts out of the door before you can finish, not that you knew what exactly you were going to say, but feeling like you should say something.
“III’s right, it’s late, you need rest. We’ll let you get some sleep.” Vessel made a move to stand up now, as II and IV hurriedly got at least half-dressed as you tried to form a protest in your mind. It may have been a shock, but despite everything, you didn’t want them to leave.
“No, don’t go, please…” Your voice came out weaker than you’d meant it to, hating the fact you sounded almost pitiful at the thought of being left alone. Vessel stopped, confused.
“You…want us to stay?” he asks, tone questioning, looking quickly between you and the other two vampires left in the room. You manage a nod before curling up into the duvet again as all the feelings of confusion crash over you again. Vessel walks backs over, and sits gently on the edge of the bed, one hand stroking your hair.
“Ok, we can do that, but can I quickly get this paint off? I don’t want to make more of a mess of you than I already have.” You manage to force out another nod, then he bends down to kiss your forehead before slipping out of the room, leaving you with II and IV, who quickly replace him. After a small tug on IV’s wrist, he slides in next to you, letting you rest your head on his chest, and gently stroking your hair.
“Ok, orange juice and a snack to stave off the hangover, some makeup wipes so you don’t sleep in all that makeup and wreck your skin and- oh!” III had returned, the reason for his delay evident in his hand - he held a plate with a fresh toastie on it, cheese dripping out of the sides of it. His other hand held a large glass of orange juice, and the makeup wipes were pressed to his side by an elbow. His eyes were wide and eyebrows raised when you looked up at his face, evidently he hadn’t expected II and IV to stay with you, let alone for IV to be cuddling you as II sat beside you. He set the plate and glass down on the bedside table before bending down to start removing your makeup for you.
“I’m so sorry, I should have said…” he almost whispers, gently removing stroking your face with a wipe before realising a delicate touch was not going to remove the fake blood and eyeliner you’d applied hours earlier.
“It’s ok, it was just a bit of a shock I think.” you reply, letting a small, tired small cross your face as III begins to apply a little more pressure with his thumb. He smiles back, still tentative, but a little less so than before. You started to sit up, a small sound of indignance escaping IV’s mouth before he realises just why you’d need to sit up.
“Ives, let them eat! They’ve had a hell of a night and I don’t want them feeling even worse tomorrow.” II chastises gently. This draws a small chuckle out of you, and appears to settle the three vampires around you.
You manage to finish the orange juice and eat about half of the toastie, just filled with cheese since III wasn’t sure what you’d like, before Vessel returns. He still had his mask on, but his short, dark hair was messy and a little damp. The paint was off now, and he’d changed into a set of pyjamas, a simple black t-shirt and loose-fitting grey bottoms. He looked smaller, somehow, as if still ashamed by what he’d done, but smiled slightly when he saw the others taking such good care of you.
“Are you sure you want me to stay? I can go, I-“ Vessel stutters out, before you cut him off with an excited, albeit tired, “yes!” That was enough for him, though, and he slides into the bed as well.
“You want all of us to stay, or just these two?” III asks, gently to make sure you don’t feel judged.
“All of you, if that’s ok,” you reply, having to take a second to swallow the last bite of your toastie. III nods, and everyone starts gently shifting around so you’ll all fit in the bed. IV stays next to you, putting your head back on his chest and an arm around your shoulders as you lay back down, letting III slide in behind him. His long arms reach around IV and to you, one hand settling on your cheek. II and Vessel figure out a similar arrangement - II spooning you and Vessel spooning him - as Vessel’s arms are also long enough to reach past the smaller man to hold you. Cocooned between them all, you relax, the soft sheets and strong arms leaving you feeling safer than you had in a long time.
“Sleep well, darlin’.” is the last thing you hear before you drift into a dreamless sleep. It had been one hell of a night.
I had a completely free day today and plenty of inspiration, so I was able to finish up Chapter 6 for you all! I hope you enjoy. Again, buckle up <3
CW: suggestive content at the beginning, otherwise none
Word Count: 4.4k
CHAPTER 6
He tunes down half a step by ear; head tipped toward the guitar’s body which sits nested against his ribs snugly. She coaxes a thrum from the keyboard perched on her lap, testing voicings; a little more brightness here, a mellowed third there. They don’t talk much, but then again, they don’t have to. He shifts a chord, and she meets him with harmony. It feels easy in a way the last few weeks haven’t. It feels like home to them.
He sketches a verse and sings under his breath, not even words at first, just hums, a tone that will soon find its bones. She follows, soft and light, the second line of a piece barely written, and something in his chest loosens as her harmony lands and blooms. They laugh when they miss each other’s notes by a hair or by a mile, then hit it clean on the second pass and grin like thieves who’ve just cracked the code. His knee bumps her calf. Her shoulder brushes his sleeve. Small contact, cheerfully accidental, and yet each touch hangs in the air a heartbeat longer than it has any right to.
Productive. That’s the word for it. But what can’t be held is the bright, quiet joy. The way he keeps catching her looking happy and has to look away. The way she keeps catching him staring. Outside, clouds drag their shadows across the neighboring rooftops; somewhere down the hall III shouts at a game and then laughs so loudly the laughter breaks into coughing.
They finish a demo and let the last note hang. A soft silence settles over them, peace cloaking the room. She tilts her face to the window, taking in the swaying branches of the willow tree just outside. He watches the light slide along her cheekbone and wants viscerally, achingly, to see her like this for the rest of his life. He can tell she looks a bit tired, so he decides to provide a bit of respite for her sake.
“Break?” he asks softly. She nods, smiling as she scoots away from the piano, stretching her legs out in front of her, relaxed. His hands are already moving, guitar tuning in his lap to something familiar, hands falling into a chord known by muscle memory.
It’s an old pattern, one he’s worn smooth over late, lonely nights. The gentle lullaby of “Shelter.” But this time, there’s no mask to hide behind. No stage, no distance. Just the two of them. He sings softly, carefully, his tenor lilting through the room, a velvety-smooth blanket settling around her shoulders.
She’s heard this song before, of course she has; everyone in his orbit has, but she’s never heard it like this; stripped down to strings and wood, the grain of his voice threaded with vulnerability. The lyrics have always landed like consolation. Now they land almost like a confession.
He risks a glance, and she’s already looking. For a suspended instant, the whole house seems to pause for the two of them taking each other in, the tension buzzing throughout the room as the last chord of the song fades into nothing. Her eyes flicker to his mouth; his to hers. It’s instinctive, dizzying.
The guitar ghosts to the side as he rises, eyes fixed on her. She stands almost in the same motion. Then there’s only the space between her and the certain knowledge that he’s going to close it. Feet move in tandem. Hands reach, fingers outstretch, hearts race.
They meet in the middle, energies shifting as they touch in a way that is no longer skirting around being platonic. Her hands find his jaw, his cheeks, his hair. His palms cradle her like she’s the most delicate, precious thing he’s ever held in his hands, and their mouths find one another in a kiss that feels both shockingly new and beautifully familiar.
The first touch is a soft press, with a question folded into it; the second is the answer. Heat unfurls under his skin. He feels her fingers curl into the fabric at his sides, knuckles brushing his ribs, and it steals a sound from him that he hasn’t elicited in years. She tastes like afternoon sunshine and coffee and something he doesn’t have a name for except his. Finally his.
The kiss deepens by increments. By the way he feels her breath catch when his thumb grazes the curve under her ear; the way his pulse hammers against his chest when her lips part on a sigh and he follows her there. It’s tenderness with a bright edge, a careful hunger. When his mouth leaves hers, it’s only to map the corner of her smile, to learn the angle of her jaw as if he’s been studying it all along and only now has permission to draw it. He feels her hands skate up along his chest, cataloging heat and the startle of muscle under cotton. When she catches the hem and slips her fingers just beneath, his breath stumbles and his forehead drops to hers, a quiet, incredulous chuckle follows.
Clothes become a nuisance to them, as they want and need nothing more than to learn each other’s bodies like a dark art. The world narrows to the press of her against him, the quiet music of breathing and the unsteady yet sure rhythm they make together. He guides her backward toward the bed, one hand splayed at the small of her back, the other cupping her face like a benediction he can’t resist. The mattress dips as he guides her back. As he hovers, eyes searching hers, he spots no discomfort, only hunger.
“Is this okay, are you okay?” he asks anyway. He has to be sure. He needs to ensure there will be nothing to corrupt this moment he’s anticipated for years, and that she’s absolutely comfortable.
She smiles up at him, eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sun, and the yes she gives him touches every place inside him that he thought may never be seen again. He kisses her again, his lips showing his reverence through unadulterated passion.
He feels the bow of her spine under his palm, the warm length of her bare thigh along his, the way her breath heaves against his throat when she tilts her head to make room for him. He knows without a doubt that he will remember this moment forever.
Then, his hand reaches for the curve of her he just kissed, and he finds air. He looks down at her, and her eyes are fixed on his with a softness that makes his chest ache, but behind them something is thinning, gold going pale.
“Don’t,” he pleads, or maybe he just thinks it. He presses closer, desperate to keep the world from slipping. Her mouth opens under his like she’s saying I’m here and I want and yes all at once.
Sunlight presses through his lashes.
He opens his eyes to the ceiling, the gentle morning sun warming his face. The room is exactly itself; curtains breathing with the draft of the air unit, the faint murmur of a television or maybe a record player further off, and her scent that’s threaded through his pillows. His pulse is suddenly too loud in his ears. For a disoriented second, he tries to follow the corridor back into the dreamscape by force of will, clawing at the illusion, chasing after it as it drifts further away. His chest aches with the loss of something that was so real, yet he’s just watched it evaporate.
Her shape beside him brings him back to earth. She is here, real, asleep, and turned slightly toward him as if she drifted closer in the night. He has never been more grateful for a person safely sleeping, yet he has never been more devastated, and it only adds insult to injury that his mouth still tastes like an invisible, insatiable memory.
His body betrays him in the most infuriating yet human way as heat pulses low and urgent, and immediate. He closes his eyes and swears silently at himself, but not for wanting; he refuses to be ashamed of wanting love this deeply, but for the line between dream and waking that makes him feel so fooled in his own bed.
He breathes deeply as he arranges the comforter higher over her shoulder. He folds himself out of the sheets as quietly as the mattress will allow. The wardrobe door creaks, and he flinches, waits, picks a shirt by familiar color, selecting joggers by habit, and finally underwear. He flicks the bathroom light on after gently closing the door. He does not, or more accurately cannot, look back. If he does, he will crawl back into the space beside her, wrap himself around her, and risk it all on a sleep-mussed confession he wants so badly to be worthy of.
The shower takes longer to heat than usual. Or maybe time in combination with the water heater have just decided to be cruel. Water finally spreads across his shoulders in a plane of warmth, loosening his jaw first, and the rest of his body soon follows. He presses his palms to the tile in front of him and drops his head, letting the stream drum the nape of his neck. He thinks of the dream instinctually. The way her hands felt on his face, the soft shock of her mouth moving with his, the aching relief of being allowed to be gentle and hungry at once. He tries not to imagine her on the other side of the wall breathing in sleep, the way she does when she feels completely safe. Or the way her body perfectly conformed to his, the way her spectral hands caressed his body, or the angelic indications of pleasure which drifted up from the depths of her starved, yet fictitious core.
He’s only human, after all. The ache doesn’t care that he’s trying to be noble. Want comes as a tide and he lets it wash through him with his eyes closed, grateful and furious and undone; breath catching and swelling, a quiet sound escaping before he can swallow it, shame nowhere in it, only the honest mercy of easing something away that would otherwise break him open. The water covers him as his hand works, and finally carries it away. He presses his forehead to the cool tile until his pulse climbs down.
When he steps out, the mirror is fogged, and his cheeks and chest are flushed, not solely from the hot water. He dresses slowly, each layer a symbol of covering that which he wishes he could reveal. He opens the bathroom door and the house’s ordinary hum greets him once more like a hand to the shoulder.
Time moves in the kind way it sometimes does when you need it. The next hours thin into threads. Small chores, a rehearsal scheduled out on the whiteboard, someone’s laughter chasing a kettle’s whistle or a pan’s sizzle, her voice in the hallway and his whole body turning toward it like heliotropism he pretends is a coincidence.
By evening, the usual nighttime hush has fallen over the house once more. The two of them end up on the couch again, books and phones in hand. The television murmurs a low sitcom into the room’s corners. She’s in one of his jumpers, for comfort, of course, sleeves pushed to her forearms. He’s in that charcoal shirt she steals when she’s cold. Neither of them mentions any of it, as it’s become natural at this point.
They arrange themselves as if they’ve done this forever. She folds into the corner of the couch, then extends her legs without even looking at him, and when her thighs settle across his lap, he doesn’t startle; he simply fits his hands over the warm, easy weight of her, thumbs resting lightly the way they did in the dream. No asking or awkwardness anymore.
Her book pages softly scrape against one another as she turns them periodically. His phone glows with tour notes he pretends to review while his eyes keep being drawn to the page edge, where her dainty fingers rest, awaiting another page turn just to watch them move, enamored. The table lamp paints her soft form in honey. The knit of her socks has left a faint impression on the sliver of exposed ankle just below the hem of her comfy pants.
She scoots the bottom of the book up slightly, and the hem of the jumper shifts along her hip; a tiny, accidental reveal of silky skin. Heat flares through his abdomen, then settles into something less overtaking: a fullness, a rightness, a gratefulness so immense it frightens him a little. He thinks of the dream’s blue-light unreality and how this moment, this quiet, this ordinary, is nearly better simply because it asks nothing but honesty and tranquility. He thinks of how easily they have arrived at this; how it feels like an intake of breath so sharp after being underwater for too long.
As she turns another page, her book gently nudges his bicep once, absent-minded. He rubs his thumb over the spot where it rests on her thigh without thinking. She doesn’t look up, but she does smile into the page.
He exhales, peace filling his mind. The ache is still there, but it’s not as sharp. It is a low ember, patient, warming both of them from the inside out. He lets himself imagine, just for a moment, how a life might look if this were the baseline. He thinks of the songs he’d write with her and about her. He thinks of the yeses and the pleas she’d give him and draw forth from him in a place where low light meets desire.
He finalizes an email and hits send, wrapping up his daily to-dos on his phone. He opens his reading app and makes a selection. He rests his unoccupied hand on her thigh, palm down, fingers loosely holding her. She smiles again into her book, but not because of what she’s reading; because of who’s grounding her while simultaneously shooting sparks throughout her body as they emanate from his hand which rests right above her knee. He pleas silently stay, be safe, be as happy as I can make you, and when you’re ready, I will be, too.
The house is quiet except for the tick of the analog on the wall and the occasional creak of the pipes settling in the walls. She stirs beneath the comforter, somewhere between awake and asleep. Contrasting like the warmth of the comforter and the faint press of cool air leaking through the curtains. Sleep won’t hold her. Every time she closes her eyes she drifts back to a distant place; soft laughter, music that isn’t playing anymore, a pair of dark eyes that always seem to find hers from across the room.
She exhales, surrendering. The clock shows past two-thirty. Pulling the robe hanging at the foot of the bed over her pajamas, she moves barefoot through the hallway. The house smells faintly of cedar and detergent, that uniquely comforting mix that has already come to mean home. When she reaches the back door, she pauses. Through the glass, the night glows silver, the same hue as the morning light that once woke them, only gentler, almost forgiving.
He’s there. Vessel sits at the far end of the porch swing, hoodie up, mug cupped in both hands. The steam curls against the air like a lazy dancer performing a slow, winding waltz. For a moment she only watches him; the strong, quiet curve of his shoulders, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way moonlight pools over the lines of his face, accentuating his lips. He doesn’t notice her yet, and she wonders what he’s thinking, what song might be threading through that beautiful mind always half lost in a melody.
When the door creaks open, he turns, startled but not really surprised. A small, crooked smile flickers across his mouth, his eyes lighting up. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks softly, voice still rough with fatigue. She shakes her head. “You either, it seems.” He gestures to the swing beside him. “Join me, then, ‘f you want.”
The porch boards cool her feet as she crosses the space and sits. The swing dips under her weight, and the chains give a low, familiar sigh. For a while, neither of them speak. The world hums faintly around them; the rustle of a warm breeze, the occasional drip from a gutter, the far-off echo of traffic. Their silence is not awkward, though. It’s heavy with things both of them are too nervous to say yet.
She glances sideways at him. The moonlight paints his face in shades of blue and gray. He looks peaceful, almost ethereal, but his thumb keeps tracing the rim of his mug, an anxious tell she’s come to recognize.
She wonders what it costs him to sit this close and keep his composure. She wonders what it costs her to breathe the same air and pretend she doesn’t feel every snag in the tension surrounding them, to hear every possible word left unsaid.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she opens up. “It’s strange, how quiet it is here. My old apartment was never like this.” He hums, low in his throat. “Quiet can be its own kind of loud sometimes, yeah?” Her gaze drifts out to the dark garden beyond the porch, eyes catching momentarily on the dewdrops glinting in the moonlight. “Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep. There’s too much space to think.” He nods, understanding without needing detail. “The mind is never quite clear, is it? Seems there’s always something or... someone to think about.”
The words hang there, simple but weighted. She folds her arms around herself, robe tugged tighter. “I keep thinking about… everything. The last few weeks, you, this house, how easily it all happened.” He tilts his head slightly. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know yet.” She smiles faintly. “It feels too easy. Like it shouldn’t be a good thing. Too good to be true, maybe. Then again, I’ve kinda been conditioned to anticipate the falling of the other shoe for the last... however long I was with him.”
He looks down into his mug, pensive. “Maybe ease is what it’s supposed to look like when something’s going right.” Her heart stutters a bit. The simplicity of it, the sincerity, it’s disarming. “You think so?” He glances up then, eyes finding hers through the half-light. “I do. Some things aren’t supposed to feel draining, or take all your life force to achieve.” His voice dips, quieter. “Like you being here.”
The breath leaves her chest in a slow, uneven sigh. “You make it sound so simple.” He smiles, but it’s a fragile thing. “It’s not, really. I’ve just… stopped trying to talk myself out of what I already know.”
She swallows. “And what’s that?” He hesitates long enough that the tension in the air between them feels nearly tangible. Then, softly: “That some people arrive in your life, and the whole world shifts a little to make room for them. Like it’s meant to be.”
Her eyes burn; not from tears exactly, but from the weight and realization of being seen so completely. She turns slightly toward him. “You always know what to say, Ves.”
He lets out a breath that might be a quiet laugh, disguising the flutter in his chest at hearing her say his nickname. “It’s easy to talk around you. You make things... easier.”
Silence again, but this time it’s charged, humming like a plucked string. The moon slides out from behind a cloud, silvering the porch and spilling across her knees, his hands, and the mug cooling between them.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” she admits, voice unsteady, and barely above a whisper. “But it feels like something.” He nods once, the motion small and measured. “Yeah,” he murmurs, holding back the emotions behind how long he’s been hiding these words. “It definitely feels like something.” His fingers flex against the mug, then release. “I think it’s been that way for a long time now.”
Her pulse races, but there’s no fear in it now. Her hands begin to tremble slightly because of the nerves. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Her voice is small, almost child-like, and it causes his heart to twist.
He looks away, out into the dark yard where the trees stand like patient witnesses. “Because I thought you deserved peace, and I didn’t want to complicate anything for you. You’ve been through enough.” His jaw works once before he adds, quieter, “And because if I lost what we already have here, I’m not sure I’d be able to recover from it.”
The confession settles between them softly, ringing with truth, yet heavier than anything he’s said before. She leans back against the swing, absorbing his honesty, the rawness that feels almost palpable. “I don’t want to lose this either,” she says finally. “And I think maybe that’s why I’m scared.”
He turns toward her, the corner of his mouth lifting, his eyes shining with excitement. “You don’t have to be scared anymore, love.” She studies his face; the faint stubble, the tired eyes, the gentleness that never seems to leave him even when he’s breaking. “Ves?”
Simply, “Yeah?”
“I think whatever this is… I don’t want it to stop.”
Something in his expression changes. Not surprise, exactly, more like quiet recognition, maybe even disbelief, as if he’s been waiting for the moment but never imagined it would be so soon. His shoulders ease, the tension melting out of them like wax under flame.
Neither of them moves for a moment. They simply revel in the moment, processing what this could mean. Then, slowly, she shifts closer on the swing until their sides touch. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for a moment. Her head finds his shoulder, tentative at first, then certain, settling there as if the space were built for it. She doesn’t question if she should, or how he’d react, because she knows now. His arm slides around her back with ease and fluidity, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles at her hip and around her lower back. The smell of her hair, subtle lavender, fills his lungs as he takes a deep, comfortable breath for the first time since she’d joined him on the porch. For the first time since she’d arrived at the house.
They don’t speak again that night. They don’t need to. She feels the sink in his chest beneath her cheek as he exhales. He dips his head, eyes closing, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. It’s gentle, but it lingers. It’s longer than a kiss of comfort exchanged between friends. In fact, it doesn’t feel anything like what a friend would do. Not anymore. The electric that spreads from the point of contact through the rest of her body is anything but platonic, and she has no qualms with that whatsoever. It might even be the thing she’s been waiting for her whole life; the thing that will finally make her feel complete.
When he pulls back, he stays close enough that his breath still stirs her hair. The swing creaks, a slow rhythm that matches the beat of two hearts finally allowed to sync. The night folds around them, protective and patient.
And though no words pass between them, they both know something has shifted. Something that won’t be undone by morning.
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Hey everyone! I deeply apologize for yet another long hiatus. Life has been life-ing once again, but I am back! I've been working on a nice, long chapter for you all, and I really hope you love it. Things are happening! Buckle your seatbelts, loves. Here's Chapter 5! Enjoy! :) <3
CW: light angst, yearning and fluff
Word Count: 6.4k
CHAPTER 5
The morning is kind to them; a gentle lull in contrast to the tension of the night before. Sunlight slips through the sheer living room curtains in pale ribbons, dust motes turning lazily in the warm air. The house is quieter than usual; no guitars yet, no clatter of pedalboards or laughter echoing down the hall. Just the soft, domestic hush of a kitchen coming to life. She stands at the stove in one of Vessel’s shirts she folded last night (the charcoal one that hangs perfectly off her shoulder) and a pair of his sweats, whisking eggs with easy rhythm. A second burner ticks beneath a kettle, steam fogging faintly up the tiled wall.
Wearing his clothes isn’t super ideal since they’re a few sizes too big for her and, well, she doesn’t want to just traipse in here and take over the place. She’s already claimed the kitchen, his bathroom, and her side of his bed, and adding his wardrobe to that just feels like too much all at once. She knows she needs to venture back to her apartment and gather her things, but she’s incredibly apprehensive about going back to that place knowing he’s there.
Vessel is beside her again this morning without even noticing he’d gravitated from the couch to the kitchen when she’d walked in earlier. Almost as if his body tracked hers across the room out of instinct. He’s holding a mug under the coffee machine, waiting for the last drop, eyes barely on the cup, but mostly on her. It’s a split devotion that makes his chest ache: the ordinary feeling of a morning shared, and the living, breathing miracle of having her in it.
“Too much pepper?” she asks, tilting the bowl toward him so he can see it better. He’s broken from his trance as he investigates the bowl, smiles, and replies simply, “Perfect.”
“Careful,” she teases, eyes glinting. “You’ll get a reputation for being a ‘yes man’.” He smirks as he says, “Only for you.” It comes out a bit more flirtatious than he intended, but she doesn’t seem to notice, unless she just didn’t mind it. He hands her the pepper grinder anyway. “Maybe a whisper more.” He winks at her playfully as she returns his smirk, twisting the grinder once more over the bowl.
The kettle whistles a few moments later. He turns the flame off and pours water over a waiting tea bag for IV, who sits on the counter opposite the stove like a cat, ankles crossed, flipping idly through a battered poetry book that probably belongs to no one and everyone. II drifts in a moment later, snagging slices of bread from the bag and dropping them into the toaster. III arrives loudest, yawning like a gate groaning open, hair a mess, hoodie half-zipped. “My angels,” III declares, sniffing dramatically. “I woke to the scent of divinity and hoped it was for me.”
“It’s for the household,” IV murmurs without looking up, a hint of playful sarcasm in his raspy tone. “You do happen to be in it.”
“Semantics,” III says, planting a quick, thankful kiss to the top of her head as he passes. “God bless domesticity, I say.”
“God bless not eating cereal for the fourth day in a row,” II adds with a chuckle, grabbing plates.
Vessel watches her laugh; a soft burst that scrunches her nose and crinkles her eyes, and the ache in his chest becomes a slow, spreading heat. He wants this. God, he wants this so badly; the clink of plates, the smell of homemade breakfast in the morning, the way she lets her shoulder brush against his arm, chest, or back as she reaches for the spatula or a spice or the fridge door, the way she hums beautifully under her breath when she’s happy and thinks no one’s listening. He sets a mug by her elbow, coffee just how she likes it, and she rewards him with that small, almost bashful smile that makes him feel nineteen again. “Thank you,” she says, so simply it could break him.
“For the rest of my life,” he almost says. He swallows it into a warm, harmless, “No problem.” II slides past, tapping a clean fork against his palm. “How are you feeling today?” She considers honestly. “Lighter, actually,” she admits. “Still stressed, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was a few days ago, thanks to you lot.”
Vessel’s hand finds the small of her back for a second of reassurance, no more, no less, and her breath hitches. He feels it, and he pulls away before he lingers, before he can betray how much he needs that contact to feel grounded.
They settle around the kitchen island with plates; eggs glossy and bright, toast buttered to the edges, berries that Vessel rinsed until the water ran clear. III talks about gaming and future potential side-quest gigs, IV inserts wry footnotes, II steers the conversation away from work and technical things. It feels effortless and safe for her in this environment, like she can really let go and just be. For a moment.
Then, a knock sounds at the front door. It’s unremarkable, three firm raps. Not loud, not too urgent, but it holds the weight of the unexpected and unknown.
III is closest to the door. “I’ve got it,” he says, hopping off his stool, mouth still full. “If it’s a package, I am not signing for it,” he jokes as he shuffles to the door. Vessel’s fork stills above his plate. A thin wire draws taut along his spine. He doesn’t look up, not yet; he just listens. He always feels anxiety creep over him when there’s someone at the door these days.
The door swings open. A few seconds of silence pass, and then III’s voice lowers, the drawl sanding off into something flat and irritated. “Nah. Absolutely not.”
She’s already halfway to standing, plate forgotten. “What? Who is it?” Her voice is pensive and quiet as she slowly and quietly scoots her chair out with the backs of her knees until she’s standing. She cranes her neck to look past III’s tree-like form, but she can’t unless she takes a couple steps.
Vessel’s chair scrapes quietly as he rises. He doesn’t move far yet, one step only, but his body braces, shoulders tight, gaze angled toward the hallway where the entry opens into the living room. Vessel knows III never speaks to anyone like that unironically unless they’re a right piece of shit.
III’s tone sharpens and his form stiffens, shoulders squaring. “You’ve had your fun, man. Doors closed.” A familiar voice answers, oily with contrition. “I just need to talk to her.”
Her stomach drops to her knees. She knows that voice the way a struck dog knows the hand which strikes. She feels weak as a familiar cold sweat breaks out across the back of her neck and her forehead. She braces herself on the back of her chair as she’s frozen in place. Vessel’s eyes find her immediately taking in her condition, and the surge of protectiveness that washes over him is so strong it should’ve been audible. His eyes follow her as she begins to move toward the door. He’s a pace behind her in an instant. He knows she must do this for herself, but there’s no way in hell she’ll face that asshole alone.
“Don’t bother,” III scoffs. “She hasn’t got anything to say to the likes of you.” The man at the door sneers at III’s comment before retorting, “I’ll let her speak for herself, yeah?” His cracked lips part into a sick smile, revealing yellow teeth, as he locks eyes with her. “You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart?”
She’s already in the doorway, pulse roaring in her ears. The morning’s softness disappears as fast as it came; in its place rises white hot dread. Vessel is an outline at the periphery of her vision; unmoving, anchored in place. She steps forward anyway, mouth bone dry, limbs stiff as a board.
“What do you want?” she asks, voice steady enough to surprise her. Her ex is cleaner than he looked the last time she saw him; face freshly shaven, hair smoothed back, even a clean jacket that fits. Did he do laundry? He holds his hands up in a pantomime of surrender. “Just to talk.”
“You’ve said everything you had to say the other day, Josh,” she replies. His expression crumples into something wounded, practiced, almost robotic. His tone shifts from near threatening to solemn and pleading. “I was wrong, baby. I know that now.”
III snorts, rolling his eyes as he says under his breath, “He definitely rehearsed that in the mirror.” Josh ignores him, eyes fixed on her, though the twitch in his jaw gives away that he heard III’s comment. “I miss you,” he says soft, but still enough to be overheard, almost pitiful. “I’m sorry. I… I’ve been going to meetings,” he begins to count on his fingers, “I deleted all my socials. I blocked her... and her. I can show you the proof.” He pats his pocket like a magician ready to reveal a trick. “We can fix this.”
She feels Vessel’s warmth against her back, and she feels almost comforted in such an intense moment, protected, even. She feels the other two behind her; a soft reassurance from IV, a steadying presence from II. She considers kindness. She considers slamming the door in his pathetic face. This time, she chooses to be kind yet stern to avoid conflict. For now.
She squares her shoulders and plants her feet firmly beneath her, the presence of the guys giving her sudden confidence. “I’m not coming back,” she says evenly. His eyes flicker with fury before he blinks it away and regains control. He recalibrates. “We’re strong enough to get through hard things. Problems like these are normal, you know that.”
She lifts her chin, silently furious at the audacity he has to use her own mantras against her at a time like this. “You’re wrong and you know it. Problems like this are not normal, and have never been, and you should’ve never put me through the shit you have.”
Another near-microscopic jaw twitch. His eyes narrow, barely visible, not to anyone who doesn’t know to watch for it. But to her, it’s a light switch. He’s losing control.
Vessel steps closer, silent still. Not interposing himself, yet. Just drawing near enough that his shoulder would be between her and the door if she needed to step back. His hands are empty, loose at his sides, and somehow that makes him look more dangerous. III shifts fractionally in front of the threshold, his height a physical barrier. II’s attention tightens. IV closes his book and moves toward the group without a sound.
Josh tries again, voice honeyed. “Don’t do this in front of them, yeah? Let’s talk, just us. Come outside.” He dips his head toward the porch, casual. “Two minutes.”
“No,” she says firmly. A moment passes, and he gives up the act. The mask shatters. “You think this is funny?” The softness is gone; the tone turns bitter. He points a finger to each of them, adopting a mocking tone. “You think you’re better than me just because you’ve got some bodyguards now? Your cute little audience?”
She doesn’t falter. She knows this has been brewing. “I think I’m done with this, and with you.” He takes a step forward. Vessel mirrors it; one of those infinitesimal shifts you feel more than see, so slight it could be an accident, but she knows it’s deliberate. The world shifts and spins, funneling into that narrow space between them.
Josh’s jaw ticks, this time it’s obvious. “If you don’t come home with me right now,” he says quietly, yet threateningly, “you will regret it.” His hand shoots out and closes around her wrist, fingers biting fast, hard. She gasps, eyes going wide with shock as they flit between Josh’s face and his grip on her wrist.
The sound Vessel makes is nearly inhuman; a growl from the depths of his chest, his protectiveness taking charge. “Don’t you fucking touch her.” He is between them before anyone registers the blur of motion, his body a wall, his hand on her ex’s forearm as he peels it off her. He tightens his grip around Josh’s arm, his knuckles going white. “You so much as breathe wrong in her direction,” Vessel says, voice low, lethal, “and I’ll make sure you regret it.” Vessel flings Josh’s arm back toward him, punctuating his threat further.
Josh barks a laugh, all teeth, more of a twisted grimace than a smile. “What are you gonna do about it, little boy?”
The tension finally snaps. Vessel steps forward once more and shoves him back, furious, hard enough to make the man stumble back into the threshold, shoulder smacking the doorjamb with a hollow thud. III’s palm lands on the door above the fucker’s head with a bang that makes the frame rattle.
“That’s step one,” III says, voice mild, eyes anything but. “I don’t think you’d like to meet step two.” II’s already moving into Vessel’s peripheral, placing a calm hand on his shoulder, a grounding current ready to catch the surge if it crests. IV’s gaze is on her wrist, checking for marks, then flicking to her eyes; sending a telepathic with me? Breathe. IV hooks a gentle hand in the crook of her arm, leading her away from the scene. She follows robotically, clearly operating in fight-or-flight. Vessel doesn’t break eye contact with the man he just put back across the line.
“Listen carefully,” Vessel says, quieter now, and somehow that makes it worse. “You don’t come to this house again. You don’t text. You don’t call. You don’t ask anyone how she is. You don’t exist anymore. If you ignore any of that…” He leans in the slightest fraction, enough that only the ex and the door hear it. “Try me.”
Silence blooms, huge and ringing. The only sound is the kettle clicking as it cools.
Her ex straightens, mouth twisted, pride bleeding from a cut you can’t see. He glances at the three men arrayed before him; the giant, the anchor, and the storm, and finds no version of the next five minutes where he leaves without losing more than he already has.
“This isn’t over,” he says to the three of them, but he’s backing away as he says it. “Yeah,” III replies, opening the door just wide enough for one body. “I think it is.” Josh scoffs, rolls his eyes, and turns to take the stairs back down. The door shuts with a final, clean click.
The room exhales. Vessel’s first move isn’t triumph or adrenaline. It’s her. He turns, and the fury is gone from his eyes as if he ripped it out by the roots and left on the porch. What’s left is concern so fierce it borders on regret. “Thank you-” IV cuts him off. “Go to her. We’ll be here, mate.” Vessel offers a grateful smile as he nods and makes his way to the back room.
He finds the door cracked with a few inches of light from the room casting a glow down the hall. He slowly opens the door, peeking his head inside. He sees her and IV sitting on either side of the bed across from each other. IV holds her hand in his, a comforting gesture. She’s hiding her face in her other hand, but when she turns to see who’s entering the room, he can see that her face is red, and the conflicting emotions that wash over him in that moment are almost maddening. IV gives him a quick assuring smile and a nod before releasing her hand gently and climbing off the bed, patting Vessel’s back as Vessel whispers his gratitude before IV exits the room.
“Are you alright?” Vessel asks, voice rough with restraint. She nods, then shakes her head, then nods again, truth hovering somewhere between shock and relief. “I think so.” He steps forward, opening his hand toward her. She offers the arm Josh grabbed so that Vessel may give it a look. There’s a faint bloom of red where sinister fingers were. His own hand flexes like it wants the pain transferred.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the apology lands warm and heavy between them. “For losing my cool. You didn’t need to see that. I’m not... like that.” Her eyes soften. There’s a tremor in her voice she doesn’t try to hide. “You were protecting me. Thank you.”
His mouth lifts, only a little, only at one corner, as if anything more would crack him open. “Have my room for a bit,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Decompress. I’ll… take care of the rest of this. I want to make sure he's actually gone.”
Behind him, the other two have found the doorway, intent on checking on their friends. II nods once, a subtle we’ve got it. III mutters something about “installing a moat” that makes the corner of her mouth tilt despite everything.
She meets Vessel’s gaze, apology glinting through the shock, gratitude bent around nerves. There’s a gravity there that scares her and steadies her in equal measure. He has to lock his jaw to keep from tipping forward and pressing his mouth to her hairline, to keep from making a promise or a plea with his lips that his heart already made.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Just… don’t do anything stupid.”
“Define stupid,” III says immediately.
“Anything that puts us on telly,” II answers.
“Or in prison,” IV adds as he joins the doorway party.
“Or both,” Vessel finishes, eyes still on her. “I won’t, you have my word.” He steps aside, creating a clear path down the hall. “Go on,” he says to his blokes.
He turns to leave, though he feels the pull of a magnet emanating from her sullen form. The space between them hums as he forces himself to move his feet. She wants to touch his hand, to feel his arms around her, to be grounded. In a moment of such uncertainty and anxiety, she fully embraces the need to be near him, though she cannot and will not show it, not yet. If she only knew the matching internal battles they’re fighting in sync.
III blows out a long breath, shakes out his arms like a boxer between rounds. “I am starving,” he announces to no one and everyone. “Violence always makes me hungry.”
IV gives him a look as he jokes, attempting to lighten the mood. “You didn’t participate in the violence, you watched, ya knobhead.”
“It’s the empathy,” III says, deadpan. “Takes it out of me.” He fans himself dramatically, earning a chuckle from IV.
II’s palm finds Vessel’s shoulder, a steady weight. “You alright?” Vessel nods once. Twice. His jaw clenches in time with his pulse. “Yeah.”
“That was… new,” IV says gently. There’s no judgment in it. Only a truth laid on the table. Vessel’s eyes flick to the hallway, to the closed door at the end of it. “Felt... good almost. Like it’s been living under my ribs awhile.” III claps his hands once. “Right. I’ll draft a rota for front-door duty. Thirty-minute shifts. I get the baseball bat.”
“We don’t own a baseball bat,” II says.
“Then it’s a cricket bat and our brand is cultural exchange.” III looks pleased with himself. “Or we could just use II. He’s bat sized.”
IV sighs. “I’m going to make tea.”
“Make two,” II says, squeezing Vessel’s shoulder once more before letting go. “Then check on her.” Vessel nods, breath leaving him in a long, quiet stream. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I will.”
He flexes his fingers and shakes the nerves from his fingertips out once, then turns toward the hallway where his room waits and, inside it, the person his heart has been building a home around for years.
The now late morning is kind again, in its way. The kitchen faucet squeaks to life as the kettle is filled. The house resets itself gently around the new boundary carved into its threshold. And Vessel walks down the hall with a care that feels newly cemented.
Behind him, IV moves in the kitchen, the soft percussion of spoon against china. III drops onto the sofa with a huff, legs splayed, and II sinks into the armchair opposite, both of them watchful without admitting it. II clicks the power button on the remote as they settle in. Then...
Another knock.
All three freeze, then look at each other with the same identical expression: oh, hell no. III is on his feet first, shoulders already squaring. II follows, jaw tightening. They stomp toward the entryway as one, ready to drag a problem out by the scruff.
III wrenches the door open and prepares for battle. “What the-”
His eyes scan the porch, but there’s no one, not even Josh.
Just four cardboard boxes, haphazardly taped and stacked on the porch like discarded parcels.
II and III stand there for a beat, thrown off by the banality of corrugate and packing tape. Then III barks a laugh that isn’t remotely amused. “Coward.”
They haul the boxes inside, depositing them in the living room. IV arrives with a tea towel over his shoulder, brow quirking. “Anyone order chaos in bulk?”
“Let’s have a look,” II says, already crouching. He slips a finger under the tape of the nearest box and peels it back. Inside: bottles clink against each other, the soft rattle of compacts, a hairbrush caught in a tumble of palettes. It appears as if someone swept an arm across a vanity and called it done.
IV opens his and finds folded… no, not folded, crumpled women’s clothes. Familiar colors. Her cardigan peeking out like a small beige-and-white-checkered flag. A spark of anger flares in his eyes before he tucks it away.
III flips the lid on the third. Shoes. A battered paperback he recognizes from the coffee table two weeks ago. A framed photo facedown. “Right,” III says, voice gone flat. “He’s taken out the bin.”
A lightbulb flicks on in all of them at once. It’s her things. He’s dumped them like they’re a chore. And, as III glances instinctively toward the hall, he realizes she has no idea yet. “I’ll get them,” II says, already turning.
Down the hallway, the bedroom is calmer than the rest of the house, as if the walls themselves caught the aftershock and did their best to cushion the blow. Vessel is there, perched on the mattress edge, facing her. Their hands have found each other without needing permission. His thumbs trace slow, grounding paths across her knuckles, and the world narrows to that small, tender motion.
They’ve moved closer, more than likely without noticing. Inches away. The ship is drifting off course.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly. She swallows hard. “I know.” She lets out a breath that wavers at the end. “I hate that he still… gets in my head like that.”
“I know, love. He’s out now,” Vessel says. It’s not a promise, nor a threat, just a truth he intends to gently hammer into her new reality. “He doesn’t get to live in here anymore.” His hand lifts, slowly, delicately, giving her ample time to stop him or lean away, but she doesn’t. Her eyes stay locked onto his as his hand drifts to her cheek. He grazes gently with the backs of his fingers first, one soft movement from her cheek to her jaw. His hand opens, his palm cupping her cheek as his fingers find her jaw and slot around her ear. His thumb caresses small, slow circles on her cheek, and he watches as the skin under his touch reddens with blush. She’s... okay with this, he thinks to himself. Her eyes roam over his face, taking in his features absentmindedly, instinctually.
Her expression isn’t one of apprehension or question, but one of awe. His eyes drift across her face as he revels in her beauty. His eyes drift down slowly until they land on her lips. His ribcage closes in on his heart, squeezing out every last drop of control and reason. His lips part, his breathing becoming shallow. He watches as her lips draw nearer and nearer, he’s leaning in inch by agonizing inch, and she’s not stopping him. Is- is she leaning, too? he asks himself, his mind clouding with need for this moment, for her.
They’re practically sharing breath when they hear two soft knocks at the door. It creaks open slowly. “You decent?” II’s voice sounds, pitched carefully neutral.
They both jerk, guiltless but startled, and lean back by the same small measure. Their hands untwine like a secret returned to a lockbox. II steps in, eyes flicking anywhere but their faces for a respectful second as he clears his throat.
“Sorry. We’ve, uh... there are boxes. On the porch. We believe they’re for you.” He looks at her now, gentle but direct. “Might be best if you see what’s there.” A moment passes, then she swallows and nods. “Okay. Thank you, II,” she says kindly, giving him a soft smile. II nods back and steps out. The door hushes shut.
For a moment they simply sit, a new awareness thrumming in the space they left between them. Neither of them looks embarrassed. Neither regret being so close. The mutual yearning sits there, quiet and burning, and the possibilities begin to unfurl in her mind like pages of a book she suddenly wants, or even needs, to read to the end.
Vessel breaks the silence as he stands and offers his hand as though nothing about the gesture is unordinary. “Ready?” he asks with a warm smile as he looks down at her like the treasure she is to him. She slips her fingers into his in one swift motion, testing the waters. “With you.” Two simple words, yet powerful enough to set him ablaze.
They kneel in the living room together, side by side in front of the boxes. The guys make a wide, wordless perimeter around the scene: III perched on the arm of the sofa like a guard dog pretending not to pay attention, IV setting a cup of tea on a coaster on the coffee table, II hovering in that dependable orbit he keeps for people he loves.
She peels back the first lid and air leaves her lungs in a small, startled sound. Clothing, hers, crumpled like refuse. She recognizes the blue jumper she wore on their first winter market date, the dress she bought for a party she never ended up attending. Her hand hovers over a paperback with its spine broken from rereads. She flips the photo over and catches herself in the frame: laughing in the rain beneath a bus stop, a younger version of herself held at arm’s length by someone who never learned how to hold anything properly.
For a few seconds the sadness hits like an incoming tide; gradual, yet inevitable. It’s truly over. The narrative she’s clung to, if I’m better, if I’m quieter, if I’m smaller or more palatable, dissolves. A small grief for the time she can’t get back threatens to bloom.
Then something else rises to meet it: relief. Clean, bright, almost startling. The weight slides off her shoulders and hits the floor, blooming outward all around her. She can breathe. The room seems to lift and tilt toward something bright, something... beautiful.
Her face shifts, and Vessel catches the exact moment it happens. The line of her mouth loosens. The sorrow in her eyes gives way to light, then to something like joy. His chest fills so full so fast it almost hurts. He swallows against the sting behind his eyes and looks down like a man trying not to stare at a cloudless sunrise.
“Looks like he saved you a trip,” IV says softly, a small mercy in the phrasing. “Looks like he saved himself a beating,” III mutters, then softens his tone at her glance. “For the record, I am thrilled to lift heavy boxes when they’re evidence of freedom.”
“Let’s get them out of sight,” II suggests. “Bedroom? Closet? One thing at a time.” She nods, blinking fast. “Um, bedroom. Please.”
Vessel lifts the top box before anyone can volunteer. II takes the second. III grabs the third with a noise like he’s personally insulted by the weight, jokingly, of course. IV tidies the tape scraps into his palm and nudges a stray bottle of perfume back into its box with care.
They ferry everything down the hall. In Vessel’s room, the closet door slides open with a soft roll. Half the rail is empty, like it always has been. He’s never had an extensive wardrobe.
“You’ve got space,” Vessel says, casual to the point of transparent. “Loads.” She glances at the neatly spaced hangers, the shelf with folded hoodies, the little bank of drawers. She feels her pulse pick up in a way that has nothing to do with panic. “Are you sure?”
“Desperate for it,” III calls from the doorway, already backing away. “We can’t survive another week of your fashion living in a box like Schrödinger’s Outfit,” he calls as he walks down the hall.
IV nudges him. “Translation: yes.” II catches Vessel’s eye over her shoulder and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that says look at you letting her in. Then he’s gone too, herding the others away so they can have the moment to themselves.
They unpack her things together. It’s strangely intimate, this small choreography. He holds hangers, she slips fabric over them. He reaches up to the higher rail, the stretch pulling his shirt tight across his shoulders while exposing a peek of his toned stomach. She pretends not to notice, and fails. She tucks perfumes into a spare shelf in the bathroom cabinet and lines up compacts in a neat row while he clears a space without being asked.
“This is just temporary,” she says after a while, more to the closet and herself than to him. “Until I can find my own place. I don’t want to… wedge myself into your life. Again.”
He pauses mid-hanger, turns slightly. “Love, you’re not wedging,” he says softly. “You’re… home. If you want it.”
Her throat tightens. “We... didn’t talk for a long time.” Her tone is apologetic and almost apprehensive, as she’s unsure of how he’ll react to this difficult topic.
“Because you asked me not to,” he says simply. “I told myself if you ever needed me, you’d say so. And... you did.” He shrugs, small, like it costs nothing. “I’m here.”
She slides a hand down the front of a dress to smooth it and keeps her eyes on the fabric because looking at him might undo her. “I’m sorry I disappeared, Ves.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me an apology for putting yourself first, even if it was for that dickbag.” He walks two hangers to the rail and clears his throat, making it lighter. “Also, the boys will riot if you leave. They’ve tasted your breakfast. They’ve seen the light. If you go, it’s back to cold cereal and stale toast. Civilization crumbles. Looting by Thursday.”
It wins the smallest laugh out of her, her head tipping back for a second, the sound bright in the little room. “I do make a good fry-up.” He chuckles. “You do many things well,” he says before he can stop himself. He looks away quickly, masking it with a smile. “Including making a house feel like a home.”
A long, quiet moment passes. She looks at the closet, at her clothes sharing a rail with his, their colors side by side like they’ve been coordinating for years. Safety purls through her, warm and clean. Under it, something deeper stretches awake: the simple, startling truth that she likes being near him more than she has words for. That perhaps she’s done pretending the feeling is anything but what it is.
“I don’t know that I want to leave,” she admits, soft as a whisper. “Not yet.” Her gaze finally falls onto him, his eyes still glued to the closet, his resolve crumbling rapidly.
Vessel’s heart slams against his ribs so loud he can hear it roaring in his ears, and he prays she can’t hear it, too. He nods as if this is ordinary, keeping a cool exterior. “Stay as long as you like, please.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.” Her tone is almost timid as her eyes focus in on his. “You’re not.” He meets her eyes then, all pretenses gone. There’s a plea in it he hopes she can’t quite read, yet, in contradiction, he hopes she absolutely can. “You never could be.”
The room shrinks around them, the air growing tense with the words unsaid. They continue unpacking with sparse conversation. He offers a lower drawer, and she fills it with sleep shirts and shorts, smiling at the ridiculous intimacy of sleep clothes in someone else’s furniture. He shifts his hoodies to make a neat half-shelf for her jumpers. She slots her shampoo and soap in his shower, where there is, conveniently, the nicest water pressure in the house. It all takes on the shape of a life, not just a visit.
When they’re done, the boxes are flat and stacked by the door for recycling. Her scent threads through the room, mingling with his. He watches her brush her fingers along the row of hangers, like she’s checking the reality tethers. She glances back at him, smiling.
“Thank you,” she says. The words carry more than politeness. Gratitude, yes, but also relief, and a new, cautious joy. “For the rest of my life,” he almost says again. Instead: “Always.”
She steps closer, only a half-step, enough that he feels the warmth of her. “I feel… safe here,” she says, and he has to look at the floor for a second so his face doesn’t show everything his heart is screaming. “Good,” he manages. “That’s the point.” He wants to add and wanted and loved, but the moment doesn’t seem to require it, not yet.
Down the hall, the TV comes to life along with laughter from the guys. She looks at the closet one more time, then at him. “Tea?” she asks, like they haven’t just broken new, possibly life-changing ground.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. “Tea.” They walk out together, shoulders nearly touching, and the house seems to widen to make room to accommodate them. In the living room, where chaos was, there is only the soft debris of morning: plates, a folded blanket, and game controllers in the hands of their shared friends in the midst of what appears to be a tense round of MarioKart. It looks like the beginning of something, or at least, time to begin again.
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Absolutely in love with this. Might even be my next tattoo. Take Aim is in my top three favorite songs (because who can pick only one favorite?) and EIA speaks to me in a way that no other album has. 10000/10 no notes <3 <3
Here is Chapter Four for your reading pleasure. It's taken me some time to get this one out, and for that I apologize. Life has been life-ing again, and it's about to get a whole lot busier, but I'll do my best to keep getting chapters out to you all. Much love, and enjoy! <3
CW: none
Word count: 3.4k
CHAPTER FOUR
Vessel wakes to the warm morning sun peeking through the curtains in the room, like every other morning, but something feels different to him, though he cannot yet pinpoint what. He blinks his eyes, clearing up his blurry vision, his disoriented gaze on the ceiling above him. His eyes go wide momentarily when he recalls that he shared his bed with someone last night. Not just anyone... Her. He rolls over, bleary-eyed and groggy as he scans the bed in search of her, but he finds nothing but downturned blankets. He frowns as he reaches over to pat the space where she should be, but he finds nothing.
The side of the blanket where she slept is still faintly warm, but she’s gone, and a sharp pang of disappointment settles in his chest. He doesn’t know why he thought she’d still be there, or why he’d half-hoped to open his eyes and see her, tousled hair on his pillow, maybe breathing steady, maybe smiling at him.
He sits up slowly, rubbing the heel of his palm against his sternum as if that will somehow smooth out the strange ache. For a few seconds, he just sits there, letting the silence press in. Stay, some traitorous part of him whispers. Come back to bed. It’s pointless, and he knows that. But still that part of him persists, clings to the maybes and the what ifs. It’s borderline delusional, he tells himself.
The room smells like her; soft and faint, something floral with a hint of vanilla, and it’s worse, somehow, because it feels too good. Too natural. Like some animalistic instinct buried deep wants to burst from his chest and chase after her. He chuckles dryly at his own inner monologue, almost entertained with the ridiculousness of it all.
He pushes himself out of bed up anyway, pulling on a shirt, raking his fingers through his hair. When he turns toward the dresser for some sweats, his eyes snag on something unfamiliar.
A claw clip. Pale pink and delicate, sunlight barely glinting off it, almost like a beacon in the morning light. His hand moves before his mind does. He picks it up, turns it over in his fingers like it’s something sacred. It’s nothing, really. Plastic, functional, maybe practical. But it’s hers. Images from the last few months flash through his mind of how cute she looks with her hair up in this contraption. Messy, flowing over the back, her bangs resting gently across her forehead and framing her doll-like face. He smiles unknowingly as he reminisces, spinning the thing in his gentle grasp.
He’s entranced by the thing as his mind drifts backward now, unspooling years until he’s seventeen again, sitting in his car with her in the passenger seat, both of them talking and laughing in that safe, charged way only best friends could be. She was giggling at something he’d said back then. He can’t even remember what he’d said, but she turned to him with this look in her eyes, tentative yet alight with something he couldn’t place then. She’d leaned in quickly, impulsively, placing a hand on his cheek, and she kissed him. Just once, only a few seconds long, like she was testing the water.
He hadn’t let himself think about it in years. Now he touches his lips without realizing, the memory bright and startling. He always goes back to that night and wonders why he reacted the way he did to her show of affection. He’d wanted to pull her to him and lose himself in her, but he didn’t. He was young and so awkward. He didn’t know what to think in that moment or how to react, so he chuckled it off and went back to telling her some stupid story. He’s kicked himself for that ever since.
A sudden voice breaks through his dreamscape. “Oh, come on!” III’s shout ricochets down the hall, followed by the familiar thump of a controller hitting something soft. Vessel blinks, pulled back to the present, and sets the clip down gently, like he’s returning something fragile to its place. His chest feels heavy, but he shakes it off, heading toward the noise.
The smell hits him first when he opens the bedroom door: vanilla, butter, and cinnamon. He realizes just how hungry he is as his stomach growls. He smiles faintly, preparing to jest whichever of the guys is making breakfast, as it's a rarity that someone other than him cooks.
When he steps into the kitchen, he nearly stops in his tracks, eyes going wide momentarily as he takes in the sight before him. She’s there, hair laying over her shoulder in a soft braid, sleeves pushed to her elbows, standing over the stove like she owns the place. A plate of golden-brown French toast is already stacked on the counter, eggs steaming in a pan, bacon crisping on another burner. The whole room smells absolutely divine, and he swoons hard for her as he looks her up and down. She’s wearing a maroon sweatshirt, a pair of leggings, and her black slippers. His eyes go soft as he takes in how comfortable she looks, how at ease. It’s so...domestic yet devastating.
She looks up when she hears him shuffle into the room, and she smiles at him, bright and warm, like he’s the first person she’s wanted to see all day. “Morning,” she says, voice still soft from sleep, but surprisingly chipper, all things considered.
Something in his chest trips at the sound of her voice, but he plays it cool. “Morning,” he echoes, crossing toward her automatically. “Need help?”
“Mm-mm,” she hums, flipping strips of bacon. “You sit and relax. I’ve got this.”
He obeys, mostly because he can’t think of anything else to do through his daze. He sinks onto the couch where II, III and IV are mid-game, but his attention keeps drifting back to the kitchen. To her. The way she moves, easy and sure, like she’s always belonged here.
All the while, she’s thinking, too. When she woke up this morning, the first thing she saw was him on the opposite side of the bed, so close and yet so careful, the blanket barely covering his shoulders. There had been a warmth that spread through her chest that she didn’t understand. Not unwelcome or uncomfortable, just… surprising. She hasn’t felt that way toward Vessel in years... Or so she tells herself.
Now, as she plates breakfast for all five of them and brings it to the coffee table, that feeling hums again. Vessel takes his plate last, murmuring a quiet thank-you, and she catches the way his eyes linger as she sits beside him.
The two of them end up cross-legged on the loveseat, the other boys in their original position on the couch. Their plates balance on their knees as they consume the delectable food she’s prepared. II and IV offer compliments to the chef as III nods in agreeance, his mouth too full and his hands too focused on the controller to form a sentence. She takes no insult however, as she’s known III and the other boys long enough to know that this is just the norm.
At some point, without even thinking or realizing, she shifts slightly, and their knees press together. Neither of them moves, trying to play it off, but they’re both a bit taken aback by the contact. She glances at him to gauge his reaction, but he’s already looking at her.
And in that moment, there’s nothing else in the world but that quiet contact; two people anchored and enthralled by the smallest touch, both of them pretending they’re not on fire inside.
Later that day, the sky is a soft, forgiving blue as they step out together, the sun shy behind a light veil of clouds. The walk to the bookstore is quiet at first, both of them wrapped in their own thoughts, hands grazing one another's’ just enough to spark static with every accidental touch. She’s wearing a light cardigan over one of Vessel’s old band shirts, the sleeves rolled twice at the wrist, and he can’t help but think about how natural she looks in it. Like she belongs in his clothes, in his orbit.
“And here we are,” he says as they come up on a quaint little bookstore nestled between a florist and a cafe. He opens the shop door for her with a soft, “After you,” and when she smiles up at him, meeting his adoring eyes, he’s a goner all over again.
Inside, it smells like old paper and cedar shelves, the scent of stories tucked into every spine. She heads straight for the fiction section, eyes lighting up as she skims the titles, fingertips brushing along the edges like she’s greeting old friends. Vessel hangs back for a moment, watching her. The way her lips part slightly when she finds something she likes. The way her nose scrunches when she finds something she doesn’t. He doesn’t think she realizes how expressive she is.
She picks out two books; one a familiar comfort read, the other something new and thrilling, and cradles them to her chest. Vessel wanders off, mostly so he doesn’t stare too long. A few minutes later, he returns with a third book in hand, quiet and nonchalant as he offers it to her.
“I think you’d like this one,” he says. “The synopsis seems like something you’d be interested in.” She blinks, surprised, and looks down at the book. It’s beautiful, with hand-painted cover, intricate floral fore-edge painting, and a poetic title. Something about it resonates in her chest. “You want me to have it?” she asks, gently touched.
He nods, brushing a tendril of hair behind his ear. “It’s yours.”
And it hits her; the kindness. The attention to detail. The soft, near-angelic way he treats her. She doesn’t know why it surprises her so much. She’s always known this is who Vessel is, but it feels different now. More significant. Maybe even heavier.
She wants to say something, anything, but her thoughts are tangled. She offers a quiet, “Thank you,” instead. He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his throat is dry. He insists on buying all three books for her, as well as two he picked for himself, while she fiddles with the fraying strap of her purse.
On the walk back, they take a route through a more shaded and botanical part of the neighborhood, the sidewalk cracked and wild with roots. Ivy covers the exterior worn brick walls, vining out to nearby trees and bushes. It’s serene and peaceful. Exactly what she needs. He walks on the outside of the pavement, between her and the road, without thinking. She notices, but she doesn’t say anything. Her heart beats a little faster as she feels truly safe and protected with him, a stark contrast to how she felt with her ex. Vulnerable, abandoned, and exposed are a few words that come to mind. He still hasn’t contacted her, either. She wonders if he’s looked up from his games long enough to even notice that she’s gone.
She’s harshly thrown form her thoughts when her foot catches on a raised root and her balance falters, her body pitching forward as she tries to right herself before she eats the pavement below. His hands reflexively reach for her, and one grabs hold of her arm as the other lands at her mid-back instantly, fingers splaying, firm and steady. He helps her find her footing as he says softly, “Careful there, love. You okay?” He asks, fighting the urge to pull her closer, and she nods her head as she smiles bashfully and replies, “I’m fine, just clumsy as always.” He chuckles and agrees, saying that some things never change as their walk continues.
The remaining warmth and memory of his touch makes her heart race. Her face warms as heat blooms slowly through her limbs as he rambles on about a tour story. His proximity is doing nothing to ease the rush either, as he insists on walking closer to her should she stumble again. If only he had pulled me into him... his scent filling my nose, his stubble on my chin and cheeks as he k- something in her subconscious says, and she wishes she was taken by surprise as she forcefully interrupts the string of thoughts before she falls again, in more ways than one. She doesn’t think she’s ready for anything right now. The wounds are still too fresh, her frazzled mind still too vulnerable. But maybe someday...
The sun’s dipping low by the time they return to the house. Inside, the other three are already up to something.
“MONOPOLY NIGHT, BITCHES,” III shouts from the living room, dropping the board game box on the table. “I swear to God, if you start with Boardwalk again...” IV grumbles, already sitting down to begin shuffling the cards.
“You can’t start with Boardwalk, it’s literally—” II begins, only to be cut off.
“—a mindset,” III finishes smugly, arms crossed. “It’s about dominance.” II rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut off again as the front door opens. They all look up when she and Vessel walk in, arms full of books and soft smiles.
“You in?” II asks, motioning toward the makeshift gaming setup. She hesitates, eyes flicking between them. “I don’t want to intrude...”
“You’re not,” Vessel says immediately, already pulling a chair out beside him. “You’re home.” That word hits her like a warm breeze and her heart swells as the guys state their agreeance with Vessel. She slides into the seat next to him, books set aside, and watches the chaos unfold.
They play for hours. Laughter bounces off the walls. III is ruthless and dramatic, slamming pieces down with wild glee. IV plays a quiet, calculated game that surprises everyone. II mediates the arguments with calm sass. And her? She holds her own. Her comebacks are quick-witted, her strategy sneaky.
Vessel is just in awe. Not just because she’s funny or intelligent, but because she looks so alive. She’s practically glowing. He steals glances when she laughs, when she leans forward to make a deal, when she sticks her tongue out in concentration. And every time their knees brush under the table, it’s like electricity coursing through him, but neither of them acknowledge it, like it’s natural for them now.
Eventually, when the property cards are in disarray and the fake money is tossed like confetti, they call it a draw and retreat into the soft lull of the evening. III’s going on about how he basically won, and they just can’t accept it as IV leads him into his bedroom while cooing, “Okay, grandpa, it’s bedtime now, c’mon.”
“Oh, fuck off, the lot of you. See you in the A.M. or some shit!” he yells through the hallway in response, and the room erupts with laughter once again. She could really get used to this; the laid-back fun, the friendly competition in board and video games, the overall comfortability and companionship. It’s truly a wonderful thing to be a part of.
Later, on the loveseat, the house it quiet as the guys have gone off to their rooms for the night. Soft lo-fi plays from the TV as she relaxes in the living room in front of the fireplace with Vessel, her best friend.
She’s curled beside him with her new book in hand, back against the arm of the small couch, legs tucked neatly beneath her, careful not to touch him. But she keeps shifting every few minutes, adjusting, fidgeting, sighing softly, trying her best to let her discomfort go unnoticed, but her legs are beginning to go numb.
Vessel’s own reading is interrupted as he watches from the corner of his eye until he can’t bear it any longer. “You’re uncomfortable,” he says gently, his eyes finding hers.
“I’m fine,” she replies quickly, too quickly, trying to keep her guard up. He raises a brow and gives her a look as if to say “yeah, right”. “Stretch out. Put your legs across me if you want, it’s alright,” he tells her, motioning to his lap. She hesitates, her expression uncertain. He smiles warmly at her as he reassures her, “I don’t bite, love. Promise.”
Heart fluttering, she chuckles, nods, and stretches out, legs draping gently across his lap. The heat from her calves begins to sink into the tops of his thighs, and he can only imagine how soft and smooth her skin might be. He tenses for a moment, fighting the urge to rest a hand on her legging-clad shin, to anchor her there, but he keeps still, forcing those impure thoughts from his mind.
They read together quietly like that for a while, basking in the shared peace and silence. A breeze filters through the cracked window and balances with the crackling heat from the fireplace, keeping the room perfectly temperate. Her toes twitch every so often against his thigh, and every twitch is a prayer he repeats in silence. His hands stay on his book, however, out of respect for her and her comfort.
Night falls completely, and the two retreat to his bedroom. He disappears into the bathroom to change into sleep clothes while she changes in the room, each of them painfully aware of the intimacy they’re dancing around, but they don’t dare say a word about it.
They settle into bed beside each other, her on the left, him on the right, both staring at the ceiling. Lying beside him is easier that it should be, she realizes. The tension in her shoulders has disappeared and the worry in her mind eases. There’s something so calming about being beside him in such close proximity, like it’s where she belongs.
“Do you believe in fate?” she asks suddenly, voice quiet and tentative. He turns his head toward her, surprised at such a question. “I do.”
She turns her gaze to him too, eyes searching. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How fate can manage to bring people back together... after so long.”
He swallows hard, contemplating. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Strange it is. And... kind of beautiful.” She nods slowly, silently agreeing, then she asks, “Do you ever miss how close we were in school, and after graduation?” Her voice is small and almost timid, and his heart clenches in his chest.
He stills, his mind blanking for just a moment in shock. The question is so soft, so gently asked, but it knocks the breath from his lungs.
“All the time,” he says truthfully, voice lower now, more reverent. “Every damn day.”
She turns to face him. Her eyes trace his features slowly; the curve of his jaw, the light stubble covering his chin and upper lip, the slant of his nose, the sharp line of his brow softened by lamplight. He feels her gaze burning through him, and he doesn’t dare meet it. He feels almost frozen in place in the best way. He wants her to look at him, to take him in and remember how close they used to be... All the whispered promises in the dead of night.
“I miss it too,” she says, and her words carry a shockwave that runs through him like electricity, his nerves crackling under his skin, keening to reach for her.
The silence that follows is anything but. It’s full of static, of crushing gravity and silent pleas. The two of them are so still, so close. Vessel's fingers twitch under the blanket. He aches as war wages in his mind, his heart, his fingertips. Kiss her, his soul pleads. Just once. Just—
But before either of them can move, she turns onto her side, away from him. “Goodnight, Ves,” she says quickly, her tone guarded again.
He stares at the ceiling, heart hammering beneath his ribs. “Goodnight,” he whispers, breathless.
She doesn’t see the way he closes his eyes, the way he curls his fingers into white-knuckled fists. She doesn’t hear the silent curses in his head, the bitter frustration at his own boldness and honesty. Should I have lied? Should I have ignored her and gone to sleep? What was the right fucking move here? Am I gonna royally fuck this up again, just like last time? He asks himself, exasperated at his lack of decency, of empathy, of... common sense? He questions everything as he wonders if he’s moving too fast, if he’s somehow pushing her. That has never been his intention here. All he wishes to do is help and get her back on her feet, as a best friend should, despite the fact that he wants so much more than that. He’s waited so long for this closeness, for this easy vulnerability with her… and now, here he is, lying in bed, wide awake, terrified that he’s just pushed her further away.
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taglist: @deathcapbunny @disastrous-delusions @yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom @lynzeequitlollygagging @blackcherrywhiskey @thedemonofsodom @mysticmorning1 @xnikix02 @javdery @whereismysertraline @embalmmeaesop @astraea89 @dravenskye @kalliphorne here you go! Let me know if you'd like to be added here :)
Thank you @embalmmeaesop for this fic idea! Running with it has been incredibly fun, and I can't wait for what comes next in this one <3
Hey anon! My request door is always open, I kind of just go with what gives me the most inspiration in the moment haha request away, and I'll be sure to tag you in it once I write it :) <3
Here is Chapter Three for you reading pleasure! The yearning really makes an appearance in this one. Enjoy! <3<3
CW: none
Word Count: 2.2k
Chapter Three
Vessel’s eyes flutter open as the early morning sun shines gently through the cracks in his curtains. He blinks a few times, eyes still bleary and disoriented from a terrible excuse for sleep. He rubs the back of his neck and grimaces at the tightness in the muscles. He stops in his tracks as his eyes go wide and his mouth runs dry. His neck hurts because he’s not in his bed. He’s in fact on the floor next to his bed. What the h- His thought is ruptured as a cold wave washes over him. He’s on the floor because she’s in his bed. She’s. In. My. Bed, he thinks to himself as his hand drops limply to his side and his face takes on an expression of shock.
His chest begins to heave as his lung capacity evaporates and the room closes in around him. She’s in my bed, oh my fuck, she’s in my bed ricochets through his cranium over and over as he’s overcome with the overwhelming feeling of her presence so close. So close he could just crawl right in beside her... Put his arm around her, pull her close and-
No. Get ahold of yourself, you fool, he tells himself, forcing clarity to the front of his mind. She’s heartbroken, devastated, and humiliated. Don’t make it any worse for her.
He shakes his head, disappointed at his lapse in judgement, and drags a hand over his face. His kind eyes find her quickly and he’s immediately lost in admiration. She’s still sleeping peacefully in his bed, her curvaceous form wrapped in his blanket, silky hair spilling across his pillow. He fights the urge to gently run his fingers through it.
The ache in his neck and shoulders quickly ceases to matter. What matters is that she’s here, a few feet away, breathing slow and steady, her perfect lips parted slightly in the deep, dream-heavy stillness of early morning.
There’s a bone-deep pull in his chest that he can’t shake. Not now, probably not ever. It’s dangerous how much he wants to climb into that bed, slip an arm around her, and just keep her safe from everything; her ex, the world, even himself. But he doesn’t move. He just observes, head tilted slightly to the side, eyes big and full of wonder as he memorizes the way the blanket curves around her shoulders and hips, the way her rosy cheek presses into the pillow, the faintest furrow between her brows that makes him wonder what she’s dreaming about.
She doesn’t stir when he gets up, moving quietly to the door. He needs something to do, somewhere to put this restless, burning energy before it gives him away. The living room will do. He shrugs on his hoodie from the night before and exits the bedroom quickly, before he can do anything stupid.
By the time she wakes, it’s mid-morning and he’s sitting on the black suede couch with III and IV, controllers in hand, half-focused on the flickering, pixelated chaos of Super Mario Bros. 3. It’s serving as background noise more than anything. Something to fill the air while his thoughts keep circling back to the girl still asleep in his bed.
When she finally appears at the end of the hallway, she stands just inside the kitchen area, watching the TV from behind the kitchen island. Vessel notices before anyone else, naturally. She’s hesitant to go any further, pausing like she’s intruding, fingers curling into the hem of her t-shirt. The guys are too caught up in their game to notice the way she’s holding herself, but Vessel’s on his feet immediately.
“Morning,” he says softly, offering her a warm smile, already moving toward the kitchen. “Coffee?” She nods, relieved at the offer, and follows him just far enough to take the mug he presses into her right hand, as her left holds a novel. The warmth seems to loosen her shoulders a little, but he can tell she’s still on edge.
“Come sit,” he tells her, motioning toward the couch. She hesitates again, pursing her lips, then she perches beside him while the others keep playing.
He gently offers her a controller. She shakes her head and offers a kind, timid smile, flipping open the book she brought instead. He leans back, pretending to focus on the screen, but every so often, his gaze slides sideways; at the slope of her nose, the way her lips part slightly when she’s reading something that surprises or entertains her, the small crease in her forehead when she’s concentrating.
It still feels surreal, having her here, in his space. Close enough that if he shifted just a little bit, just slightly, his knee would touch hers.
Then it happens.
She leans into him. Just a small, tired motion. Her head settles against his shoulder, hair barely brushing his jaw. He freezes, heart stuttering, breath faltering before forcing his eyes back to the game even though the screen is going blurry. She smells like coffee and the faintest trace of her sweet vanilla perfume, and it’s suddenly the only thing anchoring him to the moment. He blinks hard, refocusing his eyes as he continues the game as if his entire body isn’t on the verge of implosion.
She’s just exhausted, he tells himself. She needs the comfort, it doesn’t mean anything.
But his body won’t believe it. Not with the heat spreading down his chest, not with every nerve tuned to the weight of her against him. He feels a stirring in his trousers, and in turn, his face flushes beet red. Fucks sake, control yourself, you’re acting like a pig, he scolds himself silently, humiliated at the slowly-rising tent in his pants. It’s just a head on a shoulder, calm down for the love of Christ. He quickly snags a pillow from beside him and places it over his lap, trying not to draw any attention to his... situation. He repositions his elbows onto the pillow as if he grabbed it just to rest his poor arms so sapped from gaming. II catches on to Vessel’s little predicament and flashes him a smug grin. Vessel rolls his eyes and mouths “fuck off,” before returning his attention to the screen ahead. II chuckles as his attention, too, returns to the television.
He doesn’t move until III breaks the moment with a groan about being hungry. Controllers are abandoned on the coffee table, and the group drifts toward the kitchen, where the conversation shifts as they settle on bar stools in front of the island. III asks what happened the previous evening, and she explains the best she can without breaking down. Vessel opts to stand directly next to her as she explains as if he can protect her from what’s already happened.
His hands stay in his pocket despite how badly he wishes to let them drift to the back of her chair, to her shoulder, or maybe even the small of her back... He blinks hard again to refocus himself as he listens to her words, his heart lurching in his chest; out of need to disfigure that bastard, and because of the way he can barely hold himself back from whisking her away and disappearing forever. His hands ball into fists clenched so tightly it hurts before relaxing once more, and he flexes his fingers as he removes his hands from their prison, and his arms cross over his chest.
Her voice wavers on certain words, but she keeps talking, and the others listen intently; III swearing under his breath, IV trying to lighten the mood and make her smile, though in vain, and II… watching Vessel with that look again. The one that says I see you. Vessel ignores it and fills his lungs with air, quickly expelling it in an attempt to control his heaving chest. The conversation comes to an end, and it’s pretty certain at this point that all the boys are on her side and genuinely wish the worst for the asshat who did this to her. III, IV, and II return to their spots on the couch, but she needs some sort of reprieve from such a difficult conversation. She asks to retreat to Vessel’s bedroom for some privacy, and of course he obliges and asks to join her. There’s no way in hell that he’ll be letting her out of his sight for the foreseeable future.
Back in his room, upon seeing Vessel’s nest on the floor, she immediately shakes her head and points downward at it, her eyes flickering from the poor excuse of a bed to the very one who made it.
“There’s no way you’re sleeping on that again,” she says firmly, motioning at the thin foam mattress still rumpled from last night, but it looks like he made an attempt at making it this morning.
“It’s fine,” he answers quickly. A little too quickly. “I’ve done worse on tour.”
In need of busying her hands, she starts unpacking the small bag she brought, lining her things along his dresser. Her hairbrush, a few makeup products, perfume. The sight of them there, so personal and so hers, sends a strange jolt through him, like his space has shifted to accommodate her, and he’s not sure he’ll ever want it to go back to the way it was.
“It’s not fine,” she says over her shoulder, placing her soaps in his shower without hesitation. He simply watches her in awe, and he loves how comfortable she’s become around him. His chest tightens a bit when he sees just how nicely her soaps look next to his. “You’re sleeping in the bed... with me. Just… your side, my side. No big deal, right? We’ve known each other for years, Ves.” That sentence jolts him from his dream-like daze like a firecracker has been set off right next to his awkward form.
She says it so casually, like it’s nothing. But she doesn’t feel the way his pulse stutters. She doesn’t feel the shock of electricity that shoots through him like a livewire. He tries his best to control his tone and facial expressions, but he can’t calm his breathing. He just has to hope that she doesn’t notice his chest rising and falling like ocean waves in a storm.
He can’t respond right away. Because the thought of her, in his bed, with him, within reach, is setting fire to every corner and crevice of him. Not in a lustful, impatient way, but in that deep, dangerous ache that makes his hands tremble and causes the room around him to shrink. He’s not sure if he can lie that close to her and keep all of this locked down.
“Alright,” he finally says, voice low, carefully neutral. He hopes she doesn’t notice the strain there. She flashes him a grateful smile and moves past him toward the bed. “See? That’s better.” He bites into the flesh of his cheek to keep from grinning ear to ear at the sight of her own sweet smile. He watches her flit around the room as she selects a change of clothes from her bag, her fluffy blue bathrobe, her brush and some lotions for after a shower. She brushes past him as she makes her way to the bathroom, and shuts the door behind her.
Once he hears the shower turn on, his shoulders deflate completely as he braces his arms on his dresser, trying to compose himself. He’s never shared a bed with someone he’s so enamoured with, and he can’t love her, kiss her, or even touch her, and he fears it’ll be the death of him.
He showers after her, letting the hot water pound against his back as if it might wash away the tension, the what-ifs, the endless possibilities. Naturally, it doesn’t. And it really doesn’t help that his shower smells of her body wash. He breathes it in, imagining his nose nestled in the crook of her neck, holding her so close and tender instead of breathing in her aroma in a shower like a weirdo. He shakes his head to clear such a visual and finishes his shower quickly.
He towels off slowly, pulling a plain gray shirt over his damp messy hair while trying to focus on acting normally before walking back into the bedroom. I’ve got to get ahold of myself, this is pathetic, he thinks to himself as he grips the doorknob. He twists it and opens the door a sliver before calling out, “Hey, you decent?” When he receives no response, he opens the door slowly, and the sight he’s greeted with makes his heart swell in his chest, just like last night.
She’s asleep already, curled on her side, hair drawing some type of hieroglyphics on her pillow, her side of the comforter tucked in around her like a little cocoon. She looks so at ease here, so comfortable, like she belongs. It’s unfair, how much he wants this to be his, every night, for the rest of their lives. He reaches up to rub the back of his neck as he tears his eyes away from her resting, near-irresistible form.
The quiet in the room is heavy, pressing down on him until he has to move, to put space between himself and that visual. He slips back out to the kitchen for a glass of water, the cool tile grounding him a little.
II’s there, leaning against the counter in only black sweatpants, his upper body adorned with beautiful colors, lines, and imagery on full display. He holds a half-finished cup of tea in his hands, a neutral expression on his face. He glances up, takes one look at Vessel’s face, and doesn’t bother asking what’s wrong.
“Don’t,” Vessel warns preemptively, shooting II a slight glare. “I’m not saying a word,” II says shrugging, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “She alright?” He asks, gesturing toward the room, teacup still in hand. “Sleeping.” Vessel takes a slow drink, staring into the middle distance. A long silence passes between the two as Vessel ponders on his thoughts and how to turn them into words. Finally, he speaks, eyes still cast straight ahead, focused on nothing, arms braced against the countertop behind him as he faces the living room, and II. “She… she put her stuff in my room... and in my shower. Said I shouldn’t sleep on the floor again.” He lets the silence stretch again as his eyes find II’s, his own expression pensive. II raises an eyebrow. “And that’s a problem because…?” He questions, then takes a sip of his tea, his eyes staying on Vessel’s over the rim of the porcelain cup.
Vessel’s eyes widen slightly and he takes a quick step toward II. “Because I don’t know if I can do it, man. Lie there next to her and… and keep my hands to myself. Keep my heart from fucking combusting.” The words come out in a low yet heavy hushed tone as if she’d hear him through her deep slumber. “I’ve wanted her for so long, mate, you know this. Not just… not just want. I want to take care of her, give her what she’s never had. I wanna experience life with her, and do all the things in all the places, and I could do that for her..! But she doesn’t see me that way.” Vessel steps back to fall against the counter, arms limply at his sides, expression pained and defeated. His eyes are cast on the floor as he swallows the lump forming in his throat
II doesn’t argue or offer advice, he knows now’s not the time. He just studies the singer before him for a long moment before saying, “Then you make damn sure she’s safe, and you wait. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen, man.” II gives Vessel a small sympathetic smile similar to that which Vessel gave her the night before, in her driveway. II takes the last sip of his tea and steps forward to place it in the sink.
He turns back to Vessel and he’s trying to think of anything even remotely comforting to say, but he draws a blank, as nothing feels appropriate or helpful. Instead, he says, “I’m headed off to bed, it’s been quite a day,” he places a gentle yet firm hand on Vessel’s shoulder as he passes by him, “don’t fray yourself, mate. It’ll be alright, you’ve got this thing. Give yourself some grace, yeah?”
Vessel nods slowly as he takes in II’s words, but he’s not necessarily planning to abide by them. His brain is far too scrambled right now to know what to do from here. “Appreciate it, man, I really do. You have a good night, we’ll get up to something tomorrow,” Vessel tells him as he returns the gesture, placing a hand on II’s shoulder. II nods to him and gives him a kind smile before retreating to his bedroom at the end of the hall.
Vessel’s chest still feels tight as he takes a deep breath, attempting to focus his mind. He finishes his water, places his glass in the sink, and goes back to the bedroom upstairs.
When he opens the door gently, just in case, she’s still there, still sleeping soundly, and for a second, he just stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he takes her in, memorizing the sight. The corners of his mouth tilt up in an adoring smile as he admires her. He runs a hand through his hair, then he flicks off the light and settles into his side of the bed, fully dressed, careful to keep to the very edge. He pulls the comforter over his shoulders as he shimmies underneath it, getting comfortable. He begins to feel her warmth seeping from her side of the bed to his side, and he exhales his stress through puckered lips. He forces his eyes shut, though they don’t stay shut for long.
It’s going to be a long night.
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taglist: @deathcapbunny @disastrous-delusions @yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom @lynzeequitlollygagging @blackcherrywhiskey @thedemonofsodom @mysticmorning1 @xnikix02 @javdery @whereismysertraline @embalmmeaesop @astraea89 @dravenskye @kalliphorne here you go! Let me know if you'd like to be added here :)
Here's chapter two for your reading pleasure! Proceed with a bit of caution, as themes of cheating are portrayed in this chapter. It gets much lighter after this, so please stay tuned! Enjoy <3
The faint clink of metal on glass wakes her before she can begin to comprehend what that sound could be. The room is dim, still heavy and clouded with the weight of sleep and dark of night, but there’s a soft spill of light from a small crack in the bathroom door, cutting a golden line across the bedroom rug.
She doesn’t move. From where she lies, still facing the wall, she can make out another clink, this time sounding more like glass on... porcelain? Fear strikes through her as rapid thoughts fill her mind. An intruder? She quickly and quietly pats the bed behind her, feeling for her partner, if one could even call him that. Her hand finds nothing but cold sheets.
The sharp intrusive scent of smoke and dark musk suddenly rolls into the air. Undeniably cologne. The expensive glass bottle he only ever wears when he’s going somewhere important. The one she bought him. He hasn’t used that scent on a date, or anything else for that matter, since the third month, so why the hell is he using it now?
She blinks at the darkness in front of her, forcing her breathing to stay slow and even, the practiced rhythm of someone pretending to sleep. The quiet sound of his shoes scuffing against tile fills the space between them. The sliver of light expands farther, farther, then disappears completely. The bathroom door clicks closed slowly, then her ears detect the rhythmic sound of bristles against rubber as it grows louder, then fades altogether. Footsteps. He’s leaving the room.
And then it hits her like a crashing wave, low and deep in her gut, overwhelming every orifice of sense and emotion. Her chest tightens, breath catching almost imperceptibly. A thousand excuses scatter through her mind. Maybe he’s meeting a friend, maybe he couldn’t sleep and needed air, but none of them stick. None of them can stand against the way he’s moving so carefully, deliberatly, and quietly. The usage of the cologne. The way the front door clicks closed a moment later without him saying a single word.
The silence that follows is utterly suffocating. She stays curled in the same position, eyes burning, head spinning. The mattress feels cold now, like the warmth went with him. A hot sting builds behind her eyelids, but she presses her fist against her mouth, muffling the sound of her own breathing, swallowing back every broken sob that threatens to claw its way out. She stares into the dark until her vision blurs and her eyes scream for respite.
Time becomes nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears. Minutes. Hours. She doesn’t move, she doesn’t sleep or sob.
The front door opens again sometime after two in the morning. His steps are light and measured, the same as when he left. He smells like the same cologne, only dulled now by the scent of night air and... something sweet, floral, and maybe powdery. Unmistakable perfume. Her stomach drops through the bed and to the floor as her eyes gloss over before she clenches them shut so intensely that white spots flit behind her eyelids. He doesn’t touch her or pull the comforter over her shoulders, doesn’t even brush against her as he climbs into bed.
She keeps her eyes shut, waiting until his breathing evens out before she moves. She leaves the bed as slowly and quietly as she can muster. My turn to be sneaky, she thinks to herself. She tiptoes around the bed, watching him like a hawk to ensure that he stays asleep. Her eyes lock onto her target on the nightstand as soon as it becomes visible. Her fingers are nearly ablaze when she reaches for his phone.
It only takes three swipes and the smallest tap for everything to shatter.
Two months worth of messages.
Pictures.
Location and message history that line up perfectly with the nights he told her he was working late or meeting with friends.
Words that make her stomach turn and set her skin on fire: I can’t wait to see you again. That was amazing. See you soon, baby. She doesn’t suspect a thing.
The air feels sharp in her lungs as she sets the phone down in its previous position, carefully and quiet as a mouse. Her hand trembles as she swipes a tear from her eye. No more will I cry over this pathetic sack of wasted oxygen, she thinks to herself.
She moves through the room like a phantom, pulling clothes from drawers, stuffing them into the nearest bag. Her breath comes quick, shallow, and she grimaces as the sound of the zipper seems loud enough to wake the dead. She grabs essentials; toothbrush, charger, wallet, hairbrush, soaps from the shower, and her coat. The walls feel like they’re pressing in on her, the smell of him clinging to everything. The memories of things that have happened within these walls, both beautiful and disgusting, flash through her mind as she moves toward the door, opening it gently.
She walks down the driveway and onto the sidewalk when it hits her. Where will I go? Her face relaxes as his face flashes through her mind, and she immediately knows who to call upon. She feels awful for calling him so late, but this is urgent and she’s just sure he’ll understand. Her hand is shaking when she reaches into the pocket of her sweatpants for her phone.
It rings only once before Vessel picks up. “Hello?” Her throat closes at the sound of his voice. She forces herself to swallow and take a deep breath. “Can you-” The words splinter and break apart in her throat. Her mouth opens but nothing is uttered. She closes it, wets her lips and rolls her eyes at herself and her humiliating situation, and opens her mouth to try again. “Can you come get me?” She croaks through the lump in her gullet.
There’s a pause, quick and tense. “Where are you?” he replies, his voice deep and loaded with concern.
She gives her apartment address, the explanation barely coherent. He doesn’t press for details, he’s quick and straight to the point. “I’m on my way. Ten minutes.” Click.
The cold of the concrete seeps into her bones as she lowers herself onto a curb to sit and wait for her saviour to arrive. Hell will freeze over before she’s ever to take another step into that house.
It’s colder than she’d originally thought, biting through her sleeves and burning at the tip of her nose. She pulls the coat tighter around her, gripping the strap of her bag so hard her knuckles go white and ache.
His car pulls up faster than she thought possible. He must’ve sped the whole way to her. He’s in gray sweats and a black hoodie, hair mussed like he just rolled out of bed. His jaw is tight, his eyes sharper than she’s seen in months, but they soften instantly as they land on her. He strides over to her side and offers a hand to help her up. He pulls her into a warm embrace as she stands. She hugs him back as if it’s natural, and he can feel her wilt and begin to tremble in his arms. His heart shatters in his chest at her pain, and he wishes with his entire soul that he could take even a mere ounce from her. Hell, he’d take it all for her if he could without a second thought. He knows she was never meant to hurt like this. To love and pour everything into someone just to be slapped repeatedly in the face. She never, ever deserved this, and he absolutely loathes the one who’s done this to her.
He releases her after her arms fall from around him, and he takes a step back to take her in. She looks dreadful, the poor thing. She’s clearly exhausted, and it’s clear that she made a hasty escape. She gives him a small, sad smile and his heart sinks in his chest. He vows at that moment to be the one to bring her smile back; to restore light back into her sad eyes, no matter what it takes. The rough pad of his thumb brushes across the soft porcelain skin of her cheek, stopping a tear before it can fall from her jaw and deposit in her hair. He offers her a sympathetic look as he gently jerks his head toward the car.
She slides into the passenger seat after he loaded her bag into the trunk and insisted on opening her door and guiding her in, and the second the door shuts behind her, the tears come like a monsoon. But she doesn’t cry for that piece of garbage, no. She cries for herself and just how long she let this go on, hoping ignorantly that one day, things would be okay again. For all the time and patience she wasted on someone who would certainly never do the same for her.
He doesn’t tell her it’s okay, because it’s not. Instead, he just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other flexing restlessly on his thigh. His gaze flickers to her between turns and red lights, lingering for a heartbeat longer than it should. He takes deep breaths to keep himself grounded, but the only thing on his mind is how close she is to him and how he wishes to permanently disfigure the piece of shit who’s done this to her.
How can one be so incredibly blind and ignorant not to see the absolute diamond which sits in front of them, begging to be loved properly? Offering herself and all that she can give and do for you on a silver fucking platter, just to be ignored and abused? Absolutely preposterous.
She catches none of Vessel’s stolen glances and internal battles as her head rests on the car window, eyes fixed on the blurring visuals passing by mind somehow both completely full and devoid of anything. But his chest is burning, his heart pounding, his hands aching with the need to pull her into him, to make her believe she’ll never have to feel this again. That there is more to love, and that she deserves everything good both he and the world have to offer.
By the time they reach the band’s shared house, she’s gone silent, though her cheeks are still damp. She doesn’t wait for him to open her door. She’s out, pulling her bag from the trunk and hauling it over her shoulder, heading for the front door like she can’t get inside fast enough.
The others are still awake, gathered in the living room after Vessel’s loud exclamation of what he’d like to do to the guy woke up the members of the house in a panic. Everyone knows Vessel does not yell like that unless it’s something dire. She rushes past them without a word or even a passing glance, her eyes trained on the floor as she beelines for Vessel’s bedroom. The door clicks shut behind her, and she drops her bag, rips her coat off, and sits on the edge of the bed sobbing into her shaking hands.
Vessel lingers in the hallway, eyes shut, forehead pressed to the wall. His fists clench at his sides. “You gonna tell us what happened?” III’s voice is low, but it’s edged in steel. “She caught him,” Vessel answers, voice clipped. “He’s been stepping out on her for two bloody months and abusing her mentally the entire time,” he explains in a startlingly calm tone. The calm before the storm. His eyes reopen and dart around, wide and frantic.
III’s jaw works, his shoulders squaring. “Say the word, Ves. I’ll put him in the fucking hospital.” IV approaches slowly and shakes his head, voice gentle but firm. “She’s safe now, yeah? I’d say let’s keep it that way. That sack of shit will get what’s coming to him.” Vessel says nothing. His breath is sharp in his nose, his pulse loud in his ears as he fights back the urge to violently introduce his fist to the drywall.
II steps forward, catching Vessel’s arm as he turns to storm out and let his anger get the best of him. “Don’t,” II says quietly. “She needs you here, not in a holding cell, mate.” Vessel’s voice is rough, frayed at the edges. “I love her. Goddamnit, I’ve loved her for years, I’m sure you all know by now. And he-” He swallows hard. “He treated her like she was nothing. He fucking betrayed her in the worst way, I can’t just let tha-”
II’s grip on his shoulder tightens. “Yes, you can, man. What’s more important; taking your anger out on him, or showing your love to her?”
For a moment, Vessel just stands there silent, staring at II as he mulls over the drummer’s words of wisdom. “Alright. But I swear to Christ if he ever-” II interuupts with, “We know, bruv. He’s mince meat. Now get in there and make sure she hasn’t climbed out the window to go do him in herself.” Vessel chuckles dryly as he stares at the closed bedroom door for a moment, planning his next move. Then he exhales slowly and pushes it open as II pats him on the back and retreats back to his bedroom, and the other boys follow suit to their respective rooms.
He peeks in to assess before barging in, and the sight before him is enough to make him melt straight through the carpet. She’s already asleep, curled on her left side in his bed, hair spread over the pillow, tear trails glinting faintly in the dim light.
He doesn’t wake her, nor does he wish to. He just stands there in the doorway for a long time, memorizing the sound of her breathing and the sight of her in his bed, wishing it could wash away the ache in his chest. Even as devastated and disheveled as she may be, she’s still utterly breathtaking to him. Gazing upon her like this, with the pale moonlight shining through his window and gently cascading across her peaceful, ethereal features, he can finally understand why people in the 18th century were compelled to paint the forms and faces of those whom they loved.
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