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spookypalace · 3 years

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something borrowed - chapter two

After one drink too many at her 30th-birthday celebration, Jo unexpectedly falls into bed with her longtime crush and best friend, Alex – who happens to be engaged to her best friend, Izzie. Ramifications of the liaison threaten to destroy the women’s lifelong friendship, while Jackson, Jo’s confidant, harbors a potentially explosive secret of his own.

—

Or the one where everyone is a little messy but you still root for them anyway.

(ao3 link)

ok ok so i'm not entirely happy with this chapter, partly because i used a bit of backstory from the book but i kinda preffered how they did it in the movie so i included that also lol - so there is a bit of both :/ i've been sitting on the chapter for a bit but couldn't think of any way i'd want to change it up so i thought i'd just post and get it over with.

also this is a flashback and within this flashback, there is a flashback. it's the big chunk in italics, but if anyone thinks the way i have formatted this chapter is confusing then please let me know so i can change it and make it ... make more sense i guess.

anyway, thanks for reading and please let me what you think!!

May 2004

It’s to no one’s surprise that the only person left in the campus library at ten p.m. on the last Friday of their final year of law school, it’s Jo. It’s where she spent most of her evenings for the past couple of weeks, studying and stressing—attempting to cram in as much last-minute knowledge she could before their final exam on the following Wednesday.

Brunette hair tied back, save for the few small wisps fluttering over her eyes she’d blowing up at every so often. His oversized grey sweatshirt hangs loosely off her arms as she turns page after page of some old law journal, her right-hand scribbling down messy notes at her unusually fast pace.

The library was dull lit, save for the security guards lamp who sits grunting in the back corner, and the numerous lamps that lit the large mahogany table she currently sat at—books splayed across the surface, ones she hadn’t touched for hours but kept out just in case. Jo chooses not to think about how long it’ll take her to clear this up before she must leave.

A yawn escapes her lips, causing her to lift her left wrist and check the time, she’d already been here for six hours and unless the security guard was kicking her out—she wasn’t leaving. Jo had come way too far and worked way too hard to fall at the last hurdle, the last exam.

Maybe if she hadn’t spent the first half of her senior year with Izzie and Jackson and Alex so much, albeit separately, she wouldn’t feel the need to study as much as she had in the past few weeks. Jo had found herself falling behind, distracted by parties and flooding apartments and some crappy law drama Jackson had forced her to watch every Thursday night. But now, after weeks—she felt like she was getting back on track, just in time as well.

Jo’s eyes scan the page in front of her, she reads it over and over, but the words just don’t seem to settle in. With a deep groan, she throws the pen across the table and flops her head into her hands, rubbing circles against her temple.

“You look like you could do with a drink.” Alex’s familiar deep voice sneaks up behind her, causing Jo to jump in her seat—spine becoming rigid as a loud gasp escapes her lips. The sound causes the security guard to stand from his seat, glaring over at the pair. “Sorry,” Alex calls over to the guy, raising his hands in defence before letting out a laugh as he settles down on the chair next to a still heavy-breathing Jo.

“You scared me!” She exclaims through gritted teeth, trying to keep her voice quiet but still let Alex know she wasn’t all that happy about his surprise arrival. He places a comforting hand on her back and rubs softly, up and down up and down. It surprises her just how much the action did relax her, the feeling of stress no longer coursing through her body. “What are you doing here?” Jo finally asks now her breathing has returned to normal, turning in her seat slightly to look up at Alex.

Alex is about to reply with something snarky about her rigorous studying schedule but then he notices; the grey sweatshirt that engulfs her small frame, the one with their college logo fraying over the chest. He’d recognise it anywhere, with the raggedy hemline against the wrists and the small patch of white paint he’d stained it with when he helped his mom paint the shed in her backyard. It was his sweatshirt. Jo was wearing his sweatshirt. And he couldn’t explain the warm fuzzy feeling he felt after just one look at her at her snuggled inside of it. She looked so cosy—perfect, even. He wondered if he’d ever see anyone look just as good as she looked in this moment.

But, then again, she was constantly surprising him.

Ever since she first sat down next to him in their freshman year; her eyes big, lips pursed and rambling about something or another to herself. Alex had thought she was crazy; the way she ranted under her breath as if there really was someone else up in her head conversing back to her. But then, once she spotted him staring, her ranting turned to babbling as she tried to explain herself. And in an instant, he no longer thought she was crazy, he thought she was cute and funny, OK, and maybe a little crazy—but that was part of her charm.

They had been friends ever since, really good friends.

Just friends.

“Is this mine?” He plasters on his crooked smirk, hiding the warm feeling he felt after noticing, as he uses his thumb and forefinger to pinch at the material and pull her a little closer.

She leans into him with a giggle, her dainty shoulder bumping against his broad, “stooop.” She drags, trying to fight the curl of her lips as he continues to tease her with pokes to her stomach. She’s attempting to get back into the reading she momentarily gave up on, picking up a pen which was closer to her than the one she angrily threw earlier. But he doesn’t relent, forcing her to swivel on her seat and look him dead in his amused brown eyes. “I forgot to bring clothes when I crashed at your place last night,” she informs with a shove to his arm, “I would have headed back to my apartment but my landlord called, the plumber was over there—finally fixing the damn pipes.”

Jo swears she sees Alex’s shoulders deflate at her words, and she can’t pinpoint exactly why he would be disappointed about finally getting her out of his hair. Despite the fact that Alex’s apartment was tiny, practically the size of the car she lived in back in high school, the place never felt cramped when it was just the two of them. There were times that they were probably a little too close for comfort, heat rising into the small area, but even if Alex minded her showing up with a single duffel bag and an apologetic smile—he never complained, not once.

Alex laughs lightly, “it’s cool, it looks better on you anyway.”

“Shut up.” Jo scoffs, deflecting the compliment. Something Alex noticed Jo did a lot, if not every single time someone attempts to say something nice to her. “So,” she pushes the conversation along, “you don’t have to worry about me showing up anymore.”

He shrugs, “I like the company.” Jo tilts her head to the side, eyes scanning his face—trying to find something, anything, that would give her a sign as to what that meant. What it meant coming from him. A sign. Something. “Oh!” He exclaims, shooting an apologetic glance over to the security guard, before his hands reach down the bag pack he discarded onto the floor upon his arrival, “I got you something.” He tells her with a smile and a glimmer in his eyes, hands fishing into the bag.

“For me?” Jo’s eyes widen in excitement as she grins widely. A giggle escapes her lips when he produces two bottle of beers and a bottle opener, popping the caps off when he sees the small excitement in her face. He loved that about, Jo. She appreciated the simple stuff—the stuff he appreciated, they enjoyed together. “You shouldn’t have,” Jo murmurs with a smile, hitting her bottle against Alex’s once he’s passed hers over, keeping the bottle below the table—out of the guards’ sight.

“I have a proposition for you.” He states, swigging the beer.

Jo’s eyebrows raise inquisitively, “mmhmm, what’s that?” Brown eyes widening as Alex leans in closer towards her, placing a bookmark on the open page of her book before slamming the thing shut. “Alex—”

“Let’s get out of here.” It’s not really a question, more like a polite order. “You need a break.”

With a huff, Jo rakes her eyes over the mess of open books, sighing at the sight before her. Jo shakes her head, turning back to Alex, “you should be studying, too. We have five days until we take the biggest test of our lives, Alex. Our entire future is counting—”

“Stop.” Alex groans, grabbing the small woman by her shoulders and forcing her to look him in the eyes. His crooked smirk never fades from his lips, doesn’t even falter. “You need a break.” He repeats, his voice almost stern.

Knowing that this wasn’t an argument she was about to win, Jo sets down the beer and picks up the misplaced pens, chucking them into the blue pencil case she’s been carrying around since he met her. Alex’s smirk turns into a proud grin as he watches her pack up her things, closing book after book.

He stands up, helping her gather her things and piles up books so he can take them back to their rightful place for her. It takes him three trips but when she murmurs a quiet thank you, raising a soft hand to stroke down his arm, he really doesn’t mind.

Once they’re done, her bag is filled and his hands are clutching at two cold beers whilst they walk out of the library, Jo bidding a sweet farewell to the unimpressed security guard, a thought crosses his mind. “You know,” he begins, watching as Jo’s brows raise in his direction and her hand comes to snatch back the cool beer, “once this is finally over, I’m taking you out for dinner.”

Jo grins, “a fancy bistro or a penthouse bar looking over New York’s skyline?” The glimmer in her eyes as they continue to walk in the direction of his apartment without even a spoken word regarding the matter, tells him she’s teasing.

“Private jet to Milan, actually.”

“How about …” Jo chuckles, bumping shoulders with Alex, tucking her small frame against his larger, “we eat fried chicken in the car like we were raised to do.”

“Sounds perfect.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in closer as they round the corner onto the street of his apartment.

The next time they see one another, out of the classroom, she’s worming her way through the crowded bar they had agreed to meet at. Jo’s eyes are scanning across the people as her once cool skin heats up, in search of him. Fingers fumble to unbutton her thick coat within the mass of people, not wanting to accidentally elbow someone in the back—she sees him.

Alex is there, with a wide grin on his face and a bottle of his usual beer in hand. He’s laughing along to something one of there classmates have said before his eyes land on her, and if possible, his smile widens and sparkling white teeth blind her. He pauses his conversation, moving towards her and grabbing her by the hand to pull her through the crowd at a faster pace. He was glad to finally see her.

“Congratulations!” Jo exclaims to Alex and the rest of their classmates once they reach their corner of the bar, all of them cheer and offer her their own congratulations at the sight of her. She smiles up at Alex, before her hands finally move back to the one button she was yet to undo, snapping the coat open she shrugs it off her shoulders and places it across her forearm.

Alex is turned towards the bar, requesting another beer for Jo as she does so but when he turns back—his mouth goes dry. He’d never seen Jo dressed like that. The figure hugging little black dress hugged her curves perfectly, lifting and contouring her cleavage. He thought, though he kept it to himself, she looked absolutely perfect. But before he could be subject to both Jo’s and their classmates lame jokes about his drooling, he shakes his head—ignoring the feelings that rushed over him at just the sight of her. Pleased for the moment of distraction as he exchanges his cash for a beer and hands it over to the petite brunette, full lips offering him a tight smile in thanks.

Yes, he’d always thought Jo was pretty. Beautiful, even. When she was dressed in a sweatshirt or just a cardigan, even a simple t-shirt—she always managed to look utterly perfect. At least, to him she did. He’d heard her wining about bad skin and greasy hair, but he’d never seen the faults that she could see.

As they’re standing there, celebrating the end of an era, Jo begins to reminisce on how they got here …

She thinks about how she had met Alex during their first year of law school at NYU. Unlike most law students, who come straight from college when they can think of nothing better to do with their stellar undergrad transcripts, Alex Karev was older, with real-life experience. He had worked as an analyst at Goldman Sachs, which blew away Jo’s nine-to-five summer internships and office jobs filing and answering phones. He was confident, relaxed, and so gorgeous that it was hard not to stare at him. Sure enough, they were barely into their first week of class when the buzz over Alex began, women speculating about his status, noting either that his left ring finger was unadorned or, alternatively, worrying that he was too well dressed and handsome to be straight. But Jo dismissed Alex straightaway, because she thought that he thought she was crazy, convincing herself that his outward perfection was boring. Which was a fortunate stance because she also knew that he was out of her league. (She hated that expression and the presumption that people choose friends based so heavily upon looks, but it is hard to deny the principle when you look around—partners generally share the same level of attractiveness, and when they do not, it is noteworthy.) Besides, she wasn’t borrowing thirty thousand dollars a year so that she could find a boyfriend.

As a matter of fact, she probably would have gone three years without talking to him, but they randomly ended up next to each other in a significantly small seating-chart class taught by the sardonic Professor Zisman. Although many professors at NYU used the Socratic method, only Zisman used it as a tool to humiliate and torture students. Alex and Jo bonded in their hatred of the mean-spirited professor. Jo feared Zisman to an irrational extreme, whereas Alex’s reaction had more to do with disgust. “What an asshole,” he would growl after class, often after Zisman had reduced a fellow classmate to tears. “I just want to wipe that smirk off the jerks face.” Gradually, their grumbling turned into longer talks over coffee in the student lounge or during walks around Washington Square Park. They began to study together in the hour before class, preparing for the inevitable—the day Zisman would call on them. Jo dreaded her turn, knowing that it would be a bloody massacre, but secretly couldn’t wait for Alex to be called on. Zisman preyed on the weak and flustered, and Alex was neither. Jo was sure that he wouldn’t go down without a fight. She remembers it well.

Zisman stood behind his podium, examining his seating chart, a schematic with their faces cut from the first-year look book, practically salivating as he picked his prey. He peered over his small, round glasses (the kind that should be called spectacles) in the pair’s general direction, and said, “Mr. Karev.”

He pronounced Alex’s name wrong, making it sound more similar to “carve.” “It’s Ka-rev,’” Alex said, unflinching.  Jo inhaled sharply; nobody corrected Zisman. Alex was really going to get it now.

“Well, pardon me, Mr. Ka-rev,” Zisman said, with an insincere little bow. “Palsgraf versus Long Island Railroad Company.”

Alex sat calmly with his book closed while the rest of the class nervously flipped to the case, we had been assigned to read the night before.

The case involved a railroad accident. While rushing to board a train, a railroad employee knocked a package of dynamite out of a passenger’s hand, causing injury to another passenger, Mrs. Palsgraf. Justice Cardozo, writing for the majority, held that Mrs. Palsgraf was not a “foreseeable plaintiff” and, as such, could not recover from the railroad company. Perhaps the railroad employees should have foreseen harm to the package holder, the Court explained, but not harm to Mrs. Palsgraf. “Should the plaintiff have been allowed recovery?” Zisman asked Alex.

Alex said nothing. For a brief second Jo panicked that he had frozen, like others before him. Say no, she thought, sending him fierce brain waves. Go with the majority holding. But when she looked at his expression, and the way his arms were folded across his chest, Jo could tell that he was only taking his time, in marked contrast to the way most first-year students blurted out quick, nervous, untenable answers as if reaction time could compensate for understanding. “In my opinion?” Alex asked.

“I am addressing you, Mr. Karev. So, yes, I am asking for your opinion.” The teacher groaned, rolling his eyes. “I would have to say yes, the plaintiff should have been allowed recovery. I agree with Justice Andrew’s dissent.”

“Ohhhh, really?” Zisman’s voice was high and nasal. “Yes. Really.” Jo was surprised by his answer, as he had told her just before class that he didn’t realize crack cocaine had been around in 1928, but Justice Andrews surely must have been smoking it when he wrote his dissent. She was even more surprised by Alex’s brazen “really” tagged onto the end of his answer, as though to taunt Zisman. Zisman’s scrawny chest swelled visibly. “So you think that the guard should have foreseen that the innocuous package measuring fifteen inches in length, covered with a newspaper, contained explosives and would cause injury to the plaintiff?” “It was certainly a possibility.” “Should he have foreseen that the package could cause injury to anybody in the world?” Zisman asked, with mounting sarcasm. “I didn’t say ‘anybody in the world.’ I said, ‘the plaintiff.’ Mrs. Palsgraf, in my opinion, was in the danger zone.” Zisman approached our row with ramrod posture and tossed his Wall Street Journal onto Alex’s closed textbook. “Care to return my newspaper?” “I’d prefer not to,” Alex stated, unflinching. The shock in the room was palpable. The rest of the class would have simply played along and returned the paper, mere props in Zisman’s questioning. “You’d prefer not to?” Zisman cocked his head. “That’s correct. There could be dynamite wrapped inside it.” Half of the class gasped; the other half snickered. Clearly, Zisman had some tactic up his sleeve, some way of turning the facts around on Alex. But Alex wasn’t falling for it. Zisman was visibly frustrated. “Well, let’s suppose you did choose to return it to me, and it did contain a stick of dynamite and it did cause injury to your person. Then what, Mr. Thaler?”

“Then I would sue you, and likely I would win.”

“And would that recovery be consistent with Judge Cardozo’s rationale in the majority holding?”

“No. It would not.” “Oh, really? And why not?” “Because I’d sue you for an intentional tort, and Cardozo was talking about negligence, was he not?” Alex raised his voice to match Zisman’s. Jo thinks she stopped breathing as Zisman pressed his palms together and brought them neatly against his chest as though he were praying. “I ask the questions in this classroom. If that’s all right with you, Mr. Thaler?” Alex shrugged as if to say, have it your way, makes no difference to me.

“Well, let’s suppose that I accidentally dropped my paper onto your desk, and you returned it and were injured. Would Mr. Cardozo allow you full recovery?” “Sure.” And at the end of the hour, Zisman actually said, “Very good, Mr. Thaler.” It was a first.

The pair had left class feeling jubilant. Alex had prevailed for all of them. The story spread throughout the first-year class, earning him more points with the girls, who had long since determined that he was totally available.

Jo had found herself telling Izzie the story as well. Izzie had moved to New York at about the same time Jo did, only under vastly different circumstances. Jo was there to become a lawyer; she came without a job, or a plan, or much money. Jo let her sleep on a futon in my dorm room until she found some roommates—three American Airlines flight attendants looking to squeeze a fourth body into their heavily partitioned studio. She borrowed money from her parents to make the rent while she looked for a job, finally settling on a bartending position at the Monkey Bar. For the first time in their friendship, Jo was happy with her life in comparison to hers. Well, she was still poorer, but at least she had a plan. Izzie’s prospects didn’t seem great with only a 2.9 GPA from Indiana University. “You’re so lucky,” Izzie would whine as Jo tried to study. Really, after years of living in her car, growing up parentless, really? Luck is buying a lottery ticket along with your Yoo-hoo and striking it rich. Nothing about Jo’s life is lucky—it’s all about hard work, it is all an uphill struggle. But of course, she never said that. Just told her that things would soon turn around for her. And sure enough, they did. About two weeks later a man waltzed into the Monkey Bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and began to chat Izzie up. By the time he finished his drink, he had promised her a job at one of Manhattan’s top PR firms. He told her to come in for an interview, but that he would (wink, wink) make sure that she got the job. Izzie took his business card, had Jo revise her résumé, went in for the interview, and got an offer on the spot. Her starting salary was seventy thousand dollars. Plus, an expense account. Practically what Jo would make if she did well enough in school to get a job with a New York firm. So while Jo sweated it out and racked up debt, Izzie began her glamorous PR career. She planned parties, promoted the season’s latest fashion trends, got plenty of free everything, and dated a string of beautiful men. Within seven months, she left the flight attendants in the dust and moved in with her co-worker Reed, a snobbish, well-connected girl from Greenwich. Izzie tried to include Jo in her fast-track life, although she seldom had time to go to her events or her parties or her blind-date setups with guys she swore were “total-hotties” but that Jo knew were simply Izzie’s castoffs. Which brings her back to Alex. Jo raved about him to Izzie and Reed, told them how unbelievable he was—smart, handsome, funny. In retrospect she’s not sure why she did it. In part because it was true. But perhaps she was a little jealous of their glamorous life and wanted to juice her own up a bit. Alex was the best thing in her arsenal. “So why don’t you like him?” Izzie would ask. “He’s not my type,” she’d say. “We’re just friends.” Which was the truth. Sure, there were moments when Jo felt a flicker of interest or a quickening of her pulse as she sat near Alex. Especially once they became friends and ended up spending almost all their time with one another. Jo was only glad that by the time Jo was spending nights at Alex’s place she had dropped it. Jo had tried to remain vigilant as not to fall for him, always reminding herself that guys like Alex only date girls like Izzie.

But then came the way Alex’s hand would softly find the small of her back as they were walking, and the way his hooded gaze would meet hers after a few drinks at the bar, and then his muscular arms would wrap around her after a study breakthrough and all of the work she had put in to not falling for him … evaporated. She was completely and utterly hopeless.

Izzie was the first to notice the change in Jo’s feelings. As they were lying on the blonde’s couch and she had absentmindedly mentioned him to Jo, and the brunette sat up straighter and a blush painted her cheeks and she began to stutter out her words … Izzie screamed gleefully, teasing Jo to begin with but ultimately telling her best friend to go for it. But that had been a while ago now, and although Izzie mentioned Jo’s feelings for Alex in passing on occasion, it was mostly pushed to the back of their minds. Izzie was still very much aware, though. She proved that much when she teased Jo with a wink and a smirk at every mention of the older man’s name.

And despite Jo’s closeness with both Alex and Izzie—it wouldn’t be until tonight, now law school was over, that the pair would finally meet. About one hour had passed since Jo had shown up and she and Alex had found a free booth in the back of the bar to slip into, most of their classmates already moving on to the next bar whilst a few stayed behind but hung out on the stools nearer to the entrance.

“You know,” Alex quirks up an eyebrow at Jo, “you’re gonna’ have to finally relax now you have to stop worrying about schoolwork.” He remarks with a teasing smile.

Jo giggles, “now I just need to worry about finding a job.”

“Well, at least take a night off.” Alex rolls his eyes, letting out a laugh of his own. “I want us to have fun, tequila shots and vodka sodas on me. What do you say?”

Jo pretends to mull it over for a second, although she knows that Alex is very certain that she’ll say yes. “OK.” Jo states, leaning in closer to Alex, her breath dancing across his neck as she whispers, “but you need to make sure I end up back at my place tonight.”

Alex’s gaze finds hers and he nods, “I’m on Jo duty, got it.” She raises a hand between them offering him a handshake, and his eyes cut from her to her dainty hand, he clutches it before giving her a firm shake. He found himself quite enjoying the feel of her soft small fingers in his, and when she pulls it out of his grasp—he misses her touch. “I don’t mind keeping my eyes on you,” he flirts but it’s lost on Jo, whose completely convinced he only tried to make her blush and tease her, as she scoffs and playfully hits his arm as he slides out of the booth.

Jo is only sat alone for a moment of two before she hears the shrill screech of Izzie’s voice, “I’m hereee!” The blonde runs up to the booth, shimmying into the seat and flopping her purse down onto the table with an exclaimed huff before flipping her long blonde hair behind her shoulders. Her eyes are scanning the rest of the bar, barely paying attention to the friend she had come here specifically to celebrate with, before muttering, “oh god, of course you’re the one sat alone in the dark corner—”

Jo cuts her off, sighing before she begins to explain she wasn’t alone, “actually—”

“I need to get drunk.” Izzie interrupts with a deep sigh before venturing off into a mini rant, “I’ve had such an awful day, running around after my boss and urgh—this client asked me to run and get him coffee, plus, I’m almost certain that the stress is the reason my hair is falling so flat on my head right now.” Izzie huffs in one single breath, fiddling with one strand of perfectly curled golden hair. “Oh crap,” her eyes widen, “how was your test thingy?”

Jo raises her eyebrows for a millisecond but chooses to ignore the comment—as if passing the bar was just another test. Like their high school math SAT which Izzie almost didn’t even bother to attend. Instead of complaining, she smiles and nods, “it went great, I’m confident—”

“Fuck!” Izzie’s voice cuts her off again.

At that moment Alex sauntered over to the booth with a tray full of drinks for him and Jo, which she now suspected she’ll be sharing with Izzie. As soon as he joins them, his eyes flick to the blonde and as if on instinct, Jo introduced him to Izzie, and she turned on the charm, giggling and playing with her hair and nodding emphatically whenever he said anything. Alex was pleasant to her but didn’t seem overly interested and, at one point, as she was dropping Goldman names—do you know this guy or that guy?—Alex actually appeared to be suppressing a yawn.

Seemingly, this went unnoticed by Izzie—although she seemed mildly miffed with Jo when the brunette was responding to her instead of Alex. But she thought she was saving her friends from an awkward interaction.

“Do you want another drink?” Alex turns his attention to Jo, noticing her almost empty glass. She wonders if this is just an excuse to get away or if he wanted another himself, she couldn’t tell how far along he was through the dark coloured beer bottle.

“So, when you gonna’ grow a pair and ask Jo out on a real date?” “I am sick of hearing about study sessions and nights out and blah blah blah …”

“Iz—” Jo begins, stopping herself as her mouth begins to go dry with embarrassment. “I mean, he—you don’t have to … we don’t—we are just friends.” She stutters over her words, feeling a fresh deep red blush crawl up her chest and her neck and then her cheeks under both Alex and Izzie’s stares. Izzie’s eyebrow is quirked up, lips curled into a tight smirk, watching Jo’s flustered state. Whilst Alex looks more taken aback; his lips are parted, a small frown on his face and he almost looks as if he’s about to begin protesting before Izzie begins to giggle.

Both of their eyes snap in her direction as she continues laughing before, at a flip of a switch, the blondes face turns serious. There’s a slight glimmer in her eyes as she asks, “well, then when are you going to ask me on a date?”

Alex’s eyebrows almost shoot to his hair line, clearly surprised by Izzie’s forwardness. His eyes leave Jo’s and he’s uncomfortably chuckling at Izzie, his fingers fumbling with the paper that wrapped around his still cool beer.

Jo’s throat turns dry; her heart dropping and her once joyful demeanour has turned sour. It sounded selfish, but they were supposed to be out celebrating her. Her and Alex. But Izzie didn’t know Alex, she only came here for Jo. And Izzie knew, even if Jo tried to deny it, Izzie knew very well that Jo had feelings for Alex. She’d told her that much—every time Jo went into denial; Izzie would state again and again that she knows Jo better than herself and she knows Jo has a huge thing for Alex.

So, why was she sat here, on Jo’s night, basically asking Alex on a date?

“You can take me to this penthouse bar I’ve seen,” she tells him, confidently, lifting up her glass and seductively placing her straw between her lips with a coy smile, “overlooking the skyline, very classy.”

Jo lets out a breathy laugh, before excusing herself, feeling as if she won’t be able to hide her disdain any longer, “I need to use the bathroom.” She tells them both, shimmying out of the booth as Alex gets up to make way for her to leave. His brown eyes watch her retreating form, unable to tear themselves away.

As Jo takes a breather in the ladies’ room, she wonders if she could even be hurt with Izzie at all. Like she said, she had denied having feelings for Alex over and over. And it’s not like she stated a claim on him, he wasn’t hers. Yes, he was her closest friend in college and other than Jackson, he was easily her biggest confidant. They bonded over shared hatred for teachers and classes, and similar upbringings. She had always felt like they shared something, since that first-class years ago. He wasn’t hers—and it was selfish of her to decide in her own mind that he couldn’t be Izzie’s either.

It wasn’t her place. When she worms her way back to the booth, she’s almost stopped in her tracks as she hears the sound of Alex’s gruff voice next to Izzie’s loud and obnoxious laughter. But with a deep breath, Jo powers ahead and moves to stand directly in front of the booth. “I’m going to head home,” she tells them, offering her best fake smile, “I’m pretty tired—big day an’ all.”

“I’ll walk you home!” Alex offers, almost jumping from his seat to catch her wrist in his hands. Neither of them noticing Izzie’s burning gaze on the friendly interaction.

“No, no—it’s fine.” Jo places her free hand on top of Alex’s, gently telling him to let go. “I’ll catch a cab.” She lies. Knowing she’ll end up walking back to her place, needing the fresh air and the time to think.

He’s concerned as he presses, “are you sure?”

Offering Izzie a tight-lipped smile and Alex a shake of her head, brushing his concern off, “certain.” With that, the pair both nod—Izzie more eager than Alex to be left alone, the blonde shoots Jo a wink as a way of saying thank you but Jo chooses not to acknowledge it, she knows Izzie won’t remember come morning.

As she steps out into the cool air, a wave of emotion sets on her and if there wasn’t so many people lingering on the street lined full of bars, she thinks fresh tears would fall down her face. But then she’d be the pathetic one who was crying over some boy who wasn’t even her boyfriend. Or was she crying over the betrayal of her friend. Was it even a betrayal?

“Jo!” The familiar sound of Alex’s voice shouts from behind her, stopping in her tracks and silently thanking herself for choosing not to cry, “are you ok?” He asks sincerely as she spins on her heel, turning to face him and plaster on that well-rehearsed fake grin.

In that moment, she thinks pretending that she has no idea what he was insinuating, “ … with?”

“Well,” he lifts a thumb to gesture back to the bar, “with this?”

She can’t believe her faux smile can grow any bigger, but it does, “yes—of course! Yeh, Izzie’s great,” Jo begins to nod profusely, “you never know where it might lead, right?”

“Erm,” Alex begins, eyes glistening against the streetlights before he lets out an un-convinced huff, “yeah.”

“Cool, so, good night.”

“Good night.”

#jolex #jo wilson #alex karev

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honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

Soiled VI: The Shieldmaiden, Gunnhild.

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | in the aftermath of the attack, jonakr doesn’t react how you might expect. of course, that doesn’t mean you’re happy.

❛ warnings | mention of death, assault, angry hvitserk, elements of misogyny.

❛ sy’s notes | another chapter as requested by... i feel like @alicedopey did at some point.

x x x

A few stabs. Ten, fifteen, twenty swishes of an ill-fated blade. Maybe a hundred. It’s a great big blur of red-- of just how many times your sax met his limp body. Only that your blade snaps into two, leaving you clinging onto the handle of horn, shaking. A bloodied hunk of meat in your tower. The blood streams in rivulets from the puddle of blood freely, and as you stand, your miserable sobs break from your lips. Come tomorrow— Jonakr would see what you had done. You lack remorse for killing this man. But Jonakr… he was different from his brother. A man of honour.

You would feel for his loss. Even if this man— Valtýr sickened you to the bones.

On his belt, you find keys slippery with blood. Your fingers tremor, making quick work of the castle door. This doesn’t make sense— you tell yourself, why princes had to fight over someone who was so clearly not worth it. You were a daughter of slavery, no matter where you went, it chased you to the ends of the earth. You swing the door open. There you find Jonakr standing on the steps, his large fists turned over one another. Your one and only instinct— run.

You slip down the steps. He doesn’t dare, nor his men, to stop you.

Once out of the tower you found Hvitserk’s camp beside the brothers’ own. Your feet carry you within his camp despite the succession of voices shirking, like a woman in childbirth, within the tower. “Hvitserk,” their voices weave among one another. A thrall guides the flaps of his tent back. He sat with his cup to his lips, and he stops, jerking up to stand.

“What are you doing here?” he says.

“Clothes.”

“Why do you need--”

“Hvitserk,” you whirl about. “Please. His blood is seeping into my skin.”

“His blood?” Hvitserk prompts as if he could not articulate the gravity of the situation completely. He steps back, allowing for you to strip out of the sodden, iron dress. He lurches out to draw the flaps of his tent shut, barking your name.

“(Y/N),” he curses your name. You would too if you could. Curse the very day you were born. Because now you were here, living and breathing, knowing you want neither to live nor breathe for what you’ve done. The gods might see it as just, but all the same, your maiden’s dress is nothing to be thankful for. “What have you done?”

“Shut up Hvitserk! Shut up!” you pace, your fingers picking and lifting the matted down blood on your cheek. Hvitserk looks off to the flaps, then back to you, sweeping up a bucket of water. A cloth bobs in the water. He seizes it-- and brings it to your bloodied cheek.

“Stop just-- hold still. There, that’s it.” It’s cool by now. The water that had once been boiled and warm frosts your skin. In small circles, Hvitserk bides his time. The warm tears spilling over your cheeks help loosen up the blood.

“I killed him,” you say. “I killed Valtýr.”

Hvitserk remains silent, keeping to his work. His patient, caring eyes serve as the only indication that he heard you-- truly heard the tremble in your voice. “Jonakr will come to kill me next.”

“You know he won’t.”

But you wish he would. You wish he’d come put an axe through your head, because at least then-- for that split second of pain, there would be no more anxiety of knowing what might be coming next. That if you lived, who could tell what poor, awful man might treat you next? Hvitserk’s toy, the brothers’ little wife, and still-- what next? Hvitserk ran the cloth down your chin before walking to the roll of clothes over his makeshift bed. He unrolled a deep green tunic and offered it to you.

“It’s a little short,” he says, almost humorously, and helps you into it.

A knock at the wooden post is short-lived. Then, bending within the tent, you spot Jonakr. His large frame overwhelms the door, filling it like a great bear. Although, instead of charging forward, he tilts his head. Your lips part posed to say something, not for yourself. For his sorrowful eyes. Hvitserk shifts in front of you. Blood stains Jonakr’s muddy tunic red, painted in long streaks, as if by the god’s own hands. He holds up his hand to stop you from offering condolences. Or excuses.

“You needn’t do that. I’m not here for revenge,” Jonakr says, shifting his head to look around your shoulder. “I knew why he went to your tower. He told me what he planned to do.”

You glance up, staring at his large bloodied hands, then beyond him to the pale tend behind him. You wonder how it would look, bloodied, splattered. Take a step back. “What did he plan on doing?” Hvitserk prompts his question.

Jonakr ignores him, takes a step closer. “It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe,” you say noncommittally because there is no part of you that believes that. It’s a lie. Pain follows you like a second skin. Even now, the moments only hours ago feel like a distant dream, hazy like the blood over his belly. “But that doesn’t make him any less dead. You should do it-- you should…”

“No,” he says, a slight frown furrows his brow. “He wasn’t in his right.”

Wasn’t he? He said it himself. A woman wasn’t her own. She belonged to her countrymen. That was why what happened was such a sin. Your eyes flit back from the tent behind him, over to him, his eyes somehow cold and somehow warm all in one. He wasn’t looking at you but through you. Maybe some part of him was torn between what he wanted to do-- and what he couldn’t do.

“He wasn’t.” He repeats. “It… I’m is not right for a man to slaughter a woman. Whatever the reason, the gods chose you to live. I know you don’t want to marry me. Perhaps it isn’t… it… It’s better to let you go. I give you your freedom.”

Your arms fell at your sides, peering up toward him, astounded by the offer and perhaps, distrustful. You’re smart enough to know that a Viking didn’t mean his words. But a man like Jonakr is different. Perhaps he does not want to meet the wrath of the gods for killing an innocent woman.

Perhaps he was punishing you further by sending you back home. Back where Ivar the Boneless was with his corrupt rule. Where Thora would be stomping around, showing off the product of her beauty-- stealing away the man that you thought, and knew, and loved as yours.

“If that is decided, we pack to sail home,” Hvitserk readies his roll. At that moment, Jonakr turns, starting toward the door. Without thinking you rush forward, fisting Jonakr’s braid, and tug him back. Hvitserk drops what he works on, barking your name ostentatiously.

“What are you doing, woman?” he barks.

“Don’t you do that. Don’t you stand there and treat me like a lady after what I’ve done.” You bark out, snapping his braid around your fist tight. You rope it around your fist, forcing his head to your knuckles-- shaming him further. So what, you think, what have you to lose? Hvitserk calls out to you, your name rolling off his lips like a curse.

“Let him go.”

“I am not going back home to Kattegat. The gods-- they’ve shown me. I want to learn to fight. I want to be a shieldmaiden.” You snap your head toward him. His expression was soft as butter, and almost wounded, as if the same sax you ran Valtýr through with had turned upon him, carved his heart out. It was easy for him to make that face, you told yourself. He got all that he wanted. Thora, the fight, you. It all fell into place for him. Everything always fell into place for the sons of Ragnar.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

You loosen your grip, allowing for Jonakr to stand upright, careful and measured he looks down upon you. “I am a warrior. I can’t show you to be a shieldmaiden. You would need the shieldmaiden Gunnhild.”

“Who is she?”

Hvitserk crosses the room, snatching your hand upon Jonakr’s hair, and forces your fingers to give. His voice is clipped and concise. Jonakr stands upright at your side. “I left her in Kattegat for you.”

“A shieldmaiden who left for Norway. She married an earl in York,” he continues. Your chest pulls, an excitement so distant and strange there, and Hvitserk rolls his eyes, carrying on as you return to Jonakr. An earl, you repeat, turning against him again. At that moment of a heavy heartbeat, Hvitserk grasps your waist, whirls you around.

“(Y/N), don’t do this. Come home, be with us. We can find a way. A shieldmaiden? You’ve never wanted to be a shieldmaiden.”

Perhaps its that instant. The instant your hand connected with his full cheek, blotching over, then caressing the space as if you never struck him. It’s that moment that you caress him, and purse your lips against his forehead, that he understands. His hold on your waist loosens. Disheartened, disenchanted. Somehow, he accepts it.

“You won’t do it.”

Your press your lips to his, cradling his jaw like an after thought. Tense in his surprise, Hvitserk brings a hand to your side,keeping you there in place against him. Your warm breath trickles over his lips between soft, sweeping kisses. His facial hair scratching you occasionally through the kiss. You begin to draw back when he tugs you forward again, maybe for the last time, with a kiss that simply pleads for more. For the time being, you humor his kiss, allowing him to take you in a way that’s light and soft. He pulls away, half-lidded, resigned.

“I’m sorry, Hvitserk. I can’t do it.”

x x x

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever

#Hvitserk x Reader #Hvitserk/Reader #Hvitty x Reader #Hvitty/Reader #hvitserk ragnarsson x reader #hvitserk ragnarsson/reader #Hvitserk's heathen feast

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captainderyn · 4 years

Text

Her Sweet Kiss [Fic]

Read on AO3

(Rating is M)

Thank you to @kunstpause for that one comment on Moments In Time way back in October that inspired me to start writing this lol. It’s only taken 6 months for me to finish it

---

Wandering the pathways of Rivendell became a past time in the long nights since she’d ridden into the Last Homely House. There was something far more soothing about walking the cobblestones beneath the moonlight and the soft glow that seemed to emanate from the structures themselves, the waterfall rushing behind her, than it ever would be to lay with her own thoughts in the darkness.

Often this late many of the elves had retreated back into their rooms, if not to sleep than at least to take respite from the day. She was used to the quiet and when she found it disrupted by sweet strains of music and an even sweeter voice, Wulfwryn found herself drawn towards it. Up a small hill, withdrawn from the other structures, underneath a gazebo of metal twined like vines.

Underneath the pale light of a moon, lit softly by the gold of a hanging lantern, an elf lounged in a chair, feet propped on the seat of a second. His head was tilted back, eyes closed as he plucked away at intricately carved lute with fine boned hands.

Everything about him was fair and fine; from the chestnut hair that cascaded down across the back of the chair, plaited with cuffs of gold and shining jewel, to the loose tunic he wore in soft elven silk. But his voice, it enchanted her, drew her to lean against the outermost edge of the gazebo, though it felt almost like she was intruding upon something that she should not be. He sang in his own tongue--one she did not know well enough to begin to understand.

“Trime ana hir, A mel at i yanta, Nuin a vindya isil,”

His fingers faltered, hitting the wrong string and he grimaced, eyes cracking open as he lifted his head. Wulfwryn startled, frozen as he caught sight of her, his eyes blinking wide.

“Your music is beautiful,” she offered with a smile, pushing down the uncomfortable surge of nerves that flipped her stomach. Why? He hardly seemed like he was going to surge up and attack her for impeding on his gazebo.

The elven man sat up, the burnt red of his tunic and overcoat shifting back around him like water flowing back on its path. He rested his lute across his knees, tilting his head at her, “Thank you, I suppose.” When he laughed, soft as it was, it was bright as a ray of sunlight, “Usually when I play for an audience I try a little harder.”

“Do you perform often?” Wulfwryn cocked her hip against the pillar, leaning her shoulder against the cold stone. If he was willing to talk to her then she wouldn’t turn him away.

He was quick to shake her head, quick enough that she didn’t believe him at first. “Not really, not anymore. I write and I play for myself most often.”

“Oh.” Saying anything more felt like it would break the moment. Like she would scare him away and the only company she had had for a long time that hadn’t stayed with her out of pity would slide from her fingers. “You should--it’s beautiful.”

His mouth quirked up and she felt her heart flip. Stars above she shouldn’t be wanting to kiss those smiling lips. “You’ve said that.”

“Have I?” she laughed, shaking her head. “Forgive me, I’m a little distracted.”

His brows crept up. “Distracted?” If she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes flitted over her. “How so?”

Waltzing forward, Wulfwryn braced her knee on the lounge he sat on. “I think you know.”

Tilted his chin up, amusement flashed through his eyes. “You aren’t going to answer?”

Chuckling lowly, Wulfwryn rolled her eyes. “Stupid questions get stupid answers.”

“Oh stupid now, is it?” Raenor caught at her wrist, giving a light tug. She let herself stumble towards him, bracing her hands against the back of the lounge. His laugh was low in kind, his eyes not shy about the way they darted across her face. “Can I further be a distraction?”

Oh. How refreshing it was to find someone with a mind on the same track as hers. “I wouldn’t say no.” she purred, tilting her head so their lips barely brushed. “Do you have a name?” she murmured, eyes half lidded.

“Raenor.” His own name sounded so musical falling from his lips. Lilting and light like notes from his lyre. She wanted to know what her own would sound like drawn from him. What it would sound like falling like a desperate plea or a reverent calling.

His lips lifted in a slight smile against hers, as if he knew some of the thought going through her mind. “And yours?”

“Wulfwryn. You can learn it well tonight, if you’d like.”

A slow heating fire sparked in his eyes and Wulfwryn grinned, sliding her hands up his neck in order to cup his jaw.

She traced her finger over along it and he tilted his head into her touch.

Oh how she desperately wanted the release that a night would give her. The way her mind would cease to think anything more than overwhelming pleasure and want. How the memories that haunted her would be swept away in that tide.

If only just for a night.

She could see the same desire in him. They both had things they wanted to lose, if just until morning came.

This close she could see that the stormy grey of his eyes wasn’t truly grey, but some shifting color that drew her in the closer she studied, until he caught her lips with insistence and all observations she wanted to make were lost to the feel of his hands on her, the feel of his teeth grazing her lower lip.

Nearly lost to the distraction of his mouth hot beneath her jaw, nipping at the tender skin there, she brushed her lips across the shell of his ear. And he froze.

“Oh?” she hummed with interest, following the curve of his ear to its point, testing the lightest of kisses first, then the barest hint of her teeth. His hands tightening on her hips, thumbs digging into her skin, was all the answer she needed.

His hands were insistent, pulling her down onto his lap. She laughed against his lips, bracing her hand against the back of the lounge behind him.

“Mernyë lye.” He murmured against her lips and Wulfwryn shivered. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she pulled his lips back to hers, just close enough to brush.

“I don’t know what that means, but keep murmuring pretty things to me and I’m yours.”

“Good.” Raenor dragged a light touch across her neck, pulling back and looking at her from beneath half lidded eyes. They darted to either side of them, though they were entirely alone in the middle of the night. “Should we move somewhere else?”

Sticking her lower lip out, a teasing note slipped further into Wulfwryn’s voice. “Aw, you aren’t a fan of the brash location?”

Somewhere between here and there Wulfwryn’s back was sinking into a plush mattress. The stained glass of the ceiling above her bent the moon’s silver rays bending all around them in splotches of color. Blue and purple painted across the lines of Raenor’s cheekbones, shining flecks in the grey of his eyes.

Wulfwryn reached for him, fingers locking against his jaw and pulling him down into a kiss. His mouth was warm against hers and when he pulled her lower lip between his teeth, Wulfwryn gave a little gasp. Her body arched against his, her thighs tightening around his waist.

He should not already be able to do that. It simply wasn’t fair. Wulfwryn nipped back, grinning against his lips when he surprised noise broke from him. His weight was half across her already, elbows braced on either side of her.

“Too many clothes on.” she groused, dragging her hands over his shoulders to tug at the fabric. The velvet was soft beneath her nails. “That needs to change.”

Raenor shifted back slightly, giving Wulfwryn free access to the clasp of his clothing. His brow rose, urging her on wordlessly. It was with a bold confidence that the clasp fell apart beneath her hand, and she tugged at the fine ties of his undertunic.

The fabric slid easily from his shoulders as she dragged her hands over his bare skin, warm beneath her touch. Wulfwryn barely had time to admire the way his muscles moved beneath her hands as she dragged her nails over his skin, shucking his clothing as far off of him as she could manage, before Raenor was claiming her mouth again.

For the heat simmering between them, his kiss was still incredibly gentle. Wanting, yes, but not enough force to be bruising. Wulfwryn hummed in pleasure at the heat the kiss built in her, shimmying beneath him. A small smirk quirked her lips as she felt his own arousal against her.

“I would ask if you’re sure but...” she murmured, amusement lacing her voice. She trailed off in a soft gasp as Raenor’s teeth nipped at her lower lip again, pulling at it.

“Whatever would give you that idea?” She could practically hear him rolling his eyes, though his voice went breathless when she shifted again--this time intentionally--against him. His eyes narrowed at her, the moonlight paling the flush she could feel spreading across his skin, as she grinned.

Rolling her hips, looking at him from beneath her lashes as his chest hitched, she purred, “Just a hunch.”

His hand was cool against her skin as he slid it beneath her shirt, cupping her breast beneath curious fingers as his mouth came close to her ear. Breath hot across her jaw, he whispered,

“Then do something about it.”

His teeth caught the sensitive skin beneath her ear and it was all the invitation Wulfwryn needed.

Quirking a brow, she locked her thighs around Raenor’s torso, she rocked her weight and flipped their positions.

If Raenor was surprised, it flashed across his face only for a moment. Hair spread across the pillow, he looked downright satisfied. His hands wandered beneath her shirt again, sliding up her sides and sending shivers through her.

“So...?”

Wulfwryn leaned down to kiss him, trailing kisses down his jaw and neck. Then further down--across his collarbones, down his chest. Following the line of his body. Beneath her mouth he shivered, breath catching.

“I’m doing something about it, what does it look like?”

#my writing #lotro #lotro fanfiction #oh look i finally wrote spice adjacent shit #can we be proud of me #oc: Wulfwryn #oc: Raenor #otp: sing to me softly #this has only been sitting in my drafts for months #i finally realized there's no way in hell im writing actual smut lmao #please be nice to me lol #Wulfwryn is such a teasing little shit I swear

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