#[Until Nothing Remains (Thread)]

[cinnabeat]

rememebred everyones kh3 outfits and now im annoyed again

[sugurouge]

── in your hand. from my heart. hades! sylus x persephone! female! feader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, dark contentish, mdni: stalking, kidnapping, aphrodisiacs, dark magic, rituals, marking, loss of virginity, slight corruption, obsession, manhandling, multiple orgasms, pet names, size difference, praise, body worship

♱ word count: 16k

♱ synopsis: You never asked for the shadows to love you but the god who rules them has deemed you his obsession. Sylus watches, yearns, and finally steals what Olympus never deserved to keep. You should hate him. You do. Yet the underworld feels less like a prison, and more like a sanctuary awaiting your claim.

author’s note:  I’ve adapted the original Hades and Persephone myth to better suit Sylus’s story and personality. While I’ve strayed from the soulmate bond (since gods don’t have souls) I’ve imagined a sort of darker, ancient thread of fate to connect Sylus and reader

I recommend listening to Even In Arcadia :)

You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me i was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw that the ichor that resides in me demanded its own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” ― Nikita Gill

Many wars begin with a whisper. The God of the Underworld may have never expected to wage war against himself. They are quiet at first, nothing but sultry temptations dancing at the edge of Sylus's mind, enticing him with promises of you, of fate, of the inevitable. Urging, no, commanding him to take what is his.

Sylus resists. For now. 

However, the whispers never cease. They dig their claws deep within his being, weaving their way through his thoughts to haunt him relentlessly until they become a part of him. All sparks kindle new flames, and this obsession sears, cuts, and bleeds into every waking moment, every fevered dream. Always, her . Always, you . The girl embraced by sunlight. The daughter of sky and soil, too radiant to be held by either. She who treads through fields that bow to her, who crafts blossoms with her loving care, who beckons earth to summon spring and chase away the biting cold and darkness of winter. 

A pulse of new life, a being of warmth. Your presence bends the very fabric of existence: your laugh causes the trees of Olympus to shudder in delight, and the tunes you hum bring the rivers to still to listen to your beautiful voice. Treasured, you remain untainted by darkness and desire, by everything that clings to Sylus like a second skin.

Though he has cherished you equally from the depths of his realm, the King of the Dead, meant for an existence without everything you embody, has watched your every moment. He knows you do not belong to the Underworld—you do not belong to him—and yet, he wants your divinity to grace his lonesome heart. 

Neither reason nor logic may be found behind his obsession. How could something so untouched by shadow, so wholly good, possibly stir the hunger inside him unbearably?

────────── ♱

To your ears, the whispers have always been there. They called for you in the rustling of the olive trees, in the wind slipping through wheat fields. But it is at the end of a long day, in the stillness settling just before dusk, when the whispers' embrace finds you again. 

As a child, you mistook them for a fantasy of your lonesome moments, an imaginary friend your mother brushed off. But time removed the layers that painted them an illusion. These are not the voices of imagination. They stir from something older, something waiting to welcome you home. They linger in the shadows, out of reach but ever near, watching you blossom. They are a presence unseen yet felt, accompanied by ruby eyes piercing through the dark.

Two dots, burning like embers, keep you company as you dance through the realms of dreams. Guarding you, cherishing you.

They first caught your attention while hiding in the branches of a forest. You told yourself that the moment had been fleeting, a trick of the light. Yet the sensation of being watched continued to press against your skin and sink into your very bones. 

You never mention them, not to your mother, not to the nymphs, never to your father. Not after the debacle upon the confession of the whispers clouding your mind.

Agreed, it was foolish to believe something could possibly lurk in the corners of your world, to imagine that the unseen figure belonged to something more than a waking dream. But the truth had never been so simple: Mephisto has been watching you for years.

A shadow among fruit trees, a winged guardian keeping its master's gaze locked upon you. The crow found a home on your windowsill, in the canopy of trees—wherever you went, he was sure to follow. Each sighting, each fragment of your life gathered in the folds of darkness, only deepened Sylus's craving. 

Though he remained in his realm. 

After all, the God of the Underworld was not a creature of impulse, no, he was patient, methodical, and ruthless in his desires. 

From his throne cradled by obsidian halls, Sylus watched you grow from an innocent flower into something untamed, something the gods of Olympus could never truly fulfil. It was not merely your beauty—yet he would never deny the allure of your glistening skin under the sun, your hair flowing in the air, or the delicate curve of your lips whenever you smiled. But it was the spirit beneath the surface. You were no ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. Not with the fire you carry within. 

A fire Sylus longed to set ablaze, longed to hold in his cold, empty hands.

It took Sylus longer than he first anticipated to weave the strands of fate in his favour. His influence may stretch long and deep, seeping into the world above like rotten roots blighting the earth. However, abducting a goddess required planning. But he yearned to see you through his own eyes, to touch you with his own hands, to hear your voice rise in ecstasy and anger. 

The golden light of the late afternoon leaves its loving kiss on your skin to craft a creature of warmth as you move through fields of endless gold. You stray far from the others, lost in the simple pleasure of the breeze, of the flowers, and of the rivers greeting you. 

The moment is peaceful until it isn't. 

Suddenly, the world itself seems to shift as even the wind stills.

A shadow darker than any you have ever witnessed spreads like thunderclouds over the once sun-kissed lands. They chase away the light and its warm hold, replacing it with something cold that wraps around your senses like a viper ready to strike.

A chill chases down your spine while your widened eyes search for the true reason for your distress. It is only upon another turn that you finally see him. 

Standing at the edge of the fields, as if undaring to breach the final boundary between your bodies, he watches you. A figure of impressive, near looming height, dressed in flowing black garments with shadows dancing at the edges of the seams. Long hair cascades down his back and frames his shoulders, its silver-tone a stark contrast against the twisted horns curved atop his head to frame a face too sharp, too cruel, too impossibly beautiful. His intense eyes smoulder like burning coals, causing your gaze to drop to the blood-red ruby in his chest.

Neither a fight nor a flight response kicks in as you realise his familiarity. Those eyes—you know them from the darkness of night—remember them staring at you as you caught them from the corners of your eyes.

"You," nothing but a breathless whisper, but oh does it tug on Sylus's heart to finally hear your unfiltered voice—in recognition at that. He ignores the tentative step you take backwards. A part of him perhaps pities you for the freedom you are about to lose.

"You've been watching me," you dare to accuse. While your voice may not shake, the tremble in your hands is as evident as the longing in Sylus's eyes.

But he can't lose his composure just yet. He can't scare away his prey through his own foolish greed. A slow, knowing smirk on his lips is his attempt to act nonchalant. 

"Of course."

Revulsion battles with another deeper, more twisted emotion buried in your bones. And finally, finally , your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but upon the first turn of your ankle, a snap of fingertips follows, and darkness shoots out like tendrils all around you. Not to split the earth beneath but to finally bring his world into awaiting arms. 

The mist pulls you forward, closer to the being at the edge of the field. Panic claws up your throat, causing your voice to become a broken, raspy screech as you struggle against the pulsing shackles around your figure. "Let me go!" You try to warn him, fighting and clawing at nothing but shadows.  But your struggle doesn't hinder Sylus. If anything, your fighting spirit amuses him. 

Yes, he seems magnified by the racing rise and fall of your chest, by the widened pupils and blazing anger flashing across your features. "You fight like a young wildcat," he muses in a sultry voice, tilting his head as if admiring you in deep thought. "Claws bared, teeth flashing."

A scoff follows from your lips while you twist and turn with all the strength you can muster up. And still, his expression remains one of idle fascination. As if this, too, was exactly as Sylus had imagined.

"Mhm, you shine brightly, my dear," Sylus teases before one finger curls toward him. It is a simple gesture that sends another wave of black and red force to come crashing around you, steal the breath from your lungs, and cause your fighting spirit to falter in exhaustion. 

The world may turn blurry; your knees may give way, but you do not crumple into the ground. Not when strong arms can finally cradle you. Sylus moves fast, almost too eager yet incredibly fluid to catch you. One arm wrapped around your waist is enough to cradle you against him. A gentle, near-ticklish touch glides along the back of your thighs before lifting your feet off the ground. 

He carries you like an offering he already claimed. "Hush now," a mumble in a way that could render you willing, that should convince you to find comfort in his arms. 

At least to his calculations. 

But you do not.

How your body twists in his grasp, how your fists hammer against his chest—it is almost enough to infuriate him. Of course, it does not hurt, not physically, but your vehement rejections land piercing blows to his ego. Part of him believed you would willingly run into his arms and would recognise this connection you share.

Oh, was he wrong.

"Put me down!" Sylus assumes that the command is the first of many to follow in the future. 

But he is quick to understand the need to act it off. He has to pretend to be unbothered by your distaste for him. So, after steeling his resolve, crimson eyes glance down to face your glare head-on. Newfound amusement dances across Sylus's features, accompanied by a burning passion whirling through glistening flecks of gold in his gaze. "I would, but I fear you might run."

"I will!" you bite back while struggling harder against the confident hold of your captor. "I will run, and I will never stop!"

Something akin to a purr rumbles inside Sylus's chest. His smile widened, slow and indulgent, at the prospect of a game. "Don't tempt me so…" he mumbles in adoration while leaning in to nudge the tip of his nose against yours. 

Fury seems to burn brighter than your fear by now, though it did not change the scene that unfolded. 

The fields, the light, the warmth of the sun— everything vanishes into the abyss. Only him, only the darkness, the scent of smoke and myrrh remains as the blackened energy whips around your entangled bodies and pulls you down. 

Sylus hides his face in the crook of your neck, and as much as you drown in darkness and despair, does Sylus finally drown in warmth and sweetened notes of fruits and florals. 

No matter how much you struggle in his loving hold, ultimately, there is no escaping the force that drags you downward. The sun becomes a distant memory before it is gone entirely. The home you knew and cherished is no longer a place to return to.

────────── ♱

Now everything is new. No, it is not new; it is different. Other . This silence seems suffocating, so unlike the gentle hum of life or the breeze in the leaves, it feels like finality. It presses against your skin like the desperate hands of drowning souls trying to grasp their chance for life anew. 

Vast and endless, a silence that does not belong to the living.

"You're awake."

Your breath falters at the commanding voice reverberating inside these grand, dark halls. The only source of light falls from the flickering glow of lanterns filled with ethereal blue fire. The shadows in this realm appear to stretch longer across the polished floors, and at the heart of it all, he sits on a throne made to be feared and cowered before.

The figure that has stolen you from the world above. The God of the Underworld. Known to the mortals as Hades, known among gods as Sylus .

He waits for you with bated breath. Hoping for you to speak, to move, to give him anything he could work with. Perhaps you sense his hidden distress, at least that is what Sylus tells himself, since you finally part your lips. 

"Why am I here?" Your voice is hoarse, raw from the screams of your fight. 

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Sylus's lips while he watches your impatience sprout like weeds. So unlike the gentle goddess, you present yourself to be. 

"I concluded it was time for you to come home."

The words slam into you, twisting and turning until anger surges to victory and leads you to stagger to your feet. "This—" You pause right after the first word to allow yourself another glimpse at these forsaken halls. " This is not my home!" There's so much bark for such little bite, you look entirely endearing to Sylus.

So, unsurprisingly, he does not fall for your temper. Instead, he remains unmoving. His lips are sealed, and no arguments follow. He only watches patiently, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out of this tantrum. 

It's almost like he already knew the end of your tale.

"Take me back." The demand leaves your lips with a confidence Sylus has not yet seen. Oh , and this look, the determination in your eyes, awakens the desire he tries to keep at bay. 

Why not coax the spark into a blaze?

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, followed by a gentle sigh of satisfaction. There is only one word, two syllables, and its meaning is distinctive: "No."

The thundering echo of father's famous rage appears to ring true inside your frame as your fingers curl into fists and the ground of the Underworld starts to shake. Perhaps it already recognises its queen. "You have no right!" Is your angered accusation towards the god who remains unbothered by your distress.

Sylus is indeed unbothered, but for differing reasons than one might suspect. His mind is distracted by how willingly his home, his realm, welcomes you in, bends to you, and kneels at your will. 

Shadows darkened his face upon the tilt of his head, and the amusement that once danced across his features vanished in the blink of an eye. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but cuts through the air all the same. "I have every right."

The weight of his words presses down on you, heavy as the walls of this palace. You try to find reason and desperately make sense of the situation you find yourself in. But there is none. Only panic, worry, and fear are your newfound companions through the dark reaches of the Underworld. 

Your mother will search for you; the gods above will not stand for this, and there will be consequences.

Yet any possible consequence means little to Sylus. 

Eventually, he rises from his throne in a slow and graceful motion, serving as a reminder of his prominence. He is tall, impossibly so, and his form casts a long shadow over you, staging as claws of a predator while they reach for his prey.

You flinch away from the outstretched hand, but something so feeble could never stop a god possessed. Sylus's fingers brush against your cheek—light, worshipping—before he pulls back too soon. Though his eyes, warm and filled with unspoken wishes, remain on you, to study you like the most precious treasure. 

His treasure.

"You were always meant to be here," Sylus eventually murmurs, breaking this seemingly still moment between you two. Even if you don't see it yet," he adds, before halting not just his words but also the fingertips that almost brushed against your shoulder. "You are made for me."

With these words, Sylus turns to leave and vanishes into the endless corridors beyond. Though your words of hatred become his companion, they echo off the palace halls.

"I will never belong to you!" A vow, a promise, a warning spoken with conviction.

How much truth rings true may only be deciphered in the future, but Sylus seems already sure of the outcome, judging by the small, knowing smile spreading on his lips after he mumbles, "We shall see," like a secret between himself and the darkness around him.

You stand motionless, every muscle in your body tense, perhaps even trembling, as you remain stubbornly unwilling to accept the cold finality of your circumstances. The grandeur of the palace is impressive, though to you, it feels like a cage. The polished black stone reflects your form in taunting echoes as you wander through forgotten halls and corridors. 

Your anger seems to boil like a volcano about to erupt, a force even nature yields beneath. You are a goddess, not a helpless mortal ready to be toyed with. And yet, you were taken, stolen in the bright afternoon sun. 

────────── ♱

Time moves strangely here. Day and night have no meaning when neither the sun nor moon chase another across the sky. Instead, you are suspended in the void, accompanied by an ever-burning firelight. You have lost track of how long it has been since he stole you away, but the hunger inside you sharpens with each passing hour.

In silence, you defy Sylus. Sealed lips, empty stomach and eyes filled with hatred render the God of the Underworld near helpless. The plates of ripened fruit and honeyed delicacies tempt yet do not manage to break your will. The air, filled with sweet scents of pomegranates, figs, and golden-crusted bread, is in equal amounts ignored as the goblets of wine. 

Hunger gnaws at you; it scratches against the hollow of your stomach, but your resolve is stronger.

Through it all, Sylus watches. He does not force you, does not plead or beg for you to see reason. But he also does not take pity. No, he simply leans against the framed passage to your chamber, muscles bulging from the fold of his arms across his chest. 

He only watches.

It is infuriating.

"Refuse me all you want." Sylus's words snap you out of your trance-like state. You haven't even realised his movements, but he sits across from you by now. The ruby on his chest pulses in the dim light as though it has a heartbeat of its own. 

He might as well pass a statue, a thing of immortal beauty and cruel stillness, were it not for his eyes—those endless red depths, watching you with emotions akin to something patient and knowing.

"Starving yourself won't help," he continues in an attempt to break your silence. Perhaps you only need a nudge in the right direction? The domineering aura relaxes once Sylus leans back against the cushioned chair, literally opening himself up to you and your scrutinising gaze. 

There it is. That familiar glare he has come to appreciate. 

His fingertips drum against the chair's armrest, seemingly anticipating whatever you finally offer him. 

"I want to go home."

The words surprise him, though do not infuriate. Instead, he appears concerned at your undying defiance. A slow blink follows a momentary freeze of his figure before a lick across his lips wet them. "You are home," Sylus reassures you with a quiet, seemingly compassionate voice.

It further fuels your anger. "This is not my home!" The words bounce off the palace once more, as they have for the past days since Sylus brought you here.

He exhales a puff of air while pinching the bridge of his nose. Silver strands of hair slip forward upon the tilt of his head, accidentally catching the firelight to illuminate the piercing rubies beneath his bangs. "And yet, you were meant to be here. Can't you feel it?"

You can, which is the most terrifying part of all. Something disturbs your peace within whenever Sylus is near you. It should not be there, this pull, this inexplicable gravity that makes it hard to look away. But it is always there, and it only grows stronger with each passing day.

You try to push it off as nothing but the old magic of this place, the way the very walls seem to recognise your presence. But it is not just the Underworld that calls to you.

It is him. And you hate him for it. Even more so hate the realisation of your influence over him: Sylus hesitates on the rare occasions you say his name out loud, as though it carries a power even he does not understand. His gaze always lingers too long; his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He is the God of the dead, ruler of this forsaken realm, feared by all—and yet, you begin to wonder if you are the one meant to rule over him.

While these thoughts may not change your anger, grief, or longing for the world above, they shift something within you.

Until one night, your hunger eventually wins.

Perhaps the servants left the plates out on purpose. The truth may never be revealed, nor is it important in the grander scheme of things. The only thing that mattered now was the intoxicatingly sweet scent of fruits that lingered on throughout your sleepless night. The warning voice inside your mind rings hollow; it pales in comparison to the glistening cuts of fresh harvest tempting your restless figure teetering at the edge of your bed.

You should not.

But your stomach twists, your body weakens, and the scent lures you in to take step after step until you stand in front of the silver platters. Without thinking or comprehending your mistake's finality, your fingers close around a small pomegranate seed, glistening like a drop of blood. 

The moment it slides down your throat, the air in the room changes. It is a subtle shift at first, a whisper, then a gust of wind, usually unbeknown to this isolated place.

One pulse is all it takes for Sylus to stand in the archway of your chamber once more, like he has done many times before—watching, waiting. Your breath is unsteady, the weight of your actions sinking into your stomach like lead. And unlike the despair coursing through your body, victory curls Sylus's lips into a small, satisfied smile.

"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is low, almost gentle, perhaps influenced by the horror visible in your helpless gaze. You swallow hard as you try to find your voice, your reason, yourself . But the only possible solution is to blame it all on Sylus. 

"What have you done?"

Now you irritate him. His brows crease upon your accusation, though his calm demeanour does not crumble. "What have you done?" he much rather returns the question right back to its sender to watch your defiance finally break.

Trembling hands appear tainted to your blurry gaze as you look down in disbelief. They are clean, but to you, each tip seems stained with the juicy remnants of your sin.

The truth is an unbearable thing.

You cannot leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

Never again.

The realisation crackles like the fireplace, though you have never felt this cold. With slow steps, the distance you so fiercely fought for diminishes until Sylus stands right before you. 

This time, you refuse to flinch when his hand reaches for you; his fingers trace the air in between before closing around your wrist. Skin to skin, you realise the chill that clings to his touch, though an unfamiliar fire courses through your veins, a traitorous response you loathe yourself for. 

Sylus turns your hand over and lifts it to his lips. The first gentle brush of lips against your palm is enough to send shivers down your spine. It is a kiss as soft as the brush of a feather; however, the warmth of his breath lingers, seeping into your flesh and marking you in ways deeper than any chain could.

"You belong to this realm," he murmurs into your palm, his lips grazing each word into your skin. "And you belong to me."

Irritation in its purest form hardens Sylus's features as you yank your hand from his hold. You should really stop fighting; you should stop despising him. "The damage is already done," he whispers beside your ear, though he does not touch you this time.

You can feel it—this invisible thread that ties you to him, to this place, to the very darkness that seems to sprout within you. "I hate you," you whisper in return.

Momentarily, a flicker of hurt passes through those crimson depths before Sylus takes a step back, and you might even start to regret your declaration until a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth.

"You say that now," he says softly, "but you have already begun to change."

────────── ♱

His words ring true.

The air in the Underworld is different now. It hums with an energy that wasn't there before, a certain pulse in the walls, the ground, and the air you breathe. You feel it around you; it seeps into your bones and reshapes something deep inside you. It is a dark and restless presence that lingers like the weight of your mistake, like the warmth of his lips against your palm.

There is no time to mourn your fate in silence and isolation, not with Sylus. He comes to you more often now, no longer content to watch from the shadows. His presence is as constant and inevitable as the burning torches that line the palace halls. 

Sylus never forces, but he does not relent either. He pushes, always pushing the boundaries you fight so hard to uphold. But his endurance might be one of his most impressive qualities. 

The pursuit is a slow, insidious thing that sneaks into your veins like the pomegranate's curse. He touches you more deliberately—a palm at the small of your back as he guides you through the corridors, fingers graze your wrist when you pass him in the grand halls, a featherlight brush of his knuckles along your jaw when you glare at him too fiercely.

It is maddening.

And yet, your pulse races when his lips hover near your ear when his voice spills honeyed words against your skin. 

He seeks you out, always, even in your chambers, especially in your chambers, where the air is heavy with your sweetness.

"You are avoiding me," his musing tone catches you off guard. If it weren't for his proximity, for the body looming behind your back, you would whirl around to glare at the uninvited guest. "And you fight so hard," Sylus's breath is warm against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

How his lips yearn to taste you. 

It's as though he enjoys your rejections more than an open welcome. You're too adorable this way as if you truly were to believe your acts of defiance could help against fate itself. 

"I have no desire to entertain you" is a grumble as you turn further away from Sylus. But for each step you take away from him, Sylus takes two in return. 

"That is a lie." His presence presses against your senses, unrelenting in his pursuit. Sylus happily witnesses the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake with the gentle ghost of his fingertips along your arm. "Your body betrays you so very clearly, my beauty."

Your heart thrums within your chest, so loud it nearly succeeds in drowning out the teasing lilt in his voice—almost, but not quite. Because you're too attuned to him now, too ensnared by the pull of his presence to resist for much longer. Whether caused by fury or the desire to look into crimson eyes, you turn and face Sylus, drawn as if by fate itself to those infernal, beautiful features. "You tore me from everything—my life, my mother. How could I ever—"

Oh, you are ravishing like this, even more so with that sinful glare upon the knowing, near-cheeky smile on Sylus's lips. "Because you are mine." A light touch weaves its way through your fingers, tickling your palm and wrist to brand your skin with his longing. 

A nudge from Sylus's free finger tilts your chin up, effortlessly forcing your glare to focus back on his eyes. That little gasp from your lips beckons him to close the scant distance between your mouths. "Hate me, curse me, reject me," Sylus murmurs with a voice as dark as the abyss itself, "it will only deepen my love for you."

The heat in his stare makes your stomach twist in ways you fail to comprehend, in ways you refuse to acknowledge fully. You do not answer, cannot answer, because some terrible, secret part of you shudders in delight at how right his claim feels even as your mind rebels against him.

He is too close to the point that his scent clouds your better judgment while silver hair falls past his shoulders to tickle your skin. Momentarily, you consider running your fingers through the long strands.

Instead, reason calls upon you to press your hands against Sylus's chest to push him away—but he feels so good beneath your touch that you fail to pursue your goal. 

And he notices, of course, he does. His muscles give way beneath your palms as Sylus leans in a fragment closer. "You are fighting something inevitable, my love," he whispers against your temple. "Do you not feel it? The pull?"

You do, and you loathe yourself for it.

Long, greedy fingers trail along your collarbone; it's nothing but a ghost of a touch meant to unravel. "I could make this easier for you, little goddess," a gentle murmur of affection, though his voice remains laced with amusement, with something far more wicked. "Or you could keep resisting. Either way, you have me wrapped around your finger."

Despite the raging pulse that betrays your resistance, you snap at the God of the Underworld. Once more, forever more, Sylus's own heart skips a beat at the rejection of his feisty goddess. "I would sooner wither."

The words could have caused him to fall apart in this instance if he had lower self-control. 

Perhaps it is this very realisation that causes Sylus to chuckle. Low and deep and true, the sound vibrates against your skin. "Would you?" His lips nearly kiss the shell of your ear. "Tell me, do you truly despise this?"

Worshipping hands slide down your arm; they trace the curve of your wrists and ultimately entwine with your fingers. A moment passes before your hands are lifted to his mouth for Sylus to press kisses across your knuckles. 

Only now do you realise the beautiful and heavy set of his lashes and the gentle crease of his brows as if this act alone could convey the undying embers of his love, which burn hotter than his breath against your skin. 

The sensation sends a sudden jolt through you, something unfathomable if you remain insistent on denying your own affections. This tender moment ends with a sudden yank to free your hands from his reverent hold, though it does not darken Sylus's mood.

"You are insufferable," you grumble all over again, to which Sylus chuckles. The sound is neither cruel nor mocking. No, it is like the weightless reassurance of a man who knows you will come to him in the end.

────────── ♱

The Underworld is not the lifeless void you once assumed it to be. Its unexpecting offer is more impressive than what you first granted: Through the dark pits of Tartarus, the paradise of Elysium and the barely noticeable meadows of Asphodel flow rivers like silver snakes, their surfaces rippling with unseen currents, only disturbed by Charon transporting souls across the Styx. Shadows curl and move, whispering in the voices of the hopeless and lost. And the sky here? It's not black but a deep, endless twilight speckled with stars that do not belong to the world above.

And rather than simply accepting your fate, you embrace it now. 

Your reflection reveals it first. In the land of the dead, you flourish. Your skin shines with renewed energy while a new-found hunger lingers in your eyes, craving more than sustenance. Your gowns are also different now: darker, tighter, more opulent, and made for the station Sylus insists is yours. Jewels glint at your throat, wrists, hair, gifts, all of them, from him . 

You tell yourself you wear them only because you have no choice, but deep down, you know better.

The realm accepts you now. It bows to you in small ways���doors open before you touch them, whispers grow soft when you pass. The Underworld does not take just anyone. It takes queens. One queen. His.

Sylus does not bother to hide anymore. He is not just waiting for you to succumb—he is guiding you toward it, coaxing you, moulding you. His every interaction carries intent: every touch is a test, every word a step closer to something inevitable.

One evening, he corners you in the dim glow of the throne room to tease and tempt you until you want to flee. Your steps back ultimately cause you to stagger into his chest through the calculated tug on your wrist. Grasped between his thumb and pointer finger, your face is directed towards his own; your head tipped back for your lips to part invitingly.

"You wear my gifts well," Sylus murmurs the compliment while rendering you defenceless thanks to the simple brush of his thumb against the swell of your lower lip, "they were made for you, and you were made for me," a hushed promise spoken against the shell of his ear.

Shamelessly, his head dips lower, and you feel his nose against your jawline, feel him inhale your floral scent deeply as though attempting to fill his entire being with you before pressing a singular kiss filled with longing against the racing pulse dancing beneath the thin skin of your neck.

"What?" He continues this solitary conversation. "Are you not going to hiss at me?" The quirk of his brow is infuriating—infuriatingly attractive. 

"I was not made for you," you force the reply, a sweet attempt to seem as repulsed as before, but the words come weaker than you intend.

At that, Sylus can't help but laugh. The sound is low and rich, and it's exclusively for you. 

The grand finale of tonight's pursuit follows in the shape of Sylus's lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but rich enough in intensity to make you wonder what it would feel like if he truly claimed you.

────────── ♱

The arrival of Hermes shatters the fragile dynamic that has begun to blossom from your connection with Sylus.

He appears without warning, a figure of golden light and refined grace,  with flaxen hair and eyes of near-luminescent blue. Xavier. His movements are effortless, fluid, a beacon of hope in the heavy stillness of the Underworld. With him, he carries the expectations of Olympus, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it felt like to breathe in fresh air, to feel the sun's kiss upon your skin.

Yet there is something sharper about him here in this place of no belonging—his smile is edged with mischief, his ivory tunic ripples with divine energy. A calculative gaze flicks to you, then to Sylus, who remains seated on his throne, utterly unbothered by the unwelcome interruption.

The messenger neither bows nor cowers. "Well," Xavier says, his arms moving to cross as he leans against a pillar. "The king of gods has spoken."

Sylus tilts his head at the mention of your father, clearly unimpressed. He eyes the messenger amid his grand hall, mustering the God of trade and luck. "Has he now?" Despite the calm tones in Sylus's voice, there is a dangerous edge lurking beneath its surface. By now, you can tell as much.

Xavier's gaze momentarily returns to you. Emboldened by the solemn vow to bring the harvest goddess's beloved daughter back to the realm of living, he speaks. "Your mother grieves. The earth withers in her sorrow. You are to be returned to Olympus immediately."

Freedom? A return… home? 

For a fleeting, breathless moment, the words cause a flutter to take wing inside your chest—like a bird stirring from its slumber after a long night. Hopeful, fragile, aching to believe. But then you notice how Xavier speaks of you. Not to you, no over you. 

To be returned, not to return.

You move slowly and find Sylus already watching you. His attention pushes down on you with unspoken words and painful longing while restless fingers drum against the jet-black glass of his throne. Then, without looking away, he plays his final card.

"She has long eaten the fruit of my realm."

Xavier sighs dramatically at the desperate antics from the God of the Underworld. "Yes, yes , and you've tied her to you now. Very clever." He glances at you once more before meeting crimson head-on with cerulean. "But the world above cannot survive without her. You know this."

Sylus lifts a hand, demanding immediate silence from the messenger without another glance in his direction. Rising from his throne, he crosses the chasm between your bodies with purposeful steps until the distance wanes and bends like fate itself. He does not stop until his presence surrounds you and his hot breath ghosts over your lips. 

Gentle fingertips find your jaw for a touch equally sinful as tender. Possessive. Worshipful. The pad of Sylus's thumb lingers beneath your chin, tilting your face for him to adore your every angle. "You are mine," he murmurs, low and intoxicating. "Even if I let you go, you will return."

The certainty of his claim causes your heart to falter, and you feel yourself falling apart, unravelling beneath his acts of devotion. You hate him for it. You hate that a part of you knows he is right.

Xavier watches the exchange with an arched brow. "Charming as always" is a mockery of God, who never showed romance to any being prior to you. 

Though the words fly past the bubble created by Sylus's longing for you, you're enthralled by the hypnotising allure of tender lips that, once more, press slow kisses onto your hand. "My queen," he speaks the title into your skin as though searing your being with your future power and might.

Eager to escape this scene of lust and devotion, Xavier attempts to break this tension by clearing his throat before speaking: "Then I assume we have reached a compromise."

"A compromise?" Sylus echoes in wonder, though neither of you flees from the ensnaring heat crafted through your eyes as if the very act of looking at another was a ritual in itself.

"You will release her," Xavier declares, the decision carried by the weight of Olympus. Sylus already parts his lips to retort, though the messenger beats him to it. "And she will return to her mother, as the divine law demands. However…” Xavier's gaze moves to you, seemingly softer, mournful almost. "Since she has tasted your realm, she is now tied to it. Therefore, she shall walk between both worlds. She will return to you for half of the year until duty calls for her to step into the light of Olympus for the remaining months." 

Sylus's grip tightens on your hand; a faint tremble to his fingers betrays his opulent presence. The smugness he wears like armour fades into a scowl. Turning to Xavier, Sylus pulls you to stand behind him with a possessiveness akin to a dragon threatened to lose his treasure. 

His body turns into a shield between you and the final sentence of Olympus.

"She will depart with me today," Xavier continues unconcerned, "And until her eventual, unfortunate return to the Underworld, you shall be tested. Your patience, your virtue, the purity of your devotion to the Goddess of Spring," 

Xavier's conclusion leaves no room for arguments. A flicker close to triumph dances through the messenger's eyes as the God of death and shadows has been brought to his knees, even if only for a season.

"So be it," Sylus murmurs before, all too soon, returning to gaze upon you. As though you are the only vision that matters, the only beauty worth witnessing.

His free hand rises for his fingers to trail along the column of your throat before curling around the back of your neck. However, he would never use force on you. No, instead, Sylus draws close to you, so close his words become a secret between you two. "Enjoy your time above, little one, while I wait for your return to me."

It's a promise, a threat, and a certainty all at once. And truthfully, a part of you already misses him.

────────── ♱

Sylus had never realised how deafening the silence of the Underworld could be. It stretches through the empty halls of his palace and seeps into the very marrow of his existence. Once filled with your anger and fire, the throne room is once more cold. The grand halls echo only with his own footsteps. And even the torches seem to burn a little dimmer.

You are gone, and he hates it. He should not feel like this. He has ruled the Underworld for aeons and has never known loneliness, not in a way that mattered. But now, now he feels it.

You are in the world above, in your mother's arms, beneath the golden touch of the sun. You are in a place where he cannot reach you, and the realisation gnaws at him like a slow, festering wound.

His patience wears thinner than ever thanks to sleepless nights or haunting dreams of nothing and no one but you. Always you. Of your lips parted in anger, in surrender. Of your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He imagines your return and how you will look when you finally stand before him again. Will you be softer? Will your time above have reminded you of all the things you once thought you wanted? Or will you have come to understand the truth? That you belong to him.

He waits and watches once more. Never would Sylus have ever suspected to be forced to witness you again through the crow's eyes, but here he was—dependent on his messenger. Mephisto is his eyes in the upper world, a shadow against the bright skies. The crow perches in high branches, on windowsills, in the eaves of the great temple where Demeter holds you close, whispering reassurances that all will be as it once was.

But it will never be as it once was because you have changed, too.

While at first you revel in your freedom, the world above seems a little too bright, vibrant, and bursting with life in a way the Underworld never could. The fields bloom beneath your mother's touch, and the air is warm, filled with the scent of ripening fruit and fresh earth. You are surrounded by love, by the warmth of familiar arms, and by the laughter of those who missed you.

And yet, on the first night already, you awake to search for something which isn't there. On the second night, you dream of silver hair, hands trailing along your skin, and a voice murmuring your name in the dark. On the third night, you catch sight of a shadow moving along the tree line, and your heart stutters in your chest—not with fear, but recognition at the familiar gleam of red eyes.

Mephisto does not leave, and you do not want him to.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. You fill them with laughter, with long walks through sunlit meadows, with the comfort of your mother's presence. But there is a hollowness inside you now, a quiet, insidious ache that only grows with each passing day. It is not enough, you realise. 

None of it is enough. Nothing measures up to the feelings Sylus brought to life within your shell. You are not the same as you were before. Confidence, stubbornness, and greed are qualities you happily embrace by now. 

Your mother notices the change. One evening, she catches you staring out at the horizon with distant eyes while watching the setting sun. She sees how your hands trace absent patterns against your skin, as if recalling a touch is no longer there. She does not speak of it, but you can feel her watching, worrying.

When the leaves turn red and yellow, you wake with the remnant taste of pomegranate on your tongue, with an anticipation that brings your heart to pick up its pace at the prospect of returning to him .

────────── ♱

The descent is not the same this time. You are not stolen, not wrenched from the world above in a flurry of fear and resistance. No, this time, you go willingly. Your heart pounds with anticipation as the air around you grows heavier, the sun's warmth fading into the cold embrace of the Underworld's shadows.

And then you see him. He is there already, long awaiting. 

His silhouette emerges from the fog like a memory-made flesh, tall, terrible, and heartbreakingly familiar. His eyes devour you. They do not blaze with conquest, though they burn with aching relief, with desire tempered only by the agony of restraint. A god undone by the absence of the one thing he could not command: your return.

"You came back," he says, and it is not a statement of triumph. His voice sounds fragile, relieved. The evidence of a desire stretched too thin over too many empty nights.

All you manage to respond is a quiet "I did," since the weight of this moment, of your joy, presses into your lungs and bones. 

Sylus says nothing in return; the longing in his eyes is louder than any verbal confession. He rather steps closer, slowly, carefully, to chase away the forced distance of the past months. He has not changed, not truly. But the sharp edges of his obsession have softened. 

He looks at you like you are someone he is afraid to lose, which makes your next step easier as you extend your hand toward him. Without hesitation, he encases your offer in his palm and lifts your hand to his lips, though a deep exhale of relief escapes his lungs long before pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles. 

This time, you do not pull away. This time, you let him. This time, you welcome him. 

The gates close behind you with a soft sigh, like a breath exhaled after being held for too long. The Underworld waits. Not as a cage this time, not as a prison of shadow and stolen freedom. No—it waits as something altogether different. Your kingdom to rule.

────────── ♱

For the first time, Sylus leads, and you follow. You allow him to bring you to a garden that does not need sunlight to blossom; it's hidden beneath a silken canopy draped in silver threads. It glows from within, lit by fireflies not belonging to the world above. The flower petals here are as dark as night, and their stems shimmer faintly with iridescent dew. They are beautiful in a way that defies logic.

You sit on cushions of satin and velvet, a low table between you, and a feast of things not found in the upper world. Black figs bleeding golden juice. Pomegranate seeds are like rubies scattered on porcelain. Honey-soaked cakes with petals pressed into their tops—slices of moon fruit, with shimmering flesh like opal.

"Does it please you?" Sylus asks, with a voice as gentle as a lover's caress. You glance at the spread and then at the man sitting across from you, his broad frame draped in a tunic of deepest black threaded with the night sky that barely conceals his impressive build, exposing well-defined muscles inked with faint, ancient markings.

Sylus's lips curl into a smile upon the motion of your head, the simple nod rewarding him with a sense of relief. "It's strange. But yes," you admit with a gentle tone. 

"One could consider yourself strange in this surrounding, too. And yet—you please me." Sylus's honesty strikes somewhere low in your belly. You should be used to his intensity by now, but thread by thread, it continues to unravel you. He is open with his intent, never hiding it, not the want, worship, or way his eyes trace the line of your throat or the corners of your mouth when you speak.

For a while, you sit in silence. A peaceful quiet, as though both of you are learning how to be something other than what you were. Not captor and captive. Not hunter and prey. Equals, lovers . The final thought may lead your fingers to finally reach for a slice of fig and hold it out to him. 

Sylus's gaze flicks to yours, something akin to amusement pooling in those crimson shades as he momentarily hesitates.  "You're feeding me now?" Though he regrets the words quicker than he has spoken them once, the sweet reward is being snatched away from Sylus's lips with a huff of mild exasperation over his daring, teasing response. 

Mind you, the God of the Underworld is not one to have his treats taken from him. A firm touch around your wrist, a breathed chuckle and a brush of soft lips follow all too soon before Sylus welcomes the fruit from your offering hand. 

His actions are deliberate and intimate, causing your breath to catch and your cheeks to grow warm beneath his intense gaze. Through thick lashes, his crimson eyes bask in your reaction, though his mouth remains occupied until a murmur of "Why, aren't you sweet tonight?" falls from glistening lips that seem to beckon you to lean in.

It is only at the last moment that you notice your desire. You catch yourself and pluck one grape off its vine instead of reaching for the God of the Underworld. 

However, Sylus takes it from your fingers and presses it to your lips instead. "Your turn," a gentle command and challenge dusted in this low, sultry tone.

Parted lips allow the grape to burst on your tongue—sweet and tart, while Sylus's attention remains on your mouth. He doesn't budge, not when he knows you have grown aware of his stare, not when you chew, not even when you swallow.

"I missed you," he says in a whisper that carries a longing stretched too thin. His expression is nearly vulnerable, tender, and a little insecure, perhaps. 

This newfound softness suits him. Leading you to allow your eyes to roam over his sharp features to find further gentle details. From his cupid's bow to the golden flecks in his eyes and the lines on his face when he smiles at you, for you. 

"Did you?"

"Every night," Sylus murmurs, possibly a little rueful. "I dreamed of you walking back into my realm, of your voice echoing through my– our halls. I imagined…"

He stops himself at the last moment. A hint of a blush dusts his features, bringing a charm to his looks you would have never granted him before.  

"Imagined what?"

The heavy set of his jaw causes his held-back confession to stir worry in your mind; Sylus can tell as much as he takes in the slight crease of your brows. It may be time to jump over his shadow. 

His smile returns, though it appears rather self-deprecating this time around while avoiding your gaze.

"You. Smiling at me like you meant it. Touching me because you wanted to," Sylus admits with a purse of his lips, evidently cringing at his confession. This was ill-befitting to the ruler of the Underworld. 

Yet, your fingers befit him very well. How they begin to trace the lines of his hand, from the back of his hand to the calloused pads of his fingers? Sylus stills beneath your touch as if afraid a single move might cause you to vanish again.

"And I missed—" he continues but swallows the rest.

You are the one to smile now. You didn't expect to coax so many confessions out of him tonight, though he appears to be in a rambling mood, which makes it impossible not to tease, not to probe and test your luck further. 

With a tilt of your head, you let your eyes flick up to his own, a glint of amusement dancing in your gaze. "Tell me."

His eyes dart away almost immediately, lashes fluttering against flushed skin, while Sylus seems to contemplate whether or not he shall make a grander fool of himself. But you seem receptive, accepting of him... 

"I missed the sound of your voice even when you cursed me. Especially then."

You smile at that, a real one. "You deserved every word."

"I still do," Sylus replies, unbothered at that and well aware of his own 'shortcomings'. 

The conversation finds a tranquil close through shared chuckles and lingering eye contact before the fruits call for attention. 

You eat in slow, quiet indulgence. Feeding another slice of moon fruit and seeds of pomegranate accompanied by a brush of his thumb across your lower lip or the hitch in Sylus's breath as your fingers graze his mouth. 

The air seems to thicken with something you do not dare to address, a sweetness far beyond the decadence of the fruits. 

When juice glistens at the corner of Sylus's mouth, you reach without thinking to wipe it away. The gentle moment deepens once long fingers catch your wrist to press your palm against Sylus's cheek. 

He leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth and love, turning his head for his lips to brush against the warm skin of your hand. "I've waited," Sylus murmurs, "I've tried to be good. I did not drag you back, though every shadow begged me to," his words are paused to nip into your palm while amusement dances in his gaze upon your soft sound of surprise. "I wanted to see if you would choose me. Not as your captor—but as your other half."

Your heart stumbles at the confession, and you allow yourself a moment to look at Sylus, really look at him. He is still dangerous, still secure in his power and confidence—but beneath it all, he is trembling.

"For nights, have I imagined this," Sylus continues upon your flustered silence. "This canopy. This moment. You, beside me. Willingly ."

At that, you finally reach out to brush a strand of silver hair from his cheek. Your fingers trail along Sylus's defined jawline, down his throat to witness him swallow before being drawn to the ruby in his chest, where you allow your fingers to rest.

Though the touch lasts briefly before you rise to claim your throne, Sylus watches you unmoving as you settle into his lap. His arms come around you as if instinctually, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your nape.

Surrender. You see it in Sylus's eyes, in his body language. So, you conquer. A touch along his cheek before your fingertips drag from his jawline forward to his chin to pull him in, to make him chase until your lips meet.

Soft. Tentative. A whisper of longing finally answered.

Sylus groans—it's a low, broken sound—and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. The heat of him surrounds your body; his hunger devours your lips while his hands glide along your waist, over your shoulders and back. 

Every touch is a question Sylus does not dare ask aloud.

You answer with your body, tilting your head and opening your mouth, letting him taste the sweetness you've withheld for so long. This ignites the deep pull of your bond, the magnetic ache that has hummed between you from the start. But now, it sings.

It is only once you're breathless that your lips part, though Sylus chases you once more—one more time to kiss you deeply until his confession clings to your skin as his mouth moves down your neck. 

"I'm shameless with you," nothing but a hot breath, a roughened rasp. "You've made me something undone." 

At first, only silence follows. A silence that seems to weigh down on Sylus's shoulders as he slumps into you, his embrace on you tightening as though he may fear you were to disappear into fine dust. 

But then he feels you lean in again and grants you complete control. So you guide his head to tip back while your lips brush along the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw before your words find their way into his ear. "And I like it." 

You kiss him, not on the mouth this time, but under his ear, along the line of his jumping pulse. You mould him with every breath and shift of your body in his lap. 

"Is that so?" Sylus asks in quiet, curious amusement while shooting you that confident smirk alongside a quirk to his brow. 

He is powerful, yes—but tonight, you are the one who holds him in your palms.

And you know it, you abuse it. Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his again, gentle, faint, teasing as you whisper, "It makes me feel powerful." 

Sylus is patient. He waits years to welcome the lost to his realm, watches calmly over the mishaps in the upper world and waits for the cards to play in his favour. 

But your teasing? Oh, it all causes Sylus to grow impatient. 

He craves the promise of relief from your lips, wanting to taste the sweet haven. The denial is almost too much to bear when you lean back, the disdain manifested with a groan vibrating through Sylus's chest and the flex of his arms around your figure. "You are," he assures you so willingly, "you could command me with a single word."

"Then behave," you whisper before pulling away enough to let Sylus see your smirk and that awful challenge in your eyes. 

You didn't expect Sylus to laugh at your little display of power. A sound low and dark, self-indulgent even when he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "I've been fighting my hardest. You have no idea how much. But you're not making it easy, my little goddess."

To make matters worse, you indulge Sylus by threading your fingers through his long silver strands, scratching past the base of his curled horns to steal a soft grunt as you whisper in his ear: "I'm not trying to." 

He hums in delight as though your torture was the purest love of all. 

"Good."

The tension snaps at that, causing your lips to seek out another kiss and another until pecks turn to a passionate exchange of breathless sighs and saliva. 

You guide Sylus's hands to your waist, your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently as your kisses turn urgent. 

Sylus groans—an unguarded sound, shameless and beautiful—and his grip tightens again, grounding himself through you, needing you to anchor him as much as you need to feel him unravel.

You feel the restraint in him teeter on the edge of collapse, but it does not break tonight.

Instead, you curled up against him, your fingers brushing the ruby in his chest as if it were a second heart. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, but his touch remains gentle, cradling you like something sacred.

You lie together beneath the silken canopy as torchlight flickers against your skin. He tells you of the garden he grew while you were gone. Of the starlight dome he had built to mimic the sky you miss dearly. Of every small hope, he fed his heart in your absence like embers waiting to be fanned.

You listen, and you stay until sleep finds you. Enveloped in Sylus' arms, where you belong. 

Home.

────────── ♱

With that, the time has finally come.

Hades has passed his trial from the gods above and earned the right to wed his spring queen. He kneels before you, succumbing to his love and burning desire for the one true love. 

A pulse moves through the obsidian caverns, across black rivers and beneath skeletal trees. The dark realm stills in anticipation. Even the air tastes of omen. Stones whisper in a tongue long forgotten by Olympus—born of death, longing, and devotion.

Tonight, the god of the dead weds his queen.

There is no mortal spectacle, no divine applause. The ceremony unfolds deep within Domos Haidou, an ancient grove untouched by time, where even the moon dares not look. Only ghostly embers and violet fireflies shimmer, illuminating the sanctum where the veil between sacred and sinful has worn thin.

Here, beneath a sky of nothing but velvet void, where only the faintest glow from ghostly fireflies and floating embers light the scene, the ritual takes shape.

You are dressed not in fabric but in falling petals—obsidian lilies and pale mourning blooms cascading from your shadow-cloaked figure. The scent is intoxicating. Crushed orchids and roses bleed sweet perfume into the air, mingled with the deep, honeyed pull of burning amber, cracked myrrh, and the lush, ripe promise of pomegranates split open beneath a blade.

Incense swirls in winding tendrils around your ankles, carried by a wind that seems to breathe only for you.

Sylus waits.

He stands at the altar made of stone and root, his tall frame outlined by flickering braziers lit with violet flame. His tunic clings to him, dark as pitch, draped loose over his strong shoulders, revealing the ridged definition of his chest. A crown of black laurel rests upon his silver hair, his curved horns framing the impassive mask of his face—until he sees you.

And then he breathes again.

The firelight deepens the red in his eyes, and his gaze—tender yet hungry—devours the sight of you. Not like prey. Never that. Like devotion, like something sacred, he has been waiting for eternity to touch.

Your steps, unhurried and deliberate, carry all the words your mouth does not say. You are no longer a frightened girl ripped from her world. You are a woman who has tasted the Underworld and claimed it alongside its ruler. 

You place your hands in his, and the world shifts.

From a chalice forged from volcanic crystal, you share the ritual drink—a dark elixir of wine and crushed blossoms, thick with enchantment and laced with the bite of something older than lust. It slides down your throat like fire, and immediately, the air changes. It prickles against your skin, magic thickening like fog. Your limbs are warm, your head light, and your breath shallow.

The circle around you ignites. Flame spirals from the ground, blooming outward, as though the Underworld itself recognises this union. Vines coil around the altar, pulsing in rhythm with your breath. The ruby at his chest flares, and a low hum answers from beneath your skin. You are bound now. Not by force nor by fate. By choice.

That choice leads you to step closer while Sylus remains still as a statue. However, his tension is unmistakable. His knuckles are white from holding back, yet his hands do not move without your invitation.

You lift one to your lips, leaving a kiss on his palm. Sylus exhales your name like a prayer, like a curse, as you trail your fingers up his chest, letting your touch linger to tease the dip of his throat and the line of his jaw. You watch how Sylus shudders under the weight of your attention. 

The power you feel is intoxicating. You realise now how far you've come.

Once, he ruled the stillness where nothing grows.

Now, you bring the bloom that breaks it.

Your lips brush the corner of Sylus' mouth—not quite a kiss, but the hint of one. In return, he tilts his head, drawn in immediately to chase more, but you retreat with a teasing smile. It wrecks him how helpless he has become, though Sylus can only laugh softly at his misery.

"You've changed," he murmurs, his voice is low and full of awe while his eyes and fingertips adore your beautiful features.

"I had to," your touch leads down his ribs. "To match the man who waited for me."

At that, Sylus sways into you, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. You guide him down onto the silk-lined altar floor, settling in his lap as the folds of your ceremonial robes slip open around your legs. When your lips meet his—tentative at first, a question, a test—he doesn't devour, only responds with slowness. 

Then, the kiss deepens and shatters the last barriers of restraints.

His hands explore your waist, back, and hips as if memorising each curve. You feel his strength, not in dominance but in surrender. Sylus lets you set the rhythm and mould him into what you need.

And you do. 

Your touches are not hesitant anymore—they command. You tilt his head where you want it, angle his mouth to yours, and drag your teeth along the seam of his lips until he groans, gasping your name like it's his salvation.

And still, he waits because there is no rush to this moment. He has forever with you. But the Underworld grows impatient in the way magic winds around your entwined limbs, tugging, twisting, binding. Your hips roll together in an instinctive rhythm, and the scent of burning flowers and fruit envelops you like a shroud. 

You are both drunk—on love, on hunger, on power.

Sylus' mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, your ribs. He speaks your name between kisses like it is the only word he has ever learned. His restraint is thin, stretched taut with every passing breath, and when you push him beyond it when you finally press him down and whisper, "Take me," he falls apart.

The vines around your promised bodies seem to dance in a song older than the gods themselves. The flames bloom higher, flicking beautifully on the crimson depths of Sylus's eyes.

You're magnified by the molten longing pooling inside, entranced and enthralled. You watch the way he looks at you.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak but cannot. Because how does a god, a ruler, a creature of death and punishment, explain what it means to be undone so completely by love?

"My love," you whisper as your fingers guide his palm between your breasts, lower to your belly. The air around you grows heavier as he follows the trail of your skin.

His hand continues downward. Over the rise of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the curve of your hips, until finally, finally , his fingers move between your thighs, cupping your most intimate part with the size of his palm.

When you arch into his hand, and your head falls back, Sylus watches it all with greed and worship. An approving, low rumble tickles your skin upon his discovery. You're wet, throbbing, already so unbearably ready—your arousal a product not just of the intoxicating magic in the air but the weight of everything that has passed between you. 

The ache, the longing. The vow that, tonight, you would be his.

He turns you then, gently but without hesitation, lowering your back into the dark grass beneath like a holy offering. 

His figure looms over you—broad and protective—as if he wasn't the danger himself. Twisted horns cast long shadows that flicker in the torchlight, while silver hair cascades over broad shoulders like a waterfall spun from moonlight. 

The width of Sylus' thighs parts your own effortlessly once he settles. Accompanied by a gentle touch that glides along the sensitive skin of your legs, with fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs, his gestures are worshipful as he stares down at you, naked and glistening with want. Beautiful.

Yet still—he waits. 

He does not take.

You're the one to set the tone.

Your hands lead crimson eyes to follow the curves of your body, slow and shameless; you rake your nails down your chest, teasing your nipples until they pebble before dragging your touch lower over your stomach and down to the place that aches for him most. When your fingers dip between your folds, and you moan softly at the contact, you keep your eyes locked on his.

Sylus watches, transfixed and with monumental restraint, as your fingers work your slick folds. A traitorous flush spreads over his neck, across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that almost makes him look innocent–if it weren't for the lust pooling in his eyes.

How willing you are for your husband.

And then, you reach for his hand. Smaller fingers lace around Sylus' wrist to guide him back to your body until his chest hovers just above yours. He is so close now; his breath mingles with yours, his lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes search yours, and what he finds leads Sylus to give in. Soft lips crash against yours in a deep, hungry kiss before his teeth nip at your bottom lip, demanding entrance and surrender.

A warmth spreads over your skin thanks to the heat of Sylus' palms sliding up your body, eager to replace every touch you have left on your figure with his own. He spoils your breasts with attention, kneading the soft mounds and tweaking your nipples until they are hard, aching peaks. 

"So soft, so warm and needy…" he murmurs against your breasts before his tongue drags heavy over skin littered with goosebumps. Sylus rocks his hips forward, the hard, thick length of him pressing against your core before staining your skin with more whispers of desire. 

"Tell me you want it," he mumbles while the delicious drag of his length would already be enough to make you say yes to all and any of his wishes. But he seems desperate for your consent, for your dependence on him. "Tell me how much you need me, my goddess."

Your thighs twitch from the delicious stimulation Sylus offers, the sounds following seem natural, like a sweet symphony of a tune you've never sung before. "Sylus," you sigh for him, so sweetly, so fragile, as your fingertips trace the ruby in his chest.  "I want to be one with you," you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"My love," you search his eyes with an expression so soft and tender that Sylus didn't even dare to dream of before. "Can you help me? Can you guide me? To be all for you, only you forever and always..."

It's incredible how you effortlessly play with Sylus' heartstring—a heart most people deem nonexistent. Yet here you are, toying with the God of the Underworld as though he could never be a real match to you. 

This is the power you hold over him, the control you have over the darkness that dwells within. You managed to tame the untamable, to make him kneel at your feet like a loyal hound. 

Sylus brings your entwined hands to his lips and presses a lingering kiss, gentle yet filled with devotion, to your knuckles. Crimson eyes remain glued to your own, as though his gaze alone could convey all the feelings he holds dear inside. 

"I will guide you, mould you, make your body fit mine like it was crafted for me alone," a whisper breathed along the veins running down your arm, sealed with kisses.

When he finally sheds his tunic, it is a teasing, slow gesture meant to draw your attention to nothing but him. The silver clasps snap open under Sylus's touch, revealing a defined figure made for your exploration. Every line seems to be carved by divine hands. 

But it's his length that steals your breath—thick and heavy; it stands proud and pulsing, the flushed tip glistening with need. It intimidates. It arouses. It makes something flutter inside you.

Sylus's pupils dilate as he takes in the sight beneath him: His wife, his goddess, spread wide for him, your stomach stained by his fluids. 

"Beautiful creature of sin…" The words escape him in nothing but a whisper while his tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you, creating sounds of desire as he lowers himself again, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Breathe for me," he says, soft and commanding all at once, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Take a deep breath, and let me in. Let me fill you. Stretch you. Make you mine."

And you try. You truly try to obey. But the moment his thick head presses past your entrance, your muscles tense. The shock caused by the unfamiliar stretch steals your breath, and you let out a cry—not of pain, not quite.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, Sylus pushes forward, deeper into your velvety sweetness. He groans deeply, affected by the stretch of your walls when they try to accommodate him. Ah, the feel of you, so hot, so tight, so perfect . 

You're so wet; he can't refuse to push in deeper, to conquer places nobody has ever been.

Sylus groans—a sound torn from deep within his chest—as your walls flutter around him, your body drawing him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Your heat envelops him like velvet soaked in flame, your core yielding and trembling around his cock. The stretch is near unbearable, your breath caught in your throat as your body struggles to adjust to his size.

He is thick, unrelenting, the burn making tears swell at the corners of your eyes, though you never look away from him. His hand braces your hip while the other cups your jaw with infinite care, his thumb sweeping away one of those traitorous tears.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathes with his eyes locked on yours, hunger and adoration swirling in those crimson depths. "Pull me in deeper, let me feel you clenching around me. Let me fill you like I was made for this."

Your thighs move on instinct, curling around his waist, and he catches them with both hands, holding you steady. When your hips roll—desperate, seeking—you impale yourself further onto his cock, inch by aching inch, until you're gasping from the pressure, the fullness.

"S-Sylus," you sob, your voice trembling at the edge of a moan as he stretches you deeper, wider. Your head tips back into the ground, fingernails clawing at the obsidian cloth beneath you while the tremble of your thighs highlights the effort of holding back the pleasure threatening to consume you.

"Shh, my love," he murmurs in a gentle tone even as sweat beads on his brow from the effort it takes not to move too fast, not to thrust in and claim you all at once. "Breathe through it. You're doing so well. Taking me so deeply, so perfectly."

His lips brush your temple and jaw to soothe the tension wracking your trembling form. He presses his forehead to yours, allowing his breath to mingle with yours as he grounds you, anchors you, and helps you through the storm of sensation.

"How much more?" you gasp, though you do not dare look down—too afraid of the answer.

Sylus huffs a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief and adoration. "A little," he murmurs, lies, while distracting you by pressing kisses on your cheek. "I'm halfway in."

A sob melts into a moan as his mouth claims yours, a kiss that leaves no space for thoughts. Hungry lips swallow your cries while a domineering tongue explores your mouth with depraved hunger. Large hands never stop moving—stroking your thighs, palming your breasts, coaxing your body to surrender.

"Breathe with me," he pleads against your lips alongside the gentle rocking of his hips in a slow, deep roll, easing in. You feel every stretch, every throb, every heated inch as he fills you further. "Feel how your body welcomes me."

You try—gods, you try—but your breath breaks as his cock finds something inside you that makes you seize, makes your nails dig into his arms, dragging across the tense muscles of his biceps. "N-Not there—Sylus, not there—"

But that's precisely where he presses again, with deliberate force, and the high, breathy sound that escapes you is half protest, half plea.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, with his tongue licking away the taste of salt from your tears as he groans against your skin. "There, right there," Sylus retorts with a sudden sharpness, causing his words to cut through your weak protests. 

The defiant words are punctuated with a selfish, more brutal thrust of Sylus's hips. The head of his cock kisses your velvet depths as he stills, gently rolling his hips against you to spoil the spot made for you to see stars even in the depths of hell. "That's it. That's your sweet spot, isn't it? The place only I get to touch."

He sets a steady rhythm then—thrusting deeper, grinding his hips in such a way that the head of his cock kisses that spongy spot again and again until your moans become desperate, until you writhe and pant beneath him, your body burning alive with pleasure too immense to hold.

"Let it take you," he urges, his voice low and thick, laced with command and affection. "Don't fight it, my love. Allow yourself to feel; take what you need."

Your fingers scrabble across his body in search of purchase—dragging down his forearms, gripping his shoulders, clutching at his back. You can feel how he stretches you, how you pulse around him, how your arousal coats his length in slick, shameless heat. And yet still, he moves, driving into you with the kind of worship only a god could offer.

"Too much," you whimper, though your hips chase him and reveal the lie all too soon. "So deep, Sylus… you're too deep."

He groans in response, driven to madness by the way you tighten around him, by the way, your body submits and fights all at once. He watches your face, mesmerised by every flicker of pleasure, every helpless twitch of your body.

"Too deep?" Sylus breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and rough, saturated with love and possession.  "I'm going to fill you so deeply that you'll forget everything but me."

With that promise, Sylus begins to move harder, faster. His hips snap forward, his cock plunging so deep it feels like he carves himself into you. And all around you, the Underworld responds—flames dancing higher, flowers smelling stronger, vines curling tighter around the altar in a frenzy of magic and bliss.

His moan makes you shiver, the vibration of his voice against your throat paired with the brutal honesty of his rhythm as Sylus continues to thrust into you with devastating precision. The words, the sounds, the act—all of it ensnares you, makes you pulse around his cock in pleasure, your body clinging to him like it's forgotten how to exist without him inside.

He hits that spot again—again—and each time, your body tightens, jerks, your thighs trembling, your lips parting in a choked moan that only serves to spur him on. You scramble across your own body for support, your hands fluttering desperately over your breasts, your stomach, down the slope of your hips and thighs, fingers searching for anything to anchor you as Sylus's hips snap forward relentlessly in their devotion.

Your moans, your cries—praise wrapped in trembling complaint—are music to his ears. And every word, every broken syllable, only serves to make you wetter, to make his cock slide in with less resistance and more heat, slick and obscene.

Sylus can feel everything—your desperation, your pleasure, your helpless submission to the sensations he's pulling from you—and he welcomes it all. He welcomes the pain you mark into his flesh with your nails, the way your pussy clenches as though trying to milk him, your walls fluttering as your orgasm builds. He knows your body is teetering on the brink, stretched and overwhelmed, yet still greedy for more.

"Shh," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble barely disguising his unravelling. "Let it happen, my love. Let it take you. I'll hold you through it—I'll catch you when you fall."

He leans down to let his teeth graze your throat before finding the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder, and he bites—not cruelly, not gently, but with the kind of claiming pressure that leaves no doubt: you are his. The pain sings through you, a sharp counterpoint to the constant, throbbing pleasure. 

Your body arches beneath him, shuddering violently as your nerves threaten to fray. At this moment, the only salvation seems to be proximity as your arms wind tight around Sylus's neck to tug him down, clutching him close, your face buried in his skin, your breath hot and gasping against his jaw. 

The drag of his cock over your sweet spot makes you cry out, helpless against the sensations that storm through your body. You cling tighter, whimpering, shaking, your sounds muffled against the column of Sylus's throat. You don't even try to speak anymore; you only feel everything he gives you: every thrust, every grind, and every pass of his length as it fills you.

And then, your head falls back into the grass, exposing your throat to him once more, surrendering everything.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the sight. The moment you hiccup out one word: "Faster," in a voice small and desperate, Sylus's control unravels.

He grins—a dark, wicked thing.

"Your wish is my command."

Sylus's hands tighten on your hips, and he fucks you harder. Faster. The rhythm turns punishing, perfect . Each thrust slams into you with wet, smacking force, your breasts bouncing wildly from the force of it, your moans turning ragged and sharp. You think you might scream, might beg, but all you do is fall deeper into the heat, the rhythm, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding.

Sylus's mouth finds your throat again, his tongue dragging up your skin, tasting sweat, tasting tears. His groans echo in your ears, low and hungry.

You feel like you're being devoured—worshipped—and still, you crave more. With your body rising to meet his every thrust now, your walls fluttering around his cock in a rhythm that betrayed your surrender to him, to this act, to the darkness curling around your bodies. 

The ritual may have begun with devotion, but now it breathes life due to the pleasure of possession and want.

Sylus watches the hypnotic bounce of your breasts with every impact of his hips, watches the way your body arches and quakes beneath him like it was offering itself to be consumed. Sylus lowers his head, his breath hot and panting as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping your skin.

"You look divine like this," he whispers. The praise is nearly lost beneath the wet sound of skin on skin and your rising cries. "Undone. Broken open by me."

You gasp when his mouth latches onto a hardened nipple. A sharp graze of teeth follows, and his tongue soothes right after. You can feel it building again—not just the orgasm, but something darker. A bloom of divine intoxication takes root in your belly. Sylus finds that spot inside you once more, and the groan he lets out against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You're slick, swollen, trembling, stretched to the brink and somehow still aching for more. You don't need to beg; Sylus would give you everything. And he was far from finished.

"My goddess," Sylus murmurs with lips wet from your sweat and the salt of your skin. "What a perfect vessel you've become."

As his hips grind into your sweet spot again and again, the coil within you finally snaps with a sound of pleasure torn itself free of your throat. You clench down, pulsing in frantic waves as you come apart—loud, messy, utterly divine.

Sylus exhales a moan as you spasm around him, slick coating his cock whilst your cries melt into broken moans. The magic thickens in the air, the vines twist tighter around the altar, and flowers burst open in wild, fevered bloom. His hold on you becomes unrelenting, grounding you through your climax while Sylus continues to move, each motion pulling you deeper into bliss. You cling to him like your sanity depends on the rhythm of his hips.

And still, he moves inside you.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses hold a kind of hunger that strips the air from your lungs, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he owns the space, tasting every sound you try to make and swallowing them down like they are the only offering he has ever desired. 

"Again," he murmurs at your throat, dragging his mouth along the damp curve of your neck. "I want to feel you fall apart once more until your body forgets everything but me."

Sylus is everything now: your altar, your sin, the ruin you've come to love—and you, soft and pliant beneath him, offer yourself with nothing left to hide.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To admire the glow of your skin, the way your chest rises in shaky gasps, the tremble in your hands as you drag them over your own body like you can't quite believe how wrecked you have become, how much Sylus has wrecked you.

"There is nothing more beautiful than this," Sylus says, voice thick with something heavier than pride as his eyes drink you in. "Nothing is more beautiful than you."

Your lashes flutter as your body can no longer keep up with your mind, and though your limbs tremble, you manage to hold his gaze, even as his cock throbs inside you with growing need. The tension in Sylus builds steadily; his body is tense, his jaw locked, his control fraying beneath the weight of how badly he wants to finish inside you—but still, he holds back. Still, he is waiting because he needs more from you first.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear, the line of your throat where your pulse stammers beneath the skin. "Tell me what you want. Speak it, and it's yours. I only exist to please you."

Your vision blurs, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of him, but your hands still find his hair, threading through it as your legs curl around his hips, pulling him closer, offering yourself without shame.

"Show me," you breathe, your voice hoarse, and your mouth barely forms the words. "Teach me what you like."

Sylus stills for a heartbeat, something shifting in his expression into a flash of pure and empty-headed desire.

And then he moves. The shift is fluid, your world tilting as Sylus turns you onto your stomach, one hand guiding your hips back into position as if you were meant to be there, presented like an offering no god would dare refuse.

He watches for only a moment, taking in the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs, the way you present yourself, and then he slides back inside you with one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs, steals the cry from your lips, and buries him in the heat of your body once again.

Sylus breathes your name into the crook of your shoulder as his pace deepens, your cunt clenching around him so tightly his hands have to grip your waist with bruising pressure.

"Yes… just like that," Sylus exhales, his voice rasping against your ear as your walls tighten around him. He leans over you to press himself closer, to reach around your front and embrace your breasts whole. His fingers knead your soft mounds, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you whimper without meaning to.

Each cry feeds his hunger for more of you, for everything and everything. Your effect on him roughens Sylus's voice. "You're so soft... you take me so well..." he murmurs into your hair while he seems to drown in the sensation of your body welcoming him again and again. 

You can't reply. You can only gasp and sob as each thrust pushes you deeper into the grass, into the magic wrapping around your body, into the unbearable fullness that makes your thoughts scatter.

"Sylus—, Sylus—" your voice cracks as his name escapes you like it's the only word you remember how to say. And each time you try to repeat it, Sylus pushes in harder, dragging another broken sound from your lips until you fall apart in stuttering cries.

His voice dips, hushed and dangerous by your ear. "That's it… Come again. Let me feel you break for me. Let your body beg—so I can spill inside you like I was meant to."

You shake your head, though it's barely defiance. The pleasure is too close, too sharp, and your sobs spill between whispers of longing and disbelief. "It's too good… I don't want it to stop… I c-can't—"

"All night," Sylus breathes and sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

Your entire body seizes as your release washes over you while Sylus's teeth stay anchored, not cruel but claiming, holding you in place as he continues to thrust, to coax every pulse of your climax from you. The dark magic around you grows in its potency and ties you together in blood, lust and devotion.

"Forever," he whispers into your flesh.

While your shoulders slump into the grass, boneless with pleasure, your hips stay high, your walls still fluttering helplessly around him. Sylus towers above you, a monument of muscle and shadow, watching your arousal drip down your thighs, the scent of your union wafts thickly in the air.

"A glutton," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Just like me." 

Then, ever so effortlessly, Sylus lifts you. One hand slides between your breasts to press you flush against his chest. Your head tilts back against a firm shoulder with a gasp as his cock pushes deeper from the new angle, the stretch all-consuming.

His lips stretch into a grin against your temple, one hand slipping down to cup your breasts again, to tease your sensitive nipple until you moan, each twitch feeding his delight. "Truly insatiable," he hums in approval.

You clench around him without meaning to. He feels it—the tremble of surrender. The way your body opens for him all over again.

"Tainted skin," Sylus whispers as his lips graze your ear. "Tainted body… all mine."

And then, he slips out, slowly, unbearably so, to leave you gasping as you grow aware of the emptiness inside you. Your body aches from the absence even while Sylus eases you down among the grass as though handling something sacred only he is allowed to touch.

There are no words left in you—only a breathless nod, parted lips, trembling limbs caught beneath the weight of everything he has given and everything he now promises to take. It is not just want. It is far more consuming—need, surrender, devotion in its most unholy, exquisite form.

"Please," you whisper, a word that sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

A goddess's offering to her God, and of course, he answers.

Sylus's hand wraps around the base of his cock as he strokes himself above you, the flushed tip leaking and twitching, swollen with pressure as crimson basks in the view of your awaiting body. Your skin is kissed with sweat, the grass clinging to your curves, the darkness wrapping around you like a blanket.

And then Sylus breaks the heavy silence. The sound brushes against your ear. "Now... I will give you everything."

Fingers trail slowly down the trembling expanse of your thighs, the tips of them sink into their softness as though he means to memorise you by touch alone. 

The contrast is stark—your yielding body beneath his strength, held back only by the need that you alone summon from him with every breathless sound you make.

"You offer yourself," Sylus murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked at the edges, the kind of tone that drips not from worship but hunger. "Like a promise whispered where no god dares to listen."

He watches the way your hands lift to your chest, fingers trembling as they trace over the peaks of your breasts, your body bared to him not in submission but in power, in invitation, and he is helpless before it.

His cock twitches in his grasp, flushed and throbbing, veins thick with desire as though every inch of him aches to return to the place he knows belongs to him. Sylus's breath stutters, his eyes hooded, his body tight and straining, forged by a need that only you have ever been capable of drawing forth without lifting a finger.

"Only you," he chokes out, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep and private, "Only you could bring me here. Pull me down. Make me beg. Make me break."

Sylus sinks into you again, his mouth seeking out the marks he left behind along the curve of your shoulder, the vulnerable dip of your throat. His teeth press into the skin not to wound but to keep, to seal, to remind you that you are his. His tongue follows and drags slowly over your heated skin until your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer and dragging him back deeper.

"My beloved," you whisper, your voice thick with amusement and awe as you glance back at him, your eyes catching his like a spark in the dark. Come for me."

The words break him.

"You're a vision," Sylus breathes against your neck. Sylus drives forward with sharp, selfish thrusts, then another, and another still, burying himself to the base with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The pleasure ripples through him. It scorches everything he is, everything he was and thought he will ever be as if your body is the vessel he was crafted to spill himself into. His release comes in waves, each thicker and hotter than the last—a vow carved into the softest parts of you.

He cannot be gentle. Not now. Not when your walls clamp around him like they never intend to let him go. His hands are firm on your hips, his teeth press into your shoulder again, and every motion of his body tells you the same thing—you are his. His end, his beginning, his undoing.

Your name slips from his lips, whispered in need for more.

And the Underworld responds.

The altar lights with fire too bright to be natural, and the vines wind around your entangled limbs as if even the ground beneath you seeks to hold you in place.

Voices long dead hum secrets beneath the surface, recognising what has happened for what it is: a binding not made with rings or sweetly spoken promises but with desire and darkness.

Still, Sylus moves. He shifts only slightly; his hips are rocking with slow, shallow thrusts as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm. You feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his muscles as firm arms curl you into his chest.

Forehead pressed against forehead, you remain as one. He is still inside, thick and full and twitching as if your body is the only place that can hold him now. You feel him leaking from you, slick and warm as it drips down your thighs.

"I am ruined," he whispers into your skin, the words frayed and aching with a breathless chuckle of disbelief. "And I never want to be whole again. Not if it means letting go of this. Of you."

He presses his mouth along your shoulder, jaw, and the corner of your lips as you finally turn into him, and the look on his face is no longer that of a god. There is no king here—only Sylus— yours.

He lowers himself beside you on the shadow-kissed grass, the dark flowers blooming around your tangled limbs as he pulls you into his arms. You remain joined, still one, and then he kisses you softly.

"I won't stop," he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, deep with something he never says aloud. "Even if doomsday arrives outside this sanctuary. Even if the skies burn and the world forgets our names. I will still be yours."

Magic winds around you both like a second skin, soft and warm. It is a promise that will never fade: you are his queen, and he is your King.

And the Underworld will remember the night it bore witness to gods falling not into ruin but into something far more ethereal.

You are lost in the petals that never stop falling, the heat between you, and the spell crafted from skin and union. 

And Sylus holds you like the world has narrowed down to this—just you, just now. 

You are no longer something stolen, no longer taken from the world above, but something claimed—willingly, completely—and he is yours, now and always, bound to you in a way that even eternity cannot sever.

feedback & reblogs would be deeply appreciated | dividers by @/cafekitsune

[anantaru]

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ where his hands are — love and deepspace

synopsis. where his hands are while doing it

including. zayne, xavier, rafayel, sylus, caleb

warnings. fem! reader, tit play, petnames used: sweetheart, baby, pretty, zayne loves your ass, doggy (prone bone), mating press, rough syx

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ zayne + on your ass

as was anticipated, zayne needs you held wide and open for him, his palms sinking into the meat of your ass like he's terrified you'll stop taking him so fucking nicely— his grip truly punishing, spreading you apart until your hole flutters around the root of his cock, your skin flustered and shaking underneath his thumbs.

every single thrust was filth— a grind, with an even rougher drag? a push of his cock so thick and needy your mouth fell open yet no sound came out. not to mention that zayne's obsessed with the way your ass jiggles when he repeatedly slams it, the way you drip from the stretch of him was mouthwatering, leaking down on his balls in repeated warm, messy strings of your arousal.

he greedily spits on it now, watching it gleam for a moment before it vanishes into the wetness he's already made of you, his groan remained rasping, like he's unraveling just from the sight of your body swallowing it down like a good girl, like the mess itself was holy.

"sweetheart, you take it so well," he growls proudly, his voice wrecked with need, every word rasping against your skin akin to torn silk— his teeth skimming the shell of your ear, but not biting, no, just letting you feel the heat of his body bleed through you, the quiet madness clawing at the edges of his breath, "you feel this? all this mess? this ass was made for my hands, baby, made for me to fuck like this."

he presses you down so hard your hips bruise on the bed, one palm spreading you wide, properly holding you in place, the other slapping your ass with a slick, loud crack, then soothing over it like he's sorry for nothing— the man keeps you tilted, spine curved like a bow, so he could hit that spot again and again, until you sob and gush around him.

his thumb was dragging your jaw down until your mouth spills open, slack and senseless with drool dripping in slow, sticky threads from your lips to your chest, fuck, he's in so deep the curve of your spine aches instantly, but it still wasn't enough— go for it, come on, deeper, rougher, messier, all of you, fucked open and destroyed around his cock and his hands, all of you made for him to grab and destroy.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ xavier + on your thighs

xavier spreads you wide like you're something precious and perverse, thighs pulled open with both hands, elbows locked to hold you still while he fucks into your pussy slow and brutal— his fingers squeezing hard enough to leave dents, thumbs grinding circles into the soft inner meat and dragging you open to watch your slick hole grip him tight as he stares in awe, like he's reading your soul straight through your velvety walls clenching down.

the pumping of his cock was steady, pushing back into you with every new rut hitting your spots, his eyes flicking up to your face every time you moan like he wants to memorize the desire in your expression.

"fuck, you're soaked— this tight little thing's crying for me," he whines, voice low and wild, "you like being held open like this, huh? you like how deep i can get when you're spread like a fucking feast?"

he bends your legs back more, more, until your muscles tremble and burn, until your knees were beside your ears and your belly taut and stretched and full of him, his cock hitting angles that made you see stars while he's watching the way you shudder and leak around him, thumbs digging into the hinge of your thighs like you're nothing but a hole to keep him warm and satiated.

xavier's grip flexes with every shove of cock, every gush of arousal spilling down between your ass and coating his lap, watching it slicken your folds even more before pushing in again with a low groan like he's losing his mind inside you.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ rafayel + on your tits

rafayel palms your breasts like they're holy objects, his fingers curled above their weight and kneading slow and calculated, like he's shaping clay as he groans every time you squeeze him, cock dragging through your soaked walls and still, his hands remained on your chest— massaging your tits, squeezing them too, adding a lil kiss, yeah? pulling at your nipples until you wince out. 

he drags his thumbs over them again, watching them stiffen under his touch, then leans down to bite and suck and spit warm and wet saliva across your skin until your whole chest was shining of his liquids.

the man pants, licking a trail up to your sternum, dragging hot and slow up the center of your chest, tongue catching every tremble like he's tracing a confession into your skin— wet and utterly depraved, "these tits bounce every time i push in, pretty, you feel how deep i am? all that mess leaking outta you, and i still want more."

he begins to fuck you upwards now, body curved within yours and thrusts angled so every movement drags the swollen head of his cock right along your sweet spot. your tits bounce every time he sinks in and rafayel moans into your skin, hands tightening like he could mold them into something even lewder as he rubs the wet peaks of your nipples with slick-covered fingers, then bites again, watching the way you jolt and cry in joy.

as obvious, he wanted you to feel him everywhere— his cock, his hands, his teeth, his tongue, what else? his warmth, yeah, as the bed creaks under you, repeatedly, slick smeared down your thighs and belly from how hard and deep he fucks you, and still— his hands never left your tits once, like they're his anchor to hold onto, like he's trying to memorize every shake and spill of them under his touch.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ sylus + on your wrists

the moment you move, sylus's mind haywires with your wrists pinned hard to the mattress, his weight over you like a threat, his breath hot and uneven against your jaw as his grip was tight enough to ache, the kind of hold that bruised tomorrow and made your pulse throb beneath his fingers.

it's obvious he liked seeing your hands trapped within his own— adored knowing you cannot stop him, cannot push him away either, cannot beg for mercy without squirming, well, without him wanting to hear you beg at least trice.

"don't you move now," he spits, hips grinding deep until your eyes rolled back, "you feel that? you're clenching so tight, it's like you're trying to keep me there forever," as he fucks you like it's punishment— like worship carved out of violence? yeah, slamming into your slick, weeping heat until your walls fluttered and your stomach contracts from how much he burned through you.

your knuckles turned white with how tightly you curl your fingers into his biceps as his grip tightens, the wet sounds between your thighs getting louder and wetter, each roll of hips a disgusting punch of cock against your insides, yet you cannot do anything— cannot stop it, cannot run from it— just cry out his name beneath him as he fucks and fucks and tears you open, then lovingly holds your wrists like he's fixing himself to sanity.

sylus heaves like a wild animal in your ear and every time you jerk your hips upwards to wiggle against him, his fingers flex tighter, dragging your arms above your head, thrusts so cruel and searing like he doesn't know how to stop, even when you're all tears stricken, even when you break at last— he won't let you go, simply, he can't, not when your pussy was wrapped so sweet and swollen around him.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ caleb + on your head

caleb doesn't let you look away, not once, with his hand pressed behind your own, squeezing your face into the pillows, fingers cradling your skull like he's kneeling before something divine, keeping you close so he could spill his moans directly into your mouth, the press of his palm tender yet firm, like he wanted to hold your whole brain together while he pounds you apart.

he kisses you like he's dying, like he needed your spit to live— tongue messy and slick, panting into your mouth with every thrust that rocks you up the bed as he kept whispering— candid n broken n filthy things between kisses, "you're so beautiful like this," his voice shatters, lust catching on the wreckage of pleasure as your walls seize tight around him, dragging a noise from his throat that sounds more like unravel than power, like he's being wrung dry from the inside out, "fuck, baby, you're so fucking tight, so good, don't let go— just let me feel you."

his hips jerk forward again as your back arches off the mattress from how deep it was, from how perfectly his cock pinches inside you like it's following a specific path carved just for him— at this, you could barely catch a breather, like caleb made flowers grow in your lungs and although they felt beautiful, otherworldly, you just couldn't breathe anymore.

his cock pulses with every repeated squeeze of your cunt around him as his thick cock shines where you're joined— slick gushing out every time he pushes in, guzzling it back when he snaps forward and still, his hand cups your head like a frail object, holding you steady as if your body could shatter from the sheer pleasure.

the man kept you close like you're his oxygen, his life, he moves like a man possessed with a rhythm doused in solace, like each thrust was an apology he didn't know how to voice out loud— his whines lost, eyes glassy and teeth clenched against the sob lodged in his chest.

©2025 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[prkhaven]

LUCIFER -p.sh-

Banished away by the only place he’s ever known, Sunghoon was going to make sure the heavens regret ever betraying him by ruining you

pairing— fallen angel!sunghoon x virgin angel fem!reader

genre: smut minors do not interact, angel au, forbidden love, p with some/little to no plot

wc: 10k

warnings: manipulation, profanity, kissing, reader is innocent and a little oblivious

smut warnings: unprotected sex (safety first), p in v, edging, dirty talk, virginity loss, spitting, praising, fingering, corruption kink, oral (f rec.), breeding kink, overstimulation, pussy slapping, dacryphilia, usage of nicknames(angel, good girl, bad girl, pretty)

lily’s note: better late than never and happy 1k followers

Silence filled the atmosphere, shifting into something darker, looming and menacing. A nightmare—Your biggest nightmare come to life.

The known fallen realm walked through the entrance led by Sunghoon who chose to disregard the obvious attire formality of a masquerade ball.

Dressed in all black attire, none of the people matching together however still collectively wearing outfits that complimented solely each other. Easily due to the influence of Sunghoon’s doing.

Your jaw clenched because as much as you wanted to be angry for the lack of consciousness, especially in Sunghoon's part, you couldn’t deny that even as a fallen angel, he’ll remain the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.

He threads closer to you. One large stride after another until he is right before you, bowing his head as a sign of respect—One that he used to receive himself when he was once in your very position.

Delicately picking your burning hand into his freezing ones, he planted a soft peck on it but never once did his eyes ever leave yours. There was a chill up your spine as he only gave a slight gleaming smirk before pulling away leaving your warm hand cold without his.

“You’ve done a marvelous job” His tone rumbling out deeply making your squirm, he smirked pulling out his masquerade mask hovering just over his eyes, a restful laid back smirk on his face

A chill ran up your spine from his enticing voice. It used to be warm and welcoming but now it felt taunting and teasing, “I expected nothing less from the perfect angel”

𓆩 𓆪

The ball returned to its somewhat regular state after that. Everyone amongst the two different realms stayed in their respective space, fearful of interacting with the other.

No matter how years pass by of the same ball being hosted yearly, nothing has changed. You nibbled on your lip trying to figure out some—any way that unites the two completely different worlds for one night all the way to sunrise when the ball has been concluded.

Too deep in your head, you didn’t pick up on the looming darkness behind until you heard it, “Do you dance?”

Your body froze while your mind erased everything it was thinking about when you turned around to see Sunghoon standing behind you. At least he had his mask on this time.

“Excuse me?” You whispered raising an eyebrow once seeing his offering hand for you grasp

“It’ll help liven up the ball just a little. Seeing you with me might do you the favors” He darkly chuckled, “Don’t want anyone seeing you in a dark light now do we angel?”

Crossing your legs at the sudden pet name falling from his mouth made you unexplainably bothered. You were annoyed by the unknown sensation that it was the perfect opportunity for him to clasp your hands into his.

You let out a silent squeal as you were suddenly brought dead center of the empty dance floor, his hand carefully landing on your waist while the other held your hand high in the air. A suddenly deepening instrumental rippled through the large hall and only then did your body’s move in sync.

“Not bad” He whispered loud enough to ear as he twirled you

Your complete white attire mixed with his dark one stuck out like a sore thumb. All eyes were on you, watching and witnessing the first dance between an angel and fallen angel in centuries.

Not even Sunghoon had chosen to dance with a fallen angel during his time as the perfect angel—A time long ago before his banishment.

He smirked noticing the gazes, his hand on your waist tightened as he guided you through the entire floor.

Whether you wanted to admit it or not, not once have you taken your eyes off Sunghoon. Ignoring the hushed whispers and questioning gazes of why you were with Sunghoon of all people. Why be with a traitor?

It didn’t matter however, well at least not at this very moment. Through the mask, he managed to shine brighter than any angel in the ball. Even way brighter than you.

“Do I have something on my face?” His voice laced with something that was never there before, something inviting

Eyes trained on you seeing the subtle gulp you tried to hide as you looked away from him shaking your head trying to get rid of the burning feeling on your cheek. He wondered what made you so shy all of sudden.

His hand lets go of yours leaving it to fall to his shoulder as he hooked his finger under your chin up to bring your eyes back onto him. You let out a breathless shudder noticing a difference in his smile now.

“There you go” He softly murmured before his fingers trailed from your shoulder to go lower on your arm until he found the palm of your hand to pry it off his shoulder and open to tangle his fingers perfectly with yours

In a state of shock, you didn’t close your hand leaving his hand to be the only one gripping yours. Anyone near would be able to see the shake of your body and the light goosebumps spreading all throughout from his cold touch.

You looked at him only made the smirk of his grow wider as he watched you. All from the rise of a goosebump on your arm that was later than the rest to the way your hands never fully closed around him. Yet, it was just enough where he could feel your fingers grazing his knuckles and how your clothes flowed around you so elegantly—Just like how he used to.

The music faded to mere background music as you solely focused on who was in front of you. A sharp glint in his eyes made your body turn and twist in ways you never experienced before. You could feel the thump against your chest grow faster the more you’re looking at him and in his hold.

The warmth of your hand disappeared when Sunghoon pulled away right before the music ended. Your eyes flashed trying to reconnect back into the world you were disconnected from to see Sunghoon bowing towards you. “It was a pleasure-“

He couldn’t finish his words when you were suddenly called out to and without a second spared turned a heel and left him behind on the now growing dance floor.

Your dance welcomed a new opportunity no one dared to touch but seeing you and Sunghoon dancing together—so beautifully, it allowed two opposite worlds to string together.

He watched your speeding legs towards who called you, his eyes never leaving you lighting patting at his chest. “See you soon angel”

𓆩 𓆪

Excusing yourself into the depths of an abandoned room with a large window letting the moonlight in as its only source of light. You let out a frustrated yell, removing your mask and throwing it onto the dust filled vanity, your body felt too hot to fully comprehend what was happening.

You were supposed to be celebrating after successfully starting the ball in ways no one else has ever done before. The fallen realm and your realm hesitantly but finally mingling together.

Yet, you’ve locked yourself deep into a room as you tried to get rid of the nasty feeling forming, clinging and trickling down.

Your stomach twisted and there was an ache down below in places you know were forbidden. Having read about these symptoms before in books restricted from the public eye but you had access to because of your current status.

Trying to shake your head to wake up from this growing nightmare. You fiddled with your purity ring like it could bring some hidden clarity.

Every angel received one to acknowledge their strong willed spirit, their deep devoted loyalty and hidden innocence to not fall into those sickening traps of false pleasure.

Roughly spinning the cold metal your finger as you stared at it.

This all started because of Sunghoon and his haunting spirit clouding around you from the moment he stepped foot into the ball.

You wish you could curse him out for managing to make you feel this way but your words caught in your throat unable to express how you were truly feeling.

You dipped your head low, finger still turning your ring clockwise. You wanted to enjoy the ball you worked so hard on without the lingering pain settling worse within you.

You whimpered hating how the mess only grew clinger to the point of discomfort. Flushing your body onto the vanity with your discarded mask, you looked up to see the hollowness in your eyes.

It was a search for something far out of reach. You knew that and yet the urge grew more. You wanted it so badly.

“Stop thinking about it” You mumbled quietly to yourself, “Stop it. You can’t think like this. You can’t have it-”

“Can’t have what angel?”

You jumped, knocking yourself into the vanity harshly with a yell you muffled when your hand landed over your mouth.

In the corner of the dark room, you see Sunghoon sitting in a wooden chair, head knocked back while his arms fell off to the side. “What- How long have you been here?!” You turned your body around to face him as he finally rose his head up with a deep sigh

Opening his eyes, you felt the sudden shiver creeping out of you when his harsh narrowed eyes looked at you. He tilted his head to the side, his hair falling in the same motion. The moonlight was the only way you were able to make out his silhouette but you could still see it like daylight.

You can nearly feel his shoulders again under your itching hands sending a wave past your stomach and itching further down.

Sunghoon observed you, his eyes raked over as he took in how the moonlight reflected on your outfit, structuring your outline perfectly as you looked at him with unknown hungry eyes beneath the innocent facade.

He smirked wildly when your legs unconsciously squished together. Realizing you were in a confined room away from everyone’s eyes and in front of you was him terrified you.

Sunghoon stood up from the chair, his height growing by the second as the ominous feel started to crawl into the back of your throat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Your chest rose and fell with each heavy breath you took as he steps closer to you, “Like what?” Your voice barely above a whisper that could be heard

“Like you want to eat me up”

Sunghoon stood in front of you. The moonlight shining perfectly over him. Your heart stopped in your throat as your hands fidgeted back to the drawers on the vanity against your back.

For the first time, his eyes trailed down further to drink in your appearance. Noticing the effort you put into every single detail to be perceived in the white light of innocence—perfection—glory.

Indeed a perfect angel.

His hands landed on each side of you forcing you in between and keeping you in place. He leveled his head until his breath fanned over yours that he could hear the silent shake in it. Nose nearly brushing against each other while he stared deep into your eyes.

You feel so bare even though you were fully clothed. Sunghoon looked at you like you were an open book just for him, the pages filled with every thought that ever crossed your mind, even the far forbidden ones you tried to ignore.

“What’s wrong angel?” He removed a hand from the vanity to run his fingers to ghost your shaky arm

Your heavy breaths only worsened. Your eyes wavered trying to look away from him but couldn’t. The rationality faded away as your fear filled eyes now replaced with the glinting hunger.

He held back his smirk wanting to be as welcoming as possible to you. His ghosting fingers landed on your skin burning you up instantly. “You can talk to me” His voice slurred the words together, “You’re wrong if you think no one will understand”

“I can understand you, I’m the only one that knows what’s going on” His words of comfort seeped deeper into your mind meddling into the cracked walls of it

You looked towards him. Besides his clear banishment, you knew who else would know better than the previous perfect angel? Sunghoon knew things that you didn’t know of and he could help.

“There’s something bothering me…” Your soft voice made his heart roar against his chest

“Talk to me” He noticed how your eyes flickered all over his face, memorizing everything that he had to offer

The moles on his face, his sharp nose, his obviously built body. It struck you harder when you were reminded of the clothes he wore. The contrast to yours, reminding you of who he is—what his status is compared to your.

An angel forced to fall from grace.

Your mouth dropped and you quickly shook your hands and head. “I-I No. I shouldn’t” Your shaky voice did nothing but prove wrong your growing desire

“But you can” He whispered, “That's the beauty of it. You can” His ghostings fingers softly gripped your arms to wake you up from reality to drag you deep into fantasy

His hands trailed over your arms, each move burning more than the last. You shivered in his touch, something in the back of your mind, the little rationality you had left screaming at you to get away as far as you can.

But you jolted feeling his hands land onto your stomach and resting there. His thumb rubbed softly as he looked deep into your eyes,“It’s okay angel”

“Just tell me and I promise to make it all go away” His reassuring voice, his burning touch, you whimpered loudly.

Sunghoon’s hand froze and he felt his body become rigid hearing the pained whimper you let out. You sounded magnificent. “Hu-hurts”

“What hurts?”

Your eyes went up to look at his captivating eyes. There was reassurance, warmth that radiated deep into your soul making you melt. Deep down Sunghoon will forever be an angel regardless of his current status as a fallen one.

“Down there” You voice lowering towards the end, you felt embarrassed, your cheeks burning up and Sunghoon let out a light chuckle

“Where my hand is?” You forgot about the hand on your stomach and when you felt the faint rub of it, you nibbled on your lips harshly

He read you like an open book. “Or is it lower?” The drop of his voice and hand made your heart drop into the pit of your stomach feeling his hands thread further down, his eyes never once leaving yours

The hitch in your breath was his direct answer. Holding back a smirk, his hands drew closer acculating your clothes covering you. “Words angel… I need you to guide me” He whispered as his hands stopped just right above

With shaky hands you grabbed his wrist and brought it down further until it slotted right in between your legs. Instinctively Sunghoon cupped your core making you yelp.

Raising an eyebrow, he brought his mouth to fan over your ear, “Oh… This is a easy fix”

Your body felt so hot. His fingers softly grazed at your pussy, feeling the sticky sensation leaking through your outfit, making you jerk into his touch.

Eyes screwing shut as you lived in his grazing fingers but he ripped his hand away making you let out a pitiful gasp from the sudden warmth disappearing.

His eyes roamed over you, the bite on lip that he swears he could taste the metallic taste on his tongue.

Panting heavily, you carefully looked at Sunghoon's build. His previous face was replaced with a comforting look as his hand grazed your neck higher before his thumb was outlining your cheek. “May I help you fix it?” The tone soft and welcoming

“I hate to see you suffer what I suffered through”

Pure genuine emotion in his eyes folded you in half. Believing him almost instantaneously. You pouted your lips as you pawed at his wrist again, instigating more from him.

“Easy I’m going to help you” He chuckled softly noticing your eagerness, you looked at him with shaky eyes fueling his insides to roar louder than ever before, “Just say the words” His voice hushed

Knowing what he wanted, you nibbled at your lip, licking over the dryness of them. The thoughts running through your mind fading into nothing as all else disappeared when you looked into his eyes, he knew what you wanted.

“H-Help me Sunghoon” Your voice barely above a whisper but it was like a siren call to him that dragged him to you, he smiled softly before dipping his head into a hang

He lifted his head and looked straight into your eyes again with a nod of his head, “Anything for you… Perfect angel” He reminded but before you could retaliate his cold hand cupped at your clothed core again

You gasped, your hands rushing over to clasp over your mouth with a pained sound slipping through. The tips of his finger already teasing through the fabric, feeling the dampening material hitting them.

Your free hand clasped around his dipped wrist, your breath shuddering with each slide of his fingers as they rose higher in between your folds until they met your sensitive bud. “S-Sunghoon”

“That’s my name” His whisper rung in the shell of your ear

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head the moment his finger pushed on a sensitive spot that made you wail. His fingers mimicked an infinity motion that made your arms flail to his shoulders. Your head racked against him as your chest felt heavy.

“It’s okay. I’m right here with you” The words passed your ears to your mind, your shaky hands holding onto him for support

A jolting shivering rose up your spine as your mind became hazy to the feel. Sunghoon’s finger dipped in between your folds, the feel of your soaking self seeping through to his finger made him harshly bite his lip.

Roughly bringing his finger back to your clit, your head hung low as you steadied your breaths with pants. Your heart was beating out of your chest that you swore he could hear it from how close he was to you now.

Your mouth opened to say something but you felt his cold hand trailing around your jaw. Separate movements managing to make you jolt harsher in his hold. His fingers traced around your cheeks as he lifted your chin.

The glint in his eyes made you close your mouth.

“Let me hear you angel” He muttered loud enough for you to hear

The harder press against your bundle of the nerves had a tightening feel in your stomach. “Wa-Sunghoon!” You squealed louder as the tingling sensation became worse

Unable to concentrate and make a coherent sentence, your shaky hand tightly gripped his forearm as your jaw hangs open with breathless moans leaving it. Sunghoon stared at your screwed shut eyes.

Unconsciously your body rocked to feel his cupped hand. He noticed your lower body rubbing faster in his hand, he scoffed out a smile as he looked at your scrunched up face.

Hands roaming his tone build as you used his hand for your pleasure, the knot in your stomach was daring to snap. Your head falling off his body to the side as it twirled to the back.

“Sunghoon” You cried out his name

A flash flowed over his eyes. His hand cupped deeper and harder, his fingers working faster against you as your knocked back head landed onto his shoulder.

Your mouth directly into his ear, as he roughly pushed you against the vanity, the table smacking against the wall, knocking over whatever was on it in its wake, his free arm holding your back while you held onto him for support.

Your breathless moans became more frequent, you were shaking in his hold. “Weird, I feel weird” You muttered clawing at his body

“I know but it’s going to feel so good soon I promise. Just let go” He whispered soothing your raging nerves to a bay

Your mouth hangs open, pitiful whines and moans growing louder each second directly into his ear. Unable to open your eyes and assess what’s around, your body becomes limp being engulfed by him. His fingers rubbed harder against your clit, the tips of his finger dipping into the crevice in between your folds teasing your covered core.

The height with your heads in the cloud, his hand ripped away from its cupping manner as you pushed him away the moment a faint knock to the door followed by a soft calling of your name snapped you out.

Chest heaving as you harshly gulped down staring at him. His body relaxed and calm—opposite from yours. Your burning lower half left you bothered but shaking your head to snap out of it. The side of his lips tugged up seeing distress wash over you.

You immediately turned around against the vanity to see your once cleaned demeanor tarnished. Uneven short ragged breaths as you hastily pull and adjust the out of place material to its proper place.

Undeniable shaky hands dragged down your face. Clearing your throat quietly, “Okay so I’m going to leave first and then you’re going to wait a few minutes before…“ You turned around grabbing your discarded mask off the vanity in the process but stopped to see no one there

Jittering around the now empty room. Your open mouth was going to call out his name but you quickly shut it the moment the door bursts open.

Straightening out your posture and stopping in your very, you turned around to see the crowd growing by the second and spilling into the room with endless questions of your well being and of just why you would lock yourself away in this scary room.

“You have no idea what’s out there!” A voice slipped past through your ringing ears, you looked behind to the darkness of the room you were in as you were carefully guided out broken door back into the light of the bustering ball

”Look at you, you’re shaking!”A worried pitched voice cooed in your ear, rubbing up and down on your causing a silent hiss to slip through attempting to pull yourself away from the touch

Your gaze to the floor seeing your feet following after the other as your lips tugged to the side brushing past your uneven balance by the tugs pulling you away.

Angels would never do harm, you knew that much taking pride in being one and Sunghoon was once one—surely he’d abide by it again while on your turf.

𓆩 𓆪

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Managing to get through the ball under the spotlight and eyes of everyone, it felt like a weight off your shoulder.

Licking your lips to remoisturize them felt taunting as your eyes felt hollow yet thoughts ran through your mind sparking up your dull eyes for a second.

A frown laid upon your face as you harshly turned your back away.

You sighed as your shaky hand tried to calm itself as you neatly placed your mask in the corner of the table. Your gaze remained on the discarded mask for a second longer than you wanted.

Blinking harshly and slightly shook your head as you threaded to remove yourself from your attire but a light knock stopped you.

Softly turning your head to scan your room, you were met with nothing. Your eyes landing towards the doorway leading to the balcony set only for your use, your feet moved on its own as you ignored the gnawing eating at you.

Pushing open the door, the night sky and moonlight illuminating did nothing to show if there was anything out there. Quickly scanning around the area, your tensed shoulders dropped.

Rubbing your forehead with light grumbling you were going to go back finishing getting ready for sleep. Your body barely turned until you quickly whipped your head back seeing the mask neatly placed on the marble floor.

Your eyebrows knitted together before crouching down to pick up the mask.

Squinting your eyes, your eyes follow the design of it. The tips of your finger tracing after. “Like it?”

Turning too quickly, you trip over your feet. The mask at hand slipped through your fingers and fell to the ground. You gasped seeing Sunghoon’s face come into view right in front of you. His arms securely behind your back to save you from the fall. “You need to be more careful” His voice light and airy in your ears but heavy on your heart

A harsh thump smacked against your chest as your hand ran to push his body away from yours. “What are you doing here?!” Your quietly screamed

Sunghoon raised his hands up in defense. The smirk wiped off his face as he fixed his posture. “Wanted to personally bid goodbye to you” He gave a light smile before bowing his head, his arm extended over his chest to his heart

You opened your mouth to say something. He lifted his head up and his eye caught yours. You closed your mouth opting to let out a heavy sigh, rubbing at your nape before bending your body forward to return the bow.

“What are you really doing here?” Your tone questioning made him laugh, he straightened out his body before clearing his throat and tugging at the hanging neckline of his sweater

“I know everyone graced with your presence must properly bid you well” His voice dropping with each word, eyes averting yours, fingers crossing over themselves, “I really only came to say goodbye, I swear”

“That’s a bold statement to make. Especially in my presence” Your voice became stern making him drop his head

Silence fell upon you both. Your teeth gritted against each other as you watched his unmoving body. Slightly tugging at your bottom lip while keeping him in your sight, you took a step closer to him.

In his lowered eyesight, his discarded mask was brought into view. He slowly raised his head and gracing your face was a small smile that caused his own. “I believe you Sunghoon”

Simple words struck a cord deep inside of him. His resting hands balled into a fist as he let out a strained sigh as his lips tightened into a thin smile. “Thank you” He uttered carefully grabbing the mask from your hands

You pulled your hand away the moment you felt his hands graze yours. The feel instantly overwhelmed you as you looked anywhere else but at him. His eyes took notice and he uncomfortably moved his mouth around before nodding his head at you.

Turning a heel, he walked over to the edge of the balcony. His hand felt the familiar marble pillars as railings and he softly laughed at himself. “Memories?” Your voice came from behind

Simply only able to nod, he began to feel your presence growing closer to his. His fading smile returned full force on his face before peering off his shoulder to you right beside him.

Wavering eyes and a silent shake in your breath when he looked at you. Shifting his body to fully face you, his hand rested onto the rail. “You sure know how to surprise someone” You joked causing a hearty laugh from him

Your face dropped upon hearing his laugh tumble out. Noticing your silence, Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows at you. “Sorry- I just haven’t heard you laugh”

He remained his gaze on you before looking ahead of him to the moonlit scenery—sighing heavily, his eyes naturally looking around. “I don’t really remember the last time I was able to have fun” He admitted

The shift in him made your heart churn. “Maybe that’ll change” He turned his attention back onto you

Instantaneously, you froze up under his lingering gaze. A thought crossed your mind of there being something more than he meant while a jitter coursed through you and a feel washed over as you awkwardly shifted on your feet.

His eyes looked up and down before letting his hand slip away from the rail to land at his side. He watched your eyes move in between him and the ground. His mouth teased upwards before he dropped it. The excitement began to burst out of your chest, the closer he got.

“When was the last time you had fun… Perfect Angel” The elegance tied to the name felt different than the other times people called out to you

It feels heavier—darker, more exciting now that it left your legs to squish together. Noticing your action, he stopped right in front of you.

Your eyes remained trained on the floor yet, his finger hooked under your chin. Your gaze being brought up to meet him, “I’m sure good girls are supposed to use their words”

“So use them for me pretty” Your heavy breath became shaky as an audible shudder left past your lips, your eyes fluttering as you looked over his face

His thumb stroked your cheek with a soft smile. You tried to pull your head away but he gripped your chin to keep you still. The now stroking thumb tapped at your parted lips, “Well?”

Your bottom lip quivered as he brushed over it, softly humming to himself satisfied with the plush feel under the pad of his thumb before slightly tugging it down.

His gaze remained on your mouth while yours remained on his trained eyes. In a teasing manner, he slip through your parted lips, “Sorry” He quietly muttered yet showed no sign of actual apologies

He smirked wildly, noticing how you immediately welcomed the foreign flesh into your mouth without hesitation. “Have to be careful, there’s some evil people out there” He pressed his thumb onto your tongue causing a gurgle sound to slip out

His eyes drooped as his free hand strokes your head in a slow motion, “No need to worry, I can scare them away” He murmured as your hand rose to his forehead to hold him

No intention of pushing him away, you realized you enjoyed this far more than you should have. You blabbed gibberish against his thumb, “Look at you trying to speak with your mouth full” He tooted, “You got it” He ushered you to get something out

Through the accumulative spit, your eyes became watery, the burning sensation in your core now throbbing for attention. It was far more painful than earlier. “Please” You weakly wailed and he pulled back his salvia covered thumb from your mouth

His eyes looked at the string of saliva connecting you together, he smiled to himself watching how you took deep breaths to regain composure. His hands landed at your side, lighting trugging you towards him.

A gasp slipped past his tongue as he looked at you with an unexplainable expression. “Please what?” He narrowed his eyes at you, “Use your words. I can’t read what’s in that pretty head of yours”

The words held some truth to them. Not able to read what’s directly in your mind but he can see what’s flashing glint in your eyes and how your body reacts to his touch.

You opened your mouth, playing with the words in your mind to form anything to say. His eyes burned into you, ushering the words to fall from your mouth. “Help me” The tone of voice was near pitiful and gut wrenching

His heart leaped and hammered against his chest, he softly cooed at you, “I got you angel” His hand rose up to your cheek softly creasing his thumb over it

Shuddering under your breath, his hand traveled down tracing your jaw in its wake before softly grabbing at your neck. You looked before he softly tugged you to him, his lips pressing against yours.

Unmoving from the new sense of flesh pressed against you. Your eyes widened watching his opened ones staring right back at you, he smirked in the kiss before planting pecks on the side of your mouth.

Your heart caught in your throat as you tried to gulp down the lump. Your hands squished in between your bodies as you softly gripped his shirt. The fuzz cotton under your fingertips made you shiver, the eclipse shining in the center with the deep v-cut exposing the dangling plain chain against his chest, a different shirt from what you saw at the beginning of the night.

“Want to wear it?” He hummed against your skin, his teeth faintly nicking at it made you jump at the feel

Your hands pressed at his chest as your eyes fluttered closed shut. His roaming hands rested at your back, pulling you closer to him. Instinctively, your knees buckled underneath you, the fuzzy feeling in your mind traveling everywhere.

The wet sensation soon left your skin and before you were able to open your eyes, the soft press against your lips made you hum in delight. Your hands came in between as you softly grasped his face into your hand. “There you go angel” Muttering in the kiss as he pushed your body backwards

Your legs moving with the flow as he followed after yours. His hand rose higher up your body. The dark long sleeve covering the white coloring of your top.

Focusing too much on the kiss, you barely managed to hear the faint click of the door closing until you were carefully guided onto your bed.

Laying you down on your back just enough to have your legs hanging off the edge, his body hovered over yours. Hands on each side of your head while your arms snaked around his neck to keep him close.

The kiss was messy and uncoordinated, you were putting far more teeth, nipping at his lips but he groaned when you did.

“Sorry” You muttered against his lips, unable to pull yourself away

He chuckled, shaking his head before tilting his head to deepen the kiss. “Practice will make perfect”

Your head felt heavy but the plush of his mouth moved as he placed countless kisses to the side of your face tracing it until he reached your neck again made you feel light.

His body rested softly on yours, his hands dropping to your side before slipping underneath and tracing up higher.

Breathless moans slipped through, filling the quiet room with your noise. Sunghoon felt his stomach churn hearing how you sounded.

Indeed a perfect angel meant to be tainted in darkness.

Your chest rose and dropped with each pant. Your body becoming pliant against his touch, your head buried to the side of your mattress. Squishing your legs tighter together in an attempt to ease the pressure.

Sunghoon looked at you. Placing one last kiss at your neck before pulling away. His eyes traveled to you underneath him, how your arms bent up and hand covered your face but your smile still peeked through the cracks of your fingers all whilst his hand rested on your stomach.

You were waiting for someone to come and show you. Of course no one else is going to do that but him, not only can he do that, he can do so much more—which he will.

“Absolutely perfect” He said, “But let’s fix your position” He hummed before pulling his hand away to lightly land on your thighs

You shivered, the touch near where his hand once was made your heart race. He watched your expression, how your breath hitched at where he rested.

His fingers trailed down on each side of your legs before reaching your knee. Tracing over the outline of it, he chuckled before cupping at each of them. “Open for me”

Barely noticing any resistance on the prey of your legs opening. You were so trusting, far too willing. “There you go” He quietly praised as the dipped crevice came into view.

Your glistening pussy peeking out in full display caused the jur in his own pants as he bit harshly on his tongue to hold back the moan to slip out.

He carelessly forgot. Undergarments weren’t a thing here.

“Fuck” He breathlessly whispered under this breath making you snap your head to him, eyes wide looking right at him as you tried to pull your legs away

Quickly his grip tightened on your knees, “I didn’t mean it. Forgive me angel” He slurred the words as he sank down to his knees causing you to push yourself up to your arms, “It was careless of me to say that. I’m sorry”

You looked at him and your heart nearly jumped out seeing the position. Laying on his knees in front of your opened legs, his head cranked up to you as his eyes bore into yours. Your jaw dropped as you tried to get him to stand up again but failed when he gently pushed you back. “Let me work for your forgiveness. See if I’m worthy of it”

“Sung-“ You stopped when his fingers feathered up to the and his face inched closer before burying in the warmth of your pussy, instantly inhaling the scent with the wet slick rubbing on his nose

You squealed loudly the moment his face touched upon your bare self. Hands falling around your mouth to stop the sounds from bouncing out louder than you wanted. Sunghoon looked from between your legs and frowned instantly, “You don’t have to cover your mouth”

“No one can hear anything” He watched how you took his words without a second thought and loosened your hand before having it fall to your side to grab onto the sheets in support

“Don’t let yourself hold back. Let anything and everything out- Don’t think about it and just let go”

Your body nearly toppled when you felt a wet stride strike across your folds, his hands moved from your knees to your hips as he held them to keep you in place.

“Let me apologize” His voice muffled sending vibration from your core straight to your head

Slacking his jaw, his mouth closed tasting the essence of you on his taste buds making him instantly light headed. “Hoon!” Your voice pitched out as you tried to pull away but he placed a hand on your stomach ushering you to lay back down

“Let me at least do this for you” He pulled away a string connecting in between making you try to close your legs but he forced them open.

Burying his head back into you, “Don’t close them on me” Your mouth fell open again when he sucked on your bud that shot electricity throughout your entire body

You’ve read about this in the books at the restricted library. You just couldn’t recall what the name is. Your body arched off your bed, your lower half pressed firmly against the mattress as he kept you there.

“So sweet. So damn sweet” You managed to hear him through the ringing of your ears while his tongue smeared around your folds, expanding the wet mess

Your soft whines seeped past through his ears to his brain as he lapped at your pussy like a man who's been starved of his favorite meal. “Sunghoon” You breathlessly call out his name but unable to say anything further more when something slipped past your tight hole

He hissed at raw narrow tightness, “Good girl” He watched as his single finger disappeared in you, your hole spasming around the intrusion trying to push him out—to deny yourself of what you want

The hand holding you in place rubbed its thumb against you. Your breath shudders with you trying to articulate words when you feel the drag of his finger leave your gummy walls before easing back in. “So wet… Makes it so much easier”

Your head knocked back into the mattress while your hand fisted at the sheets. His finger slid in and out of you, his eyes watching how you coated him—leaking around and sliding off through the crevice crack.

His eyes zeroed in how your fluids traced down the dip of your body, threading into a territory he promises to work his way to.

You let out a loud wail when his finger curled inside, feeling the soft gum of your walls at his fingertips. You shook your head but his mouth attached itself back to your clit making you moan out his name.

Sunghoon smirked once he heard the increased volume of your noises. Taking his words as exactly as he told you—he smirked against your pussy before sucking at your folds as his finger swirled around.

Your hand itches to play with his hair and he felt the hesitance radiating off of you. He’s quick to grab your hand and ruffle it into his hair, giving you the chance to hold him.

Instantly, your hands tangled into his hair. The smoothness of it raked through the slots of your fingers as you closed your eyes, allowing your mouth to slack itself—letting all noise slip out.

You cried out when your hole was stretched even more after the addition of another finger. He pushed your walls apart, scissoring you open all while his tongue tried to slip in daring to open even wider.

Lifting his fingers to brush against your gummy walls in a repetitive motion had you shivering, “So pretty” He praised, his eyes focused on your stretched out hole, “You take stuff so well”

Your stomach flooded at the feel, a curling sensation forming the more he slipped his fingers in and out, curling them at just the right moment when he eased in and correlating it with his mouth on you.

He could tell you were close. The pulse around his fingers was the indicator. He pumped his fingers at a faster pace, “Hold on wait- m“ You felt a spasming feeling in your stomach, weakly shaking your head as your moans became broken

Your eyes screwed shut but shot open when the crunching feeling was ripped away causing you to let out a deep whine. But the feel of a wet sensation landing onto your core made you freeze as you looked to see the string of saliva falling from his mouth down onto you.

His eyes remained on your pussy, his finger creasing over your mound spreading his spit around your sensitive folds. Having pulled them apart watching the contraction motion of your hole before letting go.

His hand slapped at your pulsing self and you loudly gasped and tried to close your legs but he pressed his body in between to prevent that.

“You’re already leaking so much…” He softly muttered to himself before sending another soft slap to your soaking self made you jump in shock, the wet sound ringing out your room while your incomplete fluids splashed around

You tried to weakly call out his name until you noticed him admiring the fingers that were once knuckles deep inside of you. He examined his hand with a soft smile on his lips before bringing it to his lips, sucking them clean.

When he looked over to you, he observed how you looked at his pruned soaked fingers and he lightly chuckled before bringing them to your lips, tracing over them. His thumb cupped your jaw while his index finger rubbed at your lips before forcing it open to slip in.

You accepted the invitation of his two fingers without resistance, he darkly chuckled as he pushed further down.

Your throat constricted him, rumbles of gargle sounds erupted out preventing him from going any further and he smirked feeling how your throat tightened around his fingers. Cooing at you as his free hand creased your head, “Don’t worry, I promise to you’ll be able to take more soon” He assured you before pulling out his fingers

He shook his hand, riding off the excess wetness on them as he let out a laugh. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He hummed tilting his head to the side an amused smile on his face

“Like what?” You frowned slightly as you looked at him with narrowed eyes

“It’s okay to feel frustrated. It doesn’t always feel like that. I’m checking what you can handle and what you can’t”

“I don’t want you to get hurt for biting off more than you can chew” His hand creased at your head, the same comforting smile stretching across his face prompting your own in mere seconds

“I promise you that this is it. You have my word” He hummed before carefully placing a peck onto your forehead, “Let me do all the work, just sit there and look pretty for me angel” the stretched name made your heart hammered against your chest as you hips rutted in the air

Sunghoon tooted his lips, slightly shaking his head. “Impatient” He sighed before slapping at your still sensitive pussy again

You lightly groaned, your body crumbling forward but he pushed your upper body back down the mattress to keep you laying and exposed for him, “Good girls can get punished if they misbehave. You don’t want to be like that okay?”

“A perfect angel must be the best. The standard, to show everyone that no one can reach you—that no one can ever be as worthy as you”

“You can’t taint yourself with unnecessary things” He explained and his words had an underlying hint underneath it that made your eyebrows furrow

“And is this unnecessary?”

Your question made him look at you, eyes softening the moment he catches yours slightly shaking his head. “Of course not. These are the needs that have to be cured and taken care of”

“If these were deemed unnecessary, it wouldn’t happen in the first place”

Softly cupping your face into his hands, he placed a kiss onto your lips—a little longer than the past times. “You need to be taken care of. So please let me have the honor of doing so” He asked, almost pleading with the slurred toned he used

With the soft nod of your head, his smile itched greater, his cheeks pulling higher. His hands pulled away from your head and fiddled with the belt of his pants. The metal clanking sound had your eyes wandering to the evident bulge peeking out, only to see it grow in size when his pants fell to the floor.

Your eyes furrowed, noticing the second layer of fabric covering him. “It’s standard procedure for us when you’re there” He meant where he now resided in the fallen realm

Nodding your head at his response to your silent question, “Take them off” He quietly said, taking a step closer to you and grabbing your hand, “I’ll help you”

You sucked your bottom lip and gulped harshly as he guided your fingers to hook at the top of the piece of material before dragging, guiding your hands to pull down the fabric in its way.

Your heart jumped before stopping as your eyes grew in size seeing what was in front of you. How what was being confined inside of the thin fabric sprung out once it was freed, the angry leaking tip hitting against him as you fully pulled down his briefs to land with his pants.

He watched as you took at the notice of the large shaft resting, “This is going to make you feel good too” He inched close to close the gap inbetween

Your eyes flickered in between his strained smile and erection staring right at you. “Take a big deep breath for me angel” His voice hoarse and strained trying to lace it over with a warm, comforting feel

Grabbing his shaft at hand, he silently hissed at the cold touch but tried to shake his head. Sizing himself to your slicked folds, before his tip touched the essence of you with his own. He silent hissed, nearly knocking his back as he rubbed an inch of his cock over your folds.

He could hear the gasp you let out but he remained focused on watching how your arousal coated him the more he pressed himself higher between you. “Just setting everything up” His voice was straining as he watched the layer of your pussy spread as he slipped by

Your quiet moans filled his mind when his tip gilded higher until it grazed over your clit. His moves are slow and calculated, trying to coat himself as much as possible, that his hands are drenched by what’s leaking out of you.

“So fucking wet” He whispered under his breath as it got blocked by your growing pants when he dragged himself harder against you, the pace growing faster

His hand wrapped harder around his cock as he focused on how you were leaking even more that he didn’t believe was even possible.

Your eyes were closed, the foreign feel of flesh upon flesh made your heart jitter in your chest. Forbidden was all that changed through your mind but you weakly shook your head when the rubbing suddenly stopped.

Trying to snap out of the dizzying pain, Sunghoon aligned himself at your entrance. His heart beating so loud he swore you’d be able to hear it over yours. He licked his lips once he realized your gaze was now on him.

Your eyes wander around, noticing the plain necklace hanging on his neck but it disappears from your mind when a flesh tip is teased at your hole before trying its best to push past the undeniable squeeze and focus on how you strived to accept him.

Sunghoon’s body crumbled forward, arms resting on each side of your head as he weakly held himself up while his head fell into the crevice between your neck and shoulder.

His breath shook as he tried his best to even his raging mind out. His sanity and rationality plumpting further down the hole he left them in.

“Never thought there could be anything more perfect than you” He grunted, pushing past the tightness of you as you gripped around him, “But your pussy tells me otherwise”

“Too much- Too big!” You thrashed, tears brimming at your eyes as the stretch grew more as he inched deeper, “Sung- Hurts!” You cried out but he only cranked his neck to nuzzle into your neck

He messily placed kisses against your neck, sucking on the skin to tarnish it. “I know but you’re a good girl. You can take it for me angel”

Your fingers dug into his back, holding onto him while the tears split and fell down your cheeks. Sunghoon kissed your tears away, messily pampering you with kisses, “Focus on me” He grunted once he bottomed out

Clenching around him as you tried to get adjusted to the size you never believed to be introduced to or feel ever in your life.

“So full” You weakly muttered causing him let out a strained laugh

“Taking me so well” He messily kissed your cheek, “Never doubted you’d be so good to me—maybe even too good for me”

You opened your mouth to respond but instead a guttural hissed left your throat when he softly moved an inch away from you. “Shh I know”

“Do you trust me?”

His words meant to feel heavier but to your mushed mind, you nodded your head right away. “I trust you Sunghoon”

Forfeiting to him caused his cock to twitch inside of you. The closed confinement made it nearly impossible to move or try to stop himself from coming at that moment. “It’s going to feel good, I promise”

A silent hissed mixed together as he carefully dragged himself out as much as he was allowed to before pushing himself back into you. “Shit” He groaned loudly, “So fucking tight-“

You buried your head into the crook of his neck as your bottom lip shivered. Your face covered in your tears as you let out pained wails, “Look at me. I need to see you” He pushed your clinging body away until you came into his view

Your chest rising with each shaky breath you took, your eyes staring at him before his head dipped and captured one of your breasts into his mouth. Hands flung to his hair, harshly tugging at it when he pulled out more before slamming right back into you.

You wrench your fingers to interlock with his hair, your body barely able to jerk up with him resting against you.

Sliding out and repeating the same motion of going back into you, Sunghoon swears he’s returned to where he was meant to belong—in heaven.

The sounds that leaked from your mouth only fueled the carnal desire within him. Once finding a pace that he felt you clench around him tighter than anything ever before but grateful for your arousal leaking around him and slipping by, he didn’t let up.

Grabbing at your sides, the tip of his cock prepping and tickling your insides made you melt. “Burns Hoonie” You squealed, your hands dragging down his back, holding onto him desperately

“I’m right here angel. Doing amazing- Taking me so good in that sweet pussy of yours” He grumbled as his hips slammed against yours, the lewd sound of your arousal plastering on him made your face scrunch and your stomach burn

“Sung…Hoon! Ho-hoon!” Your voice were like sirens in his ears, Sunghoon’s body couldn’t let up to a slow pace—forbiddening that thought from his mind

Harshly meeting you with his hips, his grunts grew more frequent. “Look at you calling out to me” He laughed, “Cock feels that good in you?”

Only able to nod your head, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your body jolts forwards from his thrust. He watched how you moved on the mattress, how the loud creaking of your bed would easily expose you. A smirk plastered on his face when his hand twisted at your nipple making you loudly squeal.

“Answer me”

You tried to hide your face but he gripped your chin to keep you from looking away from him. His stern gaze made you scrunch your face before wailing out, “Feels so good- I love it”

He smirked but it dropped because it wasn’t enough. Selfishly, he wanted more—He will get more.

“Not good enough” He grunted, “Say you love how deep it’s inside you. How fucking good my cock is to you”

Your face scrunched, shaking your head but his grip on your jaw worsened, ushering you to say—he knew you felt it, you just needed to openly admit it.

Aimlessly opening your mouth to speak, “So good. So deep. I love your-“ Your voice got caught in your throat to finish the sentence

“Say it angel”

A sudden harder thrust made you scream, your nails clawing at his back that you were sure you were scratching him through his top. “Love your cock” You meek out just enough for him to hear

Sunghoon’s smirk grew wider. “What about if I fill you up? You like the sound of that mhm?”

“Taking everything in you like the good angel you are?” His hands squeezed your cheeks as he messily placed a kiss on your lips. Teeth clashing and saliva dripping as he drilled his cock into your soaped core

The meant to be empty space forever in you was filled by him. Every inch he added into you, you felt. His tip grazing over spots causing you to hold onto his bicep, enjoying the strained bulge it provided.

You whined against his lips but he drank up all the sounds, your body consuming him as he consumed your mind.

Feeling your abdomen shift into a higher sensitivity, suddenly tightening as your fingers dug harder into his bicep, your whines turned into straight moans. “I feel weird again-“ You pointed out as you pulled away from the mess of his lips

“I can feel it angel” Sunghoon chuckled seeing your lips swollen, “Sucking me more into you, like you don’t want to let go of me”

“It’s okay, I promised you could let go this time”

He brought his head next to yours, his lips tickling against your ear, “Come for me angel”

The words shift a gear into your mind. Your body becomes hyper aware of everything. How heavy your breathing was, how the concealed sounds coming from Sunghoon soon slips past to your ears.

And just how pulled apart your pussy was from the new intrusion with the heights given to you.

The dried tears returned as it rimmed around your eyes as your voice cracked in pitch, “I-I” You stuttered trying to make a coherent sentence

Sunghoon pressed down on your stomach as he continued his irregular and sloppy thrust. “Keep tightening around me like that” Your mind became hazy as his thrust became faster—almost as if they were chasing something

“Want me to breed your pussy till you’re leaking of me?” Sunghoon grumbled in a ragged breath, “Have me make sure to fill you up properly until it fucking takes?”

The words made your heart race pick up, your mind not processing or fully understanding the heavier heft meaning behind them. Yet, you aimlessly agreed with an eager nod of your head.

He smirked at your wordless response. Watching how your mouth was full on slacked as he pushed his cock as deep as he psychically could. Bottoming out completely as he let out a guttural groan all while you harshly clenched around him, the warm feel erupting inside of you.

You gasped loudly, your hands grabbing onto him tighter than before, eyes screwed shut as your body voluntarily arched off your bed forcing him out. Too dazed to realize the lack of flesh buried in you as you focused on the dripping sensation falling out.

Sunghoon gawked at you, the evident afterglow basking over you as your chest dropped trying to regulate your breathing, your hand finally loosening as you pushed the warming liquid in you out.

He reached up where your hand rested and noticed the band on your ring finger. Carefully clasping his hand over yours, your heavy eyelids weakly opened seeing his fingers play with yours. You smiled softly but it dropped when he soloed on the purity ring.

Playing with the metal with his fingers, turning it into a circular motion before bringing your finger up for him. Engulfing his mouth around it, his teeth grazed your flesh as he bit the ring and tugged it upwards.

You tried to pull your hand away but his hand held your wrist to keep you in place.

The sudden bare of your finger came into sight when he dropped your hand. His mouth closed until he smiled, your purity ring hanging right in between his rows of teeth.

He felt a tug at his heart seeing the afterglow expression gone but his heart soon grew more active when he watched how your face dropped, eyes widening into pure mortification.

Lightly chuckling, his hands rise to the back of his neck, unclasping his own necklace. Slipping your ring through the bare chain, he lifted it to show it hanging right in the middle.

“You won’t be needing that anymore, would you angel?” The nickname that you once carried in pride now felt forbidden and rotten

Sunghoon chuckled and it rumbled deep from his stomach as he saw your eyes frantically looking at him. He cooed at your state and grasped your face into his hands.

Yet, a soft melody filled your room as your face scrunched hearing him humming the song every angel knew of when they attended their ceremony to receive their purity ring.

Mocking you as you watch him placing the chain back around his neck, your ring now dangling against his chest.

You winced when his hands grabbed your leg and you were suddenly brought into a new position.

The lower half of your body rose high when your knees bent as he flushed your legs to your body, exposing your sore entrance that was messily mixed with your cum and his cum leaking down to your sheets—tainting them.

“You’d give up heaven for me if you had to, won’t you angel?”

——

[whosashan]

hello! good day to youuu, can i make a request for the lads men? in which reader is not the mc and here's the prompt: having to beg them to do something with you then seeing them doing it with mc willingly, sorry english is not my first language but pleaaaseeee 😭 i love some angst.

Bitter

Pt. 2

PAIRING: Love and Deepspace men x non-mc!reader

SYNOPSIS: Watching the one you love partake in what you once pleaded to share—a quiet betrayal—feels like an arrow through the heart, swift and merciless. (angst, no comfort)

A/N: Thank you for the request, it came out more as a drabble. Hope you enjoy!

Xavier

What a bitter, gutting thing it was—to stand in the shadows and watch him shine for someone else. To see the light in his eyes, the easy laughter, the quiet devotion as he did for her what he had never done for you.

The one thing you once begged for. The one thing he had denied you.

But not her. Never her.

She was fate’s beloved, the one woven from the same celestial thread as him, bound to him in ways you never could be. You had always told yourself to be rational, to be understanding. Xavier came with a past. He came with baggage.

And inside that baggage, nestled close to his heart, was her.

The woman you would envy until the world turned to dust.

And yet—how could you ever bring yourself to hate her? When she was made of kindness, of soft edges and warm light? When she looked at you with nothing but affection, oblivious to the ruin she left in her wake? She was an angel. A blessing. A curse.

And fate, it seemed, had always been on her side.

So there they were, walking side by side, woven together so seamlessly it was almost poetic. Almost cruel. Her bags in his hands, the weight of them carried so effortlessly—as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And yet, when you had asked for the same—just a simple day together, just a moment of his time—he had sighed, shaken his head, told you he was too tired. That work was too much. That he simply couldn’t.

But now, watching him with her, you couldn’t help but wonder—did she take his exhaustion away? Did her presence breathe new life into him in a way you never could?

The answer settled deep in your bones, cold and unrelenting.

Your friend beside you said nothing, only looking at you with that quiet, suffocating pity that made your stomach turn. Because there was nothing to say. Nothing to soften the truth you had known all along.

You were not his first thought in the morning. You were not the name on his lips when he passed a garden of wildflowers. You were not the presence lingering in his mind when the world grew quiet.

And you never would be.

You had spent so long fighting against it. Xavier loves me. He chose me. The words had been your lifeline, a fragile, trembling thing you whispered into the silence. But even your friends never seemed convinced.

And now, neither were you.

So you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You turned away.

No confrontation. No desperate pleas for an explanation that would only come laced with half-truths and empty reassurances. What good was honesty when it had never been yours to begin with?

When he came home that night, his lips still curved with the ghost of a smile, he found an emptiness he had never felt before. Your things, your presence—gone, as if you had never been there at all.

And in your place, only a single note remained.

"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for. Because clearly, it was never me."

And Xavier, poor Xavier, would stand there, reading those words over and over, grasping at the fraying edges of something he had never truly held onto.

But then again—

Xavier had never noticed his wrongdoings.

Not until there was nothing left but the weight of his own ruin.

Zayne

Zayne—or Dr. Zayne, as she called him—had always been a good man. A gentleman in every sense. Caring, affectionate, endlessly considerate.

But never for you.

His tenderness felt practiced, his affections routine. As if he wasn’t loving you, but fulfilling some unspoken obligation. A kindness given not out of devotion, but out of mere habit.

And you had tried to ignore it. Swallowed your doubts, convinced yourself you were overthinking.

Until you saw them together.

Her.

The one fate had tied him to. The one who never had to ask for his attention, because it had always belonged to her.

Her laughter lit up rooms before she even stepped inside. Her eyes gleamed like sunlight catching on water—brilliant, hypnotic, impossible to look away from. And neither could he.

And then, there was the picture.

A simple post, one she likely uploaded without a second thought, oblivious to the quiet devastation it would bring.

There she was, sitting in his office. Smiling. At ease.

Sharing lunch with him.

Something you had never been allowed to do.

You had asked once—just to drop by, to see him, to spend even a sliver of time together in the place he spent most of his days. But he had refused, brushing you off with a gentle but firm, “I don’t want distractions.”

And yet, there she was, sitting across from him, urging him to eat the food she had made, as if she had every right to be there. And maybe she did.

They had known each other forever. That was what you told yourself—Of course, they’re close. Of course, they understand each other in ways I never will. You had tried to accept it. To be understanding.

But then you saw the way he looked at her in the picture.

The softness in his eyes. The quiet, unguarded devotion.

Like she was the only one who could unravel him, the only one who could slip past his carefully built walls.

You had spent so long trying to do the same, but you never even made a crack.

And so, that was the moment you made a promise to yourself.

You would not be someone’s second choice. You would not collect the scraps of his affection while she—effortless, radiant, destined—was given everything you had ever wanted.

And Zayne noticed.

He noticed in the silence. In the missed calls that went unanswered, the messages left on read. In the bouquets left wilting at your doorstep, the petals curling at the edges.

Roses.

Her favorite flowers.

Not yours.

And that was all the confirmation you needed.

Zayne was never the gentleman you thought he was.

Or perhaps, he was. Just never for you.

Or maybe—maybe it was fate itself that was cruel.

Rafayel

Something inside you cracked, splintering like fragile seashells beneath careless hands—shattered beyond repair, beyond mending.

It wasn’t a sudden break. No, it had been slow, creeping in like the tide, eroding the edges of your love bit by bit, pulling pieces of you away before you could even notice you were unraveling.

And now, the final wave had come, and it had taken everything with it.

Because there he was—your Rafayel—kneeling beside her, smiling in a way you had longed to be the cause of.

The sight alone stole the breath from your lungs.

You had spent so long pretending not to notice. Ignoring the way his gaze always sought her out, the way his voice softened just a fraction when he spoke to her. You had swallowed the ache, told yourself it didn’t matter.

"That’s just the way he is," you had whispered, time and time again.

But it had never been the way he was.

It had only ever been the way he was with you.

And now, you knew why.

Rafayel hated cats.

You remembered the way his nose had scrunched when you had once tried to feed a stray by the docks, the way he had flicked his fingers as if to ward the creature away. “Little beasts,” he had muttered, half-amused, half-disgusted. “I don’t understand how you humans tolerate them.”

You had laughed then, nudging him playfully. “You’re just jealous they’re cuter than you.”

And yet—here he was.

Crouched beside her, cradling a trembling kitten in careful, delicate hands, his expression softer than you had ever seen it. His touch—usually teasing, fleeting, always just out of reach—was steady, warm, tender.

For her.

Not for you.

Something cold curled around your ribs, sinking deep, making it harder to breathe.

It was never about the kitten.

It was never about the things he couldn’t do.

It was about the things he never wanted to do for you.

And watching him now, so unguarded, so effortlessly kind, made you wish you had never met him at all.

Rage and sorrow burned through your veins, curling beneath your skin like a sickness. You wanted to rip that stupidly charming smile from his face, wanted to demand why he had never looked at you like that.

But there was no point.

So you turned and walked away.

Ignoring reality, just as you had once tried to ignore fate.

But fate never ignored you.

And something in the air told you—Rafayel wouldn’t either.

Sylus

Sylus had never been an easy man to love.

Sharp edges, cold precision—every move calculated, every word spoken with intent. He was not a man swayed by sentiment, nor was he one to entertain trivial affections.

You had known this from the start.

And yet, knowing had never stopped you from wanting.

So you learned to take what little he gave you—stolen moments in the dead of night, whispered conversations where he let the ice thaw just enough for you to believe there was something beneath it. But always, always, he kept his distance, his affections measured, restrained.

"This is who I am," he had told you once, when you asked why he never let himself soften. "I don’t have the luxury of being gentle."

You had believed him.

Until now.

Until you saw him, standing there in the dim glow of a high-rise restaurant, his head tilted ever so slightly toward her. The woman fate had written into his story, the one whose presence seemed to unravel him in ways you never could.

His fated one.

And in front of them, two untouched glasses of wine.

Wine.

The very thing he had refused to share with you.

"I don’t drink with others," he had said once, his voice clipped, final. "It's a pleasure reserved for my time alone."

But now, here he was. Sharing a glass with her. His fingers resting idly against the stem of his glass, his expression unreadable yet undeniably present. He was here. Fully. With her.

A man who never entertained distractions, utterly enthralled.

The way he looked at her—it was something different. Something you had never been granted. There was no calculation in his gaze, no careful restraint. No cold, distant amusement.

Just quiet acceptance. As if she had been meant to sit beside him all along.

And that was when you knew.

You could tear yourself apart, try to become everything he had ever wanted, and it still wouldn’t matter. Because fate had already made the choice for him.

And it wasn’t you.

Still, you lingered a moment longer, letting the pain settle, letting it carve its lesson deep into your ribs.

And then, without a word, you turned and left.

Because you, too, could learn to be cold.

Caleb

Caleb had always been warm. That was the problem.

He had a way of making you believe you belonged there—tucked into his arms, held close by quiet promises and easy smiles. He made you think you mattered.

But there was always her.

His childhood best friend.

Not bound by fate, not chosen by some cosmic force—just there. Always. In every story he told, in every old memory that made his eyes soften with something you could never quite reach. The one who had been with him before you, the one who had held his hand through storms you’d never even known existed.

And you told yourself it wasn’t a competition.

Until the night you saw them.

The neon lights of the karaoke bar cast the whole street in a soft glow, music and laughter spilling from inside as you walked past—until something, someone, made your steps falter.

Through the open doors, past the booths and glowing screens, you saw him.

Caleb.

Standing there, microphone in hand, singing.

With her.

The sight knocked the breath from your lungs.

"I don’t like singing in front of people," he had told you once, shaking his head with a sheepish smile when you begged him to join you for just one song. "It’s embarrassing. I just—I can’t, okay?"

But now, here he was.

Swaying slightly, smiling as their voices blended together in a song you didn’t recognize. It wasn’t perfect—his voice cracked in places, he missed a beat or two—but that didn’t matter. Because he was trying. Because he was enjoying it.

Because she made him feel safe enough to do what he had never done for you.

Your stomach twisted.

It had never been about singing.

It had been about you.

You should have walked away then. Should have swallowed the lump in your throat and turned back, should have spared yourself the cruel spectacle of watching them.

But you didn’t.

You stayed long enough to see the way he laughed when she nudged him playfully. The way he looked at her, unguarded, free. The way she reached for his hand without hesitation—because she knew it would always be there, waiting for her.

And for the first time, you realized—maybe you had never been holding his hand at all. Maybe you had only been grasping at the space he left behind.

Something cold settled in your chest.

You didn’t wait for him to notice you.

You just turned, and left, without a sound.

And Caleb, too caught up in a song meant for someone else, never even saw you go.

[magicdustsworld]

𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A guide on how to properly date your tattooed, big, bad boyfriend.

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒: Established relationship, slice of life

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: some profanity, biting(non sexual), fluff, no curse AU, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n. (Would be just a short series of drabbles)

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏 : 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔

Divider credits: @cafekitsune

"I love you."

"What?"

"I love you." You say with a sheepish grin playing on your lips as you get on your knees, crawling over to him. The silk sheets crease under your deliberate yet rhythmic movements – something which he doesn't even seem to notice. For the felicity in your eyes and the ardor clouding your visage is a expression to great to ignore and even though it's Sukuna, he can't ignore you.

You reach his side, resting your arm on the bedframe, looking up at him with a expression akin to a child looking at something it holds dear. "You know I love you so much, right?"

He blinks, clearly baffled with your sudden proclamation of love. Raking his brain over everything he did today – nothing out of the ordinary except being a asshole to that one salesman who wouldn't take his leave until selling his– whatever it was. But for Sukuna that's ordinary cause he's a jerk at heart.

He tilts his head, "What do you want?"

"Your arm." You are quick to reply, voice carrying an ardor which is too loud to miss. "Give me your arm."

His eye twitches, shooting you a – are you serious – look. You reply with a nod, stretching your hand, asking to get served. A disinterested scowl graces his lips, sparing you a glance, he turns to the opposite side.

This time, your eye twitches. He did not just reject your advances. You huff, inching closer to him as you place your hand over his bicep, "Baby... look at me."

He does. You jut out lower lip, eyebrows furrowing and tipping your head up at him. He can't help but consider how much you ressemble a cat with that expression. He pinches his lips, "If you think that's going to convince me otherwise then you're wrong— ow!"

In no time, you have sunk your teeth on his bicep, the canines puncturing the flesh, incisors holding the skin in place as you glare up at him.

Sukuna winces in sheer pain, trying to pull his arm off of your hold but you remain adamant on not letting him go. "Owh— what the actual fuck woman? Let go of me!"

You do let go, retracting your mouth but do not let go of his arm. You pout at him and Sukuna looks down at the attacked area. A circle of crescent moon shapes has forned on the part of the skin – it hurts like a bitch.

He turns to face you fully, crimson eyes blazing with a rage as he looks down on you. "What the hell was that for?"

You pout, narrowing your eyes, "Cuddle with me."

"After that stunt you pulled? Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes."

He glares at you and you glare back; the silence turning into a staring match.

Sukuna scans your face, the crease on your forehead to the way you've twisted your lips and finally the flicker of vexation in your eyes.

Definitely a cat.

He sighs, threading his fingers through his hair before stretching out his arm. "Come here."

In an instant the irkness vanishes and you jump into his arms, eyes gleaming with delight and mouth stretched into a triumph grin. You giggle, "I knew you'd come along." You say, nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck as Sukuna loops his arm around your waist, shifting you to a closer and better position.

He sighs, "Whatever, brat. Just don't bite me again."

You pursue your lips, gazing at him with a guilt. Leaning up, you press your lips against his cheeks in a chaste kiss, "Mhm, sorry."

Heat rushes up Sukuna's face, spreading from his ears to his neck; he looks away from you.

"Aw, are you blushing?"

"Shut up."

"You are blushing."

He merely responds with placing his hand on the back of your head and pushing your face down on his chest. "Shut up."

You giggle, mumbling something incoherent before snuggling closer to him. "I love you."

This time, Sukuna doesn't suppress the idiotic grin which spreads on his lips. With your face pressed against his chest, he strokes your hair, placing a soft kiss on top of your head.

"I know, brat."

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟐

[zyafics]

can you write about rafe x sarahs bestfriend and reader keeps trying to get with rafe and he rejects her until he finally agrees and teases her around Sarah making reader nervous .. if you find a story like this LMK

truly didn't expect to write today, but ended up doing... this. hope you like it!

SOMEONE NEW | Rafe Cameron

MASTERLIST (Blurb)

Pairing — Rafe x Sarah's BSF!Female Reader

Content — best friend's brother, fluff, she falls first/he falls harder

Word Count — 1.1K

Song — Someone New by Hozier

“What gives?”

Rafe surprises you. Sitting on a barstool at the Tannyhill estate, you assumed when Rafe returned home, he would ignore you the way he had done all his life. For the past couple of years, you’ve harbored an embarrassing crush on him that amounted to nothing. Sure, you never outright confessed, but you assumed he knew.

He had to.

The way you always strike up a flimsy conversation during late nights in the kitchen from your sleepovers with Sarah. The way you would always try to convince Sarah to join him and his friends at parties—only to be rejected of an invitation. The way you would always search for him to fill your cup, or take you home, whenever you and the Camerons end up at the same function.

You never told him but the signs were there.

Yet, nothing happened.

After spending a summer in the Bahamas, you decided it was time to put yourself first. You changed the way you dressed, the way you style your hair, the way you put on your makeup. It wasn’t for him, it wasn’t to impress him—it was for you. A new version deserved a new update, a new way to love, and you’re pulling out all the stops.

Now, back in Kildare, you’ve resumed your presence at the Tannyhill estate. Sarah invited you over for a sleepover, but she’s currently out getting some of the snacks. Leaving you to your own device, in her house, with the return of her brother.

Whom you didn’t even realize came home.

It fucks with him.

Because he’s used to you, his little sister’s best friend, always gawking at him from across the room. Always fetching him a beer from the fridge, or blushing whenever he comes into your proximity. Neither of that has happened since your return and Rafe can’t lie and say the loss of attention hasn’t bruised his ego.

But it’s something else. Something magnetizing about the air around you. He doesn’t know if it’s the change in styles or the sudden wave of confidence you’re exuding, but it’s different, and it’s intriguing him like never before.

“What?” You ask, lips parting and releasing the chewed-up plastic straw you were sipping on. His gaze drops to the fullness of your wetted lips, the new shade of lipgloss making them appear more delicious than ever before. His heart slightly patters—what the fuck? He thinks to himself. What is going on with me?

“What’s going on with you?” He asks, and your brows pull together. They’re shaped, manicured, threaded, the way he likes his women. But what remains is that subtle dip between your brows, that boasts the look of innocence from your features, reminding him of the same naivety and shy-natured he always adored.

“What do you mean?” You say with a quiet laugh.

“You’re different,” he observes, his eyes tracing the openness of your clothes. You’re wearing a stylistic top, one revealing your navel, and a piercing on your belly button. When the fuck did you get that?

You tilt your head to the side, your doe-shaped eyes blinking at him with pure curiosity. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Sort of, yeah,” he admits. You shrink under this proclamation, shoulders tightening, your legs crossing on the barstool, revealing the pretty anklet on your feet, dangling, in a way that makes him imagine what they would look like over his shoulders.

You frown, jutting out your bottom lip, and looking to the floor. “I’m sorry,” you apologize quietly.

“Not—” He pulls back, trying to find the right words. “Not in a bad way. You’re not… you.”

You blink up at him, “Like what?”

You don’t look for me anymore, he concludes, but he finds it pathetic to say. Instead, he settles with: “You’re just different.”

You scrunch your nose at his words, the way they wrinkle, it’s so adorable, he wants to cherish that sight. Rafe finds the courage to ask, “And you’re quiet. You always wanted to talk to me; did some other asshole catch your attention in the Bahamas?”

“Why do you assume they’re an asshole?”

“Most men are,”

“You included?” You ask, tilting your chin to look at him in a sort of challenge.

“Yeah,” he admits after a long silence. “I’m the worst kind.”

It makes you laugh again. In that same carefree, airy laugh that comes with ease. Something about that simple sound unwinds his shoulders, and Rafe takes in the moment as if he can stretch it on for an eternity. Fuck, he thought. What is it?

“What’s so funny?” Rafe asks, his throat suddenly dry. He needs a glass of water, but it’ll be hell before he tries to move from this spot.

“Nothing,” you say with a soft smile, “Just… Self-awareness is always a good first step.”

“So you think I’m an asshole?” He asks, stepping closer. His leg knocks at your feet, causing you to shift your position in a way that accommodates him. You still do that, Rafe recognizes, you’re still making room for him.

Good.

You bobble your head in contemplation, “I don’t think it’s a lie,”

“I can be better,” Rafe declares.

“Sure,” you drawl, unconvinced.

“I’ll be better for you,”

The words came tumbling out without a second thought, and all the presence of air is stolen from your lungs. Your eyes widen into this impossible size, filled with such valiant shock, that you’ve never demonstrated before. He almost wishes he can take back his confession.

But Sarah returns, coming into the room to break the tense air.

“Leave her alone, Rafe,” Sarah snaps, dropping two plastic bags of snacks onto the kitchen island. “Don’t you have some whore to entertain?”

Rafe drops his jaw playfully. “Don’t call your best friend that.”

”I—“ Sarah reddens from the accusation, sliding her gaze apologetically to you, but you laugh it off, gently pushing Rafe’s shoulder, and forcing a gap between you.

He hates it.

“I know,” you answer, smiling at your best friend and shaking your head softly. “He’s being an asshole."

You cut a look over to Rafe with a knowing smile like you’re sharing an inside joke, before returning your attention to your best friend. Rafe had half a mind to grab your chin and force your focus back on him—the other Cameron. “Do you need help carrying anything?”

“Nope,” Sarah shakes her head, grabbing the bags with one hand and using her other one to grab yours. “Let’s go.”

You beam, radiating the same contagious joy as before, but with a new set of layers that Rafe wants to strip down and uncover. Sarah pushes him to the side and moves to the stairs, and as you’re dragged up the steps, you do something you’ve never done before.

You don’t look back.

And in that moment, he realizes, fuck, he might’ve liked you more than he was willing to admit.

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

[mourning-sapphire]

Little Flame | Aemond Targaryen

Summary: Aemond’s life was incredibly dim after the war, a bottomless carven he’d sunk himself into with his own actions, until one by one, little flames came into his life.

Pairing: king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader (AU)

Fic warnings: nothing, just FLUFF, there’s mentions of past angst and trauma, but... GIRL DAD AEMOND!!!

Word count: 8.2k

authors note: happy fathers day to girl dad aemond <3

masterlist

If someone had told Aemond during the war that he’d even live to see past that fateful day at the Gods Eye, he would snarl and tell them that he’d rather die gloriously than whatever else fate had from him. But as the war ended, and the ashes from his discretions dimmed, he was left with a hole in his life so vast that he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to fill it.

But the war had eventually ended.

The fires died down, the roar of familiar dragons faded into bitter memory, and the ashes of his many discretions settled into quiet ruin, not forgotten by anyone but not brought up. What remained for him was not peace, but a yawning emptiness that he could almost feel cramping at his own jaw. An empty abyss so vast that he doubted it could ever be filled. War had changed Aemond, irreversibly, and in ways he hadn’t expected.

His mind, had been twisted by the whispers of a woodswitch, and now he bore the scars of unnatural influence on his mind, and traumatised by the things he’d seen within the damp walls of that cursed land. He had watched those who wronged him meet their end—some by his own hand, others by the hands of chaos during—but he had also lost more than any amount of revenge could ever restore.

His family, his blood, his brothers and sister were gone—burned out as swiftly as it had been forged. And what remained was hardly anything to sing about, his mother, was now so entangled in her own delusions that speaking to her felt like reaching through smoke.

His reign as Prince Regent had never been meant to last, although he begged he knew that it was a borrowed title, a duty taken up in the name of his fallen kin, something of his own doing to some degree. But when the last of his brother's children succumbed to the cruel winter fever that swept through the city, everything changed.

The Targaryen line of succession thinned from a rope to a thread, and suddenly, the burden of kingship shifted squarely onto his shoulders permanently. While Aemond has prepped himself for being King all his life, his short time leading during the war, and the task he was to take on after were two completely different monsters to fight.

The war had been a monster he understood: it roared, and he roared back ready to fight, it was two sides; Green and Black, family and hate. But peace? Peace was a stranger in fine robes to him, a subtle, insidious thing that demanded he be whole when all he felt was broken and alone.

Aemond sat the throne not as a conqueror, not like his ancestors, but as a ghost wearing a crown feeling as dead as the people who created it.

Aemond truly had little to enjoy in life, getting everything that he wanted and longed for, was a double-edged sword that left him wounded more than losing his eye ever had. He had to navigate his grief along with taking on a new task, a realm, something his small council had wasted no time in reminding him about.

“You cannot rule alone, Your Grace.” He could still remember the pain behind his eye as he heard from one of his small council members during one of his first permanent meetings as King, “The Realm needs unity and you need a wife.”

That much, he could not deny. He needed a queen—whether he wanted one or not.

But where others might have seen an opportunity for alliance, for legacy, for strength, Aemond saw only chains.

His cousins Rhaena and Baela were the obvious suggestions from everyone, names whispered in the corridors of the Keep like half-formed prayers that he could salvage the Targaryen line that way. But he dismissed the thought outright. No number of empty words or desperate pleas could convince him—or them—to pretend they could mend what had been broken, that he hadn’t killed their father.

The blood spilt between them was too deep, too fresh, and even if it hadn’t been, he would never entertain such a farce. He would rather have perished that day at the Gods Eye than bind himself to a woman he deemed a pretender.

That decision, however, left few other paths.

The great houses of Westeros wanted little to do with the remnants of House Targaryen. The Baratheon’s, once staunch supporters of his cause, had turned their backs in bitter silence, scorning the memory of oaths made before the war. The Lannister’s were quiet, too busy rebuilding their own strength to entangle themselves in dragonfire politics. The Riverlands still wept for their fallen. And the Reach had closed its gates.

As for the witch—the strange, beguiling witch—she was long gone. Dead and buried beneath marshlands and silence, leaving behind nothing but half-remembered whispers and a ghost of betrayal that stung a little more than others.

There was no one left to marry.

No one suitable. No one willing. No one alive.

He often stared at the list the council had delivered—daughters of lesser lords who still had weight to their name, some barely past their maiden years, others hardened by politics and ambition. But they were all names with no meaning, no faces to haunt his thoughts. It felt like choosing a sword from a room full of dull blades—serviceable, but uninspired.

Still, he knew he would have to choose eventually.

The realm would not wait forever, winter was creeping further south, and with it, uncertainty. If the Targaryen line was to endure, it would need more than one scarred prince with a dragon and a crown. It would need heirs. It would need strength.

And he… he would need to become something more than the broken man left behind by war.

 For a while, all hope had truly been lost that Aemond would find someone to sit beside him for the rest of his life, that was until he met you.

You arrived at court in the quiet aftermath of war, the daughter of a minor Reach house—one that had bent the knee late, but wisely, avoiding the full wrath of dragons. Your family name was known only in passing, and your presence at the Red Keep was unremarkable by court standards: part diplomacy, part observance, part subtle reminder of House Targaryen’s waning influence over the once-loyal South.

And yet, to him? You were unforgettable.

You did not shimmer like the daughters of the Great Houses, nor had a presence that filled rooms with pointed laughter or political ambition. You moved like a whisper through the Red Keep—gentle, observant, seemingly delicate. But Aemond, trained to read silence as keenly as sound, sensed something else beneath that soft exterior. You were not weak, just quiet. Tempered, and in that calm restraint, there was strength.

At first, he ignored you—or tried to. You were one more face at a banquet, another name offered with a bow too low. But there was a steadiness to you that made him linger. When you spoke, it was never to impress. When you listened, you truly heard everyone around you. And when you met his eye for the first time—you did not flinch.

That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He began to notice things. The way your hands folded in your lap with practised grace at the sept on the 7th day. The way you walked alone in the gardens rather than crowding into courtly gossip that the ladies often held during afternoon tea. The way your voice never rose to chase attention, and yet somehow always carried when you did decide to speak. You were not like the others, not moulded for power in the way the council would prefer, but neither were you afraid of it.

There wasn’t steel in you, but bone, something raw and natural, hidden beneath linen and courtesy. And gods help him, Aemond found he preferred it to the glittering blades the lords kept offering him.

He first spoke to you in passing, a cool exchange in the library over some half-forgotten history that Aemond knew by hand, but for you, he’d pretend he just learned. You had corrected him on a minor detail—a date, a name, he couldn’t recall and he didn’t care—and while his brow had creased in irritation, you had not withdrawn from talking to him. You had looked up at him, unwavering, and said: “Even dragons can be mistaken, my King.”

He should have been offended, usually, people often sought to offend him when correcting him. But instead, for the first time in what felt like years, he’d laughed—just once, just enough to startle himself. Just enough to remind himself that he wasn’t made of dragon glass inside.

He found excuses to see you after that.

A letter asking for a stroll through the Queen’s gardens, a conversation in the sunroom where you sat reading in the warmth. A dinner were seating was rearranged at his subtle command. He never confessed to it, not even to himself, but every encounter seemed to leave behind something he hadn’t felt in years: quiet, peace, possibility, and warmth.

And yet, he knew it could not last—not easily at least.

Aemond knew that while he was king, the council still had expectations. A wife from a lesser house was not the alliance they envisioned for him and his reign, hence why your name was never uttered on any list he was ever given. Even those loyal to him would question it if he was to indulge, you had no great army behind you, no sprawling coffers of gold to offer the fading riches of the crown. You offered no guarantee of peace beyond the boundaries of your small domain.

But what you did offer was something Aemond had never expected to find: someone who did not look at him with fear, worship, or loathing—but with a tender understanding that he hadn’t seen since he was just a boy. Eyes damped with calmness, with a softness that neither threatened him but instead, welcomed him as he was—the scarred, bitter, dangerous man he had become.

That terrified him more than he could say.

He still hadn’t told the council. Not yet. The list of eligible brides remained untouched on his desk, curling at the edges and gathering dust on the ink. He stared at it some mornings, all while he felt the weight of the crown settle like a shackle around his throat.

But then, by some play of his hand he would see you in his mind, see you wrapped in your soft pink shawl as you walked the paths of the godswood, your breath misting in the cold morning air, your eyes soft and watchful as you mumbled to yourself in the heart of the Keep. Walking towards something, walking towards him.

And for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder—not about duty or strategy, but about what it might feel like to choose something not out of obligation, but desire, to have you walk towards him and never stray.

He didn’t want a political bride, he didn’t want an allegiance, his days of mindless duty were gone.

He wanted you.

But Aemond was not a man who made decisions lightly, even at the notion of wanting you left him at war with himself for weeks. His mind trapped in a web of what-ifs and imagined consequences if he proceeded.

Every quiet moment was filled with them.

What if the realm turned against his family once more? What if his choice fractured already tenuous alliances? What if he proved, in the end, no better than the fools who had once ruled with their hearts instead of their minds?

And yet, the louder those doubts became, the more persistent his thoughts of you grew. Through your time together, you had taken no action to sway him, offered no subtle seduction or plea for affection from him, or even want to be Queen. You had merely remained—as you were—calm, honest, composed while he stewed in his turmoil. He admired that.

Gods help him, he needed that.

The war had left him surrounded by ghosts and obligations. His own mother wandered the halls, half lost in her own memories and mumblings, more in common with his late sister than he ever thought. His council muttered constantly about names and lineages, numbers and heirs. Every path he was offered felt like a negotiation with fate—a stupid compromise wrapped in silk and laced with poison.

Except you.

You were the only path that didn’t feel like a betrayal of himself.

He wore himself down with the weight of it.

He never was one for sleeping well but it got worse. He grew short with his council, his temper fraying. He stopped attending the hunt for a bride altogether, letting names pile up like snowdrifts in the throne room. And when he finally made his decision, he did not announce it with any bite or snarl like he would have a year ago. He simply rose from his chair in the council chamber one bitter cold evening, the candlelight catching on the silver of his hair, and said, flatly:

“I will not marry for the crown, I will marry for the future, and I have chosen my queen.”

The chamber had gone silent as soon as the words had passed his lips.

There were objections, of course. Predictable ones. His master of coin was the first to speak—pale with shocked fury, citing precedent and strength and alliances to fill the pockets of the crown. Others followed, half in shock, half in fear of what it meant that Aemond Targaryen—scarred, cold-eyed, terrifying Aemond—had done something unexpected.

But it didn’t matter.

He had made his decision, and for once, it was not for war, not for vengeance, not even for power. It was for something simpler, something that had somehow become more terrifying than all three.

It was for you, the woman who accepted him and his hasty proposal that same night.

The wedding ceremony was small by Targaryen standards, the crown too depleted for anything extravagant but neither of you wanted that. It modest, almost private, exactly what the two of you were. There had been a intimate ceremony with just the two of you on Dragonstone as well, a small Valyrian ceremony that Aemond had wished to honour himself and his family.

But as soon as it was announced there would even be a wedding whispers flitted through the court like restless birds. Some called it a disgrace, others a political blunder. But none dared say it to his face. And as you stood beside him in the Great Hall that day, draped in the soft colours of your house, your hand small but steady in his, Aemond felt the world fall quiet for the first time in years.

No gold-braided noblewoman could have steadied him like you did. No courtly-trained bride could have met his gaze the way you did, unflinching, calm, knowing. You had not been born to be queen—but somehow, you became one the moment you chose him in return.

And at that moment, with your fingers intertwined in his, and you shared your first kiss, Aemond finally understood. The realm could hate him, the council could doubt him, the histories could question him.

But for once, he had chosen something not for House Targaryen, not for the throne, not even for the realm.

He had chosen peace.

And he had found it—in you.

Marriage did not make Aemond easier to love.

He was not cruel—not in the way many feared he would be—but he was still distant. Guarded. Silent in ways that words could not mend. He had spent so long surviving by himself—gripping tightly to his rage, grief, and discipline—that the new peace felt unnatural. Softness felt dangerous. Love… even more so.

He knew bedding you was never going to be an issue, the two of you clicked in ways he wasn’t sure was possible with someone, but loving you was a beast he did not know how to tame.

Aemond still carried the war inside him like it was bound to his soul, and even now it clung to him in the darkest hours of the night. It lingered in the shadow under his eye, in the way he sometimes flinched from your kindness as if it were a trap. And though the crown was now firmly upon his head, and the halls of the Red Keep no longer echoed with the cries grief.

He still remained ever vigilant—watchful, restrained, cold.

You had not walked into the union with rose-tinted hope. You had seen him before the vows were ever exchanged, truly seen him. The way he moved like he bore chains only he could feel. The way his eye, so sharp and calculating in court, would sometimes lose focus—drawn back into memory or regret. You had not been chosen to heal him. You had not expected to.

But even so… you hoped.

The early months of marriage were difficult.

You learned the limits of his affection by accident—what could be touched, what should be left alone, what you shouldn’t ask about. He rarely offered compliments, he never asked for comfort. And in truth, he seemed unsure of what to do with your presence at all.

Some days, he left before sunrise and returned after dusk without a word. Others, he sat beside you in silence during meals, eating little, his thoughts miles away as you mindlessly tried to fill that silence. You tried not to take his attitude to heart, you told yourself it was not you, but the war, the ghosts, the boy he had been and the man that had been shaped in his place.

Still, there were cracks in the armour.

He would watch you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was subtle glances over books, across the courtyard when he was walking, from the balcony as you walked in the garden. And sometimes at night, when sleep came extra uneasily, he would rest his hand just close enough to brush yours between the sheets, not holding it, not quite that.

Simply close.

And then, there were the words. Sparse, but honest. When he spoke to you, it was never idle. No flattery, no pretty courtly lies. But when he told you something, he meant it. A memory of his brothers, a thought he had while flying, a single low-voiced admission after one of his many sleepless nights: “I do not know how to be what you deserve. But I will try.”

That was the first time he looked at you not as his wife, but as something more. Someone real. Someone he could not pretend to keep at a distance forever.

And then came the change.

It was not sudden—not the sort of shift that others noticed straight away—but you did. The way he lingered longer at your side. The way his hand found yours without hesitation, the way he began to listen when you spoke of your family, your home in the Reach, your childhood. He asked questions—not out of obligation, but interest as though he was trying, in his own quiet way, to build something with you.

Then one morning, not long after the first thaw of spring, you told him you were expecting.

For a long time, he said nothing. Just stared at you with something unreadable in his lone violet eye. You wondered if you’d done something wrong—if the news had stirred the wrong ghosts, if he truly regreted you in that moment. But then he stepped forward, hands unsure as they hovered just above your waist.

“Truly?” he asked, voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

You could only nod, and something in him broke.

Not in grief, but in wonder.

He sank to his knees before you—Aemond, Prince Regent, second son of Viserys the Peaceful, kinslayer, oathbreaker, dragonrider—and rested his forehead against the swell of your stomach that barely existed yet.

For the first time in your marriage, he wept. Not like a king. Not like a warrior. But like a man who had never believed he would feel anything again but cold.

After that, things began to change—not all at once, and not without effort. He still had sharpness in him, still vanished at times into thought or memory. But he returned to you quicker now. He sought you out without excuse, he placed a hand to your belly every night before sleep, and when he dreamed, he dreamed aloud to you—of flying, not for war, but for the sake of showing his child the sky.

He began to show up, not just as a ruler, or a husband, but as a man trying to build a life.

He spoke to you more freely, asked after your health, dotted on you in ways you didn’t think you needed, and read over the old Valyrian texts on childbirth and naming customs to better understand as your belly swelled. He took to escorting you through the Keep himself, one hand hovering protectively at your back, untrusting of the new guards. When you sat, he sat beside you. When you stood, he offered his arm to take the weight off. And when you smiled—when you truly smiled with teeth—he watched as if trying to memorise it.

At night, he would lie with his hand spread over your belly, his eye half-lidded with thought, whispering things he couldn’t say in daylight to anyone else but you.

“They will know your strength,” he murmured once. “Not just my blood, but yours too.”

He began to speak to the babe as if it could hear him—sometimes in High Valyrian, sometimes just in soft, uncertain words. He told stories he thought they’d like, he made promises. And when the council dared ask again about heirs and alliances, he answered with a calm finality that allowed no argument: “My queen carries the future, that is enough.”

Even the court—always gossiping, always watching—grew quieter in regards to the two of you. There was something different about him now. Aemond still walked like a sword unsheathed, but there was purpose behind it. Peace in the tension. He smiled more in the privacy of your quarters—not often, not wide, but real. And when he looked at you, it was with something unmistakable.

Not possession.

But sheer devotion.

And so, the man who had once been war incarnate now sat with a hand on your swelling belly, speaking softly of futures he had once believed would never come. And you—who had never expected to hold a broken dragon’s heart—held it nonetheless, steady and true.

For the first time in a long, blood-soaked history, Aemond’s life was no longer rooted only in violence, but in love. In life. In the quiet strength of a woman who had refused to flinch from him.

The day your daughter came into the world, the Red Keep was cloaked in storm clouds and the threat of rain. The wind howled over the walls, and thunder rumbled over Blackwater Bay, echoing off the water and straight to the Keep.

You had been in labour since the early hours, having woken up that same morning with a gush of wetness down your leg and a cramping that had you yelling for your husband instantly.

At first, customarily, Aemond had remained outside the birthing room. Left to pace the corridor like a barely contained dragon. But as the day dragged on, every scream that escaped the chamber sent a jolt through him—each one more violent than a sword to the gut.

He stood motionless at times, staring down the corridor with his jaw clenched so tightly that blood rose in his mouth and teeth threated to crack. The servants and maesters that would update him gave him a wide berth, and no one dared speak to him beyond that. Not even his mother, who watched him from a shadowed alcove, whispering prayers to the Mother and nonsense he couldn’t even listen to properly.

He tried to reason with himself, that this is nature, this is what women were expected endure. That his wife was strong, stronger than anyone he’d ever known.

“She will be fine, they said she would be fine.” He could hear rattling around his head.

But reason meant nothing when it was you crying out in pain behind that door.

And when the fourth hour passed—and then the fifth—and when he heard your voice break on a scream that sounded like it had been torn from your very soul, Aemond finally snapped.

Without a word or a care, he shoved open the heavy wooden doors that locked him from you, and stepped into the room.

The midwives gasped instantly, panicked on what to do as one of the maesters stumbled backwards. The heat of the room hit him like a wave—thick and metallic with blood, with sweat, with the scent of pain and your tears.

You lay on the birthing bed, hair damp and curling, cheeks flushed and streaked with tears, your body bent in the throes of another contraction as your hands grasped at the bedding. You didn’t see him at first, you were too far gone in the storm of labour to see him or hear his entrance.

He had never seen you like this, never seen anyone like this.

You looked like a goddess at war.

“Your Grace, you must wait outside,” one of the Maesters protested.

But Aemond didn’t hear him. He had gone utterly still by the door, frozen as he took you in.

You turned your head then—eyes meeting his—and in your gaze was something he’d never known how to name. Pain, yes, but also defiance. Love. Trust. Help.

“My love,” you rasped. Just one word, one breath. That was all he needed to know you needed him by your side, to stay.

And he did.

He crossed the room slowly as if the floor itself might collapse beneath his boots and knelt at your side. He was careful in taking your hand, unfurling it from the soaked cotton bedding, as it trembled with exertion. You gripped his fingers so tightly it hurt, but he didn’t flinch.

His pain, he could take. Yours, he could not.

“I’m here,” he said gently, voice cracking as he spoke only to you. “I’m here, my flame, I’m here...”

The next hour blurred into one, as you screamed, as you pushed, as you wept.

And Aemond—Aemond shook beside you like a boy who was trying to keep it together. He wiped the sweat from your brow with a trembling hand, he cursed the gods under his breath which each pushed. He pressed his forehead to your temple and whispered in High Valyrian a promise that no harm would come to you or the child.

And when, at last, the child emerged into the world—small and wailing, pink and perfect—Aemond was the first to move.

The maester, pale with exhaustion, offered a nod as he looked over the child. “A daughter, Your Grace.”

He watched, stunned, as the midwife cut the cord and wrapped the bloodied child in linens. His legs unsteady as a doe beneath him as he reached out for her.

She had barely opened her eyes, but he could see that they were as violet as starlight, and she cried.

Aemond Targaryen had never known such feelings.

He turned to you—your face radiant with exhaustion as the maid attended and cleaned you up, your smile fragile but victorious—and said the only thing he could.

“She’s perfect.”

You let out a weak laugh. “She’s ours.”

He stepped toward you then, laying the child against your chest, his hand still cradling her tiny back as she nuzzled your bare skin; her mother and her kin. Tiny fists scratching against your skin as she finally settled down at your touch.

“Her name is Vaella,” You whispered looking down at her, and he nodded once, reverently.

“Vaella,” he echoed, like a vow.

And as he knelt beside the bed, one arm wrapped around you, the other holding your daughter to your heart, the storm outside finally started. Rain lashed the windows, the wind howled across the stones.

But within the chamber, all was quiet.

Aemond had faced every horror the world had to offer, but nothing had brought him to his knees before quite like watching you bring life into it.

And from that moment forward, he was no longer just a kinslayer, or even a king.

He was a husband.

He was a father.

He was hers.

But, Aemond was not prepared for how small Vaella would be.

He had held her once in the birthing chamber—his body shaking, reverent—but in the days that followed, he found himself returning to that feeling again and again: awe, laced with something deeper. Something almost like fear. She was no larger than a bundled loaf of bread, with curled fists and rosebud lips, and yet she held more power over him than any blade ever had.

He had faced dragons and battlefields and traitors in the dark. But holding Vaella? That required a different kind of courage.

Now he woke each morning before the servants, before the sun itself kissed the sky. Not to train, not to talke with his council, but to sit in the chair by the window where the light fell soft and golden.

Sitting with Vaella cradled in his arms, her head tucked under his chin. Listening silently as she would grunt softly, stretching and kneeding like a kitten. Her fingers finding the edge of his tunic, touching and feeling the leather, her tiny breaths warming the skin at his throat.

He had never known peace could come in such small, perfect packages.

You watched him quietly in those first days, your body still aching from birth but your heart full and close to bursting. There had been a time—not long ago—when he would barely meet your gaze in the morning, when his grief still made a fortress of him and turned him into a hallow man who was still learning to be a husband. But now he stood barefoot by the cradle, his long silver hair unbound, softly whispering High Valyrian lullabies to your daughter as she blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Is she not the most beautiful thing in the world?” he asked you once, voice hoarse from wonder.

You smiled from the bed, your own arms aching from the days of holding her, feeding her from your breast, soothing her while he attended his kingly duty. “She is, and she has your temper.”

“She does,” he murmured, looking down at her with what might have once been a smirk, but was now something gentler. “She screams like a dragon, so I’ve heard.”

He began to learn her sounds—what each soft noise meant. Hunger. Discomfort. Sleepiness. He insisted on watching her himself more often than not when his duty didn’t call, despite the protests of nursemaid who were too terrified to object aloud. More than once, you caught him swearing softly under his breath as he fumbled with trying to do something with her in his arms, only to go quiet when she stared up at him, calm as the moon.

He was different with her, his daughter, his little flame, not softer, exactly—Aemond would never be completely soft—but he was present. More present than his own father had ever been. Intentional too, his sharpness, once honed for war, was now turned inward, focused entirely on keeping her world safe.

When she cried in the night, it was he who woke first.

You would wake and turn to find him already halfway to the cradle, arms reaching for her instantly. He would scoop her up like she weighed nothing and pace the room with to calm her. A far cry from his regality with his night shirt wrinkled, his eye heavy with sleep, whispering low comforts that made no sense to you and yet always calmed her.

And sometimes, when she finally drifted back to sleep against his shoulder, he would wait before putting her down. Choosing to sit at the edge on your side of your shared bed, just watching her, watching you, eye bright and thankful.

“You are... everything I did not know I needed,” He had said once, voice barely audible in the quiet night, watching intently as you fed your little Vaella from your breast. “Both of you.”

Those words echoed in your chest long after he spoke them.

You had not expected him to take to fatherhood so completely. He had never been raised with much gentleness, never been shown what it meant to be loved without condition. But somehow, with Vaella, he had figured it out all on his own, something in him that would never make the same mistakes that had been made to him.

Still, not everything was perfect.

There were nights when the weight of it all seemed to press too heavily on him—when Vaella’s cries stirred something deeper in him, something wounded and scared. You would find him staring out the window on those nights, unmoving, with her in his arms. Her little fists beating on his chest as he tried to keep calm, his jaw clenched tight as if holding back some ghost he couldn’t name. You knew not to speak then, you wouldn’t ask, you knew he would tell you in time, instead, you would only press your hand gently to his back, and after a moment, he would breathe again.

You never pushed him, for your dragon always came back to you.

One evening, you found him asleep by the fire, slumped in the armchair with Vaella curled against his chest like a dragon hatchling. His silver hair had fallen over his face. Her tiny hand was tangled in it, holding tight even in sleep.

You stood there a long time, watching them not keen to wake either dragon from their slumber—father and daughter, fire and breath—and felt the world settle.

Aemond had once believed he would die with nothing but rage and honour to his name. But now, in the quiet of this new life, he had something far greater: A child who trusted him completely, and a wife who had never flinched from him.

And a future—fragile, yes, but finally his to hold, some tangible prize that somehow made the last few years’ worth all the pain and grief.

By the time Vaella reached nine months, she had mastered the art of wrapping Aemond Targaryen around her tiny, chubby fingers.

She was crawling now—fast, determined, always after something, or trying to look for someone.

Usually waiting her father. It to the point that she so much as heard the distant sound of his boots in the corridor, her little hands would slap against the stone floor as she scrambled toward the door. Little body shuffling and bubbling out excited noises that only grew louder when her father finally appeared in the doorway.

And even after a long day of meetings and holding court, he still had the energy to share his daughter's excitement with a smile that he'd never share anywhere else.

Aemond was as soft as melted butter in the sun when it came to her.

He made never let her cry or wait for long, not if he could help it. The moment her lip wobbled or her hands reached for him, he was there—scooping her up with a tenderness so at odds with his reputation that even the most hard-hearted of courtiers would be shocked to see him.

But peace in your home, as always, was temporary.

The Riverlands were stirring again.

It wasn’t war—at least, not yet, not if he could help it—but there were disputes between old houses, tension still thick in the air from the burning at Aemond’s hand barely buried. And the lords had requested the presence of the crown itself to remind them who ruled, to build amends with them for everything he had done. Aemond had resisted at first, he had trained stewards and sent emissaries in his place, even some of his small council. But in the end, it had to be him.

Him, with his dragon’s shadow again covering the Riverlands.

Him, as a symbol of the realm’s new stability, despite terrorising the Riverlands just years previously. He had lamented to you in the dark of the nights, the both of you curled in bed as he whispered that I didn’t feel like he could ever go back, for as fearsome as your husband was, then the crown was off and the court was away, he was just as scared at the young boy he had hoped he had grown out of.

You knew he had to go, and he knew it too, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“She won’t understand,” he murmured to you the night before his departure, holding Vaella tightly against his chest as she babbled sleepily, her fist clutching strands of his hair. “She’ll think I left.”

You reached for him, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you sat beside him on your shared bed, curled affectionately towards him. “She’ll know you’re coming back, my dragon.”

His eye flicked to yours. “Will she? She’s just a babe.”

“She’s your daughter,” you said gently. “And your daughter is brighter than all the men on your council combined, she’ll know you won’t be gone for long.”

That earned you a quiet smile, a tired one, a grateful one.

“She tried to say dada today,” you added softly, your hand smoothing over her little back, feeling the breaths under your palm.

“She did not.” He tutted softly, amused at you.

“She said ‘Dahhh’ and pointed at the sky. I’m counting it.”

He laughed, truly laughed, and the sound loosened something in your chest.

The morning he left, Vaella was still drowsy when he pressed a kiss to her downy hair and another to your lips. She clung to his tunic as if she knew something was different, that something wasn’t right, letting out a soft protest when he tried to pass her back to you, her tiny legs kicking instantly, anxiously.

“I’ll return before the next moon, but hopefully sooner,” he promised, resting his forehead gently against yours. “And I’ll bring her something—perhaps a river pearl, or a little sword she can’t use yet.”

“She’ll want your boots and your rings and nothing else,” you said, smiling despite the ache in your heart, bouncing the babe who looked confused as to why her father was so sad.

“I’ll give her all of it.” He murmured softly, promsing.

And then he was gone—Aemond, King, Protector of the Realm, husband, father—swept away by duty once more.

The Keep was quieter without him.

Vaella adjusted better than you had feared, though she grew restless in the evenings without her father to sing to her. Her eyes would always flick to the door, and she’d crawl toward it whenever heavy footsteps of a guard passed, as if expecting to find her father there again, arms open, waiting.

Only to be saddened when the door never opened, her tiny bottom on the floor in waiting.

At night, you held her a little tighter than usual, cuddling her as tight as Aemond did, trying to sing the songs that only his tongue could muster. And when she said "Dada" for the first time—clear, strong, insistent as she looked at the door—you wept.

You wrote to him every day, though you knew the ravens could not always keep pace with his travels. Still, you did it anyway. You told him of Vaella’s teeth beginning to finally push through her gums, how she began to bite at everything and anything to numb the pain of it growing.

How she tried to mimic your laugh and clap when she’d sit with you, or copy the words you’d say in tiny babbles. How she discovered her reflection and seemed convinced it was another babe, a friend, a sibling.

And Aemond, despite his busyness, wrote back when he could, his letters were short but warm. You could tell he wasn’t indulging the stress of being in the Riverlands and dealing with them, trying to make amends and put out fires that had long continued to burn over the years, he never wished to stress you, but he always left ending with a line for his darling girl:

Tell Vaella her father dreams of her laugh every night.

It was three long weeks later when he returned.

It was not a grand return, not heralded by trumpets or banners. Just the soft thunder of Vhagar’s wings against the clouds, circling once above the Keep before landing outside the gates as the sun began to set. Closer than he would usually land, but he was anxious to return to you, to his family.

You were already waiting with Vaella in your arms, wrapped tightly your soft pink cloak, her little eyes squinting against the fading light as the two of you stood just outside the city gates, surrounded by modest amounts of guards.

The moment Aemond dismounted Vhagar, Vaella let out a loud, delighted shriek, her legs kicking in your hold as her tiny fists flapped about, eager to get out of your arms and to him.

“Dada!” She shrieked into the early evening.

Aemond froze at the sound, and for the briefest second, his composure cracked where he stood—lips parted, chest heaving, eye glassy with stunned emotion. And then he was pacing towards you, his hand and his councilmen forgotten as he b-lined for his flames, his girls.

He reached you without hesitation, arms wrapping around both of you at once. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your lips, and finally, carefully, he took Vaella from your arms and held her as if she were something sacred.

“Let me see you,” he whispered, cupping the back of her head with one long-fingered hand. “Gods, let me look at you.”

She babbled at him, delighted, hands tugging at his collar, and he just laughed—low and hoarse and full of something ancient and overwhelming.

“She’s heavier,” he murmured. “Has she grown this much in just three weeks?”

“She never stops moving,” you said, smiling, fingers brushing her soft cheek. “And she said ‘Dada’ for the first time this week.”

Aemond pressed his forehead gently to hers. “She saved it for me.”

“She did.”

He didn’t let go of her as he walked with you back through the Keep.

The servants bowed deeply as he passed, he was still their king, but he scarcely noticed them. His world had narrowed to just two: the child in his arms and his wife at his side. And for all his grace and poise, there was something nearly boyish in the way he kept glancing down at Vaella, as though afraid she might disappear if he blinked.

That night, you did not dine in the Great Hall.

You stayed in your private chambers, just the three of you, with a fire that burned low in the hearth, casting golden light across the stone walls, and the air was filled with the scent of violets and cinnamon from the oils your maids had used earlier in your bath.

The room was made ready with dinner upon your arrival; plates of meats, fruits, and cheese, and a small bowl prepared just for the baby. The servants slipping away quietly as you entered, leaving the three of you in peace.

Aemond wasted no time as he sank down into the chair with a weary exhale, pulling Vaella into his chest again and watching her explore his face again with tiny, curious fingers, poking and prodding.

“She has two teeth now,” you said, handing him the tiny silver spoon to feed her with. “But don’t let her bite you, she keeps trying to take fingers and nip at them.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, amused, letting her gum at the spoon before attempting to feed her.

It was clumsy, but he was out of practice. She spit half the food onto his sleeve and herself, but he laughed, there was no anger to be had in a happy baby.

“She’s perfect.” He mumbled again, neglecting his own food while his girls ate.

You sat across from him, watching the two of them like a dream made real. The fire crackled. The Keep was quiet. And the King who once spoke only of war and vengeance now gently wiped mashed pear from his daughter’s chin, letting her smear a sticky mess on him as she found a way to nibble at his knuckles too, all without flinching.

When she was finally full and drowsy from food and milk, Aemond pulled her close against his chest, rocking her slowly. He had refused to let the nursemaids take Vaella for the night and denied entry to every servant who came to the door.

Tonight was not for the crown. Tonight was for him and his family. In that quiet moment, Aemond was not a king, not a ruler—he was simply a father and a husband.

“I hated being away,” he admitted quietly. “Even when I was doing what had to be done. It felt… wrong. Empty, without the two of you by my side.”

Your heart thumped a little harder at that, your footsteps quiet as you rose and knelt beside his chair, your hand resting on his leg.

“You came back in one piece,” you said. “That’s what matters, to both me and her.”

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your brow, and then another to your lips—slow, lingering, grateful.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve either of you,” he said against your skin, “but I swear to the gods I’ll never take this for granted.”

Eventually, it was time for bed, and he undressed slowly, carefully, comfortably for the first time in weeks. He wore a simple black tunic and breeches as he took Vaella from her cradle once last time, settling into the large chair near the fire to sing to her like he did before he left, his long legs stretched out, her tiny form curled on his chest.

You sat nearby, dressed softly in your own nightwear, hands carefully undoing your hair as you sat and watched him. He was staring at the child like she had become his religion.

“She crawls faster now,” You said softly, brushing out your hair from the day. “Sometimes I swear she’s trying to find speed and fly.”

“She’ll ride before she walks if I have anything to say about it,” he replied, his voice low. “She’ll have Vhagar, one day.”

“She might not want Vhagar.” You smile softly.

“She’ll have any dragon on Dragonstone that she pleases when she’s older,” He hummed softly, lips pressing to her hair.

“But for now, I’ll build her a saddle for your lap, and we’ll fly together on Vhagar,” he said with a faint, wistful smile. “I will never leave her or you again—not like that, not for that long.”

“She understood,” you said gently. “She missed you, but she never doubted you’d return. I think… in her own way, she knows who you are.”

“Who I was,” he corrected quietly. “But she changes everything.”

You watched as Vaella’s fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic. Her lashes fluttered, already falling into sleep. Aemond looked down at her, as if in awe that something so perfect could find rest against him.

“She is the best of us,” he whispered. “Because of you, I look at her, and I see the man I left behind… and the peace that I took and almost didn’t believe I deserved.”

He looked at you then, eye soft in a way only you had ever seen.

“Thank you,” he said. “For waiting. For keeping her whole, for keeping me whole.”

You rose from your vanity seat and came to his side, sitting on the arm of the chair, your hand resting lightly over his on her back, and the other on his neck as you kissed his hair. Vaella slept between you, her warmth binding you both tighter than any crown or vow ever could.

And in that firelit room, for the first time in years, Aemond did not feel like a prince returning from war. Or a King out of his element.

He felt like a man who had finally come home.

[a-bit-of-writing]

08/30 - Negotiate

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Astarion x Reader 

Words: 1,291

Summary: Astarion is used to giving… in exchange for something. Blood, pleasure, favors - everyone wants something. So when you do something kind with no strings attached, he’s suspicious. Then he’s confused. Then he’s undone. Because no one ever offers him company without a price….until now.

note: been wanting to do this for a while now - so I consider this the 1st chapter of my yet to be announced full story. For now, it serves as Day 8th of my fanfiction challenge,

Moonlight silvered every broken column around the camp, catching on pale birch trunks and the scattered shards of shattered statues. The others were asleep or on watch, their muted voices drifting somewhere beyond the ruined archway. Only Astarion remained in the central clearing, lounging with theatrical languor on a fallen pillar, crimson-lined cloak spread like spilled wine across the stone.

You approached with a small mending kit cradled in one hand. His white silk shirt - savaged by a ghoul’s claws earlier - gaped open at the shoulder, fraying threads fluttering against alabaster skin.

Astarion’s eyes flicked to the kit, then to you. One pale brow arched in lazy appraisal. “Darling, if you were desperate to get my clothes off again, you only had to ask.”

You ignored the bait, sinking to your knees beside him. “Hold still.”

“My favorite command,” he murmured, voice a purr shaped for dark corners and entanglements. “Though I usually prefer it whispered.”

You threaded the needle. “And I prefer my patients quiet.”

His lips parted in a small, delighted “ooh,” but he obeyed. Only the occasional hiss of thread sliding through cloth broke the hush. When your knuckles brushed his skin, cool as porcelain beneath moonlight, he glanced down, lashes half‑lidded.

“Must you be so gentle?” he asked, faux‑petulant. “I fear I’ll become accustomed to it.”

“You could learn to enjoy softness,” you said, tightening the final knot.

“Oh, I enjoy many soft things.” His gaze dipped, undeniably appreciative, before returning to your face. “But softness always comes with a bill.” He flashed teeth - not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Shall we discuss payment?”

You finished snipping the thread. “There is none.”

A laugh burst from him, bright and brittle. “Adorable. Truly. But come now - everyone wants something.” He rose, looming above you, silk settling over lean muscle. “A kiss? A bite? A night tangled in sheets until dawn burns us both? Name it.”

You stood, brushing pine needles from your knees. “Not interested.”

“In me?” He pressed a hand theatrically to his chest. “Impossible. Or perhaps coin, then? Secrets? I have centuries’ worth - recipes for poison, noble scandals, the names of hidden vaults.”

You shook your head.

His smile thinned. “Power, maybe? A favor owed by a monster with sharp teeth. Very useful, our kind of favor.”

Still you said nothing.

Astarion’s mirth cooled into suspicion. He prowled a half‑circle around you, predator graceful despite the torn shirt. “Fine. We’ll drop the flirtation. What darkness do you hide, sweet thing? Are you planning to trade my gratitude for someone else’s misery?”

“Astarion—”

“Or do you fancy ensnaring me?” He leaned close, breath velvet and iron. “Make me yours the way Cazador made me his? I’ve worn chains before; I can spot new ones being forged.”

The hurt behind the venom stung more than the words. You inhaled, steadying your voice. “I don’t want chains. Not on you. Not on anyone.”

He scoffed, but the sound wavered. “Then what do you want?”

You hesitated. Because the truth felt too small, too fragile for a man who thought currency only came in blood or lust. Yet you spoke it anyway, quiet but unwavering.

“Your company,” you said. “Your presence. Sit with me awhile. Just talk. Nothing sexual, no favors owed.” You met his eyes. “That’s all.”

A bark of incredulous laughter escaped him. “That’s rich! You mend my shirt and ask for tea‑time conversation? Darling, is this some new kink I haven’t heard of?”

“I’m serious.”

“People do not help Astarion Ancunin for conversation. They help for pleasure, profit, or pity and I despise all three.”

“I’m not offering pity,” you answered. “And conversation is a pleasure, at least to me. If you’d rather walk away, you can.”

He opened his mouth - surely to deliver another teasing barb - but the words died. You watched his expression shift, glittery amusement draining until confusion sat naked on his features. It lasted only a heartbeat before he hid it behind a smirk, but you’d seen it: the startled child beneath the painted masque.

He licked his lips, voice softer. “You truly expect nothing else?”

“I expect you to keep the shirt intact,” you said, folding your kit. “Beyond that? No.”

Silence unfurled, heavy as velvet. The campfire popped; an ember drifted skyward. Somewhere distant, a nightjar called.

Finally, hesitantly, Astarion settled back on the pillar and patted the mossy stone beside him. “Well. If conversation is the price, it would be rude not to pay.” His tone aimed for flippant but landed shy of conviction.

You sat, leaving a respectful hand’s breadth between you. He glanced at the gap, then at your face, as though trying to discern an angle he could exploit. Finding none, he exhaled - a soft, bewildered sound.

“What would you have me speak about?” he asked. “I warn you, my tales skew toward decadence and gore.”

“Tell me what you miss,” you said, staring into the fire. “Before all this.”

He blinked. Perhaps no one had asked him that in two centuries. You could almost hear the rusty gears turning.

“I…miss flavor,” he said at last, voice contemplative. “Food was pointless after Cazador. Imagine recalling the taste of wine, but every sip now is ash unless it’s blood.” He forced a laugh. “That’s terribly morbid dinner chatter, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Dinner’s long over.”

He studied you. In the fire‑lit dark, his crimson eyes caught sparks of gold. “I used to love pastries,” he muttered, as if confessing sin. “Piled high with sugared berries. There was a bakery near the palace in Baldur’s Gate. Dawn‑rise steam in the windows, the scent of yeast and honey.” A wistful curl shaped his mouth, bruised by longing. “I would sneak out with friends after magistrate meetings. Ruin my appetite before banquets.” He huffed. “Petty rebellion, but mine.”

You listened, neither pitying nor prodding. The quiet between you carried no demand. He seemed to feel that difference - like cool water on burned skin.

“Your turn,” he said, after a while. “What do you miss?”

You told him: moonlit windows in a city far south, the hush right before summer rain, the way fresh parchment smells when you crack open a new journal. Small, human things - evenly traded.

Time blurred. He lounged with one knee drawn up, cloak draping elegant folds. Anecdotes slipped free - barbed jokes about Balduran nobles, sly impressions of Cazador’s fawning spawn. Each story left a little more daylight between him and his fear.

When the fire dwindled to a glowing heart, Astarion stretched lithely. “Look at that - we’ve nearly talked the poor flames to death.”

You offered him the blanket draped over your shoulders. “I’m heading to my bedroll. Keep warm.”

He accepted it, fingertips brushing yours - a touch light as breath, yet enough to raise gooseflesh. He noticed, of course; his lips tilted upward in the faintest, most genuine smile you’d seen.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he said. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

A pause. “For deciding I’m worth more than barter.”

You gave a small nod and started toward your corner of camp.

At your first step, his voice followed: dry, teasing again, yet threaded with something softer.

“Just so we’re clear,” he called, “if you ever want to renegotiate - say, trade polite company for a night tangled in scandalous positions - you have only to ask.”

You laughed, glancing back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He watched you until you vanished beyond the ruined archway. Only when the night quieted did Astarion glance at the neat stitches on his sleeve. He brushed them with one thumb, as if testing reality.

For the first time in two hundred years, someone had offered him kindness priced not in flesh, coin, or fear but in presence. A currency he scarcely believed existed.

And in the hush of crumbling moonlit stone, Astarion found himself strangely, achingly…rich.

[cheralith]

feat. mikage reo || wc: 1.0k contains: gn!reader, no pronouns used, implications of sex but nothing explicit, angst w/ some comfort, time-skip so aged-up characters

you break reo’s heart at seventeen not because you want to, but because you have to.

his parents find a singular condom wrapper in his bedroom trashcan and run after you like madmen. venom dripping as they tell you to lay your hands off their son if you know what’s best for you whilst slide you over a hefty stack of hush money for your silence. your fingers tremble when you take and count it, calculating that this would be enough to help you and your struggling aunt pay the piling bills once and for all.

they figure that won’t be enough. so they send you to the states, somewhere far where reo can’t find you. they say they’ll pay for your living and education expenses and that they’ll fund for your college—just stay away from their son and keep quiet. with no other option, you take the offer on behalf of your poor aunt.

on the other side, reo is losing it. his sanity is on the decline, a thin thread that barely holds him together unraveling more by the day that he can’t find you.

you’ve stopped coming to class. stopped picking up his calls and responding to his texts, his speech bubbles turning green one day to his horror. when he visits your old complex, he finds that his gifts he’s sent to you remain untouched and collecting dust in your mailbox. and when he asks the landlady what happened to the tenants in 4b, she lowly mutters they simply moved out, knowing one wrong move could land her in a sticky situation as well.

he does everything in his power to track you down, but everyone that he talks to is under his parents command before his, and they give him filtered answers that lead him nowhere.

on his hands on knees, reo begs his parents to let him know where you are, to at least let him know that you were safe. so they paint a false narrative of you to fully shatter the remnants of his heart that clings onto you—a selfish, greedy thing. snatched their money without hesitation when it was offered to you. and when they see the heartbreak that smears on their son’s face, the job is finished.

he thought you were different, a white rose amongst the common red. he thought you saw deeper into him than just his family name, that you saw him—but no. you saw him as a walking bank and nothing more. you were just like the rest of them. how could he be so naive?

his heart crumbles into dust and blackens itself at the mere thought of your face, a specialized hatred rooting and curating itself just for you.

twelve years later, he’s at a charity event for a company that one of his subsidiaries are working with. idle chatter and meaningless conversations go by, and all the incoming-ceo of mikage corp wants to do is go home. the event is beginning to finally wrap up and he’s finishing up some last-minute talks with a couple of associates from his subsidiary. reo bids them goodbye at last and starts to pace out the door until he freezes in his place at the sight that beholds in front of him.

you stand there, quietly right behind a man in a pressed suit with a tablet in your arms. twelve years has aged you gracefully to his disdain, making you more radiant than when he first met you, when you broke his heart. a little taller now, with your hair styled differently yet neatly and your best facial features matured into your face, reo’s breath hitches at the sight of you; he thinks the chandelier gracing your being with that halo-like glow isn’t helping his case.

his fingers twitch and his arm juts out slightly, as if to reach for you, to touch you and feel that you’re real and here in front of him. a trembling lip silently calls out for your name, but a weird noise jumps out of his throat that makes everyone in front of him look in his direction—you included.

the man that you stand behind—lavinho is his name, reo believes—breaks out into a large smile and approaches the heir, calling out his name. but his voice goes muffled, your wide-eyed face being the only thing crystal clear in hazy vision.

you were doing so well, avoiding him for this dreaded night, and you nearly just got away without notice until the very last second, fate drawing a wicked turn of events.

you cough out to lavinho that you’ve forgotten something in the bathroom and usher out before he can reach you first, using your boss as a distraction to get away. shoes clicking rapidly against the tiled floors, you focus all your energy in escaping reo’s radius and think you’ve just about made it to the parking lot where your car is… until you feel a hand grab your wrist.

the stiffness in your neck is telling you not to turn around. you want to believe your hand is just caught in something, that the warmth enveloping your skin is just caused by something unworldly, but the scent of cologne that airs around you suffocates you and twists your conscience back to reality.

a cold breath draws from your lips. you attempt to pull your hand away from whatever had hitched it, but it remains where it is, stubborn. your neck creaks as you slowly turn back, the one person you’ve been attempting to avoid all evening staring his iris eyes incredulously at you.

reo thought he’d be cursing your name ‘til the day he was six feet under, his heart shallowed and chilled since the day you severed yourself from his life. but his chest warms, something thawing inside of him as you share your gaze with him, the image of his first love looking back at him with the trepidation behind your stare going unnoticed.

he smiles, his eyes with dilated pupils softening.

“you came back to me.”

[drfruitcake]

Left On Read

Michael Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader

Rating: Explicit / MDNI (language & smut) Word count: ~4,200 Tags: reader insert, no use of y/n, colleagues to lovers, mutual pining, slight age gap (29F and 50M), smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected p in v, oral sex (F receiving), no beta

Summary: You accidentally send Dr. Robby a nude photo. You both spend the day spiraling out over it — and then you spend the night together.

Notes: This is literally just an excuse for some shameless smut. I am not a health care professional, so please forgive any medical inaccuracies.

Read on AO3 or under the cut.

Michael Robinavitch nearly dropped his phone, which could have been a disastrous fumble, given he was presently stepping into the elevator of his apartment building. 

It was nearly 7 a.m. and far too early for a text like that. Especially from you, the fifth-year surgical resident he had grown to know quite well; the one who was sharp and witty, poised and composed, always one of the smartest in the room. Though you were two decades younger than him, he viewed you as a colleague worthy of admiration and respect. 

He certainly did not view you as someone who sent 7 a.m. nudes accompanied by the caption, “You coming tonight?”

Michael stared in disbelief at the text thread, void of any coherent response. His brain seemed to stutter over the erotic image of you, posing in your bedroom mirror, fresh out of the shower with nothing on, your lips curved in a sly smirk as if you knew you were going to inflict absolute chaos that day. Of course, you didn’t know that the senior attending of the ER would be on the receiving end of that chaotic missile you casually dropped with one tap of the Send button. 

Michael blinked in disbelief as the elevator reached the bottom floor, its doors gliding open while his eyes remained glued to the sexuality splayed across his phone screen. It wasn’t until someone stepped into the elevator that Michael snapped from his trance. 

He scrambled to swipe the image from his screen in a clash of guilt and shame before he scurried from the elevator to head to work. 

A sudden tightness surged within his throat as the shame snowballed. Something felt morally wrong about seeing you that way. Sure, Michael had pictured how you looked beneath your scrubs on countless occasions, but that was a secret meant only for the filthiest depths of his private mind. This vision was now a mutual thread between the two of you — one he hadn’t asked for. Not that he was complaining. 

The truth was Michael had a painful attraction to you, and seeing you in your most intimate form wasn’t going to help him overcome it.

But clearly that picture had been meant for someone else, right? The previous texts before you sent that dastardly photo were your brags about beating Michael in your fantasy football league that week. There had been no exchange to prompt such an obscene display of intimacy, no indication of any attraction or desire – though it certainly existed.

Michael dragged a hand over his face as he pocketed his phone with no response. What could he possibly say to that, especially when he couldn’t be sure that photo was meant for him? 

Meanwhile, you strolled into the surgical floor of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center none the wiser to your little mishap. Once you removed your jacket and put your purse in your locker, you decided to check your phone one final time before the start of your shift.

You frowned in disappointment at the blank screen. Surely Rodney, your six-week situationship, would have at least replied to your risqué text with a heart-eyes emoji.

When you opened up your message threads, your stomach sank — and you wanted to sink to your knees, or perhaps all the way into the earth.

“Fuuuuuck,” you hissed as you realized your mistake. The worst part was the “Read 6:55 AM” below your message, sent to the hot senior attending of the ER you’d likely have to face before the day’s end. “No no no,” you groaned as the fear and mortification bloomed throughout your body.

You considered marching up to the roof of the hospital and flinging yourself to the streets below. But the worst part was, if you somehow managed to survive such a fall, Michael would be one of the first people you’d see when they inevitably scraped you off the sidewalk and hauled you into the ER. And then he would have seen you naked and brain dead all in the same day. 

You decided to avoid the ER at all costs.

Of course, that vow was short-lived as soon as Dr. Walsh sent you down there for a consult. You held your breath the entire elevator ride down, your heart rattling within your ribcage as you silently prayed Dr. Robby had the day off. You exhaled and thanked every higher power you didn’t believe in when you didn’t see him at the nurses’ station.

That gratitude was fleeting. Two steps into Room 2 and you damn near stopped dead in your tracks when you spotted Dr. Robby standing behind Dr. Mohan. You locked eyes before you could avert your gaze and the mutual realization of your shared situation sent your nervous system into overdrive. You couldn’t read him, which unnerved you even more. 

What if he thought that photo had been meant for him? What if he thought you were some kind of sexual deviant? What if he’d lost all respect for you? What if he’d shown that photo to your colleagues? 

All of your anxieties mingled until you became acutely aware that there was a wounded patient in front of you.

“What have we got?” you croaked, tearing your eyes from Dr. Robby.

“Gerard Milligan,” Samira answered. “Coworker says he fell about 10 feet off a roof and landed on a fence post. Vitals are good.”

You examined poor Gerard Milligan and ordered the team to take him up for surgery, but it was painfully clear you were distracted. So was Dr. Robby.

You snuck a sideways glance at him, your eyes darting away as soon as you realized he was watching you. You felt certain your skin would catch fire beneath his gaze. Part of you wished it would.

“You alright?” Samira asked with worried eyes as the room cleared out. You watched Dr. Robby return to the desk to chat with Dana before you sucked your top row of teeth.

“I fucked up,” you said quietly, your lips thinning as you tried to decide how to reveal to your friend that you’d mistakenly sent a nude photo to her boss.

“With the patient?”

“No. With Dr. Robby.”

“How so?” Samira studied you with curious eyes.

“I accidentally sent him something,” you continued carefully. “Something he wasn’t meant to see.”

“What are you talking about?”

You heaved a sigh. “I accidentally sent Dr. Robby a nude.”

Samira’s eyes doubled in size. “What?!”

“I meant to send it to Rodney – that guy I told you about – the one I’ve hooked up with a few times,” you explained. “But I accidentally sent it to Dr. Robby this morning.”

“What’d he say?”

“He left me on read – no response!” You could tell Samira was fighting a laugh. “Don’t laugh, this is serious!”

“You probably left the poor guy speechless,” Samira mused. “He probably doesn’t know what to do with all that.”

“It’s not funny! What if he thinks I meant to send it to him?”

“Well, would that be the worst thing?” Samira asked with a pointed stare. You’d been close friends for four years and she’d picked up on your crush on Michael ages ago, not that you ever discussed it.

“Yes!” you hissed. “Because it’s not like he’s into me! He probably thinks I’m a freak.”

“Maybe he’s into freaky shit.”

“Be for real!”

“I am,” Samira said. “Everyone down here in the ER thinks he’s down bad for you.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Think about it,” Samira said matter-of-factly. “He’s always going on about how brilliant you are, and how he wishes you would have considered emergency med. And he’s always eyeing you with that sad, wistful stare. Plus you know more about football than him, and I think that secretly turns him on.”

“Oh, stop!”

 “I’m just saying,” Samira laughed. “I’m sure he’s not upset about receiving that photo.”

“I want to die,” you groaned as you followed Samira from the room.

“Well, what are you going to do?” she asked.

“Avoid the ER for the rest of my life.”

“Or maybe you should just talk to him about it.”

“Or maybe I could quit my job and move across the country.”

“Hey, sweetheart!” Dana called toward you. You swore under your breath before turning to offer Dana a smile, your eyes determined to avoid Dr. Robby. “How you been? Had a good a weekend?”

“It was good,” you offered casually as you strode toward the nurses’ station. “Uneventful.”

“Heard you kicked Dr. Robby’s ass in fantasy football.”

Jesus fucking Christ. “Yeah,” you managed with a breathy laugh. “Not like it was hard.”

You could feel Dr. Robby’s eyes fixated on you. Was he thinking about that photo right now? Was he disturbed or disgusted? Was he disappointed in you? Or was there a chance he was turned on?

“Pretty easy to rack up a win when you’ve got Saquon Barkley on your roster,” Michael said. You shrugged a nonchalant shoulder and finally dared to meet his eyes. Their intensity made your breath hitch.

“Draft better next year,” you said simply, praying you could keep your cool. Meanwhile, Dana and Samira were watching your exchange as if it were live theatre.

“I’m okay with you beating me as long as it means you beat Langdon,” Michael said. “I can’t stand another year of his insufferable bragging.”

“I’m sure I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m sure you will.” Something flickered in his eyes as he spoke, rendering you immobile. You couldn’t decipher it, and you didn’t dare provoke it in front of your colleagues.

“Well, I’d better get upstairs,” you finally said, tearing your gaze from Michael to smile at Dana. “Catch up with you later, okay?”

As you disappeared behind the elevator doors, Michael disappeared into the bathroom. 

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered after splashing cold water on his face. He wasn’t even halfway through his shift and that image of you had him in a chokehold. Michael gripped the edge of the sink and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to ground himself and banish the vision away. Instead, he found himself imagining you in even greater detail.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he hissed as he shook his head. 

He couldn’t continue to work like this, but he also couldn’t possibly broach the subject with you. What would he do, waltz up to you and declare, “Hey, nice photo!” That was a sure trip to human resources. 

He had no choice, he decided, but to continue to pretend as if it hadn’t happened. Eventually, you’d both forget about it, right?

But Michael knew damn well he couldn’t forget about that picture if he tried.

Dr. Walsh didn’t help matters. Despite your protests, she ordered you back down to the ER for another consult in the afternoon. You checked your phone first, expecting to see a reply from Rodney after you sent him the photo, but instead found a message from your best friend from college.

“Check Instagram,” was all her text said. Your heart sank as you opened the app and scrolled through your feed, unsure what you were supposed to be looking for. You stopped mid-scroll when Rodney’s face popped up, your throat tightening as you realized he’d been tagged in a photo by a woman. He stood, smiling with an arm hooked around her waist as she kissed him on the cheek. The caption said, “Celebrating one year with the love of my life!”

“What the fuck,” you groaned in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

You tossed your phone into your locker and headed for the ER.

“What have we here?” you asked with feigned composure as you walked into the chaos unfolding within Room 1.

“Two-car MVA,” Samira responded. “The dashboard folded inward and pinned his legs.”

The patient hurled a string of obscenities in pain as he flailed, arms shooting upward. One caught you on the cheek with a closed fist, forcing you backward.

Michael was on you before you could even taste the blood in your mouth. 

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly, a hand finding the small of your back. You felt that more than the sting in your jaw.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you sighed, wincing at the raw cut inside your mouth, where your tooth connected with your inner cheek. “I hate the taste of blood, though.”

“Well, that clears up the vampire rumors,” Michael quipped. Your colleagues vacated the room and wheeled the patient out, leaving just the two of you. You offered him an exasperated smile and he leaned in closer to peer at your cheek.

“I’m fine,” you insisted quietly. “Just a small cut in my mouth.”

“Do you need some gauze? You didn’t bite your tongue, did you?”

“For once, no,” you joked. Michael flashed a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, and you knew exactly what he was thinking about.

“Listen,” you sighed before you could stop yourself. “About that text…” Michael held his breath. “That was… a really unfortunate and horrifying mistake.”

“It was… certainly an interesting start to my morning,” Michael said carefully. There was a hint of lighthearted jest in his tone, and while you were grateful for his attempt at softening the situation, you were still humiliated.

“I can’t even imagine,” you continued, a flush settling across your features. “I mean, I really am so, so sorry. It was so completely inappropriate and I swear I never would try to make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” Michael cut in gently. “Really. Forget it happened.”

You paused to catch your breath, your nerves still screaming in despair. “Okay,” you said with a long exhale. “Thanks for, you know, understanding. And I promise to double-check before sending any more texts like that.”

“Good idea,” Michael replied. “I’m sure your boyfriend would appreciate that.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you responded stupidly, before you could stop yourself. “He’s just a guy I was… seeing.”

“Ah, I see.”

“To be honest, this was all for naught. I found out today he has a girlfriend.”

“Ouch. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You breathed a fake laugh, in disbelief at how your day had managed to devolve into such absurdity as you moved to leave the room. “I’d only been seeing him a few weeks. Not a big deal. Anyway, I apologize if I’ve left you permanently scarred for life.”

“Like I said, forget it happened,” Michael said reassuringly as he held the door open for you.

But any chance of him forgetting evaporated when you’d mentioned you didn’t have a boyfriend, and that things had fallen apart with Rodney. Though it was now clear that picture wasn’t intended for him, Michael realized he’d never look at you the same.

He decided he could either be plagued by the omnipresent vision of you looking like absolute sin incarnate, or he could make an effort to put years of distant, desperate desire to bed.

When he ended up loitering on the front steps of your townhouse, you nearly tripped over your own feet.

“Dr. Robby?” you asked, slowing your pace as you approached with caution – not because you were fearful of him, but because you were stunned he’d seek you out after you’d essentially sexually harassed him via phone.

“Hey,” was his response.

“What are you-”

“I, uh, just wanted to check and make sure you’re okay. You seemed to have had a rough day.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright,” you answered carefully, your dry mouth a stark contrast to your sweaty palms. “Nothing I won’t get over. You know, beyond the lifetime of embarrassment.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” There was a glitch in his tone; much more confident and dominant than you’d expected. It matched his gaze, which was starting to suffocate you with its intensity. Michael no longer felt like the senior attending of the ER or your colleague. He felt like a man you desperately needed to discover at a much deeper level. 

“Do you… do you want to come inside, have a beer?” you asked, silently willing your nerves to develop some semblance of confidence. You wanted to be the fun, sexy version of yourself you’d shown in that photo. But Michael already saw you that way, and he wanted to match it.

“Yeah, alright,” he responded, his voice turning raspier than usual. He stood behind you as you unlocked your front door. You felt idiotic as you nearly fumbled your keys. You were a fucking surgeon, known for your steady hands, and you couldn’t even unlock your goddamn door.

But once inside, Michael gazed at you through heavy lids. You stared back with bedroom eyes and gathered the courage to pull the trigger. 

“You know, that photo was meant for someone else,” you started steadily as you kicked your sneakers off and slid out of your jacket. “But I’m curious to know what you thought.”

You watched the muscles shift inside Michael’s throat as he swallowed. “I thought about it all day,” he rasped. “And I’ll probably think about it for a long time.”

“But what did you think?”

“I think that the guy it was meant for is a fucking fool.”

“Oh yeah? To be honest, I’m not thinking about him at all.”

You stepped toward Michael, and the low embers that smoldered between you surged, igniting in an inferno as you kissed him. Your lips crashed hard and his hands grasped at your waist until he was forcing you backward. The backs of your calves met the staircase and you ended up seated on the third step with Michael on top of you. His cock stirred inside his pants.

His lips found your neck and the ache between your thighs became a scalding heat that left you desperate for relief. You helped Michael out of his hoodie and tugged the hem of his shirt overhead, your greedy hands dragging over his torso. But he was even greedier.

He lifted up your own top and you could feel his hands snaking up your back to unhook your bra. He didn’t hesitate to palm your right breast, his left arm supporting himself above you. You were already shifting beneath him, your hips begging his for more.

Robby’s lips planted a stream of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast until his tongue flattened against your nipple. A low hiss escaped your lips as he sucked against your flesh.

You believed this would go quickly; that years of unspoken lust would culminate in the form of something quick, unsophisticated and needy. But Michael didn’t want this to be a fleeting, singular act. He wanted it to become more permanent, more lasting than that fucking photograph.

His hands curled around the waistband of your pants until you were kicking them off, your panties right behind.

Suddenly, the photo from that morning was forgotten. This was far better than pixels on a screen.

Your own hands moved to help Michael from his pants, but he caught them to stop you. Panic mounted in your chest and your brain, convincing you that he changed his mind. Instead, he lowered himself until his knees met the floorboards and his arms were hooked around your thighs.

The moan you’d been desperately trying to suppress finally made itself known, breathy and short as Michael’s tongue met your clit. It sent a surge of arousal through your nerve endings until you were whimpering in submission.

“Robby,” was all you could manage through pitiful panting. He hummed in response, his eyes drifting upward until they were staring in yours. Your fingers gripped the edge of the step.

More moans left your throat as Michael’s tongue flattened itself against your swollen clit, rolling in waves until you could feel the mounting tension in your nerve endings threatening to collapse. Your nails scraped against the wood step, threatening to snap like the taut string of your climax. It strained tighter and tighter, your hips grinding your cunt against Michael’s tongue until you were on the cusp of your reward. 

You let out a string of curses as the string snapped, your orgasm rippling over your cunt until your back arched and your legs were fully draped over Michael’s shoulders. He continued the pressure until you were pushing him away, your core too sensitive for any more assault.

Michael placed a swift kiss to your thigh and sat back on his heels as he watched your chest rise and fall in recovery. He couldn’t help but palm the bulge in his pants in arousal.

“Let me,” you croaked as you reached for his belt and helped him shed his remaining clothing. 

The wood step was narrow, awkward and painful against Michael’s knees as he settled between your thighs, but he’d rather die than wait another moment to discover how it felt to bury himself within you.

“I can flip over-” you started to offer, but Michael shook his head.

“No,” he commanded. “I want to see you.” You sure as hell weren’t going to protest. “Fuck,” he groaned against your neck as the tip of his cock sank into your slick walls. “Fuck, you’re so good.”

The pressure was dizzying as your walls stretched to accommodate him. You could swear you felt every ridge of his cock until he reached the hilt, igniting your nerve endings into overdrive. You couldn’t help but squeeze your cunt tighter around him, drawing a groan from Michael.

His hips retreated and rocked forward, threatening to send your eyes rolling back into your head. You clamped them shut as you focused on the friction within your core and Michael’s shaft dragged through your walls, his tip pressing into the deepest part of you. He gritted his teeth at your tight heat, his cock nudging you closer to the edge with each snap of his hips. 

“Fuck, Robby, don’t stop.” You didn’t like to beg, but you were far too drunk on Michael for any grace or dignity. You’d ask him to drag you through Hell if that’s where he was going, just so you could follow him. 

The way you pleaded, the way your flushed face strained in desperation, the whines that chorused from your lips – it left Michael in a dilemma straight from his dreams; the need to prolong this to commit it to memory, and the desperation to discover how it’d feel to make you fall apart. 

Michael’s rhythm increased, his jaw clenched as he fucked you into the stairs, the step's ledge gouging into your back. It knocked the wind from you and left you gasping and sputtering between broken moans. Michael set a fervid pace, desperate to claim every inch of your inner core. You drove your hips upward until the sounds of smacking skin chorused around you.

“Robby,” you choked again – half plea and half warning. Your nails raked over his shoulders, clawing desperately at a release. His hips drove upward until he was damn near lifting you off the stairs. Your legs locked tighter around Michael as if they were demanding he grant you an orgasm.

He buried his face in your neck. The stairs creaked with each movement in harmonic tandem with the whines from your throat. 

“Don’t hold back,” Michael ordered. “Come for me.”

Your walls began to flutter and you bit down hard on your bottom lip. Your whines became strained and painful as control slipped from your grasp and your core. Finally, you unleashed a resounding wail as your climax sent you trembling around Michael’s cock in euphoric waves.

The adrenaline from your high surged through Michael and pulsed through his cock as it throbbed. He barked a sharp grunt as he spilled himself inside you, his hips ending their assault.

Michael’s body went slack. He used the scant remnants of his energy to prop himself up above you, his eyes scanning yours. Their quiet hunger had been replaced with tender affection as you both caught your breaths.

“You okay?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Good.” Your unwieldy and uncomfortable position on the stairs settled with more clarity when Michael winced from the pain in his knees. “I’m getting too old for this,” he groaned as he shifted himself to sit next to you. You lifted an amused eyebrow at him and he chuckled softly. “Not that I’m complaining,” he added. He pressed a kiss to your temple for emphasis.

“Can I ask you something?” you finally asked curiously.

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you reply to me earlier? You left me on read.”

Michael offered you a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted. “I mean, I assumed that picture wasn’t for me. And I was afraid if I responded, you’d think I was being a creep.”

“So you instead chose to say nothing and leave me to spiral out all day?”

Michael laughed and rested a hand on your thigh. “If you keep sending me photos like that, I promise I’ll never leave you on read again.”

[cherrychilli]

18+ Steve Harrington x f! reader, perv! Steve, best friend! reader Masturbation(m), voyuerism (f) implied PIV sex, very teeny tiny mention of body horror. Nothing graphic I prommy. WC:2.7K

A/N: Pervy Steve being pervy once again. Reader's a bit of a weirdo herself. Enjoy!

Steve's already beginning to regret his decision.

It's a sobering realization as he tries to think back on the last time he played ball with the team. Or with anybody for that matter. A long long time ago, he gulps.

The thing was, stacking VHS tapes at Family Video was certainly a far cry from the kind of exercise he used to do back in Highschool. Barely breaking a sweat. His breath remaining controlled and nowhere near labored.

And now here he was, damn near wheezing as he tries to catch up to you as your jog ahead of him, although if there's one thing that's making this hellish jog tolerable its that he gets to watch your ass bounce underneath those little shorts of yours.

"Just two more blocks, Stevie c'mon", you called over your shoulder at him as he sourly trudges on, making a mental note to never get roped into one of your fitness kicks again.

Throat hoarse, knees shaky and sweat aplenty, he manages a thankful smile at the sight of your house, the both of you agreeing to stop there because it was much closer than his own place.

Both his and your Nike's crunch over the gravel that fills your drive way, now much prettier lined with your mother's hydrangea bushes in full bloom. Fresh bunches of pastel blues, purple's and yellows attract buzzing bees and fluttering butterflies alike. It's beautiful enough to make Steve forget about the way his ankle clicks with every step after jogging up the slope that lead to your home.

"So, what are you going to stitch these onto next?", he gestures to the hydrangeas and your whole face lights up ecstatically. "I'm not sure just yet but I can't wait until I find something good enough".

It was no secret that you liked florals, most of your clothes featuring some kind of posy, big or small. But for the items that didn't have any, you learned quickly with a needle and some thread, embroidering all kinds of flowers onto your clothes and other belongings - cushion covers, tote bags, the pockets on your jeans, pillow covers and whatever else you could leave your mark on.

Walking up to the porch that wrapped around your house, the windchime tinkles above your heads as you work your key into the lock, the sound reminding Steve of clinking champagne glasses together which in turn reminds him of how positively parched he is.

When you get the door unlocked and step aside, you let Steve walk ahead of you this time, sensing his impatience as he heads into the kitchen, pouring the both of you a tall, chilled glass of ice water each.

You thank him and sip at yours, amused at the sight of Steve chugging his down. Well, not just amused. A rivulet runs down his chin and snakes down the length of his throat as his adams apple bobs up and down, dampening the sweat soaked collar of his shirt even more.

Putting your empty glass down, you discreetly turn your back to Steve, bringing your hands up to pinch your cheeks hard, as if it might help force out the weird but not exactly unpleasant feeling that sprouted as you watched him trying to quench himself. It wasn't the first time it's happened either. Just a side effect that came with being friends with the former King Steve you supposed. It was during times like this that you could see why so many wanted his attention.

Steve on the other hand hasn't noticed your reaction, only that the pleasantly chilly relief that washed over him is short lived when it comes time to head up to your room. It's on the second floor so Steve frowns at the sight of your oak staircase, slowly but heatedly ascending it, cussing all throughout the way. You're just so tickled by it, his silly disdain making you giggle.

Feeling sorry for him, you insist on letting him go in and shower first because it was the polite thing to do. There's a little back and forth exchanged between you two when Steve begins to feel a little embarrassed and suggests you head in first seeing as it was your bathroom but you press on until eventually you get him to give in.

"Alright alright. I'll be out in ten" he tells you, picking up his duffle bag containing a fresh pair of clothes for him to change into, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

He sticks to his word, making sure to wrap up in under ten minutes because he hated keeping you waiting. But perhaps most importantly because he didn't want you to think he might be doing something he shouldn't.

It's something he's always been cautious about for a long time now. Many a time he's showered in your bathroom, carefully observing all of the products that make you smell as nice as you do. It's all innocent except that he can never shake knowing how you shed your clothes in here. How you work in your cranberry shampoo in your hair. How you squirt your cherry blossom body wash onto your loofah and run it over every inch of your body - your legs, between your breasts, your belly your --

Whipping his head side to side just in time like that might help eject the thought from his head entirely, he's able to snap out of it, toweling off and shoving his clothes on before taking a moment to compose himself.

Coming out, Steve nearly walks into you when he interrupts you in the middle of pulling off your socks and dropping them into the wicker basket by the bathroom door.

"I'll just be a couple of minutes" you tell him but you both know it'll be a little longer than. You weren't one to skip over your haircare and skincare routines. Not that Steve minded.

When the door clicks shut behind you Steve lays down on your bed, the soft mattress feels like heaven on his back after that cursed jog and it's all made even better because your sheets and your pillows smell like you.

He could have dozed off right there if he wanted but his mind keeps working. It makes him wonder. Having spent the night a few times he knows you throw on a pair of modest shorts and a wrinkled sleep shirt two sizes too big for you. But was that how you always tucked in for the night?

Were you the type to forego the shorts? maybe leave on a pair of panties under that billowing shirt? or did you discard that too? panties and nothing else. Or maybe you took those off too if the conversation he'd overheard you having with Robin was to believe.

"I feel like I'm on the menu, man. Barbeque all day. I pretty much live in my shower when I get back home that I might have to start paying rent for it", Robin comments on the heat.

"Shit, me too. Nights are the worst though", you reply, using a leaflet someone had handed you out on the street to fan yourself.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I don't even towel off and that's how I get to sleep. No clothes, no covers. Just praying it doesn't get hotter. And that I don't wake up in a pool of my own sweat in the morning, you know?"

Oh fuck oh god no.

Steve stares down at his sweats, horrified to find the very evident outline of his cock tenting between his legs. And what's worse, he knows all too well that it won't go down on its own unless he takes care of it himself. It's always been this way. His dick is anything if not persistent.

He looks around your room in panic, surveying carefully. He knows he can't finish the way he usually does, messy streaks splattered on his soft belly. He needs something to clean up the mess without you finding out. That's when his eyes land on the dirty laundry hamper you'd used not even fifteen minutes ago.

Steve scrambles off the bed, approaching your hamper of dirty laundry. He can still hear the shower running inside, letting him know that he probably still has a little more time left.

Looking thoroughly, Steve figures you must have done your laundry recently because all that's there is a couple of t-shirts and...

He picks up one of your socks as it lays at the very top of the little pile, slightly damp but still plush and soft, a little sprig of lavender embroidered near the top by the Nike logo.

Just knowing you'd worn it makes his dick twitch and though it's a couple of sizes smaller than some of the socks Steve's used for the very same purpose, he guessed it'll be a tight fit but possible.

Quietly shuffling back into your your bed, Steve's quick to pull the waistband of his sweats below his cock and his ass.

He spits into his hand to slick it up and down his length, finding even more embroidered items neatly spread in every corner of your room -- a row of sunflowers running up your curtains, fuchsia colored tulips on your blanket, daisies on the robe you've left folded over your desk chair.

He thinks himself rotten for doing this. Using something of yours to help get him off. Especially something of yours which you'd gone through the trouble of making look nicer.

Although, if he's being completely honest, knowing that kind of makes him want to do it so much more.

To corrupt. To taint. To claim.

Steve gently, but with a sense of urgency, pulls your sock over his length. Groaning, he guessed right about it being a tight fit but that just makes the sensation all the better.

The slippery slick fibers makes him think of your mouth - your pretty lips when you're both outside, trying to beat the heat with a couple of cherry popsicles. Your red tongue always wrapped around the sweet treat in a way that Steve could never do but watching you suck at it and take it in inch by inch down to the bottom was just as good to watch too.

There was no dry chafing as he kept at it, precum soaking into the cotton too to help keep things wet and glide his cock through. Looking up at the ceiling he thinks of you on top of him. What he'd give to watch your tits bounce in front of his face, to hear the springs beneath your mattress groan and strain the harder you bounced on his cock.

"Oh Jesus, fuck", eyes squeezing shut. At this point he knows he's getting close, and all wants to think about before he cums is you coming out of your bathroom, draped in your bathrobe. The black satin one, although if you were emerge in that thick baby blue one you seem to favor you'd get no complaints from Steve about it.

His hand pumps harder and harder, picturing you undoing the sash from around your waist, pulling it open and letting it fall to the floor and pile there. The little pink Dahlia you'd stitched into it still visible where it sits on the floor.

"No clothes, no covers", Steve recalls you saying and that's exactly how he pictures you, draping himself over your nude body, touching and kissing you all over. Surrounded by the scent of you, pressing his nose to your pillow. He wants to know what you smell like if you were to let him bring his face between your legs. The soft scratch of your bush tickling his nose, the warm tangy slick collecting on his tongue as he runs it up between your folds, never forgetting to kiss your clit before he sucks it.

And that's what does it. Hips twitching, toes curling, eyes so close to rolling back into his head. Steve empties himself into the sock, filling it with the thick, sticky cum he'd much rather pump into you if you'd ever let him.

"Well, thanks for cleaning up Stevie"

He shoots up in your bed, horrified at being found out like this -- for fuck sake he's even still got your soiled sock fitted over his cock.

"I didn't hear the door open..." he wants to crawl out of his own skin and slip into somebody else'. Literally anyone else who isn't him would do.

"Oh don't worry about that. I caught an eyeful peeping through the keyhole." you walk over in your cotton shorts and t-shirt.

"So, what were you thinking about"? you cock your head to the side all inquisitive.

something about the way you're composing yourself tells Steve that you're neither mad nor trying to embarrass him. So there's no point lying at this stage is there?

"You", he admits shamefully. Like a puppy who'd chewed up the furniture.

"Oh yeah?", you inch closer to him, eyes dropping for a second to get a look at his limp cock still stuffed to the brim inside your sock.

"Would you like to feel the real thing? if your friend isn't too tired to come out and play that is", you wink at Steve who can only look back at you with his mouth agape.

"Yea-Ye-sur-yup. Yeah, I can do that", he sputters, cock already turning stiff again.

"Good, now lets get this thing off", you carefully peel the sticky sock off of his cock, stringy blobs of cum left behind.

"Wow, that's a lot. Have you always cum this much?", you ask with amazement, collecting some of it onto the pad of you index finger before rubbing it against your thumb. So slippery. still warm. so tempting to suck it right off your fingers.

"Only when I think of you", Steve confesses with a smile and it makes you feel ecstatic to hear it.

"Okay. Prove it", you grin, challenging him. Jumping on to Steve's lap where you can feel his dick already springing up again.

"Oh, you're really in for it now", he grins back, determined to leave you so sticky that you'll both need another shower to wash it all off again.

---

Morning comes, sunlight pouring in from between the curtains and he finds himself alone in your bed, alarm bells about to ring when he sits up to find you busy at your desk.

"Morning", You smile at him and it makes Steve feel a little silly for thinking you might have walked out on him.

"What you got there?" he tries to peer at the desk and you swivel your chair towards him, holding up a black t-shirt Steve recognizes as his own.

"Like it?" you look at him hopefully, finger tapping at the pocket on the left.

His heart begins to cartwheel, doing all kinds of gymnastics in his ribcage when we sees it. A bunch of powdery blue hydrangeas looking like they're emerging from inside his pocket.

"it's beautiful", he tells you honestly, pulling on his boxers to join you at your desk, running his thumb along the pretty stitching.

"So...would you mind if I made one to match?" you ponder cautiously, afraid it's too soon. Afraid of scaring him off.

"Yeah? you want everyone to know you're my girl?", he grins right in your face, his nose brushing yours. Exactly the opposite of what you'd feared.

The butterflies in your stomach delight in being referred to as his girl, a whirlwind of them fluttering their wings wildly.

"Mm...maybe I'll just stitch your mouth closed instead", you sass him just for fun rather than inflate his ego.

"Hm...but then I wouldn't be able to eat your pussy the way you like it", he counters easily.

That makes your face feels warmer and warmer, like you'd been standing out in a sunbeam without an umbrella.

"Fine. Wouldn't want a perfectly good mouth go to waste", you shrug.

"But one wrong move and it's the needle for you, Harrington", you point the sharp end at him, blue thread still looped through the other end. Your threat merely jest and nothing more.

"I'd be happy even if one day you decide you'd like to stitch us together". he says plainly. Not at all like the other remarks when it was more than clear that he was joking with you.

It shakes you for a fraction of a moment but the corners of your mouth pick up into an enamored smile. There's a big difference between wanting to be with someone and wanting to be attached to someone. You know he doesn't mean it in the literal sense but fucking hell, do you love the sound of it. To share the same blood coursing through your veins, to share the same flesh, to share the same scars once the stitches dissolve away.

No one without the other.

"Okay", you lean forward to press your lips to his. "That can be arranged".

[mahalachives]

Part 10: Golden, At Last

Author’s Warning: This is the final chapter. Prepare your tissues, your emotional support bunny, and possibly your will to live. Enjoy, and sob responsibly. 🖤🐇🔥 Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The crown of the High Lady rested on a velvet cushion beside your bed, a physical manifestation of power that needed no adornment.

Unlike Beron's flame circlet, your crown was simpler.

Twisted copper branches studded with amber gemstones that glowed with inner fire. You hadn't worn it since the coronation three days ago.

You stood at the window of what had once been Beron's chambers, now yours by right of power and blood.

The Autumn Court stretched before you, eternal flames painting the landscape in crimson and gold.

Beautiful, undeniably. But was it home?

The bond within you remained muted but present, a dull ache where once golden light had flowed. You'd tried to sever it completely, but some connections transcended even the strongest will.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your desk, their tiny flame forms nudging a stack of reports toward you: diplomatic communications from other courts, updates on rebel strongholds, casualty counts from skirmishes still flaring at the borders.

"Later," you told them, turning back to the window. "I need a minute to process... everything."

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

"Enter," you called, straightening your shoulders.

Eris stepped inside, his injuries from Beron's torture still evident in the careful way he moved. His face bore half-healed cuts, but his eyes were sharp, alert.

"The Dawn Court delegation has arrived," he said without preamble. "Thesan came personally."

Your heart stuttered. "I thought they weren't expected until tomorrow."

"Apparently Dawn Court operates on its own schedule," Eris replied dryly. "And... there's another report about the shadowsinger."

You didn't need to ask.

The guards had been bringing reports for days about Azriel's presence at the borders of your territories, watching, waiting, sending shadows to gather information about your wellbeing.

"What is it this time?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral and failing miserably.

"He's made camp at the western border," Eris said, studying your reaction. "The guards say he looks... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days."

The bond twisted painfully at the information, a golden thread pulling taut beneath your breastbone. You'd left his charm behind in Velaris, deliberately creating distance between you. But the connection remained, a constant awareness that transcended physical tokens.

"Tell the guards to maintain the perimeter," you said, the words costing you. "No entry without my express permission."

"This is the fifth day," Eris noted, no judgment in his tone, merely observation. "How long will you keep him at the borders?"

"As long as necessary," you replied, turning back to the window. "I have a court to stabilize. Rebels to pacify. I can't afford distractions."

Eris made a noncommittal sound that somehow conveyed disbelief without directly challenging you. "The eastern rebellions have been contained," he reported, changing the subject. "Lucien's efforts have been... surprisingly effective."

Lucien had left the Night Court temporarily to help after Beron's death, his diplomatic skills honed through years of navigating complex political landscapes proving invaluable in bringing rebel factions to the negotiating table.

"He has a talent for mediation," you agreed.

"And for avoiding topics that need addressing," Eris added pointedly. "Like your apparent disinterest in actually ruling the court you now control."

You bristled at the accusation. "I've attended every council meeting. Signed every decree."

"With the enthusiasm of someone awaiting execution," Eris countered, his gaze unwavering. "The court needs more than a figurehead, sister. It needs a leader."

"I'm doing my best," you said finally, the admission costing you.

Eris's expression softened fractionally. "I know. But we need to decide what happens next. The court is stabilizing, but your... reluctance... creates uncertainty."

Before you could respond, another knock came, this one lighter, more musical somehow.

"That will be Thesan," Eris said, moving toward the door. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"

You straightened your informal robe, wishing you'd worn something more appropriate for receiving a High Lord. "No, I'll see him. Just... give me a moment."

Eris nodded and departed, leaving you alone to collect yourself. You moved to the small mirror, assessing your appearance with critical eyes. The High Lady of Autumn looked back at you, familiar features that still sometimes surprised you, golden light occasionally pulsing beneath your skin when emotions ran high.

Who was she, really? The cruel Lady of Autumn from before? The human nurse whose body lay in a hospital bed? Or someone new entirely, forged in the crucible of trauma and healing, of two worlds colliding within one soul?

You had no answer yet, but the question itself felt important, a compass pointing toward something true.

Thesan entered with the quiet grace characteristic of Dawn Court, his copper-gold skin catching the flame-light from nearby sconces.

"High Lady," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Forgive the unexpected visit. The roads were clearer than anticipated."

"High Lord Thesan," you replied, inclining your head in return. "Dawn Court is always welcome in Autumn territories."

His smile was genuine as he straightened, eyes taking in your informal attire and the scattered reports on your desk with knowing sympathy. "The early days of leadership are always overwhelming," he observed, no judgment in his tone. "Even when the transition is more... conventional... than yours was."

You gestured to the sitting area near the hearth where flames danced in ever-changing patterns. "Please, join me. I can offer refreshment if you'd like."

"Just your company is refreshment enough," Thesan replied, settling into one of the copper-inlaid chairs. "My court has been following your progress with great interest. The reforms you've implemented in just a few months, quite remarkable."

"Necessity more than vision," you admitted, taking the seat opposite him. "Beron's approach was unsustainable."

"Perhaps," Thesan acknowledged. "But identifying necessity and acting upon it, that is leadership, whether you recognize it as such or not."

Something in his tone, in the quiet confidence of his assessment, eased a tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying. Unlike Eris's pointed observations or the court's watchful speculation, Thesan's words carried no agenda beyond recognition of shared experience.

"How did you know?" you asked, the question emerging before you could consider its wisdom. "When you first became High Lord, how did you know you were making the right choices?"

Thesan's expression turned thoughtful, fingers absently tracing the copper inlay on his chair's arm. "I didn't," he admitted candidly. "No one does, not really. We act based on the best information available, guided by whatever moral compass we possess, and hope the consequences align with our intentions."

"That's... not especially reassuring," you replied, a hint of your former human humor surfacing despite the gravity of the conversation.

He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected. "No, I suppose it's not. But it is honest. And honesty has been in short supply in Prythian's courts for far too long."

The flames in the hearth danced higher, responding to your emotional state without conscious direction. You'd been working on control, but moments of genuine connection still triggered your power in ways you couldn't always predict.

"May I speak freely?" Thesan asked, his gaze following the flame patterns with understanding rather than concern.

"Of course."

"The shadowsinger at your borders," he began, careful but direct. "His presence creates... speculation... among the other courts."

You tensed, the bond flaring briefly beneath your skin. "Azriel's actions aren't my responsibility."

"No," Thesan agreed. "But they are connected to you nonetheless. The mating bond between you is evident to those with eyes to see such things."

Your hands fisted in your lap, knuckles whitening. "I have responsibilities now. A court to rebuild. People who depend on me. I can't allow personal attachments to interfere with duty."

"An admirable position," Thesan acknowledged. "And yet... in my experience, denying such connections rarely results in greater clarity or focus. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What are you suggesting?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Speak with him," Thesan said simply. "Not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as yourself, whoever that may be now, to one who sees you clearly across that divide."

The bond pulsed at his words, golden warmth briefly spreading through your chest before retreating to that muted, distant ache. "It's not that simple."

"Few worthwhile things are," Thesan replied, rising with fluid grace. "But consider this, I have witnessed dynasties rise and fall, courts evolve and dissolve, power exchange hands countless times. The one consistent truth I've observed is that those who lead from connection rather than isolation ultimately create more lasting change."

He moved toward the window, gazing out at the eternal autumn that painted your territories. "Your court reflects you, whether you intend it or not. If you remain divided within yourself, so too will your lands, your people."

The insight struck with uncomfortable precision, naming what you'd felt but couldn't articulate, the sense of operating half-present, caught between worlds, between identities, between paths diverging before you.

"I'm still figuring out who I am in all this," you admitted, the confession easier with this High Lord who radiated compassionate understanding rather than political calculation. "Human nurse or High Lady of Autumn. Both seem equally impossible and equally real."

Thesan turned from the window, copper eyes gentle but direct. "Perhaps that's your strength, not your weakness. The ability to see from both perspectives, to bring human compassion to Fae politics, to recognize that power need not corrupt if wielded with awareness of its cost."

The words settled deep, a truth you'd sensed but hadn't fully claimed. Your hands unclenched in your lap, flames in the hearth settling to steadier patterns that reflected growing calm within.

"Thank you," you said simply. "For seeing me. The real me, whoever that turns out to be."

"Dawn Court specializes in transitions," he replied with a small smile. "In the spaces between darkness and light, between what was and what might be. Your path is uniquely your own, but not one you must walk in isolation."

Before you could respond, another knock interrupted. A guard entered, bowing deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, High Lady, High Lord. Reports from the western border require immediate attention."

Your heart skipped. "What's happened?"

"The shadowsinger, my lady," the guard reported, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "He's... well, he appears to be constructing something. Our scouts report it resembles the beginning of a small dwelling."

The bond flared painfully at the information. A dwelling. A cabin. The dream you'd shared of a place between mountains, with windows facing sunrise and a porch for watching storms.

"Is he within our borders?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.

"No, my lady. He remains just beyond the boundary, in unclaimed territory. But his presence has drawn attention from neighboring courts. The Summer Court has sent observers."

Thesan exchanged a glance with you, understanding passing between you without words. The political implications of Azriel's actions extended beyond personal connection, creating potential complications you couldn't ignore regardless of your feelings.

"Thank you," you told the guard. "Double the patrols but maintain distance. No engagement without my direct order."

After the guard departed, Thesan moved toward the door. "I've taken enough of your time," he said. "But consider what we've discussed. True strength sometimes lies in acknowledging connection rather than severing it."

"You've given me much to think about," you acknowledged, rising to escort him properly. "Dawn Court's wisdom is appreciated in Autumn territories."

His smile warmed. "We are neighbors, after all. And I, for one, am pleased with the changes in leadership at our borders." He hesitated at the threshold, then added, "Should you need neutral ground for any... conversations... you might wish to have, Dawn Court stands ready to offer sanctuary."

The offer hung between you, significant in its generosity, in its recognition of both your official position and your personal dilemma.

"Thank you," you said again, meaning it more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.

The night terrors started three weeks before Winter Solstice.

You woke screaming, sheets twisted around your limbs, fire erupting from your fingertips to scorch the bedding. Guards burst through your chamber doors, weapons drawn against invisible threats, only to find you alone, trembling, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.

Night after night, the pattern repeated.

Images haunted your sleep.

Cold stone corridors, hands pinning you down, laughter echoing off walls, pain beyond bearing.

"You need to speak with someone," Lucien insisted after the fifth consecutive night of screams that echoed through the palace corridors. He had returned to the Autumn Court temporarily, taking leave from his position in the Night Court to help stabilize territories in rebellion. "This isn't normal exhaustion or stress."

You sat in your private sitting room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fire blazing in the hearth. You couldn't seem to get warm, the chill settled bone-deep regardless of external heat.

"I'm fine," you insisted, the lie transparent even to your own ears. "Just court pressures manifesting in dreams."

"Lies don't become a High Lady," Eris commented from the doorway, his entrance silent as always. He studied you with calculating precision, missing nothing. "Particularly not when they're this poorly constructed."

You hadn't invited him to this conversation, but you lacked the energy to send him away. "What do you want, Eris?"

"Answers," he replied simply, crossing to pour himself a measure of wine. "The entire court is whispering about their High Lady's nocturnal disturbances. Some suggest madness. Others, possession."

"And what do you suggest?" you asked, exhaustion making the words sharper than intended.

Eris settled into the chair opposite yours, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I suggest you're remembering."

The simple statement hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his mechanical eye whirring faster as it darted between you and Eris.

"Remembering what?" you asked, though dread pooled in your stomach, a certainty you weren't prepared to face.

"The Winter Court corridor," Eris replied, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "The night your soul shattered."

Cold swept through you, so intense you gasped with it. The fire in the hearth dimmed, responding to your instinctive retreat from heat, from flame, from sensation itself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, but your voice trembled, betraying the lie.

"You do," Eris countered, setting his wine aside untouched. "You've carried the memories since returning to this body, but they were dormant, disconnected, until recently."

Lucien moved to stoke the fire, avoiding your gaze. His discomfort was palpable, confirming what you already suspected. He knew what Eris was referencing. He'd known all along.

"What changed?" you asked, the question directed to neither brother specifically, perhaps not even to them at all. "Why remember now?"

"The Winter Court emissaries," Lucien supplied reluctantly, still focused on the flames rather than your face. "They arrive tomorrow for pre-Solstice negotiations."

Horror washed through you in a nauseating wave. "Winter Court," you repeated, the words ashen in your mouth. "Here. In Autumn territory."

"Diplomatic necessity," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction closely. "The first official delegation since before Beron's death."

A memory flashed, unbidden. Pale hands against your skin, frost magic creeping through your veins, voices whispering terrible promises while you struggled against restraints both physical and magical.

"No," you said, the word emerging as a plea. "I can't, I won't see them."

"You must," Eris replied, no cruelty in his tone, only cold realism. "You're High Lady now. Diplomatic relations cannot be avoided based on personal history, no matter how... significant."

"Personal history," you echoed, a hollow laugh escaping you. "Is that what we're calling it? Thirteen nobles. My soul literally torn in half. Just 'personal history'?"

Lucien flinched at your words, finally turning to face you. "We didn't know," he said, voice rough with what might have been guilt. "Not until later. Not until it was too late."

Another memory surfaced. A palace guard finding you at the border, body broken beyond recognition, frost magic still lingering in your veins. The guard's horror, his hesitation, his eventual decision to bring you back rather than leave you to die. The bitter knowledge that nothing could be done, no justice sought, not without risking open war with Winter.

You rose abruptly, blanket sliding from your shoulders. The cold had vanished, replaced by rage that burned hotter than any Autumn flames.

"Who were they?" you demanded, each word precise despite the fury coursing through you. "I want names. All thirteen."

The brothers exchanged a glance laden with centuries of silent communication, of shared survival beneath Beron's rule.

"Most are already dead," Eris finally said. "The war with Hybern claimed several. Others fell during earlier conflicts."

"How many remain?" you pressed, fire dancing at your fingertips unbidden.

"Two," Lucien answered reluctantly. "Lord Heatherson and Lord Gaius."

"Lord Kieraven was the leader," Eris added, his voice hard. "But Azriel killed him during the war with Hybern. The shadowsinger selected him specifically from the battlefield, though none knew why at the time."

A chill ran down your spine at this revelation. Had Azriel somehow known? Had his shadows whispered secrets about the male who had orchestrated your suffering?

"And are they among the delegation arriving tomorrow?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Both of them," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction with calculating eyes. "As Kallias's appointed representatives."

Your knees buckled. You sank back into your chair, trembling returning despite your efforts at control.

"I can't face them," you whispered, the admission costing you. "Not yet. Not while these memories are still fragmentary."

"You must," Eris insisted, leaning forward. "Not just as High Lady fulfilling diplomatic obligations, but as yourself, the self you were before, the self you're becoming again."

"Why?" you challenged, tears threatening.

"Because some wounds don't heal until the blade is removed," he replied, surprising you with unexpected wisdom. "Because your soul will never be whole while pieces of it remain lost in darkness."

Silence fell between you, heavy with implication, with possibility both terrible and necessary.

"I'll be with you," Lucien offered unexpectedly, his voice firm despite the discomfort evident in his posture. "Every moment. They won't have access to you without witnesses."

"As will I," Eris added, something approaching protectiveness in his tone. "The time for allowing Winter Court transgressions has passed. Beron may have valued politics over family, but we do not."

The declaration, spoken with such certainty, broke something open inside you. These brothers, complicated, difficult, damaged in their own ways, were offering something you'd never experienced from them before: unequivocal support, protection without condition or expectation.

"Family," you whispered, testing the word, its weight, its truth.

"Vanserra Siblings," Eris confirmed, no hesitation in his voice. "Whatever came before, whatever may come after, that much remains constant."

You nodded once, decision crystallizing. "I'll meet the delegation. I'll face Heatherson and Gaius." Resolve hardened your voice, straightened your spine. "But on my terms, in my court, with my power."

"As is your right," Eris agreed, satisfaction evident in his expression. "High Lady."

The title no longer felt foreign, no longer sat uncomfortably on your shoulders. It felt like armor, like identity, like the person you had been and were becoming again.

That night, after leaving your brothers, you made a decision. Before you could face the Winter Court delegation, there was something else you needed to do. Someone else you needed to see, even if just from a distance.

You donned a simple, dark cloak, evading the palace guards with ease born of centuries living in these halls. The night embraced you as you slipped beyond the castle walls, magic carrying you swiftly toward the western border.

The bond in your chest pulled stronger with each mile, the carefully constructed barriers weakening with proximity. You followed that golden thread through forest and field, until finally, you stood at the edge of Autumn Court territory.

And there he was.

Azriel.

Your breath caught at the sight of him. He sat before a small fire, his wings folded tight against his back, shadows swirling restlessly around him. Even from this distance, you could see the changes in him. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than before, as if he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testifying to sleepless nights.

Before him, the foundation of a cabin was taking shape, stone by stone. Windows positioned to catch the sunrise, just as you'd dreamed. A porch that would someday face the storms rolling across mountains. A home built by hand rather than magic, each stone placed with deliberate care, with hope, with patience.

The bond throbbed painfully in your chest, golden light briefly illuminating your hands before you forced it down again. You took a step forward, drawn by something beyond conscious thought, beyond reason.

Azriel's head snapped up suddenly, as if sensing your presence. His shadows froze, then surged forward, testing the air, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.

You retreated behind a tree, heart pounding. His face in that brief moment of awareness had been transformed, hope and longing replacing exhaustion in an instant. It would be so easy to reveal yourself, to cross that border, to let the bond between you flare back to full strength.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

As long as your human body lay in that hospital bed, as long as part of you longed for a world beyond Prythian, you couldn't give Azriel what he deserved.

A mate fully present, fully committed, fully his.

With a final glance at the cabin rising stone by stone, you turned away, tears streaking silently down your face. The bond protested, a physical pain in your chest that echoed with each step back toward your court, your responsibilities, your throne.

Tomorrow you would face the Winter Court delegation. Tomorrow you would confront those who had shattered your soul. But tonight, you allowed yourself to mourn what might have been, what still might be, if only the worlds would align, if only your fractured self could become whole again.

The Winter Court delegation arrived precisely at midday, when Autumn Court's eternal sunlight blazed at its brightest, a deliberate choice that didn't escape your notice. Winter Court preferred twilight and dawn, times when light and darkness balanced. By forcing them to arrive at noon, you established dominance from the first moment.

You sat upon your copper throne, crown gleaming with inner fire, as the delegation entered the great hall. Eris stood at your right hand, Lucien at your left, both brothers radiating cold vigilance despite the formal occasion.

Lord Heatherson entered first, his pale skin almost translucent under autumn light, veins like blue shadows beneath the surface. Lord Gaius followed, silver-white hair bound in traditional Winter Court braids, his steps deliberate and measured.

Your breath caught in your throat as they approached, memories threatening to overwhelm you. Cold hands. Cruel laughter. Pain beyond endurance.

"High Lady," Heatherson greeted, bowing with precise formality. "Winter Court brings greetings and congratulations on your ascension."

"Indeed," Gaius added, his voice as brittle as his name suggested. "Your coronation marks a new chapter in relations between our courts."

You studied them, these males who had once torn your body apart, who had fractured your very soul. They showed no recognition, no awareness that you might remember. To them, this was merely diplomacy, politics as usual.

"Winter Court is welcome in Autumn territories," you replied, the formal words tasting like ash in your mouth. "So long as all agreements are honored."

The diplomatic discussions began, trade routes and border policies debated with careful precision. You participated with cool detachment, signing what needed signing, agreeing where agreement served your court's interests.

Through it all, the memories simmered beneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment. Lucien noticed your tension, his hand occasionally brushing yours in silent support. Eris watched the Winter Court representatives with predatory intensity, missing nothing, cataloging every reaction for future reference.

As the formal negotiations concluded, Lord Heatherson requested a private audience "to discuss matters of historical significance between our courts."

The implication was clear, a discussion of past grievances, policies established under Beron's reign.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steady despite the rage building beneath your calm exterior. "My brothers will join us, as is tradition when discussing matters of historical record."

Disappointment flickered across Heatherson's face, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn't been watching carefully. "As you wish, High Lady."

You led them to a smaller council chamber, where wine had been prepared in advance. As the Winter Court representatives sipped from copper goblets, Lucien engaged them in conversation about border policies, his diplomatic skills creating a facade of normalcy.

But something had changed in the atmosphere.

Tension crackled beneath the polite exchanges, a current of awareness building with each passing moment. You could feel it, the sense of a trap about to spring, though who had set it remained unclear.

"I must say," Lord Gaius remarked, swirling his wine thoughtfully, "you seem remarkably... different... from when we last encountered you, High Lady."

The words hung in the air like an icicle about to fall. Eris tensed beside you, his hand drifting casually to the knife at his belt.

"Different how, Lord Gaius?" you asked, voice deceptively mild.

"More controlled," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "More... present. As if pieces of you that were once missing have been returned."

The deliberate provocation sent ice through your veins. He knew. They both knew. This wasn't diplomatic small talk; this was calculated testing of boundaries, of memory, of power.

Lucien's control snapped first. "How dare you," he snarled, his mechanical eye whirring furiously as he set his goblet down with enough force to slosh wine across the table. "How dare you stand in our court, drink our wine, and make such insinuations?"

"Insinuations?" Heatherson's face arranged itself into a mask of innocent confusion. "I believe Lord Gaius was merely complimenting the High Lady's composure."

"We all know what you meant," Eris said coldly, his voice all the more threatening for its quietness. "Just as we all know what happened two centuries ago."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both Winter Court nobles froze, composure briefly cracking before masks slid back into place.

"I'm afraid I don't recall any significant events from that time," Gaius said carefully, but his eyes betrayed him, darting nervously between you and your brothers.

"Don't you?" You finally spoke, rising from your chair with deliberate grace. Fire danced at your fingertips, responding to your emotions without conscious summoning. "Thirteen nobles. A female bound with frost magic. Hours of torture. Does none of this sound familiar, Lord Gaius?"

Heatherson's face drained of what little color it possessed. "High Lady, these accusations—"

"Are not accusations," you interrupted, your voice calm despite the inferno building inside you. "They are statements of fact. Facts we all know to be true, though some have spent centuries pretending otherwise."

Power flowed from you in waves, the High Lady's magic responding to your righteous fury. The fires in the wall sconces blazed higher, shadows dancing across the faces of males who had once believed themselves untouchable.

"What happened that night was a diplomatic incident," Gaius said, his voice betraying a tremor despite his attempt at composure. "One that both courts agreed to put behind them."

"Both courts?" Lucien echoed, incredulity and rage making his voice shake. "You mean Beron agreed to silence in exchange for continued alliance. The victim was never consulted."

"The victim?" Heatherson's laugh was brittle. "You speak as if she remembers. As if part of her didn't flee that very night, leaving behind a shell we simply... helped reshape."

The casual cruelty of his words, the dismissal of your suffering, the pride still evident in his tone—it was enough.

More than enough.

"I remember everything," you said, each word precise and heavy with power. "Every hand. Every voice. Every moment."

Golden light flared beneath your skin, the High Lady's magic merging with the bond, with your human consciousness, with the part of your soul that had fractured and fled. For the first time since your coronation, you felt truly whole—human compassion and Fae power united in perfect clarity.

"High Lady," Heatherson began, rising from his chair, fear evident now. "Perhaps we should return to diplomatic matters—"

"This is diplomatic," you replied, flames now wreathing your hands in controlled, deadly beauty. "I am informing Winter Court representatives of new policy regarding those who harm Autumn Court citizens."

With a gesture, fire encircled the chamber, cutting off any escape. Not attacking, not yet, but a demonstration of power, of control, of boundaries that would no longer be crossed.

"You can't do this," Gaius protested, frost magic gathering defensively around his fingertips. "This violates every diplomatic protection—"

"As you violated me?" Your voice remained steady, though the fires burned hotter. "As you violated the most basic tenets of decency, of honor?"

"That was different," Heatherson insisted, backing away as flames licked closer. "That was politics. That was—"

"That was rape," Lucien said, the word dropping into the room like a stone into still water. "That was torture. That was an act of war disguised as politics."

Silence fell, heavy with centuries of unspoken truth finally given voice.

"Here is the new policy of the Autumn Court," you announced, your power filling the room until the very air shimmered with heat. "Those who harm our citizens answer with blood and bone. Those who tortured their High Lady answer with their lives."

Gaius made a desperate move, frost magic surging toward you in a futile attempt at self-preservation. The ice melted before it reached you, evaporating in the heat of your rage.

"High Lady, please—" Heatherson began, but it was far too late for pleas.

"I, as High Lady of the Autumn Court, find you guilty of crimes against this court, against its lady, against its future," you declared, the formal words binding, irrevocable. "The sentence is death."

Fire answered your command, precise and purposeful. It did not burn wildly or cause unnecessary suffering. It simply consumed, reducing the two Winter Court nobles to ash where they stood, their screams brief before silence fell once more.

As the flames receded, Eris moved to your side, assessing you with new respect in his eyes. "What of Winter Court? They will demand explanation."

"They will receive one," you replied, your voice calm as the fire within you settled to embers. "The full truth, documented and witnessed, will be sent to Kallias. He may choose war if he wishes, but I suspect once he knows what his nobles did in Winter's name, he will choose justice instead."

Lucien's mechanical eye whirred as he studied the piles of ash. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then Autumn Court stands ready," you said, turning toward the door. "We will no longer sacrifice our own to maintain false peace."

As you walked from the chamber, power still humming beneath your skin, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The memories remained, the pain not erased, but facing those who had hurt you, delivering justice long delayed—it had changed something fundamental within you.

For the first time since your coronation, since waking in this world, you felt not torn between identities but unified. Human compassion and Fae power, merged into something new, something stronger.

That night, standing on your balcony, you gazed westward once more.

The vial of Ash Tea rolling between your fingers. The dark liquid caught the amber light of the setting sun, its potent magic a silent promise of temporary peace.

The tiny pinpoint of Azriel's fire still burned at the border, a beacon in darkness. The cabin would continue rising, stone by stone, window by window.

And perhaps, when you were truly ready, when your court was secured, when your soul was fully healed—perhaps then you would cross that border. Perhaps then you would let the bond flare to full strength once more.

But for now, you had a court to rule. Justice to deliver. A future to build, brick by brick, just as he built that cabin stone by stone.

For now, that was enough.

The wind whispered through the pines like it knew you wouldn't stay, mourning before you spoke a word.

You stood at the threshold between Autumn territory and unclaimed land, taking in the cabin Azriel had built with his own hands. It was more beautiful than you had imagined - sturdy logs fitted perfectly together, a welcoming porch wrapping around one side, windows gleaming in the afternoon light.

Azriel appeared at the doorway, shadows twisting anxiously before settling around his shoulders. When he saw you, hope flared in those ancient eyes - too much hope, a brightness that would only make the darkness to come more devastating.

"You came," he said, voice rough from disuse. His shadows stretched toward you before he pulled them back, a habit of restraint he couldn't break even now.

"I wanted to see it," you replied, gesturing to the cabin.

"I thought—" he hesitated, shadows twitching, "—maybe you were ready to come home." The fragile hope in his voice made your heart splinter.

You couldn't meet his eyes. "It's exactly as you described."

He stepped onto the porch, movements careful, measured. "Windows facing east," he confirmed, a tentative smile touching his lips. "For the sunrise."

"And the porch for watching thunderstorms roll across the mountains," you added, remembering your conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

You followed him inside. The interior was simple but beautiful - pine furniture he must have crafted himself, a fireplace of river stones, bookshelves already filled with volumes. A home built for two, with every corner yearning for a presence it had never known.

You turned to face him fully. "I know the whole truth now," you said. "About what happened in Winter Court. About why my soul fractured."

His face softened with understanding. "Your memories returned?"

"Not all of them," you admitted. "But enough. Enough to understand why part of me fled to another world, why I woke up in a hospital bed with a family who'd never heard of Prythian."

Azriel moved to the window, looking out at the mountains. "You were too gentle for what was done to you," he said. "Too kind for the cruelty they inflicted."

"I was broken," you acknowledged. "And now I'm whole again. But I still have to choose."

He turned back to you, and something in your face must have given it away. The shadows around him stilled completely.

"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Not just to see the cabin."

"I had to come," you said. "To say goodbye properly."

The light in his eyes dimmed. "Goodbye?"

The bond between you didn't just throb—it screamed, a golden cord pulled taut enough to snap, singing with the agony of a love denied.

"I've made my decision," you forced yourself to say. "I'm going back. Back to my world."

"Of course," he said softly, staring past you. "Why would you stay?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Don't lie to make it easier."

"Azriel—"

"Was it ever real?" he asked suddenly, voice breaking. "Any of it? Or was it just the bond?"

The question hung between you, raw and bleeding. The hearth looked cold despite the fire. The books seemed too untouched. The walls too thin to hold the ache left behind.

Instead of answering, you crossed the distance between you. After a moment's hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him.

He remained still, unyielding, before slowly, painfully embracing you in return. His arms encircled you with restrained strength, as if afraid you might shatter. The bond between you wailed in golden agony as his wings folded around you both, creating a sanctuary of shadow and starlight.

"I understand," he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. "If it brings you happiness, I would never stand in your way."

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His arms tightened, memorizing the feel of you. "These moments with you have been worth centuries of solitude."

You felt tears dampen your hair as he pressed his lips to your crown.

"I love you," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I've existed for five hundred years, but I only began living when I found you."

A sob escaped you, muffled against his chest. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and sacrifice.

"I'll wait for you," he promised, voice thick with emotion. "If there's even the slightest chance you might return... I'll wait centuries more."

His scarred fingers tilted your chin up, hazel eyes memorizing every detail of your face. "The cabin will remain. This life I've built will remain. Whether you return tomorrow or in a thousand years."

You reached up, brushing tears from his beautiful face. "Live for yourself, Azriel. That's all I ask."

"I will try," he whispered. "But part of me will always be yours."

You stayed locked in each other's arms as the sun began to set, casting the valley in amber light that matched the golden bond pulsing between you. Neither willing to be the first to let go, to end what might be your last embrace.

"Be happy," he murmured against your temple. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

When you finally pulled away, both your faces were streaked with tears. He let his wings unfold reluctantly, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been.

You turned away as he whispered your name like a prayer he'd never say again. The door didn't close behind you. Neither of you had the strength to end it.

Beeping.

That's the first thing you notice. A steady, mechanical rhythm cutting through darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your mouth is dry, with something hard and plastic between your lips. A tube. You can't speak.

With monumental effort, you crack your eyes open. Fluorescent lights, harsh and clinical, burn your retinas.

White walls. Machines with glowing numbers and lines.

"Oh my god." A familiar voice breaks through the fog. Your aunt. "She moved! Doctor! Nurse! Someone!"

Hurried footsteps approach as her face appears above you – lined with exhaustion and hope. Tears immediately well in her bloodshot eyes.

"You're back," she whispers, clutching your unresponsive hand. "You're really back."

More faces appear. A doctor in a white coat. A nurse adjusting something on the machines. They speak in quick, clinical bursts.

"...unexpected return to consciousness..."

"...extraordinary after this duration..."

"...need to run tests immediately..."

The breathing tube is carefully removed, leaving your throat raw and aching. Someone holds a straw to your lips, and you take a small sip of water.

"Can you hear me?" the doctor asks, shining a light in your eyes. "Can you blink once for yes?"

You manage a slow, deliberate blink.

Your fingers unconsciously reach for your chest, seeking something that should be there. A warmth. A pulse of gold beneath your skin. Nothing. Just the steady beat of your ordinary human heart.

Hours later, after the initial medical frenzy subsides, the door opens. Your grandmother enters slowly, leaning on her cane, your aunt supporting her elbow. Your grandmother's face, deeply lined and framed by silver hair, crumples at the sight of you awake.

"My girl," she whispers, her voice wavering. "My precious girl."

Your aunt helps her to your bedside. With trembling hands, your grandmother cups your face, studying you as if memorizing every detail. Her tears fall onto your cheeks, mingling with your own.

When she embraces you, fragile arms holding you with surprising strength, something breaks inside you. The dam holding back your emotions crumbles completely.

You sob against her shoulder, great heaving cries that shake your weakened body. The tears come from somewhere bottomless, somewhere that knows what you've lost, what you've gained, what you've left behind.

"I'm here, my darling," she murmurs, her voice cracking. "I'm here."

Your aunt joins the embrace, her arms encircling you both. They hold you as you cry, mistaking your tears for relief and trauma from the attack.

They don't understand you're mourning a life they can never know about. A bond severed. A cabin in a valley. A shadowsinger with scarred hands who promised to wait forever.

"We kept the light on for you," your aunt says, stroking your hair. "Every night. We knew you'd find your way back to us."

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. The guilt of wanting to be elsewhere when they've waited so faithfully for your return. The gratitude for their unwavering love. The grief for what can never be explained.

As night falls and they reluctantly leave, promising to return at first light, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. The machines continue their vigilant beeping.

You close your eyes and try to reach across the void. Try to feel that golden thread that once connected you to a world of magic. To him.

But there's nothing.

In the silent hours before dawn, you whisper his name, the sound barely audible even to your own ears.

"Azriel."

No shadows stir in the corners of your room. No wings unfurl from darkness.

The bond is severed. The connection lost.

You are home.

But in your dreams that night, you smell night-chilled stone and cedar. You feel the ghost of wings enfolding you. You hear a voice promising to wait, even as it fades into memory.

"Until we meet again, my heart."

Five years, and the world still doesn't fit right.

Five years since you woke in a hospital bed with hands that remembered magic and a heart that had forgotten how to beat without him.

Medical school consumes your days and nights. The transition from nursing student to medical student raised eyebrows, but your near-death experience provides a convenient explanation for your sudden change in direction.

What you can't explain is how anatomy comes to you like breathing, how you can identify trauma patterns with uncanny precision, or why you instinctively reach for moonleaf or frostroot—plants that shouldn't exist here, but live vividly in your muscle memory.

"Your spatial reasoning is exceptional," your neurosurgery professor remarks after watching you practice sutures. "It's like you've been doing this for centuries."

You flinch at his words, a memory fragment flickering—your hands wreathed in golden light as you healed a wounded faerie in Dawn Court. You smile tightly to hide the tremor. "Just good with my hands."

You specialize in trauma surgery. Each life you save feels like redemption for the one you abandoned. Each scar you repair reminds you of wounds you couldn't heal across worlds.

Two albino rabbits sit in the pet shop window, twitching their noses. Their eyes are wrong—not quite red, but a soft, gleaming pink.

You freeze. The world blurs.

You don't notice you've sunk to your knees until someone asks if you're alright. You aren't. You haven't been, not since two glowing shadows with cotton-flame tails hopped through fallen leaves, and someone with a voice like dusk laughed beside you.

You wake some nights gasping, hand clutched to your chest, sure the bond has snapped back into place—only to find yourself alone in the dark, throat raw with his name half-spoken.

During thunderstorms, you sit on your apartment balcony, watching lightning split the sky. Sometimes the shadows seem to reach for you, comforting and familiar.

In those moments, you unconsciously reach for your chest, searching for a golden warmth that no longer pulses beneath your skin.

Autumn becomes your season. You collect fallen leaves that shimmer copper and gold in certain light, pressing them between book pages like precious memories.

Your apartment fills with candles scented with cedar and pine, though they never smell quite right—never like night-chilled stone and forest.

Your grandmother notices these peculiarities but never questions them. "You came back different," is all she says, squeezing your hand during Sunday dinners. "But you came back. That's what matters."

Your aunt is less philosophical. "You need to start dating again," she insists regularly. "That surgical resident keeps asking about you."

You nod and make vague promises you never keep.

How could you explain that you left your heart in another world? That you loved someone with wings and shadows and scars who offered to wait centuries?

In your final year of residency, you join a research trip to Scotland.

The program pairs physicians with historians to study ancient healing practices.

While your colleagues are excited about the medical aspects, you're drawn by a different hope—one you barely acknowledge even to yourself.

The museum sits nestled in the highlands, a small stone building housing local artifacts.

Your group filters through the first exhibition hall, examining crude surgical tools and herbal remedies. You lag behind, something pulling you toward a separate gallery.

And then you see him.

Not his face, not truly.

But the silhouette, the posture, the wings—etched into you so deeply no time or world could ever wear it away. And your soul answers. Fiercely. Immediately.

Azriel.

A tapestry, ancient and faded, stretches across the far wall.

Your breath catches in your throat. The air tastes like lightning. Like cedar. Like home.

The weaving depicts a forest of perpetual autumn, trees burning with colors that never fade. Figures with pointed ears move through the scene, and at the center stands a male with a crown of living flame.

"Fascinating piece, isn't it?" The curator appears beside you. "Local legend says it depicts 'the autumn people' who live beyond the forest. Fairytales, of course, but the craftsmanship is remarkable."

You barely hear him, your eyes fixed on the tapestry's border. There, nearly hidden in the woven scene's edge, sits a small cabin with east-facing windows. A figure stands before it, wings folded against its back, staring at mountains as if waiting.

The curator moves on. Your colleagues drift toward the next exhibition.

You remain rooted, trembling.

You step closer, fingers brushing against the woven silhouette. Golden light flickers beneath your skin—then flares. It burns like resurrection.

The bond, asleep but never gone, seizes your chest in a silent scream of recognition.

"Azriel," you whisper, the name both foreign and familiar on your tongue after years of silence.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you trace the winged figure.

Something inside you breaks open—grief you've suppressed for five years flooding to the surface.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," you sob quietly, fingers pressing against the tapestry. "I'm so sorry."

You collapse to your knees, forehead pressed to ancient threads, sobbing like a soul unmoored. Your tears fall into a forest woven in legend, into a promise that never died.

And somewhere—across stars, across centuries—he lifts his head.

He's still waiting.

Ten years pass in rhythms of healing and work.

You try dating—a surgeon from your hospital, a literature professor who quotes poetry, a kind veterinarian with gentle hands.

Each relationship ends the same way. "You're never fully here," they eventually say. You can't explain the hollow space in your chest where golden light once pulsed.

The nightmares still come, though less frequently.

Cold hands holding you down. Mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. You wake gasping, drenched in sweat, reaching for shadows that aren't there.

These experiences shape your medical practice—you specialize in trauma recovery, creating a program for assault survivors that combines medical and psychological care. Your colleagues marvel at your intuitive understanding of trauma's physical manifestations.

"It's like you've lived through it yourself," a psychologist comments.

You smile tightly. "I just listen carefully."

At forty, you're respected, successful, alone.

Your apartment fills with more autumn leaves, more candles that never smell quite right. You volunteer weekends at an animal shelter, drawn especially to the rabbits with their twitching noses and watchful eyes. Your coworkers call you the "rabbit whisperer" when traumatized ones calm at your touch.

"You understand them somehow," the shelter director says.

If only she knew how you sometimes whisper to them in a language that shouldn't exist, how you occasionally catch yourself looking for pink flames that never appear.

Your fiftieth birthday arrives with honors from the medical community. You've pioneered trauma-informed surgical protocols now implemented nationwide. Your sister hosts a celebration dinner, her grandchildren clambering for your attention.

"Tell us a story!" they beg as the adults clean up.

You settle in your favorite chair, children gathered at your feet.

"Once," you begin, "there existed a world where autumn never ended, where trees burned with colors that never faded..."

Your stories grow more elaborate over the years—tales of courts governed by seasons, of creatures with powers tied to natural elements, of shadows that whispered secrets.

Your family assumes they're born from your imagination rather than memory.

"You should write these down," your great-niece suggests on your sixty-eighth birthday. "These stories about the shadowsinger and the flame lady are beautiful."

You smile, throat tight. "Perhaps someday."

At seventy-two, retirement brings contemplative quiet. Your hands, once steady in surgery, now shake slightly as you press another autumn leaf between journal pages.

The cabin with east-facing windows haunts your dreams more frequently now—so vivid you can almost smell pine needles, almost hear wings rustling in pre-dawn darkness.

Your eightieth year brings pneumonia that never quite resolves.

Hospital corridors feel strange from the patient's perspective. Family gathers, whispering consultations with your former colleagues.

"It's my time," you tell your great-nephew when you catch him crying. "Don't be sad."

"We can't lose you," he insists, clutching your fragile hand.

You smile, peace settling in your bones. "I'm not being lost. I'm going home."

The night your body finally releases you, golden light flickers beneath your skin for the first time in decades.

The monitors flatline as nurses rush in, but you're already gone—crossing between worlds on a bridge of light that never truly broke.

You wake with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs. The scent of cinnamon and burnt maple rushes into your nostrils, familiar and foreign all at once.

Sunlight filters through amber-stained windows, casting warm patterns across your nightgown. For a moment, you're disoriented, the transition too abrupt, too complete. Your fingers trace the silk sheets, luxurious against your skin after decades of hospital linens.

"I'm back," you whisper, touching your face in disbelief. The skin feels impossibly smooth, eternally young. "I'm actually back!"

Small pink embers spark from your fingertips, startling you. Your magic. Your true power, returning like an old friend.

Without thinking, you leap from bed, nearly tripping over the nightgown that tangles around your legs. You catch yourself on a bedpost carved with autumn leaves that weren't there before, already running toward the door.

"Eris!" you shout, flinging open your chamber door. The familiar weight of it surprises you; heavier than human doors. "ERIS!"

Briar, who was carrying fresh linens, shrieks as you barrel past, dropping her basket. Sheets flutter to the floor like startled ghosts. Her face is the same, yet different. Faint lines around her eyes that weren't there before.

"My lady!" she calls after you, voice cracking with disbelief. "You need proper attire! The court will see you! My lady!"

You ignore her, bare feet slapping against cool marble as you race through familiar corridors. The walls have been repainted, you notice absently. Darker reds, deeper golds. A guard nearly drops his spear as you round the corner, his uniform subtly different from what you remember.

"The Lady is awake!" he shouts, voice breaking in shock. "After all this time! The Lady is awake!"

The cry echoes behind you, rippling through the castle like wildfire. Servants peek from doorways, many faces you don't recognize, eyes wide with shock. More guards join the chorus, their disciplined decorum crumbling at the sight of you, the Lady of Autumn Court, sprinting through hallways in a nightgown with your hair flying wildly behind you.

"My lady, please!" calls an elderly housekeeper you've never seen before, clutching her chest as you leap over a small decorative table that definitely wasn't there eighty years ago. "Your slippers! Your robe!"

The scent of autumn magic fills your nostrils, stronger than before. The court has grown in power during your absence.

"Where is Eris?" you demand, not slowing. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the sensation grounding you in this reality.

"The war room, but—"

You're already gone, leaving the poor female sputtering in your wake. The corridor stretches longer than you remember, new tapestries depicting battles you don't recognize hanging between windows.

You skid around another corner, nightgown billowing. A young noble steps directly into your path, and you collide with enough force to send him sprawling. His papers scatter like autumn leaves. His clothing style is subtly different, more angular, with decorative metal leaves at the shoulders that would have been considered ostentatious in your time.

"So sorry!" you call over your shoulder, already back on your feet. The bond in your chest pulses stronger with each step, drawing you west. Pulling you back to life. "Royal emergency!"

Behind you, the noble stares open-mouthed at your retreating form. "Was that...?" you hear him ask a nearby guard.

"Indeed, Lord Ramel," the guard replies, his voice reverential and hushed. "After eighty years... she has returned."

"In her nightclothes?"

"Apparently so, my lord."

The war room doors loom ahead, massive oak panels carved with battle scenes from Autumn's history. New scenes have been added since your time, conflicts you never witnessed, victories and defeats that occurred while you slept.

Two stone-faced guards stand at attention, their expressions flickering with shock as you approach. The insignia on their armor has changed. Eris's mark now, not Beron's.

"My lady," one begins, swallowing hard at the sight of you. His eyes darting to your bare feet, your disheveled state. "Perhaps you would like to—"

You don't let him finish. With a strength that surprises even you, you slam both doors open, the bang echoing like thunder through the chamber beyond. The wood feels different against your palms, worn smooth by hands that touched it while you slept.

Silence falls instantly.

A dozen lords in autumn finery turn as one, mouths agape. Maps and tactical markers cover the massive table between them. A territory dispute you don't recognize depicts borders that have shifted since your time. And at its head—

Eris.

He stands frozen, quill suspended over parchment, amber eyes widened in disbelief. A flame crown burns atop his head, smaller than Beron's had been, but undeniably the mark of High Lord. He looks older, not in body but in bearing. The weight of leadership has changed him, sharpened his edges, softened others. A thin scar traces his right cheekbone, one you've never seen before.

"Sister?" he whispers, face draining of color. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly, the quill shaking in his grip.

You beam at him, suddenly aware of your nightgown, your bare feet, your hair that probably resembles a bird's nest after eighty years of disuse. Inside, you feel both people you've been, the healer and the lady, merging into something new. "Surprise!"

No one moves. No one breathes. The scent of shock and disbelief fills the room, thick enough to taste.

Then Eris, the terrifying High Lord of Autumn Court, drops his quill. Ink spatters across ancient maps and generations-old treaties. Without a word, he vaults over the table—literally vaults, one hand pressed to the wood as he leaps—sending markers and figurines flying. A move so unlike the controlled brother you remember that you almost don't recognize him.

"It's really you?" he asks, approaching cautiously as if you might vanish. His voice breaks on the question. "Both parts of you?"

You nod, tears and laughter mingling. The bond in your chest pulses, reaching westward even as you stand here. "All of me. Every memory. Both lives."

A strangled noise escapes him as he pulls you into a fierce embrace. His body trembles against yours, a vulnerability he would never have shown before. Over his shoulder, you see the assembled lords exchanging glances of utter bewilderment. Some you recognize, aged but familiar. Others are complete strangers, risen to power during your absence.

"My lords," Eris says, his voice suspiciously thick as he turns to face them. The flame crown flares briefly with his emotion. "Meeting adjourned."

"But the Winter Court border dispute—" one begins, gesturing to markers that indicate a conflict near the mountains where once there had been peace.

"Can wait another day," Eris cuts him off. The authority in his voice is new, a confidence he lacked when you last saw him. "My sister has returned from the dead. In her nightclothes. Priorities, gentlemen."

The lords bow hastily, filing out with backward glances and poorly concealed whispers. The last one pulls the doors shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly empty chamber.

Once alone, Eris holds you at arm's length, examining you with eyes that gleam suspiciously bright. His hands grip your shoulders, as if assuring himself you're solid. "Eighty years," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Eighty years, and you choose to return while I'm in the middle of the most boring border dispute in Prythian history."

"Your timing was always worse," you counter with a watery smile. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, both familiar and unfamiliar. More like the Lady of Autumn than the nurse you became.

"Says the female who just crashed a war council in her nightgown." His gaze travels pointedly to your bare feet, where a small flame bunny has materialized without your conscious thought. "Nice entrance, by the way. Very dignified. Absolutely befitting a Lady."

The flame bunny sneezes, leaving a scorch mark on the ancient floor.

"Ember?" you whisper in disbelief. "After all this time?"

The bunny chirps, hopping up your leg to nestle against your hip. A small piece of home you'd thought lost forever.

"What happened?" you demand, instinctively stroking the flame creature. "Why am I here? I was eighty! I died in that hospital bed!"

"Not exactly," Eris says, looking amused despite the wetness in his eyes. "You never actually died."

"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended, your Autumn Court accent reasserting itself over the human one you'd adopted.

"The Ash Tea you took. It didn't just dampen your magic—it eventually put you into a death-like sleep." Eris gestures to a new tapestry on the wall, one depicting your sleeping form surrounded by flame. "Your body remained here, perfectly preserved, while your consciousness..." He waves vaguely. "Went wherever it went."

You blink. "Like Sleeping Beauty?" The human reference feels strange on your tongue, a remnant of your other life.

Eris stares blankly. "Like what?"

"Sleeping Beauty! The princess who pricked her finger and slept for a hundred years until true love's kiss woke her?" The bond in your chest pulses at the mention of true love, a warmth spreading through your veins.

"That sounds... highly improbable," Eris says diplomatically. His expression has changed, you realize. He's learned restraint in your absence, a political savvy he once lacked.

"Says the immortal faerie with fire powers," you retort, the banter familiar despite the years between.

He concedes with a tilt of his head, a new scar visible along his jawline when he turns. "Fair point."

"Does anyone else know I'm back?" Your hand instinctively rises to your chest where the bond pulses stronger. "What about Azriel? The Night Court?"

At the shadowsinger's name, the bond flares so strongly that small flames dance along your fingertips. Eris notices but doesn't comment.

"No one knows yet," Eris says, sobering. "And it should stay that way temporarily. You're vulnerable right now. Your magic needs time to stabilize." His protective instinct reminds you of the brother you knew, beneath the High Lord he's become.

"Vulnerable to what?" The question feels naive even as you ask it.

"Assassins, power-hungry nobles, the usual delightful court politics," he says casually, as if discussing the weather. The words carry weight that speaks of experience. "We've had three attempts on the Autumn throne in the last decade alone."

"Lovely. Just what I needed after eighty years of human medicine—fairy court murder plots." Despite your sarcasm, your body remembers court life. You find yourself automatically scanning exits, assessing threats. The Lady of Autumn reemerging.

Eris smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome home, sister."

"But wait—if I've been technically alive all this time, why wake up now?" you wonder, running a hand through your tangled hair. "Why today specifically?"

Eris shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "The Ash Tea finally wore off? Cosmic timing? Who knows how these things work?"

"Or maybe... the charm..." You touch your chest, feeling the golden bond stir and pull westward. The sensation stronger than it ever was before. "Maybe he called me back somehow. Maybe he never stopped trying."

"Speaking of your brooding shadowsinger," Eris says, something softening in his expression. A melancholy that speaks of changes you don't yet understand. "I assume you'll want to see him rather urgently?"

"Is he—" The question sticks in your throat, fear suddenly gripping your heart.

"Still in that ridiculous cabin with the impractical east-facing windows? Yes." Eris sighs dramatically, but there's a fondness in his voice that surprises you. "Eighty years, and he's still there, waiting. Immortals and their stubborn attachments."

Your heart stutters. "He's still waiting? After all this time?"

"Of course he is," Eris says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Hasn't left that valley for more than a few days at a time since you... left."

"I need to go," you say, starting for the door before realizing. "But not like this! I need clothes!" Your nightgown, while fine for running through the castle, would hardly be appropriate for reunion with your mate after eighty years.

Eris looks you up and down, smirking. "I don't know. This look might be exactly what the shadowsinger has been waiting eighty years for."

"ERIS!" Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from embarrassment and from your magic responding to emotion.

"Fine, fine." He chuckles, guiding you toward the door. "Let's find you something suitable. Though fashion has changed considerably in eighty years."

"If you try to put me in anything with unnecessary feathers or those weird shoulder leaves that lord was wearing—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies smoothly. "Though the current style does involve quite a lot of strategically placed autumn leaves..."

Your horrified expression sends him into a fit of laughter as he leads you down the hall, his arm around your shoulders in a gesture of protective affection you'd never experienced from him before.

Behind you, servants whisper excitedly:

The Lady has returned—in her nightgown, no less—and she's headed west, to a cabin with east-facing windows, where a shadowsinger has waited eighty years, watching the sunrise, never giving up on the bond that finally, finally called you home.

You crest the last hill just before sunset, your boots crunching over the forest floor. The path winds familiar but strange; wider than memory, the trees newer, as if time itself tried to soften the edges of what you left behind.

You pause at the treeline.

The cabin waits below.

Except, it isn't a cabin anymore.

It's a home.

Two stories of weathered wood and stone, a wraparound porch shaded by climbing vines. A garden spills out in vibrant rows of herbs and vegetables. Windows facing east gleam in the fading light, capturing the day's last embers.

Your chest tightens, the bond humming faintly beneath your skin.

"Azriel?" Your voice sounds small in the vast silence.

No answer. Just the hush of wind through pine.

You step forward, each footfall carrying the weight of eighty years. The door stands ajar, as though left that way for you. Inside, the air holds warmth but no presence. A stillness too reverent, too expectant.

The house is a reliquary. A shrine to a love he never abandoned.

Your fingers trail across a workbench where wood shavings still curl, fresh and fragrant. A half-finished flame bunny waits patiently beside carving tools.

The pink glass eyes gleam, unfinished but already alive. On the mantle above the fireplace, dozens of others stand in silent formation; each unique, each perfectly capturing some essence of Ember and Sizzle.

You turn slowly, taking in walls lined with bookshelves, maps of stars, sketches of landscapes you've never seen. The home feels thoroughly lived in yet meticulously organized. Everything has a place, a purpose.

A note lies on the kitchen table, pinned beneath a carved stone bunny:

Gone to settle matters with Rhys. Return in three days. —A

Three days. After eighty years of waiting, you've missed him by hours.

A laugh breaks from your throat, wet and trembling, as you sink into the kitchen chair.

Not from humor. From disbelief.

The sort of cruel irony only fate could orchestrate.

Your fingers tighten around the carved bunny. Its tiny ears tilt slightly left, just like Ember's did when he was curious. He remembered.

Of course he did.

As you explore further, you notice something strange about the land surrounding the cabin. Boundary stones mark a perimeter that belongs to neither Court.

He's carved out a territory... a small realm between worlds, belonging to no High Lord.

"He's created his own little realm," you whisper, touching the stones etched with unfamiliar symbols. A place outside court politics. A sanctuary.

On a lower shelf, tucked between histories of Prythian, you find a collection of journals bound in midnight-blue leather. Your hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the spines.

Is this too private? Too personal?

But the need to understand these missing decades overrides your hesitation.

The first entry is dated exactly one day after you took the Ash Tea.

The writing is tight, controlled, betraying nothing of emotion.

She is gone. The bond remains, but muted. I will wait.

Just three sentences.

But the pressure of the pen has nearly torn through the paper.

You trace the words with trembling fingers, feeling the grief preserved in careful script.

Your tears fall, smudging the ink before you hastily wipe them away.

You turn pages, decades passing between your fingers.

Year 5: Began construction on the second story. The sunrise is better viewed from height.

Year 12: Rhy has conceded territory around the cabin. Cassian calls it folly. Perhaps it is.

Year 20: Found pink crystal in the mountains today. Captured the exact shade of the flame bunnies' eyes. Have begun carving again.

Year 37: The garden produces more than enough now. I've started leaving the excess at the border village. They still fear the "shadowsinger" but the food disappears by morning.

Year 53: Feyre visited today. Asked if I regret my choice. I do not.

Your fingers press against your chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swear the bond hums.

Soft and golden. Waiting.

As the decades progress, the entries grow longer, more detailed.

More...hopeful. The words of a male who has chosen patient waiting over despair.

Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds? Is she near windows facing east?

Year 79: Dreams of her return have increased. The shadows whisper of changes coming. I dare not hope, yet find I cannot stop myself.

The final entry, dated just days ago.

Rhysand has requested my presence. After all these years, a summons I cannot ignore. I go reluctantly, but perhaps this is the Cauldron's design. I leave signs of my return, should the impossible happen while I'm gone.

Three days. I will be back in three days.

You close the journal, something breaking open inside you. Eighty years of patient waiting, of building and preparing, of never losing faith that somehow, someday, you would find your way back.

The day fades into evening as you explore further.

The upper floor holds a bedroom with that promised view of the sunrise. A smaller room adjoins it, filled with musical instruments and comfortable chairs... a room for leisure, for living, not just surviving.

You climb the stairs like you're in a dream.

The bedroom is beautiful: warm wood, east-facing windows painted with sunset. A reading nook nestled in the corner. A space made for two.

But it's the third room that destroys you.

A nursery.

Simple, practical, but unmistakable. A cradle carved from pale wood. Tiny clothes folded in a dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.

Your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor, sobs tearing from your throat, raw and wordless.

He hadn't just hoped for your return. He had prepared for a future.

A life.

Every dream you'd whispered together, every small detail you'd imagined for a life beyond courts and duty... he'd made it real. He'd built it, year by patient year, while you lived an entire human lifetime.

Night falls gently, like a blessing. You light the hearth, the candles. Shadows dance across walls that have waited for you. Outside, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves sense something momentous.

You could return to Autumn Court, wait in comfort, let Eris announce your return properly. The diplomatic, sensible choice.

But no. Not when he carved eighty years of devotion into every beam of this house.

"Three days is nothing," you whisper, settling into the chair by the fire with another journal.

You stay.

And somewhere, far across the courts, a shadowsinger feels the shift in the air.

The bond hums.

The fire rekindles.

The forest holds its breath.

Three days. After eighty years, what's three more days?

Light spills through east-facing windows, bathing the cabin in liquid gold. You've fallen asleep in his chair, his journal open in your lap, after two days of exploring every corner of the home he built for you both.

The door opens with barely a whisper.

Azriel stands frozen in the threshold, wings tightly folded, dawn painting his silhouette in fire and shadow. The package in his hands drops to the floor with a soft thud. His shadows, always in motion, go completely still.

Your eyes flutter open.

Time stops.

The space between heartbeats stretches into eternity as your gazes lock across the room.

Neither of you moves. Neither breathes.

The morning light wraps around him like a memory made flesh, illuminating the planes of his face unchanged by decades, yet somehow different.

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, as if he's seeing a ghost.

Perhaps he is.

His name rises in your throat but gets caught there, trapped behind emotion too vast for sound. The bond between you pulses once, tentatively, like a bird testing broken wings.

"I'm finally going mad," he whispers, voice raw and reverent.

You rise slowly, journal sliding forgotten to the floor. The movement feels like swimming through honey, each second precious and thick with meaning.

"Azriel," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

The sound shatters his stillness. His shadows surge forward, reaching you before he does: tentative, trembling. They brush your cheeks, your hands, your hair, as if making certain you're real.

"How?" The word tears from his throat, rough with hope and fear.

"The bond never broke," you whisper, your voice trembling with truth. "It stretched across worlds, across time. My body lived there, but my soul was always anchored here, with you."

He takes one step forward, then another.

His scarred hands hover near your face without touching, as if afraid you might dissolve like morning mist.

"Every sunrise for eighty years," he says, voice catching, "I've stood on that porch and whispered your name to the mountains."

"I heard you," you tell him, tears spilling freely now. "In my dreams. I always heard you calling me home."

When your fingers finally brush his cheek, he collapses.

Not like a warrior falls in battle, but like a man finally allowing himself to believe. His wings fold forward, arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach. You sink with him to your knees, your legs giving out from the sheer weight of finally being found.

"I'm here," you whisper into his hair, voice breaking, "I'm home."

His scarred hands cradle your face with such reverence it breaks your heart.

"Tell me you're staying," he pleads, voice raw with eight decades of longing. "Tell me I won't wake tomorrow to find you gone."

Instead of words, you take his hand and place it over your heart where the bond pulses golden beneath your skin.

"Feel that?" you whisper. "It never faded. It never broke. It only stretched between worlds until I could find my way back to you."

The bond flares between you, no longer muted by distance or dimensions, but blazing with renewed life. Golden light spills from beneath your joined hands, illuminating his face.

A single tear traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I built this home with my own hands," he says, voice breaking on each word, "plank by plank, stone by stone. Not because I believed you would return, but because I couldn't bear to stop waiting."

Your thumbs brush away his tears. "How did you survive it?" you ask, your own voice breaking. "How did you bear it alone for so long?"

"I wasn't living," he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours. "I was existing. Breathing because my body refused to stop. My soul has been right here all along, waiting for you to make me whole again."

As if summoned by the truth in his words, warmth blooms between you. Pink flame erupts in twin bursts of light and joyful squeaking. Ember and Sizzle materialize, hopping excitedly around you both.

"They remember," you whisper in wonder.

"Everything that is part of you refuses to forget," Azriel says, watching the flame bunnies with awe. "Just as I memorized every detail of your face, every sound of your laughter, every shade of light in your eyes."

Ember hops onto his shoulder while Sizzle circles your joined hands, leaving tiny scorch marks on the wooden floor.

"After you were gone," he says softly, "I kept feeling you everywhere... in the sunrise, in the autumn wind, in the spaces between heartbeats. They said I was mad to keep believing."

"I felt you too," you tell him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Even across worlds, even across time. My soul never stopped reaching for yours."

His shadows curl around your joined hands, no longer restless but finally at peace. "When I felt our bond dim," he whispers, voice raw, "it was like watching the stars fade one by one until the night was empty."

"I thought I was setting you free," you confess, pressing your forehead to his chest. "I thought I was being merciful."

His arms tighten around you, wings creating a cocoon of shadow and warmth. "There is no freedom in half a soul," he says fiercely. "No life worth living without you in it."

You look up at him through your tears. "How can you still look at me like that? After all this time?"

"Like what?" he asks, his voice achingly soft.

"Like I'm everything."

"Because you are," he says simply, the words striking your heart like lightning. "You are dawn after endless night. You are the answer to prayers I was too broken to speak."

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as he lowers his forehead to yours.

His shadows curl around your face, tender and possessive. "My fierce, impossible mate," he breathes, voice rough with wonder. "My heart. My home."

And then his lips find yours, gentle yet desperate, a reunion and a promise in one.

His wings wrap around you both, shuttering out the world until there is nothing but this: his mouth on yours, his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the bond between you singing like the first notes of creation.

When you finally part, both breathless, his eyes hold a peace you've never seen before... the look of someone who has finally, after endless searching, come home.

Your gaze falls to the forgotten package on the floor. "What's that?" you ask, voice still thick with emotion.

A different kind of warmth colors his cheeks as he retrieves the small burlough sack.

"I remembered how much you missed it," he says softly as you open it.

The rich, familiar aroma hits you immediately: coffee beans, perfectly roasted, their scent rising like a memory from another life.

"You remembered," you whisper, tears welling fresh in your eyes as you run your fingers through the dark beans.

"I spent eighty years trying to grow them," he admits, his shadows curling bashfully. "The first plants all died. Then the beans were too bitter. By the fortieth year, I could make something drinkable, but it wasn't right. It wasn't what you remembered."

A laugh bubbles up through your tears. "You spent eighty years learning to grow coffee beans? For me?"

His smile is small but reaches his eyes, perhaps the first true smile you've ever seen transform his face. "I would have spent eighty lifetimes learning."

Ember hops excitedly around the bag, leaving tiny scorch marks that curl into a heart shape. Sizzle bounces onto Azriel's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek with fiery affection.

"I think they approve," you laugh through your tears, clutching the precious beans to your chest.

You rise together, his arm steady around your waist, the bond between you glowing like captured starlight.

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything you built."

Outside the window, dawn breaks fully over your valley.

Your home.

Bathing everything in golden light that feels, at last, like a beginning rather than an ending.

Author’s Note: And that’s it. That’s the fic. She died, she lived, she ran through a palace in her nightgown like a feral fairy princess, and she got her man (who, in case you forgot, spent EIGHTY YEARS building a house and practicing agriculture like a sad, winged Pinterest husband). 🐇💔🔥

Thank you for crying with me. Screaming with me. Whispering “oh my god just kiss already” with me.

This story was equal parts pain, pining, trauma-healing, and “what if Azriel just... stood outside her kingdom for decades like a Victorian ghost with a toolbelt?”

To those of you who made it to the end. I see you. I love you. I, too, would betray a High Lord for a coffee bean grown out of pure love.

BUT WAIT.

While the main arc has closed with a very dramatic, very deserved Happily Ever After, you didn’t think I’d leave you without some bonus content, did you?

Stay tuned for bonus chapters featuring:

1. The mating ceremony (someone cries, someone combusts emotionally and/or literally, everyone gossips) 2. Azriel trying to be a husband and a mate while quietly short-circuiting every time she kisses his cheek 3. Domestic arguments about mundane things like curtain color and whose turn it is to wash the flame bunnies 4. Azriel learning to cook without murdering a pan (he fails, but his arms look great while doing it) 5. Found family visits. Too much wine. Velaris bets. Rhysand regrets inviting himself. 6. Intense fluff. Devastating angst. Some smut that’s been aged like fine wine in my drafts 7. And yes, maybe babies, because listen... have you seen Azriel hold things gently? Of course we're going there

Basically: a mating bond is forever, but so is the chaos that comes with it.

Thank you for reading this soul-wrecking, hope-restoring, very dramatic tale of second chances and shadow-soaked love. You made it through. Go scream into a pillow and eat something carb-heavy. You’ve earned it.

—With all my love and possibly a flame bunny plush in hand, mahalachives 🖤

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[crowsofdarkness]

You've been braty all evening and suggest a fun game to play with Bucky: Hide and fuck.

18+ CW's below the cut( mask kink, protected pinv since she's on the implant, oral with both male and female receiving, fingering, masturbation, choking, degradation, rope play/bondage, making of a sex tape, rough/possessive sex, and slight voyeurism)

a/n: ok I fully understand that Bucky wearing the mask post winter solider is somewhat traumatic but in this little universe/fic, Bucky is trying to get over the trauma by replacing that feeling of fear with something different.

My breath was unsteady and echoed loud in the confined space I found myself in. Surely Bucky had to be returning to our room soon, it had been hours since I left him at the bar with Steve, now almost ten in the evening. As soon as I came back to our room, I went about showering off the long days filth and slipped into a new piece of lingerie I’d bought a while ago just never found the perfect time to wear it. 

Until now. 

All night, I’d been teasing Bucky by whispering all of the filthy things I wanted him to do to me. More so, I wanted him to chase me and fuck me. Unfortunately even with the size of our room, there still wasn’t enough space for Bucky to hunt me down so I had to settle with a simple game of hide and seek. 

Or as I called it in the text I sent him: hide and fuck. 

I managed to fit myself in the large wardrobe dresser that we had in our room, the ones that were tall enough where I could sit inside of it somewhat comfortably. The scent of my peach perfume, Bucky’s favorite,  clouded around me as I sat with my knees pulled to my chest. Just when I was about to give up, tired of waiting, I heard the insert of a key card into the slot and the door clicking open. I had left the light on in the main area of the hotel room so some of it could cast a light into where I was hiding but with a soft click, everything was blanketed in black. 

Bucky’s back. 

Holding a hand over my mouth, I tried so hard to remain quiet even though I was beyond giddy with excitement that he had agreed to this. I knew that this was also supposed to be a therapeutic exercise for him. A way for him to see himself in his old Hydra mask and come to terms he’s not that person anymore. 

Although he was afraid, we both knew that those words that controlled him were long gone. No longer programmed. Even if he wore the mask tonight, Bucky wouldn’t become the soldier. 

His footsteps were so light, almost nonexistent, as he moved around the room. I could feel his presence as it halted in front of the wardrobe and before I could register what was happening, Bucky ripped open the doors and yanked me from it. 

My body fell to the floor with little damage and I quickly scurried away from Bucky only for his fingers to wrap around my ankle, dragging me back to him. His large body loomed over me, lust filled eyes and his lower half of his face was covered by the mask.  His breathing was all I heard as I stared up at him. He wore nothing but the mask and black briefs, hanging low on his hips. The light colored hairs of his happy trail brought a tender smile to my face. 

“Found you,” Bucky growled as his palms traced over the thin white lace of my lingerie, his eyes growing even darker. 

“I-I guess you did,” I stammered while he climbed on top of me. 

WIth his hips locking me in place, Bucky reached over my head towards a bag I hadn’t noticed before and riffled through it. My breath caught in my throat when I saw the rope between his hands, him threading it between his fingers. 

Bounding my hands to my ankles, Bucky went about tying them together with the rope, checking how tight it was before letting the game slip away for a moment. 

“Too tight?” 

I shook my head. “I promise, it’s fine.” 

He took off the hair tie around his wrist and gathered my hair away from my face and into a ponytail. His vibranium finger grazed over my cheek, forcing my eyes to meet his. 

“If you ever want to stop, say red,” he said quietly. 

“Okay,” I breathed, understanding the usage of our new safe word. 

With my hands and feet bound together, I let out a squeal of laughter mixed with shock as Bucky lifted me from the ground, carrying me like a tied animal over towards our bed and roughly tossed me onto it. My ass was up towards the ceiling, barely covered by the lace I wore, and his nostrils flared when he leaned over my lower half, still donning the mask. 

“You smell so good,” he praised while kneeling on the bed. 

“Peaches,” I informed, reminding him of my perfume. 

Bucky hooked a finger into my panties, shifting it to the side so he could brush his nose along my wet folds. 

“Oh,” I murmured when I realized what kind of smell he was referring to. 

Due to how I was tied up, I wasn’t able to look down and see Bucky between my legs, but I could feel the faint brush of his tongue over my clit and I pulled on my bindings. 

“One more thing,” Bucky said before slipping away from me to rummage around in my suitcase. 

I turned my head towards him. “We don’t need a condom. I’m on the implant, remember?” 

He ignored me, still rummaging around in my bag until he spun quickly on his heels towards me holding onto one of my camcorders. 

“Sex tape?” I asked with a teasing edge to my voice. 

Bucky’s lips curled up after he ripped off the mask. “A fucking sex tape.” 

After making sure it was fully charged and set up on the dresser across the bed with the perfect angle, he was quick to be back at the foot of the bed, kneeling on the floor. 

“I want to taste you so fucking bad, doll. Will you let me?” 

My head fell back to the mattress with fluttering eyes. “Please.”

Yanking my panties to the side again, Bucky was quick to devour me, teeth and tongue all over my core. My body writhed against the bed as he took turns between my clit and folds with his tongue before ultimately wrapping his lips around my sensitive bud and forced two vibranium fingers inside of me. 

“Shit,” I panted as the orgasm was quick to build. 

I’d been on edge all night waiting for him and I knew it wouldn’t take me long to reach there. Bucky momentarily removed his fingers from me to press the fullness of his tongue against my folds, licking me up from the bottom to the top.

"Fuck," I moaned when his tongue speared inside of me for a few strokes, before replacing it with his fingers again. 

Bucky’s lips wrapped around my clit to bite and suck at the bundle of nerves. He ate me like a man starved as was offered his final meal before death. The familiar burn at the base of my spine made me call out his name; in a praise and a warning. 

“So close,” I keened. 

Bucky’s arm held up my legs that were still bound and since his mouth was a little preoccupied, he smacked my ass with the hand that was holding my panties to the side. 

Let go, doll. 

I came with a shout, grinding myself against Bucky’s face as he licked and finger fucked me through the aftershocks. 

“Shit,” I choked on a breath when he pulled away only to rise to his feet, yanking down his brieds, now standing in front of me in nothing but the mask. 

I pulled on my bindings, yearning to touch him, but let out an aggravated cry when I realized how tight he tied them. 

“I need to be inside you, doll,” Bucky admitted while grabbing a hold of my ankles with one hand and guiding himself inside of me with the other. 

Both of our groans of pleasure tangled sweetly together and Bucky, who stood at the edge of the bed now, slammed into me with such force, it shook the headboard against the wall. The sound of skin on skin was heaven sent, along with the image of Bucky’s head rolled back, mouth open as he let out pants of air in tangent with each of his thrust. They were brutal, nearly bruising, but I reveled in it. It awoken a fire deep inside of me that from now on needed to be set ablaze. 

“So.” 

Thrust.

“Fucking.” 

Thrust. 

“Tight,” Bucky groaned as his hips stalled for a moment and I watched as the muscles in his stomach constricted. 

He was close but was trying not to tumble over the edge so he slipped out from me. Before I could protest, he was climbing onto the bed towards me. He lifted my head up, wrapping my hair around his hand to force my mouth towards his cock slick with my arousal. 

“Open that pretty little mouth,” he demanded, yanking on my scalp. 

With glittering eyes gazing up at him, I parted my lips so he could force himself inside. He ignored my gagging as he hate fucked my throat with such a bruising grip on my hair, I was sure it would be sore for days. Drool pooled from my mouth and around his cock, dripping down to my chest. 

“Such a good little slut,” Bucky smacked my cheek with the hand that wasn't tangled in my hair. “You love the way you taste, huh?”

My yelp of shock was drowned out by his cock as he repeatedly hit the back of my throat. I could taste myself on it, the tangy arousal lingering on my tongue. But soon I was gasping for breath when Bucky pulled himself from my mouth to grab a hold of my chin, bringing his face mere meters from mine. 

“I asked you a question, doll. I expect you to answer it.”

I did the best I could to nod with his tight grip but it wasn’t enough for him so he tapped my cheek again. 

“Words. You need to use your words.” 

“Yes,” I blurted. “Yes, I love the way I taste on your cock.”

“That’s my good girl,” he praised before forcing his cock deep inside my throat again. 

This time, he didn’t hold himself back as he spilled himself inside of my mouth. 

“Don’t you dare swallow,” he spat through gritted teeth as he held the back of my head, letting my tongue glide him through the aftershocks. 

I held his seed in my mouth, long after he fell to the bed next to me, only to reach into the bag he brough, pulling out a knife. My eyes widened but unable to speak, I held my breath. 

Bucky brushed his lips over mine. “You can swallow now, pretty girl.” 

Obeying him, I let out a breath and motioned towards the shiny blade. “I think this is a step too far.”

He let out a low chuckle before reaching for my bound legs and hands. “Relax, doll. I’m just cutting you free.”

Tattered rope fell to the bed and Bucky quickly brought the red, irritated skin to his lips, peppering it with kisses. 

All I did was hum and as we laid there, Bucky’s fingers grazed up and down the inside of my thigh, leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

“I hope you know I’m not finished with you yet,” was all he said before he yanked me off of the bed. 

As we passed by the camcorder, Bucky turned it so it could face out towards the balcony of the hotel room. 

“Bucky!” I nearly screeched when I noticed the somewhat busy street just a few floors beneath us. 

He spun me around so my back was against the railing, the city lights painting us in a luminescent glow, and traced a finger down the front of my lingerie. 

“This is new,” he noted. 

I shivered with not only his touch, but the cool breeze that passed over us. 

“Do-do you like it?” I asked, nervous. 

“I love it so much, doll, that I’m going to fuck you with it on,” Bucky husked before holding out his hand, spitting on it. 

He pumped his already hard cock a few times, dragging the extra skin over the head and let out a spew of curses. Gathering some of my arousal between my legs, he worked me open again with two fingers before replacing them with his cock. The rough metal of the balcony dug into my back as Bucky dragged himself nearly all the way out, slowly fucking me with the head before thrusting all of him inside of me again. It went like this for a few moments, my bottom lip caught between my teeth because the feeling caused my skin to prick. I squeezed against him, swallowing his length in warmth and our hips began to move in sync.

“Shit,” Bucky rasped while leaving dark, bruising teeth marks along my neck and shoulder. “You feel so good, doll.”

His fingers wrapped around my neck while his thumb forced my jaw up towards him. I went to slip a finger between us but Bucky slapped my hand away, a growl of arousal slipped through his lips.

“Mine,” he whispered.

The pad of his thumb pressed against my bundle of nerves and with the fast and relentless pace he had chosen now, I felt the coil deep in my stomach begin to tense, my second orgasm so close.

“Yours,” I breathed. 

Our bodies slammed against each other, skin slapping against skin, and the wet noises that came from the place we were connected were so filthy that I was ready to let my body go, walls tensing around Bucky’s cock. He lifted his forehead from my chest and forced our gazes to lock again, my arm wrapped around his shoulder to bring him closer, thumb rubbing circles on his bicep. His eyes took in every inch of my face, burning with the way I gasped silently when I felt the tip of his cock hit that spot. 

“Bucky,” I pured. “I’m going to-.” 

My orgasm ripped through me, causing the words to falter, and I shook in his tight embrace. The night air did nothing to cool my heated skin. 

Bucky removed his bottom lip from the tight grip between his teeth as he let out a deep but quiet moan as he painted my walls with his cum. Lifting me into his arms, I wrapped my tired legs around him as he carried me back into the bedroom and tossed me onto the bed yet again fixing the camera in a different position. 

“I can’t,” I shook my head when he reached for the buttons of my lingerie. 

Bucky kissed a tender kiss on my shoulder. “I know you’ve got one more in you, doll. Don’t you want to be a good girl for me?” 

More than anything. 

I was exhausted from my two orgasms, how was he not? Peering down to his cock, I noticed it was nearly hard yet again, the sight of it alone causing my gut to twinge with anticipation and I licked my lips. 

Damn super soldier serum.

“I thought you can't,” Bucky mocked my voice from earlier, causing me to narrow my eyes at him. 

“Shut up!”

The sound of fabric ripping echoed in the room, my lingerie falling away from my body and I screeched while smacking his chest. 

“This was new, asshole!” 

Bucky shrugged, throwing me down to my stomach and lifting my ass in the air to lay a swift smack against it with his vibranium hand. I scrambled to get away from him which prompted him to force the top half of my body against the mattress with one of his hands while the other smacked my ass yet again. 

“Fuck! Bucky!” I bit back the tears as he laid a third smack. “Pl-please.”

“I’ll stop when you apologize for what you called me,” Bucky’s voice was dark, gone with the lust that consumed him. 

For the briefest of moments, part of me feared the monster I had awoken in him but when the pain soon turned to pleaser, I let out a quiet moan afraid he would hear. His large hand rubbed at the red skin before pressing a kiss. 

“Does the pain turn you on, doll? Hm?” Bucky spoke into the skin of my lower back. 

I grasped at the pillow, pulling it close to my chest so I could muffle my answer into it. Which only seemed to displease him because he sunk his teeth into the extra flesh of my hip, making me cry out my answer. 

“Yes! I need it to hurt!”

Wrapping an arm around my stomach, Bucky lifted me up onto my knees and to face the large mirror in the room that was hung across the bed, right next to the camera; still blinking red. I gasped at my reflection of tattered pieces of lingerie hanging on to me still by a thread, mascara running down my face, purple bite marks littered all over my neck and shoulder, and lips faintly bruised from how hard Bucky fucked my throat earlier. 

He knelt behind me and brushed his nose along the shell of my ear while trailing the pad of his thumb over the pulse point of my throat. 

“You look so pretty like this, doll. Marked up as mine so everyone knows who you belong to,” he dragged his teeth along the crook of my neck, breathing me in. 

“God, I fucking love the way you smell.”

His fingers pinched and pulled at my nipples, making my head falter back onto his shoulder.

“What do you want, baby?” Bucky palmed both of my breasts now before trailing a hand down my stomach to spread my legs wide for the reflection and mostly the camera. 

“You,” I breathed. 

Bucky said nothing, instead he slipped two fingers past my slick folds where the head of his cock was slowly gliding up and down. Gathering up not only my arousal but the little bit of precum that beaded at the slit, he brought those fingers to my lips with one simple order. 

“Lick.”

I took both vibranium fingers into my mouth without objection to lap up the tangy mixture of us and hummed greedily. I took them as far as I could without gagging and Bucky showed me how proud he was of me by sinking himself deep inside my pussy. His strokes this time were languid, taking his time with me as he worked me up with his fingers down my throat and the others spreading me wide. 

“That’s it. Take all of me. I can feel your pussy clenching around me, you’re so wet,” Bucky’s pace began to intensify as his words were urging him on. 

One hand wrapped around my throat while the other strumbed against my swollen nub, bringing me closer and close to the edge of destruction. 

My own words were gone, forever lost in the bliss that overtook my body. My soul succumbed to Bucky, allowing him to drag every part of my essence down with him to the darkness. This was a side of Bucky I’d never expected to see and now that I had a taste of him, I wasn’t letting him go. 

“I love you,” I moaned as I allowed the waves of pleasure to drown me as I soaked Bucky’s cock with my orgasm. 

He stilled his movements and sucked in a breath before forcing my face to look into our reflection of the mirror. 

“What did you just say?” 

I blinked a few times, trying to regain myself after the intensity of each after shock, and when Bucky’s grip on my chin tightened, I winced. 

Oh shit. 

I had just blurted out that I loved Bucky.

For the first time. 

Shit. Fuck. God damn it. 

We’d only been dating for a few months and I was suddenly very afraid of how Bucky would react. It was clearly way too soon to be dropping the I love you bomb. 

“Doll,” Bucky’s voice was firm as he shook my face. 

Staring at his reflection, I let the words fall from my lips again. 

“I love you.”

The hard lines on his face softened as he let the proclamation settle for a few quiet beats and just before I could find myself questioning everything, Bucky let out a guttural groan, wrapping an arm around my stomach to pull my back closer to his chest. We were pulled flush against each other as now Bucky used the new angle to buck up into me, hitting the spot each and every time. 

My body was drained and I could barely keep myself afloat in his embrace as the bed shook beneath us, creaking with every snap of his hips. Skin on skin bounced off the walls, overpowering the sounds of my quiet cries, and Bucky bit down hard on my shoulder. 

“Fuck, doll. I love you too, so fucking much. You’re mine, you hear me? Your heart, your soul, this fucking pussy? All mine,” he snarled as he filled my cunt. 

“Ah! Shit!” I cried out louder this time when I felt the teeniest prick of blood from Bucky’s bite into my neck trail down between my breasts. 

We both fell onto the bed, a heap of sweat and cum, and Bucky immediately wrapped me in his arms. He continued to proclaim his love for me while dragging those vibranium fingers up and down my spine, lulling me to sleep; all while the red light from the camera continued to blink. 

[jezebelblues]

𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

H.

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

h,

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

YN

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of d��jà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

[arcadia-smith]

He doesn't remember you.

But.

You stay.

Of course, you stay.

Because Bucky is still here, alive in the flesh, and somewhere—deep inside him, hidden beneath the layers of fractured memories—he must know you. He must remember.

It’s just a matter of time.

That’s what Sam says. What the doctors say.

Give it time.

So you do.

Days bleed into weeks, weeks into months.

And still, you stay.

You tell him stories—soft and steady, like a balm for the ache between you. You show him pictures, snapshots of the life you once shared, the love that stitched you two together.

You speak of your first date—how his nerves made him fidget like a storm on the horizon, pacing outside your apartment for what felt like an eternity before he finally knocked, all shaky hands and warm, unsure eyes.

You tell him about that rainy night, when he kissed you under the storm, his laughter a low hum against your lips as he whispered, “This only happens in the movies.”

You tell him about you—the version of yourself that once fit perfectly against his side.

And you wait.

You wait for the spark—the brief, flickering recognition that he once knew the rhythm of your heartbeat, the warmth of your touch.

You wait for those blue eyes to soften again, to look at you the way they used to—tender, loving, yours.

But they never do.

And then, one day, after all the days, weeks, and months spent watching and hoping—

You find him in the common room, grinning at something on his phone.

Someone.

A woman.

She’s bright, beautiful—her laughter a melody you don’t recognize.

And before you even open your mouth, you know.

But still, you ask.

“Who’s that?” Your voice is light, fragile, like a leaf trembling in the wind.

He looks up, then back at the screen, that faint, soft smile still lingering.

“Her name’s Kate.”

It’s a gut-punch. The kind that steals the air from your lungs and leaves you gasping.

“Oh,” you whisper, trying to swallow the burning sorrow that claws its way up your throat. “She’s... she’s pretty.”

He grins—wide, unbothered, as though this is just another casual conversation, nothing more.

“Yeah. I think I might ask her out.”

And in that moment, everything inside you fractures.

Not just the silence between the two of you, but the world itself.

Because Bucky doesn’t remember you.

No. Worse.

He’s moving on.

Without you.

And you can’t stop it.

You can’t tear through his shattered mind and fix what they took from him.

You can’t scream, You love me. You chose me. We were supposed to have forever.

You can’t do a single thing.

So you smile.

You nod.

You pretend that you’re not being swallowed whole by the hollow ache inside you.

And that night, when the house falls silent and empty, you don’t leave the porch light on.

Because Bucky isn’t coming back.

He already has.

And he’s not yours anymore.

You leave.

You have to.

Because staying, watching him laugh with someone else—someone new, someone with a love untouched by the scars of time—it would be like breathing in glass shards. It would tear through you, piece by piece, until nothing remained. You would cease to exist.

So you gather your things in silence, each item a memory you can’t afford to carry anymore.

You say goodbye to Sam, but there is no promise in your words. No hope. Just the hollow echo of a love you can’t save. You don’t tell Bucky. What would be the point? He’s already gone. The man you once knew is somewhere behind the locked door of his memories, and there is no key.

You leave.

And time doesn’t care.

It moves on, cruel and indifferent. Days stretch into weeks, weeks bleed into months, and the seasons change in ways that mean nothing. You rebuild, slowly. The edges of your broken heart are sealed with the soft, fragile thread of survival. You learn to exist without him. You learn to wake up without him beside you, without his breath against your neck, without the weight of his love settling around you like a warm blanket. You learn to live with the dull ache, the phantom throb in the places where he used to be.

But there are moments.

There are mornings when your fingers twitch toward the space where he should be, when your heart stutters, trapped in a fleeting memory, a touch, a whisper. And you wonder, just for a second, if he’s still there—if you’re still there. But then, the thought fades. Because he’s not yours. Not anymore.

And then—

Then you get the call.

Sam's voice is a tightrope, fraying at the edges.

"I need you to come back."

You hesitate, your breath a jagged thing. You don’t want to. You can’t go back to that place, to those ghosts. The last time you left, you left your soul in the hollow of his chest, and it never returned.

But Sam's voice cracks in a way that makes your insides twist. And you can’t ignore it. Not this time.

So you go.

And when you step into the room, you’re not ready for it. You’re never ready.

Sam stands in the doorway, his face pale and drawn, like he hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten. His hands tremble at his sides, and there’s something in his eyes that says everything you don’t want to hear.

"It’s happening again."

At first, the words make no sense.

And then, they do.

Because Bucky is in the med bay, his body tethered to the bed, his arms thrashing against the restraints. His breath comes in ragged gasps, the panic clear in every movement. His eyes are wide, full of something deep—something more terrible than fear.

You run to him, despite everything, despite the emptiness he left behind. You run because he is still your Bucky, the man you loved with everything you had. You run because that’s all you’ve ever known how to do.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice a breathless plea. Your hand reaches for his, but he pulls away like your touch is a thing that burns.

And then—

He says your name.

And the world stops.

The earth cracks beneath you, and you feel yourself falling into a place where nothing makes sense. The thing you wanted most, the thing you prayed for, is here. He remembers. He remembers you.

But when you look into his eyes, it’s not relief that fills them. It’s horror.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head violently, as if to shake you away, to shake this away. His words tear from him in broken sobs. “No, no, no—please—”

“Bucky, it’s okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you thought you could carry. But it’s not okay. It will never be okay.

His chest heaves. His body jerks, as though the memories are too much to hold, too much to be.

“What did I do?” he chokes.

And that is when you understand.

He remembers you. Yes, he does. He remembers everything.

But he also remembers her.

The woman he found after you, the woman he learned to love after he’d forgotten the taste of you. The woman who is out there, somewhere, still holding his heart, still waiting for him with arms wide open.

And he loves her. He loves her the way he loved you. But in a different way. In a way that isn’t stained with time and loss and the weight of your name.

And now—

Now he has both.

Now he has the knowledge of what he lost. Now he knows exactly what he did.

And in his eyes, you see the depth of his grief. The depth of his guilt. Because he remembers her. And he remembers choosing her.

And then—then he remembers forgetting you.

And that—

That is the part that will ruin you. Because it’s not just your heart breaking anymore.

It’s his, too.

And there is nothing either of you can do. No mending, no fixing, no magic words to erase the damage.

So you press your trembling hand to his cheek. You kiss his forehead, and for a brief, fleeting moment, it’s like you’re right back there—like nothing changed. Like the world hasn’t fallen apart in slow motion.

And you whisper to him, to the man you thought you could save:

“It’s okay. I’ll go.”

And you do.

You leave.

For the last time.

Because this time, he remembers you. But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not yours.

And he never will be again.

And that—that—is the worst part.

Because you lost him once, but now, you’ve lost him twice.

And the pain? The pain is deeper than anything you’ve ever felt.

It’s not just a heart breaking.

It’s a soul shattering.