Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

—i.

You're six when your soulmate mark appears.

Most would say young, but certainly not unheard of.

Sleeping soundly in your bed, you don't awaken at first. It's so sudden—the pain—because it rips through you so quickly, you're brought into consciousness with a strangled scream.

Your parents are suddenly there—frantic, worried—as they try and still your trashing body. But there is only pain, pain, pain and nothing else exists.

But then, just as quickly as it came, it disappears, leaving a trembling pile of limbs behind. You don't hear your parents, their voices are fuzzy and distant because something is different, you can feel it. It scratches from deep within you like some monster awakening from its slumber.

There is a flicker of something unknown in your mind, in your heart. It's an odd sensation—almost a weight—that leaves you breathless and grasping onto the material of your t-shirt.

...and Hell followed with him.

You stare dumbly at the stark, black font curving across your ribs. Chest heaving, you trace them with near reverence. Even then, you knew how special this was. How precious and pure. The pain is worth it, everything and anything would be worth this type of gift.

Your parents mutter under their breaths, but you don’t listen to them, your shaky fingers touching the peculiar slant of new letters. It still stings, almost like someone is holding a candle too close to your skin, but any discomfort is drowned out by the sensation of rightness you feel.

That night is the first time your soulmark causes you pain.

It will not be the last.

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Pain becomes a companion.

It pulses through your body in dull intervals of grating discomfort.

Powerful. Special.

That’s what people say your bond with the owner of your words is. It’s so rare to get a soulmate whose emotions and pain could be shared. Most only get words, and even then too many receive perfectly average phrases like “Hello” and “Watch it!” making the process of finding your soulmate anything but easy.

But to be tied to your soulmate on such an intimate level that you share what they feel is remarkable, unique. Something only those with the most potent bonds can boast of. A connection so deep it’s almost fairytale-like; mystical and binding as it is unbreakable.

But there is nothing special about doubling over in agony during an exam, screams of pure anguish tearing from your throat. You trash like a wounded animal, clawing at your own skin as tears trail down your face. Teachers surround you, trying to still your flailing limbs and quell the agony but nothing can help you because there is nothing wrong with you, specifically; it’s your soulmate, it’s always only them.

You don’t remember most of the journey home; only blurs of colour and voices, voices, voices, VOICE—

Your fingers sink into your hair, tugging harshly, desperately, and you welcome the thick darkness gladly.

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You hardly sleep that night.

You wake up to more pain in your own room, in your own bed. Everywhere hurts, aches, but there are no marks on you—not even a scratch. It’s all phantom pain that tears from the other side of your soulmark.

You have no idea what’s happening to your soulmate, but you know it’s bad. You know because somewhere in the early hours of the morning the pain doubles. Your sides hurt the most, to a point you can feel the invisible weight of the unseen attack.

The pain feels so real you can almost taste the bitter tang of copper on your tongue. Time stretches impossibly slow, and your pained gasps are the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

Your words burn against your skin, and you fold tighter and tighter into a fetal position, pleading to whatever higher power there is that this will all come to a stop soon.

And, eventually, it does.

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.

Next morning, you trace your fingertips over the bruises on your side through heavy tears. You have never heard of soulmates manifesting actual wounds. You have never expected your soulmate to hurt you like this either.

…and Hell followed with him.

Even your words are bruised, and the sight of your damaged skin makes you feel sick.

You try to tell yourself that something awful must have happened to your soulmate, that they didn’t do this willingly. But who is constantly hurt? Who is constantly suffering and willingly passing those awful emotions onto their soulmate?

Sometimes, it feels like hungry hands are trying to pull your closer through that pain. Like something lost and manic is trying to latch on.

It’s not the first time your soulmark hurts you.

But it is the first time the pain left behind breeds something odious and dark in your heart.

Resentment.

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Sometimes you dream of eyes so blue you drown in them.

It’s not pleasant, and it isn’t peaceful.

Those eyes consume your soul, pick you apart piece by piece until you are alone and torn open.

And then a voice—hushed, smooth; the kind of low baritone that makes you want to seek out its owner and not rest till you do. It beckons you closer, and there is something desperate in that tone that drags you nearer, sinking you deeper in the inky blackness. A mutter of rushed words follows in a gentle voice—fervent, haunting, hungry—almost like a prayer, and shiver races down your spine.

You never see anything around you, just darkness, but sometimes—just sometimes—you feel fingers sink into your skin like claws, holding you so close you can’t breathe.

The feeling of hot breath against the curve of your ear chases you into wakefulness.

And the words across your skin burn like a fresh brand every time.

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There is no relief.

You drown every day, unable to breathe, unable to simply be.

The sensation of terror and disgust crawls up your skin too often for you to count anymore.

Your soulmate is lost, terrified and...alone. So very alone. You don’t know how you know that but you feel it with every fibre that makes up your body.

Most nights you cry yourself to sleep, and hope, plead to anyone that might be listening that you don’t dream.

But you rarely get what you want.

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.

It continues like that for a while.

Days without pain are a rarity—precious and carefully hoarded with greedy fingers. Poured over like most valuable treasure.

“Nice view, huh?”

You don’t reply because you didn’t come here to talk. You came here to forget the words marking your skin, and enjoy the spell of calm that has shrouded you these last few days. No pain follows you, and the tether that connects you and your soulmate so carefully is—for once—silent.

You have no idea what to make of that. Truthfully it makes you feel both relieved and wary all at once.

Just once, you want to do something normal, average, and forget the one attached to your soul.

So you try to kiss the just-barely-above tolerable idiot in front of you.

But the kiss tastes like ash and decay, making you gag immediately.

The words on your skin flare like a hot flame, stabbing you with fresh pain, and your knees buckle slightly from the feeling of nausea that overwhelms you.

Disgust and anger thump through your limbs mercilessly, and you grit your teeth harshly. These are not your emotions, but they are affecting you more than they should. The idiot is babbling something but you can’t hear him over the roar in your ears.

The resentment that has slowly been collecting in your heart little by little blazes through you, forging a destructive path straight to the crevice inside you that belongs to your soulmate. You gather that destructive emotion—briefly marvelling at what a tightly coiled, powerful thing it has become—and unleash it with vengeance.

LEAVE ME ALONE

And just like that, the world goes quiet.

For the first time since you were six, the world is—mercifully, unbelievably—quiet. The presence that clung to you for so long feels burned away and nothing but ash remains.

The silence is so startling that for a second you only gape at the ground numbly. It feels like someone has removed a limb so quickly that the pain still hasn’t registered. But any second now, any—

You shakily tell the idiot in front of you that you had one too many to spare his ego.

You walk home alone, and it rains the entire time there but you don’t feel a damn thing.

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The presence of your soulmate doesn’t come back for two weeks.

It’s the best two weeks of your life.

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You dream again.

The darkness is familiar but this time there is a slant of light in the distance.

Something about it feels dangerous, deceptive, and you come to a halt halfway to your destination.

There is a podium standing bathed in the dull light...no...

It’s an altar.

A single rosary dangles from it and you stare at it silently.

This scene should bring you peace, but something in your chest coils in unease instead.

And then from the darkness comes the presence that is becoming achingly familiar.

The darkness around you thrums with anger—cutting and vicious—before a lean arm wraps around your waist with heavy intent. There is no fear, just hope for some nameless thing you dread and anticipate all at once.

A hot breath burns against your skin for a moment, and lips brush against your ear unhurriedly, leaving you trembling.

Your soulmate says something but the words get swallowed by the endless darkness that surrounds you both. Despite that, your body still has some near instinctual reaction to their words because you feel a nameless emotion start bubbling in the pit of your stomach. It’s something you can’t explain because it doesn't make any sense to you either.

Fingertips trace over your skin lovingly, gently; a lover's touch. You feel the longing there—the need—but anger lingers as well, not in their touch but in the very air you try to force into your lungs. A dream should not be so real and yet you feel the warmth of your soulmate's touch burrow under your skin. And then their lips press against the curve of your shoulder—featherlike, almost revered—and something ignites deep in your heart too.

You have no idea if you want to push them away or lean into them. You hate the touch almost as much as you secretly crave it.

Perhaps some part of you has missed them too because you feel the way your body starts to relax in their embrace, how the heat of their too soft, dry lips trace a lazy pattern on your skin. It feels natural to be near them. Your soulmate. Yours.

A glimmer of deep longing pierces your heart, and you almost forget how they hurt you. How they do every day even now.

A moan escapes through your parted lips and the soft sound echoes in the darkness, stilling you both. Another arm joins the first when you try to squirm away desperately, endlessly ashamed of your own moment of weakness. Your soulmate is unforgiving though—their arms lock around you like shackles, and you feel the desperation to hold onto you when their fingers dig in. Almost like they can hold you here by will alone.

"Let me go," you spit out, furious and wild, as you trash in their hold, nails racking across their skin. You don't know if they can hear you—part of you hopes they do, hopes those exact words are etched onto their skin—but the darkness starts melting away before you can check. "I never want to meet you—not ever."

Your dream fractures into little pieces at those words.

But you still wake up to the feeling of their fingers imprinted on your skin.

It’s then that you accept one, painfully singular truth.

You will never be free.

—ii.

John Duncan blows into your life like a hurricane.

The first day of college and his name and presence are everywhere.

Girls and guys alike talk about him like he is some kind of god.

At first glance, he appears to be the typical frat boy with too much money and ego to go alongside it.

On second glance—which ends up being the second day of college—you learn that his “incredible looks” and “panty-dropping charm” go hand-in-hand with top marks in every class he takes.

Some say he’s rich and a genius; a rather unfair advantage to many. Many tell tales of how he never takes his classes seriously, spends most of his free time taking different people to his bed—a high honour, apparently—and drinking his troubles away. Some even whisper that he’s into drugs—big shocker, doesn’t everyone use drugs nowadays—but those accusations are sparsely spoken out loud.

Ruthless is another word that gets attached to his person. If you cross his path or betray him, others whisper of the power John casually throws around in taking care of those people. How he gets an almost sadistic glee from breaking things down without a care. It all sounds a bit dramatic, to be honest, and people usually exaggerate a lot, so you take their words at face value.

The puzzle pieces seem almost too easy to add up after that though. Charming, handsome (or so people say), ruthless, genius.

It sounds like John Duncan is a closet psychopath.

And just like that, he becomes a smidge more interesting.

You don’t know why, exactly. Perhaps it’s as simple as pack mentality winning out; everyone here is obsessed with him, and having a wild fantasy of your own just makes it easy to follow along with others, if only for your own amusement.

That doesn’t exactly mean you’re about to go and befriend the guy—not really your type of gig.

Curiosity killed the cat and all that. But something nags at you; some deep-rooted drive to find out more about him. And it’s as annoying as it is odd.

You don’t see him at all in the first week, however—much to the disappointment of your roommate—because he is nowhere to be found on the campus. Apparently, that just happens too. Sometimes he disappears for days, and no one bats an eye. Money talks and money keeps secrets as well.

The first time you catch a glimpse of him is two weeks later when he is walking from one class to another.

It’s still warm out and few people from your class have suggested sitting outside and catching some sun while you work.

There is a slight commotion in front of you, and you look up to catch a glimpse of a young man walking across the path on your left.

You have never seen someone look so alone while surrounded by a group of people.

And you have to admit—albeit begrudgingly—that he is indeed handsome.

Very handsome, in fact, and he walks like he knows it, too. The second thing you notice apart from his raven hair is his tattoos. They curve up his arms, varying in size and design, and you have a feeling he has more you can’t see. It makes you wonder if he’s hiding something with all that ink—he certainly won’t be the first to do so.

He’s all swagger, lean shoulders and cockiness. He doesn’t look at the people around him (they’re beneath him), and you can tell he hardly hears what they’re talking about. You know the feeling. Ear in, and ear out; pick out key points in the conversation to appear like you’re listening but never pay enough attention to actually be listening—

There is a tingle, a nudge against your mark that warms your skin, and your jaw clenches with sudden force. You have gotten better at blocking and pushing away, cocooning yourself till your soulmate couldn’t reach you.

And then it hits you.

Maybe—

No, absolutely fucking, not.

It can’t be.

But it’s like the fleeting, idiotic thought manifests into something tangible anyway. Because one moment, John Duncan is lifting his no doubt designer shades on top of his head, and the next his eyes flicker towards your group as your eyes meet.

His eyes are as blue and as open as the sky.

And you feel dread so suffocating, you want to run and never look back.

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.

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Your words are too unique for you not to get curious about them eventually.

When you were young you would spend hours tracing the words till you had them memorized, ingrained into your mind so thoroughly no one could steal them from you.

Naive idealism drove you then. You have loved and hated your soulmate in equal measure growing up. They brought security and longing with them but mostly pain, discomfort and worry.

Your words are special though. They feel heavy and purposeful; not at all what you might hear on the streets or in an accidental run-in. You know that so absolutely it doesn’t take you long to get behind a computer and try and search for meaning.

As it turns out, it only takes one search to find answers.

...and Hell followed with him.

It’s biblical. Because of course it is.

And to make things better? It’s Revelations.

That knowledge sits like a stone in the pit of your stomach for weeks.

Eventually, you start avoiding churches out of bone-deep fear you don’t dare to voice. Weddings become uncomfortable as do funerals and christenings. Altars bring back memories of your feverish, suffocating dreams and the sight of rosaries set your teeth on edge.

Years later, when you meet John for the first time, you don’t figure him to be the religious type.

But odder things have happened so you avoid him like the plague.

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.

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Something is wrong.

You’re unsure how to describe the sensation that pulses through you in slow, uncomfortable waves but it makes your heart stutter in your chest each time it does.

It began early in the afternoon; at first as a gradual, barely noticeable twinge before it grew into something tangible and unwelcome.

The house is alive with party noise all around you, and you rub your temple in agitation, trying to focus. Truth be told, if your roommate hadn’t begged you to come to the end-of-the-year senior party with you, you never would have left your room.

You try to swallow a few mouthfuls of the cocktail your friend has treated you to, but it tastes like nothing against your tongue, and you feel the unshakable irritation grow. No distraction seems to be working today either.

Your soulmate’s words are hurting. But it’s not the usual, physical pain you’re used to feeling. It’s something else, something yawning; something so piercing you can feel it deep in your bones.

Something terrible is happening, and you have no explanation for it other than an exceedingly foreboding feeling that curls around you like a blanket.

It’s the unusual nature of your discomfort that almost drives you out of the party, and back into your own dorm. Somewhere you can curl safely and try and dream. That’s the only way you can communicate—however poorly—with your soulmate. Something about this...sadness, suffocating grief and pain makes you more concerned than you probably should be.

And you feel angry too. At yourself for caring, at your soulmate for feeling so powerfully, and projecting so clearly, it’s near blinding.

“Well someone is not having a good time, hm?”

Your expression twists in annoyance and you lower your nearly full drink on the counter. The thud the glass makes upon impact is loud enough to be audible over the music, the liquid inside sloshing around dangerously.

“Not interested,” is your scathing reply and you stare straight ahead, expression harsh. You’re not in the mood for this; not usually, and certainly not today. Discreetly, you try and search for your roommate, but she’s lost somewhere in the thick of the crowd and nowhere to be seen. “So save your time and mine by walking away, buddy.”

There is an amused hum next to you before a tattooed hand places a beer bottle next to your cocktail, and a body sits down rather gracefully in the seat next to you.

“Well I’m very interested,” the too smooth, too smug of a voice remarks. “And I’ve always been terrible with ‘no’s. Just...not for me.”

You have to control yourself from rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I imagine that’s working out really great for you. Listen, I’m serious—”

Your words die in your throat when you turn to look at the man sitting next to you.

Because it’s John fucking Duncan beside you, leaning against his palm with irritating sort of nonchalance about him, tattoos accented by the low light and eyes wide with amusement.

“At long last,” he says, pleased and complacent, eyes flickering over your features raptly. “You know, it’s very rude not to look at someone when they’re trying to make conversation. I was starting to fear you lack manners. But nevermind that. I’m John Duncan. I’m sure you already know that but, alas, those pesky manners are necessary. And you are?”

It’s startling. How smooth and focused his speech is. How the words simply roll off his tongue. You’ve heard about his “charm” before, but there is indeed something disarming about that face and voice. Something about the relaxed but confident set of his shoulders that invites you in if he’s willing to engage. And he appears...eager.

But it’s hard to focus on that when all you can hear is the sound of your own heart hammering in your chest to the beat of the music as it blares loudly.

Your mind scrambles to the beginning of the conversation, desperate and terrified.

Well someone is not having a good time, hm?

The relief that washes over you is so powerful it nearly crumbles your spine to dust. For almost a year, you have avoided John Duncan at every turn. Ran from the strange—frankly bizarre—draw you felt towards him. From the bubbled of curiosity that has festered in your heart like a disease. Something about his presence makes your words itch. And because of it, you have feared it was him. Feared that it was his words you carried imprinted on your flesh. Because something about him makes something inside you spark to life and it terrifies you as much now as it did then.

“What’s wrong?” he practically purrs at your reaction, and leans closer—too close—eyes glinting with a knowing, mocking light. “Cat got your tongue?”

You force the wild assortment of emotions down, trying to scramble for some semblance of control. Your voice is the first thing you try to get back, regardless of how difficult such an easy task suddenly is.

“No, but then again I don’t usually have strangers shoving their faces in my personal space,” you remark coolly, eyebrows arching. “Care to back up before I throw my shitty cocktail in your face?”

His eyes spark with mirth, lips curling upwards and the slight snort leaves him but he leans back all the same which, in hindsight, is the only thing that stops you from getting up and leaving.

For a moment you simply stare at each other, and you realise suddenly that he’s still waiting for you to speak. “Don’t you have, I dunno, people to be with? Everyone is usually fighting over every scrap of your attention. Why are you here?”

Why are you talking to me?

You know he reads deeper into your words, and his fingers reach for his beer though he doesn’t take a drink. He simply brings the bottle closer to his face, observing you with an unnerving stare. His eyes are lighter than you thought—lighter, at least, in comparison to the eyes that haunt your dreams. The eyes of your soulmate.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he drawls knowingly and takes a drink of his beer, his eyes never leaving yours. After a large mouthful, he lowers the bottle again, tongue licking his bottom lip with a lazy smirk. “Guess I’m just curious as to why. Care to indulge me?”

There is a dumbfounded moment of silence in which you try and come up with something intelligent to say. You had no idea John Duncan even knew you existed, much less noticed your purposeful avoidance of him.

“You know who I am?”

His index finger scratches slowly at the label on the beer bottle, and there is something unsettling about the methodical motion and the mild expression on his face as he stares at you. For a moment, it distracts you enough to keep you from speaking further.

When you realise he isn't going to answer your question, you clear your throat awkwardly.

“I don’t like arrogant assholes who think they own the world, that’s all,” you finally admit, words carefully chosen to hopefully get him pissed off enough to leave you alone. “The fact that you care about one person not liking you just proves my point about your inflated ego.”

There’s stillness between you after you finish, and your stomach churns because you can’t quite read his expression. Something lingers behind those blue depths—something sharp and clever, perhaps that ruthlessness you’ve heard so much about—but after a second his expression breaks and he laughs, his head tilting back.

And he looks...good. More than good you realise with a spark of annoyance. Blue, for one, is most certainly his colour you conclude as you admire the way the royal blue shirt stretches over his lithe frame. The first three buttons are undone, showcasing his sharp collarbone, and your eyes move to admire the view almost involuntarily.

His collar is slick with sweat, making that sharp edge of skin glisten in a way that is far too inviting, far too intimate. His usually silky brown hair is mussed too, few dark strands falling over his forehead as he rubs his jaw leisurely. The usual stubble he sports is stronger today, almost a light beard, and you’re startled to see how much it suits him. How the darkness of his hair only frames those piercing blue eyes of his.

Oh, and they are piercing. It’s like they’re drilling right into you as he watches you thoughtfully, almost dazed, and you can’t help but to silently wonder what exactly he’s thinking about.

Delight, interest, and a hungry sort of heat—admittedly that’s not the response you expected when you dug into him. But here he is, tattooed fingers against his lips, and eyes on fire.

“I care when the said person is...interesting,” he says after a pause, voice smooth as honey when he leans slightly closer. “Not many have the guts to tell me what they really think to my face and I like that. But you wanna know the ugly truth? I know what they all think anyway. People are so transparent. They look at you and talk with you like they know you but...they don’t. They think they have power over you because they’re nice to you. You know what that’s like, don’t you?” he asks curiously, pointing his index finger at you knowingly.

You feel your eyes narrow on him, flickering over his features. His attention is fully, and shrewdly focused on you, almost like every blink and exhale are somehow important. He looks like a predator on the hunt about to sink his claws into his prey—

“Yes,” you admit reluctantly, thinking back on the words on your skin. So many have pretended to understand in the past, but none have. “So what, I’m a social experiment?”

He hums, another flicker of a smirk ghosting over his features, “Now that’s a very crude way of putting it,” he rebukes, a hint of sly teasing in his tone, and presses the heel of his palm dramatically to his chest. “As I said earlier, I like indulging, and I’m very good at getting what I want.”

He braces his elbow against the counter, an image of collected elegance and something darker, hungrier. And you feel startled by the spark of heat in your lower belly the longer he looks at you like that.

“And what do you want?”

You don’t really need to ask. His intention is clear—has been from the moment he sat down beside you. But you still want to see what he will say, see if he can give you some reason to turn around and walk away. So far, despite his overconfidence—and arrogance—he is surprisingly interesting. Simultaneously exactly how you expected him to be, and not at all.

His eyes flicker downwards before slowly, intimately, moving upwards and shamelessly taking you in. You feel almost startled by his blatant display of desire, and even more surprised by the lack of anger you feel in return. Your words tingle, but not from irritation or disgust and you swallow heavily, suddenly unsure about how you should proceed.

“Right now?” he questions with a click of his tongue before absentmindedly licking his lips again. “A joy of honest company. Later though, I want you in my bed.”

A disbelieving sound escapes you and you laugh genuinely, looking away from him, completely bewildered by his bluntness. This night is becoming more and more bizarre by the second.

After a brief moment, you turn to look back at him, smile still in place, and find his head dipped in your direction like he followed your movement to make sure he could see your expression. A faint grin lingers on his face and his eyebrows are still arched like he, too, is surprised by your reaction.

“That’s a tall order for someone who doesn’t even know my name,” you remark bitingly, and blink at him with neutral sort of indifference. “And arrogance isn’t as sexy as you no doubt think it is.”

“Oh, your name? Beautiful, that’s an eventuality and we both know it, though I confess myself intrigued,” he tells you, seemingly content on waiting. “Dance with me.”

You blink at the sudden change in conversation. “What?”

He rises immediately, placing his beer down and you tilt your head to look up at him. He takes a step towards you—startlingly refined and smooth—and your knees touch as he gazes down at you with a hint of suppressed glee. Smug bastard.

“Dance. You. Me.”

“Uh, no,” you say firmly. “Not that great of a dancer, not in the mood, and the last thing I need is everyone thinking I’m involved with you.”

John chuckles again, flashing you a wide smile that’s anything but warm. “Oh, you haven’t noticed? Everyone is not so discreetly staring at us right now.”

You feel yourself go rigid, warily glancing around to find that John is right, and too many people are currently gawking right at you. Breathing deeply, you shoot John an accusatory glare but the man in front of you only grins innocently.

“C’mon, don’t be a spoilsport, have a little fun with me,” he implores, and you half-expect him to try and level you with puppy dog eyes. Few loose strands brush against his forehead when he tilts his head, lifting his hand to wiggle his fingers at you. “All you have to do is say yes, just one little word. Promise I don’t bite...much.”

Rolling your eyes with a scoff, you try and look for some way out but, truthfully, part of you doesn’t want to. And you don’t know why. There is something, admittedly, almost endearing about John, despite his irritating demeanour. You decide to tell him as such. “You are incredibly irritating, has anyone ever told you that?”

You glance back at him and gasp weakly when he places a hand on the counter, his other arm moving to rest against the back of your chair, the frame of his body completely filling your vision as he boxes you in. You feel the heat of his skin, and smell the heady scent of his expensive cologne when he leans next to your ear, his warm breath tickling your ear.

“You’re my first,” he purrs softly before leaning back. He doesn’t move away though, your faces inches apart as he gazes at you, your breaths mingling. “So how about that dance, beautiful?”

In the end, it’s not you that makes the decision—not really. Another painful stab of discomfort pierces through your soulmark and you force down a groan of pain. Whatever is going on with your soulmate today is impossible to ignore, despite your best efforts to do so.

It’s almost like they’re trying to roar their pain through the bond that binds you both. Like they’re desperate to reach you, to latch on to you, but you’re so tired of suffering on their behalf. You just want to forget it all. Forget the brand on your skin, forget that every day you feel like your life is not your own, not really.

You stare at John Duncan for a long moment but there is nothing awkward in the air between you. He removes his hand from your chair, extending it towards you like an offering.

Your lips part after a moment, and you cautiously place your hand in his. “Impress me,” you say, a challenge clear in your voice.

His fingers lock around yours, and a spark of surprise pulses through you at the comfortable fit. He takes a step back, straightening before he jerks you to him in one sudden move. You choke back a gasp, your chest hitting his as he stills you with a hand on the small of your back. High enough to be polite, but low enough to trace his pinky towards the danger zone.

“I will do my very best.”

His eyes are alight with glee, and you let him relish in this small victory with a roll of your eyes.

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.

.

Your heart is beating to the thrum of the music around you.

It’s also beating to the feeling of John’s fingers tracing your skin.

His hands never drift lower than you want them, and he keeps a surprisingly considerate boundary between you. You never would have thought him to be the type, especially not after his blunt, near egotistical speech earlier.

And yet, something about the gradual exploration of your skin, the heat of his frame pressing against yours and the way he always has to be touching some part of you—no matter how innocently—warms you from the inside out. You have never been touched by someone and not felt immediate disgust or discomfort at the contact. Something about John is different.

The longer you dance, the more you don’t mind his fingers tracing featherlike but undoubtedly deliberate patterns on your skin. He starts at your neck, gently rolling his thumbs against the nape before gradually travelling down your shoulders, the length of your arms and finally lacing his fingers with yours. Once he even lifts your hand, placing a slow, lingering kiss against your pulse, your eyes locked the entire time.

You don’t melt in his embrace though. You explore yourself, fingers trailing across the skin of his collarbone and chest. Your other hand rests at the back of his neck, rotating between sinking your nails into the hot skin and rubbing soothing circles across it.

John’s face is pressed against the curve of your neck, and you smile every time you feel him exhale sharply when your nails sink into him.

The song currently playing is slower than others, and your bodies are pressed together, his hips digging into yours as you both sway to your own rhythm. Your eyes are closed and the tip of your nose is buried against the juncture of his neck as you breathe him in. You know there are people all around you staring, more than a few of them glaring in envy and resentment alike, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You’ll probably end up regretting this in the morning but right now, at this moment, your usually chaotic mind—which rarely feels like it belongs to just you—is quieter, almost peaceful.

Chaos still echoes from the other side of your words. But there’s something about John that draws a sense of peace. Selfishly, you want to hold on longer to that feeling—need to hold on, in fact.

“I want you,” John breathes in your ear, and you shudder in his embrace, eyes fluttering open when he pulls back. His eyes look almost black, and his expression is surprisingly serious. “Say yes, just...say yes.”

His words are so quiet you’re surprised you can hear him over the music at all.

There is undoubtedly something unsettling about John. Something you can’t place your finger on just yet.

But you want to be selfish, you want to be greedy. Just once.

“Yes.”

.

.

.

Fire licks across your neck. Or more specifically, John does.

The door to his private apartment—because of course he has one—slams shut loudly behind you, and his hands are around your waist immediately, hoisting you up and pressing you against the door.

He could barely keep his hands to himself during the journey to his place, so the fact that he scarcely allows you a breath now doesn’t surprise you.

His lips are on yours and you moan into the kiss while his tongue explores your mouth, sucking on your bottom lip hungrily. His hands traverse across your body hurriedly, like he’s trying to map every inch of you as quickly as he can. You sigh into the kiss when his fingers drag down the curve of your ass, making you grind your hips into his, and you swallow a scoff at the low groan he forces through clenched teeth at the contact.

John’s heavy stubble scratches against your jaw and neck when he trails down a heavy path of kisses down, his nose pressing against your pulse while he sucks on the sensitive skin. Your fingers tremble before they tighten in his hair, tugging on the silky locks in appreciation as his hands move to your shirt and his fingers yank on the material.

It remains stubborn, however, making you chuckle breathlessly when John releases a sound of annoyance.

“Eager?” you mock with a playful grin, tugging on his hair again.

His answering smile is as sharp as a knife, his eyes burning with need, with want, and he bares it to you so plainly it leaves you breathless. “Oh, you have no idea, beautiful,” he practically hisses but only desire coats his words.

Leaning forward, you ghost your lips over his before laying a lingering kiss against the corner of his mouth. John lets out a small noise, trying to capture your lips with his but you only laugh faintly, your fingertips brushing against his lips suggestively. “Well I thought I told you to impress me,” you note, your wry grin widening when his gaze darkens.

His lips part and you shiver when he takes your middle finger between his teeth. He only waits a second before the wet, hot heat of his tongue presses against your skin as he gives the finger a hard suck, pressing you tighter against his body. The dangerous, roguish grin he offers you when you pull your hand back has your blood roaring in your ears. “What a wicked mouth you have,” he hums, pleased and transfixed, as his eyes roam the slopes and dips of your face. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

You grin brightly, endlessly amused and more aroused than you would care to admit. “Do move along then,” you tell him in mock-stern tone, and notice the flare of amusement in his own gaze. “I’m starting to grow bored, rich boy.”

He laughs at that, low and throaty, and the sound comes from somewhere deep in his chest—almost awkward—and it strikes you as the most genuine sound of amusement you’ve heard from him since your meeting.

“I’m going to eat you up,” he speaks slowly, dragging the words out till you can feel every syllable sink into you like a sinful promise.

In response, you only tug him closer, kissing him deeply and he peels you from the door, dragging you across the dark space of his apartment. You follow without hesitation, fingers still tangled in his shirt and hair as you taste him against your tongue. He’s an amazing kisser; far better than you thought he would be, and that thought grates on you too.

You’re desperate to find some reason to call this whole thing off but the heat between you two is leaving you gasping for breath. John…

John is looking at you like you’re his next meal; ravenous and consuming, driven by something more than just simple lust. Truthfully, it’s a bit unnerving how intense he is. You wish this was nothing but simple sex driven by hormones. That’s normal; ordinary, safe. This though...

John kisses you, touches you like you’ll be his first and last. Like he has to break off and consume some part of you to survive. Selfish to the core, but electrifying as well.

He practically throws you onto his bed but before he can take the lead, you rise, pushing your hand against his chest and don’t miss the flash of impatience across his expression when you do. It’s hard to see his face clearly with how dark the bedroom is, but your fingers still skim over his bare collarbone before they lower to grasp onto his shirt and you rip downwards.

The buttons pop easily, some flying around you and others simply falling on the bed, baring his chest to you as brief pain flares through your digits. You don’t miss John’s startled exhale of breath either. He looks up at you, eyes wide, frenzied. Something wild rages in those depths and you grin at him sweetly.

“Easy access.”

“That’s Versace,” he notes quietly, his words strangled, and breaths shallow.

Your palm presses against his stomach before trailing up the length of his chest, feeling the coil of lean muscle beneath the warm skin. He has more tattoos littering his skin, and your eyes trail down his body appreciatively before you yank on the shirt again, the last two buttons popping.

“All the better then,” you reply smugly, and bite back a groan at the scorching heat in John’s eyes.

He lifts his hand, his expensive watch glinting in the dim light and brushes his thumb across your bottom lip, a breathless chuckle filling the space between you.

“I’m going to fuck you, darling,” he tells you simply, eyebrows knitting together as he stares at you like he can’t make sense of you. “I’m going to claim every part of you tonight. Find and explore every crevice,” he continues, almost sweetly, and traces his hands down your body. He starts with your top, tugging the material in a sharp, well-practised motion off your body. His thumb traces over the curve of your breast and his voice dips, practically choked. “And when I’m done...hmmm...when I’m done, you’re going to ask for more. And I will give it to you. Oh, I promise I will give you all you want and then more.”

You feel wetness pool between your legs when he kisses the valley between your breasts, his long fingers travelling towards the strap of your bra. His breaths are hot, needy, as he explores your skin, teeth occasionally joining in as he leans over you. Your own hands explore his own body carefully, pushing the ruined shirt off his body at the same time he undoes your bra.

A low, pleased sigh spills from your lips and you drag him towards you, his body comfortably caging you in when you lay down on the soft sheets beneath you. He throws your bra somewhere over his shoulder, his fingers already on your jean button but before he pops it his eyes flicker upwards, meeting yours.

“Go on.”

It doesn’t surprise you when John takes his time. His face betrays his own eagerness but he takes far longer than necessary to unzip the zipper, his elegant hands stilling against your hips for too long.

After another minute of nothing but shallow breaths in an otherwise silent room, he moves his left hand to trail up your body, palming your breast with an experienced motion that makes your blood blaze. Again, he doesn’t rush, deliberately twirling his index finger around the halo of your nipple and you shudder at the contact, arching into his touch. But that’s nothing in comparison to the next sensation that races through your body.

You barely have time to inhale before you’re forced to bite the inside of your cheek, a cry rumbling at the back of your throat when two of his fingers travel south, brushing against the sensitive skin of your pelvis. Almost where you want them. Almost.

“No, no, no,” he mutters immediately, and removes his hand from your breast, moving his fingers to rest against your cheek. “I want to hear you. Every sound, every word. Don’t hold back. I want...everything,” his voice is low, wrecked, and you only nod, jerking your hips impatiently.

His thumbs rub against your hip bones for a few seconds, and he drags your jeans down your legs, fingers skimming over the newly exposed expanse of skin.

He kisses your navel painfully slow, stubble tickling you while his fingers lightly trace your inner thighs, and you don’t bother to hold back your groan of aroused frustration. His lips twitch into a smile, and you feel his subdued exhale of breath—like he has to force himself to calm down.

John’s fingers trace over the hem of your underwear and you jerk your hips upwards in the empty space between you. But he ignores your silent order, ever-so-carefully travelling down till finally his knuckles come to rest against the sensitive bundle of nerves. You groan at the sensation and John hisses a breath from between clenched teeth, a brief curse skipping past his sinful lips.

“Already, beautiful?” he hardly sounds like himself. Nothing clever or humorous can be found in his voice now. “So wet for me.”

He sounds like he’s talking through gravel; voice low and pinched, his fingers expertly pushing aside your underwear, and you feel his index finger sink into you with startling ease. A whine tears from deep within your throat; a raw, unholy kind of sound that makes John press his free hand to your hip to still you.

“Shhh, that’s it,” he soothes, breathless, but you can hear the smile in his hushed voice. “Just look at you. So—” he cuts off abruptly, hissing at the way you purposely tightened around his finger.

“Do you plan to talk me to sleep?” you gasp with a sharp grin, using your toe to nudge his thigh. “You said you’re clean. What’s the hold-up?”

His hand slips from your hip to your lower belly, his fingers flexing at the heat of your skin. “Patience is a virtue, darling,” he rasps, controlled and quiet, but you see how his pupils devour the electric blue of his irises. He gazes down at you like you are something beautiful, something to be enjoyed—and it seems like that’s exactly what he intends to do. He leans his body over yours again, his lips hot against the shell of your ear as he pushes another finger inside of you. “And I intend to teach it to you.”

You arch into him with an appreciative grunt, shuddering at the feeling of his lips on your neck—kissing, sucking; eager to punctuate every drive of his fingers into you with a wet kiss on your flesh. You’re burning; thrums of pleasure electrifying every nerve in your body as John trails his lips down your collarbone. Half-groan slips out before you can stop it when his too hot mouth closes around your nipple, sucking hard before laying a gentle kiss against it. He soothes you with a deliberate roll of his thumb against your bundle of nerves and you keen.

He comes up for breath with a smile, scraping his stubble against the thin skin of your sternum hard, with intent to burn, before he bites the side of your breast softly, and then he’s found your nipple again, sucking and tugging it between his teeth.

Your fingers tighten in his hair in reply, pulling firmly, desperately, but John only makes a gruff sound at the back of his throat and you bask in the vibration of it against your breast. The space between your thighs is aching, your hips squirming to meet his fingers for more friction. He pushes his weight against your body though, stilling you, and pulls back with a tut.

He looks just as wrecked as you no doubt do, and it fills you with triumph to see him affected as well. And to think he’s only touched you so far.

“Impatient,” he tsks, voice low, rubbing his free hand down your leg.

His fingers slip out of you easily, leaving you empty and unsatisfied, and you’re about to complain before he lifts his hand and pops his fingers in his mouth with half a grin.

He sucks on them with a wistful expression on his face, eyebrows pinching, and muted light illuminating one side of his body.

And there’s something about the image of him straddling you, half-naked, the taste of you on his fingers as he sucks on them eagerly that cuts to the very core of you.

They say the devil is handsome too, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s the devil. And this infamous boy with a dynamite smile and cold eyes makes something in your gut twist.

You rise so suddenly, he doesn’t have time to react as you pull his hand away, and kiss him intensely.

He presses you to him, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, arms unyielding around his neck as neither of you back down. There are good kisses, and then there are kisses like this one that make you shiver, quiver, from the inside out. Those scarce kisses that make you feel raw, and worn, and burning with a heat rarely found between people.

You can feel him strain inside his jeans when your bodies mend together and you pull back from him, your hot breaths mingling. He doesn’t let you pull back far though. His greedy fingers cup your face and he kisses your mouth again, blunt fingers sinking against the back of your neck to hold you close. Still not enough, never enough.

Wiggling your fingers, you trail them down his chest, nails scratching against his belly button before they come to rest just above the waistband of his jeans. John jerks into you involuntarily, breaking the kiss when you scratch idle circles on his skin. The muscles in his lower stomach jump under your ministration and John laughs, breathless and surprised, palming your breast lazily.

“Fuck, beautiful—”

“Shhh.”

You don’t let him talk. There is no need for words, not now—not when it’s apparent how much you both want this.

He makes you ache. He makes you ignite.

Your fingers don’t tremble when you undo the button of his jeans and take him in your hand. John’s fingers sink into your hip, a guttural moan slipping free. He’s hard and burning hot in your palm and you trail soft kisses against the steep slope of his collarbone. Earlier it had drawn your attention, making you wonder what it would feel like to kiss and taste that patch of skin. Now you know.

With every passing moment, the throb between your legs is becoming harder to bear so you tighten your grip on him, feeling him shudder as you pull closer, nibbling on his earlobe. “I want you,” you whisper in his ear, hoarse, soft, like a secret.

John stares at you with lips parted and eyes half-lidded. He looks at you like he has never seen you before.

It’s an odd expression; one that manages to palliate his features just-so, leaving you caught in a lull of quiet between you.

When he moves, he pushes you back effortlessly, kissing down your body, his graceful hands searching everywhere.

He explores you with his tongue and lips first, easily switching between hard and soft; kisses and bites. His hands do the same, moving between tantalizing caresses and sinking his fingers into your flesh.

But when he rises, bracing one hand next to your head, you don’t shy away from his stare. John traces the side of your waist, before his fingers slip beneath you, lifting your lower back for easier access.

Every nerve in your body feels like a livewire, and when you feel the length of him finally—finally—sink into you, the low sound that escapes you is a mix between a sigh and a whine.

Your chin lifts, your head pressing back against the fluffy pillow and you let your eyes close. The feeling of pleasure and fullness makes you feel safe in a way you have never felt in your life before.

He doesn’t move for a long moment that almost makes you question him but then he does. Body against body, heart against heart. Scorching puffs of air tickle your skin as he moves above you, and it makes you smile faintly.

And—

Something.

There is something else.

A splinter that is scratching from deep in your chest—

There is the simple earthly pleasure of what you’re doing with John, how well he fits inside you, and how he touches and kisses you with that all-consuming intensity.

But with every delightful thrust—so wonderful and seamless—the nameless something grows impossibly bigger and more uncomfortable inside your chest. You hold back a wince, and wrap your fingers around John’s forearm to steady yourself, digits rigid and lips trembling.

Your soulmate—

You need something, an anchor of some kind because you can feel yourself being pulled and jerked deeper into the heavy, dark—

“L-Look at me,” you plead, carefully cupping John’s cheeks. “Please. I need you to—”

He stills.

He was so focused on the rhythm, the act of it all, that for a split second he looks so startled he can only breathe heavily in the otherwise quiet room.

There's a softness to his features you have never seen before. It seems like whatever arrogant shell he wears like a second skin, has been shed in this unexplainable moment of vulnerability.

John leans his body over yours, skin pressing together till you're completely tangled in each other with your legs wrapped around his narrow waist.

Your sigh gets lost in the feeling of him carefully slanting his hips against yours, the pulsing heat of him finding a home inside you again. The phase is no longer rushed or frantic. In fact, John hovers over you, arms firmly around your body, as he drives back into you in slow, deep strokes that manage to overpower the uncomfortable sting in your chest.

True to your request, he doesn’t look away. He seems transfixed, caught in some spell as he gazes down at you. His hair is in disarray, messy strands plastering to his sweaty forehead. His eyes rage like blue fire though; hard and hungry.

You continue holding John’s face in your hands, thumb skimming over the arch of his cheekbone and there is a flicker, a thought that manifests on its own accord, as you continue peering at each other.

“Beautiful.”

You only catch a glimpse of the way his entire face crumbles at that simple word. Because he’s suddenly leaning in and kissing you hard, jerking himself closer and deeper inside you.

The coil is ready to snap, and you want him near, right there with you when it does.

As it so happens, it only takes another three languid, firm strokes till you feel yourself tip over the edge.

When the orgasm hits, there are no exaggerated screams or moans, there is only a hushed release of breath; a soft secret, an acceptance of this undoing.

You have to fight back the urge to close your eyes as smouldering heat rolls across your body in waves, leaving you shuddering and soft beneath him.

John only coils around you tighter but his eyes never once drop from yours. He moves again, once more, and then he’s right there with you, spilling inside you. His eyes are frantic, seeking, and you kiss him, swallowing his desperate groan, fingers soothing the damp strands of his dark hair. His forehead presses against yours, eyes finally fluttering shut and you stay like this—connected—for a long moment.

There is very little you can say in the wake of that.

The uncomfortable sting in your chest seems to have passed, leaving only the tingling afterglow in its wake.

Sex is easy, banal, but this…

John moves first, manoeuvring his body till his cheek comes to rest against your chest. He looks lost in thought, not distant in a dismissive way, but more like he’s trying hard to process something. A minute sigh escapes him, arm winding around your waist, almost possessive, as he holds you close. His face is relaxed though, and you continue playing with his hair as you lay together in silence.

The lack of awkwardness is almost as surprising as John’s continued silence. Before you could barely shut him up. Now the absence of his voice is creating a void that feels almost physical.

When you finally do speak, it’s a soft word that the said void swallows easily.

John’s serene expression creases, his gaze moving your way. “What?”

Your fingers run down his face, and you suppress a smile. “My name. You wanted it, remember? Most people call me Rook though. Old nickname. I like it better.”

You’re unsure if it’s the intensity of the sex you just had or something else that softens the piercing edges of his expression. But when he lifts his head from your chest and touches your neck, thumb pushing your chin upwards, you have to bite back a shiver of anticipation.

He ghosts his lips over yours briefly, biting your lower lip, pulling back only when he’s satisfied with his work. “Rook, then,” he concludes, hushed.

And then he kisses you again, and again, and again.

.

.

.

The sound of muffled singing wakes you first.

For a moment you only curl deeper in the too soft, too comfortable covers and sigh. Your nose stays buried in the plush pillow beneath you and you simply breathe. There is an odd sense of peace deep in your bones; gentle and warming, and it makes you tingle with contentment.

You inhale deeply, strangely comforted by the heady scent that fills your nose, and snuggle deeper in the soft material.

And then memories from last night come crashing down around you and your eyes fly open in horror.

Light fills your sight and you groan, slapping your hand over your face to hide from the harsh glare. You stay like this for a moment, trying to stifle your panicked breaths and think.

Oh shit.

You slept with John Duncan.

The John Duncan.

Normally you would pat yourself on the shoulder for a job well done on finding someone that good in bed, but you remember how others looked at you with judgement last night. No doubt everyone around the campus will be talking about another poor idiot who fell for John’s sickly sweet charm today. Too many people saw you leave together last night to not draw logical conclusions.

There is nowhere to run either. You can hear John’s voice somewhere in the apartment, lively and chipper, and debate your options.

He let you sleep in, you realise, when you glance around the spacious room and find a clock. The room itself looks like something straight out of a glossy, high-end interior design magazine and you have to bite back a deride snort. A man of expensive taste—nothing new there.

Unfortunately for you, John’s surprising consideration for your rest, now left you in this pesky position. You hoped to sneak out long before he woke up and let him forget all about you with another lover. Now, you will have to do the awkward morning-after conversation.

Great.

You rise slowly, trying to gauge where exactly in his ridiculously large apartment John is.

Your spine pops when you stretch carefully, and your eyes flutter shut for a second, basking in the pleasant soreness between your thighs and in your limbs. You wish more than anything you could say John is a terrible partner in bed—if only to hold it over his too perfect head for the rest of your days—but it’s the exact opposite and you frown in annoyance.

It takes you another few minutes to realise that your clothes from last night are missing and nowhere to be found. The room is tidy and bare except for the messy bed you were just in. Panic blooms in the pit of your stomach as you stand wide-eyed in the middle of the room. Did John do it on purpose? Hoping to humiliate you by making you approach him completely nude? For some reason, you can see that being an option for him. He seems to delight in being vindictive from what you’ve heard.

Last night you thought that maybe…

You felt like you had caught a glimpse of something more vulnerable in him. The memory of his serene face while he lay resting his cheek against your chest seems to be seared into your mind, and you hate it. Hate the fact that it makes you even more curious about him.

Clearly, you’re wrong about him though, and you will gladly oppose him if he thinks he can just humiliate you like this.

Your teeth grind harshly and you go straight for what you assume is his closet, throwing the door open and grabbing the first articles of clothing you can find. A random—but no doubt unreasonably expensive—silk shirt falls to your mid-thigh and his boxers are so soft you feel strangely envious as you tug them on. Far from perfect fit but it will do.

If he really thinks he can unnerve you with this, he better think again.

Though the unease of being in an unfamiliar place still lingers in your veins, you leave the bedroom with your spine straight and gaze set. You stumble upon an open plan kitchen-diner bathed in bright sunlight first, and your eyes flicker down the corridor where you can hear John’s voice more clearly.

He’s in the bathroom you conclude when you notice the door open a crack. Your gaze lingers on the gap for a second, contemplating walking in and embarrassing him as payback. But something tells you that John would not mind you walking in on him, especially if he’s naked in there. The thought makes you shiver and you walk stiffly towards the kitchen counter instead.

After downing a glass of water, you feel more like yourself again and sigh deeply. Your lips feel bitten and pleasantly tender when you lick them, and your fingers brush over them too, memories of last night creeping back into your mind. You brace a hand against the marble counter, recalling the foray of emotions and sensations that raged through you only hours ago.

You remember the look in John’s eyes, his greedy touch, the way he felt inside you and how he kissed you like you were his lifeforce. You recall how something destructive roared at you from the other side of your soulmark.

What your soulmate felt—

Your fingers settle against your side shakily, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Hollowness has settled in your bones, making it hard to concentrate and breathe. You try to nudge, and then poke at the empty space inside you to see if you can get a response but there is nothing.

This time you are the one reaching into the black abyss without your soulmate willing to reach back.

“Well this is a sight I could get used to,” a voice says from in front of you and you flinch, eyes flying upwards to stare at John who stands across the room, hand braced against the pristine white wall as he scrutinizes you.

Leave it to John Duncan to stand unabashedly in front of you while still damp from a shower, and in nothing but a low slung towel around his hips.

He looks different in daylight; somehow more beautiful and even more untamed, and you both remain silent for some time, seizing each other up.

His face is flushed from the shower. His tattoos stark and inviting for more thorough exploration if you so desire.

The thought is very tempting.

“Where are my clothes?”

John squints at you for a moment, almost like that’s not what he expected to hear from you before he visibly rolls his eyes.

“I called my dry cleaners,” he explains and pushes off the wall, approaching you with deliberate slowness. “Figured you would like clean clothes when you wake up. They’re taking longer than usual because I gave them mine as well. Not that I’m complaining,” he adds and his eyes quickly skip down your frame and back up, gaze heated.

His words burst the bubble of irritation boiling in your chest, and you release a deep breath, fingers nervously tugging on the hem of his borrowed shirt.

So much for the pissed off approach you had planned.

“That’s very...considerate of you,” you admit slowly and watch a glimmer of a snarky grin surface across his face. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”

He comes to stand in front of you and you ignore the shiver of delight at his closeness. There is an undeniable tension between you, and the memories from last night bombard you even more furiously with John’s closeness.

His eyes trace over your features, lingering on your lips for a tense moment before his sultry stare moves up and your eyes meet. “Chanel suits you.”

You swallow down a biting remark though a disbelieving smile still tugs your lips upwards. “Okay, rich boy,” you start offhandedly and pat his chest with a staged nod. “Thanks for all this but I think I’m just going to wait for my clothes and then go.”

John frowns immediately, eyes narrowing briefly before his expression relaxes. “Well they’re going to be at least another few hours, and I don’t have anything planned for the weekend,” he explains, brimming with false nonchalance. But there is a peculiar tension in his body before he leans closer, his hand trapping your palm against his chest. “So you could always...just...stay?”

A strangled noise escapes you—a mix between a laugh and a snort of disbelief—and you blink up at him when his expression remains unchanged.

“Are you serious? You want me to stay?”

“You sound surprised.”

His voice is calm, expression carefully blank as he peers at you. His fingers are still pressing your own against his chest, and you feel the heat of his skin pinprick your fingertips, the thud of his heart echoing beneath your palm.

“Yeah, 'cause you’re John Duncan. The Collector. Use and discard,” you explain hurriedly, and figure that you should probably push him back to create distance, even though your body refuses to budge. “That’s the MO, isn’t it? We don’t even know each other.”

He clicks his tongue, suddenly grinning like he was waiting for a response like that. “Exceptions can be made,” he states smoothly. “And we can change the not-knowing-each-other thing very quickly, no?”

Your eyes narrow on his flirtatious expression, but his fingers remain firm around yours, making your own heart thud just a tad too quickly. “And I suppose I should feel flattered?”

He moves closer, backing you against the counter, till you can feel your lower back press against the cool marble. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip briefly, and you can see him mentally come to some sort of decision.

His hand drops from yours, his arms suddenly around your waist as he hoists you on the counter, making you gasp at the sudden loss of equilibrium. Your nails sink in his bare shoulder for support, and you stare at him wide-eyed as he steps in between your parted legs. John’s eyes resemble blue flames and he rubs his fingertips against your bare thighs slowly, expression pleased.

“Well, I was rather hoping for turned on honestly,” he voices bluntly, grinning at your startled expression before he grabs your elbow, and wraps your previously braced arm around his shoulders. He angles himself closer to you, your bodies barely touching and you shiver at the sensation. “But whatever gets you back in my bed, darling Rook, then sure.”

You like how your chosen name sounds when spoken by him.

“That’s not—” you start before a sigh escapes you, and you feel an uncomfortable weight settle in the pit of your stomach at his bemused expression. “Look John, last night was great. Really. But this...it’s a bad idea.”

John stares at you silently, his confusion apparent and you want to tell him the truth but your tongue suddenly feels heavy in your mouth. Usually, you have no trouble telling others about your words. You’ve been with people who have their own soulmarks as well but this feels different. Maybe because something about John…

You like him.

A lot more than you probably should considering how little you know him. And yet, he somehow makes everything seem so easy. You have no idea why it feels so comfortable with someone like him. Why you are so drawn to him of all people.

“If you’re worried about others—” he begins, his grin wide and dismissive but you only shake your head before he can continue, and his cocky expression falters, making you look away as your stomach flips uncomfortably.

You shift restlessly, suddenly tense, and his hands feel impossibly heavy and hot against your skin. “It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me.”

Deciding to just rip off the bandaid, you pull back from him, your unsteady fingers tugging his shirt upwards to reveal your bare side to him. You know it was too dark last night for him to see properly, and even if he did notice anything, he must have chalked it up to you having a tattoo just like him.

The air is so thick with tension you force your breaths to even out, still refusing to look at him. You feel John’s fingers twitch before his hand lifts from your thigh and you feel his thumb graze the skin just under your soulmate’s words. Goosebumps explode across the exposed flesh and you nibble on your already tender lip awkwardly, nervously.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” you state immediately, tightly, staring at a random spot on his shiny floor. “Look, I’m sorry. I haven’t met them yet, and this was supposed to have been a night of forgetting I have a soulmate in the first place. That’s why I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“It’s Revelations.”

That makes you look up at him in surprise, but his gaze is focused solely on your words with such harsh intensity you tense instinctively. And even more surprising is the look of such pure envy on his face, it restricts the air in your lungs.

“You know the Bible?”

There is a flicker of something cold and baleful in his eyes only for a second before he blinks and it’s gone. His gaze finally connects with yours, but his smile is distant, strained. “Just a bit.”

You push the material of his shirt down, once again hiding your words from the world and frown faintly at him. You want to ask for an explanation for his vague words, but he takes your chin in his hand instead, lips pressed in a thin line as he regards you curiously. “You don’t want a soulmate?”

The smile you give him is no doubt just as strained as his earlier smile was. “Not this one,” you tell him firmly, jaw clenching and pointedly look at his tattooed body, “You don’t have one?”

John laughs then, pulling back from you sharply, but his hands still linger on you—like he doesn’t want to let go just yet, less you slip away. “Ha, no. Mommy and Daddy never thought I would make a good soulmate and they, well, they weren’t wrong.”

Even though his expression is light and his tone cheerful, his words seem bitter. An undercurrent of rage seeps from his unnaturally bright grin and tense shoulders, and you reach out on instinct, fingers scratching against his stubbled cheek.

John freezes under your touch, eyes wide and you give him an awkward smile, tilting your head.

His gaze remains firmly on you, and you clear your throat solemnly, “Swapsies?”

For a minute you stare at each other in silence before you burst out laughing at his dumbfounded expression. It feels good to break the tingling tension between you just moments before—not only because he’s proving to be far too tempting, but also because you feel oddly exposed with your soulmate's words now in the open.

“Stay anyway.”

You choke on your laughter, your eyes flying open and lips parting in disbelief as you stare at John in mute shock. You have expected to be kicked out the moment he saw you awake not...not whatever this is.

Your expression falls, an indescribable emotion bubbling in the pit of your stomach at his request. This is a bad idea. Even though you like him, even though some part of you wants to stay, you know you shouldn’t.

John’s expression remains flat as he waits for your reply, though you can’t help but get an impression that he didn’t expect to blurt out his request either.

“John—”

“I don’t give a fuck about some mark, darling,” he brushes off easily, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger. “And it’s clear to me that you don’t want whoever those words belong to. Besides what’s the harm in some innocent fun between two people, hm?”

Your faces are so close you can count his eyelashes, and marvel at the striking blue of his eyes. John’s fingers travel up to grip your hip and you reach out too, running your hand through his damp hair, and he groans low in his throat at the gesture.

“There was nothing innocent about what we did last night,” you point out weakly, feeling distinctly unsure about how you should handle this situation without it exploding in your face.

John chuckles softly—the sound far too sinful to not test your self-control—and you release a muted sigh when he drags you closer, your legs practically wrapping around him, and your breaths mingling.

His lips flutter over jaw and your head tilts back, eyes closed as you bask at the flare of raw desire in your gut. Your fingers in his hair tighten in response and he sighs harshly, shoulders going taut.

“Yeah?” he finally breathes against your ear, eyes gleaming when they meet yours. You feel unfairly unravelled in his arms, though satisfaction roars through you when you note his elevated breathing and dilated pupils. Not to mention the hardness between his legs that a flimsy towel around his narrow waist is doing very little to hide. “Is that your way of asking for an encore, beautiful?”

When you don’t reply—unable to speak over the lump in your throat—John tilts your head closer to his, pressing a hungry kiss against the corner of your mouth. “C’mon, just you and me,” he murmurs huskily, and lays another hot kiss against the other side of your mouth. “Forget the world outside these walls for a little while. Live in the moment. Life is far too short to say ‘no’ to things...you...want.”

Your parted lips hover over each other’s and you drag him even closer by the neck, his muscles twitching under your touch as your noses nudge together.

John’s laboured breaths prickle your lips and you want that mouth on you, you realize dizzily.

God, you really do.

And even more than that, you want to pretend. Even if for a little while longer.

“Okay.”

.

.

.

It’s not till later—not till you’re boneless and sated beside John, his lips still exploring your body eagerly, that you realise just how dangerous, how insatiable, he is.

One smile from him, and angels themselves would sin for him gladly.