Chapter 8: Jogging Interrupted
The morning air by the lake was crisp, cutting through the lingering haze of sleep in Lucy’s lungs. She matched Zeref’s pace, her sneakers crunching in time with his on the gravel path. The run was his idea, a new routine. He said it built discipline. She liked the way it made her body feel—alive, capable, the burn in her muscles a clean, honest thing.
She could feel his eyes on her. It wasn’t a casual glance. It was a study. A tracking. She felt it on the swing of her ponytail, the bounce of her breasts against her sports bra, the flex and release of her thighs in her short running shorts. A flush that had nothing to do with exertion crept up her neck. It was exciting, being watched so intently by someone so beautiful. It made her feel chosen.
He stopped running so suddenly she took three extra strides past him before turning, chest heaving. “Everything okay?”
“Take a break.” His voice was calm, a contrast to her ragged breath. He nodded toward a weathered bench tucked under the weeping willow, its branches a green curtain veiling them from the main path.
“We’ve only done two miles,” she said, but followed him, the damp grass cool under her feet. She sat, the ancient wood smooth and cool through her thin shorts. The lake spread before them, glassy and still.
Zeref didn’t sit. He stood in front of her, his shadow falling across her lap. His hand came down, not on her shoulder, but on her inner thigh, his fingers pressing possessively into the muscle. “You looked… intense. Out there.”
“Just running,” she said, but her voice had gone quiet.
“Just running,” he echoed, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. His hand slid upward, a slow, deliberate migration that made her breath catch. He pushed her back gently against the bench, the bark of the willow rough against her shoulder blades. With his other hand, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her shorts and her underwear, and pulled them down to her knees in one efficient motion.
The morning air kissed her exposed skin, raising goosebumps. “Zeref, someone could—”
“Let them.” The words were final. He knelt between her legs, his dark eyes holding hers for a moment before his gaze dropped. He didn’t kiss her mouth. He pushed her thighs wider apart with his shoulders and lowered his face.
The first touch of his tongue was a shock of wet heat. She jerked, a gasp torn from her. He didn’t start slow. He latched onto her with a focused, devouring intensity, licking and sucking at her clit with a rhythm that was immediately, devastatingly effective. Her hands flew to his hair, not to push him away, but to fist in the dark strands, anchoring herself. Pleasure, sharp and electric, shot up her spine. He added his fingers then, slipping two inside her with a practiced ease, curling them just so.
The world narrowed to the point where his mouth met her body. The chatter of distant squirrels, the lap of water, the far-off whine of a city bus—all of it melted into a dull hum. All she could hear was her own ragged breathing, the slick, intimate sounds he was making, the blood roaring in her ears. Her hips lifted off the bench of their own volition, seeking more pressure, more friction. A high, thin moan escaped her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.
He pulled back just enough to murmur against her wet skin, “I said, let them hear.” Then he redoubled his efforts.
It was too much. The coil in her lower belly snapped. She came with a choked cry, her body arching sharply, her thighs clamping around his head as waves of sensation pulsed through her. He worked her through it, gentler now, until she slumped back against the bench, trembling and spent.
Before the last tremor had subsided, he was standing. She watched, dazed, as he unzipped his running shorts. He was already hard. He took himself in hand, his expression one of cool appraisal.
“Come here,” he said, his voice a low command.
Her limbs felt like liquid, but she obeyed. She slid off the bench onto the soft, damp grass before him, the blades cool and prickly against her bare knees. She looked up at him, the morning light filtering through the willow leaves dappling his face. He guided himself to her lips.
“Open.”
She did. She took him into her mouth, the familiar, slightly salty taste filling her senses. She relaxed her jaw, letting him set the depth. He pushed in, his hand moving to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her ponytail. It wasn’t tender. It was a claiming. He began to move, a steady, relentless rhythm, fucking into her mouth. Her eyes watered, but a dark, shameful heat pooled in her own core again. The subservience of the act, the sheer physicality of it, the sounds he made—a low grunt in his throat—turned her on in a way she never admitted out loud.
She hollowed her cheeks, applied suction the way he liked, and felt him tighten above her. His grip on her hair became almost painful. His rhythm fractured. With a guttural, involuntary sound, he came, and she swallowed convulsively, accepting it.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then he softened and slipped from her lips. He pulled her up by her arms, her shorts still tangled around her knees. He kissed her forehead, a dry, paternal press of his lips. “Good girl,” he said, the praise landing like a stone in her stomach even as a part of her warmed to it.
He turned and zipped his shorts, as composed as if he’d just checked his watch. “Now. Let’s finish our run.”
She pulled her clothing back into place, the fabric now damp and uncomfortable against her slick skin. They started jogging again, the silence between them thick and complete. Her mind buzzed, empty of coherent thought, filled only with the aftershocks of sensation and a vague, formless fatigue.
As they neared her apartment building, the normal world rushed back in. A neighbor walking a dog waved. Lucy waved back, her smile feeling stiff and foreign on her face.
At her doorstep, Zeref pulled her to him for a proper kiss. It was deep, possessive, his tongue tracing the outline of her teeth. “I’ll call you tonight,” he said, his hand coming to rest firmly, meaningfully, on the curve of her ass. The signal was clear. Her body, traitorously, responded with a fresh flicker of anticipation.
She let herself into the quiet apartment. The silence here was different—hollow, waiting to be filled. She peeled off her sweaty, grass-stained clothes and stepped into a shower so hot it turned her skin pink. The water couldn’t wash away the feeling of him, the phantom impressions on her skin, the taste still lingering at the back of her throat.
Wrapped in a towel, she stared at her phone on the bathroom counter. A text from Natsu would normally be there by now. A dumb meme. A complaint about his latest fight. A random question about what she was eating. The silence from him had become a loud, persistent thing over the past week. It was a hole in her day.
She thought about texting him. ‘Just went for a run!’ But it felt like a lie by omission. The image of Natsu, his face always so open, so unguarded, floated into her mind. She couldn’t picture telling him about her morning. A strange, uncomfortable twist settled in her gut. She dismissed it. Natsu was just being moody. He’d get over it.
She dressed, the clean cotton of her clothes a small comfort. The real world awaited—a shift at the bookstore, an essay to outline. She pushed the buzzing in her mind, the lingering soreness between her legs, and the peculiar quiet from her best friend into a neat, hidden compartment. She locked it, turned the key, and walked out the door to meet her day.